|
BoldFrankensteinMir posted:Thanks Fleta! I'm still learning Blender's video sequence editor functions with this project so future installments should go faster (eps will probably be a little shorter from now on too, but we had a lot to get through in this first one!). Thanks for being patient while I hobble together templates, raid the commons and figure out where settings are hidden by the nefarious Easter Bunny that designed this UI. Did you know Blender defaults to a 4gb cache limit like it thinks it's 2009 still? I didn't! *Groan* I'm afraid to get too close to the train tracks. Don't wanna be liable for more accidental radscorpion decimation....
|
#
?
Feb 28, 2022 17:53
|
|
|
|
| # ? May 6, 2024 15:19 |
|
|
BoldFrankensteinMir posted:There's a couple but the most noticeable is Goodsprings Filler. It adds a bunch of new NPCs and missions and a cavern area, just to flesh out the starter town a little. I was wondering about the cavern, though I certainly wouldn't have been surprised if this game had been keeping secrets from me all these years. And geeze, I've never seen the Battle of Goodsprings turn out so bloodily. RIP brave pioneers.
|
|
#
?
Feb 28, 2022 21:16
|
|
|
the text updates have been fun and even tho it was just recapping them this video was good and BFM's blender skills are showing. I'm here for this ride with you two! Also lmao at getting everyone in Goodsprings killed, rough start to the game.
|
|
#
?
Mar 2, 2022 20:45
|
|
|
Johnny 2.1: "We Got Buried in a Fever..." My stomache rumbles as I squint at the hand-painted white letters. "Warning: Deathclaws ahead!" they say, and the silhouette next to them is fearsome. As a level 1 drifter I've only heard of deathclaws, of course. But never anything good. Hello. I'm Johnny Smash.  Wattsworth and I have this "prospecting" thing down: unless it has somebody's name written on it, we grab it and bring it back home. Code of the wastes is finders' keepers, after all, but I respect the tradition of writing your name on a thing, that's valid. The memorial feels like a gray area to me- there are some labeled graves here, and we definitely leave them alone. Even though I do have a shovel with me. But, then, there are also some more recent graves:  And I mean okay, the wooden cross is sort of a marker but it's not like it has a name on it. Stealing from a grave with a name on it would be wrong, code of the wastes and all, but this, uh, well, for various reasons this is okay. Because I also have to point out:  Who buries loaded guns with a body? I mean really, that's just irresponsible, a loaded revolver, a loaded plasma rifle and a mostly full tank of gas, what if a kid found this stuff? What if some jerk who had just shot an innocent courier had flicked a cigarette butt over this way? I'd be a bad citizen if I didn't, uh, confiscate... this dead person's dangerous stuff. The other two graves were empty so no ethical gymnastics necessary. And the nearby hollowed-out rock only had a butter knife in it.  I chug some dirty water and munch on a handful of jalepenos from my dwindling supply, but I'm still hungry. From the area between the memorial and my victory garden I can see some broken fences nearby, surrounding something. It's getting late, but it's not far, so I decide to check it out.  Wattsworth tags along dutifully.  What could this fence have once stood around? Maybe a water tank? Or a door, to some secret little nook? As long as it's not more loving coyotes I should be okay, and of course, that's what it is. Of course.   The first coyote goes down easily enough to some fancy frettwork.  Turns out what the fences were protecting is a big-rear end hole, "The Devil's Gullet" according to my Pip-Boy, which seems extra keen on identifying holes in the ground for me to climb into. That tracks, though.  I wonder momentarily if climbing down into a gullet is that smart with the sun so close to the horizon, but shrug it off. Wattsworth has lights, I have lights. It'll be fine.  Looks like just one coyote down here, I can handle one coyote...   gently caress. Ignoring my own better judgement and premonitions of gruesome death, I head to the gorge and take on coyotes in the darkening dusk. Maybe to save face in front of Wattsworth? Maybe just out of petty revenge. I don't know.  I just know I am growing to loving hate coyotes.  I eventually swing my way through the mongrel horde down into the gorge along the top of a crashed 18-wheeler. I try to take the edge off the coyote bites with some herbal healing powder but it just makes me queasy. Some buffalo gourd seeds and a Nuka Cola help, but I'm still not 100%. Ow.  I find myself at the bottom of a wreckage-strewn pit, in the dark of night, trying to staunch off bloody bite wounds with pop and drugs. I make the best choices, don't I?  But, like it says in Salesman Weekly, A B C, always be cleaning (I think that's what it said), so while my head clears I tidy up the hole. Tin cans mostly, whisky bottles and some stray ammo (confiscated, too dangerous), but in the mess of tumbled-out cargo from the truck are the real treasures of Devil's Gullet.     -Blue Star Cap -Motorcycle Gas Tank -Cherry Nuka Cola (x6) The branded Nuka-Cola footlocker with an entire six-pack of Cherry in it really floors me. A desert littered with bullets, monsters and soft drinks, it's like a Coleridge poem. In Mojave did Papa Khan a stately pleasure shack decree. And to that end, Wattsworth and I abscond back to his stately shack in the dark, treasures in tow. The coyotes, thankfully, are somewhere else for once.  Four AM the following day I am out of bed and chomping on jalapenos and radioactive water. It's going to be a long one. The sun isn't even up yet as Wattsworth and I make the long walk to town. I turn my Pip-Boy light on and tune the radio to surf rock, loud, hoping between that and the clanking robot the local fauna will all be frightened off.  It's working until, excited by the lights of town, I get a little too far ahead of the pack, so to speak. I don't even realize anything is wrong until my Pip-Boy congratulates me on another kill. Vicious little thing. But what did I kill? I suddenly realize- Wattsworth!   I retrace my steps as fast as I can, sprinting towards Wattsworth's green lights in the distance. The Pip-Boy chimes off another kill, the sadist.  Two coyotes, in the dark. Wattsworth acts like it's nothing when I finally show up, but I'm nonetheless impressed by his deadliness with a face-laser. I'm glad he's on my side. I stick with him, and the rest of our walk is uneventful. Back in town I check Wattsworth over in the alley between Chet's and the saloon, where my junk heap, neat as it may be, is filling more of the stacked crates every day. He seems okay, although when I inspect Wattsworth's cargo bay I discover the limits to his ammunition situation.  