The pale pink tickytacky houses of southern California that rolled past the train windows weren't what Roger Maxson had been looking forward to, all those nights he'd stood watch over the Canadian prisoners. But someone in the War Department had been handed a request for new personnel worthy of security clearances, and someone had looked at Captain Maxson's record. Between the one and the other there was no room for arguing. No more pacification duty on the northern prairies. Back to Columbia, gem of the Ocean- even if it should've been his native Wisconsin. You didn't argue with Uncle Sam, not in his position, not in time of war. You just went.
Idly, he wondered whether Yvonne had had to hire movers. The Mr. Handy he'd bought her before shipping out was one darn fine robot. It should've been all the help she needed with packing- well, it and Roger, Jr. Assuming she'd been able to get the boy to cooperate, of course. He was just starting to get difficult, like every growing lad of thirteen Roger had ever known. At least he'd been that way the last time Roger heard from home. A lot could've changed in between La Crosse and California.
California. Well, the boy'd always wanted to live somewhere warm and wide open. He'd get it now.
"MAY I OFFER YOU SOME REFRESHMENTS, SIR?" The Protectron's metallic voice jerked Roger out of his reverie; he dug a hand into his uniform pocket.
"Uh. Yes. Raisin Bites, if you've got 'em. And a Nuka-Cola."
"RIGHT HERE, SIR," the Protectron said. One stubby arm dipped into its tiered tray and brought out the familiar yellow-and-white box. "FIFTY-TWO DOLLARS, PLEASE."
Roger counted off three twenties and held them out for the robot's pinching claws. "That's cheaper than I expected, with the war on," he said.
"NOTHING TOO GOOD FOR OUR BOYS IN UNIFORM," the robot answered. "HERE'S YOUR SODA, AND HERE'S YOUR CHANGE."
"Thanks."
"HAVE A WONDERFUL DAY. AND WELCOME HOME."
It stumped off down the train in search of other passengers to feed. Roger wedged the Nuka-Cola bottle between the seat cushions and started peeling the cellophane away from the candy box. It'd been a coon's age since he'd had proper chocolate. The chocolate bars in his field rations just weren't the same. Oh, they tried, but more often than not it was like eating a melted brown candle. You couldn't get Raisin Bites shipped to occupied Canada, either. Half the time they wound up going missing somewhere between home and the mail censors who spent their days searching soldiers' packages for sedition or sabotage. The other half the time they just plain wound up melted or mutilated by the trip. Honestly, it was easier to get Nuka-Cola across where the border used to be. How they shatterproofed the glass he didn't know, but it sure did the trick. Candy packages? Not quite.
Roger Maxson leaned back in his seat and popped the first of the chocolate-covered raisins into his mouth as California blurred past the window.
Author's Note: I haven't been in the Fallout fandom for very long. I was introduced to it through Fallout 3. I'm playing through Fallout 1 now and I've got 2 lined up to go after that. I've been curious about the Brotherhood of Steel since the beginning, though, most particularly about its founder. This is a brief stab at trying to get a feel for him and his world in the months before everything goes to hell. Hopefully, there'll be more about Roger and the times ahead soon...