Couldn't get this crossover out of my head. If you read my other fanfiction before, this isn't the same as the other story at all. Read at your own risk and review so I can get constructive criticism.
To say the least, this was the probably the worst job you could have possibly agreed to, if the damn cuffs around your wrists was evidence for that. Being dragged by some thugs with a bag over your head doesn't exactly make things any better.
You try your best to struggle as they pulled you across the desert sands, but they carried you easily. A bony frame made you light and you weren't that strong to begin with, so it wasn't a fair fight.
"Where do you want us to put the motherfucker? The wriggling is starting to piss me off."
"At the open grave. Might as well make the burial quick for him." A gun was cocked, causing the you to flinch. You struggled more and tried to shout, causing your captor to hit you over the head. It did cause you to stop for a second, but against better judgement, you struggled even more and even tried to give out a few muffled curses.
"Great, you had to rile the alley cat up didn't you." Came the voice again, in what was probably the worst accent you've ever heard in your life. The dumbass was trying to sound cool, but he picked the wrong fucking decade- no, wrong century- to copy. For fucks sake, if you knew you were getting murdered by a guy having a midlife crisis, suicide would have looked like an attractive alternative. You would have voiced this complaint if you weren't gagged at the moment.
Guess your captors got tired of dragging you, as they tossed your wriggling body to your apparent resting place. Forcing you to get on your knees, they finally took the bag off your head.
"Look I don't get why you want the mother fucker to see this. Can't we just off him and get on with it." A gangly looking guy with face paint, who thankfully took the bag off, impatiently messed with said bag. He was dressed in armor you could only assume was from a war tribe, yet his makeup made him look like fucked-up clown. Ashamedly, you were a little intimidated.
"I don't know about Subjugglators, but I'd rather look my prey in eye, you dig?" Oh, so that was the guy talking like a- wait, what the shit is he wearing? Is that a checker board suit?! Great, your getting killed by the guy with the worst fashion taste in the wastelands. The only redeeming quality he seemed to have was the two scars going diagonally down on his face, but the suit ruined any intimidation factor it could have possibly had.
"He's got a point Dad, we should probably get out of here. We could just leave him alive, I'm sure he won't tell anyone." Double great, the guy had a fucking son dressed in a leather jacket and oiled hair. Guess fashion sense is genetic in this family.
"Yeah, could have done that before we took the bag of his head! This is all so stupid, we could have grabbed it and gone by now. Now we have to kill him, so he doesn't say shit." Triple great, another son appeared. This guy had sex twice. What a horrid mistake some poor bastard had to make. And he looked was wearing a scarf out in the goddam desert heat. Just the thing to complete the most fucking stupid assassination ever.
You probably shouldn't be so mean, at least these two didn't want to kill you.
"Could we all just keep it cool. I know what I'm doing, I ain't no fink." The fake accent wavered a bit as the man in front of you played with the gun a bit more. Seemingly satisfied, he cocked it again.
"I'm more of a fan of energy weapons, but I wanted to shake things up." The smug smile on the bastard's face made you want to puke. He gestured to the decorated handgun, looking at it appreciatively. Clearing his throat, he started what you could only assume was a speech he repeated in the mirror. "This probably looks like an 18-karat run of bad luck."
"Truth is, kid…" He pointed the gun at you, aiming at your head. "The game was rigged from the start."
You didn't have time to say a quick prayer before the shot rang off.
The dirt, the dirt, the dirt, god damn it, get it off.
Surrounded, you had to climb out, your head hurt so much, why did it hurt.
Clawing out to the top, the fresh air burns your lungs.
A lady in red is standing in front of you, who is she, what does she want?
She grabs you and hauls you out of your grave.
You opened your eyes to a blinding light. It hurts to look at it and you lift your hand up to try and block it. It feels like lead and you can barely lift it. God, why does your head hurt so fucking much?
Oh, yeah, you were just shot in the face. Why the fuck where you shot again? God dammit, you were gonna snap that guys neck when you got up.
