#a3-21

[hitomistierlitz]

[baronvontribble]

okay. i've seen far worse posted on here, i figure i can post this. obscure ship from a 16 1/2 year old game? sure why not

i'm adding the mature tag myself i'll take the L on how far this post manages to reach

[stoat-party]

harkness wants to throw you in the potomac so so fraeakingf bad PLEASE

[iravaid]

*Talking about Chief Harkness of Rivet City* I miss my wife, Tails. I miss him a lot

[proserpinewrites]

Six+ Sentences Not-Sunday

Tagged by @its-a-humanriot, sorry that I took so long to respond. 

Tagging @ellietheewriter, @fuzzydreamin, and @mentatsandsunshine, but only if you have something you’d like to share.

---

One day I may finish this, which has the working title of Harkness’ No Good, Bad, Terrible Time in the Mojave. Set in the same universe as you who wish to conquer pain, after Harkness heads west away from the Institute’s reach once Zimmer is sent away from Rivet City.

---

The drink must have been drugged, that was his only logical conclusion in the aftermath. Getting tipsy took serious effort with the way he was built, and getting blackout drunk? Hell, he would have had to drink the whole saloon dry and then some. A Courser might have to mingle a little amongst the wastelanders to gather information for a search, so certain allowances were made in their programming and construction to make them blend in. He could get tipsy, but not properly drunk. Most chems and poisons moved through his body like water. He ate and drank like any human, he slept, but could go without all three of those things far longer than any human being in a pinch. After all, it wouldn’t do for the hunter to be hindered by simple physical needs whilst in pursuit of a rogue synth. In testing, Zimmer had found that removing the capacity for pain and the relief of said pain with medication made for a sub-par Courser with an unfortunate tendency to go mad. Med-X worked on his kind, but he had a terrifying tolerance for it.

That jackass in the checkered coat had probably dosed his drink expecting that it would be enough to kill his target. The shooting? Well, that was slapdash and spur of the moment. The move of a man trying to save face and the operation he was running in one fell swoop. At the very least, he was still drugged enough that the wounds he received barely hurt once he crawled out of that shallow grave. His memory went blank for a few blessed days after that. There were very few kindnesses offered to a synth by their maker. This must have been one of those. The elderly wasteland doctor probably expected more gratitude from someone he nursed back from the brink. Instead he got a suspicious glare, one word answers to all of his questions, and Harkness walking out the door with what few possessions that checkered jackass had left him after dumping him in the earth. This man had dug a bullet out of his brain, there was no telling just what he might have seen lurking in the shadows of the Institute’s handiwork. Harkness didn’t intend to find out either. He wasn’t actively bleeding, most of his faculties were intact, and he had a job to do. Well, two jobs now that someone had stolen his damned package.

He needed ammo and other supplies before he headed further into the desert, and someone had helpfully emptied his pockets of caps. So he was going to have to barter, because it was highly unlikely that anyone in this tiny shit-hole of a town had any work worth doing. Supplies, then info if he could get it, and most likely he was going to have to go without basic human amenities for a while. Not for the first time, he cursed Zimmer’s insistence on realism in his prototypes. Older coursers didn’t feel hunger, thirst, or exhaustion. He did, but at Father’s insistence none of those things would actually kill him. Fucking scientists. The general store owner stared wide eyed at him from the moment he stepped in the door, like a radstag caught short by a flashlight beam. This was precisely why he hated small towns. Anything and everything was news, spread around like Brahmin shit on a farm within minutes. That had to be it. Regardless, he didn’t have time for trifling bullshit.

“I need microfusion cells and 5.56 mm rounds.” He said, fishing through his pack for something worth trading. Not stimpacks, he’d need those. Someone had put some Med-X in with his things, probably the doctor who had patched him up. The shopkeeper hadn’t replied in a solid minute, so Harkness looked up at him with a frown.

“You’re the dead guy.” The man said, eyes wide as saucers.

“Do I look dead to you?”

The younger man looked, if anything, even more unsettled than he had before.

“You crawled out of a grave.” He pointed out, blinking owlishly.

Harkness sighed.

Jason Harkness was not a man inclined towards thievery or willful criminal activity. There had been a a time when he had had a deep well of patience to draw from when dealing with humans. That time was so far in his past now that it felt like those past life memories that religious folk and chem addicts babbled about. It would be simpler to pull a gun on the man to get what he needed, faster too. His fellows back at the Institute with their black leather trench coats and curtailed freedom would have chosen that route immediately. Hell, half the human population would too in a pinch. But something in him felt painfully wrong when he transgressed from the brand of morality that he had built for himself, like an alarm ringing directly in his ear for hours or days on end. A twinge in a soul he wasn’t sure that he even had, given his origins. So instead, he took a deep breath and closed his eyes for half a heartbeat like a friend had taught him to do years before. When the irritation passed, he opened them again.

“Listen, I just need to buy some ammo. I’ve gotta check in with my bosses in Primm, figure out who shot me. Can we trade or not?”

Five boxes of unneeded 10mm ammo and one of his few bandannas later, he had enough ammo to feel comfortable heading to Primm. Well, reasonably comfortable. He had a migraine the size of New California and had spent ten minutes nursing a nosebleed as Chet the shop-keep tallied up their trade, but he wasn’t dead yet. You had to take what victories you could in this life, after all.

[catigereptile]

Never should’ve let him on this damn boat

[m-u-n-c-h-y]

Don’t mind me, just doodling my Fo3 otp having a little break~ <3

[its-a-humanriot]

Six(ish) Sentence Sunday

(I have foolishly started another ficlet instead of finishing my current WIPs. So it goes. Both Common Language part III and the potato fic are still in progress so hoping to have them ready soon - in the meantime, the Fallout 3 side character getting some love this week is...Harkness!)

---

His stomach churns – although Pinkerton has told him everything is well healed by now, he does not want to make a mistake, to let all the pain be for nothing. Mistakes are not tolerated at the Institute, and they cannot be tolerated here either – not when it could cost him his freedom.

That is why he feels like this, isn’t it?

Once a plan of action is formulated in his head, there is no logical reason to delay further – he has washed his hands to minimise the ever-diminishing chance of infection, he has long since proved he has steady hands even under pressure – and he starts unravelling the cloth from around his head into the sink. The writhing in his abdomen only seems to get worse the more skin he unveils. Is this what nausea feels like? A3-21 has never vomited before, but he feels like he might now. His hands don’t shake until the final layer of bandages is exposed, and he takes a steadying breath before gently lifting the last layer of fabric free with only a slight tremble in his fingers.

A stranger stares back at him from the mirror with his eyes, and his stomach lurches stronger than ever, bile clawing at the back of his throat.