» Sat May 28, 2011 6:57 am Sometimes, life seems so hard - you're either running or gunning. A friend in this godforsaken wasteland is something you find hard to obtain,
and cherish more than you do your own life when you find one. Travellers always have an agenda. To thrive, you need to survive. To survive, others
must die. Simple facts of wasteland life, and you come to accept it.
And then, you're faced with the best moments you can ever think of. Whether the old fashioned rescue of a damsel in distress, or your dike
had its dusting prevented. Saving grace - it comes to everyone, whether they're evil to you, or a "good guy". Hell, evil and good are stupid human
concepts anyways. There really is no such thing - everyone does what they have to, simply to get to where they want to be. Sometimes to get ahead,
you have to step on a few.
Take for instance, I'm a traveller. I've been almost everywhere, locally anyways. I've seen my share of fights, lost my share, probably won more
than my fair share. Lookit my boots, even. Deathclaw scale. Travelling past Old Olney, I was an part of an escort team that was leading a trader out
and 'round towards Canterbury Commons so he (and leading to my) could get his profits. Well, wouldn't you know it, Deathclaws don't take kindly to
people stopping for tea.
Well, I was never a crack shot, but I take pride in my skills. Though, I won't lie - I was scared [censored]less. My closest friends are being ripped to
less than lunchmeat, and being devoured on the spot. I might have been next, but I suppose it was either the jet I had been puffing, or maybe simply
adrenaline.
As best as I can remember - I can't. I was half dazed, and I probably blacked out. I come to, and I've got gashes in my chest and I'm really
lightheaded, probably from blood loss. It took more than I could stand to look around. Pieces of those I had known, strewn around. I'm holding a gun
that definitely isn't mine, and soon enough I'm wretching for all I'm worth in a hole. You can't know that pain, unless it happens to you.
Anyways, I ain't writing this to tell about myself. I got a bit carried away. It's rather early this morning, overcast from last night's rain.
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I was sitting in what's left of a barn, smoking my last cigarette. I saw what appeared to be a shadow on the horizon, though, dark as it was,
all I could tell what that whatever it was, it was moving towards my camp. Probably had the same thought as I did, better some shelter than none,
even in a light rain. He called out, checking if anyone was there and would be willing to share a camp.
There was a tone in his voice that just told a person volumes. It's something you just have to know, I suppose. You can just tell. I told him
the location of my land mine, and warned him that I was armed. He said he'd cause no trouble, and walked into the barn. He proceeded to light a fire,
and it was then I got a good look at his face. He was rather young, maybe in his early thirties. But his face...it's hard to put to words. Worn, pain,
joy and sorrow, all written in the same creases and frown lines.
He was quiet most of the night, but after I suggested that we put on a pan of beans, he loosened up a bit. I suppose companionship to a
solitary man is worth more than words, but it seems to provoke them, as well. After a few small talk questions, he asked about my boots. Most
people do, it's nothing suprising. After I told him, he proceeded to tell a story.
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"Far back as I can tell, I was born in the wastes. Never knew my mother, though I did know she's a trader. My dad was a regular old merc.
They met when she was lookin' for some muscle for the escort from Rivet City out the ways towards Megaton. Not too long of a trip, but there had
been a few sightin's of raiders, and better safe th'n sorry.
"Well, after a little bit of slap 'n tickle (or 's what my pa called it) they just kind of knew. Weren't too much longer after the return that they
got themselves married. About the time I was born, she took a funny colour and just keeled over. My dad never was the man of words, but he was
just cold after that. Always seemed haunted. He never took to drink, but I almost wish he had. At least drunks talked." He straightened up, and
resettled himself.
"It wasn't too long after my sixteenth year that pa gave me his old rifle. Said that I needed somethin' to do, and that huntin' molerats were
about as good as it was gonna get without gettin' me killed. Lookin' back, that was the most he ever said to me I think. Now, don't go lookin' harsh
on him, 'e was as good a man as the best, and he was a good father. Never laid a hand on me I din't deseve.
