Reno is the biggest little city in the world, unfortunately the distance between it and Las Vegas was not so little. Robert walked the silent stretch of desert highway, the sun baking the road so hot Robert could swear he heard a squishing noise with every step he took, the rubber that made up the souls of his shoes were sticking to the asphalt, partially melted due to the intense heat. The young traveler had little in the way of money for new shoes, most spent on food and water, in this case mostly water, the few stations in between that offered that pure beautiful clean water was a god send, the price tag for the water was a sign of the horrors to come. For scarcity was the mistress that would not leave 2037 Fallout America.
The most sane option would have been getting a bus ticket to Reno, but House did not live in a sane world.The signs of infamous Fallout resource depletion was already evident not just in America, but the entire world, and not in any good ways. With the exhausted fuel reserves, a single bus ride traveling within Las Vegas cost around $100 for a one way trip. A one way trip to Reno, would be $1000, an extravagant sum that young Robert was $600 short of affording. His entire life's worth of money could barely reach $400, a far cry from valuable wealth that future House would acquire. Unfortunately the man that was once John did not inhabit the body of future wealthy billionaire House, no he inhabited the body of a young broke Robert House and now undertook a trip that was a little over 450 miles to reach Reno. No complaints, nor bitching came from the new man, only one step after another.
Robert had a basic sense of direction to where his goal was at, and every road marker confirmed he was on the right path towards his goal of Reno. The madness of his trip through the desert required the youth to travel at least twenty miles a day, a calculated risk, but achievable at Robert's current pace. He had enough water to last him until the next refueling station, and as long as that place had a water well or a convenience store he would have enough water to travel to the next road side station. House would be dangerously close to exhausting a large chunk of his precious 30 days, but once the secret artifact of Reno was acquired, there would be nothing stopping House rise to power far earlier than the original House was capable of doing.
Every step within this baking heat, all of this was done to acquire the single most valuable artifact in all of Fallout universe. A gamble that would honestly be the end of Robert House if the artifact was not there. All reason and logic dictated a 99% chance that the artifact would not be at the location Robert was heading towards. Yet, it was that 1% chance of success that had Robert travel the stretch of the Mojave desert for days on end to reach Reno. Robert was relying entirely upon his luck stat, the only one of his Special stats to be maxed out at the start. For the first 5 days of his hellish travel, House was beginning to think the 0 next to the 1 was a figment of his imagination. That was until he found a Poseidon Energy tankard rig parked on the side of the US- 95 N.
Due to the high gas prices, all traffic upon US-95 had evaporated, since travelling from Vegas, House only spotted two cargo vehicles pass him by. Neither of them were willing to stop for a young hitch hiker given that the cargo they carried was worth paying the ludicrous fuel prices to transport. Yet now a fuel truck, owned by one of the most powerful corporate entities of the Fallout America world, was stuck on the side of the road. The truck driver in question stared at the dying engine of his faltering vehicle, displaying a look of confusion and fear, revealing the man had either a poor repair skill, or an extremely low Luck stat. This stranger's misery was Robert's golden opportunity, for both his luck and repair skills would fair better than the truck drivers. Stopping far enough away not to be seen as a threat, Robert raised his hand, calling out to the driver.
"Engine trouble friend?" Roberts' voice had harnessed the full potential of his 70 points in Speech. At first Robert thought he had failed his speech check for the truck driver in question grabbed at the weapon holstered to his side, staring at Robert with a look that could kill. But soon exhaustion laced those weary eyes as the trucker in question did not pull his 10mm pistol from its holster, instead showing a look that told Robert he better tread carefully or move on entirely. Fallout America was a steroid induced version of cold war America, for the fear of communist spies had grown so ridiculously out of control. The lore hinted at possible witch hunts and shadow crusades by high level corporate and government powers to route out possible threats by foreign powers desiring the few resources America had left. Trust was hard, especially when the cost of failure to spot possible threats could be world ending. So the angle of approach had to eliminate all signs of threat. "My name is Robert, I just graduated from my high school in Vegas, do you need some help friend?"
"... Unless you went to a high school with a really good class on Automotive Mechanics, I don't think you can help me, Robert. So best move along." The truckers tone was not entirely disarmed of hostility, but desperation was far higher.
