So, welcome, one and all, to my first Fallout 3 "Let's Play!"
Here's how this is going to work. Your job is to tell me how to play, and my job is to do what you say. Posts will be daily, posts will be random, and-- I hope-- posts will be fun!
Oh, and one other rule: No deaths.
That's right, this is a permadeath run through Fallout. If I die, that's it. Game over. No respawn, no save-scumming, no do-over. If I fall off a cliff and break my face, that's it.
And now, the first entry!
Spoiler
August 17, 2077
Call me Ishmael.
Actually, know what? Don’t. Sure, it’s the name on my birth certificate, but so long as I’m doing this whole “Leave the Vault” thing, I might as well make some changes. Goodbye, Ishmael, hello…
Crap. What do I call myself?
I mean, I’ve thought about it before. Life in Vault 101 is… shall we say pedantic? Dull? No, those aren’t quite strong enough. No, Vault life is downright boring, and I’d know! When I talked Mr. Brotch into tampering with my GOAT test results, I thought that life as a Vault Loyalty inspector would be exciting! You know, find out who’s who, what the dirt is on everyone, maybe leverage it into some good deals for myself.
Nope. Turns out, the most exciting thing a vault loyalty inspector does is go down and help people get back into their locked apartments. I’m looking at you, Gomez. Really, you’re part of security; shouldn’t you have—Oh, I dunno, keys?
As a result of that, I’ve had a lot of time to think about what I’d want to be called, instead of Ishmael. Who has a name like that, anyway? Dad says that Mom always wanted it for me; after all, it’s a name of some old dude in the Bible.
Great. What’s the Bible, Dad? You’ve got that quote on the wall that you won’t shut up about; you’ve named me after some guy in the book that no-one’s ever read; and now you bloody well leave me hanging, facing the Overseer and his task-force of insane loyalists.
I’m rambling, aren’t I.
Eh, we’ll get to the name issue later on. For now, let me get to why I’m doing this at all. See, this morning was… well, insane. Dad’s gone, Jonas is dead, I just beat five my co-workers to a bloody pulp, and to top it all off, I’m going to have to leave the vault.
Eff my life.
So, what do you want to know about first?
__________________
Allons-y!
"Everything I see is total, unblemished reality...Except for the flying carrots. Those are probably fake." ~Trixie
Alrighty then *Cracks knuckles* Time to participate in my first let's play, and present all my suggestions like a little devil on the shoulder.
Spoiler
Well, right off the bat you should rename yourself to Garret Bobby Fergerson. That's the name of some important guy right? Was history your strong suit? Doesn't sound like it.....
In any event, who can you actually trust and reliably call a "friend" at the moment? Those are important things to note since having backup is the difference between life and death. Finally, how badly do you want excitement and action? There are quite a few adventures to be had outside the vault. Speaking of which, get going! Run! Get out of the vault asap! Those bastards are gunning for you, so slip out before they can mob up on you!
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Spoiler
Previous Avatars
All Spoiler Images made by SmuchSmuch and Emperor Ing and Kasanip
This is an image of Wookietank the Destroyer of Fortresses engraved in sandstone. Wookietank the Destroyer of Fortresses is leaving Trotknives. Trotknives is on fire and full of goblins. This image refers to the destruction of Trotknives in late winter of 109 by Wookietank the Destroyer of Fortresses.
So, it turns out that two hours of play gives a lot of stuff about which I can write. This will probably be about three days of writing for every day's worth of play.
For the Goat, I talked Mr. Brotch into just letting me tag the skills. I then rearranged them on leaving the vault.
Hmm. Fergerson… I like the sound of that. Garret Bobby seems a bit too long, though. It won’t fit on any name-tag. First-last-name works, though.
Anyway, I suppose I should start at the beginning. After all, it’s tradition and all that. My story begins with a dream, rudely being interrupted by Amata. I love the girl—in a totally platonic way, of course—but she really needs to learn some things about personal space.
“Lemme sleep,” I groan, shaking off her hands. After all, turning keys is tiring work.
“No! You have to get up now!” Maybe it's the urgency in her voice or simply the fact that it's my birthday, but I get up. Yeah, you got that right. Worst day of my life, on my birthday. Ain’t life grand?
“Wha’s goin’ on?” Blearily, I rub the sleep from my eyes and stare at the hyperventilating girl in front of my bed.
“You have to get out of here now!” Oh yeah, why? “You’re father’s gone and my father’s gone mad!”
Okay, sleepiness gone.
She goes on to tell me that Dad, being the genius doctor that he is, left the vault. I’m sorry, but isn’t this Vault 101? You know, “No-one ever enters, no-one ever leaves?” It’s the second thing you learn in kindergarten, right after the fact that you should never eat the crackers. (Still good after 200 years? Yeah, those can’t be good for you.)
So, let’s say that Dad really did leave the vault, and didn’t, say, find a chill spot in maintenance to indulge in some Med-X. (Yeah, Dad, I know those empty syringes in the medical boxes weren’t always that way.) What does that have to do with me?
Right, Jonas dead. Why’d the overseer do that anyway? Did Jonas know about the Overseer’s secret stash? No, Amata says, he just had the guards beat him down for knowing my deadbeat dad. That’s all kinds of promising for me, now isn’t it?
She shoves a pistol in my hands and tells me that the only possible way for me to survive is to leave the vault through a secret tunnel in her daddy’s office. Um, yeah, Amata? Can we talk? You remember why we’re in the vault, right? Maybe it’s because the outside is a hellish nuclear wasteland? Those tend to be a bit hard on the skin; I’ll need a lot of lotion if I’m to keep my skin fresh.
Besides, are those alarms I hear? Yeah, the overseer’s on the broadcaster, telling everyone to stay in their room. Jonas was probably just out of his room. I should stay here where it’s safe. You know, and not get my skull beaten in.
Instead, good old daddy’s girl all but shoves me out of the door. I only just have time to grab my things before she runs ahead… and right past the security guard.
I’m beginning to suspect that she doesn’t like me.
Now, if I were a security guard, instead of a—sigh—loyalty inspector, I’d think to go after the girl running past me. After all, she’s just as much out of her room as I am, and it’ll score some brownie points with the boss to make sure that she’s safe. Nope, the much greater threat is the redhead poking his head out of his room.
This is apparently punishable by death, since he’s quick to pull out a police baton and chase me into my apartment. Kay, I’m in my room now, so bloody well leave me alone, already! Ow! Quit it!
