So in my universe Vault 25 is located in North Dakota and was never actually used by anyone. It has two reactors but one of them was broken and leaked radiation into the vault. Many years later a group of Children of Atom (more friendly like the Capital Wasteland ones, not militant like Commonwealth or Far Harbor ones) found the place and settled. They try their best to keep it clean and well kept since to them it is a holy site. Some children go as far as to wear the vault suits out of devotion. They all wear pip-boys.
In Children of the Wastes Lloyd Inculta is brought to this place after sustaining injuries and finds out he has the mutation that makes him radiation immune.
Hard to get curious about what’s ahead when yesterday’s still breathin’ down your neck.
“…Reverse a mutation?”
The words come out with that lazy little curl Hancock gets when something lands somewhere between interesting and total bullshit.
Commonwealth’s full of stories like this. Folks’ll shoot each other dead arguing whether synths got belly buttons, swear some poor bastard turned into a tree and got himself a whole congregation, or tell you there’s a deathclaw professor roaming Cambridge with more brains than half the assholes living there. And right now? He’s got an easier time believing every damn one of those than believing somebody can put this messed-up world in reverse.
Before he can pick his way any further through the strange little maze that is Bug Lady’s brain, something over his shoulder steals her clean away. She perks up, bounces onto her toes, and starts hitching her bag into place.
“Looks like I’ll have to sort through your wares another time,” she rattles off, already edging around him. “Pleasure making your acquaintance!”
“Yeah… pleasure.” Hancock’s mouth crooks. “That’s one way of puttin’ it.”
The second the whirlwind of a woman blows past him, he pours out a breath that’s damn near a laugh. Off she scampers like an eager dog after a bone, enough that curiosity gets the better of him and he looks over to see what could’ve stolen her attention that fast.
Ah. Not the bone. The owner.
It ain’t exactly a rare sight, seeing the Commonwealth’s favorite two-hundred-year-old celebrity wandering around, especially here of all places. Sanctuary Hills is the Sole Survivor’s old stomping grounds, and naturally, Sylvester DeLoria’s got himself a crowd. Biggest settlement tycoon around can’t stroll through his own damn neighborhood without half of it coming over to have a word.
Settlers and travelers press in from every direction, some with questions, others just looking to shake his hand. Even an Assaultron waddles into the mess clutching a clipboard. DeLoria signs wherever it points, shakes one hand, then another, towering over the whole swarm like handling everybody’s business at once is just another part of the job.
Then his eyes find Bug Lady, and something changes.
DeLoria slaps on a grin big and schmoozy enough to sell purified water to a mirelurk and starts cutting through the people like they’re tall grass.
“Y/N!”
Big voice, too. Carries clear over everybody and straight into Hancock’s ears. Before Bug Lady can get much closer, one of DeLoria’s great paws lands between her shoulders in a hearty pat. Then off they go, DeLoria ushering her into step beside him, already talking her ear off while the crowd closes up behind them.
“Y/N, huh…”
Hancock rolls it around for all of two seconds.
Eh. Bug Lady’s better.
Besides, with DeLoria money behind her, Hancock figures he oughta enjoy the nickname while he can. Give it a year and her name’ll be printed on cash, buildings, and whatever the hell else rich people put their friends on.
And whatever Slyv’s got cooking with Bug Lady, it ain’t Hancock’s business.
That’s the nice thing about not being mayor anymore. Plenty of shit gets to be somebody else’s problem.
The cool air cuts through his new tanned-leather coat anyway, cheap thing doing precious little besides looking the part. Least it wears dirt better than the old red frock. Hancock runs a hand over the pocketed skin of his head, passing over the place his tricorn used to settle, always cocked back just enough to catch the sunlight. Been a while since he wore either. Still feels strange sometimes.
A low moo rolls out of the Brahmin beside him, and Hancock gives her a pat. “Yeah, yeah.”
He gets her moving. The crates stay behind in their neat little pile, and Hancock fully intends to leave everything else in Sanctuary with ’em. Then Bug Lady creeps back into his head. More specifically, where she went. His gaze drifts that way before good sense gets a vote.
When’s the last time he got up to something fun? Raised hell, or at least cut loose a little?
