[QUEST STARTED: Next Stop, Heartbreak]
- Find out what happened to the Olympus Disc delivery.
- Survive.
You pry open eyelids heavy as slabs of concrete. You're sprawled in a cracked vinyl recliner, springs groan beneath you. The air in the shack is thick with the smell of dust, stale sweat, and something vaguely antiseptic overlaying the pervasive scent of decay from outside. It's a damp, cramped space hammered together from warped sheet metal, old road signs, and scavenged plywood. Light filters through a jagged hole in one wall, patched crudely with shards of colored glass – green, brown, and deep blue – held together by layers of peeling duct tape. It casts fractured, cathedral-like patterns across the dirt floor.
A figure moves in the dimness. Female, draped in a patchwork robe pieced together from what look like vinyl state flags – Illinois prominent, others faded beyond recognition – sewn alongside brightly colored, fraying ribbons. Her face is obscured by a pair of bulky, heavily scratched Vault-Tec welding goggles, the kind designed to shield eyes from the intense glare of plasma torches. She approaches, her bare feet silent on the packed earth floor.
She reaches out a hand, fingers stained with grime and something that looks suspiciously like dried blood, and places it flat against your forehead. A jolt, sharp and cold, lances through your skull. Not just pain, but a sudden, chaotic flood of images—
Screeching metal, the shriek of tortured steel. The rhythmic clatter of train wheels abruptly turning into a violent, lurching cacophony. A briefcase in your hand, heavy, metallic, stamped the word 'OLYMPUS'. Dark figures glimpsed through the grimy train window just outside the crumbling facade of the 18th Street L-station. At first, they looked like Brotherhood Paladins... but then you notice that they are thinner, faster, moving with an unsettling, almost insect-like agility. The sensation of falling, the world spinning, the roar of wind and debris... then darkness.
You gasp, trying to sit up, but your muscles scream in protest.
“Arrgg… my head… where… where am I?”
Quill: “Easy there, sky courier.” Her voice is surprisingly low, rough like sand on steel, but with an odd melodic cadence. “Fell a long way down. Knocked all the sense right outta ya. Your strings are all discombobulated.” She gestures vaguely at your body. “I set all those bones in..." She shutters. "And I done waste all my Stimpaks on ya. You're set and straight, outwardly. But the important bits… mind, body, soul… they need realignment.”
She turns away, shuffling towards an old, dust-choked metal cabinet rusting in the corner. Its doors hang crookedly on bent hinges. She rummages inside, the sound of glass clinking against metal echoing in the small space. She emerges holding a grimy rag and a small, corked vial filled with a clear liquid that catches the fractured light. She uncorks the vial – the smell is sharp, chemical, like ammonia mixed with something sickly sweet – and douses the rag. She folds it twice, then turns back towards you. Before you can properly react, she moves with surprising speed, pressing the damp, pungent rag firmly over your nose and mouth. The vapor hits the back of your throat like a physical blow. Your lungs seize. You try to pull away, but her grip is like iron. Your vision swims, the colored light patterns on the floor swirling into nauseating spirals. You begin to convulse involuntarily, muscles spasming against the worn vinyl of the recliner.
Quill: “QUICKLY, QUICKLY NOW! WHO ARE YOU? WHERE DID YOU COME FROM? WHAT DO YOU KNOW? SPEAK, CHILD!”
[S.P.E.C.I.A.L. DISTRIBUTION]
Strength: ???
Perception: ???
Endurance: ???
Charisma: ???
Intelligence: ???
Agility: ???
Luck: ???
[TRAITS - CHOOSE TWO]
[X] Good Natured: When it seems violence is the only answer, you can always find another way.
[X] Trigger Discipline: You make every bullet count.
[YOUR NAME]
> entered: ???
“Hmmpp! Ummrghh. MMMMMBBLLPPP!!”
Quill: “Ahhh… yes, yes. The fumes see clearly no. It’s all… aligning.” She pulls back slightly, peering down at you through the thick goggles, her head tilted. “___________________________...is not enough to get you by in the Midwaste. But with a touch of luck... just maybe.”
You gasp, dragging in lungfuls of the comparatively clean shack air, coughing violently. Your head spins, but the overwhelming disorientation begins to recede, replaced by a throbbing ache and the lingering, unpleasant taste of the chemicals. She thumps you hard on the back, nearly knocking the wind out of you again.
Quill: “There now. Sorted. Mostly.” She steps back, wiping the rag on her patchwork robe. “Oh, and welcome to my humble abode. Mi shack es su shack, as the old tongues say. Now that you’re properly aligned – or as aligned as you’re gonna get – you can be off on your way.”
