Bork

R E D U X .// 2047 //.

“Oh, I dunno, Miss Stardust.” Lazlo shot back with a snarky reply. “ You ever saw a security camera that has a question mark on it?”

Why were the oldest vigilantes always the most grumpiest? Hex at least wasn’t this much of an asshole to him, even though he threw him off a cliff. Don’t push your luck, Lazlo. She might throw you off a cliff. He then looked back at the screen and signed. What game was Hex trying to play with them? If only he had the resources of the Third Rail with them…….

No time for reminiscing. Lazlo looked towards the keyboard and pressed the # button. As soon as his finger touched it, the floor beneath begin to rumble. Lazlo swore. Of all the buttons he had to chose, of course bad luck guided him to pick the fucking self destruct sequence.

“ Don’t look at me. I didn’t know that was going to -”

The crack of concrete was the only warning he had before the ceiling caved in and began to fall onto him. He reached out towards Stardust, only to realise that his two legs were waving in the air. The floor had crumbled apart as well. Shrapnel flung through the air at break-neck speeds, slicing and biting into Lazlo’s skin and flesh. Gritting his teeth, he reached out into his right elbow, touching a tattoo, concentrating, visualizing, imagining -

Then, in a burst of light, Crane of Mache unfurled out, jabbing its beak and wings into the structure and holding it still. Lazlo straddled its neck, looking upwards to see the damage. Around him was a tangle of rebar, pipes and wires intertwined with concrete rubble, only held together by his trinket. It’d only hold for a while but a while was all he needed to get him and Stardust out of the base -

There was a ripping of paper, a rumble that smashed apart his world, searing pain all in one instant before he welcomed the darkness.

---

When Lazlo woke up, he wasn’t sure whether or not he was still sleeping. A void surrounded him. Everywhere he looked, there was only black. A short strangled laugh escaped his breath, a mixture of relief and fear at his survival. His laughter soon became winded coughing.

" Stardust?" He whimpers out. " Miss....Stardust?"

No one. Only the stink of his sweat, the taste of iron on his lips and the stabbing pain in his chest -

Wait, why was his chest hurting? He feels around before he finally grabs ahold of it. A five foot long rod of rebar protruding through the center of his torso, smeared with stink and gut. He grunts, trying to pull himself up, but every movement only makes the hurt worse. He falls back down, both of his hands moving to clasp his aching forehead.

But only one hand responds. It takes him a moment to realise that he has no left arm anymore. Or eyes for that matter. His left fingers pinch the pulp in his empty sockets. Well, he doesn’t need eyes. Or two arms. He’d gotten out of worse before. He’d manage with this.

The aching in his head becomes a persistent ringing. Bloodloss. Right. Happens when you’re impaled by a metal spike and after you lose your arm.

Moving. Right. He was still moving. Focus on that. If he was still moving, then, he was still alive.

Think, Lazlo, think. You’ve got to have a trinket somewhere.

But what use was manifesting a trinket if he couldn’t visualise it? There’s nothing he can do but wait until he bleeds out, or wait for someone to dig him up and then bleed out. He blinks uselessly, droplets of blood sliding down his cheeks.

What can he create if he sees nothing?

Then, it comes to him.

If I can make something immaterial into material, then, can I make something material into immaterial?

The pounding in his head becomes like a drum. He’s losing time. There’s no time for caution. His right arm levers across his chest and grabs onto the rod, slick with his blood.

Your blood is the pigment. Your body the canvas.

He focuses on the gaping wound in his chest. Reshaping it. Moulding away the rebar. Sanding it down to its base concepts of reinforcement and structure. He feels it begin to flake away in his hand like an old oil painting. It doesn’t stop there. A rush of fear sprouts to him as he feels a sinking sensation, as if he’s stepped into a pool. Drowning again like when Hex threw him off the cliffside. The pounding in his head becomes a relentless screech. No. His hand is gone. He can still make it. Legs. Where are his legs. No, god, please -

In the end, when the rubble is lifted up, all there is left of the Artistonancer is a circled-A scratched into the stone and the rent remains of his left arm.

---

Wherever he is right now, he feels cold. Then, hot. Then, not. He stands up, palming his still-bleeding left stump. The hole in his chest is gone. That's good. The landscape around him is turbulent, a mosaic of colors endlessly blending and shifting from Baroque to Classical to Cubic landscapes, bending space and time and all notions of physical laws.

Where am I?

Fallout: Cascadia

Here's my CS so far. I'd call this a Draft 1.0 given that I want to tweak the backstory and especially the psyche and drive some more. It's complete but not complete if you get my drift.

Anyway, Gong Xi Fa Cai and have a happy Chinese New Year everyone! I'll be off RPG in the meantime.

Ghoul Boi

_{◄The old world is the new gold in this new world. ►}

ALAN GORSKY

^{120| Big Sky, Northern Commonwealth | 169.5 cm / 155 pounds | Ghoul}

_{A P P E A R A N C E.}

" Yeah, yeah, I see the way you're eyeing at me, smooth-skin. You're probably thinking a few things about me right now. A talking Brahmin testicle. A piece of mutfruit that was left out in the sun. A shriveled cave fungus that grew legs. Trust me. I heard it all. So try to be more creative the next time you try to insult a ghoul."

A common adage in the ghoul town of Gecko is that every ghoul looks alike and Gorsky believes it. No nose. Mummified skin. Radiation burns. Simply put, Gorsky is about as off-putting as any ghoul could be. His balding head contains wisps of sandy hair growing at the fringes. If one were to use their imagination, perhaps, they could craft a human simulacrum of what Gorsky once looked like in their minds. The only feature that distinguishes Gorsky from other ghouls is his glowing eyes. No, not metaphorically, literal glowing in the dark pupils. This freaky mutation is a reminder of the circumstances that resulted in his ghoulification.

Due to living as a Old World prospector and scavenger, Gorsky has developed a weathered yet still-emaciated physique with a stout stature that belies hidden cunning and tenacity. With time, he has gained numerous scars from his misadventures that are in a constant state of flux, closing and reopening at ill-opportune times. Though his choice of apparel varies depending on the climate, he is never seen without an white-star ushanka on his head.