Know what? Screw this. Stumbling back against the desk, I grab around for something—anything—with which to defend myself. My fingers close around the handle of my old baseball bat, and I bring it around in a resounding crunch against his temple.
It… feels kind of good, to tell the truth, so I do it again. And again. I don’t stop until I hit shoulder, and his head is a bloody pulp.
I stand over him, chest heaving, blood dripping off of my new best friend. I just killed a man. In self-defense, granted, but still. If I wasn’t in it before, I am now. There isn’t a place for me here, so I’ll just have to… Gah, I’m gonna have to do what Amata says. This can’t be a good sign for the world’s status.
My friend needs a name, though. I grab a pen and scrawl “Home Run” on the hickory stick, and sneak out of my room.
Sneaking is apparently not my forte, though, since even Butch can spot me. “You gotta help me!” he cries. The tears on his cheeks make them shine even more than his greasy hair. (On a side note, it’s generally a bad idea to assign the task of hairdresser to the man whose tastes in hair products tend towards Vaseline.) “The radroaches! They’re going to get my mom!”
Maybe it’s the security armor I grabbed that makes him think I’m willing to do this. “Ah, Butch. If only you knew what ‘irony’ meant.”
He’s desperate, I can tell. Part of me wants to just linger here a few minutes. Serve the jerk right if he loses his mom because he’s a coward. The other half of me is horrified at even having such a thought, and insisting that I am a horrible person. Maybe I am. I grin at Butch, letting him stew for a few more seconds before rushing off to his apartment. After all, I might be able to score some good loot from his room.
It’s a matter of seconds before I’m picking radroach meat off of my bat, and resisting the temptation to employ the bat on the simpering jerk. Sure, the blubbering fool gave me his jacket, but what do I want that for? It’s only a reminder of him; useful for burning in effigy, but not much else.
Sneaking proves unwise again as I come upon Officer Gomez. He’s slightly wiser, in that he sees the blood and guts slowly drying on Home Run and decides that fighting me would be a bad idea. He shoos me on my way and says to get out of the Vault.
I’m not the only guy with the idea to leave the Vault. Tom and his wife rush past me… and somehow don’t notice the nice pistols that the guards are holding. A hail of bullets cuts down the young couple, providing the perfect distraction for me to rush in and beat the guards. Oooh! Pistols and armor! Score!
Here’s where the events get a little mixed up. I’m sneaking my way down the hallway, and look into the security station in passing. The security chief has Amata, and the overseer is working on her in the Good guard, Bad guard routine. Go get ‘em, Amata. Don’t tell them anything.
Except… the door is open. And officer Mack is looking at me.
For once, I’m only too glad to help Home Run on his burgeoning career as a murder implement. Mack’s a jerk.
Amata flees, leaving me to deal with her dad. You know, Amata, you said that you were leaving to see if you couldn’t talk some sense into your dad. Ace work there, girl. Wanna come back and give it a second shot?
The overseer demands that I hand over my weapons and give myself up. Yeah… bloodspattered armor, weapon dangling bits of skin… This can only end well. Telling him to get bent, I leave. Onwards, to the outside!
The guards have locked the door, and so I need to get a bit tricky. Like Amata said, the terminal in his office leads to a secret passage. Great going, Overseer. Noone will ever guess that ‘Amata’ is your super-secret password. Really? Clingy much?
His desk hisses up on pillars, and the floor draws back into itself. My feet clank on the metal stairs as I run down, bopping the electric panel that quietly shuts the desk behind me.
A few radroaches later, I'm there. The great metal gear of a door stands waiting in its frame. For a second, all I can do is stare at it in horror. Once I leave… there’s no going back. Or if I do come back, it will be heavily armed, with the intent to cleanse the overseer’s moronic policies.
With that somewhat heartening thought in mind, I mash the control panel. The door shrieks, and pulls back into the vault before rolling aside. Man, how did I sleep through this when Dad left?
“My god… you actually did it!” I turn with a manly yelp of controlled alarm. If Amata ever tells you that I shrieked like a girl, don’t believe her.
Yeah, you bet I did. I can do whatever I want. Yet… those skeletons outside the doorway, clutching signs… they aren’t the most promising sign of survivability. I grin nervously at Amata, and hook a thumb at the door. “Wanna come with?”
Whaddya mean, your place is here? If I hadn’t run in and beat Mack to a deservedly bloody pulp, you’d be under the hot-light right now!
You’re sure? Oops, time to go! So nice to see you, Officers Wolfe and Wilkins! I have a friend I’ll bet you’re dying to meet…
Two beatings later and two suits of armor heavier, I stand in the gear-shaped door of the Vault. Ahead of me, almost lost in a mist of light, I can see a small gateway. I stride boldly forth, not cringing at all as my feet rattle and crunch through the pile of bones at the vault entryway. It’s a narrow tunnel, but for someone who was born and raised in a Vault, that’s really not a problem. I turn at the narrow grate that separates me from the rest of the world, looking back as the giant gear rumbles back into place. For better or worse, I’m stuck out here.
Welp, Ferguson, better get going. With a push, I’m out.
Good luck, me. I’m gonna need it.
Before leaving the vault, I changed the stats to better survive the wasteland.
Now, I've got two hours of gameplay to type up. I'll try to get it all done by tomorrow, and then we'll get to the Tell-Ferguson-where-to-go.
Mods being used:
Spoiler
Little Macintosh: Custom .44 revolver
Zebra Carbine: Custom scoped, silenced assault rifle. I have a gun that shoots fire!
Project Reality: Yay! Nights are darker, and I get rained on!
Enclave Radio Enhanced: More patriotic! More songs!
On the Road Radio: A selection of oldish songs
X-1 Tales of Wonder: 30s sci-fi radio programs!
Thank you for your interest, everyone! I'll do my best not to disappoint!
__________________
Allons-y!
"Everything I see is total, unblemished reality...Except for the flying carrots. Those are probably fake." ~Trixie
For a moment, all I can think is that the stories were true, and that there’s nothing out here. Are the bombs still going off? Is that why I feel this heat and can’t see…
Oh.
As my eyes slowly adjust, and I get over my feeling like a fool, I take a look around. Makes sense, right? Get the lay of the land, figure out where to go first.
