Dawren looked down at what he held in his hand. It was your standard 10mm pistol, look out in the wastes for five minutes and you were bound to find one, or at least have one shot at you. This one brought back memories though, about that first day he had stepped out of the doors of Vault 101, when his best friend shook him for his sleep to tell him that his father had escaped and he had to leave, forever. Then gave him a gun, this gun.
He sighed, why was he sitting out here? He didn't even know how he got here. Really all he did was get up from his freshly de-loused bed in Megaton, put on his favorite heavy brown regulator coat, grabbed this gun and left. It was early morning now, but still the sun hadn't risen into the sky. The night always settled him, brought him a sense of peace in such few words. Really it shouldn't have, if anything the night should hold more dangers than the day, the five raiders laying dead on the ground ten feet away should be a testament to that.
But the question remained, why was he out here? Maybe it was something psychological that he needed, or maybe, just maybe, physical. That question was answered when he raised the gun and put it to his temple. Now this was change in pace, why would he, the hero of the wastes, the lone wanderer, the holier than thou white knight he had so aptly been called by the members of talon company want such a fate. Thinking back he could answer that too.
Everything he had accomplished since he had arrived in the wastes only… what one, no two years, he couldn't remember. The life he lived now was, for lack of a better word, an addiction that he had succumbed to. Worse than any alcohol or chems that so many people were drawn to. But sitting here now he saw it all coming to an end, and what was left was not appealing at all. Sure the Enclave, his greatest enemy was now just a memory in these wastes, the waters of life now flowed freely to any and all who wanted it, and the super mutants that had for so long plagued this land were all but extinct.
Now what was left for him? Politics, people surrounding him preaching that he should lead them to whatever Promised Land they had envisioned? Maybe he was just overreacting; he drew the gun away from his head. He was drawn back to the vision he had received back in the dank marshes of Point Lookout. The truths he so desperately wished to reject. How everything that he loved and cherished had either left him, or rejected him. His father and mother, dead, his lifelong childhood friend, rejected his existence and the only other woman in his life he could say he cared for had told him that their duty came before any personal feeling he might have. "Fuck it," Dawren shouted at the top of his lungs, the resounding echo sounding through every cliff, valley and hill that surrounded him creating a chorus out of that one hateful, self-loathing phrase.
This was it, now was the time. He raised the gun to his head one last time. Cocking back the hammer with one thumb he prepared himself for whatever plain of existence awaited. Click. Click. Click. This was interesting apparently the gun was empty. Impossible he pulled the gun away from his temple and took out the clip; sure enough not one bullet remained. He had used the gun to drop the five raiders; one shot through each of their heads, he had been so sure of himself that he hadn't even bothered to double tap any of them, good thing too. Was this a sign, or just dumb luck? From somewhere of to his left a scream echoed, a woman's scream. Shaking his head Dawren stood up and picked up one of the assault rifles the raiders had been carrying. He ejected the clip, slammed it back home and grabbed a few more from the corpse. Slinging the rifle over his shoulder and walking towards the scream Dawren began to think that maybe, just maybe, he'd get to continue this life a little longer.