The Brahmin shifts her weight, cowbell giving a lazy clink, and Hancock looks at her. Come to think of it, she’s technically the woman he’s slept beside most consistently for a while now.
“Well, that ain’t good…”
One head looks back at him. The other keeps chewing.
Not that Hancock’s aching for somebody’s touch. He’s just accustomed to certain pleasures showing up on the menu more often. Or used to be. He still stops by bars, still window-shops the occasional one-eyed bartender or one-armed trader along the road. But pretty alone’s never been what keeps his attention.
Pretty might turn his head. But weird’s what makes him double back.
Unique. Far-out. Zany as all hell. Hancock’s always liked somebody he can’t quite make sense of. Back in Goodneighbor, there was little Kent. Guy buried himself so deep in comic books Hancock figures even the bombs couldn’t knock him outta the story. Two hundred years and one ghoulification later, the bastard’s still at it. Always made a trip to the Memory Den more interesting, that guy. Hancock likes people like that, people strange enough to make the world feel a little less predictable.
And as his gaze wanders toward the little row of suburban houses Bug Lady disappeared into, he’s gotta admit she seems pretty damn qualified.
Hancock shifts his belt, takes up the Brahmin’s lead, and turns them toward the houses.
What the hell. Road ain’t going anywhere.
Maybe Bug Lady’ll make the detour worthwhile and send somebody’s living room sky-high in the name of science.
Heyyyy anybody know fics where Colonel Autumn is a fatherly figure (to LW or otherwise)?
I have Valerie, and will eventually be writing more about both her and my friend’s LW (since mine doesn’t side with the Enclave), but writing is so hardddd and I don’t want to pause The Day The Music Died right now!! This man has as many fans as he does minutes of in game dialogue, so if you’re one of those people, do let me know!!
This man is a Mormon, he came from a Mormon settlement in Utah before he was a Legate or the Burned Man, he's got morals and values about how things should get done. He holds you to the same morals and values from time to time.
He's at least 55, at least I say. His joints are starting to creak, he's constantly uncomfortable because of his bandages brushing against barely healed injuries and burns. He's in constant discomfort, he doesn't show it but he is.
Sometimes he stays awake and just prays, prays for forgiveness for his since, for his wants, for his thoughts. You'll be asleep in Angel Cave or Sorrows Camp, and he'll just be sitting on the edge of his bed or by the fire, quietly praying to atone.
He's aware of the blood he's spilt and the people he took from this earth far too early because his younger self couldn't acknowledge the pain he was causing to the people he had promised to preach to.
When he met you (it can be the courier or just an OC), it was the lowest point of his life. He was burned, his wounds filled with sand and rocks as he dragged himself across the Mojave, trying to get himself back up. You stumbled upon him, offered him some Med-X only to find out it didn't work on his pain due to some resistance he had.
Since the day he met you, the day you wrapped his wounds and sent him on his way, he hadn't forgotten you. His savior and the one that had given him another chance at life.
Joshua often reflects on what he'd been taught from the time he was born to the moment he worked with Caesar to establish the Legion. He forgot himself, lost sight of who he was and only found out after his baptism by flame. He doesn't want to lose that again.
55 years is a lot of life experience, some don't even make it to 30 in this state of the world, and he knows it. It's what keeps him going after his skin was charred and his faith in a friend was burnt to ashes.
Graham doesn't like being called the burned man in private, he prefers you call him by his name at the very least, it reminds him you're not scared of him and that you love him for being him, Josuah Graham.
Writes letters, not holotapes or anything else, but he takes the time to put his pen (or quill) to a paper in order to write something meaningful. His mind is at it's calmest when he's writing something like this, he sends them through caravan to get them to you.
He has a collection of letters you've sent him through caravan, always addressed to him in different ways, some funny and some meaningful (Bandage Man, Mummy, Burnie, Joshua, Graham, J. G., etc.). He loves them, they're important and sometimes a good change of pace rather than his bible again.
Almost certainly against Polygamy. After his years in the Legion where women were in the many and one never belonged to a single unless you were high up, he wants just one. One person to hold him and love him for everything he is.
His first kill that wasn't in self defense made him physically ill. He was hunched over behind a rock, he threw up until there was nothing left to throw up.
