Firstly i'd like to thank Yttrium into suggesting I write this. A Fallout Fan-Fiction. Secondly, im not sure on the title. Any idea's would be appreciated.

At Your Own Expense

Chapter One

I pressed the quarter bottle of whisky to my lips, taking a long, delayed gulp. The gritty air brushed against my brow, just before the sting of the beverage kicked in as it briskly departed down my dry throat.

There was one thing that I hated more than the dirty air of this wretched wasteland – the feel of whisky, draining down a dry throat.

The sun was rising above the horizon, with what seemed to be a town blocking out a short space of the sun. I screwed the cap back on to the bottle of whisky and returned it into my coat pocket. It seemed to have felt at home, fitting perfectly without making an unwanted bulge in the posture of the coat. I reached behind my head, raising the hood from underneath my collar, pulling it up and over my head. Some strands of hair had fallen down, barely impairing my view. I resisted pulling them back; behind my ear considering the shadow of the hood hid my face & features.

I never claimed to be a professional in the art of remaining hidden, but the caravan leader was making it increasingly easier to track from a further distance. Along with the two sets of human boot prints & the Brahmin tracks, several empty cigarette cartons, a few empty bottles of nuka-cola & other bits and bobs of timeless junk were left in a ridiculously obvious trail.

A mutant could follow this trail.

I had been following him for three days, waiting for the opportune moment; when his caravan was at a vague point between the two surrounding settlements. This way, I could be sure that any guards or sentries patrolling the close area, even if they noticed, would not stray far enough to prevent my success.
The caravan was headed to a new settlement between Megaton & Tenpenny tower. They say that its founders called it Vannet’s Point; others call it the ‘infamous Metropolis’.

I took no notice of the nickname; surely this place couldn’t be a metropolis. I’ve been single-handedly picking off the trade caravans for months and only recently this ‘Vannet’s Point’ has come up as a listed location.

Must be irony.

The caravan neared a fair enough distance for me to strike.

I could see several single story buildings, fenced off by a wall formed of dirt, burned out cars & several pieces of the near-by scenery, billboards & street signs & other scrap. I decreased the following distance between me and the caravan greatly, turning my slow, daunting walk into a brisk jog. My hood fell, revealing my face. The wind began to pick up, blowing all loose strands of hair back, over my skull. I could feel some misplaced locks of my dark hair folding into the back of my collar. I took no consideration for distractions, intent on increasing the amount of caps and whisky in my possession.

Slipping my hand inside of my coat, I pulled a rivet-edged kitchen blade from its leather sheath. The ghoul, who I presumed to be the caravan guard, or perhaps slave, bent down to tie a loosening lace on a torn, roughly damaged left boot. His misfortunate timing pleased me in a somewhat sick way. I entered close range, the Ghoul un-aware of my existence. Jumping forward, lifting my right knee, keeping the other leg straight, I raised my arm, keeping the blade pointing downwards. In what seemed to have been a flash, I pulled my arm down in an effortless thrusting motion, subtly allowing the blade to enter the Ghoul’s upper neck, just beneath where his spine and skull meet. I felt it slice between a pair of vertebrae; a shiver ran along my body.

The caravan leader pivoted briskly, hearing the Ghoul’s choke for breath. Leaving the kitchen blade in the Ghoul's neck, I reached towards my lower waist, drawing a second blade from my coat; this time, the size of an average man’s fore-arm. I sensed an overwhelming sense of fear in the Caravan leader. I felt as if he would rather hand over all of his possessions, than die with some dignity. I placed my hand across the Brahmin’s back, reaching the knife underneath its throat. In a singular movement, I retracted my arm, allowing the blade to slice the throat open. The distressing beast let loose a rauaging sound as its front legs lost strength, allowing the body to topple over with the weight of the trader’s inventory.

