Prologue
Waking up to the sensation of your epidermis feeling two sizes too small, and a skull splitting migraine, all the while simultaneously sitting in a likely abandoned: grimy, dusty cell is not the way I expected to wake up. At least the gate is open.
Getting off my ass, I brush myself off as I go reach for my pocket. Expecting to find my phone I instead am delightfully surprised by a folded piece of paper. Double checking for my wallet and keys. Also gone. Take my dignity too while you're at it.
Giving myself a pat down making sure there aren't any new sutures or scars among my body, just in case whoever took my shit decided to fuck me over some more, trying to ignore the urge to scratch every inch of my body.
Pulling out the piece of paper written… no sorry, printed piece of paper; I give it a read.
"Hey idiot,
You're not in Florida anymore. You sort of died. Sorry, bud. Welcome to The Mojave Wasteland.
FYI: this was a rush job. You were originally supposed to get the vaunted 'Tinker of Fiction' package, but we're cheapskates and you only got two tech trees. We'll tell you the first one since it's tied to the pity boon(s) we gave you.
If your skin feels weird, congrats—you now possess the One Who Covers parasite. A neutered version, mind you. It'll still propagate through your body, but it's been altered just enough to keep you from turning this place into an all-you-can-mist zombie buffet; can't make it too easy for you. Think of it as a starter pack apology similar to a gacha game, it won't make up for losing the opportunity for that juicy golden ticket, but hey better than nothing.
SO! In case you didn't catch it, you've got most of the tech tree from the Metal Gear series crammed into your skull. Think of it as a pseudo-Tinker power—minus the eldritch brain worm. The knowledge will trickle in gradually, just slow enough to keep your brain from melting through your nose.
The second tech tree will reveal itself once you've made enough progress with the first.
So yeah. Fuck you. Figure it out.
Good luck!
P.S: We also stuffed in a lite knowledge/experience template from Quiet—yes, that Quiet—so you'll actually know how to use half the stuff you make and not die upon encountering literally anything. More importantly, not kill yourself accidentally through the use of the parasite's abilities.
Enjoy the possible gender dysphoria and the pseudo ego-death/identity blending. That should kick in right around the time you finish reading this."
Are you fucking kidding—
I grabbed my head as I got the equivalent of an icepick lobotomy, consisting of bits and pieces of training, combat, trauma, being burned alive. All being assimilated into my mind. Also making it glaringly obvious at the little bits and pieces of firearm manufacturing stuck to my head at the moment.
I blinked hard as I got my thoughts in order, trying to breathe as I became acutely aware of the parasite integrated with my skin. It's not moving, hostile— just there, coiled like a muscle I haven't flexed, yet still know mostly how to use it.
It's not Identical, to my—Quiet's parasite. She had hers specialized after being immolated and needing something to replace her skin. Ergo, the parasite she received replaced her skin entirely, but left her breathing through her dermis and also forced her to essentially photosynthesize with all the weaknesses that came with it.
Mine? Mine was different.
A more generalized strain. Closer to the kind the Parasite Unit used—without the zombie fog or the metallic archaea nonsense. No rust-touch. No calcified skin armor.
And thank God, no built-in nudity clause.
I could breathe just fine through my lungs, not my dermis. Though if I wanted to photosynthesize, the option was there —still had my own pigmentation though. No corpse gray thankfully.
As I stop leaning on the wall to balance myself, I do notice that my sense of balance is a bit off, I— Quiet was 5 '9, not so different from my 5' 10, but the weight difference is taking some getting used to but I quickly adjust.
Determining that it's best to loot this building of anything useful, firearms hopefully, before I decide to walk out into an uncaring desert. Maybe wait here for night to fall. And considering what I'm wearing…
Looking down: Olive drab cargo pants cuffed at the ankles, black military surplus boots, and a compression shirt.
I could probably handle the heat now, biologically speaking, but I'd still rather go at night, less chances of someone seeing me moving at speeds not possible for a baseline human.
The sound of an inhaler's hiss, makes me tense up before my new instincts took over.
Rorschach-like shimmer pulsed across my face—reflexive, unbidden camouflage blooming into place. My breathing slowed. My weight shifted to the balls of my feet.