Joshua sometimes gets restless, inner demons screaming at him to just take what he wants. It never stops, they're always shouting at him (unless he's come to terms with them like in the end of Honest Hearts when Salt-on-Wounds is spared). He'll grab his guns and fix them, if he doesn't have anything on his guns to fix, he's stealing and fixing yours to keep his hands busy.
Doesn't accept Legion coins because some of them have his face on them. He doesn't want to look back at that time and see himself back in that position.
There’s gotta be a billion feet of nothing under Hancock’s boots. It’s a good enough estimate. Good enough to hurt.
Wind tears across the roof of Mass Fusion, catching his coat and screaming past the ruined clumps where his ears used to be. Funny, really. Takes getting this high up for Hancock to finally figure it out.
He doesn’t hate Nora.
Can’t, really. Not when she looks every bit as fake as all those little dots moving around below. People, creatures, whatever the hell they are from up here, none of ’em look real enough to matter.
No. They’re real, Hancock tells himself. They have to be.
Maybe that’s the trick of it. Everybody’s trapped. Everybody’s stuck in the same rotten thing, and he’s just the unlucky bastard who figured out there’s supposed to be a way out.
“Hancock, get down from there!”
Nora spills out onto the roof behind him, already waving. Her eyes stay glued to his feet as he takes another step, then stops at the ledge. When Hancock turns on his heel, his boots shift with him, scraping dangerously close to the edge, and Nora’s hands shoot up in pure panic.
“Do you have a fuckin’ death wish?!” she snaps. “Damn it, I mean… God, you’re pissing me off! Just get over here already. I might consider forgiving you.”
“Christ, Nora. You ain’t gettin’ it. That’s the whole damn problem.”
Nora punches a fist into the air like the only thing stopping her from hitting him is the distance. “Get what?! You’re standing there like you’re about to throw yourself off a hundred-foot building! What exactly am I missing here, Hancock?”
Hundred…
That one word is enough to make the whole world lurch into focus.
His next look stretches horribly, seconds dragging out as the city yawns beneath him. Buildings go on forever, an endless sea laid out under his boots, while noise rises from somewhere deep below in broken pieces, echoing upward until it buzzes uselessly in his ears. Then the wind surges all at once and nearly knocks him forward.
Hancock gasps and whips his head around toward Nora.
Overboss Nora stands there wrapped in bike chains like jewelry, armor stained with rust and old blood. That long scar cutting across her cheek usually makes her look like she’s got some private joke going, something mean and funny she hasn’t bothered sharing yet.
Not now.
Those sharp eyes are blown wide, panic flashing through them faster than she can reel it back.
“I ain’t gonna die, sister.” His voice wobbles despite him. “That’s the story, anyway. Give me a minute, I might even start believin’ it.”
“What—are you high?!”
He’s high as hell off the ground, but nowhere near high enough on chems to make any of this feel okay.
Hancock opens his mouth to say something, anything, just to keep the conversation moving until his heart quits trying to punch through his ribs. Give Nora enough time to talk him out of this. Maybe let her.
Then something flickers into existence beside her against the sky.
A huge translucent rectangle ghosts into view, words stacked one after another.
Things to do. Options.
QUICK SAVE
SAVE
LOAD
MODS
HELP
SETTINGS
QUIT
Hancock’s never seen it this clearly before. Until now, it’d all been scraps and guesswork, half-crazed little theories he could blame on chems, lack of sleep, or his brain finally deciding to eat itself.
Not anymore.
Hancock steps backward.
Nora lunges, hands flying up as she screams, and the roof disappears above him.
The air hits Hancock like a wall he somehow tears straight through. It blasts through his coat, his clothes, every ruined inch of him, and suddenly every nerve in his body is screaming. So is he.
He twists wildly, fighting some useless animal urge to stop the plummet, but there’s nothing to push against and nothing to grab. The realization hits harder than the wind.
Oh God. He can’t do anything.
The pressure only gets worse as he falls faster. Buildings streak past in shapeless blurs while his lungs refuse to work and his chest won’t open. The ground keeps coming, bigger and faster, and Hancock grabs himself tight, certain the wind is going to peel him down to a skeleton before he ever reaches it. He screams through clenched teeth.
Then everything stops.
