- I -

Trenton, New Jersey, 2077

Sharp pain ripped through his skull the instant he opened his eyes to the searing light. His ears echoed with the thrumming beat of his pulse as he sucked in a breath, filling his lungs with air too sterile, too clean. He squinted through the brightness and willed his vision to adjust even as the effort brought another wave of agony tearing across his cranium. Hot anger spread through him in response, and he brought up an arm to shield his face, refusing to succumb to something as trivial as a migraine.

A ghoul's resilience ran tougher than that.

He gritted his teeth and felt something fluttery brush his skin when he blinked against the back of his hand. Still disoriented and half-blind, he tested his limbs and then forced himself into a sitting position on the cushioned surface he'd been lying on. His muscles protested the movement, but he bore it and leaned forward to cover his face with his palms, waiting for the resulting dizziness to pass. But as he kneaded his fingertips into his temples, he realized something was off.

Smooth.

He froze, trying to make sense of the unexpected texture. Slowly, the ache subsided and his sight cleared. Tanned hands came into focus, callused and scarred, but skin completely intact. They hovered above muscular legs in similar condition, no sign of decay or exposed tissue anywhere. He blinked once, twice, several times as he flexed his fingers and rotated his knees, making sure the body parts in front of him were really under his control. The bed creaked under his shifting weight, soft royal blue sheets cool beneath his bare buttocks. His heart raced faster, and, bracing himself, he glanced up to survey his surroundings.

White ceramic walls reflected the glare of the ceiling sconces and enclosed him in a large, oddly decorated room. A glossy black table sat between two navy felt armchairs past the foot of the bed. Beyond that, a wooden vanity mirror took up half the left wall, and a matching wardrobe paralleled it from the right. Crystal vases of varying sizes stood in each corner and held wild arrangements of overflowing, unidentifiable foliage. He frowned in bemusement and zeroed in on the only door, which was located straight ahead of him at the far end of the room.

Shaking off the rest of his optical haziness, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and gripped the headboard for support as he rose. Sluggishly, he ventured across the white floor, the pattering sounds of his feet breaking the eerie silence. His breath hitched at the sensation of the cold tile against his soles, and he picked up his speed to head straight for the mirror. The sight that greeted him sent a chill running down his spine.

A face he hadn't seen in nearly a century stared back at him from the glass.

Restored bone structure and cartilage supported his chiseled facial planes and strong jaw. The aquiline nose he'd lost during the ghoulification process had returned to its proper place above a set of thin lips. He had forgotten that his eyes were green, but there they sat, deep set and wide with shock. Facial hair had returned in the form of stubble, heavy eyebrows, and eyelashes. A full, reddish brown mane covered his scalp, no longer receded or missing patches.

His gaze drifted down to his naked body and roved over the well-built physique and all the skin that wholly covered him. He turned and glanced over his shoulder at his reflection, finding no trace of necrosis, no sign that he'd been a ghoul at all. His mind reeled with confusion and unease as he turned back around and braced himself on the vanity counter, needing a minute to let this impossible situation sink in.

"What the—" he started, and stopped when the voice that issued from his throat held a deep, steady resonance. The raspy quality had disappeared.

He dug his fingernails into the wood of the counter as he wracked his brain for his last memory, for any clue to the events that had led him here. All he remembered was traveling the Capital Wasteland, the sun on his face and his shotgun strapped to his back. Before that, he recalled blasting Ahzrukhal's head apart because…

Someone else had bought his contract. The skinny Vault girl with jet black hair and piercing blue eyes flooded his thoughts, and he pushed himself from the vanity as his conditioned loyalty prioritized his objectives for him. He needed to find her.

He staggered toward the wardrobe and threw open the doors in hopes of finding something to cover himself with. The single set of clothing—a white T-shirt, jeans, and a brown leather jacket—hanging inside aroused further misgivings when he realized they came in his exact size. Left with little choice, he dressed quickly and pulled on the socks and black boots sitting at the bottom. A glowing device above the hanging rod had caught his attention, but he finished tucking in his laces before reaching up and plucking it from the top shelf.

