Write Your Own Story: A Prairie Apocalypse

[gay_Aleks]

Well, after some discussions with Megan, as well as Thor, WYOS has been revived! Under a slightly more different and focused theme, I am happy to announce that this thing's on the run. Again. May God have mercy on us all.

All the DYOS threads for reference (and yes this is basiclly the standard DYOS OP with a few words changed):

• DYOS 1 - Lost
• DYOS 2 - Deleted by Will of the Mods
• DYOS 3 - Lost
• DYOS 4 - Lost
• DYOS 5 - Lost
• DYOS 6 - Lost
• DYOS 7 - Lost
• DYOS 8 - Lost
• DYOS 9 - Lost
• DYOS 10
• DYOS 10.5 (in progress)
• DYOS 11
• DYOS 12 (in progress)

After past few disastrous threads, DYOS (and therefore WYOS) has been fortified with a host of new rules, in the hope of making your experience more enjoyable. We also feature a consul (see below) to try and keep WYOS fluent and fun. If you have any questions, ask the consul!

Rules of WYOS

1. Allow for at least one story by a different poster between contributions when the thread is strongly active.
2. No grievous harm or radical plot change involving another poster's character without said poster's consent.
3. Limit main character roster to as small a group as feasible. Minor characters unlimited.
4. No flaming, period. Report infractions to a moderator.
5. Keep plot devices reasonable. Avoid 'wonder weapons' and fantastic twists if they serve no greater purpose.
6. NO time travel, and NO parallel universes.
7. NO POWERGAMING!
8. Nothing forbidden by the CFC rules.
9. Above all else: RESPECT THY FELLOW FORUMERS!

Anyone who so wishes may contribute to the story. All writing styles are accepted. Please put effort in your stories. Pictures are fine as a supplementary but main focus should be on the words.
Above all else, have FUN!!

The DYOS Consul

DYOS (and by extension WYOS) is now run by a consul. Any forumer who posts a cartoon is automatically entered into the consulate, and can debate on issues relating to the story. To avoid cluttering this thread, discussions will occur in a separate thread devoted solely to the consul (link below). To pass a motion, a majority vote of 66% of the consulate is required. If, however, a week has passed and no further action has been taken regarding the motion, the vote will be tallied as it stands. Members are suspended from the consulate if they have not contributed to the story for a week (they are automatically reinstalled when they post a new cartoon). If you will be inactive for a prolonged period of time, please be courteous and notify the consul beforehand.

The consul oversees the following:

1. Planning and organizing the story
2. Placing posters on probation (see below)
3. Expelling posters from the consulate (and thus, involvement in the story)
4. Decisions regarding the future of the thread itself

If a poster has violated any of the rules, the consulate will vote to place the perpetrator on probation.

• 1st Probation: 2 days between comics
• 2nd Probation: 3 days between comics
• 3rd Probation: 5 days between comics

If the offender continues to break the rules, the consul may suspend the offender indefinitely.

Note that the intent of the consul is not to control the story's contributors, but to improve plot coherency, and hopefully the story overall. Whether or not you are a contributor or observer, please feel free to voice your recommendations. We're here as much for your enjoyment as our own!

 

[gay_Aleks]

The DYOS Consul

Link to the Consul

Members:
(Suspended names in brackets)
Angst; (Captain2); (choxorn); (CivCube); Triumvir CivGeneral; (DaemonDD); (e350tb); Gruekiller; JohannaK; (KaiserElectric); (Kan' Sharuminar); (kill fire); (MartinLuther); (NinjaCow64); Omega124; (Perfection); (Reus); Robert Can't; (SamSniped); (Stylesjl); First Lady (Stylesrj); Vice-Consul (taillesskangaru); Consul Thorvald of Lym; Tolni

11 votes needed for majority ruling

First Probation:
none

Second Probation:
none

Third Probation:
none

Expelled:
none

 

[gay_Aleks]

The year is...2331. Fifty years have passed since the defeat of Caesar's Legion during the Second Battle of Hoover Dam. With Caesar's death at the hands of the enigmatic Courier (rumours say he ended his life with a simple slash of a knife), the Caesar's Legion lost all cohesion, as many of its leaders died during then.

But it wasn't only the Legion that suffered greatly. The NCR bled a lot during the prolonged entanglement with the Legion, lasting more than 10 years. With Hoover Dam under NCR control, and New Vegas under the control of the NCR in all but name, the people said no to any further expansions, proven during the elections, in which the war-hero Aaron Kimball was defeated by an isolationist candidate, which then triggered a peaceful period of nearly 50 years.

Right after the Second Battle of Hoover Dam, a new power rose. That was the Great Khans. The mysterious Courier had visited and did much good for the Khans, showing them many things. As it is, the figure of the Courier is immortalised amongst the Khans, for one and one thing: it gave them a purpose to go on. They had to seek their future, outside of the Mojave Wasteland, before NCR encroached on their freedom and choked them down in their bureaucratic paperwork. Their future lied north, to the former state of "Idaho". It is there, that they also found the Followers of the Apocalypse, expelled by the NCR that feared them as "dangerous anarchist elements". With the Followers of the Apocalypse using their know-how, they created a realm ruling most of Idaho, one poised for expansion into further lands, but NCR has began snaking its way to the south of Idaho.

Today, the Salt Lake turns red as each and every day, both Khans and NCR soldiers die in pointless skirmishes, much resembling the ones over the Hoover Dam just sixty years ago. Watching above all of that, the Enclave, in a [military base in Wyoming/Montana] watches carefully as a hawk. They may be few, but they have the might of the Atom to bring fear into the souls of both NCR and the Great Khans. They don't know it yet, but the greatest danger may truly come from the unknown. And finally. The Outcasts. Expelled from the West, expelled from the Midwest by some "glorious liberator", what remains of once the Midwestern and Western Brotherhood meets in a bunker in Wyoming/Montana, to give one final struggle, whether against their eternal enemy, the Enclave, or one of the middling forces to the west of them. And there's you. You're anyone. You can do anything. A mercenary? A merchant? Maybe a soldier? Who knows. What matters truly is - do you have what it takes to forge your future in the PRAIRIE WASTELAND.