The land is… grey. That’s the first impression that it gives. Rocks litter the landscape in between shattered and broken houses. I hop down the rocks leading up to Vault 101, landing lightly on what looks like a rocky path. One direction seems as good as the other, so I trundle off to the left. A puddle formed in a crack in the road makes me cringe; is all water out here so dirty and brown? It tastes brackish and stale as I take a sip; completely different from the clear, clean, if admittedly just as stale water of the Vault.
I pause as something wafts to me over the hot breeze. Is that… Tuba? Hiding behind the corner of a house, I watch as a small sphere floats by, blasting music, heavy on brass and marching drums. For all the world, the impression that comes to me is that someone stuck a balloon in a radroach and then puffed it up till it was a floating sphere.
It doesn’t seem to be hostile, or even to notice me, so I leave it alone. As I walk alone, I’m not sure whether to be horrified or awestruck by the devastation around me. I can see what looks like some form of bridge off to my right, but where would such a bridge go? It’s just there, raising up on pylons, a great mass of collapsing concrete. Sections have fallen off, crashing to the ground beneath.
So absorbed am I in my study of the broken bridge that I all but run into a sign planted by the side of the road. The letters are crudely scrawled on a sheet of wood, with an arrow pointing to the right. Megaton… I wonder what that is?
Obediently, I follow the arrow up the hill, kicking aside tin cans and pebbles. Green lights dance in my vision as my Pipboy kicks into gear. I poke my head out over a rock and pick at the switch that activates the targeting program in the same. Far in the distance, I can see a small clump of figures. I guess that my pip-boy might be able to take the hulking man with a gun and compare it with other images to come up with ‘Mercenary guard,’ but how the heck did it know that the other guy is named Crow? How can it see a robot and come back with the name ‘Deputy Weld?’
I drop the targeting program and cautiously come around the rock. Heartened by the lack of bullets in my immediate vicinity, I stand and approach them. Crow, the merchant, smiles at me, and indicates the armor I’m hauling around. Apparently, he’s a trader of some sort, but he’s got to be full of it; he only wants bottle caps, and says he’ll give me seventy caps for what I’m carrying. Bull, says I! What do you need with bottle caps? You can’t use them to feed yourself or make explosives, out of them, right? Why bother with caps?
Ugh. Fine, I’ll take your stupid caps.
As I walk up to the robot, it squawks, “Welcome to Megaton. The bomb is perfectly safe, we promise.”
Hold up. Bomb? Excuse me? A prop above the entryway spins into motion, drawing back two huge protective sheets over the gateway.
Yeah, no. We’re not going anywhere near a bomb. Turning right around, I march past the surprised Crow and around the tin-plated city. No stupid bomb’s going to get me, I can tell you that right now!
Once more, I pull out my pistol and begin to slowly move through the dusty wastes. My stealth pays off for once as I see… I have no idea what I’m seeing. It looks like a hairless dog with an elephant’s nose.
Big question is, can I kill it? I grin, sighting down the end of my pistol until it lines up with the hairless thing’s head. BLAM!
With a squeak of pain, the thing falls down, and I rush forward to see what the heck it is that I just killed. Only problem is that I can still hear the snuffling the thing was making before. Is it alive? Oh, wait, there’s a second one! This one must be a friend of the other guy, because he is definitely mad at me. Backpedaling, I blast away at the second rat-thing until it too falls dead.
I crouch, hoping to be able to skin the beasties, yet for some reason the little [HIDDEN] image isn’t popping up in my vision. Instead, there’s a flashing [DANGER] sign. No rats around, nothing red in my vision…
I hear the dogs at the same time that one latches onto my ankle. My legs burn as I spin, swearing wildly. There’s got to be seven of them, all barking and all mad. I’ve got no idea how I missed them, but here they are!
Once more, I resort to that most traditional of wartime activities: running away while firing wildly. My pistol stutters and barks, drumming a staccato rhythm of bullets into the skulls and torsos of the dogs chasing me.
Here’s a word to the wise: when running backwards, always make sure that you know what’s behind you. Too quickly, I find myself with my back to a large rock. BLAM! BLAM! Reload! BLAM!
The last dog turns to run, and I snarl at it. Nope, you came at me, you get to fight to the end! VATS guides a bullet into its scrawny rump, and it drops with a whimper.
Ow… I pull a needle from my pockets and jab my leg, feeling the stimpak working its magic. Now what? Would that stingy trader want some dog meat? I grab a leg from each dog, and haul it back around the corner to the Brahmin.
Oh, and by the way, Crow, thanks for your help. You’ve got a gun, your guard has a gun, bullets are flying… Help would have been nice! No, I suppose that a bit of human kindness is too much to ask from a merchant. Bloody pirates.
I shove the meat in his direction, saving some for myself. I’ll be honest, I didn’t expect to see the day when I’d willingly shoot a dog and eat it within seconds of each other. I’m also curious how the hell my pipboy knows not only what it is I’m shoving down but just how healthy it is.
Still in a bad mood, I shuffle past the dead animals. This has been the worst birthday ever. Growling incoherently, I wind up and punch a rock.
Pro tip: Rocks are hard.
Biting back both tears and a curse, I pause. That rock had… It had moved, just a bit. A small smile creeps onto my face as I prod it again. Yeah, this rock was nowhere near as heavy as it ought to be.
With a heave, the rock shifts just enough to reveal a small cavity with a box inside it. A long box, too; it’s got a strange looking scoped rifle in it, along with a spare clip of bullets. The rifle is in no condition to fire anything but dust, but I keep it anyway; it’s heavy, but it’s good to have a little telescope on hand.
So, Megaton is clearly a bad place to start. I really shouldn’t question how the Pipboy is able to figure out that the town is named Megaton, and where exactly it is, but I don’t want to be there. Let’s head… Let’s follow the river south. At least, I think that’s a river; can’t quite make it out on the display. There’s a little map marker down towards the bottom of the map labeled “Riverboat Landing.” Let’s go that way.
There will be more later tonight, after I finish my homework.
__________________
Allons-y!
"Everything I see is total, unblemished reality...Except for the flying carrots. Those are probably fake." ~Trixie
Okay, new policy: shoot first, shoot fast, shoot often. If it moves, shoot it. If it is still moving, shoot it again. Repeat as often and as forcefully as is necessary.
I need more guns. And ammo. Ammo is a good thing. Can never have enough ammo.
I’ll admit, today marks a change in the way I do something. Innocents who are hurt? You have one group of people to blame. Well, two.
