Cambrysiel
Banned
- Joined
- Feb 24, 2017
- Messages
- 629
- Reaction score
- 1,300
Alternatively titled: Post-Apocalyptic-Desert-Not-Mad-Max RR
This was originally the idea for a Fallout RP I wanted to open but, you know, I'm lazy. Obviously it can be adapted to NOT be Fallout-oriented, I just couldn't be bothered to rewrite it all at 3am.
Sorry it doesn't follow the format I just sorta' copied all the info off my phone.
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content: uhhh... idk but i made a custom map for it so there's that
This was originally the idea for a Fallout RP I wanted to open but, you know, I'm lazy. Obviously it can be adapted to NOT be Fallout-oriented, I just couldn't be bothered to rewrite it all at 3am.
Sorry it doesn't follow the format I just sorta' copied all the info off my phone.
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Do you hear your heart pounding? Can you taste the smoke in the air? Can you hear the crack of gunshots? You know where you are. Welcome back to Tombstone, leave your fairy tales in the dust.
Tombstone, a town that's little more than rocks, dirt, rattlers, and folks with nowhere else to call home. Some came to get as far from the law as they could, some ran out of money on their way to New Vegas, and some folks are just plumb crazy enough to like it. It's where you can't trust the lawmen to be on your side or their own, where missionaries sing from street corners and saloon girls pour you a whiskey and charge you for two. Gold talks here, not that anyone's got much of it. After all, it's smack-dab in the middle of nowhere, Mojave Desert, and if you've come to stay--and Lord help you if you have--sleep with one eye open. You're on the wild frontier now, and the only lullaby you're gonna get's the lonely howl of coyotes and the wheels of passing caravans, and the only law folks'll listen to is the one strapped in your holster.
Tombstone, a town that's little more than rocks, dirt, rattlers, and folks with nowhere else to call home. Some came to get as far from the law as they could, some ran out of money on their way to New Vegas, and some folks are just plumb crazy enough to like it. It's where you can't trust the lawmen to be on your side or their own, where missionaries sing from street corners and saloon girls pour you a whiskey and charge you for two. Gold talks here, not that anyone's got much of it. After all, it's smack-dab in the middle of nowhere, Mojave Desert, and if you've come to stay--and Lord help you if you have--sleep with one eye open. You're on the wild frontier now, and the only lullaby you're gonna get's the lonely howl of coyotes and the wheels of passing caravans, and the only law folks'll listen to is the one strapped in your holster.
The year is 2376.
At first it is just rumors, speculation. Whispering on the street between wanderers and caravns. You roll your eyes, throw your dice without care because it sounds preposterous. The idea that what started out as an isolated incident in a drug-fueled town in Massachusetts became a full-blown catastrophe when the residents and workers of Rivet City fell vistim to what was meant to be a germ designed to eat radiation out of the water; they say it mutated, contaminating the water it was in and within a matter of days all of the surviving townsfolk had contracted and succumbed to the germ. It sounds like something straight out of a story, a comic, one of the tall-tales spun at the traders casino down the road.
But then... evidence starts piling up. You can no longer deny the facts. What people were once laughed at for believing has come true.
That's so far away from us! We're all the way here in the Mojave! That's all happening in the Capitol Wastes! The reports start coming in with the caravans - the disease is spreading. Goodneighbor, Andale, Goodsprings... Right at your back door. Panic slowly sets in.
After several weeks, the germ contaminated all major water supplies across the country and within several months, all drinkable underground water ran out. There's mass extinction of 70% of life.
A select few swear that the incident had been an experiment, a test, one that the scientists working at the illusive Institute had thought they'd contained, but all it took was one person to slip through the cracks and the affliction spread across the continent. Whether or not the accusation holds any truth, there's one thing everybody agrees on: there's no escaping this.
Mayhem ensues: it's a no holds barred fight for survival. There's nothing people wouldn't do if it meant fresh water, if it meant their life over another. Death seems to be everywhere you look - people killing people, wildlife killing people, people killing themselves when forced to choose between disease or drought. It's hard to hold onto reality when this thing you thought couldn't possibly be real is your worst nightmare.
All you can do is survive.
Survive one more day, minute, second until you draw your last dying breath.
At first it is just rumors, speculation. Whispering on the street between wanderers and caravns. You roll your eyes, throw your dice without care because it sounds preposterous. The idea that what started out as an isolated incident in a drug-fueled town in Massachusetts became a full-blown catastrophe when the residents and workers of Rivet City fell vistim to what was meant to be a germ designed to eat radiation out of the water; they say it mutated, contaminating the water it was in and within a matter of days all of the surviving townsfolk had contracted and succumbed to the germ. It sounds like something straight out of a story, a comic, one of the tall-tales spun at the traders casino down the road.
But then... evidence starts piling up. You can no longer deny the facts. What people were once laughed at for believing has come true.
That's so far away from us! We're all the way here in the Mojave! That's all happening in the Capitol Wastes! The reports start coming in with the caravans - the disease is spreading. Goodneighbor, Andale, Goodsprings... Right at your back door. Panic slowly sets in.
After several weeks, the germ contaminated all major water supplies across the country and within several months, all drinkable underground water ran out. There's mass extinction of 70% of life.
A select few swear that the incident had been an experiment, a test, one that the scientists working at the illusive Institute had thought they'd contained, but all it took was one person to slip through the cracks and the affliction spread across the continent. Whether or not the accusation holds any truth, there's one thing everybody agrees on: there's no escaping this.
Mayhem ensues: it's a no holds barred fight for survival. There's nothing people wouldn't do if it meant fresh water, if it meant their life over another. Death seems to be everywhere you look - people killing people, wildlife killing people, people killing themselves when forced to choose between disease or drought. It's hard to hold onto reality when this thing you thought couldn't possibly be real is your worst nightmare.
All you can do is survive.
Survive one more day, minute, second until you draw your last dying breath.
A secret, privately funded organization stepped out of the shadows when the rumors of an immunity began. It's claimed they call themselves Project Indigo, but they themselves are like ghosts. Survivors talk of how they swoop in and clear large areas of the disease and deceased, taking them out or collecting them before disappearing as quickly as they arrived. There has even been talk of survivors going missing, snatched from camps and caravans in the night, whisked away without a trace - never to been again.
That is, until a handful of the missing survivors turned up in the abandoned town of Tombstone, Mojave, each wearing an identical grey jumpsuit with no memory of how they got there, or even who they are. Their pasts erased from their memories, bar key elements that make up their personalities. They remember no names - not even their own. They have no memory of family or friends, or anything they may have suffered, witnessed, or experienced.
These are The Survivors, somebodies final experiment in the hopes of finding a cure to the germ, and the fate of the wastelands rests on their shoulders.
That is, until a handful of the missing survivors turned up in the abandoned town of Tombstone, Mojave, each wearing an identical grey jumpsuit with no memory of how they got there, or even who they are. Their pasts erased from their memories, bar key elements that make up their personalities. They remember no names - not even their own. They have no memory of family or friends, or anything they may have suffered, witnessed, or experienced.
These are The Survivors, somebodies final experiment in the hopes of finding a cure to the germ, and the fate of the wastelands rests on their shoulders.
content: uhhh... idk but i made a custom map for it so there's that
