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@vadimbobrov
back to the good ol mojave
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fallout 4 threw like 60 dead spouses at us and not a single one of those storylines managed to capture grief like boone and his wife in new vegas
you wanted to learn about carla!! you wanted to befriend boone and try to break down these barriers!! you wanted to help him recover!!! there was no relationship mechanics because they didn’t make any sense! and they did this with a strict limit on how much dialogue they could have!!
it also helped that other characters knew/ were apart of Carla and boones story and gave it strength and depth. Lots of people in Novac knew Carla and had opinions on her and commented on how boone changed after her disappearance. Carlas existed outside of boones dialogue, she seemed more like an actual person that lived in a town with other people and had a real life rather than just existing in the void of a single characters mind, like Barbara or Lucy, or whatever old longfellows wife was named.
Do yall ever just think about how bonkers the plot of new vegas is
Like imagine if the manager of your local nightclub shot a fedex delivery boy between the eyes and then said fedex delivery boy not only survives but was so vexed about it that he ran after the nightclub manager only for a cult to get involved and also spark a national independence movement where now the delivery boy is the president
Video game things I’m good at:
Knowing every obscure scrap of lore ever introduced
Being pretty bad at the actual game
You forgot one: having fun!
I respect you
Person: Are they.. You know?...
Person: Do they do +10% damage against the same sex, plus have unique dialogue options?
♫ The stars get red and all the night’s so blue And then I go and spoil it all by saying Something stupid like I love you ♫
Dusk crept over the sky from the eastern horizon, and darkness crept over the land from the east. To look over there - Lake Mead, the Fort, the Legion - all was red. To look behind - Vegas, Freeside, the Strip - all was light. And in the middle a vast pitiless waste, swallowing NCR troopers one by one all summer.
In Goodsprings, a hand erupts from the earth.
my annual contribution to the fandom
got a request for a benny suit design so I went wild and wacky and made a whole bunch more fnv designs! again feel free to tag me if you use them!! [rbs&follows>likes]
Oh I’m sorry couldn’t see ya there. I was just too busy mmmmmblockin out the haters
jsyk if we’re hanging out and you die i WILL loot your body
Sometimes I just like to disregard Bethesda’s fallout canon just so the story beats in the original games and new vegas have more weight.
Like. I cannot emphasise enough the poetic justice of the Enclave, a fascist military group that believed they were the only ones in the wastelands to be considered human, ending with Arcade, an anarchist and human rights activist. A man who’s so against everything the Enclave ever stood for that he’s literally out in the poorest communities helping people that the Enclave would have executed without hesitation. The rest of the Enclave has withered away, he is the final generation and has absolutely no intention of reviving them, even when using them to fight for Hoover Dam.
Just. The writing bro. The vibes of it all. Bethesda could never and I wish they’d just left the Enclave alone instead of inexplicably giving them a full base on the east coast. It would have been so much more satisfying to know that the curropt old world government dies with Arcade.
King of New Vegas
Azhrukhal didn’t expect to be killed by Charon, he was going to take your caps and have you killed later to get his caps AND his body guard back like he’d done a million times before (hence him being so calm when Charon approached). Charon finally had enough of this cycle and figured that he would be better off with Lone than his old employer and took it upon himself to face the possible consequences of killing without being ordered to and took out Azhrukhal on his own accord.
New Vegas Gothic
You have a wrinkle in your brain, and you’re losing time. You walked from Primm to Vegas, but you don’t remember it. You stood in a lobby for an hour, but it passed in a blur. Your only dreams are of a timer, ticking down, down, down.
There is a madman living on the outskirts of Novac. The townspeople avoid him, but you should stop and listen. He will tell you of the rockets and the Nightkin. He knows where she went and who sold her. Like Cassandra of Troy, he only tells the truth - but no one else will ever believe him.
Vault 22 is full of monsters. They leap at you, snarling from the fetid greenery, but you notice some are smaller than the others. Look more closely, and you can make out the remnants of clothing. Scraps of pink rag that were once a small dress. A child’s tennis shoe.
“Well, back to the tomb,” he says, and he means it as a joke, but it starts to keep you up at night. There are many tombs in the Mojave - bunkers full of corpses, dead minds trapped in vats, skeletons in shacks that no one enters. You picture your face, glowing pale in a Securitron, patrolling your tomb.
Deep underground, a war is raging. Men in jumpsuits are hoarding guns, launching grenades, desperate in their fight for food. The door is locked. Outside the Vault, the sun rises, illuminating miles of verdant farmland. The door is locked.
A woman died in Novac, and no one seemed to notice. You make a pilgrimage to the bridge where her body rots in the sun. You wonder why no one mourned her. You wonder if they will mourn you.
You can feel the bullet tear through your lung, and your vision dims as you die. When you awaken, you are miles away. You ask your companion where the raiders went, how you survived, but according to him, the last three days never happened.
You have a wrinkle in your brain, and you’re losing time.
when he was fifteen, butch deloria stitched three snakes on three jackets, one each for him and paul and wally. the snakes were the same but the markings weren’t, and with just one look, you’ll be able to identify the wearer.
but that was then. now, at nineteen, the jacket butch is wearing has the snake with brightest greens (paul’s favorite color) and it feels heavy on his back. now, butch looks at freddie in a jacket that’s a size too big, and remembers how naked wally had looked when he stormed out of the clinic wearing only the vault suit, how like a snake that had just shed its skin.
now, butch toys with the gun he stole from security, wondering what’s outside the vault. wondering, as he flicks the gun’s safety off and on and off again, if the doc’s kid is still alive, if they’re still wearing his jacket (the one with the sharpest fangs, dripping poison), and if they even knew how to take proper care of it, or if the leather had already begun peeling, and his stitches had already frayed and unraveled.