***
Walking south along the river seems like it’s a good plan. Things are peaceful, and where the river isn’t too crowded with broken boats, I can almost pretend that I’m walking along in one of the holotapes of the world before the War. It soothes me, help me forget about the people I’ve killed and the little voice whispering that everything here wants to kill me right back.
As I listen to the burbling river, I see a nice stone bridge to my left. It’s a simple thing, arches and a railing, but pleasing to the eye even with chunks missing. Looking across it, I can see a building of some sort, with a statue on top. It’s only fifty feet, so I decide to investigate.
Only problem is that the bridge is covered with these weird-looking round things. I think it’s safe to say that if there’s something unusual in the Wasteland, it’s a good idea to either stay as far away as possible. I crouch, moving as close as I dare. There seems to be some kind of sensor built into the top.
I seem to have moved too close, because the nearest one starts to beep and flash red on top. I rush forward, jiggling at the sensor. I must have done something right, because the light stopped flashing. It was still a few seconds before I felt safe to put it in the sack.
I repeat the process four more times before something fouls up. As I pick up one disarmed doohickey, I hear a sudden beeping noise. Nothing seems to have happened; in fact, the next cylinder isn’t anywhere near me!
That’s when I notice that the pavement below me is blinking red. Oh, sh-
The best way to describe what happens next is to imagine, just for a second, that your leg has exploded. My world is white, and when I pick myself up, all I can think of is to wonder what’s happened to my ears.
I pick myself up, screaming as my leg collapses beneath me. It feels like someone shoved an ice pick up my leg, and swirled it around for good measure. I may not be a doctor, but I’m pretty sure that legs don’t bend like that.
Wasn’t quite as red as that before, either.
All the nice little dots were are, too! Oh, this is a nice day! I think I’ll just sit over here on this bench with all the lovely elephants.
***
When I come to, the elephants are gone. Pity; I’ve only ever seen them in books. Leg is still feeling like it’s been put through the blender, though. I sigh as the stimpak sends its wave of coolness drifting down my leg. I don’t know what’s in these things, or whether someday down the line I’m going to wake up with a busted leg that never properly set, but for now, it’ll do.
I shake it out a bit before setting out at a light jog. Not a twinge, not a problem.
The lights in my compass light up; they’re green for now, but I keep my pistol handy. I can’t get that lucky.
I turn up towards the lights, climbing the stairs. Checking the soft click on my pip-boy shows that a new location has been marked: “Anchorage memorial.”
Don’t ask how it knows. Don’t ask how come—if it knows what and where it is—it doesn’t just mark the locations for me and spare us all the trouble.
Don’t ask what those three men in bulky armor all want. Actually, that’s a very good question; they’re well armed, and none of them are looking particularly friendly right now.
“Well, now…” I instantly know that I’m not going to like this guy; his voice is smug, smarmy, and just beggng for a bullet. “If it isn’t the little saint from the vault.”
Wait, what? Do I know you?
“We’ve been looking for you. Someone’s put quite a price on your head.”
Wat.
I’m sorry, but what? I’ve been out of the vault for less that twenty-four hours! How the hell do I have a price on my head? How does anyone know me? I haven’t set foot in a town! I’ve only talked to one person! Who would put a…
Crow. He’s the only possibility. He’s going to die, I swear it. One day, when I’m rich and powerful… He’ll never see it coming.
Oh wait, the smarmy voice is back. “What? You think you can walk around the Wasteland doing the things that you do and there isn’t going to be someone who takes notice?”
Well, considering that I haven’t actually done anything but sell some goods at half their value… Kinda, yeah.
“Such a shame. I hear that you coulda been something useful…”
I suppose that talking is useless? The guy nods smugly. Well, if you’re gonna be like that…
Time slows to a crawl as my targeting program kicks in. Oh, it feels so satisfying… the first shot makes him wince—odd, for a shot to the face. The second yields better results; he clutches at his face as my pistol roars a second time. The third time, he just slumps to the floor, his head a bloody mess.
Bullets rip into my security armor, and more importantly, into me! I gasp, clutching at a suddenly gaping stomach, aiming through the pain. Automatic fire turns the air into a storm of lead, all aimed at me.
You know, it’s kind of worrying when one man, armed with a pistol that he’s never used before in his life is able to kill three men who have superior arms and armor.
I’m able to patch together a workable suit of armor from the three men’s things—one combat plate here, dodge the nice bit with a 10mm hole in it. The assault rifle takes its place on my back right next to Home Run, and we’re on our way south.
Things are calm until I hit a second bridge. Now, it’s an intact, or at least mostly intact bridge across the river. A section has come crashing down, making a small ramp up to the section that actually crosses the irradiated water.
Oh, did I mention that? Yeah, I felt kind of thirsty, so I went down and scooped some up. My pip-boy started making this unholy clicking noise, and when I checked, the little radiation needle was dancing, bit by bit from green into the red. Even the water wants to kill me.
Anyway, the water’s not alone. As I creep along, I see lights on the edge of my compass. VATS zooms in, showing… Well, he looks human. Of course, anything with this garish a taste in dress is only borderline human, at best. Leather a-la-spikes is really not classical wear. Then again, my metal-and-bloodstains motif isn’t much better.
Whoops, lights just turned red. It’s too far a shot to make with my pistol; I’ll need to get a bit closer.
No, don’t go behind the pillar! I need to shoot you! Dammit!
Ah, there you are. Really, if I’m going to keep using this pistol, I’ll need to find another marker. You need a name.
Turns out that pondering the names of weapons is unwise when there are hostiles around. A second… VATS calls them raiders popped out from around the corner, opening fire with a small revolver. My targeting program was still recharging, so guess what?
If you guessed firing wildly, you guessed right! Bullet for you, and a bullet for you, and a bullet for your nice friend! Ooh! Dangit, I’m supposed to shoot you!
It’s the work of a moment to strip them of their weapons and ammo. The small silver revolver uses an ammo I don’t recognize; it’s larger than the ones I use in… really need a name for that pistol.
Onward! South we go!
Let's name a pistol!
__________________
Allons-y!
"Everything I see is total, unblemished reality...Except for the flying carrots. Those are probably fake." ~Trixie
Were those Talon Company mercs you met? That's a surprisingly tough encounter for so early in the game
Anywho, the law of gun naming says you should give your favourite pistol a girl's name: Charlene, Vera, Winona, Mirabelle, Betsy etc. Don't ask me why, it's just how this thing works.
