Hey! Not all of the submissions slots are taken, but I was so blown away by how amazing all of your characters are so far, I decided to start some of the introductions to locations, factions, and the OCs!
Eden – Introducing Joseph B. Jefferson
Jefferson's burly form was seated in the VIP section of his nightclub, Damnation. He had curly, dark hair and a curlier, darker mustache, and he twirled its ends as he looked at the stage's setup. It was daytime, so the nightclub was closed, and all of the lights were on. The club occupied what used to be the ancient Egyptian section of the Metropolitan Museum of art, but the art was mostly cleared out, leaving only stages, cages, and platforms on which women could dance. There was a bar and several seats for viewers to watch the dancers, but Jefferson was in his lounge going through paperwork and looking at the setup.
The nightclub was his pride and joy, and he saw his pride and joy lit up and empty, waiting to be opened come nightfall. He grinned – he couldn't help himself, thinking of the dancers and revenue that the evening would bring him.
Was he a good man? If you asked most people, you'd get a firm no. But, if you asked him, he'd say, "Am I good? No, I'm the best!" With a hearty laugh between sentences. He was looking over the plans for his upcoming auction. He wanted to open his casino, and he needed funds to do it, so he would sell the Met's art, and he would sell his own prized possessions – slaves.
He stopped twirling his mustache and signed his name at the bottom of the paperwork. A large, curly signature that reeked of grandeur and inflated ego.
The double doors to Damnation swung open, and Jefferson did not so much as turn his head to see who entered. The soft, firm steps of black leather dress shoes were familiar to him. "Come the end of the week, we're going to do good things, kid." He said to the visitor.
The guy smiled. He was tall, like Jefferson, but lean and toned where Jefferson was burly and muscular. His hair was long and shaggy, but darker than Jefferson's, as was the hair on his chin and his mustache. Before sitting across from Jefferson, he went to the empty bar and refilled his flask using the whiskey bottle on the counter. "You're referring to the auction?"
"That's right Joseph – the auction. There's nothing I love more than the look on a buyer's face when they get prime goods." Jefferson turned around, and his eyes met Joseph's reflective sunglasses, and Jefferson continued. "Don't suppose we could pay you some extra to be some muscle at the main event, could we?"
"You don't even have to ask. Buying slaves and putting down anybody who tries to ruin our fun? That's the dream, Jefferson." Joseph laughed and took a drink from his newly-filled flask. He resembled his adoptive father figure in a lot of ways. Under his glasses, his blue eyes had the same thirst for power as Jefferson's brown ones.
"You could have grown to be a lot of things, Joseph," said Jefferson. "I'm glad you didn't turn out some kind of synth-loving pansy."
"And I'm glad I wasn't raised by one."
The two men grinned at each other.
Grey Ranger Compound – Introducing Amadea Scott and Emily Lowell
The Grey Rangers' compound had a small lounge near the entrance. It was a three-story metal building with incredible defenses and expensive décor, and Dorian was sitting in the "lobby" with two of his Rangers, waiting for somebody to come through the compound doors.
"I can't believe you've invited her again," a black woman with short, swept hair and some form of British accent remarked. She was in Grey Rangers' attire – slacks and the grey dress shirt with skull and crossbones over the right breast. Her sunglasses were pushed up into her hair.
Dorian scratched his white hair. For an old, burned, rotten ghoul, he kept himself as clean as he could. Green muscle fibers pulsed under his destroyed skin, and the claw mark on his neck glowed an eerie green under the scar tissue. His eyes were milky, bloodshot, and steel, and his face was covered in a trimmed beard. If he didn't keep himself so tidy, he was sure hair wouldn't be able to grow on his head or his face. "You like her," he responded. His voice was deep and hoarse – it matched his face well. It was obvious he might have been handsome a long time ago – maybe even beautiful, but now none of his features were distinct, besides his hair and the green glow that spread out under his tissue.
"She's abrasive and an idiot," the women snapped.
Dorian shrugged. "She is abrasive," he agreed. "But you and I know rather well that her brilliance is matched only by her… impulse." Dorian wore the same attire as the woman – Diane – the only difference being he wore heavy gloves that seemed to serve no purpose other than to be extra weight on his hands.
