MagiStream

Vulture

Damn I hate radroaches. They have no purpose in life but to eat, shit, and breed. Oh, and their guts are completely corrosive, as portrayed by my Velo's body resembling rusty, aluminum Swiss cheese. The missing patches catch the air as I ride, making an awful howling sound like the bike itself is crying out in pain. These outcries can be silenced by nailing various bits of scrap metal I find around the wasteland, pocketed due to strange inclinations like "I like the sheen on the surface", or "The shape reminds me of that cloud over in the distance". At this point, there's more scrap than original body. I've always wondered how long this old rusted heap of shit would keep putting along before it just gave up and died, either from old age or overuse, but never did I think about actual maintenance work necessary to the upkeep other than you know... nailing shit on. And thanks to my dumbass birdbrain, I'm stuck in this rusty tub they call Rivet City.

The moment I step into the market, it's obvious that everyone is wary of the newcomer, and when they think I'm not looking, gawking stares spring into existence before you could say rubberneckers. Oh well, worse has happened before than curious locals. Within ten seconds of closing the door behind me, a guard comes up and engages me in conversation.

So what brings you to Rivet City, miss...?" Dammit, I'm already on the watchlist.

"Vulture. Not miss, not ma'am, just Vulture. I'm looking for scrap metal, and to replenish my saddlebags."

He looks skeptical, but nods. "Then you're looking for Crazy Wolfgang. He used to be a traveling trader, but decided to settle down here, make a life for himself. You can find him at the back of the market, next to Flak and Shrapnel's stall. Just... stay out of trouble." I nod my thanks and walk to the back of the giant, cavernous room, and spot what seems to be a rusty scrap metal shack filled with all kinds of miscellaneous goods.

I have to duck under the hanging posters in the doorway to get inside the cramped room, which is rather reminiscent of a pack rat's den. It takes a minute to spot the old man behind the pile of burnt books. It seems ridiculous that a frail old relic like this used to be a strong wasteland wanderer, almost sacrilegious somehow. The wastes are a temple to those strong and smart enough to survive the terrors skulking behind that next rock, a house of worship whose lone commandment is kill or be killed. Anyone who doesn't get it may consider a place where there are more dead than living remaining to be a strange place to feel so utterly alive...