“Radio Freedom needs a new disc jockey. New holos. Something without a damn violin. What about some of those old American Patriotic standards you know? Instead of feeling like we’re stuck in colonial days? And is it recorded or is some poor fiddler stuck playing 24/7? Get a banjo in there! Mix it up!”

West had never planned on returning to the east coast. If anyone remembered him from DC, well, what a loss for them. Or not. He knew he hadn’t exactly been a good guy. He had made mistakes, bad ones. Genocidal ones. Even ten years or probably more, he wasn’t sure, and a case of recovering amnesia, wouldn’t change the horrible things he’d done.

It also didn’t change the good, or the fact that he was focusing on the bad memories he was gaining rather than the good ones. Things were beginning to feel familiar, though he couldn’t put a clear memory to it. He had made a life for himself in New Vegas, but now he returned before his robo-brain buddy had skipped town with little more than a terminal recording explaining he ‘needed to return to Boston and finish things’. Goddamnit, Betty.

So West was back east, trying to think of better things he had done. He could not remember sweeping the once longer hair from his face, hesitant in throwing a frag grenade into a small crowd of slavers. He did not remember befriending Eulogy Jones with the full intention of shooting him in the head once they were alone or the brainwashed girls who attacked each other and then Wesley after he had. He does not remember freeing the slaves, let alone any of their names or faces.

He also didn’t remember such terrible dust storms. Must have been a Boston thing. He was beginning to feel a little queasy because of it and as the grey oddly fanged mutt beside him whined and stumbled, West heard the click of the geiger counter on his Pip Boy. It was more than just dust. West looked around but saw nothing obviously radioactive. He knelt next to his pup and removed a small box from his bag, taking a pill himself and then shoving one, very carefully, down the dog’s throat. He gave the dog an extra good scratch behind the ears, then pulled a scarf from his bag, dumping the carrots from it and wrapped it around the lower half of his face. West picked up the dog, who was only a month or so away from no longer being a puppy. The grey pup buried his nose under West’s jacket collar.

The dust and faint green glow around them were making it hard to see and West’s eyes water. But there was a bridge ahead, sturdy looking enough. West held his dog tightly and rushed underneath it, burying his face in the dog’s fur, lifting his jacket a little to push more of the dog’s face under it.

"Don't wiggle, Artoo. I gotcha." He crouched down, relieved not to see any bloody ghouls laying out in his hiding spot. He took a shallow breath, hugging the pup close, burying the poor thing's face under his jacket. He was gonna toss his cookies if he wasn't careful and if this weird rad cloud hung around any longer. He had lost his memory before landing in the Sierra Madre, the memory of the Red Cloud was firmly lodged in his faulty mind. He tried to keep that stored away, not wanting to psych himself into a panic attack.

Watching “Elvis” finally and reading some of these old threads

Really feeling these New Vegas vibes again….

(I need a remaster or something man. Maybe finally start playing it on Steam)

I MISS IT

Reblog/Reply/Like for a New Vegas verse thread (and check out my verses cuz they’re game specific)

begin again | open rp

His arms ached. Everything ached. The courier crawled out of the bunker. It was a struggle to push the stupid hatch open and as he laid back on the hard sandy ground, he could feel his hands trembling. Out of breath, short dark blonde hair was damp against his head. The sides of his head were shaved close, a short deep scar against his left temple. He cracked one blue eye open against the harsh sun. What time was it? Midday. He couldn't lie here forever and roast. The Nightkin that took him to that horror of a holiday might be looking for him. The Courier pushed himself to his feet and felt sick. He swallowed the feeling down and broke out into a slow jog. It didn't last long. He looked at the PipBoy on his arm. He could head to Camp Forlorn Hope. The NCR was bound to help. If not just give him a bed. God. Sleep.

He had a bad feeling what he would be dreaming about. So, he headed north. Walking for now, jogging every few paces. Then settled on walking for good. If something big came after him, he'd have to run. He swallowed hard, dry, and felt the slave collar tighten at the intrusion of his adam's apple, grating. He should be dead. Maybe the old man lied. Maybe it was just a matter of time. The gray jumpsuit he wore did little for letting him blend into the rust brown of the Mojave. The red X marked across his back wasn't helping either. But he had no idea it was there. Hell, he hadn't even gotten a look at his own face. The boots he wore were sturdy enough, but worn. The laces near dry rot. They fit okay, but he could tell they weren't really his.

He wasn't sure what was his. Not even the bag across his shoulder. He opened it, taking the 9mm out. He had about 18 bullets all together. There was a stimpak, just one. A handful of Sierra Madre chips, for whatever good they would do now. A bottle of dirty water. Nothing more. The bag belonged to a courier. Him? Maybe. Maybe some other poor S.O.B. who had gotten trapped there. Another few strange symbols on it. The letter A with a uncompleted circle looped through the middle. The circle looked like inverted twos, linked at the top. Something like that. He didn't care much about guessing. Just getting his hands to stop shaking right now. And finding a bed to sleep in.

His knees gave out, just as he thought he saw a camp. Camp Forelorn Hope. The past week finally catching up with him, adrenaline running out. He blinked, slow and watery, before swaying to the side and blacking out in the desert.

“Oh you didn’t make coffee with that, did you? That’s not coffee.” West held up the clear lid between his fingers, he returned to the room with. ‘Dirt NOT coffee’ was written on it. “That’s dirt. That’s my coffee can of dirt."

“I only have one Christmas holotape and unfortunately it’s a single, so I hope you don’t get sick of it. Or sick of me singing it.”

West grinned slightly mischievously before popping in the tape into his pip boy that sat on the coffee table of his modest home. Decorations were up, mostly constructed of paper and cardboard, various junk that West had repurposed and crafted into Christmas decorations.

He walked back into the kitchen, an extra bounce in his step as the music started up. Bing Crosby’s familar voice, and later the Andrews Sisters piped up, as West sang along and stirred the hot cocoa he was making for himself and his guest.

Mele Kalikimaka is the thing to say On a bright Hawaiian Christmas day That's the island greeting that we send to you From the land where palm trees sway

Here we know that Christmas will be green and bright The sun to shine by day and all the stars at night Mele Kalikimaka is Hawaii's way To say Merry Christmas to you