Fallout 3: Commission I had done at New York Comic Con 2012 of someoneās character from Fallout!
I may open up advanced commissions for people attending Anime Next 2013 - so if you are interested in commissioning me keep an eye out! Iāll make an official post later on in the week.
(I guess I wrote this drabble as a little justification for the minor time-skip I will be using (no silly 'where is my apartment, waaah' stuff) and why six is not using the bb gun that the scientists gave him, but an actual gun!)
As he was wont to do, Six had spent his time here poking around the local watering holes, getting a feel for the Sector. After buying quite a few rounds for everyone in several bars, he'd quickly learned that the local law enforcement was useless, and the recently beheaded subject-led militia--a group that called itself the Public Safety Bureau, or some other silly name like that--was little better. Six was confident he could go as he pleased, and do as he wished, with minimal fuss on the part of the locals. All the man needed now was a piece and he'd be set for the moment.
Problem was, he didn't have the dough to buy a gun, even from the shifty-eyed kids toting shitty homemade guns in the sector's roughest neighborhood. The most he had was the half-dozen shivs he'd made himself--the BB gun had been tossed into the trash as soon as Six had discovered exactly how much it was worth in any situation. A knife--even if it was made of duct tape and glass--was better than a fucking kid's toy.
The mercenary tucked his hands into his pockets and sighed. This place was far too cool for his tastes. Too loud. Too populated. It wasn't lacking for water or food, but... it was just too... different. And yet, it was the same. People, buildings, the whole nine yards. It was just strange to not see armed guards loitering every few meters, or beggars lying in the gutters.
A breeze blew down through the alleyway, and he was glad for his trenchcoat, and the suit of armor beneath it. He was shaken out of his morose thoughts as he felt a twist in his gut. He spotted movement at the edge of his vision--but before he could move, he felt someone move up behind him and press a cold ring of steel against the back of his head.
"Don't you fucking move." A gruff male voice grunted into his ear, dripping with malice and contempt. "You're a dumb fuck, you know that? You think you can just mosey into my alleyway?" He paused, but started up again before Six could get a jab in. "Guess again, asswipe. There's a toll, you know, and I don't take kindly to freeloaders just moseying in and using my alley without my say-so."
"I don't have any money, pal." His allowance for food had been spent up boozing the locals up, to make them more amiable to Six's questions. His reasoning was that he could mooch off his roommates for the time being. "Just lemme pass. I don't want any trouble."
"Hah! You're a regular fucking comedian, you know that? I wonder how funny you'd be if you had another asshole in the back of your head?" The mugger emphasized this by digging the barrel harder into his flesh.
"I don't want to hurt you." Six really wanted to hurt him.
"Who's the one with the gun here?" Now the man sounded almost amused, totally confident in his advantage in the situation.
The Courier felt the shiv--the one he'd made hours ago upon finding himself unarmed, out of a roll of duct tape he'd found outside a store and a shard of metal torn from an abandoned truck--stored within his sleeve. Thank God for hidden pockets, he thought. It would only take a flick of the wrist, and Six would be ready to tear this dumbass a new one.
"I'm not fucking around, wise guy. Gimme your wallet, now!" The mugger pressed the barrel deeper into the back of Six's head. "If you don't.. I'll have to pick your brains off your dough."
"Well... here you go." When Six recognized his attacker's nonplussed silence for what it was, he burst into action. He stepped back, deliberately pushing his would-be mugger backwards. At the same time he ducked, letting the barrel of the snub-nosed revolver drag across his scalp. He moved so quickly that the thug didn't have time to react, to even pull the trigger.
Without a single conscious thought, the mercenary pressed his advantage, flicking his wrist and retrieving his shiv. While one arm knocked his hand aside, the other slammed down, striking the man in the crook of his shooting arm with the makeshift dagger. His foe screamed in pain, letting his revolver clatter to the ground as he tried to grab Six's blood-slicked hand. But he did not relent. He twisted the shiv where it was buried, drawing out another pained scream as the muscle was torn.