_{E Q U I P M E N T.}

Orion - A hand crafted scoped crossbow cobbled together from a makeshift selection of gun parts, energy weapon parts and scrap waste found littered in the Wasteland. Silent and deadly at a range of 50 yards.

Quiver Belt - A belt that allows Gorsky to access and load his bolts easier.

Homemade Arrows

Scrap Bolts - An eclectic collection of crossbow bolts composed of bone, steel, rebar, wood, glass and whatever detritus of the wastes Gorsky happens upon. Gorsky has approximately 20 scrap arrows with him and has the capacity to craft more easily.

Microfusion Bolts - A microfusion cell capped with a electrical fuse replaces the arrowhead of the crossbow bolt. Contact with the head of the bolt will release the full charge of the microfusion cell in one thermal blast. Depending on the internal charge of the cell, this can range from the power of a fiddly firework to a bastardised plasma grenade. At the start of the journey, Gorsky has brought only 5 with him due to how time consuming it is to craft these arrows.

Trenchcoat - A furred long-coat tailored from rad-elk leather and partially fortified with laminated polymer weave plating. Comes with extra pockets for storing small objects.

Portable Repair Kit - An old Vault-Tec Lunchbox that contains all the necessities of post-apocalyptic DIY repair such as WonderGlue, Duct-Tape, wrenches, a soldering iron, screwdrivers and all the tools needed to fix up anything you need.

Lockpicking Kit - A leather wallet containing bobby pins, staplers, tension wrenches, screwdrivers and enough picks to crack open any safe with the exception of Fort Knox. If it's still standing.

Collection of Poisons - A satchel containing three 500 ml ampules, each containing man-made poisons known as Bleak Venom, Mother Darkness and Sliver Sting. Bleak Venom acts as a lethal cardiotoxin, Mother Darkness is a potent neurotoxin and Sliver Sting is known to be an easily acquired cytotoxin. Gorsky most often dips his arrows in poison whilst hunting for food.

Talon Knife - A one-edged five inch curved ivory knife carved from the bone of a deathclaw talon. It's sharper than it looks.

Dog Whistle - A high pitched dog whistle that transmits a specific frequency only a mutated giant cockroach would hear.

_{M I S C E L L A N E O U S G E A R}

- Rolled Up Sleeping Bag
- Electric Lighter
- Box of Spare Electronic and Mechanical Parts
- Satchel of 100 Caps
- Brahmin Leather Waterskin
- Container of Coyote Tobacco Cigars
- Frying Pan
- Compass
- Packet of Kindling
- Army Brand Ushanka
- Tribal Dreamcatcher Necklace
- Pet Brush for Chaff
- Journal and Charcoal Pen
- Fishing Rod, Line, Hook and Sinker

_{S K I L L S.}

// SURVIVAL (CORE) - Having been raised in the harsh wildernesses of Montana and ran solo scavenging operations for nearly most of his life, Gorsky knows virtually every survival trick in and out of the book to prevent your ass from being gnawed off by a mole rat. Crafting poison, making poisons, identifying plants that don't poison you; Gorsky is a natural outdoorsghoul. Also, it doesn't hurt to know how to make a good bloatmfly brisket every once in a while.

// REPAIR (GOOD) - " Duct Tape and Wonder Glue. Two things everyone needs in life."

// SCIENCE (GOOD) - " My scientific methodology? Throw it at the wall and see if it sticks. Try to relate it to physics, biology, chemistry, astrology.....wait, scratch that last one. "

// BARTER (AVERAGE) - " 1500 caps? How about we lower it down to 500 caps if I buy a bottle of Sarsparilla for you?"

// GUNS (AVERAGE) - " N99. 10mm semi-automatic. 12 round magazine. You can do a nice little magic trick with it. Point the barrel at someone and you can make a dead person."

// LOCKPICKING (AVERAGE) - " A safe is just a birthday gift wrapped in deadbolts, cams and mortises."

_{H I S T O R Y}

2385, August 5th

Thought I might start writing down stuff, in case I forget. Doc I met in Vault City said that ghouls don't have eidetic memory. That common symptoms were dementia, amnesia, a Sugar Bombs box of mental illnesses. Might be good to have things written down in case somebody finds my grave. Can't rely on Chaff to tell my story anyway. Doubt anyone can speak Radroach.

I was born in the Rockies 120 years ago, somewhere north of the Great Salt Lake and westwards of NCR territory. Everyone called it the Big Sky. It used to be part of the pre-war Northern Commonwealth before the last war happened. Luckily, the surrounding mountain ranges allowed us to escape the worst of the bombs. Some of the elders had stories around what happened that time, when the Black Rain poured down from the clouds and flooded the valleys, when the Wendigos came from the forests to feast on us, when the six moon snow silenced the sunlight. It's been....40 years since I last visited there. All I know about them is through word of the monthly supply caravans that go there. They're still doing good. Best as you can out here in the wastes.

I grew up in a tribal village where blood didn't matter and everyone shared everything. The origins of our founding are spotty but our archive keepers agreed that some group of outcasts from the eastern continents moved into the USA and hid in the mountains during the Pre-War. My father worked in the coal mines while my mother worked as a hunter. Me and the rest of my five siblings simply survived. I learned what plants I could eat, how to skin a giant rat, how to fish for mirelurk pups and making fire from sticks and stones. Anyway, Big Sky was boring. In the sense that our neighbors were unfriendly, the air was cold enough to freeze your balls off and there were bobcats in every bush you wanted to take a dump in.

That was until the first caravan came. I was at the ripe old age of 18. Old enough to be independent yet young enough to be stupid and dumb. I made a promise to myself then that I wouldn't die languishing in Big Sky. I wanted to explore. I wanted to live. In the morning, I left a note on the table for my parents and sneaked onto a supply caravan that was headed California by bribing one of the guards, with nothing more than a bindle and a crossbow on my back. One of the head merchants found me in the back gnawing on their tato crops but I soon silenced their complaints about extra weight by rustling up a few gecko steaks for them when we hit the border of Klamath.