"Well thank the Nevada board of Education stranger, for I have the skill sets you need to get your rig up and running." The best lies had a hint of truth to them, for Robert House had the necessary skills to help the stranded worker of Poseidon Energy, but the Nevada Board of Education had nothing to do with the knowledge that House had cultivated to himself. Whether Roberts Speech skill was the cause of it or the desperation of the trucker out weighed good sense, the man relented and allowed Robert to look at his rig's engine. With 75 points in repair and 80 points in science, it did not take Robert long to see that just like Modern America, corporate owned trucks of Fallout America did not see the proper care to maintain these commercial vehicles. The Poseidon Energy truck not only had a blown fuse, but also a coolant leak, easy to fix with his level, but the fact that it was not handled before the truck was sent out was either a sign of incompetence by Poseidon Energy or of something far more nefarious.
"So what's the diagnosis kid, I need to be back on the road soon." The trucker's hostility was leaking back into his voice, as the corporate man was starting to disbelieve Robert's claim of being able to fix his truck. Robert looked at the H&H tool kit the trucker had out earlier, the wrenches and tools left out disorganised by a man who clearly did not know what he was doing.
"Hand me a H&H needle nose plier, also check the stash within your truck. If your corporate superiors sent you out driving in this vehicle when gas prices are becoming unbearable, then they must have packed you with an extra fuse and some coolant. I'll also need some duck tape for this leak. The best I can do for that is a basic patch job, but that will be enough to see you and your truck reaching your destination without any further delays." The corporate trucker, now clearly new to his job, took a while to find the spare emergency parts, grumbling the entire time how orientation and training did not cover this. Once armed with the proper tools and parts, House began work, and after an hour past the Poseidon truck was ready to go, even roaring with new found life.
"Hot Dog! Robert, you just saved my hide son. Let me know if there is any way I can repay this kindness." The stranger beamed with joy for the first time since Robert stumbled upon him.
"You wouldn't be heading anywhere near Reno would you mister…" Robert had again utilized his speech to pass off as a young adventurous 17 year old who was no threat to
"You can call me Marcus son, and you're more than welcome to hitch a ride with me. I can not promise to drop you off on the front steps of Reno, but I can get you as close as my fuel reserves can allow." Marcus offered a hand, and experience told Robert to give him a proper firm handshake. The two were then off, driving northwards, making record time, shedding days off of the journey that swallowed up Robert's precious time. The unseen cost came in the form of endless dialogue with Marcus, whose guard was now down and now the extrovert of a man was more social than either John or Robert House ever was. "So what in God's sweet America made you walk to Reno on foot in this heat son?"
"A special lady friend is waiting for me in Reno." Robert's lied like a dirty rug, more than capable of pretending to be social, and Marcus bought it with a roar of laughter. Soon the trucker was giving Robert unsolicited advice on Red Flags, and the dangers of marrying a hooker like Marcus' ex-wife. Hell, the moment Marcus mentioned his ex, the conversation quickly turned from advice of a jaded elder to a supposedly "love struck" junior. Now it was a trauma dump that could rival the bombs that would end the world in nuclear fire, for Marcus focused entirely on the dangers of dealing with a heartless, soulless, demons from the pits doom that would make a communist hell hole look like paradise. And that was a conversation that went on one-sidely long enough where the John personality returned from the psyche that was Robert House, to give up his title of the King of Haters. No, the conversation was so bad that it had the genius mind of Robert House looking out into the Mojave desert with a thousand yard stare, with him occasionally checking his system, to make sure it was not punking him with his Luck stat being lower than what the character sheet actually displayed.
"And that is why I carry a bottle of holy water and garlic whenever I see that black hearted harpy." Marcus finished his tale after 4 hours driving on US-95 north. House was ready to have an aneurysm, more than sure his intelligence just went down one full stat point that would never recover. Quickly with the reflex might of god, capitalism, and quick thinking Robert changed the topic of the conversation before Marcus could carry on with his tale about his Ex wife.
"So where are you going with this truck?" For the first time in hours, Marcus became quiet. Not the silent suspicious quiet, but more of a deep reflective quiet as the truck driver focused on the long stretch of US-95. Finally the man spoke.
"I shouldn't be saying this ... but you seem like a trustworthy person Robert. I'm dropping off some coal at a power plant near Gecko City. The top brass in Poseidon Energy have recently acquired the coal power plant. Though from what I hear they might be converting it into a Nuclear power plant soon. Some competitors on the east coast have cornered the coal mining market because they believe they can liquify coal into a new form of oil. Something so revolutionary it might even rival Poseidon Energy." House kept quiet as he absorbed the large chunk of information Marcus spewed off his worries, yet internally with the memories of John he knew that Marcus' worry of a competitor to Poseidon Energy was unlikely.
