Izurich
AndyC
RolePlayerGuilt
DeadDrop
Fetzen
Balalaika
Megsychan
Butteryicarus
Theyra
EPISODE 1 - "Such a Lovely Place"
Tarhook was the first to wake to the conches. He blinked three times; the first time to make sure he was still living, the second time to see if he was still breathing and the third time to make sure he was in the mood for fighting. He slowly pushed pass the knot of limbs gently, extricating himself from the naked pile of people on the sodden mattress. He stood up shakily on his knees and walked to the large cracked pane of plexiglass on the far side of the crowded bunkroom. The room was crowded, buzzing with bloatfly spawn and the listless breaths of his people. He rolled his shoulders, grunting as his joints popped, and grabbed a nearby razor, the edge dulled with brown rust. Dabbing it in a bucket of jellyfish mash, he began to shave off his beard in chunks of hair. The pinpricks of pain that came with each stroke sharpened his mind, cleared his thoughts for the task ahead.
The sonorous bellow of the conch called to him again as he strapped on the kevlar vest. He heard the tones more clearly this time; one high and two low. A raid. He salivated at the thought. Finally. More and more were waking up in the bunkroom, coming to the same realisation as Tarhook. They began messily preparing themselves, shimmying on pants. Some opened satchels of black rust, carved from the hulks of decaying ships, and dabbed their fingers in it, powdering their skin. Others opened books of the old world, reciting cantos and old verses to faceless gods. A dozen rituals played out, the histories of them forgotten, in some hopeless attempt of preservation.
Just as Tarhook was oiling and checking the slide of his N99, a hand slapped his head from behind. It was Crabhead. The mirelurk claw embedded into the side of his left skull was not the reason for his namesake. He had earned it before his untimely accident due to his propensity for his face to become red during times of high stress or excitement. It was the latter. His face seemd to glowin the dark as Crabhead dragged out a long rusty chain. On the end of it hung an black iron anchor that was encrusted with dried blood and barnacle shells.
“ What’s got you acting up?”
“ Haven’t you heard? We caught a big one off the coast of Kaui.Cruiser size. ”
“ From where?,” Tarhook asked as he placed his ear next to the receiver.
“ Scouts report it came from across the Circle of Fire, rom the land of California.”
California. Tarhook nearly dropped his Colt when he heard that word. California. It was a different sort of ocean than the one he had grown accustomed to living in these past years. He remembered the sand that flayed his skin, the hot sun that beat down, the people that looke down upon him as the green skies above him thundered and shook. His finger thumbed the trigger excitedly back and forth like the jaws of a hound that had found its prey.
“ Then, let’s give these tourists a welcome party they won’t forget.”
Lower Decks, Green Horizon
There were three truths to living in the wasteland.
Rule number one. Expect the worst in everyone.
Rule number two. Always have a gun.
And rule number three? If rule number two doesn’t work, have a bigger gun.
The sight of a 10 foot tall supermutant toting a massive shotgun was enough to fulfill the criteria of the last two rules in many respects. The crowd in the lower deck parted around the standoff like water, paying little attention to it. The group of bandits eyd the glinting barrel of the supermutant’s weapon nervously but their morale hadn’t completely collapsed yet. After all, no upjumped mutated freak was going to dissuade them from the noble task of robbing underaged minors.
“Fellows,” he barked out in a phlegmy baritone, “this here gun's pointing fifteen hundred grains of lead shot in your direction. That’s about equal to four rounds of twelve gauge, and I won’t to hesitate to pull the trigger if you don’t take it elsewhere. So take it elsewhere.”
“ There’s only one of you, mutie,” The leader donning the tri-corn hat spoke with an air of bravado, albeit his voice shook.. “ I only see one of your ugly ass and no one else around. Seven’s more than one. Did your Master teach you how to count properly?”
Nervous chuckles were shared around the gang like popcorn. Their leader’s logic was mathematically sound. Seven humans did beat one genetically-mutated first generation super mutant. Even so, their bravery was paper-thin. A fewdropped their makeshift cubs onto the ground and began to run into the crowd, hiding themselves amongst the clatter of a bag of caps on the ground. One of the gang members to the left of the leader immediately scooped it up before any one could grab it. He shook the leather bag gently, feeling it in his palms to make sure it wasn’t fake. He slowly looked up at his leader with a pensive gaze.
