The Robin Hood of the Wastes

[Keanumoreira]

War…war never changes.

 

When the first arms were raised by human hands, man has sought to unite his greatest minds for the sole purpose of creating the ultimate weapon of war. From a legion of servitude there came the guns that liquefied its unsuspecting hosts into a puddle of green goo, power armor that gave a man the strength of a tank on the frontlines, and the power to play god by tweaking and tinkering with human DNA, resulting in grotesque, unstoppable mutants of nature. But even these conquests in technology paled in comparison to an earlier, more sinister juggernaut in man’s arsenal, an atomic abomination so twisted that even he could not control it. Fearing its superior capabilities, it was forever locked away, held by the hopes that it would never re-emerge. But in the year 2077, the atomic bomb fell again, and through the unraveled threads of nuclear devastation, humanities’ dream of the perfect weapon had been fulfilled at long last. But where man’s weapons of war have changed, war…war never changes.

 

Foreseeing the inevitable end of days, Vault-Tec Industries, a mega corporation funded by the thirteen commonwealths of pre-war America, had been founded. Establishing “Project Safe House”, Vault-Tec manufactured enormous subterranean shelters that could withstand nuclear genocide, known publically as vaults. But far to the east, in a city of glitz and glare, stories leaked into headlines of another but supposedly “secret project”, and accusations placed on the American government claiming “the thing…that thing….they don’t want you to hear about”. Regardless if the urban myth was ever uncovered, the public was too weary to care, and huddled around their mailboxes for news of Vault-Tec approved vault admissions. One of these admissions, into Vault 62, later saw you roaming through its halls, where the shadows of old and new once walked before you. Oh and how your childhood was full of happy memories and go-lucky days, and for the longest time, you couldn’t imagine it without “him”, the little boy’s name they told you was Subject 9202.

 

For as long as you could remember, the boy was your childhood companion and your best friend when you needed him to be one. But those days are about to change, for when little Subject 9202 mysteriously vanishes, someone steps in to right the wrongs of the injustice placed upon the vault. The Robin Hood of the Wastes is about to arrive.

Edited April 13, 2012 by Keanumoreira

[Keanumoreira]

Chapter 1: Water under the Bridge

 

 

It goes by many names: “The Golden Gate”, “The City of Angels”, and the most popular amongst her dissidents, “The Rotten Apple”.

 

Peering beyond the bronze shadows looming about the Brooklyn Bridge, it wasn’t all that hard to see why. As I strolled beneath silent pillars and iron tapestries, I pushed through the openings for but a peek at those spires honeycombed with gold, and scoffed, displeased, as they rose like self-proclaimed idols into the sky. Their child-like fingers caressed the fluffy pillows of white cloud bottoms, as if shy to embrace them, but eager to behold them, yet held no special place in my heart. That look of innocence and purity may fool some people, but it sure as hell didn’t fool me. Meanwhile, in the east, a terrible blemish crawled its way across the length of the horizon, summoning curtains of darkness that threatened to engulf the city. Thunder grumbled bitterly somewhere beyond, wishing not to be bothered, as an ensuing blitzkrieg collided along, boiling blazes flaring up here and crackling there as the heavens erupted with the might of the lilac lightening.

 

With this unwanted drama unfolding above the irradiated filth of the Hudson Bay, I found myself more uneasy than usual. Although it was admittedly beautiful, that much I would give to it- this den of thieves and madmen would deceive the wrong person who falsely took its advertisement as a sense of security. They couldn’t be any farther from the truth. There is a popular story, in fact, that hovers about the gloomy streets and scarcely lit alleyways that preach the lost tales of stolen souls, of ghostly couples and of childish apparitions who serve as invisible omens to the newcomers. One such tale begins in very much the same way a fairytale ought to end, one of a very prestigious, high-class woman who was as beautiful as she was adored, and became born into all of this because of her Uncle. When her parents died in her first year of life, her Uncle took her under his wing, but was a terrible father figure. He gambled, fell drunk on occasion, and often slept with odd and frightening women that kept him away for days on end. But one afternoon, everything in her miserable life had suddenly turned itself on its head. Through some unseen hand of fate, and against all odds, her Uncle had played the stock market and apparently won, inheriting a fortune of bottle caps that cost the staff a forty-three percent reduction in their paychecks that week.