Coal liquefaction, algae and corn based fuel conversion would all fail in the end, for the demand of oil could never meet the supply that the snake oil solutions that lesser corporations offered. Only uranium would mitigate the growing energy crisis, and even that was limited enough where nations would soon be going to war over the little that would be available. War, war is coming and it will be apocalyptic.
"Don't worry Marcus, Poseidon Energy is an American company I trust to solve this energy crisis." If money and power as a corporate overlord was not so tempting, House was thinking of running for president, cause he could lie like the best of them. Marcus looked upon the young Robert, a twinkle in his eye before he spoke.
"You know son, you have a patriotic spirit to you. If your girl in Reno drains your finances worse than our gas prices, come over to Poseidon, I'll see about getting you a job. Hell, maybe you can help solve the energy crisis." The last statement was played off as a joke, it even got Robert to chuckle only for the system to ring out in the way all Fallout games rang when inflicting a new quest upon a person.
System Alert — New Quest Available
Quest Name: Energy Savior
Quest Type: World-Scale Development Path
Status: Optional — Long-Term quest
Description:
America is suffering from a catastrophic energy shortage. As demand outpaces supply, corporate interests, government agencies, and experimental technologies race toward uncertain solutions. You may be able to possess the knowledge—and potential leverage—to influence the future of energy production both before and after the Great War.
Available Routes:
Corporate Route — Poseidon Energy:
Leverage Marcus's connection to gain employment or influence within Poseidon Energy. With time and dedication you may be able to access proprietary research, infrastructure, and nuclear conversion projects, and rise high within Poseidon Energy.
Independent Route:
Pursue alternative solutions without corporate oversight. Slower initial growth, but greater autonomy and long-term control. All the profit and success will be yours.
Time Limit: None, even post-war energy solutions remain viable well into the Fallout apocalypse.
Failure State: None
(This quest may be ignored or postponed indefinitely.)
Note:
Early involvement may dramatically alter pre-war power structures—and post-war survival odds. Whether it stops the war entirely depends on how successful you are with your alternative energy.
Robert catalogued the quest into the back of his mind, right now his attention was focused on one thing and one thing only. By late afternoon, he saw the distant Reno skyline, a city that glowed ominously in the night. The rig came to a full stop outside the city limit, leaving House with a final walk to his goal.
"Thanks for the lift, Marcus," Robert said looking out at the ragged edge of Reno's sprawl, sun dipping low and casting long shadows over broken billboards and dusty pavement. Marcus leaned against the doorframe, face tired but warm with the simple relief of having help arrive when it mattered. "If I lose all my money and need some work, I'll give you a call,"
"Call quick, son, work on the Gecko power plant is going to occur soon, the more competent workers we get, then the less likely we are to worry about long term damage." Robert nodded, keeping his tone polite and neutral, the measured cadence of someone who understood leverage and obligation both, but not agreeing to anything. He took down Marcus's contact information, lingered long enough to shake the older man's hand again, firm and respectful. Exiting the truck, Robert saw off the Poseidon Energy rig as it sped up the highway towards its final destination. Robert turned and began walking the final miles into the city.
The entrance into Reno was anything but subtle at first—neon flickers trapped behind grime, the high spires of abandoned casinos that tried too hard to sparkle even in decay, the slick sheen of old advertisements peeling like dead skin from brick and plaster. From a distance it pretended to be a vibrancy incarnate, the kind of place that dressed up desperation in sequins and smiled at it in full makeup, but up close there was a simultaneous slickness and rot that gnawed at the senses. The air tasted of rusted metal and stale tobacco, blended with ozone from busted lights and the faintest hint of oil that had long since seeped into every crack in every street. This was a city comfortable wearing glamour the way a corpse might wear a tailored suit—ready to impress, but dead underneath.
As Robert strode forward, the sidewalks began to thicken with shadowed figures whose eyes flicked up and down his frame like scanners trying to read a code they couldn't decipher. There were men in cheap suits with collars stretched out at the neck, women in high heels that clacked on concrete like hidden alarms, all of them half-smiling, half-sneering, and entirely calculating. Neon signs buzzed over their heads—Lucky Lady Casino, High Stakes Lounge, Kingpin's Jackpot Emporium—promises of wealth spun like glitter but smelling unmistakably like blood and debt. The glimmer of the strip was there, but it was hollow, a reflective set piece built over a pit of rot that drew the desperate and the dangerous alike.
