Even in the dangerous post-apocalyptic world they all shared together, the weaponry that Vault-Dweller carried would be considered overkill, but when questioned about why (or how) he was carrying that much equipment, his only answer was, "I need something to barter with."
As the footsteps of Bishop's men faded, the Vault-Dweller slumped back against the ruined brick wall. It was astonishing to think of how his life had changed since the Elder had entrusted him with the task of finding the Holy GECK. Yes, he had left his primitive, but wonderful village, and he had seen the world, and that was all well and good. He had also felt, though, that there was some force, telling him where to go, what to do, and when to do it. At first, he had thought this force to be a gift bestowed upon him by the village Shaman to assist in his quest.
|Because nothing says trustworthy like a vacant, drug-addled stare.|
Still, of all the things the unseen force was telling the Vault-Dweller to do, STEALING seemed to be it's favorite. Like a drunk kleptomaniac, he sloppily attempted to steal everything in sight. What began by lifting a few beers off of drunks at the local bar, quickly blossomed into stealing pipe-rifles and handguns from hunters, switchblades and beef jerky from merchants, and soon bottomed out as he stole drugs from a filthy mattress as a crackwhore had a fever dream nearby.
There were times when the force's insistence seemed more erratic than normal, too. Those were the times that the Vault-Dweller feared most, for it was during these periods that he was led to do one unspeakable thing after another, committing violent acts and cussing out prostitutes with abandon. He insulted orphans on the street, then punched the children when they tried to retaliate. There was no rhyme or reason to the things the he was made to do, as if his hands were possessed by the spirit of some unseen, horrifyingly omnipotent child.
|"Now, how do I shank hookers, again?"|
Glancing both ways in the alley, the Vault-Dweller shivered in spite of the warm, radioactive Nevada weather. It was thus bristling with weapons that he walked into the the Bishop Family casino in hopes of gathering some information about this new town. As he questioned a craps dealer to little advantage, he saw near the bar, a terrifying older woman who was eyeing him. He walked over to speak to her against his better judgement and, obviously, felt compelled to steal from her. Standing directly in her gaze, the Vault-Dweller's hands were not his own, and he began to rummage through her pockets, brazenly taking everything she had. Where once there was interest reflected in her eyes, now turned to rage as she realized that he wasn't even going to try to feign a conversation with her in exchange for the goods in her pockets, and she called casino security over to deal with him.
A firefight ensued, and like a dolphin with seasickness, the Vault-Dweller's escape became a messy, screeching haze, full of clicks and fury. When the gunfire finally ceased, there were skanky, unwashed bodies everywhere.
|And less than half of those people were prostitutes.|
He would like to hope that this killing spree was his last, but the force had been with him too long. He knew better. He knew that there were still more homemade shivs to steal, and washed-up porn stars to steal them from. He knew that there were more mouthy jerks whose pockets he would fill with C4. He knew that there were more worthless, dirty Cat's Paw magazines to collect, and more old people to take advantage of.
The Vault-Dweller knew that as long as there was a single debaucherous act to commit in this world, the force wouldn't be satisfied until it had indulged in it, and he, the greatest warrior of Arroyo wept softly, thinking of the horrible things he had left to do.
"Hey jerk," He heard a voice say. He looked up to see a gangster in a dirty pin-striped suit and fedora standing over him. The Vault-Dweller's hand twitched and moved of its own accord toward a pistol at his side. "You're in my seat."
He surveyed the gangster, and knew the force would not suffer this man to live. He unbuttoned his holster, and looked up slowly at the gangster. A smile crossed his face, and the Vault-Dweller stood to meet his future.