"Whoa, hold on there. Don't want to strain yourself too much now." You flinched when a pair of hands tried to stop you from getting up. You scurried yourself against the wall behind you, keeping your eyes on the stranger. You tried to use the blankets as a shield.
A kindly looking old man stood nearby, holding his hands up cautiously. "Not here to hurt ya. Just checking to see if your all right."
You remain silent, glaring at him suspiciously. An awkward standoff lasted for a several minutes before you decided to lower the sheets. "Fine. You make the wrong fucking move, don't be surprised if I start biting." Your voice is hoarse and sound like you gargled gravel as you made the empty threat. No way in hell you could fight him with your head trying to split apart.
"More than fair, kid. Now let's get you up slowly." He didn't seem phased by your threat and simply started to move you in a sitting position.
"Easy, old man don't get too handsy- owowowowowowow, fuckshitgoddamnsonuvabitch!" The world decides to get so much brighter or your brain is betraying you, because your head seems to be trying to implode. Your eyes close reflexively as the guy continues to bring you up.
"Take it slow, no need to rush. Here we go." Your sitting up, but at what cost. God, getting shot in the head was not good for your health. "Okay, shit. Remind me to stay away from bullets for a while."
The old man chuckled. "Good to see your sense of humor isn't damaged. I'm Doc Mitchell. I already got your name from that book you were carrying." You finally got over the pain long enough to seem him waving a leather-bound book around. You reach out reflexively before hesitating. Mitchell hands it over to you no questions asked.
You grasped it closely to your chest before giving him a nod of thanks. "At least one of us knows it. I sure as fuck don't." The sarcasm was a little thick, but it was true. Other than the attempted murder, you were drawing a fucking blank.
Mitchell winced. "Hmmm. Must've been a bit more damage than I thought. I did my best to fix you up the best I could. Speaking of which, you mind telling me if I put everything back in the right place? I'm pretty confident I got everything right."
He reached behind his back and handed you a mirror. You grabbed it hesitantly and directed it to your face.
Despite everything, your face looked mostly normal. Your gray skin was healthy shade of gray and your black hair was still the mess it always was. It was pretty much everywhere, tangles and knots in plain sight around your small horns. You thought about fixing it before you caught sight of your eyes, which were a bright red. It almost startled you at the sight of them. Great, that would be a hard thing to disguise. How many fucking people have red goddamn eyes?
You were also seemed to be missing some skin near the right side of your mouth, reaching all the way down to your neck. You touched it, expecting to feel something, but nothing hurt. You had the urge to hide it immediately, but you figured that Doc Mitchell already saw it during your coma. The word 'ghoul' came to mind suddenly, but you weren't sure what it meant. It brought a feeling of shame you couldn't place. You'd have to ask later.
The scar wouldn't help things either.
You guess the long, white scar being held together by stitches is where you got shot. It looked fucking ugly, white at the edges of the damaged skin. Looks like the bullet grazed by the right side of your skull judging by how it goes from your temple to back. God, that is not going to heal right.
For the most part, you looked like a normal, healthy-ish troll, so you decide not to complain.
"Guess it's good enough." You mumbled to yourself. You really should be a little more appreciative right now, but you were still waking up from being dead. Hopefully the old guy doesn't get too offended.
To your immediate relief, Mitchell only chuckles. "Good to hear. Now, we should probably get you up." Slowly, he raised his hands, not moving them until you nodded to give permission. Grabbing under your armpits, you both tried to get up.
The world seemed to light up for a second and followed by a loud ringing. Your gritting your teeth and cursing everything under the goddam sun. Hopefully this wouldn't be a common thing, or you'd finish the job for the fucker that left you like this.
Not before dragging him down with you, of course.
"Whoa there. You all right their kid?" You nod, even though you're lying. He seems satisfied and doesn't probe you. You eventually get to stand on your own feet. You feel weak, but at least you can stand up.
"Okay, I think it's about time to go test some things. Get your medical history down. Not like you have a family history of getting shot in the head, right?"
"I certainly hope the fuck not." You reply sarcastically. Another chuckle came from Doc and begins walking to a machine.