Reno's seedy underside revealed itself in tiny, corrosive details. A man with an overlong trench coat lingered outside a shuttered pawnshop, fingers twisting in a nervous rhythm that whispered of concealed blades. Children in too-large jackets hawked synthetic smokes and watered-down spirits with eyes too old for their years. A pair of dealers lounged near a busted fountain, their dice games drifting into murmured threats when Robert's shadow passed too close. There was a rhythm here, like a pulse, but it was the pulse of something unhealthy—an organism built on risk, addiction, and the quiet knowledge that everyone here was bargaining with more than money. It was the place where promises came cheap and debts bled deep.
Robert sensed it all with that same cool clarity that guided his steps through every calculation. Reno might be dressed in the trappings of pre-war prosperity—bright lights, fine suits in secondhand shops, the echoes of laughter slinking out of open doorways—but beneath the façade was a city that thrived on shadows. Here, decor masked depravity, and curiosity could cost a life as easily as a dollar. He walked past gilded entrances and onto cracked tile floors, his boots scattering dust motes that shimmered like microscopic stars in the dying light.
It seems Reno's future was inevitable. It's already a shit hole in the pre-war era, and after the bombs drop it will become a hell-hole with no order and only hedonistic chaos as its master. Robert could work with this, misery needed a light of salvation, even if in reality it was just someone pulling you down into further damnation, it did not matter much for House as long as he got what he came for. Finding a downtrodden wretch, one of countless many, Robert approached in a manner similar to how he did with Marcus, again drawing upon the desperate need of the vagrant's obvious need for drink as he was surrounded by empty beer bottles.
"Excuse me, sir, can you…" Robert called to the slouched figure, a man wrapped in filthy layers, upending a bottle, disbelieving the bottle was empty already. Harnessing his speech craft as best as House could, he presented himself as a youth on a summer debauchery of a lifetime. "…buy me something from your local liquor store?"
"What's it to me, kid?" The man squinted trying to get a better look at Robert from his drunken haze, showing off teeth that were yellow and glinting off the neon lights. Robert slid some cash, a twenty and leaned close enough to smell the rot that clung to the homeless man. In a low voice Robert responded.
"I just need something cheap but high in alcohol proof for myself. Get me that and I can provide you with a little enough cash to get a refill on all your… empty bottles. Of course this is after you get me my drink." It seemed Robert's barter skill passed expertly, as the vagrant grinned, crookedly, and shuffled off with cash enough for something truly strong. When he returned moments later, a cheap bottle of rum with a cracked label was handed off. It did not take a genius to notice the likely chance the drunk had pocketed a portion of the money for something cheap and most likely discounted. Robert nodded and handed enough cash for the man to get enough refills to numb him for the night. "Thank you."
Reno's a mess already. New Reno is going to be a thousand times worse, hopefully I won't be here when that happens. Everything that Robert expected of this place came true so far, and the last stretch that decided whether or not this adventure to Reno was a bust or jackpot depended on what happened next. Neon buzzed in the distance, a siren-call to all the desperate and reckless. Robert moved carefully, keeping eyes on the building he sought. It did not take long to find the Drunk Cupid Chapel, an unassuming church tucked between gambling halls and pawn shops in the commercial district. Its sign swung lazily on rusted chains, a new coat of paint seemed to have been recently applied. Entering Robert stepped quietly, boots scraping on the uneven tile, the smell of old wine and incense thick in the air. Spotting his target at the far end of the church, Robert ran his gamble nearly paying off.
"Father… Holy Father, I need your guidance." Robert began, voice measured with enough desperation to seem genuine, as the priest slumped behind the altar, already reeking of sacramental wine, cheeks flushed, eyes bleary. He was an old man, lined and pocked, the holy spirit could never cling to him as tightly as the wicked priest clung to his wine bottle. It seems being an intoxicated degenerate was prerequisite to run the Drunk Cupid Chapel, as the current priest behavior matches much of the actions of the future Father Tully from Fallout 2 timeline, though this priest seemed to have the modesty of at least maintaining the church better than Father Tully had. As Robert held out the bottle, the inebriated priest before him looked up with a hypnotized gaze as if House held all that was precious to the old man. "A confession, with advice, in exchange for this."
