Wasteland Diaries

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Corruption_Vash -> Wasteland Diaries (2/7/2011 5:29:27)
Discussion Thread If it wasn't obvious, or if you haven't heard of it, Wasteland Diaries is to be set loosely within the Fallout universe. This is going to be written primarily in the first-person, spoken from the mind of our "hero", Nevest. Anything written in italics should be considered out-of-character, as if a narrator were stating his own thoughts on the subject. coughRonPerlmancough Anyway, time to get on with the actual writing... Chapter Zero War. War never changes. Author: Nevest In the year 2077, a nuclear war broke out, namely between a Happy-Go-Lucky America and Communist China. Despite lasting two hours, two mere hours, most of the world had been destroyed... in one sense of the word. Those that survived the war did so in Vaults, underground chambers designed to shield it's inhabitants from a nuclear fallout, or would become "ghouls", those that had been subjected to immense amounts of radiation yet managed to survive--with adverse effects, of course. It is now the year 2284, over two-hundred years since the Great War. My name is Steven, though I have taken on the alias of "Nevest". Why? Other than the fact it's less-dorky and cooler-sounding than my given name and it's Steven backwards with the S and T reversed, I find the philosophical implications of the pre-War USA to post-War USA to be befitting for a name, as well. That is to say, greed, lust and war, they're all here, because these are basic components of humanity. To neglect or deny these aspects of human nature altogether, I shudder to think, would be akin to becoming a fleshy version of pre-War robots that, to this day, still roam American soil, seeking to fulfill the functions their long-gone creators programmed into them. Moving on, I currently reside on the East coast of the former state of Florida, which had, alongside three other states--Alabama, Louisiana and Mississippi--formed the Gulf Commonwealth. Here in the Rad-shine State, the primary menace of Wasteland society are radcoons: raccoons that have, as suggested, been mutated through exposure to radiation from the bombs. They are larger and more vicious than their pre-War descendants, ranging anywhere from three or four-feet tall and possessing claws known to shred through flesh and bone like butter. Gators, public enemy number two, remain mostly unchanged since pre-War times, and although a somewhat significant increase in size and power are exceptions to this, they aren't too much of an issue unless you wander into freshwater bodies. So, I think that about wraps up my situation. I'm not sure when I'll write another entry... and that's if I even survive being shot at by the various raiders that I'm just now remembering, or getting eaten by hungry alligators. Yeah, my life's awesome.

Corruption_Vash -> RE: Wasteland Diaries (2/9/2011 10:28:05)
Chapter One A Day's Work Author: Nevest Got a job shoveling brahmin manure into crop soil. Talk about a crap job. Still, with the alternatives being joining the local militia whose life expectancy is shorter than raiders', or shooting up psycho and becoming a member of said raiders, I suppose it's not too bad. At least this way I can save up and buy a gun. I head over to the ranch I've been hired as a helping hand at. Other workers are present, their dedication to this line of work apparent with their sweat-gleaming farmer's tan. I pick up one of the shovels lined up against the fence and start working. Thirty minutes pass. I'm just about to dig into a particularly nauseating mudpie when an all-too-familiar screech of a firearm discharge catches everyone off-guard. Judging by the sound of it, I'm guessing it's a .32 revolver. Ignoring the fact I'm taking guesses at what model of gun I'm hearing, I turn to see one of the worst sights a person can lay eyes upon in this place: raiders. Several ill-equipped men storm the ranch, dressed in makeshift armors consisting primarily of leather and scrap metals and wielding either manual-operated or repeater weapons, both of which are extremely basic. At first, I stand paralyzed by the shock of the situation, staring dumbfounded as the raiders open fire on innocent farmers. As the raiders begin making their way towards my position, however, I drop to the dirt and lay completely flat. To my surprise, it works; The raiders think everyone's dead or run off. I gradually realize this when they holster their weapons and begin looting the dead. Seconds feel like minutes, minutes like hours. The raiders aren't very selective about who or what they loot, so long as they make off with something. As they pick through the pockets of the deceased, a sudden metallic slam in the nearby woods alerts the raiders. A few of the braver--dumber, perhaps--raiders go to investigate, weapons ready. As they move closer, I make out a confused expression on their faces. One of them turns his head to the rest of the group, when a bolt of green plasma cuts between the trees and blasts a hole in his chest. As he drops, the rest of the raiders open fire wildly, nonchalantly shredding the other investigating raider in the process. Once their firearms expend their loads, something returns the gesture and out blasts several of the bolts, simultaneously, from all different directions. A bulky, hunch-backed figure emerges from the woods, in it's hands a plasma rifle. Looking over the bodies to ensure they're all dead, the figure performs a short gesture of his hand behind him. As he unloads and drops the plasma rifle's spent microfusion cell and loads another, several more of the hunch-backed figures emerge, following suit of the first and reloading their weapons. I crawl closer towards them, unsure of whether they're allies or enemies. As I draw closer, I realize the figures are outfitted with advanced power armor, extremely rare suits of armor that are nigh impenetrable and resistant to gamma radiation. In the Wasteland, this kind of technology is worth a fortune. My thoughts are interrupted as one of the men speaks. "...grateful. Patrol the immediate area, I'm going to radio in our status." The speaker reaches to his hip for a hand-held radio. He speaks into the radio, "Echo Foxtrot, this is Sergeant Williamson, over." A male voice responds, "Reading you Sergeant Williamson, what's your status? Over." "Our patrol engaged and neutralized some raiders that just attacked a farm near our post, over." "Survivors? Over." "None that we know of. Over." "Roger that, Sergeant Williamson. Return to your outpost, we're sending over a squad over to establish a presence at the area, over." "Roger that, returning to post. Over and out." Watching only the man on the radio, I'm startled as a voice directs itself to me from behind. "Hey, you!" I look for an up-close sight of the advanced power armor, particularly it's menacing helmet. "W-what?" I shakily ask. "You aren't dead, and you aren't a raider. Get up, you're coming with me." Not about to risk the wrath of these guys, I comply and follow him over to the clearing where the man on the radio stands. I could swear he's glaring at me, even through that nasty helmet...