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Allergy advice: posts may contain traces of sarcasm
Hey, listen kid. If your going to be naming that little doohickey if yours, then it has to have a name that strikes fear into others. Bane, Cold Death, and Blackheart are all good names for your pistol. Now, the wastelands been nothing but crap to you, its tried to put down how better you are then all the others, and it's about time you register that. That smug jerk? Those two guys with him? Pretty decently armed, if not perfectly skilled. Think of what someone as talented as you could accomplish if you got a group backing you? Or better yet, if you controlled your own group? The wasteland does not breed nice little civilizations, so why not benefit from the clique's it does make? Go ahead, find more of those leather heads. Well, smarter ones who don't run face first into bullets, and show them that your the boss.
__________________
Spoiler
Previous Avatars
All Spoiler Images made by SmuchSmuch and Emperor Ing and Kasanip
There comes a time in every man’s life where he has to ask certain questions, like “Why am I down in this sewer?” or “What the hell are you?”
BLAM! Mirabelle roars, tearing a hole in the vicious creature lurching towards me. It’s vaguely man shaped, if you’re willing to overlook the fact that men usually have at least some form of skin.
With a final blast, the thing falls, its fetid smell assaulting me. I cringe, looting its… ugh, its loincloth for whatever might be there. Funny that I don’t have any problems blasting a thing in the head, yet don’t really want to touch it.
The sewer is surprisingly well lit for something that’s been abandoned for two hundred years. All I had to do was push aside a small grate; you’d think that someone would have come in and tried looting it.
Maybe the other guys are smarter than I am; the fact that I’m risking my life for a few caps and whatever I can grab certainly seems to support this theory. At least this rifle I found on the shelf seems to do alright at killing them.
Maybe not… As I crouch, peering down the lack-of-a-scope, VATS zooms in on two ‘feral ghouls.’ Those roamers are kinda scary, so I draw a bead on that one first. With luck, a surprise attack will allow me to get a better shot and kill it faster.
The rifle roars, and hits the ghoul in the head. I’d be pleased with this, if it hadn’t hit the wrong ghoul. The pip-boy labeled this as a hunting rifle—how was anyone supposed to hunt with a rifle that had no scope and a bullet that goes five feet off course over a hundred yards?
No time to think about that; I shoot the smaller ghoul once more to finish it off, and pull the assault rifle from my back. It shudders in my hand, shooting one burst after another into the ghoul’s head. Brrt-brrt-click…
Well, crap.
The ghoul ignores my desperate attempt to slow it down with an assault rifle to the face. Luckily, I still have ammo for Mirabelle—just enough to finish it off.
Yup. I’m finding you a marker.
***
Twayayannng…]
I look down at the small wire under my foot, and follow the broken end from the small pin over to the spot on the ceiling. A trio of small orbs tinkles to the cement floor, and I scramble back. Whatever this is, it can’t be good.
Good on me, by the way. My armor is peppered with small bits of shrapnel as the grenades send shopping carts flying.
I’m not sure what I dislike more: creeping around so I can shoot zombies or creeping around so I can avoid blowing myself up. At least this place isn’t crawling with undead.
I creep around the pools of radioactive goop, pulling a knife to slash another trip-wire. Let’s see, if that wire goes over there, then that huge iron beam would have swung down and knocked me back into… Yeah, let’s disarm that bear-trap too.
Whatever’s back here had better be worth something good. I shove open the metal door, and for a moment, all I can do is just sit there, astounded. Who would be crazy enough to find a hole in the middle of the sewer and set it up as a home? You’d have to fight your way past all the ghouls every time you wanted to go out and get food!
Let’s see… red lights match up to those radroaches in the cage… and one other. Eh, it’s probably just a radroach. I poke at the little Nuka-cola lamp, wishing I could take it with me; it’s cool, in a retro kind of way.
Now, this computer on the other hand… I pull a wire from my pipboy and hook it up to a slot in the side of the computer. Check for past words…0 out of six, so let’s go through and eliminate all the words that have those letters… Well, that leaves a grand total of exactly one word left. Easy enough.
“Disengage Lock…” Sure, why not? A nice looking book, and a bottle… Okay, question: why, exactly, is this bottle glowing? Am I expected to drink this? “Nuka Cola Quantum…” Okay, definitely not drinking anything that has extra isotopes.
BLAM! The shotgun blast is mostly absorbed by my armor, but it still shoves me against the safe, scoring a lovely bruise on my cheek. I growl, drawing my pistol and slipping into VATS. It’s another one of those ghouls… ‘cept, VATS labels him Gallo. He doesn’t seem to be insane…
BLAM! Scratch that thought. Mirabelle sends three bullets towards his face, and he stumbles. He cries out, and starts to run away. My next two shots miss as the door flies open. I’m quick to run after him, but it turns out I shouldn’t have worried; as I turn the corner, I’m just in time to see the bear-trap close around Gallo’s leg.
I’m torn between laughing and crying, but blow this. He’s dead, I’m tired… Sparing one bullet each for the caged radroaches, I collapse on the bed and am asleep in seconds.
***
So, let’s see what this ghoulie had… The key I swiped from his body fits nicely into the slot of the door across the hallway. Maybe it’s a cannon, or a better rifle, or…
Dangit. Maybe it’s just a pile of useless crap! My pipboy lamp kicks on, and I sneer at the assortment of uselessness. A lawnmower, a steam gauge, some motorcycle gas tanks… Who stockpiles all this crap? I could drag it all to a seller, but it would take so long, and be worth so little…
Ugh. Worthless. Hmph. Maybe I can use this gas tank as a bomb of some sort. We’ll grab it anyway.
Consulting my local map shows that there’s an exit if I backtrack a bit. First though, let’s stop by the little home the ghoul had set up. There’s a lot to like—Nuka-Cola trucks, four of the same beverages, and some caps. I shove it all in the sack, and get going.
***
Minutes later, I wish I hadn’t.
“Dammit, die!” It doesn’t seem like the skittering thing is inclined to listen to me. Instead, it contents itself to chase me around the small factory. Luckily, radscorpions are only as fast as I am; that means that I can run around this walkway, and just run until it decides to die.
With a bit of work, I can prise the venom glands out of the scorpions tail; normally, I’d consider such an action to be flat-out insane, but it seems to have a pretty good value for its weight.
Heading outside, I can see the sun peeking up over the horizon. It seems strange that I spent most of a day inside a sewer, fighting zombies. It’s… kind of weird, to tell the truth. Is this going to be the rest of my life? Run around, shoot people, take their stuff, and do it all over again? A sobering thought, that.
