Disclaimer: I don't own Fallout 3, the folks at Bethesda do. Anyways, this is my first go at a Fallout fic so please let me know what you think. Also, please feel free to correct me on any bit of the canon I mess up. I'm going with a good, male Lone Wanderer. Also, it should go without saying that this contains spoilers for the game itself, as well as just about all of the DLC's (downloadable content packs; Broken Steel, the Pitt, etc.)
Prologue:
She had always liked him. They had played together as kids, exploring the twists and turns of Vault's halls and chambers, facing off with Butch and his bunch of pet hooligans. He'd always been there as they had grown up, a partner to help with chores, a friendly ear willing to listen to her frustrations, and her knight in shining vault-suit whenever Butch and the Tunnel Snakes got to close. There were so many memories of childhood and youth; birthday parties and school exams, and all of it ending with one night. One wild, romantic night involving a few bottles of liquor snuck from the Vault stores. One night that forever changed her life. The very next day was a whirlwind, his father gone, Jonas and so many others dead, and finally, with the grinding of the great Vault door's closing, he was gone. She found out a week later that she was pregnant.
Three months later she was beginning to show when he came rolling back in clad in dust streaked power armor, crackling Plasma Rifle slung over his back, epic tales of daring deeds preceding him; a living legend brought back by her desperate plea. The Lone Wanderer, they said, the Hero of the Wastes. In the span of an hour he'd defused a civil war and placed her as Overseer, and she had forced him out, half fearful, half confused, not knowing what this man had done with the one she'd fallen in love with, only for his parting words to reveal her knight in a new suit of armor. She didn't have the guts to tell him he was a father.
Months passed, and she worked at a frenzied pace to prepare her people for the Wastes, the bulge of her middle always growing, and new stories of her love trickling in. The Lone Wanderer, Liberator of the Pitt, Bane of Super Mutants. Tall tales grew taller, fact was muddied with fiction. Raider's had nightmares of him. He once arm wrestled a Super Mutant, and won. Megaton's bomb disarmed itself after he gave it a hard glare. He ate Mirelurks for lunch, Deathclaws for dinner, and Yao Guai for dessert. He could chow down on Scrap Metal and shit out Caps. The radio sang his praises, and towns welcomed him open arms. He was a man of the people, a hero.
As the Lone Wanderer strode through the burning halls of Raven Rock, she laid in the Vault's Clinic, screaming and crying and calling his name, pushing with all her being. As he collapsed in the crackling control room of Project Purity, ready to die so that the Wasteland might live, she sat in a hospital gown, her child swaddled in a blanket and clutched to her chest, tears rolling down her eyes. She had son. He had a son.
More tales came, of the Enclave's final defeat, of adventures in the swamps of Point Lookout. Of a new love found in the Brotherhood of Steel. That one had cut the deepest, an unknowing betrayal. Yet she could only feel guilt, only blame herself. She had let him slip. She had kept his child from him. In her heart, she knew what needed to be done. She would send for him, tell him all that had happened, pour out her heart and soul to the one man she loved. And then it was too late. The Lone Wanderer, the Master of the Wastes, was no more. Some said he had left the Capital Wasteland, searching for adventure elsewhere. Others said he had finally succumbed to the horrors of the Waste he had fought so hardly to tame. A few crackpots even blamed it on aliens. It did not matter to her. All she knew was that the man she loved was gone, never to return, and his one legacy, the one piece of him left in this world.
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"Hello Capital Wasteland, and good morning ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, ghouls and muties. It's me, your voice in the gamma rays, the one, the only, Threeeeeeee Dog! How's everybody doin' on this fine Monday morning?"
The crazy raspy voice of the king of the Wasteland's airwaves tumbled out of the clunky old radio on his bedside table and into the ears of Jonas Almodovar. Groaning drowsily, the young man rubbed the sleep from his eyes and rose from his creaking mattress brushing his sandy blond hair back with his hand. Clad in boxers and an undershirt which only served to highlight his skinny frame, the young man stumbled about his room in the typical morning haze, sparing a moment to shut off the radio. With a click of a button, the Limited Edition Vault Boy Clock-Radio (a Vault-Tec collectible) faded into silence, and he glared hatefully at the machine; every now and then he regretted ever fixing it up from the pile of bolts and wires it had been when he bought it. He slid into his Vault Utility Suit, the leather creaking as he entered into what felt like a second skin. Of course, he thought to himself, it has the same effect on the ladies, so it isn't all bad.
