FMS/Tales from a raider/FS-Leader1

From Create Your Own Story

It took a while to get the leader of the raider band that helped the town against the super mutants to talk, but eventually I was able to.

"Bitch," he said as I walked by. "I thought you wanted to fucking talk?"

I stared at him. Bitch. Bitch. That is all he called me. While I appreciated what he did for the town, he was still a raider, still scum. Even his help did not come without strings. They just wanted supplies, and as one of the only settlements in his territory, he had no other choice other than to have his band scavenge local plants and try to bring down local widelife. Exploiting a town was much easier. And, of course if the town had been wiped out by the super mutants, he and his murderous, thieving band would have had to figure out how to become farmers. But his "name" for me was really starting to get to me. Bitch bitch bitch. It seemed like that was the only thing he called women.

"Yeah, when you have learned to say something I care to hear," I shot back at him. I admit, I had learned to talk tougher, in order to get him to even talk to me. "Right now I just hear you yap yap yapping like a fucking feral mongrel."

He threw his head back and roared, his chest rippling with mirth, his eyes twinkling with it. He didn't even look friendly laughing. He just looked mean, ugly, and sinister. It was strange to see how he would react one way, when I expected something else.

After he stopped, he eyed me for a few minutes. I stood there, just watching his eyes. While he may not be a feral dog, his eyes darted around like one, caged. He was a wild beast, with human intellect, and the cage just helped accentuate it.

"Sit," he barked. At first I almost protested, being addressed like the bitch he had named me. Sit bitch. Good bitch. Let me scratch behind your ears. Or shoot you in the head to put you out of my misery. I bit my tongue, seeing that indeed, he did seem willing to talk. I had worked all this time to try to get him to open up that I bit it, and said nothing. Instead, I sat beside his cage, just far enough away that he would not be able to reach me if he tried to grab.

I sat, turned on my pip boy, and we started talking.

His parents were simple people, living in a small town, not much different from the one he and his raiders had saved. During the day, they farmed the land surrounding the town proper in groups, one person always standing watch for bloatflies, radroaches, feral dogs, raiders, and all other manner of creature out to kill them. They would work together, in small groups close to each other, so if something attacked, they could face it together, with the person on watch warning if something came too close. As a community, they survived. Attacks normally managed to be stopped or avoided. Sometimes people were hurt, but rarely did people die. Which was good, since their community was alone and isolated. They did not have an influx of others to help replace the few who did die.

At night, they would go within the walls of their town, hiding behind the barbed wire and scrapped timber, tires stuffed in holes to try to keep things from slipping through the cracks in the boards. The fences were more garbage than fence, but it created a wall to help try to keep invaders out. They would huddle together over the barrels, fires burning to warm their hands, to cook some meager meat, and to illuminate them as they talked with the other members of the community.

It was a hard life for a 6 year old. Working all day, with a little play at night while everyone else was chatting and huddling. A stick. An old piece of chalk, an old whiteboard in one of the rooms of the residence, what was left of a pre-war school. He was the only child in the community now, most others being dead or grown up. One woman was pregnant, but the old people often remarked that it seemed harder and harder for the women to get pregnant. Other couples tried. He could see them, tumbling around back in the old shed, or sneaking off with a quick kiss to find a secluded spot between the junk wall and a building. He had watched a couple here or there, the girl squealing, the guy doing something in her pants. The two taking clothes off, then moaning and spasming and kissing and all manners of strange, gross stuff. He didn't understand it. Girls were strange, and anyways, all the girls were old, like his mother. But his mother was his mother, and he loved her anyways, especially when she would sneak him some cookies or other sweet she had found. A Dandy Boy Apple she had managed to trade for, or a gum drop she had managed to find in the old ruins piles. A couple times, even a treasured Nuka-Cola. It was warm, and flat, but it tasted wonderful, compared to the irradiated water he normally drank. And it did not make him feel nearly as sick as the water did. But, that was the way life was, in this world. Everything made you feel sick. At least they had radaway. Once someone started puking, skin turning slightly grey, or white for the blacks, the town leader would poke their arm, hook up that bag, and give them a couple days. Greg remembered being so sick after drinking from a strange water that he thought he was about to die. It helped make him feel better, but he hated that poke to get it in him.

"Wait," I interrupted him, "Why didn't anyone stop them from going off like that and having sex? I mean, were they married?"

"Fucking hell, no. The town was having no new members. Had to breed them bitches. Sometimes they would fuck right in the middle of the communal sleeping area. The other folks would pretend to ignore them. How else you imagine they were going to get more people in the town? Was nobody coming around to join up with us."

I nodded, then let him get back to the story.

Sex was basically a free for all. As long as your partner was willing, you could do whatever. Greg's parents were one of the few older traditionalists, choosing only to sleep with each other. When a woman got pregnant, it was a celebration. The women enjoyed it because she was lavished with food, with gifts. She was able to take a break, later in her pregnancy, and not work the fields, staying in the town and enjoying the shade, no danger, purified water. When a woman would be found to be pregnant, the town had a celebration. That was the first time Greg got to taste what they called beer from before the war. Of course, as a 6 year old, he hated it.

One night, while everyone was sleeping, the alarm bell was sounded. It cut off shortly after. Greg woke up groggily, rubbing his eyes, as the adults grabbed guns and rifles from the cabinet. As he ran outside, he saw them, the super mutants. Huge, menacing creatures. Green skin stretched over large muscles. The sentry's body slumped dead against the bell that was cut off quickly. He watched the red blood leak out of the smashed skull of the sentry as around him, the townspeople disappeared behind walls and started shooting.

One of the green skinned nightmares grabbed the dead sentry, ripped his leg off, and stumped around like a hulking brute. Greg watched in horror as he took the leg and beat one of the other defenders to death with it. His mind could not comprehend what was happening.

The brute stomped towards him, and he heard a scream, saw his mom dart passed him, pulling the trigger on the pistol she held in her hand, screaming something. The brute grinned, and swung the leg at her legs, bowling her over. She landed, looking right at Greg, and her voice finally sunk in.

"RUN! Hide! Get away Greg! Run away!" The brute hit her in the head, and her eyes rolled back. Greg felt warmth rush down his leg, staring into the face of this horrible monster. He turned and ran. He ran blindly, wildly. Finally, he found a hole, in the side of one of the unused buildings, and crawled into it. He pushed further inside, feeling the wall scrape against his skin, scratching and scraping and drawing blood. He eventually made it into the basement of the old place, and hid there. A small window in the basement allowed him to see what was going on. His ears allowed him to hear. The sound of guns going off, the sound of bullets bouncing off other surfaces. The sound of screams as people were killed, or taken by the monsters. The resistance to this invasion ended quickly as the green skinned super mutants marched through with efficiency. They may have been hulking brutes, but they were organized and thorough. Soon, everyone in his town was dead or captive in hastily assembled metal cages, made of boxes and shopping carts. Then, things got worse.

Three days they stayed, ripping arms and legs from the dead, taking bites out of them. Smacking their lips and remarking on the taste of this person or that person. Sometimes, they took bites out of the people while they screamed and cried until finally shock forced them to pass out. The super mutants laughed, enjoying their sport. The surviving women were rounded up, and Greg saw the gross stuff the boys and the girls would do with each other, while they giggled and moaned and made strange sounds. One of the women was his mother. He watched as the hulking super mutant that had tripped her with the sentry's leg ripped off her clothes. He watched as the brute lifted his loin cloth, grabbed both of her legs, and spread them. He shoved his penis at her exposed middle, while she begged and pleaded and cried. Then, his penis pushed into her middle, and she screamed. Shivers ran down Greg's spine as he heard it, never hearing a sound like that from a person before. The super mutant shoved his penis into her, right here her legs were spread. He pulled back, then shoved into her again. Each time, she screamed again, and Greg's eyes could not leave her. Each time he pushed, her entire body moved with the force, slammed backwards as he shoved forward. When he pulled out, Greg could see blood covering his engorged penis, dripping from his mother's exposed area. She was no longer screaming, just whimpering and huddled in on herself. The super mutant laughed, then started again. Soon, she no longer screamed. She no longer did anything. Greg watched as his mom was ripped apart by the super mutant's penis, as he savaged her body beyond the point of human endurance, and as the light went out of her eyes while the super mutant brute continued fucking her.

His dad screamed her name, and was grabbed by another super mutant. This one was hungry. His dad tried to hit, to kick, to punch, while the one super mutant roared with laughter. Grabbing his leg, he drug him back, then opened his mouth and brought that leg to his face. Teeth clamped over his leg, and Greg's dad roared in pain. A chuck of flesh came away in the super mutant's teeth, and he chewed, still grinning ear to ear while watching his dad try to crawl to his mom. He crawled away and the super mutant stood up, grabbing his other leg, and taking yet another bite. On and on this game went, with the super mutant laughing as his dad tried feebly to crawl towards his mom, her body being broken by the brute. As the light in her eyes went out, he started screaming himself, trying harder to crawl to her, even as his blood wet the parched earth from multiple areas. He never made it. The super mutant brute stepped on his back, and even from as far away as he was, Greg heard a snap and pop. The brute picked up his broken body, and as Greg's dad tried to feebly hit him with the last of his strength, even adrenaline could do nothing to a broken body that had lost that much blood. The brute brought his head up to his mouth and took a loud, crunching bite out of the top of his head. Greg's dad died as the brute played in the grey mush that was once his brain, before it too was eaten.

Other women were not as lucky, and survived the super mutant's repeated rapes. By the end of the third day, the women left alive were not much different than the women who were dead. Eyes seeing nothing. Empty shells from minds that had abandoned them after their bodies were tortured, brutalized, and used. The super mutant's semen left in gushes from broken vaginas, and the super mutants kept on using their torn and bloody holes. Three days where the super mutants ate these people he grew up with. Raped these women he grew up with.

On the third day, they left, leaving parts of bodies scattered around. Leaving walls and paths between buildings painted red in blood. The few who survived were taken off, for what horrors, Greg could not imagine. As he looked around the broken town, nothing moved but him.

He tried for a couple weeks to stay, cleaning up the blood, trying to harvest the crops that were not destroyed. The radaway was gone. The purified water was gone. The town stink started to become nauseating. After being forced to hide from rad roaches, from bloatflies, from a group of raiders, he finally moved on, unable to stand the place, relive the horrors every day. Lost and alone, an orphan at 6 years old, witness to the horrible world that existed around him, he started wandering.

He found a gun and a few bullets, packed a few things, and ventured out into the world. Alone, scared, he made it. One year. He identified plants he could eat, slowly taking a little bite, seeing if it was okay, and when he didn't get sick, eating more. He learned to shoot, killing dogs, tearing into their flesh. He learned to make fire, cooking radroach meat, finding other plants that somehow seemed to help remove the radiation buildup in his body.

He also found other communities, sneaking in, passed their sentries, and stealing food, water, and most precious, weapons and ammo.

He was 8, and had learned to live in the dangerous world. He had learned to hide. He had learned to scavenge. He had learned to survive, kill or be killed when he could not hide. At first, he had drank from any source of water, from the mud puddles that dotted the dead land after the rains. He learned quickly to identify cleaner water.

One day, he spotted a settled building, and running low on ammo and clean water, realizing he needed to get rid of the radiation poisoning him, he waited until late at night and slipped passed the sentries. Normally he would avoid them, since he knew them by sight. Raiders. But, desperation drove him on.

He managed to get passed everyone, finding their store room. As he walked through, he missed the wire running alone the bottom of the door.

*Boom*

Because of his size, the shot, aimed at head level of a adult, missed him. However, it also brought a large group of raiders right to him. He tried hiding, but there was no where to. He tried shooting, but it did no good. He hid in the room, firing back occasionally, while looking for another gun, or ammo, or anything. Unfortunately, the room was full of food stuff, not weapons. He heard the *click click* at the same time the raiders did.

Realizing he would not be shooting back, the raiders stormed him. Finding nothing but a boy, they questioned him, asking for his comrades. After convincing them he was alone, they tied him up to a tree outside of the building. They took turns shooting the tree around him, somehow miraculously not hitting him. They used whips to strike him, to teach him about trying to steal from them. For two days they left him there, and time to time poked, prodded, threw rocks at, and did other things to bolster their spirits and to show what happens when anyone, even a little boy, tries to steal from them.

Eventually, he was cut down and asked why they should not kill him right away. He demonstrated what he knew, and while it was not enough to teach them anything new, it was enough to impress them and let him stay.

He became a member of the band. He was taught how to steal, improving what he had learned on his own. He was taught to fight, helping fend off both man and beast that tried to encroach on the raider territory. He was put to work scavenging. He was taught to manipulate, leading people from nearby communities to bad ends or the wrong place as they were robbed. Soon, the surrounding communities had learned his face, no longer falling for this child. By the time he hit puberty, he changed from the strong, agile, quickly little boy into a large, heavily muscled, intimidating man. He was put with the extorters, going from town to town to demand their fees. Food. Water. Anything. He watched many raiders fall as towns tried to fight back. The raiders always won. By the time he was 17, he was not only respected by his fellow raiders, but also feared. He was ruthless and methodical, but the leader could also see, he was selective. When making an example out of someone in a town trying to resist, he picked the right people, and applied the right pressure, to force the town to fall into compliance. Sometimes it was a beating. Sometimes it was a one on one fight, to show the town who was better. Sometimes it was a bullet to the brain of a town leader.

The band leader took him as his right hand man, and they ruled their territory with an iron fist.

However, soon Greg realized that the leader was a short sighted man, and that the band would ultimately die out with him in charge.

He challenged him, calling out. In a band of thieves, murderers, and other assorted criminals, the rule of might applied. If you wanted to rule, you proved it by showing your might.

While Greg was large, intelligent, and more than capable, the leader was tough, cunning, and a harder man to defeat than he had hoped.

He lost. Greg was whipped, beaten, and pummeled. After a few days, the leader released him, with a gruff "get out. If you return, I will kill you myself". Just like that, he was cast out into the world. But he had learned. He was hard. He was smart. He was a survivor.

He wandered, finding people here and there. To some, he was a horror. To others, he was a savior. Then, to his amazement, someone started following him. The two of them wandered, and a third joined him. A fourth.

Soon, he had his own band, 7 strong. He went back to his old band, and scoped them out for a while. Much as he thought, there were less. Only 12 people, and the leader, remained. What used to be a band with over 40 members was now almost nothing.

He took three of his men that were the best at sneaking, and slaughtered every member of his former band, one by one. None even knew what was coming until they were dead.

At last, he looked down on his old leader, sleeping away, no sentries to wake him, and ruthlessly slit his throat, so savagely his head fell free of his body.

Greg had come home.

He had learned though. He had learned from his town that you needed women to grow your numbers. He had learned that babies were the future. The first woman of the band was a slave. Eventually, he had female raiders standing in his numbers, but to him, they were nothing. Smaller than the men, weaker, they had one duty. To populate the band. The first time one of the female raiders was raped, she tried to extract revenge.

He silently subdued her, typing her in the middle of the courtyard, and savagely raped her himself, in front of all of his male members eyes. He left her there, giving the men one rule: Do not kill or disable her in any way.

So, the tradition was started, that the first bleed of a woman would be publicly celebrated by every man in the band. As leader, he always showed them how to do it, breeding the woman first after her first period.

While his band had many less female raiders than the other territories, they had many more males, and also had many more people. Children born were raised by the band, taught to hunt, to kill, to extort, to steal, to bring in the food, water, and everything else the band may need. Women were bitches, no better than dogs, to breed and replenish the population. The local populations knew him, and all paid what was required, even when it was one of their women. Soon, his name was widely known among raiders, and among others who hunted raiders, and widely feared.

"So, that is my life. I have grown the band, and have one of the most powerful bands around. When we get free, this town will pay. Are you sure you want to pay with them, bitch?"

I shook my head as I stopped the pipboy from recording. "No, I don't think you will get free, and I definitely do not think you will get to do anything to this town. Your life is spared because you helped with the super mutants, but the townspeople still argue every day about killing all of you, before you have a chance to do just that."

He sneers at me. "Yeah, cut a fuckers throat while he is in a cage. Or just going to shoot me? Easy, just point the gun and pull the trigger. You able to kill a man when he can't stop you? Yeah, fucking cowards, the lot of you 'civilized' people. Want to take me out? Do it the right way, and challenge me. Or are you too much of a cur bitch, whimpering about the scary people, to try? Maybe you are just to weak. That is why you will die."

While I am not a frontline fighter like the paladins in the brotherhood, I am still a fighter. Even a scribe needs to know how to defend herself in this world.

I look at him and sigh. He still doesn't really know me, and just disregards me because I am a female, like I can do nothing.

I tap the cage. "Stay there, big boy. I will be back later."

"Yeah, fucking bitch, run off."

I did leave, but to talk to the leader. I presented my plan. The leader did not like it, not at all. Finally, after showing him that he really had no choice, he relented.

"Come," I say, unlocking Greg's cage door and standing to the side. "You want a challenge? Fine. They don't want you, and want to shoot you like a dog. I at least think you deserve the right to be killed in your way."

He stares at the door. "Who is challenging me?" Is all he says.

"I am," I say. I jump a little as his laughter tears out of his chest. Finally, he stands up, and walks to the middle of a clearing with me. It is ringed by the townsfolks, all holding guns, trained on Greg. "I challenge you, as leader of your band." I say this, and that is all. Then, we fight.