This is just a little story that me and a friend thought up, after a conversation about what would happen if our two Fallout 3 characters met. Obviously both of us couldn't be the Lone Wanderer, but that was okay. I never really thought of my character as that anyway. The idea was that I'd write a piece from my characters side, and she would do likewise. But I digress; I hope this isn't as terrible as it seems in my head. Enjoy!
UPDATE: I forgot about this for a LONG time, and when I looked it over I saw the writing was terrible and full of errors. So this is an improved copy of it. I hope it reads better.
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The sun was reaching its highest point in the Capital Wasteland, and the heat was… not that bad, actually. A cool breeze was blowing in from the east, which made the midday sun warm and refreshing rather than hot and stifling. Of course there was a possible risk of increased background radiation blowing in, but nothing really worth worrying about.
Across the whistling emptiness walked three figures. At the back was a young adult, dressed in ragged clothing with several pieces of leather crudely stitched onto it. His hair was dishevelled and his gaze unfocused as if drunk, but the rest of his face looked mildly angry. The explosive collar around his neck was probably the main cause. His hands were tied in front of him with rope, and he was being led by the middle figure.
That middle figure was a protectron, one which looked a lot cleaner and well kept than most - dust and dirt accumulated just from being out in the breeze notwithstanding. A ham radio was strapped onto its back and plugged it into it, and every other space on its body was covered with bags and boxes. A pack robot.
The leading figure was somewhat tall and rather thin; and dressed in simple trousers; well-made (if filthy) boots and a trench coat covered in pockets and pouches. A fireman's mask and helmet obscured his face. His entire right arm from shoulder to hand was a solid mass of dulled metal, a cybernetic implant. It was slightly too big for him however, giving him a noticeably lopsided look. He was armed with a hunting rifle slung over his left shoulder, and a Chinese pistol in a hip holster. This mans name was Francis.
"This is bullshit," the captive at the back muttered.
"Quiet, you." replied Francis, not bothering to turn around. His voice was quiet and steady, and every other word was punctuated with a sound of air being sucked in and expelled through his gas mask.
"This is total bullshit!"
"I said be quiet."
"You think these fucking cuffs can hold me? I can break these cuffs!"
"You can't break those cuffs, Irving."
"Hey! It's not Irving! My name is Boss, alright? I'm the fucking Boss!"
"Yes, the boss of a two-bit gang. That wasn't even a real head you'd staked outside the house you were hiding in. It was carved out of brahmin meat, and had rocks for eyes."
The amateur raider fell silent, embarrassment creeping into his face. Francis wondered just how old Irving was. He looked like he'd just barely scraped into his twenties, yet he thought he could suddenly become king of the wasteland and do whatever the hell he wanted? It was strange and idiotic, but a lot of people seemed to think like that. Life in the wasteland is hard, and it seemed that not everyone could handle it. One day you could just snap, think to yourself 'Fuck It', and start putting spikes on your clothing and corpses on your wall. Because what did it matter? The world ended, so why not have some fun?
"You think you're much better?" Irving suddenly spoke up, with fresh bitterness. "You're a fucking slaver! I may kill people but at least it's over quick! What makes you better than me, huh? Tell me!"
Francis stopped dead. He then span around, shoved the protectron out the way and grabbing Irving by the throat with his metal hand. The raider gave a little squeak of terror and tried to wriggle free, to no avail.
"First of all," Francis began, anger seeping into his voice, "I doubt you've so much as killed a radroach in your pathetic little life. When I found you, you tried to shoot me with an assault rifle that had no ammo and the safety on. I mean, for fuck sake Irving! It's not that hard to be a raider, and you somehow managed to fail!"
It was clear Francis had answered this sort of question before. "Second, slavery is an important business, like it or not. The Pitt is the biggest, if not the sole producer of weapons and ammo in this state. Things that are essential to survival. Without them, civilisation can't rebuild, we'd be too busy hiding from mutated animals and jumping at our own shadows. This brings me to you. You're a raider. The standard procedure is to shoot raiders. However, as I've already mentioned, slaves are needed. So my job is to enslave people like you. The Pitt gets its workforce; the wasteland loses another raider, and best of all I get paid!"
"NINETY CAPS PER INDIVIDUAL BEING THE STANDARD RATE" The protectron chipped in.
"Thank you. That's what makes me better than you, Irving!" With that final statement Francis threw the choking man to the ground and switched back to his calm voice. "Now. We're going to take a little break, and I expect you to do as you're told. Remember: I've got a gun, my robot can shoot lasers, and since you're wearing that collar I can make your head explode."
Pointing out a spot for Irving to sit, Francis turned his protectron around, grabbed the mouth piece of the radio attached to its back and started turning dials. Soon enough he found the frequency he was looking for. "Tinman to Paradise. Tinman to Paradise, over" he said into it.
A few seconds of static, then from the speakers a voice replied "This is Paradise. Go ahead Tinman, over." Under his mask Francis smiled. Fault them all you want, but slavers were efficient while on the job. Plugging a ham radio into his robot had been a good move. "I have the package, and am returning home. Should be there in a few hours, four tops. Over."