I clean out the drained cells with a shudder. What will happen if we get caught out between the shack and town with no ammo for Wattsworth's face-laser? Resolving not to let that happen, I chug a beer in the softly building light of dawn to steel myself for shopping at Chet's general store. Now I hear what you're saying already fella, and you can stow it. Oh old Johnny Smash he must have a problem, just because he has to get a load on to trade guns and coyote hides and radscorpion poison to Chet for his breakfast. I'll admit, I have some social anxiety, I'm not the world's greatest salesman. I prefer conversing with the old RobCo OS over talking with people most of the time, it's true. But it's just one beer, to grease the wheels of commerce. And yeah, I have to wake Chet up in the morning before I think he was really thinking he was open, what of it? So his bodyguard gave me more of a dirty look than I thought a guy in an eyepatch could give, so what? Mind your own beeswax, daddy-o. I'm a good *belch* customer.   Speaking of RobCo, two items in Chet's inventory today catch my eye, a broken Protectron for just 36 caps, a deal I can not pass up, and then something called a RobCo Neural Command Unit. I choke a little when Chet, still sleepy-eyed, tells me the price which is way out of my range right now, but from what I can tell it's a device for increasing "robot capacity" whatever that is. Sounds promising, as do the welding torch and soldering iron he carries. I can't afford any of it.  By the time I'm done bartering with Chet I end up 45 caps down on the transaction, but I clean him out of fruits and vegetables and get a busted up old robot corpse to boot. And I even manage to remember the reason I went in there in the first place, installing 40 more energy cells into Wattsworth's backpack tanks out on the veranda. He seems relieved.  I grumble to myself as I load the dead Protectron into Wattsworth's cargo space; I am, sadly, in too foul a mood to enjoy such a remarkable feat of engineering. I can tell it's not going to work just buying enough fruits and vegetables to get a serious garden going. I'm going to need to get them some other way, if I'm ever going to make it out of Goodsprings and not be a desperate scaveging wreck the whole way.  As I sit by the crates Chet leaves out in the middle of the road for some reason, I stare into the middle distance for a bit, as is my wont to do being a great American drifter cliche and all. And, sure enough, the answer is as usual right in front of me.   Of course! There's edible plants growing all over this town, even in the cracks of the road! Using my gardening skills I can transplant all the loose, unclaimed plants to the shack. Looks like Wattsworth and I are going to go into the weed-pulling business. Confident in my new business venture, I start up the hill to the gas station, but as I pass Wattsworth I notice something I missed in the dark and drunken morning alley: battle damage.  poo poo. Sorry buddy, guess those Coyotes took a bite out of you after all. There are no cactus or peppers to scavenge at the gas station it turns out, but it's the perfect place to fix up Wattsworth. What a loyal friend, we're coyote-bite brothers. I feel for him. Which is why I'm terrified to discover the companion-healing interface on my Pip-Boy doesn't work on robots.  Neither, apparently, can I apply any healing items to Wattsworth as a general NPC, via the First Aid NVSE mod.  Now I'm getting desperate. Can I never fix Wattsworth back to full health again? Do I have to protect him all the way back to the shack and then leave him under a tarp in the garage, except once a year at bot-rod shows? I shudder to think of it. He's way too cherry to be a museum piece! That just can't be right, what am I missing?  (Turns out there is a setting in First Aid NVSE that lets you use chems on robots, but it's off by default and that makes sense. Robots can't take drugs, duh. But if I was truly stuck, I guess this would be my solution. Luckily I wasn't) My mind races over the last few days searching desperately for a solution. It's almost noon. Wattsworth waits patiently, and I just don't have the heart to tell him I'm not really RobCo certified or nuthin', I just know my way around a wrench... RobCo. Wrench? The RobCo Wrench!!!  How could I have forgotten? Those bullshit wrenches I have as decorations at the shack can't do diddly in a real sticky situation, but RobCo only makes grade-A bot wrenches. "EFFECTS Repair Robot", now that's craftsmanship.  Stand still buddy, I'm 95% sure this is how this works.  I smack Wattsworth in the face with the wrench hard enough to make sparks, and back off to make sure he's cool. I've seen what the dude can do with a glance. He looks fine. In fact, he looks better than he did.  A couple more whacks with the RobCo wrech and Wattsworth is good as new. Not only am I relieved that there's a way to heal robots, I'm delighted that it's the most ridiculous looking one possible. Johnny Smash doesn't need to choose between repairing and smashing. Johnny Smash repairs *by* smashing. RobCo Wrench has earned a permanent spot on my quick-select, along with old Guitar and "whatever food I have more than 2 left of".  Speaking of food, my rumbling stomach reminds me what I set out to do in the first place today was gather more of it. It's already afternoon and other than a few ears of corn from Chet's and some gourds growing in the road, I'm no closer to the victory garden of my dreams. I've hosed around long enough, it's time to dig up enough edible plants to get me across the state on foot without starving to death!  I resolve not to take anything from people's yards, name written on it or not (though most people's gardens, I notice, do have names written on them. These folks know the code of the wastes). I try to strike up a conversation with Monty Peterson again, but he's having none of it. At least he's polite about it.  Luckily I do remember where there are some plants- behind the old schoolhouse (and, yes, behind Paul's dumpster), I pick and uproot enough jalapeno plants to, along with what's left in my inventory, actually start something of a real garden. A pepper garden won't do much for thirst but that's another problem entirely, for food it's a start!  I manage to scrounge a couple xander roots and a horse-nettle plant from the edge of town, but none of it is what I'd call appetizing fare. The chiles are by far the best tasting thing I've scrounged, and a diet of 80+% raw jalepenos sounds... medically compromising. In ways I don't want to even explore cautiously, so, the onus is on me to find more edible edibles. That's when I remember- the junk yard behind the repair shop. There was a cave back there.  Lots of stuff grows in caves, right? 
|
|
#
?
Mar 8, 2022 05:33
|
|
|
oh gently caress what's in the cave?! *Seinfeld popcorn gif but with dumpster jalapeños*
|
|
#
?
