Ruined World
A FALLOUT STORY

Disclaimer: Bethesda own Fallout. I'm stealing their universe like some kind of… Universe… Eating thief.

Summary: Reed has done something careless, for that, the Brotherhood decide he must pay. He must work for them or die, as they prepare a crack team, charged with the survival and liberty of humanity. But, Reed is a man without hope. How can he give it to others?

Featuring the Lone Wonderer in later chapters, and a few Canons such as Butch, Fawkes, Autumn, etc. Largely a story of OOCs, though. Pairings will very, including Het, and both types of slash.

Rating: T. Appropriate chapters shall be marked with M. Some sexual content, a lot of violence and gore, and some cursing. Pairings include Het and Slash.

Author's Note: Wowwwwww, I have not posted a fic for a very long time. I felt limited by fan fiction, yet, I have gotten over that little hurdle and am ready to start anew! I hope you all enjoy this story. Give me a review, give me some feedback, I'll see if it's worth carrying on.

Chapter One:
A Man Without Hope

In front of him was a puddle of water, raising from the cracks in the scorched Earth. Unlike the bleak river, it was clear in colour, reflecting the dusty sky.

Reed crouched, reaching out two fingers and dipping them. It was thankfully cold, and the soft moisture was a shock to him - had water ever been this soothing? It did not burn…

The reports had said it would take months until the Pure water took effect and managed to wash away the toxins that had plagued the Capital Wasteland. It had been 9 months, and things could not have been progressing better. Reed had seen merchants, trudging along with their caravans selling pure water - all though ninety per cent of it was some foreign, clear liquid.

Hell, he could take the risk.

Bringing his fingers up to his mouth, he let a few droplets of moisture fall on his lips, and quickly ran his tounge across them. It did not burn as he swallowed. His tounge wasn't used to the feeling or… nothing. He shook his hand as a smile spread across his face. "Heh." There was no need to be so pleased with himself, he had nothing to do with it, but man, he was happy that fool James finally got his wish.

Reed leant against his Assault Rifle - Chinise in design, and thankfully large-barrelled, it made as good a leaning post as a weapon. It was early morning, though he didn't know what time. No one really bothered with time-keeping anymore except in the settlements. When the sun hit mid-sky, and pushed it's fingers through the red mists, it meant it was noun. When there was no sun, and only a sky without stars, it was night. Any idiot could figure out those rules.

Looking ahead of him, he was the river, still murky, in the distance. He hated to think what shapes and creatures lurked beneath. Would the new water choke them, or maybe help them? Rocks blocked his vision, broken, crippled trees with branches as black and brittle as charcoal. Once, he had tried pulling himself up on one and snapped it clean off. Across the river, stood a half-broken husk of a building - a mall? A supermarket? He couldn't say. More buildings sprang up in the distance, blocked by the fallen remains of a highway.

In all of this, Reed thought back to Megaton. 'Isn't it amazing mankind still survives?'

"Amazing and bloody pointless." He spoke out loud.

Sometimes he forgot himself, forgot that no one was around to listen to him. Forgot that his thoughts had been in his head and not part of a conversation he had been having.

Yet, he was right, all the same. Well, so he thought. What was the use in surviving only to survive? Where were these settlements going? The water was pure now, yet so what? Did anyone smile more often? Did anyone thank them for it? Were there any less bumps in the night? Super Mutants leering their ugly faces up from the next highway, blocking your path? Fear. Everyone lived in fear. Surviving was not the same as living, Reed had learned.

Humans were dumb things, him included. Pathetic, stupid, arrogant. Would anyone learn from the mistakes of the past? The war? No. He knew that much simply from the rifle he held in his hand.

Can't complain. If everyone else is an asshole you'll get nowhere being different. That's the trouble with Optimists, they never get their word out. Someone puts a bullet between their eyes, or some mutant smashes apart their bones.

One by one, they all fall down.

A noise snapped him from his thoughts. Reed did not have to move far, and no shock caught his features - noises were common in the wasteland and more than not meant trouble. He had positioned himself ready, as he always did, even if he was stopping for a simple rest, he had to work out his tactical position. So, all he had to do was spin in his crouched position and ready the rifle.

In the distance five figures approached. They came like sentinels set against the sky line. Reed guessed they were laden with power armour even before they came close. When the early sun caught them, it confirmed his suspicion, catching the curves of the steel and half-blinding him.

He smirked. He'd have no chance against five Paladins, even if he had wanted one.

He rose from his hideaway, raising up a hand as they raised their weapons. Two of them were hunched, supporting the weight of what looked like gigantic battery packs on their back. Ammunition, he knew, for the Gatling lasers they handed with both hands.

"Drop your weapon." A woman's voice warned, muffled through her plate, yet still sharp. "Kick it away."

"You don't have to be so formal, Lyons." He threw the rifle away from him, too far for him to reach it to kick it. "I'm afraid It's been a wasted journey on your part. I freely give myself up to you." Any sign of a smirk had long since faded from his features now.