I moved on from the Brahmin, wiping the blade on a piece of torn cloth. The trader was speechless. He had removed his cap, dropping it on the floor. Although the morning was neither hot nor cold, it was turning out to be quite the hot day. The trader had begun sweating extensively. I Re-sheathed the blade at the waist, and brushed my hands against one another, so to say to the trader “my job is done”. He simply fell to his knees as I stepped, one foot slowly after the other, towards him. I had chosen this man’s fate long before unleashing my attack. I felt a strange, new sense of sympathy for this him. Never before had the leader of a trade caravan simply surrendered his merchandise without resisting. There would usually be some form of bloodbath, although my blood was never spilled. I turned away from the trader, allowing my self a view of the surrounding wasteland from his perspective. Unexpectedly, I heard the click of a hammer being pulled back on some form of revolver, whether it was a .357 magnum like mine I could not be sure but nonetheless the man fired a single round.

I had made a mistake. Never before had I turned my back on towards a victim. This one man however, had surprised me twice in a matter of seconds. Hearing sharp sound of a bullet being fired shocked me. I thought for a split second that a mere trader had come to my demise. This was my second surprise. Five or six seconds had passed & I felt no pain - saw no ‘flashback of life’ across my eyes.

For a moment, I felt invincible.

So he got shot at the end then?

you would think... but you'll find out what happened when i complete the next chapter. What do you guys think of it so far ?

Yea, let the erader's know how your character became a knife/machete wielding commando whiskey drinker (emphasis on how he got so good). Also spaces in between paragraphs. Good job though, if this is your first then you did better than me. Check mines out also (it says Chapter 2 but it has all chapter's to date).

Alrighty! You made it. I was just playing the Dishwasher and this reminds of it...

As Ant already pointed out, space are need. Just look around at other peoples fanfic, like Ant's to see what we mean.

It has nice detail. As ant said, if your going to make your guy a butcher with a complete knowledge of the human anatomy. Then you would need to tell how this came to be. But that doesn't half to come until later, much later if you wanted. And if was just merely aiming to decapitate, and is nothing more than a man brought up by the harsh conditon of the Wastes than a back story isn't really necessary. Though it would be nice.

Basically, just space out your text to make it easier to read. I'm glad to see you made this.

And also, is he a sadist?

All is revealed about this character in the following chapter. Im not sure about this... 'turn' that he goes through, so tell me what you think guys Also , ill space out the first chapter.


Chapter Two


I had wasted enough time with my back to this failed killer.

At least I presumed that death had not occurred...

I turned quickly, drawing my revolver with haste. Hesitating for less than a few seconds, I replaced the aging gun into its holster & began pacing slowly towards the caravan leader, pausing for a second, thinking that something was moving amongst a sprawl of grey, ash woven shrubbery.

Whisky. Whisky whisky whisky. Oh Mr Whisky, Why do you impair my senses?

I stared strongly at the leader, running reasons for his action through my head over and over. I had seen various sights of gore, countless times I had witnessed death and corpses... but never had I seen a man, cut clean in half.

I knew not what kind of beast caused this man’s fate, but by now I had established that he had in fact tried a shot at me. I looked over my shoulder, noticing a bullet hole in the surface of a stop sign. He may have fired and missed, or his aim may have been affected by... well yes... the fact that he had been torn in half.

For a minute, one word ran through my head

Deathclaw.

Deathclaws were seldom sighted around my current location, although it has been said that one who comes in contact with a ‘claw, does not live to tell the tale.
I slid my hand into my jacket pocket, where my beloved bottle of Whisky were residing, grasping it loosely and bringing it to my other hand. I unscrewed the cap with haste, ignoring my nerves as the cap slipped from my hand, knocking lightly against my knee as it fell to the ground. I put the bottle to my lips, swinging it up. I had decided to take a heavy set of around three gulps. This did no good for my hand-eye co-ordination. The bottle slid through my worn hand, shattering on the dust-withered concrete. I felt upset knowing that the last of my stash had been depleted due to a clumsy mistake. I began to feel as if my... skilful killings had not been so skilful at all.

I imagined my murder from a witnesses’ perspective, there may have been nothing skilful about them.

Remembering quickly that I was under the influence, I realised that my... ‘Great lunge’ to end the Ghoul was just a stumble across a rock followed a rust-edged blade falling by chance into the Ghoul’s artery. The death of the Brahmin was just a man stabbing a defenceless beast countless times in the neck. This trade leader was not scared of me; he was making sure this... ‘Illusion’ I was creating in my mind continued long enough for him to strike me down.