Hancock feels packed solid into cement, unable to breathe or move, though somehow the pain has vanished with everything else. His brain, naturally, didn’t get the message. That bastard’s still ticking along just fine, almost quick enough to make some crack about getting cheated out of whatever sexy demons Hell had waiting for him.
Then the joke turns ugly.
What if this is it? What if he just keeps thinking like this forever?
Panic rips through him. His muscles burn as he fights to pry his eyes open, and when he finally manages it, that goddamn screen is floating right in front of him again.
A thick green bar ticks through the choices one by one, taking its sweet fuckin’ time on the way down until it finally reaches the bottom.
QUIT.
For a second, that one little word feels heavier than the whole damn world.
Hancock stares at it, blinks once into the dark, and he’s gone.
——— ☣️‼️
Hi!
I like writing random Hancock scenarios, with him I feel like the possibilities are endless. I dunno why! Here’s a link to the fanfic above:
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
And if your thing is Hancock, I’ve got two other scenarios posted up about him. One of a Russian Raider and the other of the reader being a Mad Scientist.
Or, if you’re interested, I’m rlly invested in my Fallout 3 long-fic Just Blue Bullets. Following a socially inept mechanic who’s tortured by the secrets of Vault 101, and of course, Butch DeLoria.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Ghoulies ! I’m closing my fic reqs for a bit (and I never thought I’d ever be able to say this🥺) but I have so many and I wanna work on them with luv and care BECAUSE HOLY SHIT THEYRE SO GOOD 👁️👄👁️ yall match my FREAK !!! truly so grateful to be in such a creative community!!!
IM LIVING MY DREAM RN I LOVE DOIN THIS SHIT !!!!
MWAAHH thanks 👹<3333 will let u know when it’s all back open and runnin
The Man from Underground (a fanfic about my evil karma Lone Wanderer)
Summary: Two years ago, he was known as "the kid from Vault 101." Now, he's one of the most notorious outlaws in the Wasteland. With no one but a dog at his side, the man from underground continues his journey across the Capital, leaving carnage in his wake.
POV: third-person
This story is also on AO3
Author's note: I've been wanting to write a Fallout fic for a long time, but never actually did it until now. I'm not 100% sure if I'll continue it just yet, but I do have more parts planned. For now though, I hope you guys enjoy the first chapter :)
CHAPTER 1: OLD GLORY
There it was. The Washington Monument. Marred and broken, but still standing; much like the land it called home. Alone it watched over the Wasteland, towering above the remnants of a bygone nation. Its white stone beamed brightly under the colorless sun, splitting the skyline like a pillar of light. Behind it, a foreboding green sky loomed, mottled with faint clouds that sailed somberly across the horizon.
At the monument’s base, a dog roamed. For a long time it skittered along the pool’s edge, stepping over fallen debris and exposed rebar. It traveled to-and-fro with its nose to the ground, rummaging through the ruined landscape. Sometimes it would stick its snout in a duffel bag or a sack, sniffing around for some food. Other times, it would find weapons, and drag them out of the clutches of the dead.
Everywhere the dog went, men and women of different factions lay strewn across the dirt, their hands still grasping items that had long since disappeared. Their uniforms were burnt and torn beyond recognition, and their bodies blended together in an indistinguishable, grey mass, blanketed by a thick fog. Like thousands before them, they had died in a battle already lost from memory.
Nobody knew their names. Nobody cared. To the rest of the world, they were little more than mounds of loot waiting to be picked.
Intrigued by one of the bodies, the dog came to a stop. It bent down and used its nose to push an arm aside. Underneath lay a first-aid kit with a single stimpak. Immediately, the dog started barking.
Within seconds, the sound of music echoed nearby. It resonated in the hollow Capital like the mutterings of a phantom, growing louder and louder. As it drew close, it was joined by the clatter of armor, and a series of solid thumps.
Holding the stimpak between its teeth, the dog peered into the fog and wagged its tail. Before long, a man emerged from the haze, carrying a rifle in his arms, one of which was equipped with a Pip-Boy: the source of the music.
A thick string of severed human ears dangled from his neck. With each step, the morbid accessory bounced against his torso, which had been fitted with a chest piece bearing the crest of the Talon Company. It wasn’t a symbol of the man’s allegiance, but rather, the armor’s previous owner.