"Roger that Tinman. Be advised, large explosion seen in the mountains to the North West a couple of hours back. Several vertibirds seen heading South East just after. Probably nothing to worry about, but just thought I'd tell you. Don't want our package coming to any harm, do we? Over."
"Heh, we certainly don't. Tinman over and out."
Replacing the mouth piece, Francis took one of the bags burdening the robot and sat down in the shadow of the large rocks. He took out a small water bottle and threw it at Irving (it bounced off his head), then took out one for himself along with some food. But just as he was about to open his bottle, the protectron spoke up.
"WARNING: HUMANOIDS DETECTED. APPROACHING FROM: NORTH WEST."
With a sigh Francis put his meal down, stood up, and peered around the edge of the rock. In the distance, and heading in their direction, were two figures. One looked human enough, but the other was huge and hulking. It could only be a super mutant.
"Oh… shit"
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Francis tried to stay calm. He could just hide and hope they'd pass them by. They didn't appear to have seen him yet, so if he gagged Irving up, told the protectron to keep still, and kept his own head down, they could be unnoticed. And if worst came to worst, he had the cover, plus his protectron could fight as well. Hell, he could even throw out the raider as a distraction! Still not great odds against a super mutant, but passable at least. His mind had others ideas though, and it began listing the huge number of things that could go wrong. Irving could panic, revealing their position early. His gun could jam. The super mutant could have very good aim. It could have grenades. It could-
He shook his head faintly, putting the thoughts aside. For now, he was to avoid fighting. It was best to hide. He made a hand motion to the protectron, whose top light flashed once in reply before becoming silent and still. He then hissed 'If you value your life, shut up!" to Irving, before leaning back against the rock with his rifle in hand, trying to stifle his breathing as he listened to the pair of footsteps get closer and closer. When they sounded less than ten feet away, they stopped. A conversation seemed to take place, although what was being said he couldn't quite discern.
Clutching his rifle tighter he peered around the rock again. It was a super mutant alright - bigger than a man by a few good feet, dirty yellow in colour and with thick muscles like steel cords. It was wearing blue rags with yellow trimming. Francis hazarded a guess at it being the remains of a vault suit, although why it had tried to wear one was anybodies guess. To complete the image, it was wielding a gatling laser. 'A fucking gatling laser!', Francis thought with a mix of anger and terror. 'Where the hell had it gotten that?'
Thankfully, it didn't seem to have noticed him. It was facing the other way entirely with its weapons loaded. He got the impression that it was waiting for something. And where had the other person gone? Unless...
"You're behind me, aren't you?" he sighed, as he felt the cold, square front of a laser pistol press into the back of his head.
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"Not just a Slaver. A coward to boot." Came the reply.
He turned and looked up, indignantly forcing the pistol away with his head as he did so. She turned out to be female, this human who had convinced a Super Mutant to be her bodyguard.
Carefully he placed both his weapons on the ground and took to his feet, not going to cower any longer if he was already found out.
"I didn't stop you in the middle of the Wasteland and put a gun to your head. If you don't mind, I've got important business. Don't make me use my robot."
"Don't make me set Fawkes on you. He gets uncontrollable sometimes. He doesn't like Slavers any more than I do."
Fawkes, who must've been that Super Mutant practically blocking out the sun over Francis' head, grunted affirmative and held his enormous gun ready, pointed at Francis' chest. They couldn't see his face, so he was free to think with a pained expression as he wondered how he could get out of this. Him and his protectron against the girl, that'd be easy. Her combat armour was pretty standard - decent protection, as long as any bullets didn't hit between the plates or on the woefully unprotected arms - and camouflaged green, which was such a big help in the desert, he noted dryly. Her head was only protected by a cap and some goggles - way too easy a target.
But that left the Super Mutant. And unless he could empty an entire clip into its head without getting hit himself, it wasn't going to die easily.
"Good thing for you I'm not in the habit of killing people I just don't like," she continued in what she probably thought sounded authoritative. To Francis she just sounded intolerably haughty and smug. "Give me that slave, then go on your way and hope I never catch sight of you again."
He had no doubt that this Fawkes would share no such habit if given half a reason.
"So you are in the habit of stealing from people you meet?" Buy some time, he thought.
"Don't be fucking dense. That's a person, not property."
The laser gun hadn't left its aim from his head. Still on the ground, Irving nodded emphatically.
Paradise would have his hide for another failed delivery. He'd just have to wing it.
With sudden speed he grabbed the laser pistol with his mechanical arm and pushed the barrel down, a shot just missing his palm and hitting the dirt. Before another one could be fired he pulled his other arm back and punched her full in the face. Now with blood streaming out of her nose she reeled backwards with a cry of pain, and Francis took advantage of this to grab her falling weapon and began turning it towards the super mutant.
