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MYSTERIOUS STRANGER NO EPISODE YET
000. MYSTERIOUS STRANGER
Elijah is many things but a vile, inhumane man like the ones in the wasteland. He glides through the world like a shadow, his movements silent and his intentions remain obscured. He possesses an air of enigma, leaving others intrigued yet uncertain of his true nature, his intentions. His eyes hold secrets untold, their presence whispers of hidden depths waiting to be explored. But just not by anyone, he hasn't settled down and had a family nor freinds.
He's like a fleeting breeze to many. There one moment and gone the next. He navigates his delicate life above with a sense of autonomy, appearing and disappearing at will, untethered by obligations or commitments. His presence brings a sense of spontaneity, yet his departure from a situation leaves a lingering curiosity about where he'll surface next.
He extends a hand towards survivors without expecting anything in return. He offers assistance with no emotion holding him to it yet he desires to see people thrive in the wasteland, it's puzzling to understand at best. But his assistances leave a ghostly trail of gratitude and kindness. Something the wasteland needed now more than ever.
But what caused Elijah to be this mysterious with a ting of care? His background was as dull as an unshaven pencil. Try to write with the dull pencil and it'll only give the basic answers one seeks but not with specific details of curvature and information.
He ventured a long way to where he was now. Coming all the way east from Boston, Elijah arrived in the desert of Los Angeles. It was on his bucket list of things to accomplish to see the city of angels in it's finals stages of upholding itself in the treacherous land. The crumbling skyscrapers, the streets littered with debris that was overgrown with sand. An eerie silence broken only by the occasional howl of the polluted wind.
He looks over the desolated city from a massive dune a few miles away. The sun shining upon his face from where the ocean laid still. The sun was the only reminder of the life before the tales of the Great War. A sad yet curled smile lingers on his clean face.
Despite the unforgiving and dirty wasteland, Elijah remained as clean as can be. No one knows how, yet he seems to have found a way to. Water if not purified was radiated by the bombs that fell back in 2077 during the Great War. Nearly 200 years ago. So how was he kept clean? Purified water was hard to come by anyways...
The clothes his wears tells the same story as well. He stood tall in his impeccably tailored black suit, each crease sharp and precise. His hair, neatly combed, added to the polished image, every strand in place. His attire spoke of meticulous care, exuding an aura of cleanliness and retirement.
He did get his hands bloody when coming in contact with people or the creatures that echo through the polluted air. Yet he always finds a way to not get his hands tainted.
Much could be said the same for his last permanent place he used to call home. Boston, Massachusetts. He carried the weight of his harsh last resident of home like invisible scars etched deep within his soul. Each step foward felt like a struggle against the memories that threatened to pull him back into the darkness. Despite the pain embedded in his brown eyes, he wore his resilience like armor, a testament to the strength forged in the fires of adversity.
But he promised himself he wouldn't go into detail of his past any loner. He made a new promise to help people he passes by in the new city across America from Boston. 19 years had passed from the events in Boston, so why should he linger on the despair he felt when thinking of that place? Thoughts such as those will only catch him off gaurd in the wasteland and soon enough he'll find himself in the sharp, jagged teeth of a deathclaw. He had to remain diligent when in the presence of the orange sky in the wasteland.
He also seemed to possess an otherworldly combination of luck and strength, as if fate itself favored his every move. Whether facing insurmountable odds or daunting challenges, he always emerged victorious, leaving his onlookers in awe of his seemingly boundless fortune and unwavering power. His presence was a force to be reckoned with, a living embodiment of destiny's chosen champion.
If he was born with such perks why didn't Elijah intervene in matters that were far important than miniscule problems strangers found themselves in? He likes to uphold his title as mysterious stranger. It wouldn't be mysterious stranger any longer if he involved himself in such enormous endeavors. Anyways, he likes to think his help across many people through different demolished states may sway their perception on how they view the depressing world. Yes, mutated creatures were on top of the food chain but if everyone banded together someday. Who wouldn't say, America would become United Stated of America like it did before the war? He could unfortunately only dream of this goal, knowing alliances were far from happening.
A blood-curling screech pierced the silence that greeted Elijah as he remained eyes interlocked on the deserted city. He smirks, knowing what it came from. With a quick glance over his shoulder, he caught the eyes of a deathclaw lurking, stalking Elijah's every move. It's eyes glow with malevolent hunger. It's recent screech echoes through the vast openness, reminding anyone who found any hint of peaceful rest that mutated monsters stalk their every move.
The deathclaw, getting in a formation. Signaling it was ready to run and pounce Elijah's small frame.
He cracks his head and moans at the satisfaction. He grabs his revolver from the inside of his black suit and spins it on his thumb, taking his time. Knowing his experience with creatures like these, he'll have no trouble with it. With unwavering focus, he aimed his revolver with no hesitation, his eyes locked on the target with laser precision. Each movement he made from there on out was deliberate, calculated, as if time itself slowed to accommodate his determination. Confidence glowed in his stance, a quiet reassurance that he would hit his mark without fail as it speeds closer and closer to his still frame.
"Still an unwavering nuisance as ever," He commented to himself as he readies himself, timing his shot. His British accent prominent, a rich tapestry of sophistication and charm, with it's crisp enunciation and melodious cadence. It carried an air of elegance and authority, evoking images of a refined gentleman. His voice alone, describe someone of importance and with class.
With only final look, the mysterious stranger fires his revolver and down the deathclaw it did. Maybe his gun was made from the gods above, if there were any. Or maybe his luck was just an advantage. Nevertheless, any one who walks upon the deathclaw who laid life with just on bullet to the head wonder how such a weird and mysterious action could kill one of the dangerous predators in the wasteland.
The mysterious stranger is just as peculiar as his one shot, one kill to anything that comes his way.
