((OOC: Also my opening post. It can do other things, why shouldn't it?))
Twain shifted uncomfortably on the cold steel of the dumpster floor. He had camped out there for the night but hadn't slept. Actually, he hadn't slept much in the last 4 days. Ever since they left Megaton in search of Rivet City, or hell, if you wanted to be technical, since they left The Vault. He had been too busy being in constant fear for his life.
He had already fully established in his mind that he hated himself for leaving the Vault in the first place, but what had possessed him to leave the somewhat inhabitable settlement of Megaton? Sure, they had been told they couldn't stay long but he was a technological genius, he probably could have earned himself a home if he helped out with the repairs around town or had taken a crack at that bomb. The worst that could have happened would be the bomb going off and then he wouldn't have to worry about pesky things like survival anyway.
God, I think I'm losing it.
He pressed his ear to the rusted metal for a few moments, listening to see if he could hear anything outside his trash receptacle haven. After two counts of one hundred he readied himself for the second stage of operation get-the-hell-out-of-here. Finding his weapon. Well, he didn't really need to find it, he knew where it was. It was in the bag he'd taken off one of the dead Mercenaries that had been escorting them through the city. He shuddered at the memory, digging silently through the well worn messenger bag in the dark.
He and his little caravan of Vault Refugees had been attacked by people their Mercs described as 'Raiders'. He remembered watching as three of his companions and one of their guards were suddenly mowed down by gunfire. Everything erupted immediately into chaos. An explosion had gone off to his left, showering him in bits of debris and dust and leaving him temporarily dumbfounded. Everything after that was a blur. Butch Deloria was in a knife fight with one of the studded psychopaths; Another one of his companions fell screaming, blood gushing from a bullet hole in her neck; he could hear someone screaming and it wasn't until he had to gasp for breath that he realized it was him. He had crawled across the ground, taking as much cover as possible behind cars and rubble before he came to the end of the line. There was a gap of about 20ft between the car he was crouched behind and a nearby alley. He prepared to make a run for it, not knowing if breaking cover would get him killed but knowing that staying put certainly would.
He tore across the road, so intent on his destination that he didn't notice the body on the ground in front of him until he tripped over it. Twain scrambled around seeing it was their former guide, his eyes open wide, staring lifelessly at the sky, his mouth parted slightly giving him a look of surprise. He spotted the bag hanging from the dead man's shoulder and grabbed for it. Normally he would have balked at the idea of robbing a corpse but he knew he was without supplies or better options. He tugged desperately at the bag as gunfire exploded around him, finally pulling it free before making a final mad dash for the alley.
His groping hand found the small gun between the lone can of cram and a small change purse that, oddly enough, contained a fair amount of bottle caps. He had done a full inventory and was pleased to find he also had two boxes of ammo, one for a shotgun and the other for the small pistol which was discouragingly his only defense, a single stimpak, some dirty water and the cram.
Not much to work with but it's better than nothing.
He weighed the gun in his hand for a moment before slowly and carefully lifting the dumpster lid by a few inches. The coast looked clear but he didn't entirely trust it. Again, he counted twice to one hundred before mustering the courage to lift the lid the rest of the way. He retrieved the bag, swinging it out of the dumpster and dropping it unceremoniously on the ground before gingerly easing himself up over the edge. He was particularly careful with his left foot, gently testing his ankle which he had stupidly twisted getting into the dumpster in the first place. It hurt, but wasn't unbearable. He was glad he didn't have to waste his only stimpak on a twisted ankle although he would almost rather have the luxury of using it and being able to run away from danger, should it present itself, than saving it because he assumed there would only be worse to come.
With a strained sigh he pushed his glasses up on his nose and began to limp his way down the abandoned street, gun in hand, fearing there was little hope of getting through this hellish experience alive.