You take your first tentative steps in what feels like days to follow him.
You're still grateful that this guy stitched you up and all, but what the fuck were these tests supposed to accomplish?
Seriously, what the fuck does a vigor tester have to do with medicine? And why did it measure Charisma and Agility? You were starting to question this guy's medical degree.
Now he was questioning you on weird shit like being agreeable or making you look at ink blots.
"Now what does this one look like?" Doc Mitchell held up card, hopefully the last one. You barely spared it a glance before you deadpanned, "Two bears playing pattycake."
"Well, can't say I've heard that one before." He wrote in his notebook once again and closed it. You really wanted to know what he was writing but figured you didn't need to know how fucking crazy you are.
You can't take it anymore, you need some answers and fast.
"Doc, as much as I'm sure these tests are vital to determine the crazy shit going in my fucking head, but can we move on? I kinda want some answers here." Mitchell gives you only a brief glance. "Guess that's fair, you've been patient so far… more or less… something you want to know?"
"Lots of things." Finally, shit was getting done. "How the fuck did I get here? And do you have any idea who shot me in the fucking head?"
Doc Mitchell winced. "Starting to wonder if you cursed this much before…"
"Excuse me?"
"Nothin'. Can't say I got a good look at them. They came into town and didn't stay for too long. Acted all jittery. Guess they had a reason." The doctor shrugged, which would have pissed you off if he didn't look so remorseful.
"Damn it." You leaned back in your seat, crossing your arms in a huff. "Was one them at least wearing some ugly suit? Checkerboard and shit?" You waved your arms in front of you vaguely, like you were trying to summon an image of him right now. Which is impossible by the way.
Mitchell seemed to nod at your weak flailing, though. "Don't really forget something like that. You'd probably do better asking some of the folks around here though."
You sighed again. It wasn't like it wasn't a good suggestion, but…
"Yeah, I'll just walk up to people and ask them if they saw my murderer. Should I make some ghost sounds too while I'm at it? Wear a white sheet over my head and cut out some goddam holes?" You try to smile sarcastically, but it feels weird on your face. You must not smile that much.
"Good luck finding the white sheet around here." Your friend(?) chuckled. "Touché. I should probably start looking for that fucker before he gets too far." You start to get up when the old man seems to remember something.
"Alright, we should get you out there. I can't really say I condone going out to get yourself killed again, but it doesn't seem like I'll be able to stop you." Doc Mitchell moves to separate hallway, speaking up as he gets farther away. You watch him go and start moving to the front of the house.
While you hear him rummage around, you hang out at the front door awkwardly. You decide to flip through the book in your hands after feeling the leather over it. Several names jump out at you as you read bits and pieces.
Peter, John, Jude, Revelation… Wait, you were carrying a bible? You could have sworn you weren't religious or, at the least, not very devout. Maybe this was a family trinket or something. The pages did look a little yellow and some parts of the book were frayed. The binding was also a little loose and you couldn't help but notice small, horrible repairs on it.
You tried to read the book carefully, making sure to read random passages before impatiently flipping to another page. You're trying to see if a certain phrase or something would kick off a memory, but nothing is coming up. You either didn't read it that much or this wasn't even yours. You really hope you weren't the kind of person that steals bibles from people.
The dull irritation that's settled over you since you woke up started to fire up into anger. You had no memory of yourself or who you were. You survived, but your life was still stolen from you. By a bunch of guys wearing clown make-up, an asshole, and his two little shits that call him dad.
You close the bible and growl lowly.
You were going to get that son of a bitch. You were alive, but he still murdered you.
"Uh, hello?"
Doc Mitchell, having come back in the middle of your murderous rage, was holding some clothing in his hands. You were confused for a second before you realized, after looking down, you were wearing only a short and boxers. How the fuck didn't you notice that before?
You give an embarrassed look before grabbing the clothes, nodding to him quickly in thanks. He leaves again this time, chuckling as you try to put on your pants as fast as possible.