The last Ranger was not wearing the same attire as the other two. She wore a black coat, a gray turtleneck, leather black gloves, and black cargo pants and boots. She was sitting next to Diane, across from Dorian, leaning back onto the couch.
"Amadea, you really don't find her insufferable?" Diane asked the other woman.
Amadea shrugged. "She's kind." Amadea had light brown skin and freckles on the bridge of her nose and cheeks. Her hair was scruffy, curly, and cut to the middle of her neck; Amadea was all angles, with sharp cheekbones, and glaring, almond shaped dark brown eyes. Her face was completed by a thick, rough scar on the left side.
The doors to the compound swung open. In walked a white woman, on the shorter side, with shoulder-length blonde hair. She had an oval-shaped face, a pug nose, high cheekbones, and tired – but beaming - brown eyes. "Dorian – you rang?"
Dorian stood. "Emily." He extended one of his gloved hand, which she took with her own gloved hand. Emily was holding a helmet under the arm she wasn't using to shake hands. Her overcoat was long and made of a heavy synthetic material. It was composed of blacks and reds; the sleeves were rolled up to just below the elbows, and it had a prominent collar and lapel. Her gloves and armguards disappeared under the rolled-up sleeves, and they were all-white, with black trimming going around the tactical plating. The palms of the gloves were a bright red. The undersuit was white as well, composed of two parts – a heavy shirt and loose, tactical pants. The white of the pants was muted with dark gray in the crotch, the gray extending into the trimming of her boots and shin guards, which were plated with the same red as the palms. The shirt was white as well, mostly plain with two silver latches to the right holding a flap down, and a red neck guard stemming up from the shirt and ending below her chin. The helmet under her arm was white, with a black visor populated with white flashes signifying electronics running under it.
No part of Emily looked like a quiet assassin – she was certainly no Grey Ranger, just an old friend of Dorian's. She released his hand and put her visor down on the table in front of Diane and Amadea's seats.
"I need you to go to The Atom Bog with Amadea," Dorian told Emily. "We've hit a dead end, and the Children don't love the Rangers. Granted, they don't love you either, but you'd certainly help."
"You don't think the Children of Atom want the eleven least charismatic people alive knocking on their doorstep demanding information?" Emily asked.
"You wouldn't?" Dorian replied. "I'll make drinks, then you two should go."
Diane stood and went to a different room as well, leaving Emily alone with Amadea. "She doesn't like me," Emily mumbled, looking in the direction Diane left.
"You know I can't hear mumbling. The speech-to-text can't pick up on it." Amadea crossed her arms.
Emily turned to Amadea and talked louder for the tech in her eyes: "If you'd let me upgrade that old thing, maybe-"
"Don't touch my implant."
There was a pause. "Diane doesn't like me," Emily said, louder this time.
"She thinks you're abrasive and stupid."
"Even I think I'm abrasive and stupid. Maybe it's the eyes."
"No, it's the abrasion and stupidity," Dorian called from the next room. He returned with two glasses of rot gut. "You know, in another life you might have made a good Ranger," he told Emily.
Emily picked up one of the clear glasses full of a red alcoholic mixture, and Amadea did not pick up the other one. When Dorian saw she wasn't going to drink, he picked up the cup and sipped it himself.
They silently sipped for a few moments, then Dorian spoke again, "It's a three hour walk from here to the bog – if you get moving, you'll make it by nightfall – Locke will probably meet you there." Dorian took the remainder of Emily's drink straight from her hand and poured her glass' contents into his own.
When Emily opened her mouth to object, he put a finger to his lips, shushed her, and said, "I said scram, kids."
Emily grabbed her helmet from the table, and Amadea went upstairs to get her weapons. She came back downstairs with a small shotgun at her hip, and one brass knuckle in each pocket of her coat. She grabbed the collar of her turtleneck with her gloves and rolled it up over her mouth before stepping outside. Emily followed, slipping on her visor and completing her outfit.