It looked like a more advanced version of the Pip-Boy his employer wore on her forearm. The physical material took on the appearance of a metal watch strap, but the entire holographic interface stretched out to a size bigger than his palm. He held the device in one hand and prodded the interface with a cautious finger, watching as a map displaying two blinking markers popped up. Street names and buildings scrolled across the translucent screen when he moved his finger over the blue hologram, feeling nothing even as the grid reacted to his touch. He returned it to the center and studied the markers, one labeled User and the other labeled Target. A dotted line connected them, indicating the travel route.

Determining from the stationary one that he was User, he tried wrapping the strap of the device around his wrist and scowled when it latched on and locked by itself.

Sketchy shit, he mused and pressed a few buttons until he found the one that dismissed the interface. Whatever this target is, there had better be some answers waiting for me when I reach it.

Although he was aware that he may be playing right into the hands of the external forces at work here, he had to start somewhere if he wanted to find his employer.

The front door slid open for him as soon as he stepped up to it. Frown deepening, he walked out and found himself in a dim hallway that appeared to be a hotel corridor decorated with more strange fixtures and artwork. He chose to take a left and followed it down, noticing that his body moved easier, lighter, most likely from the absence of both his armor and rotting joints. Still, he felt restless and vulnerable without his shotgun; and he was someone who didn't do vulnerability.

Voices drifted in from the distance, and his gait sped up as he hurried down the carpeted steps. He had been correct that this was some sort of hotel, but he wasn't prepared to take in the sights and sounds of the vast lobby that opened before him. Large cylinder floor lamps of various heights warded off the night that peeked in from the full scale windows. From the ceiling hung a quad of rotating digital chandeliers that cast the entire area in a soft blue luminescence. Asymmetrical white couches were scattered around the floor, each one paired with a glass table and a hovering column of moving images. And the people…

Save for the strange fashion choices, many families present seemed normal enough, if a bit too relaxed. Others stuck out with all the electronic gear attached to their ears, heads, arms, and other applicable body parts. Several people spoke into portable headsets as they pulled up and tabbed through the holographic interfaces of their own wrist gadgets. He shifted his gaze to a pair of young women climbing the steps toward him, the clear visors over their left eyes drawing his notice more than their skintight dresses did. They ignored his blatant staring, but he caught an excerpt of their conversation as they passed by.

"So when did you get your visor? I thought you already had the wireless control lens implanted in that eye."

"I did, and this thing doesn't have anything programmed into it, I'm just wearing it for show. Goes with my outfit, don't you think? I was going for the 'modern hipster' vibe."

He turned away and furrowed his brow, descending the staircase as apprehension crept into his stomach. Where the hell was he? No armor or weapons were in sight, everyone looked clean and well-groomed, and the whole place smelled like that one flower he'd sniffed a long time ago, except multiplied by a hundred. He trudged up to the check-in desk and towered over the busy female clerk, whose black hair had been pulled into a ponytail to accommodate the dual earpieces on either side of her head.

"Welcome to the Trenton Marriott," she recited, still focused on what appeared to be a paper-thin computer monitor next to her.

The greeting gave him pause.

"Trenton? As in Trenton, New Jersey?" he asked once he found his voice again. The Eastern Commonwealth?

"That's right, sir."

Couldn't be. He rotated toward the windows by the entrance, glimpsing lights and neon colors amidst the darkness outside. Above the doors scrolled a flashing marquee, displaying the words Trenton Marriot Downtown. A muscle worked in his jaw as he clenched his teeth. Wrong. All of this was wrong.

The last time he'd seen this place, it had been a decrepit wasteland just like the rest of the country.

He whirled on the clerk, not bothering to reign in his anger. "The fuck is going on here?"

Her eyes snapped to him, irises glowing briefly from whatever hi-tech lenses she was wearing. "Excuse me?"

He closed his mouth and changed gears when he spotted the words on the screen behind her. "'Best hospitality of the twenty-first century'? What's the date?"

"Don't you have your Pip-Boy world calendar synced?" She gestured to the device on his wrist.

So this thing really is some kind of Pip-Boy variant.

"If I did, would I be asking you?" he demanded petulantly.

"October 23."

"What year?"

She glared at him. "Are you trying to be funny? 2077."