The priest blinked, one eye twitching, before nodding, accepting Robert's offer. He immediately opened the rum bottle taking a deep sniff as if he was some sort of connosser, he grimaced, and took a sip, immediately relaxing within his confessional booth, going through the motions as if rehearsed a thousand times.
"What…is troubling you… my…my child." The words were slurred as the warmth of the rum had put the good father to sleep. Robert's lips curved into a small, determined smile. The rum was doing its job, just enough to dull the priest's mind without harm him. Soon the man would be so out of it he would be unable to recognize anything or anyone and drift off to a realm of slumber.
"Father, I… I lost everything. My brother, Anthony… he stole it all. My inheritance, my future, the company my family built. He cast me out, left me with nothing. I have nothing, forced to live at a halfway house, work for scraps, and this rage keeps bubbling inside of me. I'm young, yes… but I have a mind, a vision. And he… he cannot be allowed to succeed, to keep what is mine." Robert's words came out freely, this built up anger tumbled out, sorrow, fury, and precision wrapped in one. "I need guidance, Father. I need… absolution, or at least understanding."
Minutes passed. The priest slurred occasionally, murmured responses that no human language could understand as the haze of the rum took hold, and then, finally the priest who did not even introduce himself slumped forward, snoring loudly. Robert should have exhaled softly, he should have rejoiced as the only person guarding this church was deep asleep. But the anger he had buried deep inside him bubbled out at owner of the church.
"The deal for the bottle of rum was for you to hear my confession and offer guidance. You failed to met the obligations of our deal, as such I will be taking the artifact, pray in your slumber that it is here." Robert rose from the confessional, rage filled even though he knew this was going to happen, the thought of the priest failing to keep his half of this bargain, even a false one, angered him to no end. Now left alone in an empty church save for the sleeping priest, he was free to get the single greatest artifact in all of the fallout universe, a fair collateral for the priests failure to meet his end of the bargain.
The item that House risked life and good sense, as well as his future was held somewhere within the Drunk Cupid Chapel. Robert had bet everything on the line in order to acquire this legendary item. A skill guide called the fallout 2 Hintbook, a item that could break reality, by turning the main character of fallout 2 into an unstoppable powerhouse that broke all forms of balance. The Hintbook in question was only awarded at the end of the game, after the Enclave threat was defeated. The famous line that came with the book was Well. THIS would have been good to have at the beginning of the goddamn game. For Robert, a player who would soon tread the most important game of them all, the GREAT GAME OF CAPITALISM, this book would help him up end the entire board and rebuild everything with his will.
Moving into the back, Robert's eyes scanned the storeroom, boxes stacked haphazardly, cobwebs catching stray neon light. He muttered a silent prayer, hands trembling with anticipation, fingers brushing cardboard, paper, and old church relics. Please… let it be here.
House did not really have a back up plan in the case he could not find this item, everything depended upon him finding this miracle item. If he had to decide on a backup option, he could take over the job of the priest. Hell, if the old priest had an accident and went missing, House could put on the holy garments and… drink himself into an early grave before the nukes did it for him.
Each box he checked was filled with documentation of weddings and divorces, it seemed the latter out matched the former, as the Drunk Cupid Chapel seemed to be more of a way to rid yourself of your spouse then hitch yourself to one, much like it was during the events of Fallout 2. House went through at least twenty of these boxes, emptying it all in order to find the legendary item, praying his 10 points of luck would not fail him here. Just as he was about to give up, he looked at the last box and up-ended it to finally find what he was looking for. In the final dusty, cracked cardboard box the legendary Hintbook from Fallout 2 slipped out and was left at the mercy of Robert House to claim. Gold-embossed letters glinted in the dim light, the pages heavy with secrets, strategies, and knowledge far beyond the mundane. House pulse quickened as he lifted the thick book from the floor that was nearly covered entirely in divorce paper work, reverently dusting the most powerful item in all of the fallout games.
"Thank you." The words spilled into the empty room, half prayer, half declaration. "This… this changes everything."
Exiting the church, leaving behind a mess and a drunk sleeping soundly, House curled up upon a park bench, rain lightly pattering on the metal park roof above him, and opened the Hintbook. The glow of the pages illuminated his sharp, young face, eyes reflecting intelligence, ambition, and hunger. As he read, the stat sheet blinked insistently. XP flooded in, numbers cascading across his vision: 10,000 experience points. Seven levels gained. New skills acquired and then all the Skills breaking the limit and being maxed at 300. His SPECIAL stats each rose to a mighty unstoppable 10, now they all rivaled Robert's Luck stat.