I made a step. It made sound.
Too loud. Unacceptable.
The second step came automatically. Silent. Smooth. That wasn't me anymore. That was her muscle memory guiding me.
I inched toward the holding room door, eyes locking on the small slit of visibility it offered.
Even in low light, my vision was crisp— No more glasses for me then…
Through the slit, I spotted two figures. Scrawny. Scavenged gear. One was passing around an inhaler—probably Jet. Raiders or local gangers, hard to tell without insignia. Both armed.
Determining my plan of action, slamming the door open, the handle hitting the wall with a loud crack.
I control the parasite into concealing me, a shimmer of mist later, and I'm gone.
"Shit!" The female raider jumps off her seat, her hands inching towards a m3 submachine gun slung on her shoulder.
"Go check that out chicken shit." She punches the male raider next to her still holding the inhaler. The man almost dropping the inhaler much to his horror.
"Fuckin'— f-fine." He slowly begins making his way down the hallway after throwing the inhaler on the chair. Approaching with what appears to be a 1911 based handgun being held with both hands.
Poor form, and weak grip, my hands opening in closing,calming myself as I lean close to the wall.
The second I see the barrel of the handgun, I move
A shimmer of mist, and I'm tangible once more. Grabbing the bottom of the gun's barrel, pointing it upwards, as I drove my fist into his stomach, his breath leaving his body.
Wrenching the gun free from the junkie's hands with a fluid twist. I point it at his head as he's still folded on himself, grabbing his stomach.
Four pounds of pressure applied to the trigger, and the man has a new hole between his eyes.
His body slumping to the ground instantly like a puppet with it's strings cut.
"Fuckin' stealth-boys!" the woman shrieked, scrambling with her grease gun.
She was too slow.
I fired.
I aimed for her forehead's dead center, but the gun's poor condition shot it off center towards the left of her frontal bone. The bullet skipped along the edge of her skull. She drops to the ground with shriek, still alive.
A burst of intangibility and movement later and I was already on top of her.
Gun under her chin. Grease gun kicked out of reach with my boots.
Her eyes widened, panic pouring out of every pore as I stared her down
She thrashed until I pressed the hot barrel into the soft flesh beneath her jaw.
She whimpered. Froze.
"Where is this?" I asked, voice flat.
"Wh–what—" she stammered.
I applied more pressure. Not enough to burn. Enough to promise worse.
"Some old-war highway patrol thing!" she squealed. "They got them black-and-white police rust buckets outside!"
"Where do you keep your loot?"
She opened her mouth to snarl something stupid, but I grabbed her collar and yanked. Her breath caught.
"F–fuckin'… in the armory! It's locked, I got the keys! I got the keys!"
"Who's your gang?"
Her eyes flicked side to side—then narrowed. The last two functioning neurons in her skull managed to spark.
"We're the fucking Jackals! You're dead, you hear?! If you don't let me go, they'll find you! They'll fuck yo—"
I stepped back.
She paused. Confused.
Avoiding the mess as I ventilated her skull with another application of 4 pounds of pressure.
Quickly grabbing the Grease gun as I hear movement outside the double door entrance, putting the 9mm handgun between my belt. Quickly going intangible once more in wait.
The doors open revealing a trio of jackals walking in. All of their hairstyles consist of garish greasy mohawks. The one on the vanguard having a sawed down double barreled coach gun in his hands raised into the interior of the room. On his flank the remaining two are using similar 9mm to the one I have holstered.
"What the fuck…" The lead whispered.
After making sure there weren't any more Jackals in the vicinity, I become tangible once more, appearing behind their little trio. Pulling down, the grease gun barks, as I turn their backs into swiss cheese. Blood and bone spattering as their denim jackets get perforated.
The one on my left almost turned around, catching a glimpse of me before he crumpled to the ground.
The barrel of the grease gun smoking as I stop firing looking down at the bodies.
I dragged the corpses into the cell that I woke up in. One by one, after I looted them. Leaving smears of blood from my relocation.
Their bodies didn't yield much, but every little bit counted. Mostly ammo, 2 stimpaks, and some caps.