Clever bloke.

By now, I was only a half-mile from the outskirts of Vannet’s Point. I realised now, stumbling towards civilization, that I was no... Sinister commando... Nothing more than a man one step away from being a full blown alcoholic.

Either way, something was out there... following me... hunting me? I felt as if it had left me alone... there were no strange ‘vibes’ emitted from the surroundings. Just the smell of dirt. Pure [censored] dirt.

I suddenly lost my footing on what may have been a lodged rock; it had sent me toppling head first into dry dirt. More dry dirt, only now it was in my face. Literally. I gathered all the moisture from my mouth and gave most of my remaining energy into removing the mud from my mouth, spitting a small, disappointing amount of it onto the ground in front of me.

As I gave effort to re-gain my footing, I felt a sting on my knee & knew instantly that there was a cut. Possibly a rip in my trouser leg. I stood up straight and glanced back down at my knee. I couldn’t see a rip in my trousers, so I trudged on.

I felt as if I were no longer some kind of trained killer, and began to feel like the town drunk. What did they call that guy? Patchwork? The town drunk from the ghoul city Underworld. I’d been there once with a fresh water caravan. This was before my... caravan raiding days. I needed caps to waste on whisky. This was right back before I had become some kind of useless addict, only good for keeping the local bar in a sea of caps.

I was a drunk, I always had been. Sure I’ve had [censored]-loads of caps at quite often occasions, but really... there was no meaning to my life. I just rob people and get wasted off their profit.

I hadn’t thought of myself this way since I left rivet city. I’d never bored myself with these self-obsessed thoughts before. These hallucinations of assassin like combat were... mere attempts to resemble a great man that I once had known. I could barely remember what he looked like, let alone remember his name. I can only remember the ways of life that he tried impose on me. Evidently he failed. I tried to be some kind of highwayman, halting trade caravans and taking their inventory... When realistically I was nothing more than a man who tried to impose drastic, tragic deaths on innocent men. And failing at it miserably. These men were slaughtered sloppily... actually I would be surprised if half of the men I attacked even died. I was a failure. Nothing more, possibly a lot, lot less.

I was nearing some form of gate. A search light seemed to scan the rubble back and forth, making no impact on the surroundings due to the rising sun. As I grew near to the gate, almost touching distance, I heard the first voice that I’d heard in days. It was deep, and I could tell that it had come from an African-American man.

He bellowed one word;

“Cease.”

Huh, I would never have expected that. He was just drunk. Interesting. I don't have much complain about, maybe because I can't think right now. But good job, can't wait for more.

Chapter Three

I heard the hammers of guns being cocked back, and I felt several men aiming down their sights at me. A single bead of sweat dripped from my brow.

A loud screech, followed by a series of hard clunks came from the gate. Sounding something along the lines of a large vault door rolling across and sliding into place, & sealing shut. The gate slowly slid open, leaving a deep scar along the crust of dirt covering the concrete. I was astonished at the sight before my eyes. Men standing to attention facing away from me, armed with some kind of assault weapon; be it a Chinese rifle or a plasma rifle. All of these men were wearing bloodstained light grey power armour.

Brotherhood of Steel ?

I stood stiff jointed at the mouth of the gate, waiting for a command from the deep voice of the man who told me to “cease”.

No voice came. No command.

I hadn’t noticed, but there was a thick fog seeping down around the immediate area in front of me. It mysteriously split into two sections, leaving the opening to the complex in between, but still masking the inner complex itself. I knew the soldiers were still there, I didn’t feel alone. A strange presence seemed to... draw me in, pulling me step by step. Before I knew it, I had passed the gate. A familiar screech, followed by a correctly timed clunk lead me to understand that the gate had closed behind me.

Great, I’ve passed the point of no return.

The fog suddenly faded. I put both hands to my face and rubbed my eyes, this could be another illusion.

It wasn’t.

The fog had faded, and all the soldiers were still standing to attention, only that now they were facing my direction, paying all their attention to me.

I could stand here for hours just to ask the question; is everyone here make-believe?