I was dropped off at the Hub. The Hub. One of the Five Great Territories of the NCR. I got my first job in a 'prospector crew' there. Some people saw it as dirty but it was the dream for some tribal out lander like me. Exploring pre-war ruins. Cracking open safes. Unearthing treasures? It was more than I could ask for. Life was good. Caps were flowing in. I grew older. Fell in love. Bought a house. Got married. Thought of retiring. Same story you hear nowadays from every citizen of the New California Republic. Back in Big Sky, retirement wasn't an option but here in California, it was a land of opportunity.

Then, it happened.

December 24th, 2299. Christmas. The dawn of the next Millennium. The day that I became a ghoul.

The old ruins were becoming sparse now. The NCR was grabbing onto every territory it could and promising spots became blocked off by garrisons. The only choice was to go to more further and dangerous places.

I chose to do a job in New Mexico. Five man crew. Pre-war military site. Unlooted. Unscathed. Only problem was that there were enough rads to make a man grow extra arms. A nuclear warhead struck the coastline of the base and turned it into freak central. The facility we entered into was some kind of some old vehicle manufacturing factory. Tanks the size of freaking cottages. Wandered around for a little bit until we hit a vaulted door. Nothing I couldn't handle. A little bit of thermite and picking later, fell apart like cotton candy.

We went inside and hit the jackpot. Blueprints. Safes. Enough loot to make a man rich for lifetimes.

I only had five seconds to react before the bullet tore through my chest.

In hindsight, it made sense. Get rid of the extra weight and split the loot between themselves. My death could be written off as an accident since I was travelling into a high risk area. No one would try and bother to find my body too. The perfect plan.

Instead of putting me out of my misery, they stripped me of all my gear and left me to rot. While they looted the room. Last thing I remember before blacking out was the sound of my Geiger counter screeching, the burning pain in my chest and how my head pounded like a drum.

I woke up. Afraid, hungry, thirsty and alive. I was still inside the loot room. It’d been stripped bare to the walls. My voice sounded like I’d been gurgling stones for a lifetime, I had no nose and the hole in my chest was missing. I didn’t have time to come to terms that I’d become a ghoul. I was only concerned about finding a way out of this place.

That was when I was attacked by the biggest radroach the wastes had ever conceived. My Chaff. We got off to a rocky start but eventually, things settled between the both of us after I gave her a little bit of food from some expired MRE I found in a storage locker.

I crawled my way out of New Mexico and walked back to the Hub on foot. Me and Chaff fell a little bit off course every once in a while but we pulled ourselves back towards our goal. When I finally reached there, I was prepared for the worst. What would you do if your husband or wife suddenly became a ghoul? I opened the door, Chaff behind me, expecting to be screamed at and tossed out from the house.

Nothing, in fact. My wife told me to stop with the self-pity, move on with my life and that I was still the same old dumb tribal underneath that skin. To this day, I never did manage to find those guys who shot me and I never will. Revenge is fool’s gold. By now, they’re either old men waiting to die or two feet under already. Seems petty to hunt them down.

In spite of common sense, I returned to work as a prospector, albeit with caveats. I never took group contracts again and went solo. Well, semi-solo. Chaff doesn’t get a part of the profits. I continued to live and continued to work, looking for pieces of the old world to collect.

Time moves differently when you’re a ghoul. Wife died from a nasty bout of pancreatic cancer when I was 60. My two sons became water merchants when I was 85. I became a grandfather at the age of 100. My trips became further. I returned back to Montana for a bit and then, went back to the Hub. I……I can’t remember. It’s like an old reel movie in my head. A collection of moments. I can barely even remember her voice anymore.

There’s word spreading around the Hub right now. Rumours of a Vault in Cascadia. Untouched. Lack of NCR presence.

Perfect for prospecting.

_{P S Y C H E.}

Gorsky’s takes a sardonic yet professional approach to his work as a prospector, viewing the wastes as a land of opportunity rather than a land of desolation. His only concerns are the wellbeing of his own relatives, Chaff and his own collection of items. He distances himself from other people out of reflex and often uses acerbic jabs as his weapons to keep people away. However, those who earn Gorsky’s trust and loyalty earn themselves a friend. Gorsky also holds a relative dislike of government authorities and inefficencies, particularly the NCR, holding nothing but contempt towards their imperialistic policies which he sees as strangling the freedoms of the Wasteland.

That is not to say Gorsky is without his imperfections. Gorsky is a prospector and a scavenger at heart, willing to haggle and bargain for anything. He hold a streak of being greedy and the promise of treasure and old world tech will dissuade any moral qualms he may have about committing any act, albeit to a point. Good luck on trying to get him to commit murder. Gorsky believes in defending himself from danger and never attacking in response to danger.

_{D R I V E.}

Other than surviving, Gorsky’s main incentive for living the way he does is for the pathological thrill of adventure he gets whenever he happens upon an artifact of the Old World. He believes that the Óld World’ is the new gold and that it holds power and value over caps, money, armies and wealth.

However, the truth is more complicated than it seems. Gorsky also collects artifacts of the Old World, not out of the thrill, but out of fear for his deteriorating memory. He’s not sure how ghouls can stay sane for but he’s not willing to rot in safety and wait for his mind to disintegrate. Taking advantage of the long life span of ghouls, Gorsky continues to explore and search for nuggets of the Old World, hoping that he can stay ahead of memory loss one treasure at a time.

---

_{◄hissssssssss ►}

CHAFF

^{N/A | New Mexico | 60 cm / 30 pounds | Radroach}

Bork Lazer's Storage Bunker

_{◄[color=lightgray][/color] ►}

NAME

^{N/A | Place of Birth | 35 cm/19 kilograms | Periplanta Giganticus}

_{A P P E A R A N C E.}

What do you look like? A detailed description of your charachter's physical characteristics

_{E Q U I P M E N T.}

A

_{M I S C E L L A N E O U S G E A R}

A

_{S K I L L S.}

A

_{H I S T O R Y}

A

_{P S Y C H E.}

A

_{D R I V E.}

A

𝔽𝕦𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕪: 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔾𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕥 𝔾𝕒𝕞𝕖 - Cyberpunk Political Intrigue Roleplay

division.

that’s all us drivers see nowadays. the sky and the earth apart sandwiching the sprawl. a concrete tide that buries the promise of the horizon, of endless roads. An unseen finish line.

that is why we race. why I race.

well, once raced.

to escape the division.