She turns back to her cabinet, rummaging again. This time, she pulls out a length of rusty steel rebar, about three feet long, one end slightly bent, the textured surface stained with something dark. She tosses it onto your lap with a dull clang.
Quill: “Hah! Thought I’d send you out naked into the concrete jungle? Take this. It ain’t much, but it’s better than words.”
[Received]
Purified Water x3 (Restores 20 HP, Reduces Dehydration)
Stimpak x1 (Restores 50 HP over 5 sec)
Quill’s Non-Enigmatic Rebar (DMG: 15, DUR: 89/100, WG: 5.0, VAL: 25 Caps)
A sturdy piece of construction steel given to you by the shaman Quill. It looks like it's seen plenty of use, probably for realignment of a more physical nature. The grip is wrapped crudely in stained cloth.
Special Trait: Temperamental Steel - When durability drops below 15 (Broken), this weapon unexpectedly deals +50% damage instead of the standard -50% penalty.
Quill: “Right then. Get your bearings. Feel the Midwaste callin’. There’s a Workbench outside, bolted to the wall. Not sure if someone like you knows which end of a wrench to hold, but tinker if you must.” She pauses, scratching her chin beneath the goggles. “Tell you what. Molerats infest this whole district like… well, like molerats. Bring me back 21 intact Molerat Hides – gotta be intact, mind you, no raggedy bits – and I’ll stitch you up a proper set of Molerat Leather Armor. Finding ‘em won’t be hard. Hear that scratching under the floorboards? Yeah. They’re everywhere.”
If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
[Quest Started: Skin Deep]
- Collect 21 Molerat Hides.
- Return the hides to Quill.
Reward: Molerat Leather Armor Set.
You take a moment, letting the coughing subside, your head clearing slightly. You remember the Olympus Disc, and how much it was important to delivery it to Loop City. You look back at the strange woman. Intent on exhausting her dialogue options, you engage with Quill again.
"I'm starting to recall, but right now, I'm disoriented. Any chance you can point me in the right direction?"
Quill: "Heh. Eager beaver, ain't ya? First things first, Sky-Faller: don't die." She taps the side of her head. "You're running on fumes and borrowed Stimpak juice. That fall scrambled you good. Before you go chasing ghosts and derailed trains through the Loop, you need supplies. Water. Food. Maybe something with a bit more oomph than that rusty stick." She leans in conspiratorially. "And listen. If you stumble across any chems out there—Jet, Buffout, Med-X, Psycho, Mentats, doesn’t matter the brand—you bring 'em back here. To Quill. They… help with the remembering. Sometimes mine. Sometimes yours. Payment rendered for services, call it."
[New Dialogue Option for Quill: Give Chems (Repeatable)]
"Any points of interest around here I should know about? Or avoid?"
Quill: "Oh, this old city's got layers, like a mutated onion." She ticks points off on her fingers. "Let's see...
The Abandoned Warehouse: Just past that overgrown rail yard south of here. Crawling with those molerats I mentioned. Easy meat and hides, if you're quiet... or quick. Probably hear 'em gnawing from here if the wind's right.
18th Street L-Station: Where your fancy sky-train took a dive. Obvious place to start lookin' for answers, eh? Might find salvage, might find whatever knocked you down. Risky, though. Wreckage that big draws attention.
Red Rocket Filling Station: To the west. Big faded rocket sign, can't miss it. Used to pump coolant and fusion cells, I hear. Now? Mostly pumps out trouble. Scavvers, junkies, maybe worse fighting over the scraps.
Fruit & Yogurt Emporium: Eastward, towards the river. You'll know it by the giant, buzzing, mutated bees – Stingwings, some call ‘em – nesting in the rotten plastic fruit sign. Sweet loot inside maybe, but getting past the welcoming committee… tricky.
Nameless Cafe: Couple blocks north. Always smells like burnt coffee and plasma… like someone's been messing with energy weapons inside. Never seen anyone go in or out, but the smell lingers. Curious.
Museum of Mexican Art: Further north, edge of Pilsen. Big place, sturdy lookin'. But don't go knockin' unless you've got heavy backup and a death wish. Heard tales. Saw a fella in a blue jumpsuit, Vault number on his back, head in there boastin' he’d clear it out for the 'historical artifacts'. He had something in his wrist, big, bulky, and with lights. But I never saw him come out. Place gives me the creeps." She procures a piece of worn paper with some hand drawn scribbles. "Here, this is were we are, and here is..."
[Received]
Hand-Drawn Map of Ruined Pilsen
Wildly inaccurate, but it gives you a general idea. This will do for now.
[Map Updated: Key Locations Marked]
"And you? Who are you, really?"
