Voodoo - Bala

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

From Valley Forge to the region where Philadelphia's outskirts might be expected to begin was a decent journey. Nothing too long or too arduous, except for a few detours around this or that environmental hazard. There's a cluster of junk in the distance that might be city ruins, or might be deliberately reared walls- hard to say.

There is also a sign. It is yellow. The figure painted is a low-slung, four-legged, blunt-nosed creature of considerable girth. Its lone head is easily half as long as the thing's body, its jaws gaping ridiculously wide. The image only shows four thick fangs as far as teeth go, two to each jaw. Under its stubby-toed feet is lettered a single word: BEWARE.

Voodoo probably has a better chance of recognizing the damn thing than anyone else here.

Comments

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

"Not everything, but you're gonna have to outbid the Nailers if you want a Blackrock Special," says the seller. "Ratchuk put in a bid on the good stuff this morning, but he knows damn well I'll sell it to anyone who pays me more than that and faster than him."

[boston_bruiser]

-huh. Curious.

"Then show me a Blackrock Special."

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

"Sure," says the man, and turns to start unlocking a sizable reinforced metal case. "I've seen maybe three of these in the past... I dunno, five years. Damn shame, they're good guns and I can get a hell of a price for them, but whoever's turning them out's probably sitting pretty on a nice little pile of Days and doesn't need to make more."

The weapon he removes from the case is scoped, but not exactly consistent with the design of Capital Wasteland scoped weapons.

[boston_bruiser]

Voodoo grunts as he looks at it. It's certainly...different, but that's not necessarily bad.

"So sell me on it. Why should I go with it over this?" he asks, patting Patience's stock.

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

The man glances over at Patience a moment. "Not that you haven't got a fine piece there, but I'm going to go out on a girder and bet that's a semiautomatic at best," he says. "The Blackrock Special's full auto, but it's had a few modifications that compensate for the worst elements of that. You won't find a weapon from here to the Commonwealth that can put more lead into a smaller patch of a target in the span of ten seconds. Not to mention that it takes the same rounds as an ordinary American-made assault rifle, so you can afford to feed it even if all you've got to your name is Nuka-Cola caps."

[boston_bruiser]

Once the dealer's finished saying his piece, Voodoo grunts in acknowledgement and strokes his chin with his thumb and forefinger.

"'cept if it's as accurate as you say it is, it's gotta be heavy as hell to manage the recoil. Add that onto the bulk of the thing, and just how're you supposed to move fast with it under fire, or manage carryin' it more than a few miles? Magazine looks too small for sustained suppression, and there's no quick-change mechanism for the barrel, not to mention the rounds - five-five-six is okay for a light MG, but for a sniper rifle I wouldn't trust my life to anything less than seven-six-two. No backup iron sights, either, so if the full-auto throws the scope outta zero, you're fucked."

He's quiet for a few moments.


"What'd Ratchuk put down for it?"

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

"Haven't had either of the other Blackrocks come back to me with the scope screwed up, I can tell you that much," says the man. "Ratchuk's got until sundown to come back here with either fifteen Days caps, seventy-five Champ Cherry caps, or fifteen hundred Nuka-Cola caps."

[boston_bruiser]

Voodoo grunts. "Then Ratchuk can keep it. Too much buck, not enough bang."

His eyes fall on one of the double-barreled shotguns prominently displayed on the table.

"Hey, Hector! How's your shotgun doing?"

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

"Holding up, but it's seen better days," Hector calls back. "Why, they got something better?"

[boston_bruiser]

"Could be," Voodoo replies. "Come check it over."

The shotgun Voodoo peruses is in remarkable condition, considering the state of the world. Its barrel and mechanisms are clean, its stock is undamaged, and it looks quite sturdy.

"How much for this one?"

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

"Hundred-fifty Nuka-Cola caps, eight Champ Cherries, or two Days," says the gun seller. "I'm flexible."

[boston_bruiser]

"Hm."

From within his pack come three boxes of 5.56, which are set down next to the shotgun.

"Where's this rank on the scale?"

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

"Mind if I have a look?" the man inquires. "If it's all in good condition, I could turn this around pretty quickly without having to bother anybody about caps."

[boston_bruiser]

Voodoo gestures to the boxes. "Be my guest, pal."

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

"Thanks," says the man, and begins his inspection. "I have a reputation to uphold..."

Mind you, we're talking about ammo here, not firearms themselves, so it's not as if the inspection takes long. He gives a satisfied nod when he's done. "That'll do," he says, and pushes the shotgun across the table. "All yours, pal."

[boston_bruiser]

"Nice doin' business."

He takes the weapon and offers it butt-first to Hector. "Figure out what you want to do with your old shotgun - as of right now, this's your new piece. -and check on Kate and Al, see if they've found anything useful. How's it coming, Josepha?"

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

"How much do you want in the way of explosives?" Josepha answers. "There's not a whole lot in the way of machine guns over here, but if you're okay with frag mines...."

[boston_bruiser]

"If it kills, we can use it. Get...I dunno, two or three."

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

"Gotcha," says Josepha. "Oooh, plasma grenades..."

Kate and Al, meanwhile, have been busy; Kate's haggling over the price of jerrycans in Nuka-Cola caps, and Al's examining several boots with a skeptical eye.

[boston_bruiser]

Both get quick glances and the same instruction:

"If they don't have holes in 'em and they'll fit on our packs, just make sure they're not asking for a firstborn. You got thirty seconds 'fore we're done."

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

"Please," says an affronted vendor who's overheard the comment. "This isn't the Pitt."

[boston_bruiser]

And the vendor is, in turn, subjected to the most exasperated sigh and eye-roll Voodoo can muster on what little sleep he's running on. "Figure of speech, pal."

(What happened with that kid, anyway? Something to ask Ellen when they're in D.C.)