In a single move, he had most probably destroyed any chances of the man using that hand again. Tears streamed down the man's face, which was contorted into a rictus of pain and terror as he looked into Six's face.
"Please, oh God, it hurts, please..." Six wondered if the man knew what he was begging for. Mercy? The thought was laughable. It was obvious that his attacker was out of his mind with pain. He knew he'd hit the right spot, a very particular cluster of nerves that were, or so he read, rather sensitive. It was times like these that proved that Six's medical knowledge had far more benefits than simple altruistic aid.
"Sure thing." For a moment, the man's hysteria turned to something approaching hope, but his face darkened and twisted into a mask of pain as Six tore the shiv out. There was no scream from the mugger. Rather, the man inhaled sharply, as if his voice box had been torn out along with the inside of his elbow.
"Nighty-night." With that, Six brought the shiv up and slammed it into the mugger's neck, the rough blade sinking all the way up to the duct-tape handle. Blood issued freely from the wound, further lubricating the man's hand. With a sigh-like exhalation, the thug's eyes rolled back up into his head. He dropped like a stone, taking Six's shiv down with him.
Blood began to pool around the dead man's head, soaking his oily hair and seeping into the back of his shirt. It was then that Six recognized the wet spot on the man's jeans, the second acrid scent mingling among the wet iron of blood. The man had pissed himself in the last moments of his life. Six wanted to laugh. How pathetic.
The mercenary eyed the handle of his shiv, lodged deep into the man's neck. There was no way he'd be getting that back. Not that it really mattered--he could always make more of them, easy as pie. If anything, Six was glad that the makeshift weapon had done its work. After wiping his bloodied hand on the man's shirt, he turned to the thug's revolver, picking it up from its place on the ground.
With a 'hm' of curiosity, Six inspected the weapon. It was a compact five-shot revolver, chambered in the ubiquitous .38 round. It was a S&W Model 36--it seemed that even in other worlds, some things were the same. He recalled that this model, made by an American company, was perfect for self-defense and close quarters work, and was even favored by undercover or off-duty policemen.
When compared to the advanced energy weapons or precision-tooled anti-materiel rifles that Six had used on his adventurers, this piece was nothing special. if anything, this particular gun was eroded by time and human abuse. The mercenary was pleased that, past the cosmetic damage, the gun was in sterling condition: he wasn't taking it for its looks, after all.
After patting the newly-made corpse down for some cash, a switchblade and half a dozen loaded speedloaders, Six nodded to himself, satisfied with his 'earnings'. The revolver wasn't his carbine and the wad of small-denomination bills was not his multi-million cap fortune, but it was a start, and in a city like this, Six needed every edge he could get--or make for himself.
As he walked out into the empty streets of sector 3, he began to whistle cheerily. Six felt worlds better when he had a gun on his hip and sharpened steel up his sleeve. It was not a suit of power armor, but it brought a small sense of familiarity, of security, that restored his confidence--something he knew he'd need if he was to survive this thrice-damned 'social experiment'.
[ā¦. āthe two Jokers in the deck, Benny and the Courier, have those cards for more reasons than just being the Wild Cards. First, in Euchre, the Joker is called the āBennyā card. Second, the Joker cards in Tarot have significant meaning, one Joker meaning the Fool, the other the Magician.
The Fool, being the Courier, is the spirit in search of experience (although XP might be a better word for it), and represents mystical cleverness, not bound by normal reason, and possessing an ability to tune into the inner workings of the world, and is often represented by a wanderer walking aimless, often one foot hanging over a void, a step away from falling to his death.
Meanwhile, the Magician, being Benny, is a man who practices sleight of hand, trickery, and deception, a stage magician with the initial appearance of great power, but later revealed to have no ability of his own, and can also indicate a manipulator, a trickster, and the ego, as well as the pursuit of personal power, and is often associated with the first step in the Foolās Journey, as well as the potential for new adventureā¦ā ] -Ā http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Fridge/FalloutNewVegas
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