Quill: A dry chuckle escapes her. "Me? I’m Quill. That’s the name the dust gave me. Found myself washed up on this broken city one day, head full of static and hands that wouldn't stop shaking." She holds up a slightly trembling hand. "Thought I was broken. Maybe I was. The Midwaste… it cracks you open, see what’s inside. I let it. Learned to listen to the whispers on the wind, the groans of the steel, the chatter of the chems." She taps her goggles again. "Now I listen to voices that don’t come from mouths. Fix what’s broken, sometimes. Align what's askew. Bring me some Buffout, some Jet… they speak differently through the haze. Or maybe I do." Another chuckle, lower this time. “You’re not the only one trying to remember who you were, ???. We're all just piecing ourselves together out here."
Taking a deep breath. You give Quill a nod, hefting the rebar. It feels solid, reassuringly heavy in your hand. You push aside the sheet metal flap that serves as a door and step out of Quill’s dim shack into the harsh, pale light filtering through the perpetual haze covering Ruined Pilsen. You step out into Quill’s yard. The sun hangs low behind a haze of yellowed clouds, filtering its light through the thick smog like an old bulb behind dirty glass. The air smells faintly of rust, distant fire—chemical and choking.
To your left, Quill’s workbench sits beneath a warped sheet of corrugated metal, propped up by scavenged rebar. Tools are scattered in chaotic order—bone-handled pliers, rusted shears, a laser cutter jury-rigged from a power cell and something that may have once been a toaster. Animal skulls dangle from the fence posts by knotted twine, clacking softly in the wind like wind chimes for the dead. A laundry line stretches across the yard, but it hangs nothing but sun-bleached flags and torn vault jumpsuit sleeves.
Somewhere in the near distance, a rhythmic skitter-scratch echoes from beneath a pile of rubble, punctuated by the mournful moan of the wind whistling through the skeletal frames of collapsed buildings. Above, the shattered skyline of what was once Chicago looms like a row of rusting, broken teeth against the grey sky. The iconic skyscrapers are gutted husks, draped in creeping vines and scarred by fire and time. Dust and gritty sand swirl around your boots as you take your first steps onto the cracked asphalt street. Overturned shopping carts lie like dead metal beasts. A fire hydrant, bled dry decades ago, lists drunkenly to one side. Graffiti covers nearly every surface – crude tags, faded gang signs, desperate messages (GONE TO LOOP, RADS HIGH NORTH, BEWARE THE METAL MEN). A decapitated Mister Handy shell, missing its arms, hangs limply from a bent lamppost by its scorched propulsion unit, swaying gently in the breeze. The elevated train tracks, the source of your current predicament, snake overhead, sections collapsed into jagged ruins.
You spot the low, blocky shape of the abandoned warehouse Quill mentioned off to the south, partially obscured by debris piles and skeletal trees. The scratching sound seems louder from that direction.
Time for a quick inventory check, get your bearings properly.
[INVENTORY]
Quill's Non-Enigmatic Rebar (Equipped)
Courier Suit (Equipped)
Purified Water x3
Stimpak x1
[Quests]
Next Stop, Heartbreak
Skin Deep (Optional)
Current Location: Quill's Shack, Ruined Pilsen
Markers: Warehouse, 18th St Station, Red Rocket, Fruit & Yogurt, Nameless Cafe, Museum
[DERIVED STATISTICS - INITIAL VALUES]
Hit Points (HP): ?? / 100 (Base + (Endurance * 10))
Action Points (AP): ?? / 75 (Base + (Agility * 5))
Carry Weight: 175 lbs (Base + (Strength * 10))
Critical Chance: ?? (Luck)
[SKILLS]
Barter: ?? (2 + (2*CHA) + (LCK/2))
Energy Weapons: ?? (2 + (2*PER) + (LCK/2))
Explosives: ?? (2 + (2*PER) + (LCK/2))
Guns (Small): ?? (2 + (2*AGI) + (LCK/2))
Lockpick: ?? (2 + (2*PER) + (LCK/2))
Medicine: ?? (2 + (2*INT) + (LCK/2))
Melee Weapons: ?? (2 + (2*STR) + (LCK/2))
Repair: ?? (2 + (2*INT) + (LCK/2))
Science: ?? (2 + (2*INT) + (LCK/2))
Sneak: ?? (2 + (2*AGI) + (LCK/2))
Speech: ?? (2 + (2*CHA) + (LCK/2))
Survival: ?? (2 + (2*END) + (LCK/2))
Unarmed: ?? (2 + (2*END) + (LCK/2))
Right. You hold your Rebar tightly. You look down a the green-washed horizon. The Midwaste sprawls before you.
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