Finally, you have some decent clothing. You're now wearing a big brown jacket that reaches past your back, a black undershirt, and brown pants. The shirts sleeves felt too long, and pants were folded up, both being too big for you. It was generic, and it felt a bit heavy on your body. You have no idea how you didn't die of heatstroke before getting to this point, but you decide not to question it.
Doc Mitchell also apparently found some weapons. The 10mm pistol felt light and fragile in your hands, well-worn. It felt familiar as you check to see if it's loaded, which it is. There was some rust on the metal along with wear and tear at the handle.
That was the normal one. Your melee weapon was admittedly more interesting.
It was a simple sickle, with polished steel and a sharp curve. You resist the urge to run your hand over it, so you won't cut yourself. You obviously put more time in keeping it in good condition, looking over it carefully. You caught your reflection on the blade more than once and you keep on catching the patch of missing skin. A shiver of disgust crawls on your spine.
You holster the weapons immediately and grab a black cloth, putting around your mouth. You feel a bit better, if only a little bit. You got your shit back and that was all that matters.
Doc Mitchell comes up to you again, this time carrying what looks like what happens when a computer fucked a wristwatch and had a baby.
"Figured you might as well have my old Pipboy. Maybe you'll have more use for it than I have." He tosses it to you casually, which you just barely catch. It's heavier than it looks.
You turn it around in your hands, probing the leather and clasping it onto your right arm (you have to take it off and flip it because you put it on upside-down). Fiddling with the buttons, it turns on, the dull green light blinding you for a second. A bunch of numbers start climbing up the screen, too fast and complicated for you to understand.
"Had to reboot a little while ago, so it's gonna take a minute for it to work. I made sure to keep all your stuff in your pockets, so you wouldn't lose nothing."
The bag of caps felt small in your pocket, feeling pitiful. You weren't robbed of your caps, which was a pleasant surprise. Not a big one, but you'd take what you can get. You felt a piece of paper and ammo for your gun in your jacket pocket. Guess you'd have to rely on your knife for a while until you had sufficient ammo.
"I hope you aren't expecting a doctor's fee, looks like I'm fresh out." Your move the things around one final time and look at your friend.
"I should probably get the fuck out of here. Thanks for taking care of my shit while I was dead." You shake his hand, trying to smile again.
"Wasn't a problem. I hope you aren't looking to get shot again anytime soon." The laugh you let out felt alien, but it was welcome. Ignoring the floor swaying underneath, you reach for the door handle before you a hand landed gently on your shoulder.
Doc Mitchell has a pensive look on his face. "I know I said I didn't see who shot you, but I do know who brought you in." You straighten up and nod to let him continue. "She was real quiet when she came in here and didn't say anything about what happened, but you could go to her. Not sure if she speaks English, but she could lead you to the right place."
You ask him if he knows where to find her.
"She's the only other troll in town kid. Even if she wasn't, she kinda stands out." You nod again. That was actually great information to start with. Might be nice to talk to another troll too, you had a feeling that you didn't have that many chances otherwise.
"Thanks, doc. You'll be the first I tell when I get back at that fucker in the suit."
"I'll be waiting." He nods and finally moves away, turning to go back into his house. You stand there in silence, feet refusing to move. You look to the door, looking bigger than you originally thought. You try to steel your nerves, but it seems almost impossible.
You flip to through your bible again, but this time, you catch something written down on the first page. The handwriting is simple and blocky, almost like it was written in all-caps. You guess this was the name Doc Mitchell had mentioned.
…Your name was Karkat Vantas.
…Who the fuck names their kid Karkat?
This is a crossover that wouldn't leave my head. Since I like playing Fallout games so much, I figured I'd role play a certain character and then transcribe it into fan fiction. Basically, the story focus on the main story, the DLC, and certain side missions that either have significance or focus on companions. I'll upload the stats at a later point if anyone asks on a reddit post.
Speaking of which, thanks to anyone from reddit that gave tips on what stats to use for Karkat so it can help get me into character. I most likely posted this on reddit or linked it to you specifically so you can read it.