Lord Wyron — Roleplayer Guild

Hardware Town...Otherwise known as a shit-stain in the ass-end of the Commonwealth. What was it with this bullshit? Other Raider gangs managed to land military bases; Pre-War ships; hell, even a whole goddamn factory. But here we were, luring dumbass Settlers and would-be-Samaritans into our little hideout with a "come-rescue-me" game, hoping to filch fifteen, maybe twenty caps off the poor bastards. Haul wasn't bad, I guess - we were close enough to Diamond City to keep a steady stream of victims passing through, but have too much fun and next thing you know, Security'll come asking questions. And someone'll answer with a bullet; whether it's them, or us.

One good haul, that's all I needed. Merchant or a merc, or something. Couple of chems'd be enough. Some decent quality guns, maybe. Something to get me out of playing the same old routine. First couple times were fun, got a good laugh seeing the moron's expression change when the kidnapped broad he was trying to rescue came at him with a ripper to the chest. But now it's just a chore, cheap labor for shit pay. God, I gotta get out of here. At the very least land enough chems for a high to last me the rest of the week. Doesn't matter which at this point. 

Heard commotion coming from outside. Footsteps. Victim Number Fuck-Knows is here. Saw Minx move toward the front door to play her part screaming and crying. She looked damn good in that Pre-War getup we shoved her in, hugs her ass tight. Might have to try and get a piece later, take my mind off the rest of this shit. 

Letting out a breath of hot air, I stood to my feet, reaching for my pistol. 10mm. Nothing fancy, but it got the job done without making too big a mess. No matter how boring this job got, couldn't take away that tingle of pulling the trigger, vibrations running down your arm. Wait...What the hell am I saying? Jesus, I need a good fuck. 

Longer and longer I waited for my cue to start shooting. Usually Minx and whatever fuckwad she roped into "saving" her were in the store by now. But there was nothing. I could tell Skid and Buck were thinking what I was. They were stoned off their asses with chems and could still feel the tension. 

That's when the first shot rang out. Clear, a crack that we could detect through the thin walls of the store. Something went wrong. 

"Shit!" I heard Skid swear as he scrambled for his machete. "Goddamn it, will you be quiet!?" I spat back at him. Last thing we needed was to lose nerve, especially when we were still figuring out what the hell was happening. 

As if on cue, the commotion continued. A shot and a deafening crack. Door fell right off its hinges - were we fighting a fucking Super Mutant?

I fired a few shoots at the entrance, not worrying about aiming until I could find myself some decent cover. Couldn't catch a good glimpse of what we were firing at except it looked human...which could mean any number of things in this hellhole. 

Buck decided to face whatever threat there was head-on: Psycho and a fully-auto pipe rifle'll make you stupid that way. He ran out of cover screaming like a damn animal, spraying bullets everywhere. Dumbass couldn't shoot straight even when he was sober. 

Three more shots rang out from the other end of the store, then Buck fell back as though he'd been knocked out. Smoke was rising from his chest, looked like something burnt its way through his skin. Laser bolts.

Goddamn it.

There were the footsteps again. Slow, deliberate. Whatever was happening here was no accident. We were being hunted. Swallowing any initial fears I had, I sprang out, intending to hit whatever decided to fuck with us. One shot. Two shots. Three shots. Four shots. The hunter sidestepped behind a wall fast enough to make a Radstag jealous, waiting for that perfect moment in-between shots to step out, brandishing what looked to be some kind of jury-rigged laser rifle, a bright flash of red preceding what felt like a power fist to the gut. 

My legs buckled beneath me, knocking out air as I collapsed onto the hard ground. The stench of my own burning flesh hit me, my head swimming as heat like hot coals radiated from my gut. Fucker hit me right beneath the armor. Leather I wore underneath worked too well, kept me conscious. 

What all happened next was a blur. Screaming and gunshots flooded my ears, but it all sounded like it was coming underwater - worst fucking ringing I could ever fathom digging into my brain. 

Then it all got quiet. Fight must've lasted thirty seconds at most...

I turned my head as far around as I could from my position and saw corpses. Guess our luck had run out. I heard those footsteps again, like the beats of a goddamn war drum. Shadow loomed over me. Using the last of my strength, I rolled myself around to look my killer in the eyes. If I'm gonna die, I'm not going out like a fucking coward. 

But there were no eyes to look into. Just the red light. A tin can. A goddamn, motherfucking Assaultron dressed up like some kind-of cowboy. If there is a God, guess He's got a great fucking sense of humor. 

The tin man outstretched his right arm and I saw myself looking down the south end of a laser rifle. Guess this is it. Sorry, Momma. Know you wanted better. 

I grinned up at the tin can and decided to make my last words count. "You gotta be fucking kidd--"

Two-hundred-and-ten years of active function. Two-hundred years worth of lives ended; lives taken away. It was how the Wasteland worked. Factions rose and collapsed, whether under their own weight or genocide from another party. The Minutemen, however, didn't know when to give up. Near-total destruction - a massacre - at Quincy. Yet they clung to life, forced air into unwilling lungs. So long as the Old-World patriotic fervor flowed through the veins of the willing, the Minutemen wouldn't die. Not totally. 

Jake Toweley was no exception to that fervor. The self-prescribed "leader" of their little band of misfits, the Minutemen ideology is what kept him anchored. They were the best hope for the Commonwealth, in his mind, no other way around it. But loyalty can't be bought, someone's always offering more caps than someone else. It's what made mercenary work so profitable. Ravaging the planet wasn't enough. Eradicating nearly all life didn't let the message sink in. Someone would always want someone else dead. 

Silently following the others outside the surreally-lit bar of Tenpines, Maverick immediately strode toward the front gate of the Bluff, passing by Elamshin as she was sneaking into the settlement. He had no need for preparation or bartering for materials. He'd wandered hundreds, if not thousands of miles across the Wasteland with nothing but his gun. This journey would be no exception. But the pilgrimage from Tenpines to Fort Independence would not be simple or easy. Wandering the Wastes never was. 

Ignoring the commotion around him coming from the rest of the settlers, Maverick fixed the brim of his hat, leaning back against the outer wall of the Settlement, still as a statue.
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