Mar 21, 2022 21:41
|
|
|
Johnny 2.2: "...Hotter than a (Dumpster) Pepper Sprout" In search of more-than-just-jalepeno garden starts for transplant to Wattsworth Gardens (I like that name, don't you? It's WW's joint, after all), I find myself in yet another dark hole in the ground, Goodsprings Cavern. Goodsprings has a couple of these nooks to explore, one up by the traveling merchant stop, and this one behind Edgecomb Repair's junk pile, and that's just that I know of. I'm sure the Pip-Boy will alert me to more if they're out there. I have to remind myself that the Pip-Boy I'm using for dang-near everything now is designed for Vault-Dwellers, so of course it's gonna have a predilection to caves. Oh man does it love caves. When there's a cave nearby, it has a fit, it gushes cash-register noises and hard-edits a bunch of its maps, I'm a little concerned how dead-set it is on knowing where the caves are. That and killing stuff, which is fine. Hello, I'm Johnny Smash. But I never much cared for spelunking before, I always just figured caves were filthy and full of rats? Still, I guess my prescription computerized gauntlet knows best. I was right about Goodsprings Sewer, being filthy, and full of rats. Maybe Goodsprings Cavern will be different?  There's lumber roads on the floor, that's nice. It's maintained, there are lanterns. And lovely green glowing mushrooms, which are promising. I follow a series of hallways with mushrooms growing out of the walls at comical angles. Maybe this isn't going to be so bad. I pick left in the first split of the cave, and of course it's going to be so bad, why would I think it wouldn't be? When will I learn? It's mole-rats. Again.  I bash a couple of rats with my trusty guitar on pure revulsion instinct before I stop to notice how tiny they are compared to the rats I fought before. Just pups compared to the dog-sized ones that chewed my face off. I mean a puppy-sized rat is still a monstrous rat, but I feel like I have earned some perspective on giant rat bites by now. These aren't as monstrous.  I momentarily feel bad, as I wipe yet more rat blood off my guitar. Like these relatively-less-monstrous rats might not be as noble sport or something?  Of course, having let my guard down, I am immediately mauled by a good old regular-sized monstrous rat.  Because I am an idiot who questions defending himself against the horrible monstrous rats if they're even slightly less horribly monstrous. This wasteland is literally gonna chew a goody-goody like me up.  Kill one or two mole-rats, get killed, despair, repeat. Level 1 Drifter vs Rat Hole II: the fight by stalactite is just as difficult as the first bout in Goodsprings Sewer was, with just as many frustrated save-scums after just as many horrible deaths. Because of course it is, I'm still functionally the same Level 1 Drifter, same weapon, same armor. But the swarms of rat babies that only hit for half my health with a single bite, and only take three swings of a sledgehammer to kill, those are different this time. It's like I'm fighting the same number of hit points in a different formation. Gotta change up the strategy. I might actually risk a healing item here or there.  Though the chances of getting snuck up on also go up. More targets to track. So many different flavors of rats eating my face, what a delight. I am gouged repeatedly over dozens of attempts.  (I'm the idiot who took the "I don't mind grinding trash mobs" perk, I only have myself to blame). I have to give Goodsprings Cavern credit, it's not the same exact rat stomp as Goodsprings Sewer. Instead of 2-3 identical medium sized mole rats per room, which was a challenge of its own, this dungeon has waves of little rat pups protecting one regular size or even jumbo-sized rat in each room.  The furthest back chamber ups the ante with two regulars and one large. Oh what bliss. A tiered rat boss.  The Mole-Rat Pack. Knife-Teeth: 12 HP: way too loving much  It is dumb how much damage the big rat can take, and it is exactly as fast as the two medium sized guys which is also dumb. The entire rat pack at once is impossible to deal with, they're just a tornado of teeth, so I watch them from the shadows for a bit, and case the joint. The big guy walks to the back of the cavern behind an old picnic table sometimes. I see my chance.  I grab the two normal rats' attention while their boss is behind the picnic table, and kite them back through the cave. Using my coyote-swatting technique I run backwards while striking forward with the full swing of my upper body, swerving to avoid gnashing teeth, and I manage to knock one down. But by now, the big guy has caught up with me.  I get lucky. Backed up against a ramp of aluminum siding I get the high ground on the big rat and wail on him until his head explodes. One of his bodyguards is dead but I see no sign of the other one. Even with the big rat's head sheered clean off by a mighty VATS-aided guitar-strike finisher I refuse to let my guard down. There's still one of these guys in here somewhere. I can hear him snufflin'  I find the little bastard back in the room of the cavern where I fought another giant rat with its pups. It's a good thing I already wiped them out or I'd have another, potentially even harder-to-sneak-up-on rat pack teethnado on my hands.  We fly at eachother and strike simultaneously mid-air, but only I, barely, survive. Another extremely hard level 1 animal fight, and I still haven't leveled up. God help me.  Goodsprings Sewer and Cavern have a lot in common ultimately, they're just a couple branching paths and some disturbingly tough rats arranged in waves guarding piddly junk and ammo caches, and a locked door that leads deeper. And one safe I have no hope of opening.  They both even have a garbled computer message, the Sewers' on a terminal and the Caverns' on a holotape cartridge labeled, promisingly, "Hidden Treasure Code".   Despite being made of the same ingredients though, Goodsprings' two local rat-stomps (that I know of) are in very different proportions, and play differently. The Cavern has mixed units of rats, and a door that requires a key, it can't even be picked.  Goodsprings Cavern also gave me my first throwable weapon, in the form of a landmine, and a bunch of other semi-interesting junk left strewn about what looks like a cafe? At some point somebody might have been running a restaurant out of here, which would explain what looks like a fridge. At least I think it's a weird little cafe with a fridge down here in this cavern, I'm fairly concussed after all.  Score! Fresh potato and mutfruit, exactly the sort of things I'm looking for. But the very best is in another side room, one with a busted up liquor cabinet and some soiled mattresses. I'm not even gonna guess what the locals used this room for.  