 

[KaiserElectric]

Subbed so hard

 

[SouthernKing]

 

[Robert Can't]

The choking smell of chemical-works constantly assaulted James’ nose. So constant now that it had become the background. As he lay there in the small cupboard that served as his room he could hear his two sisters in the room below arguing over the correct ratios for some ingredient or other. It was morning and the sun was pouring through the cracks in the wooden walls of their house as surely as the chemical vapour poured through the floorboards. They’d be expecting him to make breakfast soon.

James dragged himself up and sat on his bed. His room was very small and like the rest of the house the walls were not too solid. Above the aged wooden bed there were a couple of posters he had found while scavenging in an old house down by the river. “See The Crossroad’s of The West!” one proclaimed while another was obviously meant to be informative but what QTF or QED meant, along with the majority of strange symbols were unknown to James.

Heading downstairs the continued argument between his sisters seemed to have died down a bit. He slipped into the kitchen and got out some eggs. He turned the dial on the gas stove and sparked up the blue flames. Breaking some eggs onto a pan he went and fumbled about in the cupboards looking for the tea.

It was normally always placed just above the eggs but chances are that Maisy had decided she needed some during the night and hadn’t put it back in the right place. After a couple of minutes searching he turned off the gas, the eggs were done. He hadn’t found the tea which meant it was probably in the lab with his sisters. At the thought of this his hand involuntarily moved to his side where the bruises he had gotten the previous day still throbbed painfully.

James scooped up the eggs and put them onto two separate plates he picked up from the drying rack. They bore mottled floral patterns and multiple cracks but they were the best crockery on offer and for his sisters James always provided the best.

He walked over to the lab, the door barely still on its hinges. Holding both plates in one had he knocked on the door “I’ve got your eggs.” He said, his voice only barely betraying the shakiness he felt.

Jennifer opened the door, she wore a long frock coat like some townsperson out of a cowboy flick, except rather than a genteel shirt and tie she wore a stained and shabby checked shirt. She was pretty in a traditional sense and she wore her long brown hair in a bun that made her look more business-like than the wild looking Maisy who was intently checking some titration or something in the vast jungle of glass that made up their lab.

Jennifer grabbed the plates “And what about the tea?” she asked.

James looked sheepish, the floor was suddenly quite captivating, its plank floorboards covered in a thin layer of chemical dust and sand. “I couldn’t find it,” he began his voice now quite clearly shaking “I was wondering if perhaps Maisy had…”

He wasn’t looking, he didn’t see it coming, but he felt it. Obviously at some point during his explanation Jennifer had put down one of the plates of eggs. Now his face lit up on fire where she had hit him. He staggered back leaning against the corridor wall. He daren’t look up, he knew what he’d see, the look on his sister’s face that he knew all too well – disappointment. “Now little brother, if we haven’t got any tea go out into town and buy some.” She said, it was cold but with an almost motherly tone to it. Jennifer and Maisy had all but raised him from birth as their parents had died when the Khans overran New Canaan.

James nodded slightly, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the ground. He heard Maisy laugh from inside the lab. “James,” Jennifer continued, “Look at me James.”

He looked up. “Don’t be upset James, we all make mistakes. I know it might seem like you make a lot of mistakes, but that’s all part of learning. Now, there’re some caps in the draw by the door, remember to buy some new chicken feed too. When you get back make sure to give our rooms a through clean and of course remember,” She paused and gave him a smile that seem truly affectionate, “we love you, no matter how badly you screw up.”



The people of St Anthony all smiled at James as he passed. He and his sisters had been living here for 15 years now, ever since he was 2, so everyone knew who they were. He greeted Dr Kelvin who was sat outside his surgery on a rocking chair. Tim, his massive dog was lazily sprawled across the porch. “Morning Doc!” he called out, waving as he passed. The old pudgy man waved back before going back to his relaxing.

At the intersection of Bridge Street and Main Street in an old gas station there was a shop that sold pretty much everything under the sun. There was even a backroom where, if you were chummy with the bossman Hal Darcy, you could get your hands on serious firearms.

However as James meandered in, hessian bag in his hand, he was looking for more mundane items. “Hey there James!” Hal called out. “Looking for some more chicken feed?”

“Yeah,” James said, leaning on the counter to get a look at the wares behind it. “I’m looking for some of that tea that Maisy likes too, got any of that?”

The big man turned to the stacked shelves behind him. A jumbled assortment of all sorts of items scavenged up from the wasteland. Dan Marco and his band of prospectors often came by through the town, trading their wares for the food that was produced here or for a warm bed and a roof over their heads. And of course, Hal owned the old guesthouse next to the river. This meant he got first pick of all of the best goods that the prospectors had to sell and made him for sure the best person in town if you ever needed anything.

He slowly looked through the shelves and James stared on in trepidation. Last time Hal hadn’t had any tea Maisy and Jennifer had made him go out and scavenge some from the ruined houses. He eventually found some but broke his army getting out of the ruined house. It wasn’t an experience he wanted to repeat.

Finally Hal’s ponderous hand lunged on a small box near the back of the shelving. “Here you go lad.” He placed it on the counter next to the sack of chicken feed “That’ll be 8 caps I think.” James eagerly placed the feed and the tea in his bag before presenting Hal with the caps.

“Thanks Hal! I can always count on you.” He said and trotted out of the store and back onto the sun drenched streets. In the distance he could hear the Brahmin on the pastures and the clank of Darris’ machine shop. He strolled back through town, it felt vibrant and alive – his home. He couldn’t wait to get back and make the tea for his sisters, they’d certainly be happy and he’d get a chance to sit with them and drink his tea before getting on with the tasks of cleaning and tending to the chickens. He beamed a genuine smile as he made his way home, James loved his life, his town and his sisters.

As he was walking back past Dr Kelvin he gave him another wave. The doctor looked up smiling but the smile dropped from his face quickly and he half stood up. “Hey James,” he called out “Is your eye alright?” James was taken aback for a moment, he’d completely forgotten that Jennifer had hit him. As he remembered the pain throbbed again for a moment, he put his hand up to his face and realised that another bruise must be forming.

“Nah Doc, I’m fine.” He called back. Dr Kelvin reluctantly sat down. James knew it was for the best if people didn’t ask questions, He whistled a merry tune as he carried on home. Some people seemed to take issue with the way James’ family worked, but he knew it was all for the best, he loved his sisters and they loved him back, even when he did screw up.