 

Almost immediately, he had begun to splurge that fortune on everything from the renting of the highest condos for the wildest parties, riches and spoils that ranged from diamonds to executive suits, to exotic Fu-Fu foods such as the punga fruit cocktails (courteous of Point Lookout, Maryland) to the succulent Brahmin Wellington all the way from the Ultra-Luxe Casino in New Vegas, Nevada. Indeed it seemed he sat on a pile of white gold, a shimmering throne that threatened to overtake the mayor’s seat itself. Some insist that he was so powerful and mad enough, that if he wanted to, he could seize control of the city and mold it into his own little empire of pawns and puppets. Apparently, he knew how to make good use of his money. So it was natural, then, for some people to become complacent, blinded by their own envy and quest for revenge that led them to do stupid things. Curiously, the newspapers reported that his niece was there that day for some quote on quote, “catching up”, a mysterious visit that somehow resulted in the death of her “cherished” uncle. Whether or not she was the killer, however, no one can honestly accuse, but if irony knows anything about this woman, and if karma truly is a b****, then what followed next was perhaps all the more justifiable. Oh and she planned it all out alright, that much no one can deny, right down to the littlest detail, the plan to do away with her insufferable Uncle and inherit his fortune of bottle caps. But what she didn’t account for was the tragedy of love, and so as it goes, quite literally, she died in a bloodbath, strangled to death and then carved up like a Thanksgiving turkey while the water still ran hot, now running cold with the passions she had in mind for that money. As the newspapers put it, quite perfectly in fact, whoever was her killer, “he simply loved her to death”. Such is the tale of double deception that fits this city so keenly and where its only virtue surrounds the baffling double-crossing nature that I can neither understand, nor want to. And as much as it made me sick, it didn’t matter anyway. I wasn’t here to sightsee.

 

With the weather against me, I abandoned my slow-paced advance to the bridge’s center, and hurried along, checking my Pipboy with the occasional glance forward in case something should be sprawled across the ground and waiting to sweep my feet from under me. I scrolled through green texts and isolated archives-most were secured with a password should a hack attempt be detected-with rapid impatience, skimming entire libraries and skipping over irrelevant material. Eventually, I came across what I was looking for, a document saved into the Pipboy that was sealed in a beer bottle by my informant, passed off to me, retrieved, and then scanned into a digital copy before the original was properly disposed of. Within lied the details of the time, place, date, and associate of whom was given the same instructions via a terminal using an isolated channel. Although I showed no indication of anxiety, I was suspicious of this meeting, and for good reason. I understood that matters such as this were best done privately, but despite the circumstances, I trusted no one with an unfamiliar face, especially when it’s just the two us.

 

Naturally, I blended into the shadows casted by the rusty obelisks the Brooklyn Bridge provided me with. The raven robes suspended around my body began to flow seamlessly into the cool wind, floating about the ground like a silent, dark dream traverses the mind. I pulled my hood over my head to eclipse my identity, and held the Prophet close at hand, a .32 pistol I never went without, and one I kept closer to my heart than my own friends were. Slowly, I followed beyond the light’s reach until I made out a single figure leaning over the right railing where the heart of the iron cables ran. His clothing escapes my memory, all except that gray cap of his which leaned down forward to grasp his eyes lazily. His arms were crossed, one over the other, and hung over lifelessly as they cuddled the warmth within him against the frigid cold. The memory of what I thought of him that dying evening still hangs freshly within my mind. Still, silent, and reserved- an individual so statuesque that one could capture him in immortalizing stone as an everlasting memento of his calm and collective composure. Cautiously, I pulled him back into reality.

 

 

“Are you Pinkie the Fink”? I called as I approached from behind, studying his movements with suspicion.

 

 

He threw himself around, exclaimed “Jesus!” in a tight whisper, and took an unconscious step backwards. “Do you always creep up on people like that?”

 

 

“My question needs to be answered,” I added coldly, “Are you Pinkie the-“.

 

 

"Yes, yes, keep your f****** voice down! If they hear you….if they knew I was talking to you-“

 

 

"Believe me, it won’t come to that”.

 

 

“What do you mean-“. Suddenly, I thrust Pinkie over the howling waters of the Hudson, clenching him by his slimy little throat as he spat up a “Whatta ya do’in?! Whatta ya do’in- are ya crazy?!”

