This was because my first character with this group was to be a female, but the DM told me that he'd prefer I not, in case a wandering passerby would get the wrong impression (Wabash College being all male, and the friend in question having very quickly learned I was queer). Xandriana was very much born of that rage, and with the intent to speak to those supercilious notions.
In Fallout 3 I gave her the starting package of Asian. Her stats were to have a vastly increased intellect and slightly higher charisma and perception. Skills were focused on Energy Weapons, Speech, and Science.
-
Butch's panic-stricken stare is still having its effect on me.
My father left rather suddenly, without my having any warning. All I knew was that Amata handed me a gun and pleaded with me to run. One of the overseer's brutes had seen fit to start harassing me when radroaches distracted him and I managed to quickly flee through an adjoining room.
I'd already contemplated using my gun once, and here was Butch, the jackass who'd been annoying me all these years, pleading for me to help his mother. Honestly, it took a moment to even register a word he said, having had so much other information thrown at me directly upon waking.
That's probably why I raised the gun, taking careful aim. I wasn't used to the light weight of the handgun, or the fact that I didn't have the butt of a rifle pressed against my shoulder; I recall my left hand feeling particularly awkward, as if it didn't know what to do, but felt the need to to something.
Butch, oblivious as ever, kept mumbling on about his mother. While I didn't necessarily wish harm on her, I recalled Butch's crude comments to Amata about his 'Tunnel Snake,' while surrounding her with his asshole friends. Given this, I briefly weighed the options of saving his mother and taunting him with his own ineffective 'manliness' versus shooting him then and taunting his mother with the knowledge that her son was too weak to save her.
No, that would imply I was going to stay, which the officer's screeches around the corner told me was clearly not going to happen. Forcing a petulant sigh, I holstered the gun and turned to leave, telling him that it was his problem, not mine; the pressing reality that I needed to hurry shrilling through the sirens wailing in the background.
I was not going to sacrifice myself to save Butch's mother, even if I did excuse her for raising such a son--I loathe martyrs.
No, my father left. I wouldn't call this an abandonment issue; I'd call this a betrayal of my trust. If I'm so adult, dear father, why not trust me to actually make a decision? Whatever your reasons may be for keeping me shrouded in mystery all these years, and then suddenly taking your secrets off with you, I will follow you. Know that the three officers I shot to escape from the Overseer's wrath are on your hands; you gave me the training, you gave me the incentive.
Given all this, I still can't place the discomfort that comes (and it does so of its own bidding) when I recall Butch's eyes and the gun trained between them.
Yes, you will be displeased, father, but you will come to realize that it is nothing compared to my own displeasure.