Shit…

He backed away from the desk and swept an alarmed look around the lobby, but everyone else seemed to be at ease. Turning from the clerk's puzzled stare, he stumbled over his own feet to the entrance. From what he could see through the glass doors, pedestrians were walking idly by the hotel while sleek-bodied vehicles cruised through the streets. No air raid sirens rang outside, no signs or announcements advertised any nuclear shelters. His stomach clenched with trepidation.

The Great War… isn't happening?

He exited the hotel and loitered on the sidewalk, gaping at the bustling Trenton nightlife. Holographic billboards towered over the tall buildings that surrounded him, adding to the neon city lights that made up the skyline. People decked out in more strange technology and accessories strolled past him, and he raked his fingers through his hair, beginning to question his own sanity.

A beeping noise from his Pip-Boy drew his attention. Growling under his breath, he opened the interface and browsed through to reach the local map. The Target marker had relocated closer to his position, now only a dozen or so blocks away. He made up his mind and wasted no more time pursuing it. Keeping the map pulled up, he navigated along the indicated route, nearly getting hit by a number of vehicles every time he stepped onto the street. A minute of observation taught him the function of the tri-colored lights hovering over each intersection, and he took to following groups of people crossing the road as he progressed closer to the target.

The concrete and asphalt beneath his boots were consistently level; a stark difference from the cracked pavements and dusty ground of the Wasteland. He passed structures and architecture of remarkable shapes, more trees and grass than he'd ever seen in his life, and a river that reflected the shimmering radiance of the illuminated city. He surveyed everything around him as he ambled on, still in disbelief over the flourishing greenery and civilization. These buildings had been nothing more than rubble in his time—some not even having existed during the pre-war era—and this population was probably three times the number of the Trenton he hailed from.

Most citizens gawked at him as he marched by, more so, he suspected, from his intimidating stature than his clear lack of bodily electronics. He was accustomed to bystander scrutiny from spending his days as the daunting bouncer of The Ninth Circle, but now that he was out of his own skin—or back in it, rather—walking in the figurative spotlight raised his hackles. He kept his head down as best he could, avoiding eye contact in order to discourage inquiries, at least until he had a better grasp of this environment.

Music of various genres resonated from every block, none of which he recognized or found aurally pleasing. He checked his distance from the target every few meters, growing tenser as the gap between their map markers decreased. The target still hadn't moved, but he picked up his pace, impatient to learn what it was and whether it held any clue to what was happening.

His hand wandered on instinct to his empty back, wanting to grasp the missing shotgun that had saved his life more than once during forays into the unknown. He maintained his guard as he turned a corner and found himself gazing out at the view of the Lower Trenton Bridge. His chest constricted at the sight of the undamaged landmark, the city's full motto written across its metal rails in giant glowing letters.

Trenton Makes, the World Takes.

In his memories, only parts of the bridge had still been standing, and he'd always wondered what the remaining letters had been spelling out.

Another beep from the Pip-Boy cut through his thoughts. He glanced down at the map and determined fifty yards remained between him and the target. His eyes lifted to the east, searching through the darkness for anything that stuck out in the strange setting. This area was emptier and quieter, and the atmosphere prickled his skin as he strode forward, fully alert. His footsteps fell heavily over the wide street, in sync with the racing of his heart as he followed the rest of the route to the edge of a damp, musty alley.

The moment he spotted a slender figure crouched in front of some sort of malfunctioning robot, another body leaped down from atop one of the adjacent buildings. He started at the sudden action, his brain immediately registering danger as his vision locked onto the sharp, red-lit weapon fixed to a reinforced arm. His Pip-Boy beeped again, and he didn't need to check it to know that the figure on the ground was the target.

"Move!" he yelled.

Crimson and orange sparks accompanied the piercing sound of metal scraping pavement as the weapon missed its mark by mere inches. The target had rolled away with a millisecond to spare, revealing itself to be a blonde woman in dark attire. She slammed a latch shut on the rear side of the robot just as the hooded assailant jumped up, unscathed, from the impossible fall. The machine activated at once and fired in the target's defense, forcing the assailant to take cover behind several crates.