Cave fungus! And not the green kind you can't pull off the walls to save your life, these are nice ripe red cave fungus, perfect for growing somewhere dank and dark. I know a couple spots. I high-tail it out of the hole, thoroughly sick of fighting rats in the dark, still level 1 dammit. I give Wattsworth the stray energy cells I found in the cavern, and the mole-rat meat. His cargo area is nearly full with wild game and scavenged electronics now, just as a well-to-do gentlemanly robot's boot ought to be, wot wot. Watt watt?  Our plant-hunt is off to a good start but dayight's a wastin'. Wattsworth and I comb the hills West of the schoolhouse but find no fruits or veggies. I do spot Victor hanging out at his shack at the edge of town, though. I scavenge a few bottles and an old baseball glove on the way out to see him.  Is it weird that the nicest places in Goodsprings belong to robots? I would think human creativity would be more on display, I mean other than that gaudy-as-hell sign at the Prospector, nobody in town seems to have decorated their homestead with much more than a few wilty crops.  But not Victor, his place is magnificent, with christmas lights and an old timey flag. I'm not sure if he actually fits through his own front door, but the interior is no less lovely as well.  Yes I go in, and yes I help myself to tools and batteries and the pilot light from Victor's oven. He hasn't written his name on any of them and I don't even know if he can fit in here- the guy's so nice I'm sure he won't mind either way. His place is still much nicer than most humans' homes I've seen. He even has clean, unirradiated water, which is a step above Wattsworth's place.  Wattsworth's tap water does make shaving easier, the hair just falls off. But I think I might still use the sink over here from now on. Other than a few horsenettle plants the only thing worth scavenging from the Southwest edge of town is an old issue of Lad's Life in a mailbox. It gets me thinking about barbecue.  We work our way to Goodsprings Source where there are a few camp fires still smoldering, a perfect place to smoke up some mole-rat steaks, mmm mmm. En route I come across a lone bloatfly.  I work out some anxiety slapping the pig-sized insect out of the air with my guitar.  Filthy monsters. But hey, after two whole introductory rat-stomps a coyote boss and a couple monster flies, I finally level the gently caress up. Woo!  Melee, repair and science are no-brainers but even though it's not my usual wheelhouse I figure even a few more points in barter now are gonna pay off majorly in the long run. I'm kinda tired of Chet price gouging me even when I just dragged him out of his bed at dawn. Jerk.  The perk is a much harder choice, I am very, VERY interested in Crazed Inventor, which will supposedly let me build my own junkbots using appliances and such. But I just can't pass up the chance to get my real genuine RobCo cert, it's been a long-held dream for this old grease-monkey. RobCo's offices may have gone quiet centuries ago but you'd be surprised how many commercial bots are still walking around with their original firmware, which cares a whole lot about not voiding the lifetime warranty. I've seen pincer-fights over it.  +5 Barter +3 Melee +3 Repair +3 Science New perk= RobCo Certified With that certification (by my wristwatch, for smooshing a bug) there's a whole swath of models I'm now qualified to work on, no metal claws flailing in objection at all. This includes that classic Mr Handy I got up on blocks at Wattsworth's, and the Protectron wreckage compressed in his trunk. I'm eager to get back home, elbow-deep in robot guts, but we still need to grill all this rat meat.  With some pro tips from the Lad's Life (including using the magazine itself as kindling) I cook up a stack of rat steaks, some coyote and bloatfly bits too, and even straighten out a few tin cans. It's amazing what you can do with an old tire fire and hunks of monsterflesh! I can hardly wait to get wrenchin' on bots but as I gather cans and bottles near a big road sign on the way back home, I spot a stranger with dual bandoleers and an octagonal looking face. We get to talking, and he warns me about a sacked caravan North of here.  When pressed about what exactly makes the North passage so dangerous, his response is merely "Deathclaws... death in general. But it's your rear end, I suppose". drat right it is. I chug a beer and sell him all my bullets for 37 caps. Wattsworth and I luck out and find a couple more buffalo gourds growing on the way back home, we even manage to avoid any coyotes. I snack on one of their roasted packmates as we go and get home before dark, not starving or dying of thirst or anything. Not too shabby! I jump straight into my work on the Mr Handy, still chilling on the toilet next to the shelf of spare parts.  It's a remarkably simple process to get the bot up and running again, just a new battery and a pile of gears, press "repair robot"...  ... and presto! A sentient being! The ramifications are whatever, I'm not just playing God anymore, I'm a certified pro at this.  As expected, this new friend immediately prints out a warranty card instead of trying to strangle me for tinkering above my station, thank goodness. Cerulean Robotics huh? Must be a local subcontractor.  The no-frills protectron is up next, he's even easier. Legs are way less tricky than hoverskirts any day, and I have lots of practice from wrenching Wattsworth who is far more advanced.  Now I have three friends! THREE! That's more than, uh, ever, I guess. My Pip-Boy tells me I even have the bandwidth to manage 2 more which is just nuts. Has anyone ever had FIVE friends before? Certainly not. Nobody's that popular. After a few hours of dead-tired sleep, I gather my new clickity-clack clique and all the vegetables we scavenged and finally get Wattsworth Gardens looking good. Real good, in fact!        Agave, barrel cactus, prickly pear, xander root, buffalo gourd, we even plant tobacco and horsenettle, and a little cave fungus by the repair toilet. The potatoes and mutfruit will have to wait for now, as they require some kind of watering system I'm not ready for yet, but the main staples, corn and jalepenos, are plentiful enough I shouldn't have to worry about food anymore. Mission accomplished.  We only suffer one radscorpion attack the whole time too, which is pretty good, and it reveals that Mr. Handy not only has a British accent but still believes in a Queen and some kind of Country? He's a surprisingly effective guard for a robot designed to walk dogs and diaper babies, so I think he'll live outside.  I even set up the containers inside using Stash Organizer. There's only 3 (for now) making organization limited, but it's enough for a simple food sorting system, to really cap the facility off. And a cool side effect of setting it all up is I can re-name the cell. Wattsworth Gardens is officially open for business!  With the old rebuilt bots to mind the garden and the garage, Wattsworth is now free to join me on my quest. I have a robot butler full of corn and laser ammo, a bandoleer's worth of jalepenos and a whole level to my name. How bad could this Northern passage full of deathclaws really be?
|
|
#
?