 

[JohannaK]

For the umpteenth time, the engine stuttered and shut down. It was the last time, too. Hard enough it was to keep a car going on without a shop or the right spares, but in the middle of this nothingness it would be impossible. There were fields of tall, wild grass everywhere. A good ways away a tall forest, barely a black haze, yet so much closer a puff, a trail. The gray thread in the sky marked, most likely, a house. Along the dusty and cracked road not a spark of life or of rust. No car, no piece, no gas. No one, no help, no... And yet the smoke. A house? Someone? Some food? They put on their old brown leather duster, loaded a clip into their C96, and started walking towards it.

 

[Angst]

--------------

2324, March 2nd

The American Dream. What a strange thing to have convinced people of. And here I am in the bowels of some iron tugboat, happy tooting across the Atlantic. The boiler room smells like ass, but that's what I'm supposed to keep boiling. At least when master Fergy's in his room drinking. So I'm the assistant mechanic. I'm no good at it, even though I told the Pioneer I had worked with heavy machinery for years on end back in Esbjerg. Yea I don't think he ever believed me. But I was taken onto the boat nonetheless, no pay, but a free journey across the Atlantic. Away from the dang Swedish Stormaktsfolk, and their so-called Nya Imperiet, arsonists, all of them. I left nothing behind thanks to them. Not a single person...

Anyways. This is my journey. We're headed for Labrador, there's supposed to be some kind of small democratic city named Sanctuary. Democracy! Definitely better than the warlords back home. They're supposed to be a mix of Europeans, like here on the boat, I hope they speak English better than the crew - - - I write in English, of course, trying to practice the language I'm supposed to use in a few weeks. I don't think I'll ever use Danish again. Most of the colonists are Germans picked up from the black of Europe. The ship's cook is Swedish, but I don't think I'll ever talk to that bastard. The Pioneer promised me that Sanctuary had a few Danes living inland, but I don't think he was talking truth. He was making a lot of promises I have a hard time believing. Like free food and two days off a week in the docks, if that's where I end up working. Even if he's honest about the Danes, I don't even know whether I want to talk to them. It's only going to remind me of the butchery back home.

So this journey's going nowhere fast. I'm also a bit skeptical of the crew the Pioneer has gathered. We're way too many men for the colony to... stay populated. The Pioneer said Sanctuary was full of women, ready for anyone that would arrive there. Again possibly honey talk, but if just half of what he says is true, if just a quarter - if just a tenth of what he says is true, if I can do some honest work, if there is some library I can tend and help in, I can't believe the thought of it - a world without rampant violence, murders, burning down of villages, just because we speak Danish... If just a tenth is true. If he's just a little honest about Labrador. I may actually be able to build a life there.

I can hear the boiler acting up again. I hope I can fix it this time without invoking the anger of master Fergy back in his office. His drunken singing is way loader than the engine.

I'll write another entry tomorrow.
Johannes

--------------

Hi guys, I'm in!

The date here will actually be important. It is supposed to be happening seven years before the current date - I'm unsure when canon time is happening? Month and date such. It is supposed to be a journal or sorts for a while, at least. I'll edit it to fit when/if relevant.

Oh and I know this migration business is weird in the time period. Trust me, it'll make sense soon enough.

 

[Omega124]

Somewhere in the Prairie Wasteland...

The cold, dusk wind howled against a quiet, derelict fortress in the middle of Nowhere, USA. Concrete slabs topped with menacing barbed wire stood unflinching in the gale's wake, refusing to yield even a single inch to the rampaging elements beyond its wake. This once proud military installation is, for many miles, the only evidence of visibile human habitation; the endless sea of grass slowly reclaiming the ruins of a once-proud civilization.

Inside the complex, the rotten decay of poorly maintained barracks cricketed and slightly swayed through the buffet. Mostly sheltered by the unflinching walls, some of the unforgiving wind still gave some of its muted fury against the once proud structures. A few rodents, once scurrying about, rushed into the shelter of holes they dug in the foundations of buildings, making nary a sound audible over the forceful gale.

It is through this wretched existence a young woman shudders in one of the barracks, tightly wrapping a musty blanket over her ragged dress. Unkempt jet black hair whipped across her face, offering no resistance against the horrid winds. Brown eyes stare into an uncaring abyss in front of her; nothing would save her from the elements, and all she could merely hope for is an end to this misery.

She sighed, and stared at a sign that hung on the top of the concrete wall. Under the darkest of the night, it was hard to make out the words exactly, but the woman knew full well what they said regardless. Those words that taunted her every single day of her life, from the moment she was born.

"FORT GENERAL DOUGLAS MACARTHUR", the fading letters spelt out in front of the woman, almost taunting her existence, "MAKE ■■■■■■■ ■■■■■ AGAIN". While evidently the first part was too high up for the dezinins of the complex to touch, the latter was not, and was blotted in red paint. Below was choice words residents of the past had to say, those on top partially covered up in their own right.

" ■■■■■■■"
" WORLD ■■■■■ "
"US ■■■■"
"US AMERICAN"
"US FREE"
"THEM PAY"

Her ancestors' cries for freedom fell on deaf ears, but evidently, their captors did eventually pay for it all. Along with them, and everyone else on this goddamn worthless rock. Now there was nothing out there; no world, no America, no freedom. Just an uncaring world ruled by the dusk wind.

The woman turned her attention to the right. Next to her ancient ancestor's cries was another line of text, written vertically. Given the texture of the paint, it was far newer than those petulant wails. In fact, it wasn't even written in the same characters, but a different set altogether. One that the woman felt more at home reading, the one she was used to her entire life.

"新"
"天"
"空"

The woman wordlessly mouthed those characters as she read them. Xīn tiānkōng. To many in the wasteland that could understand that script, it would mean "New Heaven Monastery". To the woman, it meant only one thing. Home.

Well, at least what this hellhole could be called a home. While it certainly beat sleeping outside in the unprotected prairie, something about this fortress felt... uninviting. After all, these walls were originally built to keep people like her detained indefinitely, rounded up like human chattel. But beyond that..... something always felt... off. Like these walls carried a deeper secret, a crime beyond those already in the open. She could swear she can hear the wails of the ancestors to this day, suffering every night.