I’m moving slowly—too slowly. I need to get rid of some of this stuff. Which means… ugh. I’m going to need to head to that town.
When I arrive, it must be around noon. Let’s go in carefully…
My first impression of Megaton is… Hat. That’s all that registers, is that the sheriff has a simply magnificent hat. He’s talking to me, but I’m not listening. I must have that hat.
In time, Ferguson. In time. We need to make sure that things are safe before we can get that hat. Which reminds me…
“What, the bomb? Oh, it’s perfectly safe!”
Yeah, I’m pretty sure that bombs were designed to be the opposite of safe. Don’t you think that maybe you could do something about that? Oh, you want me to do it? Yeah, I can’t think of anything that could go wrong with trusting a complete stranger with disarming a nuclear bomb in the middle of your town, can you?
Oh, right. Store. The mayor—or is that sheriff—points me up a ramp to a small store. Someone’s used a crayon to scribble “Craterside supply” on the iron sheet-wall over the door.
The door squeaks open under my timid push, revealing a dusty little store; to the right, a man in armor lounges against the wall, while a woman with a broom is pushing dirt from one side of the store to the other. “I’ll be right with you!” she burbles.
Alright, all I really want to do is get in, get the caps, and get out. This would be perfect… if it weren’t for the fact that she wants to babble on… something about a survival guide. “Hey!” she exclaims brightly, “You’re from the vault!” Um, yeah, but how’d you.. right, pip-boy. I suppose that makes sense.
Yeah, I’m from the vault. So what? Oh, you want a quote from a Vault Dweller? How’s this for a quote? I’m a king! His royal highness, Garret Bobby Ferguson the second, esquire, lord of Vault 101 and all it contains! I’ve come as an ambassador to free your people!
“Oh! It’s good to meet you, your highness. Will you accept this suit as a gift?”
I admit that I’m paraphrasing slightly. However, she swallows it! She accepts that I’m a king! Me, Ferguson of the bloody combat armor! How on earth did you survive this long? Oh, and you’re asking me for help with your survival guide? Screw that! Anything written by you is liable to be about as factual as unicorns running around in Washington DC!
Please, don’t let there be any unicorns in DC. I’ll feel really dumb.
Wait, you’re going to pay me? I… really don’t have that many caps. I mean, I took what I could from those Talon guys, and the raiders, and the one guy who thought I was trying to rob him… (In my defense, he was sleeping quite soundly. I thought he was dead, and he objected strenuously to having my hands in his pockets.) So, what’s the job?
Seriously? You want to get irradiated? Screw it, I’m out.
But first, I’ll trade you this raider armor for ammo and caps. Ammo is always a good thing. My guns need it to make shooty noises.
***
It takes me a few hours to get back to where I was on the river. It’s not too long before I come on a big, solidly built structure. For once, it doesn’t seem to be falling apart like everything else. Only problem is that there are these guys in metal suits of armor—Oh, I’m so jealous—that won’t let me go in! They’ve got a bit robot and these fancy looking guns, so I decide that right now might not be a good time to tick them off.
I keep going, wondering what that nasty smell might be. The buzz of rapid-fire gunshots sends me diving for cover before I realize that for once, they’re not aiming at me. No, the guy on top of the walls is aiming down at…
My gosh, you’re ugly! And it’s not just the minigun ripping you apart; you were ugly when you were made! I may not know much about the Wasteland, but whoever named you a centaur didn’t know jack about them! It… You look like two people started making love and then got melted together halfway through!
Oh, and the tongues? Not a good look, even if you only had one.
I keep going, letting the Brotherhood rip you apart. I’m getting close to the riverboat now, so-Egads, what are you? I grab Mirabelle and start firing wildly at the hulking thing. It’s got too many arms, and the bullets keep pinging off of its shell. As it rears up to swat at me, I land some lucky hits into its face, and it collapses on me.
I grunt, shoving it off of me and taking a claw as a trophy. It actually makes for some good eating.
And there’s the boat! Wonderful! I’m here, people! Come worship the ground on which I walk! Except not really, because, well, that would be kind of creepy.
The woman on the dock grabs a rifle, and I’m a second away from shooting first. Only thing is, she’s aiming somewhere else. A growl rips the air behind me, and I spin to shoot… I really have no idea what this is. It’s eight feet tall, and shaped vaguely like a man, albeit ripped and apparently covered with yellow rock. Luckily, he’s just as vulnerable to bullets as anyone else. And he’s got a rifle I can use to fix my old gun!
I talk to the ferryman, selling some meat and random junk for more caps. He explains that this ferry goes from near Rivet city to point Lookout. Wait, Rivet city?
Turns out that getting irradiated isn’t all that bad. It makes my skin crawl a bit as I skim across the bay, stopping to raid a medical cabinet in a half-sunken boat. (That’s actually a bit odd, I think. In two centuries, you’d think that a half-sunken boat would have made up its mind between up and down.)
Rivet City, as it turns out, is a giant boat. At least, that’s what it looks like. It’s floating in the water, and there’s a platform leading up to it. Trouble is, there’s no way to get across! It’s just a big boat, with no… Oh, there’s a bridge! It’s just built to swivel. Maybe if I… “Hello! Anybody home?”
Silence. Then, with a groaning like Thor is having his back scratched, the bridge begins to swivel towards me. The guard across from me halts me mid-bridge. Oy! Get that rifle out of my face! I’m just looking for my dad! Yes, really! Now shove off!
And don’t you feel stupid? If I was raider, now would be the perfect time to blow your face off! And then where would your township be?
To be honest, the only thing I’m looking for is something I can swipe and sell back to vendors. Yet it’s all—except for junk—tied down. Shopkeepers are looking at me suspiciously, guards don’t look like they like my bloodstain theme, and generally, I’m getting a ‘persona-non-grata’ vibe from everyone.
At least this little bobbyhead doesn’t seem like it’ll attract too much attention if it goes missing.
My pip-boy is clicking gently at me, telling me that I should perhaps avoid swimming in irradiated water in the future. And since I’ve got a distinct lack of radiation chems, that means I’m probably going to need some help from Moira. After all, she’s volunteered to pay me for my radiation.
Didn’t she say something about getting slightly more irradiated, though?
A swim back across the river, followed by a swift bath in Megaton’s town ‘pond’ takes care of that.
