Storm & Steel
A warm but light rain pattered down on the dirt and metal outside. It wasn't the best of days, but Montrose Plaza had seen worse by far. Once a crossroad for West Montrose, North Broadway, and North Sheridan, the small Chicago locale now was the northern edge of Wrigleyton. The vaguely walled and congruous town lay in the Uptown of the Chicago Wastes.
In this little secluded square was very little. Lying just east of the Graceland fields, it mostly provided housing to the farmers. But there was one store that the farmers loved having close at hand. The simply named "Metal Shop" had been a labor of love for Paul Storm. The shop was useful and stayed in business by doing repairs on tools and weapons. But the second and less often used service was what Paul was remembered for.
Even he was surprised sometimes by the sheer volume of inventory his other hobby provided. Times like now, as he tripped over a crank jutting from one of his shelves.
"Gah! Shitshitshitshi - OW!"
He toppled down, bringing another device from the shelf down with him. A radio with with two levers either side of it smacked him on the back of his head. Clutching the spot, he slipped and nearly collided with his three-person bicycle. He made a mental note to move that further from the stairs than it was, and shoved the offending crank away. He adjusted his glasses over his blue eyes, his mess of brown hair being no worse than it was before the fall.
He continued unperturbed (disregarding the headache) to his workbench. Or, perhaps more accurately, his writing desk. On it sat only a pencil. The drawer was padlocked shut, something quickly remedied with the key he hid behind a loose brick in the wall. From the desk he pulled a red-spiral notebook, something in remarkably pristine condition considering. He stretched and turned on the radio.
As he settled into his seat, the crackle subsided to a quiet humming and fading guitar. He'd only just missed some tune. The chipper, light voice of the hostess picked up. "Good afternoon, Wrigleyton! Livia Lawson here, your eyes and ears in and about Uptown. I keep hearing everyone say they can't stand the news about the Enclave and Brotherhood fighting anymore. Well, I hope you can do your work sitting. The Enclave continue their guerilla fighting, and the Brotherhood are continuing to put pressure on Mayor -"
Despite not finding the subject uninteresting, Paul found himself tuning Livia out. He took up his pencil, and opened back up to the first page of the notebook. Clean and clear as ever. He closed his eyes as he held the tip just above the paper.
He repeated "Pistol, pistol, pistol, pistol." in his head, lowering the pencil down. He opened his eyes, seeing the page seeming to draw a detailed technical sketch onto itself. Soon, he realized it was looking an awful lot like a rifle.
He shook his head, sighing. "Well, it's getting closer." As the image concluded, Paul took a step back. The graphite on the page propelled off in grey-black tendrils, coiling and dancing in the air above the desk. After a few seconds, it began to change in color and texture. Seconds more, and it fell to the desk, a fully formed rifle… With four triggers and four barrels.
He took the gun and threw it into a pile with other similar designs. "Oh well. At least it understands I want a gun. That's… Something."
As he reached to put the pencil away somewhere, he slipped again on the rickety chair. He desperately reached out to catch something to hold him. He caught hold of the upper-right corner of the journal. Or, one of its pages. Riiip
"GAH! FUCK!"
He collapsed onto the floor, gripping the piece of the page. Completely unremarkable. More so was the fresh gash on his hand pouring blood. He rose, checked the completely undamaged notebook, and rushed upstairs to find some gause. He nearly toppled into Mr. McLean, who had stopped in to pick up his repaired shovel.
"Whoa there Paul. Y' alright boy? What -" He noticed the wound on his hand. "Eesh. Alright, need any help then?"
Despite the injury, Paul smiled and shook his head. "Oh, not at all sir. Just a moment is all. Your shovel's just back here too, so I'll grab that."
"Alrighty then. What was it, thirty caps?"
Paul hastily washed and wrapped his hand, calling back. "Don't even worry sir. I'm always flexible for a regular."
As he brought the shovel from the back room, Paul finally noticed that Mr. McLean had turned on the upstairs radio. Livia was mid-sendoff. "- then. And don't you forget, Wrigleyton, today the Vice family stops by for the annual festival! So make sure you pop by to see the local royalty. And now, for a little tune. One that reminds you there's just no place like home. Here's Bob Crosby's "Way Back Home". Enjoy."
Paul waved Mr. McLean off, pocketing the caps. He had almost forgotten about that. The annual festival was an event celebrating the reason Wrigleyton was possible: The Wrigley Springs. A massive water-purification plant built by their founders in 2264. Now, twenty-three years later, Wrigleyton had become the haven of the Midwest. Normally not one for celebrations of any sort, Paul usually turned out for this one. He decided today would be no different.
He polished a few of his wares, wiped down his counter as best as possible, and swept any excessive dust out the front door. He placed his caps in the safe beneath the stairs on his way back down. He took up the notebook. "Alright Da Vinci, we're off." He had picked the name "Da Vinci's Notebook" due to it being the name of a famous inventor. Honestly, he didn't know much else about Da Vinci. There wasn't much reading to do of pre-war books.
Notebook tucked into a special pocket in his coat, he stepped out into the sun. The rain had thankfully stopped, and now the light brought some respite from the normal chill. The streets here were mostly empty; All the celebration would be down by the field. He enjoyed his stroll down Sheffield, through the patchwork buildings and comforting metal walls.
Evidently lost in his thoughts, he collided with a massive wall of green. He stumbled back, and would have fallen if a rough, muscled hand hadn't caught him. He stared up at the crooked teeth of the super mutant.