Robert House threw back his head, eyes wide, and screamed into the night sky, voice carrying across deserted streets: "It just works!"
He laughed, long and triumphant, the sound of a mind transcending limits, bending the world to its vision. Skills that had been capped, restricted, limited by broken game mechanics — now fully realized, perfected. Science, Repair, Barter, Speech, Energy Weapons, Medicine, Survival — all elevated, sharpened, mastered. Even the knowledge of old wastelands, vaults, and ruins of the future flowed through him, crystallized, ready to be applied. Soon his character sheet popped open revealing his new found stats.
SYSTEM STATUS — CHARACTER SHEET UPDATED
Name: Robert Edwin House
Age: 17
Level: 8
Health: 999 / 999
S.P.E.C.I.A.L.Strength: 10
Perception: 10
Endurance: 10
Charisma: 10
Intelligence: 10
Agility: 10
Luck: 10
All core attributes maximized. No modifiers detected.
SKILLS
All listed skills calibrated to peak human potential.
Small Guns: 300
Big Guns: 300
Energy Weapons: 300
Unarmed: 300
Melee Weapons: 300
Throwing: 300
First Aid: 300
Medicine: 300
Doctor: 300
Sneak: 300
Lockpick: 300
Steal: 300
Traps: 300
Science: 300
Computer: 300
Repair: 300
Speech: 300
Barter: 300
Outdoorsman: 300
Gamble: 300
He closed the Hintbook, inhaled deep, and felt the cold wind of the Reno night against his face. He had taken the gamble, risked everything on this item and it had blessed him with more knowledge, chance, and cunning than any other human in all of Fallout America. Victory was delicious, and all that remained was the road to Boston, to the Commonwealth Institute of Technology. The world might still end in fire decades hence, but for now… Robert House was unstoppable.
And as he leaned back on the bench, eyes tracing the distant neon of Reno, he realized: the game of survival had shifted irrevocably in his favor. He held the cheat that would change everything, a power no one could contest, a future no one could deny. And for the first time, he allowed himself a grin — sharp, calculating, and inevitable. The world was his to shape.
"I suppose I could just read the book forever." Robert murmured to himself, sprawled across the cold, splintered park bench outside the Drunk Cupid Chapel. The night air was crisp, carrying the faint tang of Reno's neon streets, cheap exhaust fumes, and the low, persistent odor of human waste. He turned the pages of the legendary Hintbook with deliberate care, the edges worn and dog-eared from decades of hands long gone. Every sentence, every schematic, every cryptic note seemed to pulse with potential. XP flooded in like a victor standing over the corpse of a hundred dead Deathclaws.
Robert's grin was sharp, almost predatory, as he let the power wash over him. He could become unstoppable. A walking god, a prodigy that the wasteland had never seen and would never imagine. Yet something inside him — the instinct honed from years as John, a gamers instinct still alive — made him pause.
This is cheating. Too easy. Too complete. The thrill, the challenge, the satisfaction of calculated risk, the art of mastery earned through effort — that was missing. No more shortcuts.
He snapped the book shut, hiding it under his coat. The future was dangerous enough, any further dependency on this artifact would be detrimental to one's sanity. House would gain the edge honestly from this point forward, he already had enough level ups to get several new perks. But before he decided upon those perks his thoughts shifted immediately. Boston. That was the next step. The Commonwealth Institute of Technology was not just a university; it was the gateway to influence, prestige, contacts and the knowledge required to reshape the pre-war world, decades before the bombs fell. Degrees in America, even in this strange, crumbling society teetering on the edge of collapse, were currency. Without a degree, power and legitimacy were extremely hard to be taken seriously from a 17 year old who had nothing but a hundred dollars left to his name. With a degree from the Commonwealth Institute of Technology… he could maneuver, manipulate, and prepare for the inevitable apocalypse with authority unmatched by anyone alive.
But first he needed money. He needed a lot of it. He had spent precious time traveling to Reno, risking himself to obtain the Hintbook. Now House needed the resources to reach Boston before his scholarship and preparations became meaningless and failed a rather important quest that would help secure his future.