---

C:>/ver

FUTILITY V 2.01

C:>>> FUTILITY [DRIFT_DEMON.exe]

C:>>> UPLOADING……..

C:>>> LAUNCH FILE Y/N?

C:>>> Y

C:>>> LAUNCHING DRIFT_DEMON.exe………

---

A single stroke splits the mackerel's head from its oblong body. Only a droplet of blood spills out on the extinct hinoki cutting board. The precision of 2060 augs is something to marvel at as green titanium digits begin making thin incisions along the body with a paring knife. Keah does not show it but he holds a quiet respect for the Iron Itamae’s work.

Suraiboshen is an ocean frozen in time. Beneath the bar lies a reef trapped in glass, shoals of silver scales and rainbows moving about, a museum of extinct species. Tuna, yellowtail, squid, even sea turtles. The Iron Itamae once said that his aquarium was the size of a swimming pool. Keah doesn’t doubt it for a second.

Deft hands begin pulling out pin bones one by one. The fish still writhes in his hand, phantom struggles of a nervous system. The Iron Itamae looks up at him with mismatched eyes. “ Tell me, driver. Is this fish real?”

“ Yes.”

“ How would you know it was real?”

“ I can eat it. That’s all there is to it.”

“ This mackerel is genetically modified from four close sub-species to look like a mackerel. Its protein matrix has been modified in order to make it taste like a mackerel. It’s life-span, reproductive cycles, behaviour and physiology have been altered so radically from the natural analogue by me.” He dabs the flesh in a thick coat of soju. “ So, is it real?”

“ If I ran you over, would that be real?”

“ So impatient, are we?” He chuckles. “ I’m rather surprised you’re still offering to work for me, given the nature of your new…..client.” The Iron Itamae’s mouth scoffs when he tilts his head. “ Don’t be surprised. I spent my Gaea Naturae connecting as well as experimenting. So, tell me. Why?”

“ Contract with you is until September.” He nods slightly to the left, looking at the digital holo-calendar which reads APRIL 1st, 2065 in bracketed lettering. “ Satisfy you enough?”

“ Believe that you have a sense of honour? Pah. Honour is a dull ingredient, predictable, boring and too complex.” The Iron Itamae puts the last of the nigiri in a cube and presses a hidden switch on the side. There’s a hiss of nitrogen and helium before the freeze-vac locks. He reaches forth with his right hand, articulated alloyed digits tapping on the smooth metal surface of the storage box.

“ Where?”

“ Where you belongs, turboblazer” His grin is as sharp as his knife. “ The land of the dead.”

---

The Reclaim Zone was a neon inferno and he was just one of the unfortunate many to have been caught in its flames. Only the Rigg kept him afloat in the sea of kaleidoscopic fire, a flotsal of glass and syncrete spires bobbing around him. His left hand held the gearstick loosely while his other hand pincered the wheel in an eight fingered grip. He was approaching a junction now, two auto-trucks bordering him on both sides of the lane. He looked left and right, and then at the narrowing road. Too slow. Slamming the accelerator down, he bucked the Jury Rigg forward and pulled the steering wheel all the way to the left. The Jury Rigg curled to the right, Keah feeling the inexorable pull of momentum that made his guts roil, as he pulled into a hairpin turn.

Keah frowned. There should be something. The dizzying high of excitement. The death defying thrill. The blood pumping adrenaline that surged through your veins. The BPM meter on his helmet didn’t even notch up a beat. He sidled into another sliding drift, went through the same motions again.

Nothing. He zoomed past a red light, gazing upwards at the polluted skies of the Reclaim Zone. Why did he take these delivery jobs again? He could have quit after all. The pay that the Iron Itamae offered him was a fraction of what Petrukov offered him. He shook his head. No, it wasn’t the pay. It was the offer of a challenge. No, you’re past that. Remember what happened to the OverDriver? Nevermind that. He was coming near the Duat now. The iconic hieroglyphic sign glowed like a lighthouse, a beacon attracting the underbelly of the Zone. The sun had only just begun to set and already, the lots were glutted with an ensemble of glitzy EngiTech cyclics and FuryTech sports cars that looked like they were compensating for something with their oversized aerofoils. He crunched to a slow grinding halt, parking underneath the shadow of an old flickering street lamp.

Someone then knocked on his side-window. His helmet filtered in footage from his car's external cameras. A motorcycle gang. They were all pimped out in extensive holo-tattoos that covered their bodies like some obscure skin disease. There was the usual chrome, of course, but to Keah, it was looking as if they had more bark than bite.

“ You fuckin- Hey, open the window right now. That’s our spot, you fuckin- ”

He rolled down the window and one look at his helmet was all they needed to back off. Keah inwardly signed. There were days where he hoped he could drive around the streets. Reputation was a double edged sword indeed. He stepped out, not even bothering to look at the motley crew of bosozoku gangers that were mingling about his car.

“ Watch over the car, will you?," he muttered, leaving them to talk among themselves excitedly as he entered the Duat.

He’d only been to Duat a few times. Most places in the Reclaim Zone were seedy but this place was the wrong type of seedy. The Duat was a different animal from the underground scene of street racing. There were codes of conduct, honor, lines that couldn’t be crossed, closed secrets. The Duat was where everyone could listen in on everyone’s secret all the time, where shady deals were conducted openly to the tune of ethyl and cheap synthpop music.

He shouldered on past a couple lost in the rhythm of the dance floor and kept on looking for his client. His HUD locator marked a silhouette sitting nearby the UltraBartender's palace. He continued walking until his client was in full view. The first impression about him was that everyone was giving him a wide berth. No one was sitting next to him and he was the only one at the left end of the countertop. A hood shrouded his features and he was nursing a shot glass. As he walked nearer, his noses retched at the stink of ethyl and tonic that reeked from the glass.