Though, that was of little importance now. The crest was covered by a ragged cape that draped over his left shoulder. Beneath it hid other equipment, such as pouches, holsters, sheaths, and a bandolier. On his right shoulder was a pauldron made of dented metal, which had been paired with a set of gauntlets. Metal had also been embedded in his boots, providing protection for his feet and shins.
The man came to a halt and crouched so that he was level with the dog. He then took the stimpak from its mouth, and rubbed it on the head.
“Good boy.”
His voice was low and wispy, somewhat distorted due to the massive scar on his mouth. The upper half of it stretched across his right cheek towards his ear, whereas the bottom half tore through his lips, tugging the flesh away from his teeth.
The man began patting the body down, checking to see if there was anything else worthwhile. Most of the pockets were empty, but one jingled when he reached inside. He pulled out his fist and opened it, revealing six caps.
Not much, but better than nothing. He stashed the money.
Just as he went to unbutton his pouch, something twitched in the corner of his eye. The man paused. Before he could even question what he saw, a hand shot up and grabbed him by the wrist.
A woman’s face rose from the corpses, pale and cadaverous, as if she were wearing someone else’s skull. Her eyes, which bulged from bruised sockets, locked onto him in a frenzied stare. A horrible cough escaped her.
“Please…” she wheezed, “…water…”
The man yanked his arm free and continued what he was doing. Desperately, the woman watched as he opened his pouch. There, a pile of bottlecaps sat, their flat tops shimmering in the forlorn daylight. He added hers to the collection.
“Please…” the woman said again.
She got no response. It was as if the man didn’t even know she was there. He just kept sifting through her gear, taking whatever he thought was useful. From her backpack, he pulled out a whetstone and some duct tape, then rose to his feet.
The woman looked up at him, squinting. His figure had blackened against the sun, but she still managed to catch a glimpse of his face. It was almost as grey as the bodies around him. The only color she could see was in his eyes, which were green and bloodshot. The skin under them was also red.
She held an arm out, hoping to get his attention. That was when she noticed she was staring straight down the barrel of a gun. A single breath escaped her.
The muzzle flashed. Her arm dropped.
With the rifle still smoking in his grasp, the man stayed in place, watching his surroundings for any movement. The fiery gunshot clapped through the air like a skipping stone, rippling throughout the city before fading into silence.
All was still.
He lowered the rifle, taking one final glance at the woman. A thought crossed his mind.
Not enough meat.
The man walked away.
* * *
For the rest of the day, the man and his dog ventured the haggard Wastes, marching without pause. Their journey led them through neighborhoods of toppled buildings and fractured roads, each one as barren as the next.
Everywhere they turned, they were greeted by the same eerie bleakness they had known for so long. The only thing keeping them company was Galaxy News Radio, which, at the moment, was playing Interlude by Timi Yuro.
Meanwhile, the sun arched across the endless expanse, toiling deep into the evening. It followed the man on his journey westward as he rummaged through buildings and camps, coming out with whatever loot he could find.
Occasionally, he would stumble upon a couple of Super Mutants, or a small band of raiders, but most of them proved harmless. If anything, he actually hoped to see more of them, considering the supplies they usually carried.
In one particular raider camp, the man found a collection of weapons similar to his own and took some time to make repairs. At first, he planned to leave once he was finished, but with twilight now bleeding into the sky, he chose to stay for the night.
As he worked at one of the tables, his Pip-Boy rested nearby. Its green glow illuminated the surface, giving definition to the otherwise shapeless night. There was a campfire in the base, but the man decided against lighting it. At his feet, the dog lay on its side.
Over the next hour or so, he tinkered with his rifle, only taking a break to eat. The sun had completely fallen out of view by now, and in its place, the moon hovered, surrounded by its twinkling entourage. At the same time, the song on the radio faded away, and transitioned to a familiar voice:
“Heyyy, Wastelanders! This is your host, Three Dog! Bow-wow! And you’re listening to Galaxy News Radio, where we bring you the truth no matter how much it hurts.”
“Time for some news: Today marks two years since Sarah Lyons’ death, when the Brotherhood sentinel sacrificed herself activating the purifier that brought us all that fresh, clean water you see flowing outside. And what have we done with this miraculous gift? How have we commemorated her bravery?”