But for now, the woman was alone, and she could hear no one but the unforgiving wind. But the wind listened to no one, for it concerned itself not with the plight of those on earth. And thus the woman stared, until she could stare no more, and her eyes finally closed in on her.

 

[JohannaK]

A gunshot exploded nearby. The house crept out of the prairie already, so they threw themself flat on the ground. They still wielded their C96, and actually took the time to attach the holster to it. Though they watched the house laying still for a long while, no news came their way. A rustling of the grasses caressed by the wind. So they crawled towards the house until a second shot froze them. There was desolate cry of guns and throats that would have liked to tear a soul in half, if only they had had one -that was long ago. They started the crawl once more, stopping regularly to listen to the rustling winds and, eventually, the clank of kitchenware and broken glass, a rumble of chatter and clatter of marching steps decisive and fainter every time. Blessed luck. They slowly rose, stock on shoulder, eye on sight. Every time. It was a little house on the prairie, a little prairie house, wooden and proud in spite of decay. They walked slowly up to the house and removed the holster-stock before going in. How many now?

It was a mess inside. The broken glass was a window on the other side and a bottle of moonshine which bottom was still on the table. Behind it the dead Man, rather sad and dirty with coagulated blood caked in dirt. He sat rather precariously and missed a good bit of head, seemingly sprayed across the table. Bullet holes in a couple walls and in the ceiling. Above it was just a puddle of blood dripping down, a body in the closet and a gun wrecked by a bad bullet. She was bleeding still, breathing still, unrecognizable and agonizing, so they laid her on the bed and washed her with a basin of water from the pump. Blessed luck. They cleaned the wounds with moonshine and bandaged her in seemingly clean rags. Only then did they come back down and search the foodstuffs. Of course. Of course they had been looted, but even after the apocalypse no self-respecting raider would steal oats. Oats they ate, then, among the rubble and the dust and the blood and the half-faced Man.

 

[gay_Aleks]

Bozeman was one of those places, far away from civilisation. An important expansion point into Montana for the Great Khans, it was growing fast. However, as soon as the Utah conflict between the NCR and the Khans began to intensify beyond several sparse skirmishes, and turned into a real war, much of the Khans positioned there were pulled out to the frontlines. With no Khans to protect them, as well as the generally hostile terrain of Western Montana, the amount of civilian settlers dwindled - and as a result, Bozeman was dying a slow and excruciating pain.

As it is with all such frontier towns, it also had a bar. The Boozeman, a rather poor joke both in name and in actuality, was the only place where one could expect to get a drink and maybe survive it. On one of the tables, all alone, a woman sat. It's been a long time she was here, evidenced by the empty bottles nearby. Her name was Roberta Brufford. She was a mercenary as the old and worn-out combat armour had a stylised burning rose on it, signifying that this person was once part of a mercenary group. This impression was only fortified with the scars all over her body, telling their tales of pain and suffering. Some were recent, some were from the past, and if you would pay attention to her for several moments, you would notice that she also seems to not move her left shoulder, and in the rare case she does, she makes a painful grimace.

And that would be one of your last mistakes, as she was quite adept at seeing who is watching at her for too long. This usually has painful results for the person staring at her. Although, ever since she got injured, she has taken a more...diplomatic approach to things, in such she engaged into a drunken yell until the pest goes away. Today, however, a figure in a longcoat just refused to stop staring across the table. She was on the edge now. If he takes one step, just one step closer to her, and things will get very ugly. One thing was on her mind, however. At one point, as the person walked towards the bar, she saw a glimpse of what's underneath the longcoat - a Great Khan uniform! Something was up.

Then, the figure quietly came closer to her. Roberta stood up, and took a swing at him. This usually would've worked...But the figure, before with its hands in its pockets, grabbed her hand with almost lightning reflexes. What?! Instead of punching her in the face, however, the figure just spoke.

"Roberta, is it? I'm not here to harm you, by all means, no. In fact, I'm here to make you an...offer. Gamechanger, for all intents and purposes." he spoke in a calm voice

"Tsk. Haven't you heard? I'm out of this." Roberta sighed, and drank another shot of whiskey. "The Fire Roses are dead and gone."

"I'm well-aware of it. Raiders. But not ordinary raiders. Armed to the teeth with plasma weapons, turning your fellow comrades into a pile of goo, if I'm not wrong?"

Roberta's eyes widened. How..! "Was it you?! Did you do this, you bastard?! How did you know!" she almost yelled at the man

"Please, calm down. I'm not involved in this, I'm just, well, how should I say it - very, very good at finding info that other people can't. And trust me, I'm just as worried about this.." He then picked up a chair "If you don't mind...?"

Roberta just nodded.

"Well, I have some very good news for you, Roberta. If you accept my preposition, you'll not only be able to take revenge, but also rise above this sad, miserable situation. With all due respect." He reached out to Roberta, leaning in to the table

"Tsk, are the Great Khans losing so hard you can't even do your own errands?" Roberta quipped, unfazed

"This isn't a simple errand, I'm afraid. If it was, we wouldn't be looking for you, no? It is much more important than you, me or anyone living in this town." he said in a barely audible to Roberta voice "We picked you, because you're able. And you wanna take revenge, no?"

"Fine. Tell me what's the big story."

"Oh, I can't. I would never do that - even if I did know the "big story", as you call it. All I need to know is your acceptance. Even that'll be rewarded, trust me." he said, winking

"And what would be "this" reward?" Roberta asked

Instead of answering, the man reached out for her left shoulder and squeezed her shoulder. She grimaced in a painful face, and angrily stared at him. "Don't want this to happen? Good news, then, because if you accept our mission, and then meet our contact there, that'll end. He's the doctor in Helena, and he has golden hands. The pain will be gone. Just say "yes". If just for that."

"Grr. I don't like your attitude, nor know your goals...But if what you're saying is true, I'll accept whatever insane mission your masters in Idaho Falls are planning." she said, begrudgingly

"Excellent. Ah, I've got another thing for you..." he dug within the depths of his longcoat, showing a Pipboy, old but somehow still functional. "We don't want you to get lost. All the necessary locations are there...Oh, come on, don't look at me like that. The blood was there when we found it."

"So Helena's my next destination, huh?"