He had one of the originals, 200 year old cowhide in all its glory. Some had been patched with brahmin skin, and even a few new ones made from scratch, complete with the stylized 101 on the back, but to him the classics were still best. Drab white and brown couldn't top the Vault-Tec blue. Jonas checked his Pip-Boy, glancing over his status page; it paid to keep eye on your health. The young man thumbed through the faded green display idly in his usual morning routine. Everything appeared to be in place. With a sigh, he grabbed his toolbox, clamped a baseball cap down on his unruly hair and went to work.
The halls of Vault 101 shone proudly thanks to the care of the Custodial Staff and a few boxes of Abraxo Cleaner. They were crowded too. Jonas skillfully wove through the morning rush as everyone of age headed to work. A dozen good mornings and a few turns later, the young man found himself at the top of a staircase labeled "Reactor" and the hum emanating from below gave credence to its proclamation. Whistling a mindless tune, Jonas descended into the belly of the Vault and found Stanley already there. The old man was bustling about from console to console and machine to machine, defying his age. He had gone near senile years ago, but was still the best mechanic they had.
"Hey there Stanley," Jonas offered, sleep still numbing his voice.
"Jonas, that you, boy? Come over here and gimme a hand with this piping. Damn hands are shaking too much."
With a sigh, Jonas walked over to his mentor and steadied the old man. The young man quickly picked out the problem and let his nimble fingers get to work; he'd always had an aptitude for machines. The morning passed as it usually did, as the young man played a role that was half babysitter half student to the aged mechanic. Lunch passed uneventfully, giving the young man some spare time to tinker before work started back up again. His flamethrower was coming along nicely.
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Three o'clock rolled around just in time, and with a sigh of relief, Jonas stepped back from the generator he had been working on and wiped the sweat from his brow and the grease from his hands. He turned just in time to see Alicia Gomez strut down the stairs and flash him a smile. The young man's heart melted and he fumbled for words, but was too late as the girl continued walking, stopping before her great-grandfather and helping him up the stairs. The old man belligerently insisted he could do it himself. All too soon, she was gone, and, mentally berating himself, Jonas shook his head.
"Some day," he muttered, "some day"
A shower and a fresh Vault Suit later, Jonas found himself meandering through his underground home, passing the Overseer's Office on his way to the entrance. Attentive eyes picked up the lack of activity from within; the "OverMom" as he had so affectionately coined her when he was five, had not returned yet. The young man plodded onwards, passing greeting given to everyone he encountered. The Vault made for a tight knit community; everyone knew everyone. Finally, he reached the entrance.
A cadre of Security Officers stood guard in the entry hall, as always, monitoring all traffic into and out of the Vault, making sure each passerby was a Vault resident, or sanctioned by the Office of the Overseer. Outsiders allowed entry into the Vault were few and far between, but there were a handful of folks the Office of the Overseer had extended the privilege to.
The massive steel door had been rolled back and a few men and women in dust stained Vault Suits were trickling back inside from their jobs outside. Chief Gomez stood at the door controls, like a sentinel watching hawk eyed as his men confirmed the identity of each entry before taking their offered firearms and stowing them in a series of secured lockers behind a counter; guns were a communal resource, and time with them that wasn't job related cost you. Luckily, Jonas had come prepared. Giving the pouch a slight jingle, Jonas walked over to the arms lockers and handed Officer Gomez Junior, who reminded him once again just to call him Freddie, the bag of Caps, making a bit of small talk before getting to his request. When the father of the girl you had your eye on worked with weapons all day, it paid to stay on his good side.
"I'll take an hour with Old Glory and half a box of rounds."
With a nod and a smile, Freddie retrieved the battered looking old Hunting Rifle from its place and placed in on the counter before sliding the cardstock box containing its ammunition next to it. Jonas smiled; ammo had become a lot cheaper since trade with the Pitt had opened up. Slinging the weapon over his back, Jonas headed towards the door, Security Officers keeping half an eye on him as they held their Assault Rifles, wary of having anymore weaponry even in the entryway of the Vault. Jonas sighed as he eyed up their weapons. Another fruit of trade, he thought sardonically. Progress was being made in keeping the Security Officers in line, but there was at least one disciplinary hearing every month.