“Well, by killing each other over it, of course! Because what else would we do? Word has it that, last night, the Brotherhood of Steel repelled another attack at the Jefferson Memorial. This time, from a bunch of ghouls. From what I understand, the ghouls were upset about the Brotherhood’s distribution of the water. Apparently, those boys have been holding out on our irradiated friends, so the ghouls tried to take some by force. And how did these valiant knights in shining armor respond? By gunning down the ‘abominations.”
“Now, to tell you the truth,” Three Dog continued. “The Brotherhood ain’t gonna be too happy with me for talking about this, but you guys know me. The Good Fight always comes first.” He sighed. “These are tough times, kids. Even with a reservoir big enough to do breaststrokes in, it seems Wastelanders will still find something to fight over. So, be the exception, and offer someone a bottle of water the next time you see ‘em looking parched.”
“Thanks for listening, chiiildren! This is Three Dog! Awoo! And you’re listening to Galaxy News Radio. We’re radio free Wasteland, and we’re here – for you. Now, some music. Here’s Johnny Mathis with ‘No Man Can Stand Alone.”
Wrapping up the last of the repairs, the man removed himself from the table and trudged to a mattress in the camp, grabbing his Pip-Boy along the way. He turned the flashlight off, but kept the music playing. Before lying down, he slipped off his cape and bundled it into a pillow, making sure to hide a pistol under it.
Seeing that its owner was going to bed, the dog ambled over and curled up beside him. Together, they huddled under the stars, shielded by walls of wooden panels and barbed wire. Every once in a while, gunfire would rattle in the distance, drowning out the voices shouting over it, only for the commotion to die down after a few minutes.
None of the gunfire sounded too close, so the man allowed himself some rest, albeit with sharpened ears. Soon, the world drifted away from him, and his thoughts melted into nothingness.
* * *
Morning arrived without incident. The man woke not long after sunrise, still lying in the same position. His dog hadn’t moved either, apart from rolling onto its back. It slept peacefully near his chest, panting quietly. Around them, the air whistled as it soared across the camp and over the bed, brushing their skin with a chill, delicate touch. A putrid smell traveled along with it, making the man’s nose crinkle.
He sat up, rubbing his eyes.
Despite the strange stench, he found nothing in or near the camp that would’ve explained it. Everything appeared to be the same as it was when he arrived.
Oh, well. He thought. Must’ve had something to do with all that noise last night.
With a yawn, the man picked up his Pip-Boy and blearily read the numbers on the screen: 7:13 A.M. Good, he had plenty of time to reach his destination.
Not wanting to stay in the same spot for too long, he prepared a small breakfast for himself and the dog. Both of them hurried through their meals, then departed from the camp in about ten minutes. Right before heading out, the man switched off the radio just as it began broadcasting one of Daring Dashwood’s adventures.
A gentle breeze sighed against them as they walked, causing the man’s cape to flutter. It seemed that the skies had cleared a little since the previous day, allowing more warmth to settle in. A comforting, honey glow embraced the desolate city, bouncing off the bleached concrete and browned metal. It would’ve been a pretty view, if not for the devastation.
The man wandered onto a street. To his left and right, alternating lampposts lined the road, their bulbs shattered and their necks crooked. Rusted vehicles crammed the spaces between them, some of them dotted with bullet holes from battles long since past. Inside, skeletons lay undisturbed, their naked bones left to the dust. Sweeping the Capital, a brief gale rushed by, dragging crumbs of rock down the asphalt. In its wake, traffic lights groaned, and rickety steel signs creaked above.
The man found himself wondering what the world looked like before the bombs fell. He tried to picture a city where the buildings stood upright, where the metal gleamed and shined, where the concrete was smooth; where verdant trees bloomed to their fullest, where people – not raiders, or paladins, or bounty hunters – just, people, zipped around in droves, and polished cars sauntered down the streets, glinting in the unblemished sun.
He gazed at the cracked windows, piecing them back together in his mind. His ears honed in on a cacophony of sounds that his imagination had conjured up of grumbling engines, jaunty chatter, rustling leaves, and calming winds. He didn’t even know if that was what a city sounded like, or if the Pre-War world had actually been that vibrant. For all he knew, it could’ve been far worse.