He, in turn, dove behind a set of computerized trash cans on his left in case the line of fire swerved his way. Peering around one, he saw a pistol appear in the same palm that retracted the glowing red blade. Stray rounds from the robot's guns ricocheted in all directions, far enough away that he could analyze the situation from his hiding place. The robot seemed like an evolved incarnation of a Mister Handy, with heavy firearms replacing its buzz saws and—

Apparent transformation capabilities. His eyes widened when it responded to the woman's programming and stopped firing to morph itself into a vehicle reminiscent of a pre-war motorcycle. She hopped on and threw some sort of translucent shield up that blocked the barrage of bullets behind her as she revved the engine and sped out of the alley toward the opposite street. He had no time to gape after her, for the other individual had already begun sprinting toward him.

He ducked down and scanned the pile of discarded objects next to him for something to wield. One broken, sharp-edged plank sufficed. Gripping it with both hands, he waited until the footsteps were almost upon him. Then, drawing on seasoned combative senses to estimate the force required, he hopped up and swung. The illuminated blade cut right through the plank, splitting it in half and nearly cleaving into his arms. He released the wooden remnants and snatched his limbs out of the path of the red arc, given no respite as the assailant changed trajectory and charged at him.

The pistol had disappeared, but going up against melee wasn't his strong suit. He dodged a series of bladed slashes aimed at his abdomen, barely able to counter even as adrenaline surged through his veins. His advantage lay in his restored vitality; muscles and bones in their prime lent him the speed and physical prowess to deflect his opponent's sloppier attacks. Unarmed as he was, he wasted no effort, making every one of his movements count. Soon, he grew familiar with the other's fighting style, memorizing the dominant hand, the angles of the strikes. He sought an opening every time he blocked, his chest heaving with exertion throughout the fast-paced fight.

The chance came when a clumsy jab missed his head, and he grabbed the outstretched arm, using the momentum to throw the assailant to the ground. A pained grunt sounded from beneath the hood, which he reached down to yank off while digging his knee into the wrist attached to the blade. Swinging his leg around the other's waist, he bore down his weight in a solid pin. The burning gray eyes of an angry young man glared up at him in the dimness.

"Damn it! Get the hell off! You're gonna crush my electric blade rig!"

"Shut up, smoothskin," he barked, the slur coming out from sheer habit. More than likely, no one here would understand it, and technically, it applied to him again.

But the other man had stopped struggling, furious expression melting to one of shock. "Smoothskin? So you're from the Wasteland, too?"

He froze, wariness shooting to max levels at the mention of his home.

"Hey, I'm Jalen. I've been stuck in this place for God knows how long, and you're only the second person I've seen from my time," the man told him, an odd note of relief entering his baritone voice. "You're a sight for sore eyes, I'll tell you that. Who are you?"

He deliberated with himself before answering, "Charon."

"Great to meet you. Now could you please stop straddling me? You're freaking heavy."

"Prove you won't be a threat," Charon growled, refusing to budge. "You just tried to stab me no less than twenty times."

"I thought you were her accomplice," Jalen groaned. "That woman who got away—"

"Why were you attacking her?"

A sigh of exasperation preceded the response. "Because she was my target."

"She was my target, too," Charon snapped, scowling. "I was going to ask her what the hell was going on here."

Jalen blinked at him. "You mean you're new? Oh man, no wonder you're foaming at the mouth. Seriously, let me up and I'll explain what I know. Here, take my pistol and rig if that'll ease your mind about me."

Charon hesitated as he stared at the weapons the other man nodded to. Jalen's evident sincerity could have been feigned, but even if he tried anything by this point, Charon knew he could take him on. Still cautious, he went for the weapons, watching for any signs of trickery. Jalen merely laid back and allowed him to remove the gun and the electric wrist contraption, which had retracted the red blade inside its metal sheath. Once Charon tossed both items aside and patted down the other man, he allowed him to stand.

Jalen smoothed back his slick brown hair and dusted himself off once he got to his feet. His black hooded jacket and jeans had survived their clash, but the front of his maroon button-up shirt had been ripped open, revealing a toned torso. He wiped the dirt off his boots and peered at Charon guardedly.

"You've gotta tell me, though. Do you remember how you got here?" he asked, producing a cigarette from his jacket pocket.

"No. Woke up earlier with no clue."

"Damn. I can't remember how I ended up here, either," Jalen said as he flicked open a lighter and brought it to the cigarette between his lips. "My memory between going about my business in the Wasteland and finding myself here is blank."