Security Chief Gomez stopped him at the door. "You should have about an hour before we close up for the night, Jonas" the older man said, before adding, with a wry smile, "and try not to shoot your eye out or anything. I don't want to have to explain to the Overseer why her son's in the Clinic." He eyed the young man's gun before continuing. "Old Glory again? God boy, you're the only one who ever uses that beat up piece of junk. Might as well put your name on it."
Jonas answered with a smile. "If it means I get to use it for free, you can write whatever you want on it."
Chief Gomez just laughed, his face crinkling up along well worn wrinkles. "Keep wishing boy. Maybe one day, once we get enough guns for everybody. Until then, enjoy the time you have with it. From what Stanley says, you've earned it."
Finally, Old Glory slung over his back, Jonas headed out through cavernous door to the Vault, exiting into the small tunnel cut into bedrock. He had heard horror stories of how bodies and bones had been found when they'd first opened the Vault, the remains of refugees who had been denied entry. The Overmom had vowed to never let that happen again, and to date there were at least four new families in the safety of Vault 101, strays and lost souls from across the Wasteland who had found refuge and a purpose in their underground abode. The ancient wood and wire door that formed the final barrier to the outside swung open with a groan, and for the first time in a week Jonas Almodovar breathed fresh air. Well, relatively fresh. Post-apocalyptia didn't exactly smell sweet.
Humming along to Three Dog's centuries old songs, the young man emerged into a metal shack, walls of scrap iron and cinderblocks surrounding him. A guard sat in a folding metal chair next to the wooden door, a Combat Shotgun on his lap and a radio on the table next to him. If trouble came, he radioed the Vault and sent all outside workers into its safety before the great door rolled shut. At least in theory. Aside from the occasional drill, no real emergency had ever demanded that. The watchdog of Vault 101 gave Jonas a nod as the young man exited the small building, taking in the sights. The rocky outcropping he stood on looked out over the ruins of suburbia, trashed highway overpasses dotting the horizon. An ancient cracked road snaked down beneath him, leading into the remains of Springdale. Another, much larger building sat at the base of the hill, its construction more solid, its defenses visible. The Vault 101 Trading Post was not a place to trifled with. A crow's nest made atop telephone poles held a sniper's nest, and the walls of the metal and rock construction were lined with barbed wire. All trading was appointment only no exceptions.
In the opposite direction, up the hill, was Jonas's destination, the firing range. Calling it a range was being generous. In truth the whole setup was little more than a few chairs looking out down a semi barren expanse dotted with a few targets. The chairs kept their back towards the rocks, to insure no surprises from behind. Settling into one of the chairs, Jonas pulled up one of the folding tables and set himself up, his box of ammo close at hand. Idly, the young man took his shots. With a crack and a recoil, the gun sent its shot flying, striking the crude effigy of a Deathclaw square in its head. With a sigh, the young man worked the bolt and ejected the spent casing, catching it and pocketing the shiny copper. Bullets were expensive, and it paid to reuse whatever parts that one could. Glumly, he fired again.
The action was mechanical, his mind elsewhere. Jonas Almodovar yearned for adventure. He knew there had to be more to life than fixing and tinkering, more to life than an overprotective mother and a father that no one would tell him about. More to life that just Vault 1010. For all that he loved his home, and the people within it, he knew that the Wasteland was bigger than it. Others in Vault got to travel, got to see the world, so why couldn't he?
Through his grumblings, Jonas ran through all of his rounds, taking time to check his spread before gathering up the spent bullet casings and heading back to the Vault. As he returned the gun to Officer Gomez, he heard the grumblings of the Vault's great door rolling shut, the last of the day's workers returning home. Silently, he gave a prayer to whoever might be listening that he'd be able to tag along on the next caravan, that the Overmom would change her mind.
Destiny would soon come knocking.
End. Please Review, let me know what you think. Sadly, action needs a buildup, but I assure it is coming. Questions, comments, or suggestions, just let me know.