 

 

“Pinkie Delano Piltz, you’ve been set up.”

 

 

“I knew it!” He glared angrily, “I goddamn knew it! Who told you? It was Marty wasn’t it? No, no….it was that w****, Paula…the one at Rocco’s! Don’t listen to the b****! I didn’t kill her! Do you hear me? I didn’t kill her, I’m innocent!”

 

 

“Shut up you idiot! I’m not talking about her.”

 

 

“The-then who?”

 

 

“You know who.”

 

 

“Uhhhh….Kimmy?”

 

 

“NO! The boy! The boy you moron!”

 

 

Pinkie stared back into my eyes completely dumbfounded, blinking blankly without the slightest clue in the damn world, “I don’t know who you’re talking about! What boy?!”

 

 

“The boy!” I loosened my grip, allowing him to slip closer to the crashing waters of the Hudson below, reaching upwards and ready to nip at him like bloodthirsty sharks, “The boy you saw that day at Rocco’s! I know you were there! The bartender told me everything! It says it right here in the Pipboy! Your name, your description! Tell me where he is!”

 

 

“L-look pal, I-“

 

 

“We’re not pals…”

 

 

“Right friend, what I meant was-“

 

 

I allowed Pinkie to slip even further, “We’re not friends. Do you understand me? Now where is he?”

 

 

“I said I don’t know!”

 

 

Infuriated, I pulled the Prophet from its hiding place clear into the devil’s eyes, just before I placed it firmly between them, “Listen to me, and you listen good, because I don’t think you and I understand each other. I asked you for the boy, not for your ignorance as a cover-up for your lies. Do you see this Pinkie”? No answer. “I SAID DO YOU SEE IT?!”

 

 

“Yes! YES!” By this point, he was practically breaking down into tears, “I see the gun, I see the gu-a-a-a-a-un….!”

 

 

“Then I ask you for the final time, you pea brained, waste of my breath, piece of Brahmin s***! WHERE IS THE BOY?!”

 

 

“Okay, okay! He’s with Monroe! The boy is with Monroe!”

 

 

“Monroe who”?!

 

 

“Torres!” He cried with an effort.

 

 

“Where?!” I was down to three fingers holding him up, balancing him on the brink of a watery grave.

 

 

“Tinker Town- it’s just down the street, right off the bridge! Just walk up to the gate, address your name and your purpose and they’ll let you in! I swear to god, that’s all I know! Please, just let me go! I’m no harm to you! Please!” There was a moment of stillness in the air, a second where everything but the ceaseless motion of the Hudson waves, was quiet.

 

 

I pondered many things in that brief separation from the world. Between Pinkie’s pleas for mercy, and my mission at large, I concluded that there was only one way to cover my tracks, one way to ensure that absolutely nothing would stand in my way. “I’ll tell Monroe that you’re sleeping with the Mirelurks tonight.”

 

 

“No…NO! You can’t do this to me! You said you’d let me go!” BANG! Lightning struck its first blow as a scarlet ribbon of blood gushed into a leaping loop; Pinkie’s lifeless body plummeting to the dark waters below, and disappearing without another sound.

 

 

Thunder once again whimpered in the horizon, carrying the announcement of another death to ears that could not hear it. Titans continued to assemble, weeping life wherever it touched, showering the Brooklyn Bridge with rain as they gave their respects to the passing. The wind mourned as it vainly tugged at my robes, perhaps mistaking their dark hue for the presence of a woman uttering her final goodbyes. But no tears fell from my eyes; no sorrow was felt- only the vacant waters from the sky streamed down my cheeks, not as tears, but as brown apathy. Only an empty, uncaring hole existed within me, swallowing any pity, if it even existed at all. Blowing the smoke from the blistering maw of the Prophet, I said my final words on his behalf, “I never promised anything, Pinkie”, and turning towards what had to be Tinker Town, closed the statement, “in fact…I don’t make promises at all”.

 

 

And the deed was done.

Edited May 1, 2012 by Keanumoreira

[Maharg67]

Very excellent!!! Looking forward to reading more of your writing in future. Honorary kudos. :thumbsup: :thumbsup: :thumbsup:

[Keanumoreira]

Thank you M. Your feedback is always much appreciated. :D