Corruption_Vash -> RE: Wasteland Diaries (2/9/2011 21:37:08)
For ease of reading, I will hereby denote Nevest's dialogue with this color. To avoid making everything all fruity and rainbow-y, only main characters will have a color assigned to their dialogue. Chapter Two Invisible Prisoner Author: Nevest These people, calling themselves the On-Cave or something, have placed me under arrest. For what? Hell if I know. As I walk between a pair of these men, the guy behind me occasionally pokes me in the back with his rifle. It's annoying, but I'm not about to turn around and say it to the guy with A PLASMA RIFLE! "We're here," the one called sergeant--Williamson, was it?--says with a cold tone. In the the middle of these woods, a fort? "Yes," the sergeant seemingly replies to my thoughts. "Er, what?" I stammer. "An outpost, here of all places." "Oh. Yeah, right." "You aren't impressed?" "Oh, uh, yeah. I mean no." "Say 'oh' one more time." "Oh?" "...That was a threat, you imbecile." "Oh, my bad... Er... I mean, my bad." "Indeed." The sergeant pauses for a moment, then raises his plasma rifle to eye-level, pointing at my face. I close my eyes expecting the worst. Time slows, I feel the adrenaline pumping through me. As he squeezes slightly on the trigger, I bite my lip and the metallic taste of blood overwhelms my tongue. I hear the rifle discharge. Needless to say, I scream at the top of my lungs at this moment. But, I open my eyes. Nothing. Misfire? A miss altogether? No. He had no intention of ending my life, for whatever reason. "You've got a lot to learn, boy. We don't kill our kind, first of all, not without a good reason. Second of all, we don't let our boys scream like a pansy the way you did. C'mon." He turns away and I allow what just happened to sink in before catching up. "What's going on," I inquire. "The Enclave," he rather dismissively responds. Enclave. That was the name. Wonder what he'd do if I called his group the "On-Cave" to his face. Trying to maintain somewhat of a friendliness between us, I try to keep up a conversation. "Where'd the On--er, Enclave come from, anyway?" "We're from our Carolinas-based bunker, sent here to establish control over the area. We've sought to avoid communications with the locals as to observe and better understand your society, but we have already exterminated over fifty raiders across twenty miles following our recent arrival. You're welcome." "Yeah, thanks. Raiders suck." "Uh-huh." We apparently reach our destination within the fort as the sergeant gestures for me to enter a cell with a bunk bed, sink and toilet. Again, not wanting to piss off the guys with plasma rifles, I enter the cell and get a feel for my environment. "I'll wake you in the morning. Get some sleep." Since all of the commotion at the ranch, the sun has set and the moon starts it's reign over the sky. I wipe the dirt from the bedsheets and lay down. One pillow? Ugh.

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