"All we need from you is your death. It is people like you who hinder our cause!" She sounded angry. Odd, really, whenever he had seen her beforehand she had seemed professional, if not a little rash.

"Wha? People who do your job for you?"

"Vigilante idiots," She scolded, "Idiots who want a name for themselves."

"Oh yeah, that was it. I want this whole God-forsaken place to know my name." His tounge dripped sarcasm and venom. "Fame ain't worth nothing."

He felt a stabbing pain in his side, nothing they could do with their weapons, rather something more deadly. His chest tightened and he gritted his teeth.

No.

He would not think of it. He had not.

Reed turned his head to the side, slumping his shoulders. His eyes filled with a distant emotion, nothing Sarah Lyons nor her fellow Paladins could read, yet she could guess. Though, she doubted Reed Cyph was any kind of man for remorse.

'We had it covered.' She wanted to yell at him, though she knew she would sound like a spoiled child, and kept her mouth shut. "I suggest we discuss this at the Citadel. The Wasteland is unforgiving to those who decide to stop for a chat. Can you keep up?"

Reed snapped out of his trance, an eyebrow raising. "No cuffs?"

"We didn't have the scrap to waste on making them." It was not Sarah who spoke this time but someone else. A deep voice, coming from somewhere within a heaving suit of power armour. "Not for you."

"If you run-" Sarah began.

"You will shoot me in the back." Reed finished for her. He had reached his rifle now and bent to pick it up. At once, both lasers were pointed on him. He rolled his eyes. "Why'd you want to waste perfectly fine weaponry?" He held out the gun by it's barrel, and Sarah snatched it from him, not bothering to grant him a reply.

So they walked. If they did not walk away, soon enough they would have been found. Six men was no match for some of the delights the Wastes had to offer, especially when one of them was unarmed and dressed only in boiled, broken leather.

Every pair of eyes he saw were dark on him. Some had the decency to simply look away and stay uninvolved, yet others had to make sure he knew how much they hated him. He could feel it in the air, as she led him to the cell of a room they had assigned to him.

"Am I a prisoner now?" Reed looked up and down the stone room. No windows. He laid a hand on the cold wall. "I thought we were going to talk? So, even Paladins of virtue can lie." He scowled. Defenceless came to him as if it were a sixth sense.

"My father is going to talk with you. Not me." She looked to the side, idly. "I can't be bothered with you. You're lucky he has patience."

"Lucky? I feel lucky."

She slammed the door in his face and left him to his shell.

The noise from outside was all smashing and grinding. He had seen the training of recruits in the open courtyard below. He groaned, sinking onto the canvas of a bed that was the only furniture the room offered. His head, aching with the constant bang, bang, bang, tilted and dropped to the side as he cracked his neck.

You had to entertain yourself, in the Wastes, yet Reed had only ever been entertained by 'taking watch'. You could not afford to think about anything else when scouting out the next enemy. So, all alone, behind concrete walls, he didn't have a clue what to think about.

He was… safe.

A prisoner, yes. Killable if he said the wrong word, yet… Oddly safe. Behind gates of all types of steel, rows of robots, flames at the ready. Squads of Paladins who looked upon him with disgust. They would all rush to defend this place. Perhaps, he could even get to sleep.

His mind must have been several laps ahead of him, because the next thing he remembered was a knock at the door.

As soon as he let himself fall into the darkness so easily, he had drowned, diving completely under. He could not even remember his thoughts as he slowly sat up, one hand against his unkempt flock of brown hair. Had it been… Had he thought of…? Oh hell, what was the point?

The knock came again and he grunted. "It's not like I can bloody open it." He snarled at the door.

A pause.

Then, the door moved open, and a face popped around the corner. A woman - barely - probably twenty-two at the most, stared back at him. She moved from her eyes a strand of dark brown hair and looked over to him. Those were the first set of eyes he had seen that held no disgust towards him.

Oh no, there it was.

It was almost as if she had forgotten to look so hateful, and with the flick of a switch had remembered. "Elder Lyons would see you." The girl said, in a surprisingly soft voice.

He stood, and walked close. In order to exit the cell he had to move nearer to her, and when he did, he asked. "Do you know why you are looking at me like that?"

"The Elders speak badly about you. They do not appreciate vigilantes ruining their hard work."

"I asked why? What have I done? Do you know?"

Her face hardened. "I am a Scribe of the Brotherhood. I likely know more than you." She held a doubt in those large, brown eyes, yet she pushed her chin up and attempted to keep her composure. Frowning, Reed decided he had had enough of her and turned into the air. It was night now, and the air pushed against his skin and into his scars.

He'd never thought he'd miss the air, given the safety of a concrete cell. He supposed he was just one of those people - a child of the Wastes. It was all he had known, as far back as he could remember. All he wished to do was travel, wonder. Give him a gun, give him a map, just never give him a home. The idea made him uncomfortable, to the point of feeling sick. He looked off across the courtyard - even this was too enclosed.

