Murder By Numbers

I walk into the Ultra Luxe casino and I decide this is a good place to gamble. There's a conspicuously ornate fountain outside. The stairs have fancy lighting. All the employees wear vaguely threatening masks and carry shiny canes. I feel like I've stepped into Eyes Wide Shut and I'm seconds away from getting asked the password for the house. It feels appropriately uncomfortable for a post-apocalyptic house of crooks. I hand over my weapons and sit down at the bar and admire the peacock feather explosion that erupts into the air under the domed roof. There are cracks in the walls, but in a world of mud, mutants, and looted corpses, this is the most peaceful and orderly place I've seen. Clearly something is hidden underneath the haughty staff attitudes and gaudy interiors, but initially I don't care. Then I met Mortimer.

He's got a hipster mustache, bow tie, and top hat, and he's more concerned with what he's writing on a clipboard than what I'm asking. My fleeting thoughts of having discovered a new home in the wasteland is ruined because this penguin doesn't think I'm good enough to exist, let alone step into his establishment. So I ask around. I dig. It turns out the folks running the place are all twisted cannibals dining on the flesh of the clientele. I expose it. I raid the kitchen and kill the cooks and sneak back out, wrecking their silly game. When I return, Mortimer calls me lowly and ill-mannered. Sure it's true, but he doesn't have to point it out. So I calmly exit, reenter with my arsenal, and proceed to wipe out the entire casino. So much for finding a happy home.

This is an example of why I like Fallout so much. It's not just that I can open fire on an unsuspecting crowd, but that I can do it for a reason. And in this case it wasn't even the game's reason, it was my own. That is what I consider to be role-playing perfection.
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