Standing in this realm of silence, I could help but notice something different about one of the soldiers. Out of all the men with bloodstained armour, there was one without stain. His armour was grey with a red handprint on the shoulder-piece where what I assumed a brotherhood of steel logo would reside. He noticed me watching him, and took a few paces forward. His helmet glared emotionlessly in my direction. He stopped around ten yards from me. The rest of the soldiers began paying their attention to him.

It was weird, 100 or so men staring at one man, yet none of them even breathed loud enough to hear it. I had seen many small, groups of soldiers before; brotherhood of steel, a few groups of enclave, but never had I seen a force like this. I had no knowledge of power armour though, but you wouldn’t need any to tell that this was a further advanced version than ever seen in the wasteland.

In my head, I had already begun thinking through names for the man who had stepped forward; leader.... general.... lieutenant.... captain. It could have been any of those, I stuck with captain. He took several more steps closer to me, I could now hear his breath from beneath his mask. I was at least six feet tall on a good day, and this man towered over me.

The same, African American voice sounded from inside the mask.

“Name and number:” He ordered.

I had no idea what he was talking about,

“What ?” I replied.

“NAME AND NUMBER, MAGGOT!” He screamed from within his mask.

Stuttering, I replied again:

“I honestly h...have no c..c.lue what your talking about.”

He pivoted away from me and paused. Drawing a side arm; a ten millimetre pistol, he spun back, landing the nozzle on my forehead.

“I’m gunna ask you one more time. Identify yourself.”

This time, he spoke in a shivering, smooth voice. I could tell his temper was going to snap. I tried to think of some kind of alias as quick as possible, but then realised that these men would have no clue as to who I was.

“My name is Karl Paynter, I don’t have an... erm...number, but my birth date is 25/10/2253.”

The captain’s helmet still stared blankly, facing down at me.

“Johnson, Davis!” He called.

“Take him.” He finished.

Two soldiers appeared from either side of me, also with un-stained armour & red hand prints, took hold of me by my arms. They hesitated to move me, I wondered why.

Thud.

The captain swung the barrel of his gun into my temple.

Lights out.

Good. While readin it I felt as if I was in a movie and good desciption to keep me from getting too confused. I read the second as wel, and it semed more just the second couple paragraphs of the first chapter (but that don't mean it svcked). Keep it going.

Nice, nice. But here is few things I found, that bugged me a little.


A comma would be nice, grey and armour are not words. Gray and armor is what your looking for.



I don't think helmets have emotions. And if they did, it would be emotionless. It may read better if it read;

He turned his head, his helmet looking emotionless.

Something like that.



NO!NO! I hate that. Hate it. Hate it. One hundred, one hundred. It's okay if it's something ridiculously large or fits the context( like Sergeant-LR3 ), but writing out one hundred should not be a problem.

If i was you, I would get some kind of spell check. And write out numbers. That's all. Keep up the good work.

@Ant1iv3 : I tried to write chapter one into having an un-expected ending, so yeah chapter two is more like the end of chapter one. Also, when i write I imagine what it would look like as a movie, so im not suprised that it comes across like that . Thanks.

@Yttrium : Cheers man, see, i use Word & its spellchecker, and its configured for english (UK) ('cos thats where i live ) . So armour is a word (like color in the US and colour in the UK) also, it doesnt pick up the difference between grey and gray. As for the non-spelling of numbers, thats just me writing that part of the story late at night, so honestly I must of been to tired to notice . Thanks for the C&C.

Now, for chapter four. In word, this looked a LOT longer than the other chapters. Might be because of the speech.

Chapter Four.



Chapter 4

My head was throbbing violently & I could feel a trail of blood dripping down the side of my head and running along my cheek. I felt like there was a super mutant’s boot continuously stomping on my head, allowing my head to bounce of the rock solid floor. This level of headache was almost incomprehensible...so immense, so energy depleting. Describing it further only increases the element of pain funnelling into my skull.

I could hear voices around me, fading in and out. I opened my eyes but all my vision could pick up was dark. I didn’t feel like I had a bag on my head, so I figured the lights must be off. I had no idea how long I’d been out for, where I was or who the mercenaries keeping me hostage were.