"Yes. Think of it as a challenge. If you can drag yourself to there, in your...well, not totally perfect condition, then you'll have a good chance at accomplishing our goal." he said, then began to walk towards the door. "And don't think about the tab - it's all on me!"

Roberta quietly stared as he went away, vanishing amongst the vast expanse of the Wasteland. Just who is this guy? Certainly, he was offering much...but remaining very much vague on the details. She'll have a lot questions to ask to a lot of people she knew. Hopefully they still pick up the phone.

 

[Angst]

--------------

2324, March 16th

The days are getting colder. Master Fergy insists the boiler is running at full capacity, but it is increasingly difficult staying warm in the hammock. Also the failure alarm bellows through the machine room every third hour or so. I'm losing a lot of sleep. But I understand it is a trade-in. At some point we'll be in Sanctuary. And then, we'll have peace ... well, peace after we've done the work there... I don't trust the Pioneer one bit about that, that we'll work as little as he says, it's simply mindwarping that a society can be like that... No way we'll get a break there. But it'll be ours. Our little beacon of democracy and peace.

[...]

2324, March 30th

We're sailing along the coast of Labrador. We're finally seeing traces of the old civilization. Long rusty docks with towers scraping the skies. Turned-about water towers on the edge of the horizon. Half ships resting lazily in the bays. Yea, I knew this would be what it is. It's another hellhole, another line of dead debris of old towns and people. Feral ghouls dot the coast, throwing themselves into the sea, chasing our tugboat. Strange riflemen guard makeshift watch towers. America is not far from home after all. But we're headed for Sanctuary. Even if they were our enemies, they dare not aim so far into the sea. Why would they shoot at some random passerby ship? Even if they were the most delirious of raiders, they had no reason to shoot at us. If anything, that would be a waste. They have to wait for us to engage the beach, so they can rip open the shipload and tear away at our rations and gear. That's why we sail past them so far into the sea. And some day, we'll be at Sanctuary.

So that's the dangers we're passing by. I didn't expect much more, but the crew is getting anxious. The Swedish chef even tried talking to me last meal. The Pioneer continually guarantees how wonderful the Sanctuary will be. But every time he talks, i feel much less confident in our destination. It is as if some strange poison is dipped into our cups whenever he pours the wine. But that's what the Pioneer does, draw us across the Atlantic, talking of the promised land. I'm not naive. I understand that Sanctuary won't be what it's all pent up to be.

The ship horn just sounded. I'll run to the deck and then return to my diary if it isn't important.

I can't believe it. We're at Sanctuary. They proudly display the name on a big billboard. Sanctuary. Our Sanctuary. The Pioneer's promise. I'll be gathering my things. There are about fifty people waiting for us at the docks. Finally our lives are gonna turn around. I've never felt so sure about anything.

--------------

 

[KaiserElectric]

Somewhere in Wyoming...

"I can't believe they're still sending me into the plains with the T-45d," Monroe grumbled as he staggered over with an armful of electronic parts, the pistons in his power armor creaking from the effort of walking, before dropping them onto the workbench with a resounding thud. The young woman in patched scribe robes threw herself over the Mister Handy she was working on before it slipped off of the table irritably shaking her long red locks out of her eyes.

"Would you be careful with that stuff?" she snapped. "You know these parts are delicate!"

"Oh come on Eve, if these things survived the bombs they'll survive a small drop," Monroe said dismissively, lowering the bulky suit into a sitting position on a jutting pipe. "Give a guy some slack, will ya?" Eve merely rolled her eyes and started digging through the pile of electronics before extracting a few promising bits and getting to work.

"This thing shorted on me twice when I was out there," Monroe continued, tugging off his helmet and setting it aside. "Lucky I didn't bump into any raiders otherwise I would have been toast. Seriously, I know I need to work my way up to the nicer stuff, but if I get in a firefight and the legs decide not to work..."

"The T-45's are still perfectly reliable," Eve argued over the sound of wrenching metal as she pried a compartment on the robot's side open. "They stop bullets just as well as the newer ones, and if you maintain the wiring right it won't lock up. You complain too much."

"Easy for you to say, Scribes don't have to leave the bunker," Monroe retorted, running his hands through his greasy blonde hair. "That's gonna be my job, going out and getting shot at to find your components to fix your...what are you working on anyway?"

"Trying to repair a Mister Handy with a dead brain," Eve said, placing a pair of goggles around her head. "E-cells overloaded and fried the thing a while back, Senior Scribe Siddig said it would be good training for me to fix it. I'm thinking maybe if I pull the resistors from the old Gutsy and wire them through the personality transistor, bypass the ethic modulator and cross the frame with a fresh E-cell I can get this up and running again."

"Sounds right to me. Granted I know more about lasers then robo-brains, if it means we get a Mister Gutsy I'm fine with that." Monroe craned his neck to get a better view just as sparks begun to fly from the innards of the robot. The scribe worked elegantly, arms darting this way and that between discarded components and power tools, focused intently on her goal. He had to give her credit, Monroe thought to himself, the kid knew her way around tech. He had doubts about her when she showed up some years ago, but it seemed Elder Brooks saw something in her that a lot of them didn't when he allowed her in as an initiate when she was old enough. After her surprisingly quick rise to apprenticeship, however, few were willing to admit they thought that letting Eve in was a bad choice.

"Right, I think that's it," Eve said, sounding out of breath but excited as she clamped the side of the Mister Handy shut. "Now for the moment of truth." With a bit of a dramatic flourish, the young scribe flipped a switch, letting power course through the robot. Slowly, the Mister Handy righted itself and lifted into the air, its thin, spindly limbs twitching slightly as the joints sparked. Finally, following a sound like a motor revving up, the robot spoke.

"Guten morgen, wie kann ich dienen sie meister?" it asked in a cheery yet cartoonishly thick accent. Eve's face fell slightly as Mondale burst out laughing at the sound of it.

"Is that...German?" she said disbelievingly. "How...how did it learn German?"

"Well look on the bright side," Monroe said, gleefully, clapping a hand on her shoulder. "If we ever need to contact the Brotherhood of Steel chapter in the Commonwealth, we're all set!"

"Oh shut up," Eve retorted grumpily. "At least the brain is working again, I guess the language capacitors must be....by the Creator this is going to take forever."

"Aw, don't be such a sour kraut."