He placed the vac-freeze cube on top of the countertop, jingling the shot glass the hooded man was holding. Keah’s eyebrows were furrowed in suspicion right now. A most particular feeling of deja vu was buzzing in the back of his brain. There was just something off about how this person wore their thermo-jacket, high-brimmed collar around his neck and all.

“Cred-chip. Now.”

The hooded man turned around on his bar stool and took off his guise. He froze. Another helmet. A FuryTech Prism. Racing model. He only knew one man who wore such a helmet. His own face stared back at him through the mysterious man's polarized visor.

“ Nice to meet you again, Drift Demon.”

Shit.

What was the OverDriver doing in the Reclaim Zone?

Fallout: Cascadia

I have a most important question, @Hexaflexagon

Can my character have a pet radroach?

Marvels of Mountain City

Pineapple Pizza

In a secluded seedy motel room in one of Mountain City's five star residences, Pineapple Pizza was bored. Well, as bored as one could be when discussing among distinguished CEOs of every pizza chain in America.

" Enough." All heads turned towards him. " I brought all of you here to discuss the future of pizza and here all of you are talking about stocks, investors, yearly profits. Your simple minds can't comprehend the power of pizza."

He walked towards a window, the sunset casting indigo streaks along the open vistas of the alpine city.

“ Gentlemen, pizza has changed. It’s no longer about cooking, taste or cuisine. It’s an endless series of proxy battles fought by delivery trucks and restaurant chains. Pizza - and it’s consumption of life- has become a well oiled machine. Pizza has changed. ID-tagged cooks use ID-tagged ingredients, ID-tagged ovens. Frozen pizzas enhance and regulate their recipes. Genetically modified pizzas. Pizza advertisements. Pizza commercials. Pizza restaurants. Everything is monitored and controlled by pizza. Pizza has changed. The age of consumption has become the age of obesity. All in the name of averting catastrophe from pizzas of mass destruction. And he who controls the pizza, controls history."

"This city is the future, gentlemen." The Papa of Papa John's spread his arms out wide, looking over the city. " This city is my Pizza Hut." He then pointed both hands towards the entire ensemble of men and women, making finger-guns. " In the next five minutes, all of you will give me control over all the assets of your companies. Domino's. Little Caesar's. California Pizza Kitchen."

"Or what?" Someone said.

"Or this." Pineapple Pizza made his human skin-suit snap his fingers. A second later, red dots appeared on all the foreheads of every CEO currently in the room.

"Today's a new beginning, gentlemen. A new age of Pizza warfare. So, how many of you are ready to go into the oven?"

Bork Lazer's Storage Bunker

_{◄The old world is the new gold in this new world. ►}

ALAN GORSKY

^{120| Big Sky, Northern Commonwealth | 169.5 cm / 155 pounds | Ghoul}

_{A P P E A R A N C E.}

" Yeah, yeah, I see the way you're eyeing at me, smooth-skin. You're probably thinking a few things about me right now. A talking Brahmin testicle. A piece of mutfruit that was left out in the sun. A shriveled cave fungus that grew legs. Trust me. I heard it all. So try to be more creative the next time you try to insult a ghoul."

A common adage in the ghoul town of Gecko is that every ghoul looks alike and Gorsky believes it. No nose. Mummified skin. Radiation burns. Simply put, Gorsky is about as off-putting as any ghoul could be. His balding head contains wisps of sandy hair growing at the fringes. If one were to use their imagination, perhaps, they could craft a human simulacrum of what Gorsky once looked like in their minds. The only feature that distinguishes Gorsky from other ghouls is his glowing eyes. No, not metaphorically, literal glowing in the dark pupils. This freaky mutation is a reminder of the circumstances that resulted in his ghoulification.

Due to living as a Old World prospector and scavenger, Gorsky has developed a weathered yet still-emaciated physique with a stout stature that belies hidden cunning and tenacity. With time, he has gained numerous scars from his misadventures that are in a constant state of flux, closing and reopening at ill-opportune times. Though his choice of apparel varies depending on the climate, he is never seen without an white-star ushanka on his head.

_{E Q U I P M E N T.}

Orion - A hand crafted scoped crossbow cobbled together from a makeshift selection of gun parts, energy weapon parts and scrap waste found littered in the Wasteland. Silent and deadly at a range of 50 yards.

Quiver Belt - A belt that allows Gorsky to access and load his bolts easier.

Homemade Arrows

Scrap Bolts - An eclectic collection of crossbow bolts composed of bone, steel, rebar, wood, glass and whatever detritus of the wastes Gorsky happens upon. Gorsky has approximately 20 scrap arrows with him and has the capacity to craft more easily.

Microfusion Bolts - A microfusion cell capped with a electrical fuse replaces the arrowhead of the crossbow bolt. Contact with the head of the bolt will release the full charge of the microfusion cell in one thermal blast. Depending on the internal charge of the cell, this can range from the power of a fiddly firework to a bastardised plasma grenade. At the start of the journey, Gorsky has brought only 5 with him due to how time consuming it is to craft these arrows.

Trenchcoat - A furred long-coat tailored from rad-elk leather and partially fortified with laminated polymer weave plating. Comes with extra pockets for storing small objects.

Portable Repair Kit - An old Vault-Tec Lunchbox that contains all the necessities of post-apocalyptic DIY repair such as WonderGlue, Duct-Tape, wrenches, a soldering iron, screwdrivers and all the tools needed to fix up anything you need.

Lockpicking Kit - A leather wallet containing bobby pins, staplers, tension wrenches, screwdrivers and enough picks to crack open any safe with the exception of Fort Knox. If it's still standing.

Collection of Poisons - A satchel containing three 500 ml ampules, each containing man-made poisons known as Bleak Venom, Mother Darkness and Sliver Sting. Bleak Venom acts as a lethal cardiotoxin, Mother Darkness is a potent neurotoxin and Sliver Sting is known to be an easily acquired cytotoxin. Gorsky most often dips his arrows in poison whilst hunting for food.