Apr 7, 2022 11:07
|
|
|
Twelve goddamn years and there's still no addon for that mod that allows you to turbocharge your robot buddies with Nuka-Cola Quantum.
|
|
#
?
Apr 24, 2022 03:35
|
|
|
Johnny Smash 2.3: Bury Me Not on the Sloan Prairie I can't say we've got the crowd I expected now that Wattsworth Gardens is open for business, but I'm choosing to count the two hunters that frequent the area around the fuselage shack and the war memorial- so, we got something. Were they already out here? Possibly. But now they have a cultural hub, see? That stuff is important in the wasteland.  The Mr Handy considers scorpions the enemies of some long dead empire and attacks them with a colonialist's zest for violence. The coyotes are kept out by the hunters and the junker protectron tends the toilet mushrooms- all in all it's a happenin' spot.  I buy a cool knife and some home-made antivenom off one of the hunters too. Nice folks.  Meanwhile, our own hunt awaits. Wattsworth and I check our weapons as we tromp past the deathclaw warning signs heading North by Northeast. Time to bag us a bigbird.  As the memorial cross slips ever behind us, I hear gunfire, and what sounds like explosives going off to the Southeast. We stick to the gray stone walls of the canyon and keep a low profile. Well, I do. Wattsworth has one walk setting and it's "smashing tin cans for recycling".  Luckily all we come across is a lone bloatfly, which I dispatch with my usual twang. The wood of my guitar club is so soaked in icor now it adheres to my jupsuit's back easily, with no need for straps or supports of any kind. Neato.  As we round more walls of stone I catch site of some old industrial equipment on the other side, tall enough to peek over the cliffs.  I can't help but notice that the red paint on all these "Warning, deathclaws" signs is exactly the same shade as Wattsworth's custom paint job. There's a story there, I bet.  Eventually we rejoin the road, and carefully make our way north, picking the best bits from bloatfly carnage and the remains of a dead ghoul I find under a crumbling overpass. Another loaded laser weapon just left around for anybody to find. Tsk tsk.  As we approach a small group of red corrugated metal shacks on the left, a man in a construction hat flags me down. A man named Chomps.  Chomps Lewis is the latest scaredy-pants to warn me against continuing this way, but at least I'm able to ask some follow-up questions now. What I am not, sadly, able to discuss with him is the incredible storied trumpet career that a man named Chomps Lewis must have had. That's pound for pound the jazziest name I've heard in a long time. We talk about Powder Gangers, and how New Vegas is a big money trap, and what a dragline is, and of course, deathclaws. But not a word about proper embouchure. He's clearly protecting his trade secrets.  When I tell Chomps that I mean to take care of his little deathclaw problem on my way through town, he tells me I don't look the part. Oh ye of little faith, Chompsky. He says something about a breeding pair, gotta kill the alpha male and the brood mother in the nearby quarry, got it. But before I glide through this undoubtedly simple task, I decide to check out the little ring of shacks the quarry-workers call Sloan.  Sloan is not even half the size of Goodsprings, and falling apart even faster, which is impressive. There's even a molerat wandering around in the open, which I briefly consider stomping, but I notice the nametag in time. Code of the wastes, I guess "Snuffles" belongs to somebody. Gross. I make my way inside as quick as I can.  The Sloan Mess Hall is not what you'd call a 5-star eatery, but then I'm pretty sure nobody from Zagat's has been through in a century or two so, it's all subjective. Jas Wilkins, proprietor, serves cold beer and cocktails, and has some great stories from back West. I crack a beer, trade her some steaks for a sixpack and something called an Atomic Cocktail that I couldn't resist, and we jabber for a bit about the quality of pre-war rations these days. Nice gal.  Now, you may be thinking, gosh Johnny, you sure are brave to head out deathclaw hunting after all those warnings. The scrawled signs and terrified townsfolk and all that. First of all, thank you kindly, I like to think I have a certain... daring do. But to be totally honest, friend, by now even an experienced, level 2 badass like myself can't help but have a couple nagging doubts. Those drawings I keep seeing on rocks and wood scraps, they're a little intimidating, not gonna lie.  Which is why thank goodness for Jas Wilkins, best barkeep this side of Dogtown. Just as I'm getting a buzz on and dancing around my doubts, she tells me the most charming story about a deathclaw that her grandma out West in the original NCR territories kept... in a chicken coop. A chicken coop! I drat-near laugh my head off at that, and my fears dissipate. Her gramma had a recipe for deathclaw egg omelettes she says, and I agree to bring her back one. Hell, I'll bring you six in a little paper carton! A chicken coop, hilarious.  My drink finished, I gather Wattsworth from the dance floor, thank Jas again for lifting my spirits, and stumble back out into the sun, still laughing. In a chicken coop! I even manage to snatch a sarpsarilla cap from another table on my way out the door, and would you look at that? Another blue star.  I spend a little more time in Sloan picking up bottles and cans, like I do, but there's no more special bottle caps. These guys are lucky I'm honest, in their office are two suitcases just crammed with regular caps, not even locked or anything. All I help myself to is a couple Nuka Colas outside in the freebies box, which I'm coming to expect in Nevada towns. I like it, free mixers is a great tradition.   I fix the generator near the Sloan barracks without even thinking about it, some fool has just put the pieces back together all wrong, and the workers in their barracks even seem grateful to me for a change.   It's a shame nobody just read that copy of Dean's Electronics on the shelf by the toy dinosaur and did it themselves. Is anybody even gonna notice if I... no, I tell myself, no. It's the code of the wastes.  Full of confidence and a couple breakfast beers I saunter north out of town with Wattsworth ever dutifully beside me. A few of the quarry workers give me sideways looks but I don't care, they'll all be singing a different tune when I come back with 4 or 8 dead deathclaws and a basket of giant eggs. A... giant basket, I guess. I dunno, I might have to make several trips for all my trophies. Pff. Chicken coop.  Just as I'm considering building a cart for all the eggs I'm definitely bringing home, my Pip Boy alerts me to a hostile figure up ahead.  Of course so do my eyes, and ears, and feet, because the spiky beige thing coming at us is pretty big and shakes the ground with every step. And is it... 11 feet tall?  Kinda hard to tell when it's moving so fast. But that's okay, you want it head-on mr deathclaw, that's no problem for Johnny Smash! Batter up!  Oh no.  Okay so... I learned a few things. Deathclaws can rip me and my robot companion to pieces in an instant, good to know. My guitar club does aproximately 0 damage to them, even if I stand there wailing on their head directly several times it just seems to make them angry enough to twist my neck and the guitar neck around each other like a rope. This... is not good. But I can't give up quite yet. Because what's that just to the other side of this horrifying not-at-all-like-a-chicken-what-were-you-thinking monster?  I knew there'd be a hotel out here eventually!
|
|
#
?