"Time to earn… by any means necessary." Robert whispered, as nightfall came, the youth of 17 years had his eyes set on the only thing that would see him on a first class ticket to Boston. It did not take long as he scanned the streets, the glint of neon reflecting in puddles of runoff, and he spotted it, the most decrepit, sleazy, morally bankrupt casino he could imagine.
The Velvet Knuckle, this casino squatted at the far end of Virginia Street like a bad habit that refused to die, its neon sign flickering between bruised purple and sickly gold. THE VELVET KNUCKLE arched above the entrance in looping cursive, the lettering half-burned so that at certain angles it read less like a promise and more like a threat. Two stylized brass knuckles framed the sign, each studded with fake rubies that had long since dulled to the color of dried blood.
The sidewalk near the Velvet Knuckle was crowded with women in short skirts and high heels, leaning against lamp posts or circling slow like sharks that had learned how to walk. Their makeup was heavy, armor layered over exhaustion. Voices purred promises they didn't mean, laughter came too quick and died too fast, and every glance was a calculation. Most of them watched the casino doors more than the street—fresh faces meant fresh money.
A little farther back, always in the shadows or pretending to be disinterested, were the pimps. Lean men in sharp jackets despite the heat, gold chains glinting at their throats, eyes cold and alert. They never raised their voices. They didn't have to. A tilt of the head or a flick of the fingers was enough to send a girl moving, enough to warn her off, enough to remind her who owned what. They watched the women, the customers, and each other, hawks circling the same stretch of dying land.
House ignored the janes, instead made his way to the front door. The Velvet Knuckles was not the kind of place that bothered with velvet ropes or age checks, because anyone who looked lost, desperate, or stupid enough to wander in was already the target audience. The bouncers—thick-necked men in cheap suits with knuckles like poured concrete—didn't ask questions. They weighed you with their eyes, decided whether you were prey or a problem, and let you pass if you looked like the former. A seventeen-year-old with dust on his shoes and hunger in his eyes fit just fine.
Inside, the air was a layered stench of cigarette smoke, stale perfume, spilled liquor, and something metallic that clung to the back of the throat. The carpet was patterned in dizzying reds and blacks, intentionally busy to hide the stains that never quite came out. Slot machines screamed and chimed in uneven rhythms, their lights flashing like a migraine made visible. Card tables clustered toward the center, surrounded by men with hollow cheeks and women with smiles sharpened into tools.
The dealers wore vests a shade too tight and smiles a shade too practiced. Their eyes were always moving—counting cards, watching hands, measuring who might be worth bleeding dry and who needed to be cut loose before they caused trouble. The Velvet Knuckle didn't care if you won once or twice. It cared that you stayed and kept playing, a mistake that House would take full advantage of with his 300 points in his Gamble skill. What started as only $100 dollars grew and grew. From slot machines to poker tables. The House with his overmaxed skill and amazing luck always won.
Many noticed, many were envious, and some like the sharks smelling blood in water came to observe, specifically the machines that suddenly started dropping winnings as if it grew a charitable heart. When Robert House came to the roulette table, his winnings already growing into a mighty $12,000. Seeing his lucky number and future stronghold would share that same number on a roulette table that went all the way to 77, Robert Edwin House placed his 12 grand of winning on number 38.
The entire casino, galvanized by House's winnings, watched in silent breath, thinking the boy had finally gone nuts. The security on deck who a while earlier had been alerted to the lucky streak of a client who looked far too young to be within this casino, was observing the boy like mad hounds waiting for the order to pounce. Now their postured relaxed, with two of them taking a breath of ease as the foolish youth was about to lose it all at a roulette table that had 77 numbers on it and the child decided to choose number 38, a seemingly random number to the experienced security of the Velvet Knuckle who had long seen similar luck streaks like this play out in the final conclusion of total losses…. But this time it was for the Velvet Knuckle for when the roulette wheel stopped, and the roulette ball fell within slot for number 38.
The quiet soon turned to a roar that nearly shook the entire Velvet knuckle. The crowd cheered at the boy whose winnings had increased 35 fold. Security acted immediately, making their way to the Robert House, placing a hand on the boys shoulder and speaking loud and clearly.
"You're far to young to be playing here boy, you're coming with us." The two attempted to lift Robert but were met with the resistance of a mountain, for the person before them had strength at a limit that no human could match.
