Tip #7: Looking The Part

In the Wasteland, people have to act quickly. Holding back and hesitating, waiting for clarification, even for just a second, is a risk. That second could be all it takes for someone to take aim and fire. People act and react quickly because they have to, and so they judge situations and people quickly. If you don't want to get shot at out of hand, make sure to look nonthreatening. If you don't want someone to think of you as an easy mark, look tough. These decisions can be made in space of a split second and how you look will often be the deciding factor.

I am eating cat food. And it is delicious.

I wipe my hand on the side of my pants, not doing much besides spreading the grime around but its a habitual gesture, and grab the dirty glass bottle of homebrewed moonshine. It smells disgusting and tastes even worse, but fuck it.

I shift in my spot on a thin mattress jammed between a work bench and a wall, hidden from sight if anyone were to walk into the room but with enough room to move quickly if need be. Everyone in the Wasted clan's base is dead. It didn't take long. There were only five left after the fuck up in the garage, all busy hauling their dead outside.

My hands are black with dirt where they aren't crusted with dried blood, but that doesn't stop me from using my fingers to dig out another clump of cat food out of the can and popping it into my mouth. Damn, that's good. Salty and a hundred years old, but good. The bandits had a small stockpile of foodstuffs, but of that it was hard to find a can with the seal still tight.

I'm feeling pretty good at the moment. The left side of my chest aches like a son-of-a bitch, though. I don't know why, it's nowhere near where I was shot. But I'm alive, my injuries are healing, I scavenged some clothes that aren't stiff with blood, my belly's full, and best of all, I'm a little buzzed. I'm not nearly as far gone as I would have thought given the considerable dent I've made in the bottle, more a crater than a dent really, but I suppose that's probably a blessing in disguise. If more bandits wander back to their base to find all their friends dead it'd be better for me not to be shitfaced.

Wasted and fighting the Wasted. I giggle. Maybe I'm farther gone than I thought.

Still giggling to myself, I finish off the can, take aim, and toss it at a nearby bucket. It hits the edge and bounces off.

"That doesn't count," I say, pulling myself to my feet. "It wasn't a straight shot."

I grab my shotgun from where I put it on the bench. With a lethal weapon in one hand and a bottle of moonshine in the other, I walk through the Wasted clan's hide out. There's a lot of good stuff in here. Tools and spare parts for mostly. Sadly, all the vehicles have been torn apart and cannibalized for parts, seemingly all going towards the wrecked turret car lodged in the garage doorway.

But I do find my assault rifle, and Durar's ATV. It's been... modified. Awesomely. I my gun down and run my hand down the seat, absently wondering who's pet project this was. I left for this place immediately after this was stolen, so they would have started right away. I take a swig from the bottle and glance over to the crashed car. Maybe it was someone sick of having their toys taken away to add to that beast and was excited for it to finally be done so they could work on something for themselves.

Finally, something those other assholes won't be taking from me, they would have thought. Then they took the wheels off and replaces them with these, bigger, less threadbare, with spikes on the axles. A good first step, but it's not enough. They would have wanted something to mark it as their own. So they jumped to cosmetic adjustments. That's when they mounted the cow skull on the top, lengthened the handlebars, added the accents-

I halt that train of thought, pivot, and hurl the moonshine bottle into the wall. It shatters on impact and alcohol sprays across the wall. I cover my eyes with the palms of my hands, tilt my head back and try to purge my mind of the mystery mechanic I most certainly killed a couple of hours previous.

I take a deep breath, hold it, then let it go. That's a bit better. Feeling much more sober, I uncover my eyes. No more giving backstory's to the people I kill.

With a dampened mood I do another round of the hideout, noting where all the good supplies are at. Then I find two blue plastic bins, faded white lettering on the side and largely intact, and set about gathering up anything that'll fit inside. Weapons, ammo, tools and food cans take priority, and I don't touch any more of the moonshine bottles. I won't be able to carry these back with me, even if I did trust the Outriggers not to take them from me. I don't. Same goes for the Hagars, actually.

I lash one of the bins to the back of the ATV with some old bungee cords I find and grab some of the plastic sheets from the pallets I had hidden under earlier. For the life of me I can't find a way to get the second bin to sit stably on the second, and the extra weight could be more than the ATV could readily handle, so I have to leave it for now. I can't get past the car wedged in the doorway, but there is a vehicle entrance in the back I'm able to wrestle open.

With a pistol in my belt and my assault rifle slung across my back, I start the ATV. I can only juggle so many weapons at once so the shotgun gets left behind. I stop just outside the door, look around quickly to get my bearings, then drive off in the opposite direction of the Outrigger settlement.

