"You're a hero, and you have to leave."
Those words. He couldn't get them out of his head. Slumped over the bar in Junktown and he couldn't even do what he was there for – drink to forget.
Even with the Brotherhood's help, he could only feel dread for the world and for himself. He was disturbed, really. The images he had on his mind. The walls of flesh, the Mutants that roamed the halls of the Vault, the Master's droning commands.
"Join! Die! Join Die!"
It was all a little too much for him. Even he wasn't convinced that the Master, Richard Grey he heard Harold call him, took his own life and destroyed his life's work due to the sterile nature of his own children, the Super Mutants. All those people, or former people, killed because of a fault that dear old Richie couldn't control. He couldn't wrap his head around it completely, this 'F.E.V'. A cruel and uncalculated virus. Even the ZAX computer he found deep in The Glow found it dangerous. The Children were so devoted to their cause, so sewn up by the preaching of the 'Dark God' and his minions, it was inhuman. But maybe, maybe that was the point of it all. He'd stepped out into a world of killers, and become a killer himself. He'd thought people would be more like the Followers of the Apocalypse, that people would be learning from their mistakes, that humanity would be giving itself a second chance by seeing past their greed and their lust for the bigger picture. But it was never to be.
War never changes in that regard, he supposed.
Then there were the Vats. Roaming the north searching for Mariposa Military Base, only to be ambushed by a 20-Mutant Kill Squad and see his friends die before his very eyes. Ian – the rambunctious caravan guard, Tycho – the Desert Ranger, Katja – the Boneyard Scab, and Dogmeat of course. He sought the Brotherhood's help, formed a squad of his own, got a couple of operations that turned him into a killing machine. He wanted the Mutants to see the Reaper incarnate stretch before them and slaughter them one by one. So fuelled with rage was he, with T-51b Power Armor shielding his frame and a Turbo Plasma Rifle in hand. He killed alongside soldiers that fell before him. Soon, it was only him, his gun and his pride that walked out of that base, alight with vengeance and ripe with the stench of war. It was done. The Mutants would no longer be a threat. Here they were, alive, but crippled as a fighting force. There was no way they would come back from this, not anymore.
He held the bottle of bourbon in his right hand, taped up from all the cuts and bruises he'd received. Funny, this was the same drink Tycho had bought him when first stepped foot in this place. "Take a seat, friend" the gas-masked man said, as if he'd already seen war a dozen times over. He kept thinking back on it, the man that had come all the way from the mid-west just to witness the start of a plague and die with a gun in his hands, gurgling at the mouth from the might of a minigun. Did he see it coming? Well, it was he that told him to run, that it was his 'job' to save the world. Who would put all that pressure on a man who used to yell at Vault Dwellers for a living? Funny. To think that he was once the advocate for living on the surface, always pushing the Overseer to set his people free. No. They have it good on there. He used to.
Killian turned to face him, looking weary but nonetheless happy to oversee Junktown, now that Gizmo was out of the picture anyway.
"So, Albert…" He started, "What are you going to do now?"
Albert dared not turn to him, he couldn't bring himself to do it. Now a wreck of a man, not a friend in the world. He stared ominously into the bottle, it wasn't deep anymore.
"I'd tell you, Darkwater, but I have absolutely no idea. I can't go back to the Vault, they've exiled me from there. Got no home out here in the Wastes. There's nothing for me."
Killian laughed a little, and signalled the bartender for two more drinks. The glasses came down onto the bar like Albert would have envisioned the Overseer dropping onto the ground had he chosen to shoot him. He returned home, filled with a sort of pride that only an intellect turned psychopath could feel. He wanted to go back to the clean living of his home, see his friends. He wasn't so sure he would fit in there, but it was better than the wasteland. Instead, Jacoren stood before him, the old man, with the Vault Door open behind him. That day, he blinded his heart and spoke with his mind. He couldn't let him back into the Vault, couldn't let him do what he'd been preaching about nearly all his life – letting people out onto the surface. The look on his smug, withering face said it all.
"You're a hero, and you have to leave."
Albert set out again, for the third time, for the last time. He never looked back. His world had been taken from him, and now he was left with this: The remnants of the old world, the one that they messed up so long ago and were now left with to pick up the pieces all over again. He took another swig of his drink, empty now, he grabbed the glass that Killian had ordered him and looked up as the mayor began to speak again.
"Listen, Al. You've helped me out here. Hell, you've helped us all for clearing out those Mutants, and that's a debt that none of us can pay you back for. Maybe your time here is up, and you're… I don't know, needed elsewhere. You're more than just a smart guy with a gun in his hand and the number 13 on his back. You've got more of a life to lead than this."
"Killian. Every time I close my eyes, all I can see is The Master wrapped around that screen, speaking in voices. I see Mutants gunning down soldiers, and their lapdogs trying to chase me down. I can't do this."
"You can. Just… not here. You want my advice? Head north, build a new life for yourself. Maybe there you'll find what you're looking for."
Killian stood up and headed for the door, looking back before heading out.
"Albert. Thank you for everything you've done for this town. Be seeing you around, alright?"
"Yeah, thanks Killian." Albert nodded, returning to the bar.
North? He'd never thought about that. It'd be a dangerous journey. He'd given all his high-powered equipment back to the Brotherhood, they were never his in the first place. Now it was just him, his Vault suit, a couple of guns and a load of ammo and caps he didn't know what to do with.
And really, that was all he'd need.