The self-appointed Scribe led him down the stone stairwell and into the second doorway. There were less people around now, less eyes to watch him.

He could grab her from behind, snap her neck, steal her weapon… Though all she wore were robes, and he doubted she even had one. Even so, he would never leave the Citadel alive.

The click of a door disturbed the silence. Somewhere in another hall close by, Reed heard the soft breathing and occasional snoring of sleeping recruits. His eyes closed, and opened. Inside the dank, dark room he saw a round table. The room could fit about twenty, though there was no one inside of it, not even Sarah, which he was thankful for. She was a brilliant warrior, yet a bitch to have to take abuse from. The only occupant was an elderly man, sat leant across the table

"Elder Owyn," Reed stepped forward. "How cosy. Are we not meeting with the whole council? Please, do bring in the bureaucrats and the firing squad."

Owyn Lyons spoke as if he had ignored every word Reed had just said - which he likely had. "You are a man of skill. We, at the Brotherhood, do realize and value skill. You remind me of a few others I once knew." He raised his eyes, watery eyes finding Reed's own dark ones. "If I were to offer you a position with us, am I right in saying it would be laughed off?"

Reed nodded without having to pause for thought.

He smiled amiably. Reed shifted uncomfortably. Where was his disgust? "I am not offering you a position. However, I would like to offer you an outlet… for your… talents." He seemed to be wondering how to word his speech. Reed groaned.

"Just cut to the point, old man."

He seemed relieved, if anything, though Reed suspected his emotion was simply forced. He was putting up with him. "I am putting together a team. A squad, if you will, like the Lyons' Pride only.. With no association to the Brotherhood. The Enclave and other forces know us too well. Every country, Government or organization throughout history has had some form of underhand squad like I suggest. It is how the World is beginning to work… In the hands of unknown's. Being an unknown is a man's greatest power."

Reed's eyes narrowed. There was a pain in his temple, and his throat was dry. He was longing for another drop of that pure, clear water that did not burn and the Paladin's games were getting much for him. He was not a player, by any means. He hated games. Practicality, for Reed, was key. "I thought I was here to die?"

"What you did was careless and, some have said, heartless." Elder Lyons explained. "Some hate you for stupidity, some hate you for the act alone, some hate you in grief."

At that point, Reed noticed the Scribe woman was still stood by the door, her eyes searching. She had no clue, the liar.

"Yet, it was the act of a tactical and talented hand. Tact, talent, these are the things I am looking for." A pause. "If you refuse, I shall hand you over into the hands of the Sentinels. That will likely mean death."

"Ah, democracy." Reed sighed.

"Is long dead, I am afraid." Owyn Lyons moved his hands together, fingers crossing over each other as he studied the Waste-beaten man. "It is not my choice, but theirs." He sighed out.

"So, you are starting this… group of yours without their knowledge?"

"Without some of their knowledge, yes. I started a much larger programme by myself many years ago. Me, with a baby in my arm." His weathered old face held still and stern.

Reed did not need to think. If he agreed to this, they would have to let him go, then he was home free. How pathetically naïve was this old fool? Had he lost his wits? "What would you want me and this team doing?"

Owyn looked to the circular table, and up once again. "Do you know what hope does, Master Cyph?"

"Corrupts." He replied within a half-second. "Makes idiots stay with their lovers while they beat them and sell them for caps? Makes slaves keep working instead of putting pistols in their mouths? Makes people settle for less, because there's always another day."

The old man seemed uncomfortable, yet he had learned, after a life of dealings, how to hide the emotions he did not wish for anyone to see. As if the question had been completely irrelevant, he moved on. "The team shall be a task force, an infiltration unit, a squad of the best minds and best talents. They shall offer hope." He spoke the last sentence slowly, knowing it would likely anger Reed.

"And you will pick my companions?" was all he asked.

"Some of them. However, others, you may pick. Vigilantes, perhaps?" Owyn had plans. Vigilantes, who often got in the way, could be a lot more use to them if they were brought into some kind of order. The wasteland was harsh, yet it had at least one advantage. Humanity had common enemies.

"Perhaps." Reed was tentative, and not as experienced at hiding it as Elder Lyons himself. Though, he had done jobs for others, for caps or for weapons, or for medical care. He could do a job for an Elder for his life, couldn't he? "Can I think about it?"

"Of course."

He turned on his heel. The Scribe, who had been lost in the discussion almost fell as she hurried to move out of his way. He closed the door in her face as she attempted to follow. In a fluster, she turned to Elder Lyons. "Should I escort him-?" Yet, the old man seemed to be speaking to himself, in much the same fashion Reed tended too - It was something about the Wastelands.

"If you can teach one hopeless man about hope, he can teach a hundred." Owyn Lyons smiled weakly, not raising from his seat.