Charon still didn't trust him, but a glimpse at his Pip-Boy showed him that the target was on her speedy way to the other side of the city. "Did that woman do something to get flagged on this map?"

"Well, here's the thing. I'm not gonna pretend I understand it, but the way I've found in getting answers is to take out the targets labeled on these devices." Jalen pointed to Charon's Pip-Boy and his own on his left wrist. "After each target is dealt with, we get a sign or a hint at getting out. So far, it seems like there's a limit to the progression of these events. Once we reach it, we might have a shot at getting home."

"So you've been killing random people for a chance of maybe getting back?"

"They're not as random as you'd think. This woman who's the current target, Mabel, she's a pastry chef-turned-felon on the run ever since her robot went AWOL and killed a bunch of her customers. I've been tracking her for two days," Jalen declared with a note of sourness. "But since you're here now, maybe we could team up."

Charon snorted in disdain. "I'm supposed to believe we were brought here to be crime-fighting vigilantes from the future?"

Jalen blew out a puff of smoke and glanced sideways at him. "Not from the future, no. This place, this world… it's unnatural. Nothing here is anything we understand. Society, physics, time, all of it here is off." His eyes flickered to the digital clock stationed above one of the streetlights. "When I woke up in this place, I was in San Diego, California. The year was 2153."

The news struck Charon with another wave of confusion. 2153?

"Yeah, seventy-six years after today," Jalen verified, reading his face. "Time on a day-to-day basis flows normally, but when we take out a target, there's a time skip to the previous decade the following morning. We're given a new target and sent to a new location. I've been going backwards all over the country from the twenty-second century to now. And I've seen things that haven't even been invented yet this year."

A headache throbbed to life and spread across Charon's temples. "Wait… so—what?"

"Like I said, I don't understand it, either. But the one other guy I met from the Wasteland started from the 2200s, though I haven't seen him since he didn't want to stick together. Who knows, since I ran into you, maybe we'll find him again."

Charon swiped a palm across his forehead as he struggled to process the information. "I have my own agenda. I'm searching for my employer, who may or may not be here. Last I saw her, we were in the Wasteland."

Jalen stubbed out his cigarette and activated the interface of his Pip-Boy. "What's her name? This thing has a crazy worldwide database of people, and I might be able to locate her."

Charon faltered. "I… don't know."

The other man gave him a flat look. "Seriously?"

"She goes by '101.'"

"Uh, okay. That's cool and… weird. Yeah, no '101' listed here," Jalen remarked as he scrolled through the grid of his map. "Well, I'm not asking you to take anything I say at face value, but fact of the matter is, we'll get answers a lot faster if we work together."

Charon studied him, sensing no ill intentions, though it could all very well be an act. Still, Jalen's presence and experience may prove beneficial yet. "Fine. But first sign that you're leading me astray, you'd better watch your back."

"Fair enough. I mean, I got my ass handed to me by an unarmed juggernaut. Like I'd try anything on purpose. Here, can I see your Pip-Boy real quick?" Jalen walked up to stand next to him, vastly inferior in height. He reached for Charon's device and accessed one of the tabs, typing his name with the virtual keyboard and grinning when a third marker designating him popped up on the map. "Awesome. Now you'll be able to see my location in case we need to flank the target. Or in case I piss you off enough for you to want to hunt me down, at which point I'm going to sorely regret giving you the means to track me. But hey, I'm an optimist."

Charon's only opinion at that moment was that Jalen talked a lot. This is going to be a tedious… and annoying partnership.

"You should brace yourself for all the weird shit you're going to see in this reality," Jalen quipped and tabbed out of the map. He pointed to two words at the top of the Pip-Boy interface that Charon hadn't noticed before. "You're now in Retrograde Nation."

x-x-x-x-x

A/N: I started writing this on my other account a few years ago, but decided to move it here to join my main Fallout fic series. As for the plot, I'm fusing Fallout's standard atompunk with post-cyberpunk (cyberprep?) and sending Charon on a wild goose chase after the Lone Wanderer. This is my take on how an individual navigates and fights through a clash of hypothetical realities. Thanks for checking it out. More to come soon!