"I think you are confused friends. The bouncers out front checked my id, I was let in. If you have a problem with it, best to talk with them. A lot safer in my opinion." House had held the hands of the two security guards, the strength of his hand grip enough to get both men falling to their knees. House let go allowing the two enforcers of the Velvet Knuckle to scamper off, most likely to get reinforcements to deal with the power house that currently is Robert Edwin House. Looking at the stupefied dealer at the Roulette table who looked at House terrified, unable to call for security as he just scared them off. Now that same man looked at the dealer and spoke in an unnervingly calm tone that sent shivers down the woman's spine. "If you would kindly, hand me my winnings please."
The lady at the cash out counter, had tried to protest at the young man who was about to collect $420,000 from the Velvet Casino, in cash no less, but against 300 speech craft and charisma of 10, the lady was easily fooled into believing just about anything. Soon a suitcase was presented to House, within it enough pre-war money to secure not only a bus ticket but a luxurious plane ticket to Boston, making record time and arriving far before the mission time limit came to an end. Assuming he was not mugged and killed, and it seemed with the growing horde of Velvet knuckle security coming down, it was time for House to flee.
The casino still throbbed with noise and haze, but Robert did not linger. He gathered his winnings, slipped out of the Velvet Knuckles, as a dozen figures, armed, scanning for him, hunted after him as if their lives were on the line. If it was, then tough on them for with a sneak in 300 and expert haste, House not only exited the Velvet Knuckle casino safely, but melted into the alleys, silent as a shadow, invisible as the desert wind and cries of mobsters chased after him. It took a while but House expertly made his way to a more reputable casino, one that had cabs waiting outside of the building meant only for the wealthy. Entering inside the driver eyed the boy in dirty clothing with suspicion, the meter spinning out an obscene figure: $4,000 just to reach the airport, before House could speak the cab driver responded.
"Gas prices, kid. The world's in a chokehold. No negotiations. If you don-"Robert said nothing, pulling out the strategically placed cash from his pocket and tossing the $5000 dollar towards the cabbie. The cab sped through cracked streets, past neon graves and abandoned storefronts, toward the Reno airport terminal. As they passed near a section of roadway that lead back towards the Velvet Knuckles, House high perception noted several people looking around, trying their best to find the boy that just ran off with nearly half a million dollars in a suitcase placed lovingly on House's lap.
The airport itself was a mess of lines, bureaucracy, and scarcity. Even flights were constrained by fuel shortages; a plane to Boston was listed at $40,000. Negotiations — and subtle persuasion, tempered with his natural charm and godlike 300 Barter skill — brought it down to $6,000. The first available seat, commercial class, economy, nothing luxurious. House may have had the funds for the grossly outrageous 100,000 first class, but he would not abuse his limited resources so cheaply for simple creature comforts...not yet.
Soon House stepped onto the tarmac, the plane looming, engines thrumming with the energy of a machine barely passing maintenance standards. Reno sprawled in the first sunlight of the morning, mankind's worst tendencies made physical. Robert stared that city of uncontrolled vice, hoping to never return to this mad city, for its future was bleak, and come the bombs dropping, not even the New California republic could fix that city of damned. Where others would have been torn apart, buried, poisoned, or pimped out on the streets, Robert stood holding a suitcase full of money with a grip strength that could choke out a gorilla, and in the other he had his duffel bag filled with important documentation, clothing and the greatest treasure Reno had hidden in it's depths, the Hintbook, a tool that if it fell into the wrong hands could be just as bad as the nukes dropping. Robert House boarded his plane, Boston awaited — the Commonwealth Institute of Technology, with labs discovering ground breaking technology, professors with merits and degrees that cultivate future generations of into productive pioneers of science, and peers in need... of a friend, a contact who can help them and expect help in return. A world of opportunity, resources, and a place that could influence the current power structures of America lay ahead. But more importantly his future, House future, and given the unstoppable edge he currently possess, there would be no stopping him. Not now, not ever. Robert breathed deeply, feeling the weight and thrill of potential, knowing he had taken every step, gambled every risk, and emerged victorious. And now there was one last reward to claim.
"System, show me the perk list. It is about time I pick out my first perks." A cold calculating gaze, looked upon a list of perks that where not available in any of the Fallout games. Perks specialized for House, and he had a long list to select from, and so he settled into his seat, eyes scanning, mind calculating; the entire pre-apocalypse United States was a chessboard before him. And in his heart, one thought burned brighter than all else: he would not fail. Anthony House would not get away with his theft of what was rightfully Robert's inheritance. The future, no matter how doomed, would belong to Him. For the House always wins.