I sat up, with my back straight against what I assumed to be a wall, and brought my knees up to my chest. I was only wearing a pair of baggy cargo trousers, no shoes, socks or top. Despite the lack of clothing I wasn’t cold. In fact I was sweating. I wiped my brow with the back of my forearm, unintentionally; I brushed it against a bristly surface where my hair would be. I immediately put both hands to my head, only to realise that my hair was gone. Replaced by nothing more than a millimetre of hair.

A single tear ran down my face.

I concluded that I must have been caught by some intense legion of slavers. I continued to evaluate the surface of my head with my hands, already missing the hair that previously flowed from my head.

My hair made me who I was. But maybe that was the point, maybe they were re-entering me into some form of society where character is irrelevant. If they weren’t slavers, they could have been some form of communistic government, capturing and then forcing their citizens to live in their settlement. This was too much for me to think about without taking a drink.

Oh, how I longed for a single shot of whisky.

I concentrated for a moment, listening thoroughly. There were no voices, but I could hear breathing. I held my own breath for a moment. Strangely, I could still hear respiration.

“Is anyone there?” I whispered into the darkness...

No reply... great.

“Who’s that!?”

“Karl.” I spoke louder than before

There was another prolonged pause in the silence, but I was becoming used to it.

Was this guy deaf or something?

“My names Ralf.”

“Where are we?”

Ralf replied simply; “I don’t know.”

I concluded even simpler; “[censored] it.”

I put my left hand down on the floor beside me, and instantly came across an object with a cylinder shaped feel. I picked it up; it was rather light, which surprised me considering its metallic feel. For a moment, I hoped it could be a torch, realising that if it wasn’t a torch I wouldn’t embarrass my self as nobody could see me, I randomly selected an end and twisted with my other hand.

A bright light shone across, revealing a small portion of what seemed to be a wall in front of me. I aimed it to my right, revealing a bar, followed by another, and then another. I didn’t search for any more bars; I had gathered that I was in a cell. I pointed the light in the other direction to see a man looking in even worse condition than I felt. He squinted and put a hand up to block the light.

Ralf.

“ARGH! TURN IT OFF!”

Reluctantly, I moved the light away from Ralf, but I refused to turn it off. I spotted a mark on his forehead, some form of... identification code. I couldn’t make out what it said, but I wanted to know if I had one too.
I put one hand across my eyes, using the other to point the torch at my own forehead.
“Ralf! Is there anything on my forehead?”

“Some kind of ID.”

“Great, were branded.”

“What?!”

“You’ve got one too Ralf...”

The conversation was halted by the sound of metal clanging against what I presumed to be the bars on our cell. A single clunk, and then I supposed that the cell door was opened. The person clicked their fingers, and a light bulb hanging from the ceiling flickered on, unable to decide whether to stay on or off.

A Man stood before the pair of us, wearing no shirt, socks or shoes. Just a pair of khaki baggy cargo trousers. I Looked up at his head, he had a marking also. It seemed to be three numbers each separated by a slash. This man’s code read 8/2/52.

Ah, date of birth. That explains why that [censored] asked for my ‘number’.

“On your feet.”

I Scrambled around, and eventually stood up, I noticed Ralf follow me with his eyes, and then stand up after me. I also noticed that Ralf was around the same build as me, also with a shaved head.

Slave? Or Prisoner to Communism?

I'm not sure where to begin with this. Let me just say that I think you have good ideas, but you might want to think about sticking to one or two before leaping to the next. For example, You went from a shootout, to a deathclaw (that still don't know what happened there.), to a revelation of alcoholism, to an abduction, to his hair being somehow important, to a branding. These are good ideas, I just had a hard time following them all. What I'm trying to say is that your pacing is off. Pace is an important element in storytelling and you just need to slow it down some.

On a side note, I can tell your European, not because of the spelling of 'grey' and 'armour' but because of the use of millimeters. No one in America knows what the hell that is. We don't use the metric system. If you don't want to dumb it down for an American audience (understandable), I suggest you get creative when describing size or distance. Say something like, "I was looking at a dime sized hole" or "It was as tall as a tower ". Something generic like that. Of course, you don't have to take any of these suggestions. I hope I've been helpful and I will read more when you post it. :mellow: