Commission for @eleanor-zhao of her OC with Arcade Gannon. Thanks again for commissioning me! It was great having the opportunity to draw her again and give her someone to cuddle :D!
Commission for @thewookieruns, featuring Lone Wanderer Luke back at the Capital Wasteland, paying respects for a fallen soldier and friend, Elder Sarah Lyons.
Thank you so much for entrusting me with this one, Wookie!
“Yeah, I used to be on our recruitment posters back in the Vault for the baseball team. Had my name written there and everything.” “You’re joking.” “Hand to God. I made MVP for the third-odd time and got plastered on the flyers. Think it’s why the Overseer got real sick of my face, really.”
rookie, back at the height of their baseball career.
last Christmas @chocochipbiscuit wrote a drabble for me inspired by this cute lil thing and I’ve been squealing ever since because this is one of the nicest presents I’ve ever got. once again: thank you so much Choco ♥ ♥ ♥ my lone wanderer/Crazy Wolfgang
“We wish you a merry kiss-mas and a happy new beer!” Wolfgang croons, off-key as ever as he presses chapped lips to Sayuri’s cheek, stubble catching her skin even as she swats him away.
Try as she might, she can’t stop the quirk at the corner of her mouth as she examines the contraption he pushes in her hands. It’s a tiny battery, boxy and surprisingly heavy for its size, with wires and miniature lights smaller than her littlest fingernail strung over it. Layers of green, with one tiny red dot to mark the crown of this minimalist ‘tree.’
He even stuck it on top of a prewar air freshener, the synthetic pine scent filling her nostrils as she leans close.
“I didn’t get you anything.” She rubs her thumb along the waxy base, her voice more statement of fact than apology. She hadn’t been expecting him to remember any of the old holidays anyway.
He smiles, mouth sticky-red around the edges from some abominable hard candy he crunches on while speaking. “No, but you smiled, pretty lady. That’ll last me ‘til at least Valentine’s Day.”
written for me as art trade by always wonderful @chocochipbiscuit so if you like the best junk trader in Fallout games, or are in the mood for some rarepair fluff, or like me really enjoy short writing forms, you should give this a read
The Bad Beginning
Scrub as she might, Sayuri’s never going to get that thin black line of grit from under her nails. At least not without more soap and water than she’ll find in Moira’s shop. Or all of Megaton.
Speaking of the lady, Moira Brown’s all sunshine and smiles as she pokes her head into the back. “Hey there!” she chirps. “You’ve been doing such a great job on fixing up the radios and toasters and all, I’m running out of parts! Crazy Wolfgang’s got the stuff I need, so if you could just swing on by and pick them up, that’d be swell!”
Sometimes Sayuri wonders how Moira stays so relentlessly cheerful. Worse than Jonas after three cups of coffee—and two weeks isn’t enough to make that comparison ache any less.
But part of Moira’s chatter sticks at her, like a pebble lodged in her shoe. “Wait, Crazy?”
“Well, that’s just what people call him!” Despite Moira’s giggle, Sayuri remembers her attempts at radroach mousse. Moira may not be the best gauge for sanity. “He’s really quite nice. Has the best selection of parts of any of the traders.”
“Where is he?” Sayuri has momentary nightmares of crossing mirelurk infested rivers, tip-toeing through minefields, and dodging raiders.
“Just outside of town, but I still need to mind the store. So could you? Please? Pretty please?”
Saying ‘no’ to Moira can be like swiping a sweetroll from a child. Except Sayuri doesn’t really like children, but she likes Moira fine.
“Okay. What do you need?”
Crazy Wolfgang
Sayuri hears him before she sees him, a cheerful, wandering tenor—alto? She’s never been quite sure on the singing ranges for men, but he’s not deep enough for a baritone—that warbles up and down, always at least half a key off from the actual song blasting from the radio. If he ever hits the right notes, it’s purely by accident.
That’s got to be Crazy Wolfgang.
He grins at her, bright and fierce like a sunbeam as he spreads his arms wide, as if to encompass his brahmin, his packs, his guard—the whole world—while calling, “Hey there, pretty lady! Crazy Wolfgang’s got just what you need!” Winking broadly, he adds, “Assuming, of course, that you need the random assortment of junk I got.”
Is he for real?
Her tongue feels suddenly at least two sizes too big for her mouth, all fumbling and mushy as she struggles to recall Moira’s list. “Hey. Moira says she needs some parts, so…”
“Ah, yes! The inestimable Moira Brown! She knows the value of a man’s junk!” He becomes an immediate blur, pulling out one of his packs and laying his items on a fraying blanket. All sorts of odds and ends; springs and sprockets, nuts and bolts, disassembled rifle parts, electronics and…
“Hey, I’ve been looking for one of those!” she blurts, picking up the old hard drive. The terminals around town are a joke, and if she could just make her own… wheels dance in her head, visions of motherboards and cooling fans all tumbling in bed.
“Another fine find at my Depot of Detritus, pretty lady!”
Forty-five minutes and some intense haggling later (because she will not relent just for a moderately handsome face) Sayuri acquires a sack full of the items on Moira’s list, plus several key parts she’s been searching for.
And Crazy Wolfgang promises to return with yet more ‘junk’ for her to handle.
She can’t quite bring herself to scowl at him.
Circling the Drain
Like gears on a clock, time grinds forward—days into weeks, intervals marked by each new trader’s passage. Sayuri stays occupied with Moira’s experiments, finding odds and ends and little jobs to keep her busy and earn her caps to stay in Megaton.
But she can’t stay in Megaton, not forever. Static on the radio is like a burr under her skin, even the comfortable monotony clinging to her like grit. She’s getting by, making a place here, but that’s the key phrase; getting by. Only as long as there’s parts. Only as long as the caravans keep coming by. Only as long as Moira has odd jobs and repairs for her.
The Wasteland’s a scary place.
But like dirty water circling the drain, her thoughts keep spiralling back to one idea.
She has to learn to survive out there.
Moira’s Wasteland Survival Guide seems like a good place to start, but somehow, breaking her limbs or sneaking through a trapped town covered in mines don’t sound appealing. And one look at the corpses strung up outside the Super Duper Mart makes Sayuri decide that no, scavving food and medicine from the Mart isn’t a good idea either.
So that leaves the traders—and ‘crazy’ or not, Wolfgang’s her best bet.
Giving Away
Her first night outside of Megaton is cold. Sheet-metal walls may lack insulation, but at least they’re walls. This dry wasteland breeze chills her to the bone, and Butch’s old leather jacket would be warmer if it still had its sleeves. Huddling next to the fire with her arms tight around her, trying to still the chattering of her teeth, Sayuri’s surprised when a sudden warm weight folds about her shoulders.
She looks up to see Wolfgang standing overhead, crescent-moon smile gleaming.
“You looked cold, pretty lady,” he says by way of explanation.
“You didn’t have to give me this.” Her lips press thin as she glares up, wondering what angles he’s figuring.
But gosh, his jacket smells nice. It’s weighted with so many pockets and all that it would dangle past her knees even if she was standing, but it drapes over her feet like a tent as she sits, letting her feel its presence like a hug. Still warm with his own body heat and smelling—well. There’s that sort of dry-and-spicy dirt smell, dust and grit from distant roads. Then there’s the little bits of smoke and strange sweetness mixed in, like char and nectar bundled in one. Hints of prewar cologne—that bottled synthetic ‘man’ smell that the vault boys slathered themselves in before prom, but subtle and enticing rather than overpowering. Grease too, gunmetal and oil tang, almost tasted in the back of her throat rather than smelled, and…
“I don’t have to, but I want to.” He sits next to her, sprawling out his long limbs and sitting at ease. Wasteland, saloon, or vault diner, Wolfgang could make anyplace look like home with that casual pose. “Of course, it’s just for the night. I’ve got merchandise in the pockets, pretty lady. Can’t give away all my wares so easy.”
Sayuri snorts, finding comfort in that practicality.
Until he leans forward, fluttering those ridiculously long lashes and murmuring, “Only my heart.”
Pretty Lady
She’s borrowing his coat again because—well, it’s comfortable. And while the sun beats relentless and cruel during the day, the night is frigid hell. Her fingers don’t even peep beyond the edges of his sleeves, so she has to roll them up in order to flip through the old repair manual. But that leaves her fingers cold, so she sticks one hand into her pocket.
Well, his pocket, since she abruptly encounters two strangely familiar objects. A cold metal disk and a tube, which she pulls out. A lady’s compact and lipstick.
Wolfgang’s pretty, but he’s not that pretty. His mouth pink and moist, slightly red around the edges where he idly chews his lips, but not lipstick red. And Sayuri might not be all up to date on her makeup, but the white powder is far too pale for his skin tone.
He catches her studying him and mock-bows, hair flopping over his eyes. “What’s on your mind, pretty lady?”
“Just junk I pulled out of your coat.”
Wolfgang’s laughter bursts out, flying wide and high like birds’ wings. “Normally the good junk’s in my pants, for future notice. But that’s not just any old junk! Those are the finest cosmetics a scavver can find, pretty lady. And already bespoken, alas. Not that you need any.”
“Who even bothers with makeup in the wasteland?”
“A lovely lady in Big Town likes the powder, and there’s another pretty lady in Underworld who always appreciates ruby-red lips.”
Sayuri snorts, trying not to watch the way the firelight dances in his eyes. “You call a lot of girls ‘pretty lady.’”
“Can I help it that I am blessed with beauty all around?”
“Sometimes I think you just forget people’s names.”
Wolfgang leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and smiling slow and steady, lips shaping words like a whisper, like a blessing—
“There are many pretty ladies, but only one named Sayuri.”
Smile
He’s a flirt.
He’s loud and obnoxious.
He also sings badly.
Somehow, that last one irritates her the most.
He’s friendly.
He knows how to survive the wastes.
He also smells good.
Somehow, that last one confuses her the most.
So when she tucks his jacket around herself, squatting near the fire and staring at the sky with bright-dazzled eyes, she wonders why he let her tag along to begin with. And when he takes a seat beside her, long legs splayed out and leaning back on his hands, she asks.
“Because you asked, Sayuri.” A crooked grin rolls across his face. “It’s fair trade. An extra pair of hands, set of guns—and sometimes people just need each other. I’d love to see you smile.”
Sayuri snorts, lips twisting into a scowl as she hunkers into her knees.
“Not that—pretty lady, you don’t have to smile. Not for me, not for anyone. But I’d like to be there when you choose to.”
And she does not smile at that, but she sighs, wriggling her toes in her boots and watching them dig tiny spots into the dry grit.
some quick sketches of all my fallout protags! i realised it had been a hot moment since i had drawn any of them so i decided to sit down and sketch them all today ⚡️
top row: matthias rodriguez and adrian fawkes, fallout 4 raider advisor and sole survivor/overboss
middle row: laverne laurent my lone wanderer and frankie my courier
bottom row: penelope singh my vault dweller and innes hale a raider trapper