“Fuck this shit, I’m out.”
“ Good luck, Col.”
“ Hey, wait for me!”
The raiders left one by one like rats leaving a sinking ship. The tricorn-hatted leader was now by his lonesome. His face was red, irate, on the verge of yelling as his gang dispersed into the crowd. The sound of gurgling blood then filled the air as a silver blade protruded out through the leader’s throat. Gloved hands scrabbled at the throat to stem the flow of blood. The leader collapsed on his front unceremoniously, a pool of blood slowly forming where his head was. Lying on his back was the power-helmeted islander scout. The child took a moment to wipe his blade on the deceased gang leader’s shirt before looking up at Hog and Galena.
“ OH, THANK YOU, YOU TWO! ”I’LL BE SURE TO PUT IN A GOOD WORD FOR YOU BACK IN THE-”
Screams erupted as a hideous metallic yawn pierced the eardrums of everyone in the lower decks. The pitch of the sound was taut, akin to an overstrung piano wire. Then came the rapid beat of rivets popping one by one. Kahana felt wetness at his feet and there he could see water rising inch by inch every second. The passengers of the lower deck churned and beat the floodwater with frantic pushes and steps as they The radio strapped on his vest chirped.
“ Scout Kahana, status report!”
“ SIR, SCOUTMASTER, THE HULL OF DECK 5-A WHICH HAS BEEN COMPROMISED.”
“ Scout Kahana, how severe is this hull breach?”
“ SIR, SCOUTMASTER, BASED ON THE VOCAL PITCH AND VOLUME IN WHICH CIVILIANS ARE IN CURRENTLY IN DISTRESS AROUND ME ALONGSIDE THE RATE OF WATER ENTERING THE COMPARTMENT, IT WOULD FALL UNDER THE DEFINITION OF ‘EXTREMELY SEVERE’, SIR! REQUESTING IMMEDIATE EVACUATION, SIR!”
“ Denied, Scout Kahana. You are to immediately assist repair crews in this manner. You are to only evacuate if all occupants of the deck other than you are deceased, do you understand!”
“ SIR, SCOUTMASTER, THERE’S A PROBLEM.”
“ Scout - KZZZTT - , report the -KZZZZTTTof this problem.”
“ SIR, SCOUTMASTER, I'M EMBARRASSED TO SAY - " Kahana had troubled finishing his sentence, sputtering the last few words out in embrassment." - THAT I CAN'T SWIM.,” Kahana leaned back, waiting to get scolded only for the radio to hiss back in a bubble of static. “ SCOUTMASTER?! SCOUT-”
Kahana paused as pale slime drooped from above and splattered all over his helmet. He touched it with his finger and rubbed it in between his fingers. It was cold, stuck to his hands like glue and smelt of rotting radgull. Rotting. Gooseflesh rose underneath Kahana’s clothes as he unsheathed his knife out again. Then, he heard it. Something large and wet landing behind him. He dove immediately to the front, feeling the hot breathe of a mawsnapping behind him. He turned around and though he’d seen plenty of their kind before, he could never.
Its black body was sleek and sinuous, damp and dark in the bowels of the ship. Pale white scars dotted its skin, each a tale of a battle long past. Two spade-like fins protruded out from its side, spines growing out of the edge in some sick fashion of a paw. It’s head was obesely packed to the brim with rolls of fat that dribbled out the side like melted wax. A long needle like mouth curved out from underneath its ruiuned face.
“ BLACKBOTTLE! BLACKBOTTLE ABOAR-!” was all that a Gold Galleon employee had to say before the mutant monstrosity launched itself forward on its two fins. It slid across the flooded floor, reminding Kahana of one of those pre-war ice skating holotapes his troop smuggled across from Maui. The Gold Galleon Employee screamed as the jaw grabbed him on the toros and lifted him into the air, before snapping him in two in a spray of blood and guts.
Upper Decks, Green Horizon
Sam was already dreaming of the sounds of caps jingling in his pockets. The amount of material he had gotten in this single hour alone would keep 89 on the airwaves for the next few weeks. Sure, he would have to cut out the seditionist remarks made by who he suspected had a bone to pick wit the NCR, maybe the Brotherhood or the Legion. Everything else was at least tolerable. As he thanked the last interviewee, Sam turned to the camera to make his final remarks.