May 27, 2022 23:52
|
|
|
Those deathclaws aren't going anywhere unless you have a fat man and enough mini nukes to lay waste to every settlement in the Mojave.
|
|
#
?
Jun 20, 2022 15:30
|
|
|
Special thanks to Acroterion for graphics source photography and Jokerine for the amazing Newline Town mod! Johnny Smash ep 2.4: Blood, Sweat and Gears Maybe I'm overthinking this. Deathclaws are nasty sure, but this landmine I picked up in Goodsprings Cavern should shred up anything living, right? It's a fearsome bird sure, but it's not an armored tank.  I just have to place the mine right, then lure the deathclaw back towards us. As long as Wattsworth doesn't run up ahead...  Which of course he does. At least I figure out the landmine isn't going to help before the deathclaw rips us both into gruesome chunks again. I did like two pips of damage, maybe? gently caress.  It pains me but Wattsworth may just not be up to the task of stalking deathclaws. He's pretty helpless in a hunt unless his prey is stone deaf, to be honest, but I don't say anything nearly as rude as that. I just ask him to guard Sloan for a bit while I sneak off. I'll come back for ya, pal.  I manage to sneak a little further this time and find a shack full of salvage. Fission batteries, a steam assembly, scrap metal, it's all the treasure I can carry! And it's just sitting out here in the open, why hasn't anyone...  Oh right. Laden down with treasure I make easy prey for pure death a-walkin'. Wattsworth stays behind, I sneak North, PAST the fabulous treasure of the dilapidated shack, my Pip-boy blaring a red CAUTION at me the whole way. I'm closer than ever to the mysterious hotel, which has some kind of gear-themed flag waving over it.  The pip-boy alert switches to DANGER and I cower behind a cliff. The deathclaw can't possibly see me, or hear me, I'm too far from the road. There's a wall of solid rock between me and the road! I'm almost to the hotel, I have a clear shot, I got this.  The deathclaw drops down on me from the cliff like an avalanche of ugly knives and football leather. I don't got this. Wattsworth stays behind. Sneak North. No treasure! Go slowly!! I don't even skirt the road, I go due loving East almost, anything to avoid that stupid deathclaw. I call bullshit as my Pip-boy flashes danger, once again. Really?  Oh it's a scorpion. And not even a car-sized one! Do you think they call these ones bark scorpions on account of they're about the size of coyotes? They take about as many hits with a guitar to kill as a coyote too. I would know. The Pip-boy warnings continue blaring as I stomp another scorpion, and a third approaches me. Just as I'm wondering if this route is really that much of an improvement; death by dog-sized scorpions vs death by 10 foot tall superchicken; when from over the hill to the north I hear gunfire. Lots of gunfire. Traditional and the laser-variety. Somebody's shooting a whole lot at something, or each other, or who knows what, up ahead. Towards the hotel. The guns are loud enough to send the third scorpion skittering away in a panic.  Cresting the hill I am just in time to see a remarkable sight: my friend the deathclaw attacking someone else for a change. Up near the hotel (which I now realize is an old train service tunnel with some interesting renovations), a pair of caravaners try to defend themselves with junky old guns. I pull my guitar out and start sprinting, but I know I'll never close the distance in time. In fact I'm pretty sure the deathclaw is just going to kill me for dessert after eating these two and their brahmin and all their cargo, but just as I'm imagining that fireworks display of gore, the tables turn. A pair of mysterious robots appear. Emerging from the train tunnel, something like a stripped-down protectron storms towards the deathclaw, blasting away with the rifle gripped in its clumsy fingers. Meanwhile a turret on the roof provides the laser fire I had heard earlier, and between all four sources, the deathclaw is dead before I even arrive.  I walk up to the freshly killed deathclaw as the robot and the merchants walk away, lighting cigarettes and chatting with each other. Looking over the dead abomination, I can't help but think it's smaller than before. Is it even the same one? In Sloan they did say there was a whole nest out here.  Now I might not be the most charming fellow in the wastes, but ol' Johnny Smash can do math, you better believe it. It takes 4 gunners to down just one relatively runty deathclaw, and I have a guitar. I reckon, while peering up and down the road, straining my eyes for signs of more murderous ultrachickens, that the idea of me fighting a whole nest of older, more experienced deathclaws all by myself might be... ambitious. Just a tad. Luckily this runty one has an egg on its person, and nobody else seems to care, so I grab it. Omelette recipe here I come. I sever the creature's hand too, because why not? The bots back home will get a kick out of it. Might make a decent rake.  I munch on maize and molerat steaks as I approach the small merchant's tent to the side of the hotel structure. The caravan merchant and her guard are remarkably calm for having just survived a deathclaw attack- perhaps they're just used to it by now? Me, I need a beer, I don't care what time it is.  I trade the recharger rifle and weird cult robes for some scrap metal, a fireman's helmet and set of standard prospector's clothes, so I'll finally look official while selling junk. All in all I'm down 22 caps, leaving me with 39 to my name. I hope it's not too fancy a hotel. Around the front of the tunnel I can finally read the spray-painted road sign under the neon HOTEL letters: "Welcome To Newline. We sell ice cream".  Guarding the immense crisscrossing metal doors to Newline is a protectron my Pip Boy IDs as "Shirreff". He's lanky, with custom joints to let him hold a standard rifle. Very nice work. I introduce myself, glancing over Shirreff's shoulder vent at the spinning klaxons inside the hotel. Shirreff's clearly custom lights blink as he responds.  I nod in agreement, definitely don't want to do that, I'll just be going over here then, just checking my mail, la la la. Shirreff does not consider me an interference, thank goodness. I can tell this guy has sentrybot AI, so that plus the custom limbs, frame, lights, the works, just, dang. I mean it's no cherry Teslatron like Wattsworth but, still, whoever rebuilt this guy is no slouch. My interest in the Newline Hotel deepens. Looking for another, less heavily guarded entrance to the hotel I find an intercom panel, and as coincidence would have it just as I'm about to press the button, someone yells for help over the other end. Huh, what are the odds?  