The Adventures of Bob
By: Hyuuga Zakuro
A Fallout Fanfic
General Disclaimer:
I don't own Fallout, Fallout 2, Fallout Tactics, or Fallout 3. So don't sue me.
Really.
All you could get is a few guitars.
Very well, on with the story.
(Which is very good if I do say so my self)
Introduction
The year is 2180. My name is Bob, just Bob. I don't have a last name, actually none of the test tube babies of the vault have last names. I used to get a lot of kidding about that. Most people that have poked fun at my name are dead; something to do with trying to catch a speeding bullet with their mouth. (Something I would not recommend.) I am twenty-four years old. This is my story.
Until 2173, I lived in an underground vault. When I was seventeen, all vault members over fifteen were analyzed by the vault master computer to see who would go out and search for signs of life, clean drinking water and a safe place for my vault to build a city with the aid of the glorious GECK. The computer reviewed a person's strength, dexterity, and fighting skills in order to weed out those to weak to survive in the wasteland that was sure to be outside. It also gave us tests to determine our problem solving abilities and intelligence in general. I did not score the highest in any of the tests, but I scored the best combination; not too strong and stupid, not too smart and puny, just right. I also have good people skills and the gift of gab when it is needed. For this reason, the computer chose me instead of all the others. I was then given two years of intense training in armed and unarmed combat, outdoor survival, trap detection, and public speaking.
When I left the vault, the overseer gave me a blue jumpsuit made out of something called durafiber, a composite fabric with the strength of kevlar and the look of spandex. He said that the suit would protect me from cuts and other dangers. I made a mental note to get something to put over soon, as its bright blue color really did stand out. The supply officer gave me a water vest that could hold five quarts of water. He also gave me a handful of gold coins that could be used for trade with anyone that I might meet outside. They had an odd picture of a woman with a baby strapped to her back. The armament officer gave me the best weapons available in the vault, an old thirty-caliber hunting rifle with the words "Winchester mo. 94" engraved on it, a nine-millimeter Berretta pistol with an eighteen round magazine, and a machete with a razor-sharp edge. I was warned that the wasteland might pose many dangers and to conserve my ammunition. I was given a hundred rounds of ammo for the rifle and two hundred rounds for the pistol. I felt like one badass punk.