Talon Knife - A one-edged five inch curved ivory knife carved from the bone of a deathclaw talon. It's sharper than it looks.

Dog Whistle - A high pitched dog whistle that transmits a specific frequency only a mutated giant cockroach would hear.

_{M I S C E L L A N E O U S G E A R}

- Rolled Up Sleeping Bag
- Electric Lighter
- Box of Spare Electronic and Mechanical Parts
- Satchel of 100 Caps
- Brahmin Leather Waterskin
- Container of Coyote Tobacco Cigars
- Frying Pan
- Compass
- Packet of Kindling
- Army Brand Ushanka
- Tribal Dreamcatcher Necklace
- Pet Brush for Chaff
- Journal and Charcoal Pen
- Fishing Rod, Line, Hook and Sinker

_{S K I L L S.}

// SURVIVAL (CORE) - Having been raised in the harsh wildernesses of Montana and ran solo scavenging operations for nearly most of his life, Gorsky knows virtually every survival trick in and out of the book to prevent your ass from being gnawed off by a mole rat. Crafting poison, making poisons, identifying plants that don't poison you; Gorsky is a natural outdoorsghoul. Also, it doesn't hurt to know how to make a good bloatmfly brisket every once in a while.

// REPAIR (GOOD) - " Duct Tape and Wonder Glue. Two things everyone needs in life."

// SCIENCE (GOOD) - " My scientific methodology? Throw it at the wall and see if it sticks. Try to relate it to physics, biology, chemistry, astrology.....wait, scratch that last one. "

// BARTER (AVERAGE) - " 1500 caps? How about we lower it down to 500 caps if I buy a bottle of Sarsparilla for you?"

// GUNS (AVERAGE) - " N99. 10mm semi-automatic. 12 round magazine. You can do a nice little magic trick with it. Point the barrel at someone and you can make a dead person."

// LOCKPICKING (AVERAGE) - " A safe is just a birthday gift wrapped in deadbolts, cams and mortises."

_{H I S T O R Y}

2385, August 5th

Thought I might start writing down stuff, in case I forget. Doc I met in Vault City said that ghouls don't have eidetic memory. That common symptoms were dementia, amnesia, a Sugar Bombs box of mental illnesses. Might be good to have things written down in case somebody finds my grave. Can't rely on Chaff to tell my story anyway. Doubt anyone can speak Radroach.

I was born in the Rockies 120 years ago, somewhere north of the Great Salt Lake and westwards of NCR territory. Everyone called it the Big Sky. It used to be part of the pre-war Northern Commonwealth before the last war happened. Luckily, the surrounding mountain ranges allowed us to escape the worst of the bombs. Some of the elders had stories around what happened that time, when the Black Rain poured down from the clouds and flooded the valleys, when the Wendigos came from the forests to feast on us, when the six moon snow silenced the sunlight. It's been....40 years since I last visited there. All I know about them is through word of the monthly supply caravans that go there. They're still doing good. Best as you can out here in the wastes.

I grew up in a tribal village where blood didn't matter and everyone shared everything. The origins of our founding are spotty but our archive keepers agreed that some group of outcasts from the eastern continents moved into the USA and hid in the mountains during the Pre-War. My father worked in the coal mines while my mother worked as a hunter. Me and the rest of my five siblings simply survived. I learned what plants I could eat, how to skin a giant rat, how to fish for mirelurk pups and making fire from sticks and stones. Anyway, Big Sky was boring. In the sense that our neighbors were unfriendly, the air was cold enough to freeze your balls off and there were bobcats in every bush you wanted to take a dump in.

That was until the first caravan came. I was at the ripe old age of 18. Old enough to be independent yet young enough to be stupid and dumb. I made a promise to myself then that I wouldn't die languishing in Big Sky. I wanted to explore. I wanted to live. In the morning, I left a note on the table for my parents and sneaked onto a supply caravan that was headed California by bribing one of the guards, with nothing more than a bindle and a crossbow on my back. One of the head merchants found me in the back gnawing on their tato crops but I soon silenced their complaints about extra weight by rustling up a few gecko steaks for them when we hit the border of Klamath.

I was dropped off at the Hub. The Hub. One of the Five Great Territories of the NCR. I got my first job in a 'prospector crew' there. Some people saw it as dirty but it was the dream for some tribal out lander like me. Exploring pre-war ruins. Cracking open safes. Unearthing treasures? It was more than I could ask for. Life was good. Caps were flowing in. I grew older. Fell in love. Bought a house. Got married. Thought of retiring. Same story you hear nowadays from every citizen of the New California Republic. Back in Big Sky, retirement wasn't an option but here in California, it was a land of opportunity.

Then, it happened.

December 24th, 2299. Christmas. The dawn of the next Millennium. The day that I became a ghoul.

The old ruins were becoming sparse now. The NCR was grabbing onto every territory it could and promising spots became blocked off by garrisons. The only choice was to go to more further and dangerous places.

I chose to do a job in New Mexico. Five man crew. Pre-war military site. Unlooted. Unscathed. Only problem was that there were enough rads to make a man grow extra arms. A nuclear warhead struck the coastline of the base and turned it into freak central. The facility we entered into was some kind of some old vehicle manufacturing factory. Tanks the size of freaking cottages. Wandered around for a little bit until we hit a vaulted door. Nothing I couldn't handle. A little bit of thermite and picking later, fell apart like cotton candy.

We went inside and hit the jackpot. Blueprints. Safes. Enough loot to make a man rich for lifetimes.

I only had five seconds to react before the bullet tore through my chest.

In hindsight, it made sense. Get rid of the extra weight and split the loot between themselves. My death could be written off as an accident since I was travelling into a high risk area. No one would try and bother to find my body too. The perfect plan.

Instead of putting me out of my misery, they stripped me of all my gear and left me to rot. While they looted the room. Last thing I remember before blacking out was the sound of my Geiger counter screeching, the burning pain in my chest and how my head pounded like a drum.