Parkville – Introducing Ryan Flaithrí and Andrew Baker
A tall, thin man was sitting at the casual restaurant in Parkville. He was eating grilled mantis with a side of BlamCo mac and cheese; he was clad in unique elite riot gear that he must have picked up somewhere far from York. It was an advanced model of LAPD riot armor from the pre-war era, and the accompanying helmet was resting in his lap. His overcoat was plated with green combat armor on the shoulders and forearms; one bandolier of ammo and one of pouches crossed over his chest of riot gear, and a canteen of water was strapped to one of the belts holding up his gray cargo pants, which were tucked into steel-toed boots laced up to right under combat armor knee pads. He had his right glove off, resting on the table next to his meal.
Since he had just gotten into Parkville for the day, his weapons had been confiscated, and his windswept dirty blond hair was still matted down with sweat. He still had a bit of dirt caked onto his tan, angular face. He dug into one of the pouches on his chest and laid out 16 caps, then he slipped on his right glove and picked up his helmet. He went to the restaurant's bathroom and washed the dirty and sweat off of himself with the sink's water. He looked at his reflection's electric blue eyes. He gave himself a thumbs up and a smile in the mirror, flashing clean, but not perfect, teeth.
He went past the bounty board next to the mayor's office and grabbed a notice from the board: Weapons being resold on the Black Market. See Sandra the workshop for details. Reward upon completion: one custom weapon.
He stuffed the notice – one of many copies – into his pocket and made his way to the Workshop. He opened one of the big metal doors and the security – a 6' 6" ghoul in full combat armor and an assaultron - firmly patted him down. The ghoul was incredibly large, though only dwarfing the man by 3 inches.
"Hey," the guy called. There was nobody at the cash register. "My name's Ryan Flaithrí – I'm here about the notice?"
A woman wearing a welding mask came out of the back room; she was in a RobCo jumpsuit with two toolbelts, one across her chest and one around her waist. Red hair was tied in a ponytail behind the mask, and her right hand, still holding a blowtorch, was covered by a thick brown glove.
Ryan looked around the shop. The front room with the cash register was immaculate – it was spotless metal with two clean laser turrets on either side of the counter. The wall behind the counter was lined with a few guns and energy weapons; most of Sandra's work was custom, so there weren't many premade weapons ready for sale.
The woman pulled off the welding mask and set the blowtorch next to the register. Her eyes were green, and her face was dotted with freckles. She was probably around 25, barely younger than Ryan.
"Slavers keep getting ahold of my weapons." She was blunt, and Ryan raised an eyebrow. She hardly notices how good-looking I am. That's weird. He almost chuckled to himself at his thought.
"We can't have that," he agreed. "Aren't your orders custom? Shouldn't you have a log of who gets what weapon?"
"You can't just go accusing Parkville residents of illegal smuggling, Ryan Flaithrí. The orders are custom, but people can claim to lose things in the wastes or have things stolen. Sheriff Walter won't start arresting people without proof."
"Okay, so whose weapons ended up where? Hit me with a list and I'll be done in no time."
Just as Sandra opened a drawer behind the register, the door to her shop swung open again, and the ghoul and assaultron turned to see who entered.
It was a man, almost thirty, with short, messy black hair. The man was slim and tall, a few inches shorter than Ryan. He had fair skin and a short, scruffy beard. He wore a lab coat reinforced with leather armor, brahmin leather pants, black boots, and gasmask around his neck. He held up a copy of the notice. "Need some help?"
"Always appreciated," Sandra replied.
The new man turned to Ryan and extended a hand. "Andrew Baker."
"Charmed." Ryan shook it.
"You know what they say, right? Two heads." Sandra tapped the side of her head. She finished fishing inside of her desk and handed the men a list each. "These are the three people whose weapons have been found on slaver's bodies. Be nice, boys."
"I'm always nice." Ryan flashed a smile.
"Well then I hope you two get along."
These introductions were crazy fun to write! Also, if your character wasn't featured here, don't worry, they'll probably pop up soon! There were a good amount of submissions, so I probably won't end up rejecting any characters, I'll just make some more minor than others. The characters here will probably all be major characters throughout the story.
Also, I'm going to have an optional "question of the day" at the end of each chapter, so this "question of the day is": What's your character's favorite food and drink in the wasteland?