Monroe ducked as she chucked a power tool at his head.

 

[Thorvald of Lym]

ooooof course it's German.

Just a heads-up, Monroe becomes Mondale a third in.

 

[Angst]

--------------
2324, March 30th

"Get in line."
"You can't do this!"
"Shut up and get back in line."
"You can't --"
Thwap.

Thwap.

Thwap.

[...]

It was earlier that day.

The Swedish chef was the first one to walk onto the docks from the landing bridge, and he immediately seemed hesitant. I didn't blame him, the crowd was rough-looking, wore police staffs, bats, and a few even some pipe guns. Yet we crossed the landing bridge, ending up in the midst of the crowd, squeezed together. We were about twenty people in between fifty. The Pioneer showed up, loudly declaring "That's all folks." And they descended upon us like a pack of wolves.

I was beaten half dead and dragged across dirt and twigs. That's what I remember. An American Mr. Handy model, named Mr. Friendly by those men, woke me up by poking into my joints with a sharp needle. Master Fergy was looking at me, gun ready. Not surprisingly, I acted out a lot, but that was what they wanted to see. "You've got kicks," he said.

His men gave me a boulder to carry, sending me towards a bare hill - and if I didn't make it, they said, if I even let the boulder touch the ground, they'd cut off my legs and leave me there. Needless to say, I tried and tried and tried my best. Something in my back begged me to stop, my back has never begged me like that, splinters setting into the top of my spine, my neck aching as I dropped the boulder, and my heart sunk with it a few metres away from my destination. Chills down my splintering spine, I fell onto my knees. Master Fergy squatted in front of me, gun in hand, wry smile across his face: "Well, you're just a mechanic, aren't you, Iohans? We wouldn't expect your kind able to handle heavy gadgets."

He put the gun against my forehead. "Or would we? You dang fraud. You really think we didn't notice your pathetic tries to handle the boiler? God damn parasite. I'll take care of you, right here, right now."

He cocked the gun. I froze.

It didn't fire.

"But you seem cooperative enough," he said, pocketing the weapon. "Mr. Friendly, take him to the camp with the other Europigs."

[...]

We marched chained over broken pavement. I recognised the back of the heads in front of me, but never knew their names. The Swedish chef walked three rows in front of me, with a limp, the leg all wrong. He was breathing heavily. Metal towered above us, the city devoid of life, frigid in spite of a spring sun. They were walking there, rifles at the ready, giving us a cold stare every once in a while. I knew this was going to be how they kept me silent, I didn't dare a word. Yet someone in front of me was mumbling. He had been for a while by now. Surely, the guards had noticed. But they waited.
"...can't..."
And then it was enough.
"Get back in line."
"You can't do this..."
"Watch us."
His body shivered beneath the weight of the chains.
"You can't do this."
"Shut it. Get back in line."
He walked out of the line, dragging his leg. Yet, he stood straight. He really did.
"You can't do this!" he yelled.
"Get in line."
"You can't do this!"
"Shut up and get back in line."
"You can't--"
Thwap.

Thwap.

Thwap.

There were no echoes, no screams, not a single gasp beyond the first leave of air. Master Fergy rained down a steel rod into the back of his head. Soon there were two pieces, and we were lead in between the iron towers. I passed by the remains of the Swedish chef. The last remnant of my old world.

--------------

 

[gay_Aleks]

A soft wind was blowing through the prairie. The metal husks of old, ancient cars, skeletons of a long-passed era, that now only seemed to act as litter and perhaps, as a cover for the desperate. Actual skeletons also were abundant, as the route was, at least in the past, very busy until the Great Khan-NCR war. Today, however, this route was all but dead and devoid of any traffic. Roberta knew that. It was, frankly, not a bad thing, as low traffic meant less raiders. On the other side, if she did meet raiders, she would have to fight for her life - any raiders desperate enough to operate here would give no quarters.

Roberta felt lonely. This place seemed to be at the end of the world - had that the end of the world not come already. She hadn't seen a human face ever since she left Bozeman, and, even despite it was just three days, she felt some kind of loss. Sure, people are bastards, but this quietness was unnerving. Perhaps it had to do something with the fact that she had never left into the wilderness on her own, not without her mercenary band accompanying her - the Fire Roses. Or, if she did, she knew that they would be waiting for her. That was no longer the case. They were gone. Forever.

She took a look at her Pipboy. After digging through its menus, she found that it can play radio. Very good. As she turned it on, instead of music blaring through it, ending the silence of the Wasteland (for good or bad), she felt a strong shock through her hand. Aaah! It seemed to have some kind of a malfunction, so she turned off the radio. Didn't matter, anyway. That loud noise could attract whatever Wasteland critters and/or friendly raiders armed with crowbars and a surprising lack of mercy.

All in all, however, the silence, loneliness and the feeling that she's on the edge meant that she sought refuge in the only place still somewhat safe. Her head. She wasn't exactly a fan of introspection - and, in all honesty, she didn't get many moments like that, anyway. Gotta keep your mind on the target. Only the dead get to think about their mistakes. And even those rare few moments, she hated them with passion. It seemed as if each and every time she thought about her life, the only conclusion Roberta came out with was that it wasn't a happy life. She had no love life (besides a brief fling with one of her band-mates...but that's another story), and she would eventually die. Hard. The brutal death of her fellow sisters in battle only made her think more about it all.

She survived. They didn't, but she did. Why did they have to die, while she lived? It was, what would Roberta's father call "luck of the devil". Of all the raiders, some punk with a .44 Magnum shot her in the left shoulder, and left her cold out in the ground. Nobody bothered to check on her, and when she wake up, the raiders were gone. What was before her mercenary band, was just three piles of goo. And that's it. All those times they had, they were destroyed for several moments. She couldn't even bury them - she barely felt her left shoulder, much less could dig the earth.

The only reason she was still breathing today was...spite? A random chance, perhaps. It seemed as if she's born under an unusual star, that's for sure. A passing Khan patrol brought her back to Bozeman. She had no idea there were even patrols left - but it turned out that those patrolers weren't here on their own will, and rather, as a "punishment", they were sent to the back, back lines. They didn't seem to mind it too much.