He sighed in relief. "Jeez Wreck. You gave me a start. Sorry about that."
Wreck's mouth opened further in his cheerful smile. "No worry, Storm. Walk to the festival with Wreck, yes?"
"Sure. Glad the rain stopped in time." Wreck was one of only five super mutants in Wrigleyton. Not that people were particularly against them being here. Only that these five were the only ones from the west to stop here. Their eastern counterparts were… Less than willing to fit in with human society. Wreck, despite his name and apparel of bent and broken metal, was the most outwardly friendly. Paul was always happy to see him. Together, they made their way to the field.
Jonathan Vice sat, arms moodily folded over his chest, staring out the open window of the restored limousine. He tugged at the tight crimson tie his mother had forced him into. He had chosen the blue suit himself, much to his father's anger. He always wanted the family dressed together on outings, and had planned a theme of black and red. Jonathan had already yielded and done up his black hair to a nicely styled quiff.
His mother sat across from him, flowing black gown doing little to hide the curious star birthmark as she turned to speak with the driver. Jonathan shared this mark, but had never truly thought on it too much. Not until a year ago. He looked outside again, the clouds of dust from the limo followed to the side by another trail. To most, it looked rather strange indeed. Only Jonathan saw the figure of space and starlight running alongside the limo, keeping perfect pace and watching over him. Well, only him and his mother.
She coughed, nodding towards it. He closed his eyes, took a breath, and when he looked out again the figure was gone. She leaned in and placed a hand on his arm. "Jonathan, I -"
"Jon. Please just shorten it."
She was getting annoyed now. "You need to calm down, JoJo."
He shook free of her hand and shot her a glare. "And definitely don't call me that!"
His father brought a fist down on the armrest. "Jonathan Jorah Vice! This needs to stop. Your mother is doing all she can to help you deal with… This. You will not talk to her like that. Understand?"
Jonathan was silent, but he nodded. He and his father resumed their sullen gazes, while his mother tried again to talk with him. "Alright, Jon. You need to calm down though. Commander Cosmo should only be out when you need him. You may not think about your stand all that much, but other people will."
"Why? No one else can even see him! It's only there for us. There's already rumors about our family being weird cultists or whatever."
When he noticed his mother looking concernedly out the window, he leaned forward a bit more. "No one else can see him… It's only us, right?"
Layla Vice sighed, joining her son and husband in gazing out at the wastes. "Honestly? I don't know any more JoJo…"
The center of Wrigleyton, the field, was most often a market square. Today, all of the stalls were bustling and busy, and streamers and signs were scattered about. Citizens and visitors alike were alive like no other time of year. That was why Paul loved the festival. Others were there for the free water. It was a nice thought, though the citizens rarely took advantage of it. That was more for the caravaners and wanderers.
Wreck loved it because everyone was more welcoming than normal. People let their guards down, even around him and his kin. The occasional wanderer stared with wide eyes at the mutants roaming the town, but they quickly learned the new norms.
Paul was ambling down the street, enjoying some fried iguana and a chilled Quantum. As he took another sip, someone roughly shouldered him aside. He managed to catch his food and not breathe in his drink, and rounded on them. He stopped himself before saying anything.
The person was clad head to toe in power armor. The winged sword and gears of the Brotherhood adorned his right shoulder and chestpiece. Slung over their shoulder was a laser rifle. They spoke, clearly a woman despite the weird distortion the armor gave her voice.
"Sorry about that citizen. You alright?"
Paul nodded, more than a little wary. "Ah, yes, fine. I wasn't aware the Brotherhood would be here… I really need to pay more attention."
She shook her head. "No no, you're alright. We were called in by the mayor. Something about some tech or something. Though none of my people have seen anything out of the ordinary. So I guess you enjoy yourselves."
He nodded as the knight took her leave. It was a bit weird that the mayor would call in the Brotherhood, right? Didn't the mayor personally turn them away just last year? He decided it wasn't that important. If he had called them in then it didn't much matter. Besides, more interesting things were happening now.
The crowd cheered and all attention was on the main entrance. A rather well-restored limo drove up and allowed its occupants into the field. The Vices had finally arrived.
Everyone in the Chicago wastes knew about the Vices and their extravagant lifestyle. Their manor covered most of the Thatcher Woods area. They were also known for the fire of 2271, which burned down half of Wrigleyton. The survivors of the area that burned down reported seeing a great shadow falling over them. Still, they had donated caps and material to rebuild and improve the town. If nothing else, they were the town's crowning attraction.
The limp body of Mayor Rayden James fell to the floor. Blood poured from a shot to his head. Orion tossed the pistol to the side, and looked again over the celebrating city below. Sure enough, the Vices were here, without giving it a second thought. Van Lundholm would be sure to repay him for this.
He retrieved a vial from his belt. Within was what seemed to be normal water, but there was a distinct sparkle within. He uncapped it, and poured into the broken pipe. Even as he poured, the vial didn't empty. "Get to work, Dionysus."
…
Stand Profile
Name: Da Vinci's Notebook
Power: E
Speed: C
Range: B
Durability: E
Precision: B
Learning: A
Ability: When pencil is touched to paper, the notebook creates a design. Once finished, tendrils of graphite shoot out and create the device. The notebook seems only capable of making unnecessarily complex and inconvenient to use objects however.