I woke up. Afraid, hungry, thirsty and alive. I was still inside the loot room. It’d been stripped bare to the walls. My voice sounded like I’d been gurgling stones for a lifetime, I had no nose and the hole in my chest was missing. I didn’t have time to come to terms that I’d become a ghoul. I was only concerned about finding a way out of this place.

That was when I was attacked by the biggest radroach the wastes had ever conceived. My Chaff. We got off to a rocky start but eventually, things settled between the both of us after I gave her a little bit of food from some expired MRE I found in a storage locker.

I crawled my way out of New Mexico and walked back to the Hub on foot. Me and Chaff fell a little bit off course every once in a while but we pulled ourselves back towards our goal. When I finally reached there, I was prepared for the worst. What would you do if your husband or wife suddenly became a ghoul? I opened the door, Chaff behind me, expecting to be screamed at and tossed out from the house.

Nothing, in fact. My wife told me to stop with the self-pity, move on with my life and that I was still the same old dumb tribal underneath that skin. To this day, I never did manage to find those guys who shot me and I never will. Revenge is fool’s gold. By now, they’re either old men waiting to die or two feet under already. Seems petty to hunt them down.

In spite of common sense, I returned to work as a prospector, albeit with caveats. I never took group contracts again and went solo. Well, semi-solo. Chaff doesn’t get a part of the profits. I continued to live and continued to work, looking for pieces of the old world to collect.

Time moves differently when you’re a ghoul. Wife died from a nasty bout of pancreatic cancer when I was 60. My two sons became water merchants when I was 85. I became a grandfather at the age of 100. My trips became further. I returned back to Montana for a bit and then, went back to the Hub. I……I can’t remember. It’s like an old reel movie in my head. A collection of moments. I can barely even remember her voice anymore.

There’s word spreading around the Hub right now. Rumours of a Vault in Cascadia. Untouched. Lack of NCR presence.

Perfect for prospecting.

_{P S Y C H E.}

Gorsky’s takes a sardonic yet professional approach to his work as a prospector, viewing the wastes as a land of opportunity rather than a land of desolation. His only concerns are the wellbeing of his own relatives, Chaff and his own collection of items. He distances himself from other people out of reflex and often uses acerbic jabs as his weapons to keep people away. However, those who earn Gorsky’s trust and loyalty earn themselves a friend. Gorsky also holds a relative dislike of government authorities and inefficencies, particularly the NCR, holding nothing but contempt towards their imperialistic policies which he sees as strangling the freedoms of the Wasteland.

That is not to say Gorsky is without his imperfections. Gorsky is a prospector and a scavenger at heart, willing to haggle and bargain for anything. He hold a streak of being greedy and the promise of treasure and old world tech will dissuade any moral qualms he may have about committing any act, albeit to a point. Good luck on trying to get him to commit murder. Gorsky believes in defending himself from danger and never attacking in response to danger.

_{D R I V E.}

Other than surviving, Gorsky’s main incentive for living the way he does is for the pathological thrill of adventure he gets whenever he happens upon an artifact of the Old World. He believes that the Óld World’ is the new gold and that it holds power and value over caps, money, armies and wealth.

However, the truth is more complicated than it seems. Gorsky also collects artifacts of the Old World, not out of the thrill, but out of fear for his deteriorating memory. He’s not sure how ghouls can stay sane for but he’s not willing to rot in safety and wait for his mind to disintegrate. Taking advantage of the long life span of ghouls, Gorsky continues to explore and search for nuggets of the Old World, hoping that he can stay ahead of memory loss one treasure at a time.

---

_{◄hissssssssss ►}

CHAFF

^{N/A | New Mexico | 60 cm / 30 pounds | Radroach}

Marvels of Mountain City

Archetype: Other

Name: Pizza, Pineapple Pizza

Alias: The Hawaiian Heathen

Age: Unknown

Alignment: Villain

Powers: Tell me. Have you ever eaten pineapple pizza? It's an unnatural eldritch paradox, isn't it? The disgusting yet tempting trap of sweet and salty. It is a law that was never meant to be broken. KFC has a sweet and sour sauce for their Mc-nuggets, not an sweet and salty sauce. Combining the elements of melted mozzarella, tomato sauce, yeast crust and tropical fruit in one 16 inch unholy sentient package, the Hawaaian Heathen's true power is not being able to speak in human languages or being mobile as an epileptic slug but the paradoxical demonic taste of his pizza flesh.

The first bite will have you think " Oh, that isn't bad". The second will send you in a state of shock, cursing yourself at your lack of hindsight. The third will give you a seizure, your mouth foaming as you overdose on the traitorous taste of pineapple pizza. The fourth excommunicates you from being a member of the human species.

The fifth sends you to pizza hell where you are forced to eat a mountain of pizza eternally, using only a knife and a fork.

Weaknesses: Cardboard pizza boxes, good pizza and leaving him out in the sun for too long.

Appearance:



Personality: Evil, Sweet, Salty, Machiavellian, Cheesy

Brief BIO: Was it a wizard? A genetic experiment? Some freak accident? The will of Satan or some deity? No ones knows but this pizza. The pizza's age is indeterminate. Some theories propose that it was born out of the first man putting pineapple on his pizza in Ancient Rome. One thing is for certain; this maniacal cuisine tyrant has been hell-bent on violating the norms of pizza consumption, one world-threatening plan at a time. During his time, the Hawaiaan Heathen has been banned from every major villain organization such as The Not-Good Guys and the Black Grey Nietzsche Abyss Followers. For now, he currently inhabits the mind of Papa John's, waiting, watching, planning for his time to reveal himself truly to the world and rid all those who don't eat pineapple pizza.

Potential Storylines:

- Joining forces with Deep Dish and Sushi Pizza against Neapolitan and New York Pizza.
- Taking over the world's pizza restaurants and becoming crime boss of underground pizza smuggling.
- Creating an offshore PPMC (Private Pizza Military Corporation) to destablize Italy's government.