Perhaps, however, death would've been a better fate, as soon as she came back, the bottle became her new best friend. It dulled the pain - both the physical and mental, but it was by no means a cure, merely a painkiller. She became a wreck, as she felt she was useless, and couldn't even fire properly with her arm incapacitated - every time she tried firing a firearm, the pain only seemed to get worse. As such, she had to switch to melee weapons. Training to use blades and the like with her right hand - maybe that's what kept her from sinking entirely into the deep pit of self-loathing, leaving her merely in one foot into the hole.

This might make it clearer to someone else as to why she so eagerly accepted this mission, with all of its vagueness and unknowns. Her father would probably tell her that she is stupider than a sack of potatoes, and, probably about as ugly as one. But maybe it was all for good. Because now, there was some kind of purpose to her life. A bloody death perhaps awaited her - but when was that not the case? It is better to live one day as a deathclaw than as a hundred years as a molerat - another saying her father loved to tell her.

Her father. Yet another thing she hadn't given much thought to. In a way, Roberta had one hell of a streak of damned good luck. Bill - that was his name - found her underneath a ruined building, surrounded by her parents. Squatters. Turns out, some pre-War buildings weren't meant to last. She survived, however, and Bill liked that. He wasn't a role model, by God no. In fact, it was because of him that she turned mercenary. Part her own desire, part his training and "wisdom", they made up what Roberta what she is now.

She smiled. That old coot. Roberta thought that he'd die of old age, at 45, surrounded by ladies that are twice younger than he is. It wasn't meant to be, however. Raiders came in, one fine sunny morning, and brought him all the way down into Hell. Once she came back, he was already a skeleton. Mournfully, she buried him into a grave in front of her house. Underneath a bigger rock. Just to be on the safe side. Every once in a while, she visited the grave. Recently, maybe more often than usual.

The soft wind blew through the long-abandoned road, that slowly but surely gave way to the prairie. A woman was disappearing into the distance. The wreckage of cars, reminders of an age that once was, remained still. Skeletons, both of the past and present, still littered the road, reminding the few who pass through these forgotten lands that the Wasteland is a harsh place to be.

 

[Chukchi Husky]

Sunset. A coyote stops by a small trickling stream in the desert. A last remnant of the rains. He laps at the water, yet ever cautious. No ordinary coyote. He is one of what the humans would call coyote men. He stands on hind legs like a man, yet walking on paws instead of flat human-like feet. What would be front legs are now arms, ending in paw-like hands dextrous enough to use tools. He has the face of a coyote, the long narrow snout with the black wet nose, golden eyes, tall pointed ears, a mouth full of sharp teeth. His body is covered in fur, that sandy-reddish coyote fur, light on the underside and darker on the back. The fur on the back of his head and neck is longer, growing long almost like human hair. He has feathers in this hair, along with braids that grow down his back. He is a creature of the desert, just as his animal ancestors were in the before time.

He has left his tribe on a journey. All young coyotes must go on this journey, a rite of passage, as they enter adulthood. When he returns to the tribe, he will no longer be a pup. He will be an adult coyote. All coyotes must go on his journey, just as every coyote has done in this tribe. Just as his father and mother had done when they entered adulthood. A journey to what was once but no longer. With only a knife and the gifts that nature gave him, he is to travel to the barren skeletal land that was once the home of a human tribe in the before time.

He knew the stories of the before time, a time before the coyote tribes, a time before thought and memory, a time of their animal ancestors when they walked on all four legs, a time when man dominated the land. Man wished to rule all of nature, everything that exists was claimed by man as his own. Then in his own arrogance, he burnt the sky. Man’s own hubris and selfishness ended their world, the end of the before time. Yet with all his power and destruction, man never did kill his greatest enemy, the enemy he never fully understood, the natural world. Just as the rain washes the debris of a dry river bed, the scars that man left behind of his old world are slowly becoming healed by the spirits of nature. His tribe were lucky, the furthest wilderness was spared from the wrath of man, he only cared to destroy what he created when he set fire to the sky. Still man. New tribes of men were born out of the flames, born into this new world, without learning from the lessons that led to the destruction of his old world.

Almost no human knew of the coyote tribes. It was to stay that way. Mankind wants to destroy what he cannot control. The young coyote had to keep out of sight while on his journey to the land of the old human tribe. He is told by the elders of his tribe that man relies on his eyes more than any other sense. His hearing is poor, his sense of smell almost dead. He is told that man has remembers his old magic, how to create thunder and fire from his metal sticks. Not like the coyote. The coyotes are blessed with sharp hearing and a strong sense of smell, these will be his tools to keep him safe from man. He will know the smell and sound of men, something that was passed to him by the ancestors, the instinctive memory. Those instincts will help keep him alive on his journey. As much as he would like to, he cannot howl. A howl is a sound that even a human can hear from far away.

The coyote walks into a plain. Although now covered in grass, the shape of the land Is unusual, artificial, man made. In the before time, perhaps this was once one of the trails where man took his great metallic beasts. The coyote is close.

There. A giant of stone and metal that marks the landscape, a skeleton of man’s old creativity. A ruined building, still standing, enduring the endless forces of wind and rain, heat and cold. This is his destination. The coyote was told of this place, it was once a place where men of learning would gather to learn the secrets of nature, those same secrets he used in his destructive hands to end all his once created. The coyote was to enter this building and look inside for an object. A small box of metal. He was told where to look inside the building for these boxes. Every coyote found one when each made their journey. These boxes contain man’s forgotten knowledge of his past. To learn from his knowledge is to learn not to make those same mistakes. The coyote is to find a box, just one box, then return to the tribe.

Not much was left around the building. The coyote didn’t know what was once here, but something was here. Markings still existed on the ground, almost as if man knew how to shape stone. He saw the remains of one of man’s metallic beasts. An empty shell the size of a buffalo.

Something’s wrong. A smell in the air, the sounds in the distance. The coyote had never smelt or heard anything like it before, but something within him somehow knew. Fear crept through him. He had to run. Man is here. Then suddenly, he felt a sharp pain, almost like an insect bite. Then he fell to the ground, unable to move but still able to hear, see and smell. Standing above him, a group of humans. He was told about the look of humans, but to actually see them, they looked so strange. Apart from the top of the head, the humans had no fur, instead either wearing the fur of other animals or wearing fur they had made themselves. He looked at their faces. No wonder the humans had a poor sense of smell, there faces are so flat, their noses so small. He saw one of the humans hold a metal stick, just as he had been warned about.