“Feeling a bit under the weather? Or over the Geiger counter?” Moira, words cannot describe how much I hate you. If I were any more irradiated, I’d be burning a hole in the floor. “Yeah, I can tell! You’re practically… Glowing!”
One day, Moira. One day.
“You’re a lucky one, you know!” she chirps. Yes, I’m lucky. Father gone missing, kicked out of my home, shot more times than I can count in the course of one day, irradiated as hell, and worst of all, dealing with you.
“At this level, most people don’t make it. But then, most people don’t have my help! I’ve never had a chance to test it out on someone so heavily dosed, but I’m sure it’ll work out fine.” Wait, what? “Exciting, isn’t it?”
No, Moira, no it really isn’t. What’re you doing? Get away from me! No way am I—Urk! Eugh!
Moira’s ‘treatment,’ if it could be considered such, consists of Brahmin milk, a couple magnets, and I quote, “a few happy thoughts.” I really don’t want to think back on it, thanks very much.
“Well, you’re alive!”
Okay, nothing that anybody says in that tone of voice can ever be good. It’s just waiting for a second shoe “but” to drop.
“But there was a little side effect.” I knew it! “A teeny, tiny, um… Mutation. But it seems to be benign, at least!” Sure, easy for you to say. You’re not the one with the cancerous growth who knows where. “Here, take a few radiation chems as my little way of saying, ‘I’m sorry I twisted your DNA like a kitten with a ball of yarn.’”
You know what, Moira? This doesn’t even the score. Your time will come. Until then, I suppose that I’d better curry your favor, and keep getting free stuff.
Now what?
Stats and notable loot:
Spoiler
Level four
Good
S: 5
P: 6
E: 6
C: 1
I: 10
A: 6
L: 9
Barter: 21
Big Guns: 19
Energy Weapons: 19
Explosives: 19
Lockpick: 50
Meidicine: 37
Melee Weapons: 19
Repair: 42
Science: 29
Small Guns: 42
Sneak: 45
Speech: 9
Unarmed: 19
Notable loot: Two assault rifles, two chinese assault rifles, Missile Launcher (with exactly one missile), Flamer, Sniper Rifle in poor repair, Little Macintosh (custom scoped .44 magnum, hunting rifle, silenced 10mm pistol)
I have to say, Ferguson is swiftly developing some unexpected, quite violent tendencies, thanks to his shoulder devil. We've now caught up to my two-hours of gameplay! Go us!
So, what now? Shall we go to Minefield, and get something to improve our sniper rifle? Shall we go kick raider trash in the megamart? Or shall we perhaps go to Arefu? What do?
__________________
Allons-y!
"Everything I see is total, unblemished reality...Except for the flying carrots. Those are probably fake." ~Trixie
"Listen kid, you want to get even with Moira? You want to get that cool hat? You want to kiss that smug town goodbye? I know just the way to do it. You outta go and prime that bomb to blow, wipe this little cesspit out, and REALLY irradiate Moira! In purging nuclear fire! That'll show the witch. But this town does have some uses, for starters you should get whatever miscreants are smart enough to follow you and do whatever it takes. Secondly you should go to the bar and get hammered, you don't have the rules of the vault on you anymore and it's time for the king of the wasteland to reap his rewards! Who knows, maybe you might even find something useful in there, or another wise guy like you yo get in on your rise to power. And lastly, after you've set this bomb, gathered your crew, and gotten your full of whatever you want, you should steal that hat. Kill him it you have to, he's dead anyway when this bomb goes off, and if he's so blind as to not figure the bomb is being primed then he deserves to die. The wasteland only has room for the strong, and you're the strongest man there."
__________________
Spoiler
Previous Avatars
All Spoiler Images made by SmuchSmuch and Emperor Ing and Kasanip
It's a while since I've played FO3, but disarming mines is tied to your explosives skill, right? If so I'm not sure your skill is good enough for Minefield yet. My vote would be to kill raiders (does that ever stop being fun?), then Arefu/some other sidequest(s), then minefield.
Also, maybe see if you can get a certain ex-raider in Megaton to join in the fun.
__________________
Allergy advice: posts may contain traces of sarcasm
Cause of Death: Some Raider got very lucky and found the Firelance for me.
Continue? Y/N
(I zoomed in in VATS, and just sat there a moment to ponder how screwed I truly was.
For your info, the Firelance is a unique weapon, randomly found in the wasteland, that does 80 damage per shot, with a 100% critical rate for a total of 160 damage per shot.
Wait... that's what that flying comet thing was? I kind of wondered why the megamart was being shelled.
Seriously, in order for this to have happened, I needed to have come from that exact direction, and the raiders needed to have not been cleared out.
Yay for stupid deaths.)
__________________
Allons-y!
"Everything I see is total, unblemished reality...Except for the flying carrots. Those are probably fake." ~Trixie
Cause of Death: Some Raider got very lucky and found the Firelance for me.
Continue? Y/N
(I zoomed in in VATS, and just sat there a moment to ponder how screwed I truly was.
For your info, the Firelance is a unique weapon, randomly found in the wasteland, that does 80 damage per shot, with a 100% critical rate for a total of 160 damage per shot.
Wait... that's what that flying comet thing was? I kind of wondered why the megamart was being shelled.
Seriously, in order for this to have happened, I needed to have come from that exact direction, and the raiders needed to have not been cleared out.
Yay for stupid deaths.)
Well, that was a short Let's play. It was a nice read while it was here... better luck next time man. :P
__________________ Click above to watch my Let's Play of Dead Space! Episode 4 is out!(UPDATED ON: May 14, 2013)
NOTE: I am not interested in watching MLP: FiM. I would appreciate it if others would not try to convert me. I've had enough RL friends try to do that. Thank you. Avatar: Thanks to asdflove for my avatar. ^_^
Id say continue because this is entertaining and that is such a random thing to have happen to you.. but then again maybe due to your second chance we should impose a penalty.. I just would have no idea what you have access too with console commands.
Well, player.modav allows you to basically modify any and all personal values.
Some examples:
Player.modav carryweight -25 (Your max carryweight is now 25 pounds less than before.)
Player.modav Perception 5 (Add 5 to your perception)
Player.modav energyweapons 60 (add 60 to your energy weapons score, max 100.)
Player.modav carryweight 5000 (Never worry about weight again.)
Congrats: you now have tens in all Special stats. That gun you're holding? It's the one that the Mysterious stranger uses. It does 18000 damage per hit in a game where the toughest monster only has 2000 HP. It's the definition of overkill.