I drive for roughly an hour from the old damn complex before slowing down to scout for a good spot. That takes me about another half hour before settling on a small spot at the base of a natural stone pillar. I use the lid of the plastic bin to scoop up dirt until I have a hole just big enough to fit the bin. I go over the supplies before putting the lid back on. Two pistols of questionable condition, two boxes of ammunition, two bottles of dirty water, a rusty knife, screwdrivers, a wrench, food cans, screws, nails, and a plastic water bottles full of gasoline. A layer the hole with a plastic sheet, then lower in the bin, then put another sheet on top. I cover it with a layer of dirt before scattering the rest of the pile with a kick. I spend the next few minutes studying the pillar and nearby landmarks, and once I think I have them memorize, I drive back.

With the second bin I only drive for a half hour, then bury it dead center in the middle of a circular, dusty clearing surrounded by steep rock faces on all sides except for a single, narrow valley that leads in and out.

That job done with, I head back to the damn complex. Remembering my promise to Durar, I manage to scrounge up a can of gasoline, a bottle of motor oil, and some spare parts and place them together near the exit, a little out of the way in the room with the destroyed desk.

Now I'm finally ready to go back to the Outriggers. They won't be expecting me, I do believe. It's only a short drive there, and I spend it grinning and imagining the looks on their faces. And perfect timing, too. I've been gone a really long time, and now I get to return like a conquering hero with the setting sun at my back. A whole bandit clan wiped out by a single person completely unscathed, at least as far as they know. I grin even wider as the gate comes into view. Pretty good for a little girl-

A loud crack echoes through the air and I'm thrown backwards, right off the ATV. My shoulders hit the ground first, then the back of my head, then my feet flip over my head in a somersault and I stop face down on my stomach.

I'm stunned. It takes a long moment for my mind to piece together what just happened, and once I finally connect the crack to a gunshot to me getting thrown to the ground do I feel pain blossom in my left shoulder.

I hear people yelling at the gates about sixty feet in front of me, shouts of "They're back!" and "Get ready!".

"C'est quoi ce bordel?!" I scream, lifting my head from the dirt and struggling up to my knees. There's another sharp crack and five feet to my left a cloud of dirt flies up from the ground.

There's something about being shot at by people who are supposed to be, if not friends, then at least allies, that is a hell of a lot more terrifying than being shot at by bandits. My voice rises sharply in pitch and cracks as I screech "Je t'encule!" while trying to scramble away from where the shot landed. I don't even make it to standing before falling flat on my ass.

"Stop! Hold your fire!" someone at the gate yells. Six feet in front of me a clump of dirt is thrown up. I crawl towards using my legs and one good arm to push myself.

"I said to hold your fucking fire! Gibberish, it that you?"

"It's french you fucking trouduc!" I holler, still crawling for cover in case these crazy assholes decide to start firing again. My shoulder burns, adding fresh blood to my clothes. I keep expecting to feel the pain in my chest return, it always seems to accompany me getting shot, but it never comes.

I don't hear any more gunshots and manage to crawl behind a boulder at the side of the road. Pain spikes through my shoulder at every movement. With my back against the rock I pull out my pistol with one hand while trying to steady my breathing.

Mon dieu, what was going on? Why the hell would they shoot me?

I hear the sound of dirt and rocks crunching under footsteps. When an unarmed man passes the rock and steps into sight, I level my gun at him.

"Whoa there, Gibberish, calm down." He holds up his empty hands in a nonthreatening, placating gesture. I recognize him.

"Fuck you, Goggles. And don't call me that."

"Easy, just put the gun down."

"You fucking shot me!"

"One of the others guards. And what did you expect with that ATV and looking like this."

Rourke gestures at me, but quickly puts his hands back up when I narrow my eyes. I can see what he means, though. My clothes had been ruined after the fight, and I had scavenged some 'new' ones from among the bandits' things, too large and with questionable stains, but better than the blood soaked and bullet torn ones I had on. There wasn't much I could do about the blood and dirt that covered my skin and hair, and so I had left it. And the ATV...

I really hadn't thought this through when I set off.

I drop the hand holding the gun. "It was still a dick move," I say.

"Janus'll patch you up. Come on, Gibberish."

He helps me to my feet and I see two more of the Outrigger guards waiting on the other side of the boulder, each holding assault rifles in case our talk went south I'd guess.

"I said stop calling me that."

"I will if you stop with your little nickname."

"Fuck you, Goggles."