Husvik, as the computerized voice quickly introduces itself, sounds more than a little panicked, and does a terrible job of explaining what emergency has this whole place on klaxon-blaring lock-down. They just unlock the door and tell me to hurry to "town hall". Shirreff steps aside allowing me through the huge metal gate, which slams shut immediately behind me.  Inside I'm surprised to see the small, closed train tunnel has been converted to some kind of festive marketplace. As promised there's even ice cream, but that stand like the rest is abandoned. As much as I want to explore, there's some kind of vague emergency on. I find the door marked town hall and enter. I am confronted by a floating electrocardiogram monitor wearing a bandana.  So you're Husvik huh? I've heard about medibot probes like this but clearly there's some aftermarket parts involved, wait, what about my blood???  Oh! Suddenly everything makes sense. The laser turret protecting the caravan locked outside the gate, the yellow alert blaring inside it, the jury-rigged emergency bots losing their poo poo. Somebody built this hotel as a little automated oasis for themselves out here. Somebody who now needs a blood transfusion. Never let it be said that Johnny Smash doesn't roll up his sleeves to help. I even take the pack of cigarettes out first.  Husvik immediately starts running tests on the blood, muttering about how the boss "doesn't trust people anymore". I can't help but smile- I'd probably donate blood to anybody who needed it, but for a fellow antisocial bot salvager? It's a no-brainer. Can't wait to meet them. Husvik pumps the blood sample into a nearby autodoc, which after a moment slides open with a hiss of steam, revealing the inhabitant. Unsurprisingly, they're in a vault suit.  Surprisingly though, they're a cyborg. Didn't see that one coming. Husvik and their master exchange a brief explanation: the cyborg fell off the roof, his robot arm came off, blood etc, lock-down for the whole joint. Thank goodness I was around to replace the blood part. I introduce myself.  Oliver seems like a nice enough guy who has really been through the ringer. He's thankful for the blood, but all the same hurries for the door to go lift the lock-down and get things "back to normal". I get the feeling there's more to this hotel than I know. A lot more.  "Town Hall" is, as far as I can tell, Oliver's medical bay and personal quarters. I don't try to snoop after he's left the room, per se, but... well there are a few objects that beg so many questions, like this rocking horse, "fine cotton":  He reads Corny Magazine, which I've never even heard of.  Oliver has quite the collection of electronics down here, there are hand-held radio receivers, a calculator, even a briefcase computer that I am, no lie, extremely jealous of.  I mean I would personally password protect mine but I'm not gonna tell the man how to run his business.  His deeply, deeply personal business. Oh my. I make sure to close the briefcase computer carefully, especially after noticing the security camera watching me. Just looking around, really! Heh. My Pip-boy IDs the camera as being named Kovach. Weird?  On my way out I chat with Husvik, who is much less pushy now Oliver isn't dying so much. Husvik is more than a little protective of his primary user, methinks. As much as selling my blood makes sense in a desperate kind of way, I decline the offer to give up more for caps; for now. Blood-sucking robot with antennae for hands or not, you can never know enough doctors in the wasteland. To that end, I buy a doctor's bag for 21 caps, leaving me with just 18, and Kovach says goodbye as I leave. Very weird.  I exit Newline Town Hall and return to the bazaar, which is transformed in the absence of lockdown sirens and klaxons. Half a dozen different robots, some I recognize and some I don't and all with unique modifications have come out from the woodwork to man the stands and benches. Newline isn't just a robot hotel, I discover. It's a whole compact robot town.  I kick myself for leaving Wattsworth behind, he would have loved this place. But honestly it's crowded as it is, there are so many custom robots around. Part of me rejoices- i've always had more luck with machines than townsfolk. What about machine townsfolk? The more I walk through the Newline market the more I find. Stores and workshops crammed behind old tunnel access doors, divided and subdivided into a mall of shops, each run by another custom bot. Oliver has been busy, there are a LOT of salvaged robots in here. Most of them with fancy hats and stories to tell.  Clerke is a floating sarsaparilla ad in a straw cowboy hat, with an adorable accent to his voice module that calls me "pardner" a lot. He has some impressive cryonics installed, and uses them as the proprieter of the famous ice cream stand. Clerke admits a few of the recipes are experimental, which explains all the copy in his menu about the treats being fire retardant. I'll pass for now.  Dixson is an old-school factory protectron painted up in a gaudy checkerboard pattern. No custom mechanics like Shireff, much closer to factory standard configurations of hardware and software as far as I can tell- clanky, on both counts. He describes himself as the "town's officially sanctioned ecdysiast". Being well-read enough to know what that means, I quickly excuse myself from his graphic explanation.  Royds is a robot dog who I swear I've seen somewhere before. Who would build such a thing?  At first I mistake Leith for a human in a leather jacket and metal helmet, until I see the empty space through the limbs and neck. I've heard about androids but never seen one before. Leith has little to say to me about his business here, other than identifying himself as a former assassin, and telling me I don't need to know any more. I agree wholeheartedly.  Leith's companion, a blue-eyed gynoid in a beautifully embroidered dress, is extremely rude to me. I laugh it off and ask her how she came to be here, only to be given a sarcastic story about the Kingdom of Haute, the silver streets of which she was paraded through as ruler on pink elaphant-back each morning. When I politely call 'Queen Limanora' on her fanciful story, she admits it's a lie, insults my intelligence, and tells me to leave her alone. Amazingly life-like tech.  