In the Vault, he often heard about how things were better “back then,” but he found it difficult to believe. After all, the very Wasteland which he had been raised to fear was a culmination of the old world’s accomplishments. Every milestone they made, every invention they created, all led to the destruction he now lived in. How could a civilization that was so full of life have been the architects of such an irreparable death? How did this become their legacy?
Maybe his education was wrong. Maybe the bombs hardly changed the world at all. Maybe the people back then fought the same battles and made the same mistakes. Maybe this was what they wanted all along.
The man shook off his thoughts before he got too carried away. Whatever happened in the past was beyond his power to change. In fact, he often felt the same about the future. Unlike his parents, he carried no desire to reshape the Wasteland. He had simply accepted – or convinced himself – that he would never be able to rewrite the nature of mankind. Wherever there was a vacuum of peace, war would fill it. It was their identity as a species; an identity that the man had no issue claiming, even if others condemned him for it.
Reaching the outskirts of downtown DC, the man checked the map on his Pip-Boy to make sure he was still on the right track. He had completed about a third of the journey, and was just about to enter the fields beyond the city when a clutter of footsteps scrambled in his direction. Swiftly, he reached for his pistol and whirled towards the noise, only to find himself being confronted by two men in duster coats.
Regulators. He’d recognize them anywhere.
Though, there was something different about these ones. They bore the look of people who had already suffered a battle. Their flesh was bandaged, their coats were reddened with blood, and the stench of rot clung to their clothes.
The man’s gaze traveled behind them, further down the road, where he discovered a group of dead Super Mutants scattered about, as well as the gory remains of a lone Regulator lying among them.
He returned his attention to the two men, waiting for something to happen. They spoke first.
“There you are, you son-of-a-bitch,” one of them snarled. He was holding a shotgun. “We’ve got you now.”
The man disregarded his remark and tilted his head at the dead Super Mutants, keeping a hand close to his pistol.
“Have some trouble last night?”
The Regulator glowered. “Goddamn mutants… They caught us by surprise. Everything seemed fine, but then they…” his tone sank, “…oh, Nick. They got to him first. Poor kid didn’t stand a chance.”
“Just as well,” the man said. “If he couldn’t survive that, he wouldn’t have survived this.”
“You watch your fucking mouth!” The Regulator snapped, tightening his grip. “He wouldn’t even have been out here if it wasn’t for you! He just wanted to help out. Damn boy was tired of catching ‘small game.’ Thought he could make a name for himself by killing you… maybe start a new life.”
“Aaand I’m sure he had a pretty girl waiting for him at home too. Heart-wrenching. Anyway, are we gonna do this or what?”
The Regulator’s jaw clenched. “Oh, we’re gonna do this. And when we’re done, I’m gonna parade your head around on a pike ‘til the sun dries it to the bone. Get him!”
A shell erupted from the shotgun’s mouth, blasting the man backwards. He stumbled to the ground, clutching his chest. His armor had blocked the pellets, but the impact was still enough to stagger him. With labored breathing, he whistled sharply, signaling the dog to attack.
Baring its teeth, the dog sprinted towards the Regulator and pounced on him. The two fell together, and soon, a flurry of screams stained the air. In the meantime, the man whipped out his pistol and shot the other Regulator square in the head. He then sprung to his feet and stormed over to the dog, commanding it to back off.
Squirming underneath, the Regulator held up a mangled arm, his face contorted with pain. He was still trembling when the dog jumped off, and only realized what was happening after it was too late. The man marched to his side and took aim, firing without hesitation.
A heavy silence froze the city. Both the man and his dog stayed in place for a moment, as if expecting something else. They surveyed the horizon, keeping a lookout for anyone that might’ve heard the battle. But no one came.
“Tsh,” the man muttered. “Fuckin’ cowboys.”
Satisfied, he holstered his gun and urged the dog to calm down. Once it was certain that the threat had been eliminated, it joined its owner in searching the bodies. Like lumps of meat they roasted in the sun, still bleeding on the pavement. Yellowed bounty notices peeked out from their pockets, flapping wildly in the wind. Normally, the man would’ve burned them, but with the amount of infamy he had gained over these past couple years, he no longer saw the point. More people would come regardless. Not that he minded. He was always happy to get free caps.
Standing up, the man wiped his hands clean and examined the dead Regulators. There was nothing more on them to take, except for one thing.