“And there you have it, folks! Wastelanders from all walks of life determined to start anew in the Aloha Isles. This is Sam Gallagher from California 89 signing - “
“ Hold up, hold up,” A gold-ringed hand pushed the camera away and Sam was dumbstruck at who he was seeing. The Sunset Sarparilla floral shirt and the hideous shades barely covered the man’s sunburnt skin. His face looked as though someone had squished an overripe mutfruit and fingerpainted a smile and eyes on it. The coterie of swimsuit-dressed girls behind him didn’t help either. The man pushed down his shades and looked at Sam like a pest. “Who the fuck do you think you are, shitstick?”
“ Sam Gallagher of California 89. Um, do you mind moving, we’re busy wrapping up over here.”
“ What the hell did you just say to Dole Hannigan, you little pissant?” For the second time today, Sam had his personal territory invaded yet again as the businessman pushed himself chest to chest with the reporter, puffing his chest out like an obese radgull. “ Do you knowwho the fuck I am? In fact, I’m going to educate you today. Goreman, that piece of shit Codac is bugging the hell out of me. Get rid of it, would you?”
Before Sam could complain, a burly guard popped from behind the man, grabbed his cameraman’s Codac and chucked it overboard.
“ What the fuck was that for?” Sam yelped. “ You know how much that cost me -”
A spike of agony suddenly bolted through his legs, making him collapse onto the floor. Drool dribbled out of Sam’s open mouth as he faintly felt a hand yank his hair upwards, forcing him to look into grey eyes that were cut from slate.
“ Let me get it through your little molerat-sized brain just so we’re standing on the same ground. Aloha, Sam, is my territory. So, I don’t know what kind of dainty psy-op radio play bullshit you’re playing with me but you’re not gonna get to me. YOU’RE NOT GONNA GET TO ME.!” Sam tilted his head away in disgust at the smell of stale Nuka Cola and iguana steaks. “ So, get this. If I ever catch you filming for California 85-”
“ -It’s 89-”
“ Speak when I say you can speak, bitch!” If I ever catch you moseying on here again again, I will sue the piss coming out of your shithole when you go back home crying back to California.” The man pulled Sam up by the ear and whispered into his ear. “ Welcome to Aloha, motherfucker.”
It was at that moment that Dole Hannigan’s head chose to explode like a ripe pumpkin. Sam was mute as the shower of warm blood hit him and laid unmoving on the deck of the ship in shock. His mind was frozen, looking at the headless corpse of Dole Hannigan which laid next to him, his tongue lolling out of his decapitated head. The speakers turned on with an electronic whine and a smooth female voice began to speak in a reassuring tone.
“ All passengers, please remain calm. We are currently in the midst of a pirate attack. Please locate your nearest lifeboat. Your nearest Gold Galleon security representative will be there to escort you safely. Please remain calm.”
Warning klaxons blared out in unison as upper deck passengers ran across the deck like a herd of Brahmin. Security guards attempted to control the flow of people only to be trampled underneath the stampede. Sam shakedly stood up and blinked as dots of colours danced in his vision in the vast expanse of the blue sky. He squinted and then, noticed that there was something hanging off these dots. Namely, men. There were at least 30 of them floating towards the upper deck, strapped to ginormous spherical balloons that had strange symbols drawn on them. Some of them were dressed with the classic skulls and bones that every traveller in the Pacific would see whilst others had nails, fishheads, bottlecaps or gecko heads sewn into the fabric. A thin dogwhistle then shrilled through the air as the balloons were dozens of feet away from the upper deck. The balloons began bursting one by one in fiery explosions that turned the blue sky red. The wild evacuation stopped for a moment as onlookers stopped to observe the light show.
It was so pretty that Sam failed to notice the black human missile that pancaked the star-struck tourist in front of him into a sack of broken bones and skin.
he stepped back as the pirate shook her head, slightly dazed, and then, honed her eyes on him like a deathclaw. Her left eye had been replaced with a green-stripped pool ball, the letter ‘4’ staring back at him. Similar landings were occurring across the boat as the attackers began diving from the air, using the tourists to cushion their fall messily. Sam watched in horror as the pirate wrenched her foot out of a caved-in ribcage, drew her cutlass and yelled out loud in a crooked grin.
“ FOR LEVIATHAN!”