Dinea, another floating probe, runs the local haberdashery, where she makes a lovely assortment of hats, several of which I would look good in out shopping at the general store if I do say so myself. I was starting to wonder where all these local robots were getting such fine hats. Ironically, from someone who can't wear one herself due to a massive antenna (which she says used to be even bigger before she got attacked by wild dogs. Been there, girlfriend). She fills me in on her model specs: eyebot, a Repconn creation, clearly with several iterations. Husvik is a medical droid and Clerke is essentially an intelligent soda machine, and they're both based on the prototype run Dinea belonged to. Impressive.  Commander X63A82, Dinea's obnoxious roommate, is a typical Gutsy model, though I think he might be a compact (though I would not mention that). Standard quartermaster software, selling all manner of weaponry he guards with a crackling plasma pistol for a hand. I can't help but eye the pyramid of energy cells for sale, but I've been window-shopping for hours and it's dark out, and considering the poo poo I went through to get here I'm sure as gently caress not sleeping outside in the dark. I have 18 caps. Where's that hotel?  I immediately know I'm in trouble upon stepping into the "Bon Voyage" gift shop, a tiny utility closet lined with shelves and shelves of books and magazines, many of which I have never even heard of before. I fall into a hushed awe at this hidden library, all for sale, and me with hardly any caps in my pocket. Johnny Smash's famous luck strikes again.  The gift shop is run by another compact bot, this one a RobCo Brainbot with a very interesting paint job. Name of Smyley. Before I have a chance to ask Smyley about their impressive collection, they thank me profusely for attending their birthday party.  Oh. Uh yeah, of course! Wouldn't miss it for the world, friend. I quickly drop a baseball glove and baseball I was saving in a nearby gift bag, and help myself to some "snacks" when directed. A battery on a stick, and what appears to be some gears between pieces of very old toast. I hold them as if I was going to eat them, and bop along to the music a little. Fun party. Smyley calls me his best friend, which is sweet. My curiosity finally gets the better of me; what's with the moon and stars paint job and the little kid voice module?  Ohh... the processing unit was "collected" early to... I see. Wow. Yeah, I bet that was controversial, uh gosh Smyley look at the time! This has been fun but I gotta be going, happy "birth" day and all, whatever that... so long! Enjoy the... children's toys, designed for human hands uh dammit where is that hotel anyway?  Finally I find the dang hotel, though it's really no more than a commons room, in the very back of the crowded tunnel that is Newline town. A motley gang of robots inhabits the little speakeasy up front, with a table for cards and a jury-rigged slot machine made of an old cash register.  Stromness, the bartender, is a navy blue Handy compact with another delightful accent. He talks up a storm as I peruse the mostly non-edible non-potable menu, and eventually he offers me a job finding him bottles of glue. The money is good so I make a note of it, but as I do I notice the cyborg mayor of Newline walk in. He's hard to miss.  Oliver takes a seat near the piano with a couple bots- Howe, another elongated protectron that may or may not be the bouncer, and a guy in a baseball cap that I'm not sure is even ambulatory, my Pip Boy just IDs it as "drunk robot". I sidle over and join them.  Oliver and I chat for a while and I can't help but like the guy. The bots all have their own star-optics stories of being rescued across the wastes from here to DC, but Oliver himself is simply matter-of-fact about it. His vault was raided by cannibals and he almost died in the escape, but was saved by a salvaged medical eyebot, Husvik, starting a lifelong fascination with reclaimed bots. Nowadays his clique-of-a-button does more work out here than I realized, trading with regular caravans, repairing tech, clearing radioactive zones, building this little oasis up despite the death claws which, once I hear a little more, I realize are a feature and not a bug. Oliver's not unfriendly really, we even briefly discuss the possibility of him tutoring me on robotics (once I can afford it), but he clearly prefers the company of the mechanical. I can relate, but that only goes so far. He strongly insinuates that I'm welcome to stay... for a night.  The last bot in joint is the innkeeper Mariholm, a security camera that claims to have a sentry turret's AI salvaged from a life of slaughter. I determine quickly that I should not try and haggle the price, despite being 2 caps short. Luckily, there's a piano in the bar.  I play every song I know for 2 hours and manage to make 8 caps from the locals. Not much, but enough. The room in back is tiny but it'll have to do. I collapse on the bed but don't fall asleep immediately, I've met more robotic vendors and townsfolk in the last few hours than I ever thought existed out here and my head is abuzz with possibilities. The treasures they have hoarded away in here! Gear, ammunition, books upon books! If I had more than 8 caps to my name I could really get seriously equipped here. If only.  I play the radio for a little bit in the tiny room before falling asleep on the bottom bunk. They get a station here I couldn't get back in Goodsprings, featuring somebody named Best Friend Tabatha screaming about Super Mutants and "protecting" humans by shooting them on sight. What a wasteland. Right before passing out I have a thought. I check the Pip-boy logs from today charting my vitals, and as far as I can tell there have been no permanent effects on my health from me donating blood here. As I drift off I wonder, how much plasma can one man safely donate, anyway?  What should Johnny Smash do next? -Camp here a while, trading blood (which I THINK won't affect my health) and piano songs for a heap of Newline treasures? And do I try to speed up the process by gambling at the slots? -Continue sneaking North through probably impossible deathclaw country? Also, are you nuts? -Go back and get Wattsworth, explore the lovely-sounding nearby "state of Utobitha"? -A combination of these things? Something else entirely?
|
|
#
?
Jul 15, 2022 07:07
|
|
|
i now love new line and want to see more of it, please
|
|
#
?
Jul 15, 2022 18:18
|
|
|
biosterous posted:i now love new line and want to see more of it, please
|
|
#
?
Jul 15, 2022 18:39
|
|
|
I demand more new line
|
|
#
?
Jul 15, 2022 18:57
|
|
|
|
| # ? May 6, 2024 15:19 |
|
|
Stay a while, make some caps. Once you've spent enough time in Newline, take Wattsworth to Utobitha. The two of you will have a blast.
|
|
#
?
Oct 21, 2022 19:27
|
|