My shoulder throbs with pain but it's dying down quickly. It isn't until we're two thirds of the way to the gate before I realize my next problem.

"I will say that I am going to be giving you shit about this the whole time I'm here, but I have to admit, it isn't that bad. You guys have shitty aim."

I stretch my arm out to prove my point, keeping a smile on my face like a mask to conceal the sharp stab of pain that lances through the entire left side of my body. I roll my shoulders and attempt to swing my arm through its full range of motion, but as I try to stretch it upwards, pure agony rushes through my shoulder and I hiss with pain and cradle the arm to my chest.

Well, fuck. That certainly backfired and the fresh blood seeping from the wound wasn't helping.

"Are you sure? 'Cause it looks like I got you good," one of the guards smirks.

"Lay off," Rikter says, giving him a hard stare.

"Seriously, I can take care of it myself. I should talk to Rikter and-" Goggles grabs the back of my shirt by the collar and lifts so that my toes can only just touch the ground. "-Whoa! Alright then," I say as he drags/carries me through the gates and into the settlement.

"This isn't necessary!"

"I've seen more than one stupid kid die because they were 'too tough' to need patching up," Rourke pulls me up a flight of metal stairs.

"Do I even weigh anything to you?" I ask when we reach the fourth level.

He doesn't answer, just lets go of my shirt outside the infirmary entrance and proceeds to strip me of my weapons. I briefly consider resisting. I'll need them if things go south, but in the middle of the Outrigger settlement, whether or not I have a gun is probably not going to change the final outcome much. I can only hope I can figure out a way to weasel my way out of this.

"Janus, Gibberish here has gotten herself shot."

"You make that sound like it was my fault. Also, it's not that big a deal. I'm fine."

Janus comes outside to see us and frowns at the sight of my blood stained shirt.

"It's always the one that claim to be fine that then drop dead five feet out the door," she says.

"It's not that bad, a clean through and through."

"It doesn't look like that to me."

"I can take care of it my-"

Rourke grabs the back of my shirt and carries me inside.

"Jesus, again? I can walk, you know."

He not so gently pushes me into an old office chair, padding worn down enough to be nonexistent, and levels a finger at my face.

"Stay."

Rourke storms out, taking my weapons with him. Janus comes inside and adjusts her glasses as she approaches me.

"I'm sure you'd much rather use your limited medical supplies on your own people," I say.

"Those supplies haven't been hit, and if you've done what you told Rikter you would, I won't have to worry about that any time soon, or about as many as my people ending up here after raids." She rolls out a pouch of medical tools onto a metal tray, watching me the whole time with a frown.

"Then I can take them to the Hagar's instead. That's what I'm supposed to do, and I can take care of this myself."

I'm getting desperate now. It took Dan all of five seconds to see what was off about me, and he doesn't stitch people together for a living.

Janus picks up a pair of scissors and moves to cut my shirt away from the wound.

"Get your damned robot hand away from me!" I yell, pushing her away and jumping out of the chair. I level the most hateful and challenging stare I can manage at her. When all else fails, pretend to be a bigot. That'll keep people away for sure.

I see a guardman poke his head around the doorway. Janus waves him away without turning around, her eyes narrowing to suspicious slits as she regards me cooly.

"Your sunburn's gone," she says.

"Huh?"

I'm a little taken a back by the question, and she suddenly reaches forward and grabs my wrist in a crushing grip with her mechanized arm. She yanks me towards her, sending bolts of pain through my steadily healing shoulder, and uses the scissors to cut open the arm of my shirt.

I could fight back. Beating up and old lady would hardly endear me to the locals, and getting shot for harming their own and getting shot for being a presumed Ark survivor amounts to the same thing. Unless they decide to sell me to the Authority.

Well... fuck.

Being a very 'spit in the face of fate' type of gal, I accept the inevitable. The sleeve is cut open. The wound is exposed. I adopt what I hope is a 'lost puppy' expression.

"Hmm," Janus hums. Then grabs a roll of bandages the tray.

"You whine like a toddler with a scraped knee," she says, loudly. "I'm almost finished."

She winds the bandages around my shoulder, leaning in close to my ear while she does it.

"A favour for a favour. I don't know how things worked in the past, but that's how they work here." She attaches a small piece of flexible metal to keep the bandages secure. "I'll keep this from the general public, but you owe me."

"What do you want?" I say with narrowed eyes. Blackmail and extortion. What bullshit is going to be pulled on me next? But anything has to be better than being sold to the Authority.

"I'll let you know when the time comes."

She smiles at me with all the warmth of an ice age polar cap, then turns away.