Forsaken

“ ARCHIBALD!” A pimple-faced gnome looked up from the pan he was holding, ashen-faced as a kobold about the height of his shoulders barked at him. “ PAY ATTENTION TO YOUR CAVE SQUID! IF IT’S OVERCOOKED, I’LL MAKE YOUR SKIN INTO CRACKLING, IS THAT CLEAR?“

“Y-yes, Lak Lok, sir!,”he stammered out. Lak Lok strutted through the bowels of the busy kitchen, acting as if he was three times taller than he actually was. These amateurs had the gall to call themselves chefs. He scoffed at the thought. There was no vigor, no passion, no drive in any of their movements. Gold was their dream. The kobold signed in disappointment. 3 months and still there were no signs of Garrakg’s blessings as the year’s end approached.

Fall had come in all its glory to the Continent, its dry gales roaring in and replacing the fleeting remains of summer’s end. It was said that every season brought new hopes and challenges. For Lak Lok, it was mostly the latter that concerned him. Such as the horde of starving, hungry adventurers knocking on the front door of every eatery, tavern, inn and amateur market stall in Nowyre. Nowyre Crossroads was both the best and worst place that you could decide to build your business in, especially an inn. Located in the central mountain ranges, it was one of the central hubs for trade, travel and traveling to trade.

Right now, orders in the Burgundy Inn were piling up like a dragon’s horde. In the kitchen, a hot fog suffused the very air, thick with scents of gingerflower, roasted cuts of meat and bubbling stew. Plates of food came out and empty ones came back in a monotonous cycle. Lak Lok walked over towards a cauldron where a half-elf was pouring in slime soup stock over the roaring fires. Producing a wooden spoon from his belt, his face morphed into disgust as he tasted a sample.

“ Needs more mimic salt, Ollo. Stoke the fires too-”” The double doors to the busy kitchen swiveled open as a bony looking lizardfolk came into the room. A satchel swelling at the seams with letters was slung around his shoulders.

“ Excuse me, is there a Mister Lak Lok. There’s a letter for - “ The kobold jumped up and snatched it from his hands before ushering the courier out in a hurry. Cutting it open with one single stroke of his knife, he began to read through it whilst commenting on the cooking of every chef in the kitchen.

“ Let’s see what we have here….Is that smoke I smell from your hydra flanks, Donovan? “Hire someone of your abilities - too much honey on that candied apple, Vyx.....reward money to be split…..don’t add too much pickled bark on that salad…..upfront payment of 500 dollars…...”

Lak Lok stopped walking and then read that part aloud again.

“ 500 dollars?!”

---

The only positive thing that Lak Lok had to say about the Caraway inn was that he’d seen worse before. That was nothing to say about the food. He ordered the Sellsword’s Sunrise and received a platter of mediocrity. He was very nearly tempted to execute the chef for his heretical cooking. The raven eggs were sub-par, watery yolks combining with half-boiled whites to make a disaster. The cold cut owlbear was stringy and the stale mulberry gravy hadn’t complimented the harsh, gamey taste that the species was known for. The toast was better left unmentioned.

At least the aardvark cheese was good.

After eating what could possibly be called breakfast in Garrakg’s eye and washing it down with cold acorn coffee, he followed the instructions of the letter, walking down the hallways and aisles of the inn and checking every number.

“ 287…..295…..300…Oof!”

In the midst of his searching, he hadn’t managed to notice the giant goliath blocking the doorway. He stood back up, patting off the dust, before shoving himself through the open space between the goliath’s legs.

“ Garrakg save my strength today….” he grumbled. Looking around the room, the current occupants consisted of an otter, a Genasi and some hooded human.

“ If any one of you is this….” He paused. “ ...A.G, make sure that you choose an establishment with better food next time. This piddle is not fit for a cleric of Garrakg.”

Fallout: Cascadia

War. War never changes.

By the time our tale begins, the story of the Courier has become one of legend and far-off memory. The energy provided by the Hoover Dam and the great Colorado River has allowed the New California Republic's growth to continue uninhibited. This growth has pushed the NCR's expansionist and imperialistic efforts ever onward. The Republic continued to expand sharpening itself on its rivals. What it could not devour it obliterated. What it could not obliterate, it simply outlived. For a time, the NCR was simply unchallengeable.

The premise of this roleplay is simple; you are a contract hire for the Happy Trails Caravan Company heading north towards the region known as Cascadia. Taking up the majority of the Seattle metropolitan area, Cascadia is a region under the control of the aptly named Cascadian Federation. The Federation in many ways is a strange mirror to the NCR and fittingly the two have grown weary of one another as they compete for control of the surrounding Washinton Wasteland. Your story will run tangential and collide sometimes directly with these tensions as both the NCR and the CF and the many subfactions within them will try and use you for their gain, though ultimately the narrative of the war is not the primary focus of this tale. Instead, the focus is the hunt for a lost Vault-Tec Vault, which if the rumors are true is said to be the primary reason that Cascadia is all green and brown in contrast to the rest of post-apocalyptic America.

It started with some sensational rumors coming from caravaneers heading south to the Hub via San Francisco. These wide-eyed traders spoke of a land of green and brown to the North of the Republic's boundaries. A place where no person would ever go hungry. Intrigued, the NCR sent an expeditionary force north past Klamath and Arroyo. Much to their surprise, the trader's tall tales turned out to be not so tall after all. Unleashed viruses and irradiation have done strange things to the flora and fauna in the wastelands of Washington and northern Oregon. Under the shadow of the branches of this prehistoric forest, a new society pulled itself up from the ashes of the fallen world, and that society had a flag of its own - the proud Fir of the Cascadian Federation.

Experience with the story Fallout New Vegas and the rest of the games is recommended, but not completely necessary as it takes place some one hundred and four years after the events of New Vegas in the far off year of 2385. In this way, thematically instead of post-apocalyptic, Cascadia is closer to post-post-apocalyptic in tone.

So rather than a massive wide-open sandbox experience as was its predecessor, I instead want to create a more character and story-driven game, the kind of game I find myself drifting more and more towards throughout my roleplay career.

Welcome to Fallout: Cascadia, a roleplay run by your friendly neighborhood Hexaflexagon.

YEEESSSSS, LET'S GO BOOOOIIIISSSS