The humans were talking. The coyote didn’t understand human speech, but he did know the odd word. He heard them say “coyote” a few times, their word for his kind. He didn’t know what they wanted with him, these humans seemed more curious than aggressive. He tried to growl, but nothing would come out. Then it went dark.

When he woke up, the coyote found himself in a cage. There was something on his face. A muzzle. Around his neck, a collar. He saw that the cage was on a cart, pulled by a strange two-headed beast. Around the beast were humans, walking alongside. The coyote knew what had happened to him. The humans had captured him.

 

[gay_Aleks]

Speaking of which: WYOS has a channel of its own on Discord. Check it out: https://discord.gg/VQYkDTA

 

[Thorvald of Lym]

Chukchi Husky finally joining _YOS?!?!

 

[JohannaK]

It was boredom in the house. The Woman would recover eventually, but she was knocked out. The Man was dead and attracting flies, so they took him out and covered him in dirt. They was no gravedigger anyhow. They snooped around the house, there was an old gramophone, hand-powered and all. They cranked it a while and put a record from the pile below. Vivaldi, not that they'd know. They sat for a while perfectly still as violins attacked and receded, but they took to find a read. It was unbearable. The record was scratched and the needle loopedZzzzttZzzzttZzzttZzz*klunk* Thoomp. It fell. The song resumed, a hidden drawer had slightly opened under the gramophone. Now, there was a book they'd never seen. Leather covers patched and hand-sewn and on the first page in some mystical calligraphy read

Book of Esther​

​

I​

This is the first story, the thousandth, the one I know and tell
Of fire and squirt and blood and my death,
One thousand times my death. Masks
Funeral and otherwise and stillbirth and dearth:
My godliness revealed a thousand times.

Destruction I know how, it is the only thing.
Fire I’ve been born and bred, burnt and dead
Radioactive woman.
Esther Haze, Fire of my Lungs
Is the name I gave myself when crawling spider-like
Out of my womb, turned outwards-in and back again.
Nothing reined in my life
Asphyxiating Nothing love of my life. People craved my meat and milk
My honeycomb eyes like steadycams as I sit
In their midst a nuisance to the senses.
A Mother I am my own and father too as long
As my wits are with me and my fire is alive and well and radioactive
Fire lies with me.

Fire is family and all of family
Burns in my eyes, as long as I’ve lived and known it
Is all I know. Who knew the words and never spoke them
That was their fault,
They let me die in the cold and languish, they set me on fire when I melted
Looking my way with gravity wells as eyes – unforgiving and unforgiven
Most of all – unforgotten. Still in dreams
Sucking life and soul and all and colour from my face and my fire
I can see them close.
No stargazing in the house but those eyes darker than the sky
Would let me shine through their swollen green sick heart,
They would make me shiny and chromed and suck.
No shining in the house but shoes and china, I shone everything through
And through it blinded me back fiery black and white and blue,
And I was chrome and sucked.

MEN-A, MEN-A, MEN they and I chanting
Down and out in town, chanting chock-full of smells,
They say and I reply beating down inside
Words I see them whisper and chant and loathe.
See them sing with eyes closed nailed
By song in the place.
Run Run Run I would but nail and toe songs and iron arms
Would pin a ghost (that I am).
Hallellujah the fudgers with bull cocks when they died
Loaded with lead godly led. I was never a good shot.

Shoeshine and chrome never wore off I never shook off
Still I sucked and sold and shone and chromed.
Altarboy-like toiling, sweat and tears
With a chrome smile on, and shine and sell and suck.
I was barren deserted, every other day
Overseeing my demolition if joyfully
Dutifully contributing. A birthday gift to my own.

Squirrels in the woodworks scurrying about
Bite by bite nibbling my Sahara away. I will bleed them out of my holes
Every pore purged and cavity dug. I will swallow them whole
To digest them forever as they eat me outside-in and back again.
I will bleed and die to kill them, dearth as I am
Bloodless, I will turn bloodful for my sake.
No man to take my line out or woman resist it
I shall be a goddess and have the breadth of worlds
All to my own.

My last breath would smother millions if they knew how gladly
I bore them a plague, I grew a crop
From radioactive lands and poison fire,
How my chrome womb will breed chrome for ever – they would die to know
And they would die if they knew.
Lo, I am self-created. I am the stuff of miracles,
Call me Miracle-Woman for I perform them all.
I am an orphan for a thousand generations,
Who birthed itself and gave birth to itself again a thousand years later.
A thousand times born a thousand fires burn
In those lungs afresh, who breathed poison and chrome
For a cry. She’ll endure
She’ll live all right as I lived.

Esther Haze, Spring of my Loins
Is her name I gave her. I saw her scurrying through the woodworks
And her squirrel face when I bled
She yelled white fire as I pulled her out.
She was Esther Haze all right.

For seven weeks and seven nights I bled to death
As she rained fire, white and raw
As she was raw. She was borne of a desert
And I know like the desert she would endure.
Blood seeped through and I woke bathed and caked
Alone I woke. So quiet, gone and dead.
I was a ghoul of blood and horsehocky and my tumour taken from me
Which I sought in town. I conjured a white rain that wiped the chrome
Off my face, I was a gravity well and sucked the town
Into my whiteness of fury.

Destruction I know how, it is the only thing.
Four days and moons I rained upon the town
White and banshee I rained, until no wall stood upright
Until every fibre had been torn from bone,
Esther Haze was in my arms screaming fire.
Gazing in my eyes I saw it in her:
I saw my honey eyes and suck them into mine
Through the void,
I know I was in there and left.

Smouldering ruins I’d turn into when I left
Converted into an avatar of some vengeful God.
I was Yahweh, I was an avatar of Shiva,
I turned all the gods into my power to destroy.
I’d kill the human race for the honeycomb eyes;
My eyes that I’d seen in the fire and the white,
Eyes that I taught to shine and be chrome
Again, and taught to teach again.

I am the first story and the thousandth,
I am the story I know how to tell:
I am Esther Haze, Fire & Chrome of the Wasteland
Ruler Goddess, as I will for a thousand generations
Be and be known.
And I know this as I stare into my eyes with her promise to rule
As I have ruled my life.​