Oh wait, you're tougher than they are now. You have 10000+ HP, are level thirty, have maxed out resistances while in your skivvies, and can pretty much nail any shot, any time, anywhere.
And yet, you still can't get through a boarded over window. To get past this, type tcl and tgm in the console.
Welcome to godhood.
__________________
Allons-y!
"Everything I see is total, unblemished reality...Except for the flying carrots. Those are probably fake." ~Trixie
I don't know if you can console command it, but having an amputated arm as a handicap would be interesting. Can only use 1 handed weapons, can't lock pick safes, reduced carry weight, etc. Would make for interesting RPing with how Ferguson is turning out.
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Quote:
Originally Posted by kpenguin
This is an image of Wookietank the Destroyer of Fortresses engraved in sandstone. Wookietank the Destroyer of Fortresses is leaving Trotknives. Trotknives is on fire and full of goblins. This image refers to the destruction of Trotknives in late winter of 109 by Wookietank the Destroyer of Fortresses.
I could console command the lower carrying capacity, but not the other stuff. It'd be much more difficult to play fallout 3 without rifles. New Vegas has a number of viable pistols, but I need my Lincoln's Repeater...
__________________
Allons-y!
"Everything I see is total, unblemished reality...Except for the flying carrots. Those are probably fake." ~Trixie
I could console command the lower carrying capacity, but not the other stuff. It'd be much more difficult to play fallout 3 without rifles. New Vegas has a number of viable pistols, but I need my Lincoln's Repeater...
Fair enough. I've yet to have a play through of FO3 without heavy use of Lincoln's Repeater myself, so I fully understand. That thing is amazing.
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Quote:
Originally Posted by kpenguin
This is an image of Wookietank the Destroyer of Fortresses engraved in sandstone. Wookietank the Destroyer of Fortresses is leaving Trotknives. Trotknives is on fire and full of goblins. This image refers to the destruction of Trotknives in late winter of 109 by Wookietank the Destroyer of Fortresses.
Ouch. I guess that is the point where killing raiders stops being fun.
A lower carry capacity seems fair, no need to excessively punish yourself for a flukey death. You could always just RP some kind of drawback for a while to reflect recovering from a serious injury without actually giving yourself a mechanical disadvantage.
__________________
Allergy advice: posts may contain traces of sarcasm
I hate homework. Hopefully, I'll be able to get a post up tonight.
You can do it! If necessary I find fire to be a helpful way of dealing with homework
__________________
Quote:
Originally Posted by kpenguin
This is an image of Wookietank the Destroyer of Fortresses engraved in sandstone. Wookietank the Destroyer of Fortresses is leaving Trotknives. Trotknives is on fire and full of goblins. This image refers to the destruction of Trotknives in late winter of 109 by Wookietank the Destroyer of Fortresses.
The world swims around me as I open my eyes. This... this is not where I remember being last. But what was...
My brain explodes, pain temporarily overwhelming my search for memory. Lightning arcs between my ears, scorching it away. Something about... raiders?
Where am I? The light sways gently on its cord, making me screw my eyes shut. I'm...
I can't move. Holy crap, I can't move! The straps stretch, but don't allow me to do much more than wiggle.
"Oh, good, you're awake!"
Oh. See, that tells me exactly where I am. Only one man has a beard so fine.
"Doc Smith, if I'm not out of these restraints in five seconds..." I let the threat trail off. So I'm not the best at threats; Mirabelle is usually much more eloquent than I could ever hope to be.
"Don't worry; I'm not going to hurt you." No one who wants the best for you ever starts a sentence with those lines. "I just had to make sure that you wouldn't do anything rash after... well, you'll see."
I slip out of the loosening restraints. Let's see, data tab, access... the...
"What," I say, examining my wrist and restraining the urge to panic, "is this?"
He shifts nervously, rather conscious of the large pile of confiscated weapons behind him. "That would be the reason for your restraint."
There had been raiders... I remember... An explosion of some sort. A raider had pulled out what looked like a blaster straight out of Captain Cosmos. I laughed, until a blue blast lanced out and punctured a lung.
"I patched you up as best I could," he said, obviously nervous. "When that trader found you, he said that the raiders had just started to cut you up. Had some real trouble with that Pip-boy of yours, so they started lower down."
And now... what is this thing? I examine it, how the mount meets my wrist, and the hook catches the light.
"The wasteland is rather scarce on prosthetics," admits the doctor. "It's the best replacement hand I could make."
Okay, passing through shock and denial. Let's get straight to anger. "This," I seethe, "this is not a hand. This is a bent coat-hanger with duct tape wrapped around it!
This whole town is going to die. One way or another, everyone here will die.
But raiders first.
***
Pft! Mirabelle spits over the counter, that new silencer working wonders for her. I smile as the raider slumps down, falling between a pair of bent tin cans.
The Super-Duper Mart reeks of death; bent and mangled bodies sway on chains, their decapitated heads stacked up elsewhere. I can't decide which sensation is worse: the lingering taste of sick in my mouth, or the sheer satisfaction that I feel in seeing their heads pop off.
I stand from my crouch, and the raider behind the counter stares dumbly down the muzzle before trying to sound the alarm. Three silenced shots later, I'm collecting his junk and shoving it in my backpack. I still haven't figured out how to work my rifles with this hook, so it'll have to wait.
My head-up display shows three glowing bars around the corner, so I drop one of those strange discs from earlier just around the corner, and take a wild shot with my rifle to draw attention.
The look on the raider's face is a beautiful thing. It passes from anger, to shock, to realization, and as he turns to run, it makes one last transformation: a pile of goo.
Charging around the corner, I empty my clip into the two remaining raiders. Hacking a computer opens a door, showing a room chock full of medical supplies. Aren't I glad, too. It takes two stimpaks before I'm ready to move; those bullets may not pack much of a punch individually, but when you're trying to dodge a dozen at a time... I hiss, yanking my hand away from my side. Yeah, that's a broken rib.
As I make my way to the exit, I stop and rush behind a counter. Two new raiders make their way through the dingy, dirty doors. The taller one, his hair stained and gelled into a crude mohawk, looks up and curses as I send a grenade arcing to his feet.
I can't help but feel that this is the best I've felt all day.
Super-Duper Mart cleared! Where now, oh faithful readers?
__________________
Allons-y!
"Everything I see is total, unblemished reality...Except for the flying carrots. Those are probably fake." ~Trixie
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