"I shot the 'rats for the next two years of my life. Some of my best of my youth. Never was much for company, and sittin' in the bushes for
a few hours at a time, with mutfruit paste for baits, I'd lay in wait for those ugly bastards. The hours inbetween kills left a lot of time for thought.
Weren't that much longer I was out shootin' raiders and the occasional 'guai. Pa wasn't too happy about it when he found out, but I suppose he
expected it.
"Happiest moment of my life was when he bought two mostly well maintained huntin' rifles. He walked down to me, sat down next to me,
and we cleaned and did the best repairs we could manage on 'em." He shifted again, an' took a swallow of something strong out a little metal can.
"Wasn't a week later that we was out escortin' traders back and forth wherever they needed to go. 's long as the caps kept coming, we
kept walking. A'course, like everythin' else that happens to me, it weren't to last. Out a ways off Tenpenny tow'r, we got ambushed by a group of
raiders. At first, it wern't nothing like we hadn't handled before, and when it seemed they finally stopped comin' in on top of us, we relaxed a bit.
Like I said, it weren't like it was anythin' special.
"Later that night, we's all sitting around a small fire, eatin' canned beans like these, pa heard a sound. So, he volunteers to go out and
make sure it was nothin'. He didn't come back, but it wasn't out of character. He was good at what he did, and took his jobs seriously. I wake
up, with the biggest piss pain I could remember, and go find a bush. I do my bin'ness, and start walking back to camp, and see something a little
ways off." He took a big swig out of that little can of his.
"I got close, and nearly went beserk. Pa's head was stickin' off the barrel o' his rifle, stuck in the ground." I could tell now, that whatever
he was drinking, it was fairly strong. He was fairly emotional on me, and it seemed all he could do to keep from goin' nuts on me. "Damn raiders
had held back and follered us to our camp. Lured one of us off, and was torturin' us.
"It was hard lookin' pa in the face, but I couldn't take my eyes off'a 'im. Just starin' at me, blankly, as if sayin' "They got me, now do
somethin' "! I was cryin' when I went back to camp. I picked up my rifle, and some of pa's old gear. I told the merchant to go on without me, and
not t'a worry about payin' me.
"I got out maybe three klicks (that's kilometers, if ya' din't know. Pa taught me it) from that campsite, follerin' their trail north. I still 'm not
sure of that area, and probably couldn't find it again if my life depended on it. All's I knew what that I was follerin' tracks. People tracks, easier to
trail than molerats, that's fer damn sure. I got three hundred feet, on a small hill over lookin' their camp. Maybe twenty of 'em, and I just loaded up
my gun, and started firin'.
"I don't know how many shots it took, I don't really how many it actually was that I got, but when things stopped movin', I stopped firin'. I
just couldn't take any more." He went to take another draft of whatever it was, looked at the bottle, and just screwed the cap back on. "It weren't
a week before I was down in Megaton, selling random junk I picked up, just to get something to eat or drink. Did odd jobs for a while. I'm on me
way out towards Canterbury right now, seein' as I've got some people up there needin' work. It's been good talkin with ye, stranger, but I need to
get an early start, in the mornin'. Night."
And with that, he just rolled over and went to sleep. When I awoke, he'd done been gone for a little while. Fire was out, and there was a
few extra cans of beans next to the fire.
Just goes to show y'a. Always darkest a'fore the dawn. Maybe, sometimes it takes pain to move on.
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Now before any one goes chewing my head off about plot, it's not my first time writing. I know that the plot's kind of...dull...but it's on purpose. I meant to try and tell it through
another person's eyes. Second person story telling, I guess. I don't care about negative feedback. If you don't like it, keep it to yourself. Any mistakes I made were probably on purpose.
I do, however, like when people tell me what they think, as long as it's within reason. I wrote the story for myself, to let out some pent up emotions. Whether or not you see
them in my writings, is your issue. And no, I purposefully chose a plot that had no kinship with mine, simply to make it harder for me to relate. It's a personal thing - and I've never been
too good explaining things to other people. My point is - to understand what I mean you probably have to be me.