He ended up dropping it just as fast as her though, because in mid-spin the super mutant's fist collided with his mask, the sheer force cracking the visor and sending him flying backwards into the rock. He felt something crack with the impact, and as well as being severely winded white-hot shards of pain dulled his hearing and blurred his vision. Desperately he tried to stumble, almost bent double back to his own weapons, but only mad a few feet before the super mutant hit him on the back, slamming him into the ground.
Close to blacking out, he forced himself to roll, dodging the boot aiming for his head. He managed to get onto his knees, just as his opponent gave a ferocious yell and let fly a killing punch. This time however Francis caught it with his mechanical arm. Servos grinded and sparks shot out of the joints, but he had held it at bay. Now all he had to do was twist his wrist and the super mutants arm would break.
Unfortunately, at that moment he was hit in the back of the head with the butt of a laser pistol. He fell to the ground, and this time he stayed down.
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"-hree Dog, bow wow! And you're listening to Galaxy News Radio! Up next: We've got a-"
The first thing Francis noticed as he regained consciousness was the voice of that annoyingly happy radio host. Actually, he mentally corrected, that was the second thing. The FIRST thing he noticed was the blinding pain all over his body, his head in particular feeling like it was going to shatter if he tried to move. But, he wasn't dead at least. Plus hearing Three Dog meant his radio - and therefore, his robot - probably wasn't broken. Another small mercy.
Something he couldn't help but wonder was why 'Fawkes' hadn't decided to just use his gatling laser and fill him full of scorched holes. Maybe he had been too close to her, making him not want to fire for fear of shooting her as well? Or perhaps - and given what little of her personality he'd met this option wasn't too far-fetched - she'd simply told him not to? She definitely seemed like the kind to do something like that. After all, if you kill your enemies, how will they know you've won?
Trying to ignore his protesting muscles (and failing miserably) he rolled and pushed himself up into a sitting position. His mechanical arm refused to respond however. Confused, he hauled it into his lap with his other hand, and saw that the battery port had been forced open, and was empty. He was crippled, his arm a dead weight. 'How wonderful'.
Gritting his teeth he forced himself to his feet, the sudden movement after taking such a savage beating making his vision swim. His now non-functional arm sent him off balance, almost causing him to fall over again. Taking a few deep breaths to steel himself, he walked to his protectron. It was unhurt and in the same position he had left it. Obviously because he'd told it to play dead, and because it was a robot it had been doing exactly that while he was being mugged. He wondered how he was dumb enough to not see this happening.
The radio was blaring Galaxy News at full blast, the volume making his headache even worse. He turned it off. All of the bags had been rifled through, and several were missing altogether. A hasty search showed that they hadn't taken everything though. Just all of his ammunition; spare fusion batteries; caps; medical supplies and nearly all of his food and water. That left a days worth of supplies at best, and ('Oh thank god!' he thought to himself) one lone bottle of whisky. Maybe she didn't like whisky? He wasn't too fond of it himself if he was honest, but there and then he didn't care - he pulled his mask up and chugged it down like it was the last, best drink on earth. He only stopped when the bottle was empty and the pain was starting to deaden. He noticed his mask was looser than he remembered. Had it been taken off while he was unconscious? A worrying thought.
"Alright, you can stop now," he told the protectron, throwing the bottle away. With a flash it straightened back up, somehow managing to look embarrassed as it did so.
"APOLOGIES" it replied. "I WAS ORDERED TO"
Francis sighed. "Yes, yes, I know. That doesn't matter now. How long was I out?"
"APPROXIMATELY TWENTY MINUTES"
"And where," he asked with growing anger, "is Irving?"
" YOUR ASSAILANTS DISABLED HIS COLLAR AND TOOK HIM WITH THEM." The robot then gestured to a broken ring of metal on the floor. Were he in better condition and more sober, at this point Francis would have gone into a flying rage. Gunfire, objects being thrown or smashed, the whole shebang. Not only had he been beaten, robbed and left for dead, but they'd taken that scumbag (well, minor annoyance) Irving, and with it his source of income, probably only to let him go sometime later! But right now, he didn't have it in himself to lose his temper like that. Not quite yet.
"Where did they go, then?" he asked, as he looked through one of the fuller bags and pulled out a battered metal lunchbox.
"SOUTH EAST. THE BUILDING IDENTIFIED AS 'THE CITADEL' WAS MENTIONED."
"That's where we're going, then."
"WARNING. SUPPLY LEVELS: LOW. AMUNITION LEVELS: LOW. HEALTH CONDI-"
"I don't fucking care," Francis interrupted the robot, anger growing in his voice as he tried to open the lunchbox. "I can get more supplies and ammunition any time I like. But I don't want just any supplies and ammunition back; I want MY supplies and ammunition back. Nobody fucking steals from me, is that clear?"
The protectron was silent.
"I said: Is that FUCKING clear?"
"…YES."
"Good." Finally the latch on the lunchbox gave (it was significantly harder to hold and open it with only one hand) and it swung open. He took one look and instantly recoiled in distaste. Of all the food they had to leave behind, why did it have to be bloatfly?