When I opened the armory, I was greeted by the smell of gun-oil, blood, and sweat. The shelves were actually pretty stacked.
A modest stockpile of non-perishable foodstuffs. Powdered milk. Canned pork. A few unopened MREs with rusted edges. Most likely looted from a caravan, maybe even a supply runner from the NCR.
But the real prize sat across the back wall:
A scoped, bolt-action rifle.
A Remington 700 Police model Specifically. I'm definitely keeping that thing, the part of me that was Quiet enthusiastically agreeing with me. It's chambered in .308, and there was luckily a single box containing 20 cartridges.
There weren't any other guns in here other than some 9mm 1911 in shitty condition. Though speaking of the pistols. I did strip all of them down. And after finding the one in the best condition of the lot I stripped them down and scavenged what I could. Swapped out the firing pin. Replaced the recoil spring and the guide rod. Even found a better barrel bushing. Nothing fancy, just solid, functional pieces.
It was during this process that I noticed something.
The knowledge was there.
The names of parts. The process. The feel of tolerances, weight, slide tension—all of it was intuitive.
But it stopped at conventional firearms.
Nothing beyond that. No railguns. No walker drones. No AI subroutines. Not yet.
Quiet's understanding of battlefield weapons was solid, but practical. Field maintenance. Disassembly. Cleaning. Sight alignment. She could shoot circles around most professionals, but design blueprints? Manufacture? That wasn't her.
And the fragments of her memory that I carried—well, they agreed.
Right now, the Metal Gear tech tree in my head was just a slow-drip feed. A locked vault I didn't have the combination for yet. And honestly I appreciate it at the moment. I don't think I'll have the capabilities of manufacturing anything on the crazier scale of that setting any time soon.
I rubbed at my chin, thinking through the angles. How do I survive this world? How do I thrive in it?
Right now, the money's here. The Mojave.
And war? War is where the profit is.
That idea—that cold, precise truth—was one of the first things the Metal Gear series ingrained into me when I played the games. And well, seeing my reality now…
Sure, I could try heading west. Get NCR citizenship, settle down as a gunsmith, maybe even work my way into a production contract. But that's safe thinking. That's long-term. Bureaucracy. Paperwork. Waiting in lines. Taxes….
Here? In the Mojave?
There's opportunity.
Chaos to leverage. Factions to play. Gaps in power to exploit.
Bounty hunting, mercenary work ,maybe?
Both are straightforward, pay well, and gives me a reason to travel. Better yet, it keeps my skills sharp. Keeps me fluid, mobile. Detached.
I could build a reputation off that alone.
And from there? I snowball.
As the tech trickles in—as the tree unlocks—I'll start acquiring what I need. Access to industrial manufacturing, or at least enough to jury-rig an equivalent. CNC machinery, automated tooling, chemical baths for treating metals… maybe not all at once, but eventually.
Once I've got that?
Then I start running guns.
The mojave is a furnace full of factions, vying for control of either Vegas, Hoover Dam of fuck all else. And with said conflicts, that will inevitably cause demand. Everyone will want guns better than the other guy.
They'll pay in caps. NCR dollars. Legion coin. Salvaged material. Raw metals, whatever might have value
I could be here before Operation Sunburst. Maybe even before the First Battle of Hoover Dam.
Or after.
It doesn't matter.
This isn't a scripted game. It's not following anyone's 'canon' timeline. This is a living world—and living worlds make new wars.
New clients. New markets—
I'm getting ahead of myself.
I sigh, rubbing my face as I crack open a Nuka-Cola I pulled from the armory. I sit on the edge of a dusty metal counter, waiting for nightfall.
It tastes like coke, but mixed in with a nice fruity flavor I can't put my finger on. It's flat, but I mean; it's 200 or so years old. It's surprising it's still drinkable.
This world's preservatives are insane.
A.N: My botched poll on Bioresonant in the Wastes (on another site), revealed to me that people want New Vegas Content. After letting my muse actually focus on something, I came up with this insert.
I do not own anything from the Metal Gear Solid Series, nor do I own anything from the fallout series.
I fiend for your reviews and validation. Do tell me when I fuck up though.