He Who Hunts Monsters
by Twentyfists
Chapter 1: Judgment Day
Author's Note: All weapons in this story are based off of weapons from one of the Fallout games, not just Fallout 3. This story is not set in the DC Wasteland, nor is it set in the Core Region. Finally, the Man in Black was created by my friend Run4urlife! You can find his work at the Fallout Fanon Wiki.
"He who hunts monsters should beware of becoming one himself…"
Fredrich Wilhelm Nietzche
Any passerby in that bleak corner of the American Wasteland, particularly one not accustomed to the peculiarities of the region, would have simply assumed that the distant lights and sounds were simply the signs of some unusually happy individuals in their revelry. Certainly, the hoots of pleasure, the laughter, the distant fire, and the heavy, acrid smoke that hung in the air indicated a certain festive atmosphere and a disdain for caution that would be associated with a celebration.
However, any seasoned inhabitant of that grim land would know far different, and would do well to avoid the area until its current occupiers were long gone. They knew far too well just what that particularly foul-scented smoke was created by, and they understood the cacophony of malicious joy for what it was. For this was no ordinary camp. No, it was the camp of a group of Swamp Foot tribe warriors. The vicious raider clan was known in the region for its destructive tendencies, predatory nature, unruly warriors, and cannibalistic practices. Every victim of the tribe that wasn't taken prisoner to work in their scavenging operations and plantations was slain, and their bodies were either eaten by the warriors or left to burn on their celebratory bonfires. They were the scourge of the region, the bogeymen of little children's nightmares, and the bane of the farmers who spent their time trying to eke out their pitiful existence in the wake of an ancient devastation. This group was no exception. Pumped full of adrenalin and hyped up on Psycho, they had thrown the slaves they were bringing back to their camp into a corner of their camp where they could watch them, then proceeded to celebrate and crash. When their slaves would cry for food, the warriors would beat them and laugh as the slaves cried out in pain.
Yet even these men had fears, no matter how well they tried to disguise them. One of their warriors, Skann, was telling of one such fear to a junior member of the small tribal raid group.
"They fought like demons, desperate to protect themselves against this relentless onslaught. They were numerous, and they were seasoned killers. Every man of them had killed men in both the heat of battle and in cold blood. Yet they did not even faze the Man in Black. His emotions were masked behind a deep, brooding hatred that overshadowed all other emotions. Yet this hatred was cold, contempt-filled, almost. With every shot, they grew more and more desperate, and more and more afraid. For every bullet they fired, every arrow they slung seemed to simply pass right through the Man in Black without harming him. And every shot they fired was returned in kind by the Man in Black with deadly efficiency, his pistols cracking as he created a field of death that none could escape from. The warriors recognized the futility of their endeavor far too late. As they turned to run, the Man in Black fired, cutting them down where they stood."
Lash, the junior warrior scoffed. "You're joking, right? You can't be serious, Skann. No one can do the things that this 'Man in Black' can do. There's no way that one man can overcome an entire raid party. It's simply not possible."
"Do not mock the Man in Black!" the grizzled warrior roared. "Speak his name with dread, or not at all! If you doubt or mock him, he'll come to you, as sure and black as death itself!"
Lash only laughed in response. He, for one, doubted that this 'Man in Black' even existed. But there was no reasoning with Skann. The old man was set in his ways, immovable as a rock, and as stubborn as one too. He stood up and moved to the edge of the camp, where Flesk, another older warrior, stood guard. Unlike Skann and most other members of the Swamp Foot tribe, Lance was very serious and restrained, which made him perfect as a scout and guard.
"What do you think, Flesk?" Lash asked. "This Man in Black—is he a real man, or just a tale to frighten otherwise strong warriors like Skann?"
"Could be," Flesk replied, taciturn as ever. He was on the job, and he refused to relax when on the job. "You never know. He could be a vigilante like Skann says, or he could be a grouchy farmer with a bad reputation."
"Oh come on," Lash laughed. He stared out in the night before continuing. "I doubt that there's any real 'vigilantes' anymore, and no farmer can stand up to a determined raid group. It's all hype. I doubt any man can do what this 'Man in Black' can do. What do you think, Flesk?"
Lash turned back to Flesk and, instead of the warrior's stoic grim visage, Lash simply saw a bloody, fleshy crater where the Swamp Foot scout's head used to be. In that instant, time slowed to a crawl for Lash as his ears registered the distant crack of a high-powered weapon. Behind him, he could sense the Swamp Foot tribals climbing to their feet in alarm, but they moved as though they were underwater. Before Lash had a chance to move or even think, he suddenly felt a hammer blow into his chest, as though a train had slammed straight through Lash's chest. A second one followed this blow almost immediately, and Lash fell into darkness.
From his perch a short distance away, Ira Tremain watched the youthful raider fall, a victim of Ira's sniper rifle. Ira's face registered nothing as he felt the rifle's kick in his arm or saw the figure drop, although he seemed to glance away slightly as he saw the effect that his shots had on the young man's countenance. He never could stomach those last looks that dying men gave.
Ira advanced forward, already loosening his sawed-off pump-action shotgun from its sling as he replaced the sniper rifle back to his perch. He needed to move quickly while the Swamp Foots were confused, or they would get the drop on him. Fortunately for Tremain, they didn't. They hadn't thought to have their weapons on hand, and so, when Ira emerged from the night into their camp, the stinging smoke from the corpse fire spiraling off of his tattered leather jacket, it seemed to them that their judgment day had finally arrived. In that instant, they knew how every victim of their predations had felt at the moment of their doom. Ira was a stoic angel of death, and the shotgun was his sword. He wasted no time, firing upon each of them without hesitation, only pausing to pump his shotgun and cycle the next round into the chamber. Within a few seconds, it was over. Five raiders lay dead, their corpses strewn about the campfire.
Ira advanced towards the cowering bodies of the slaves. They had been saved from his wrath, but they cowered in fear of what was to come. For them, it appeared as though they had been transferred from one hell to another, one at the hands of the Swamp Foot raiders, and the other under the thumb of this new and deadly stranger. When Ira drew his knife, it appeared for one ghastly second that Ira was simply going to cut their throats and be done with them. They were surprised, then, when Ira simply sawed through the simple rope bonds that held their arms and legs together and whispered with his hoarse voice in their ear, "You're free to go." As they showered praise and adulation upon him for this incredibly kind act, his only response was, "Please, find a better man to thank."
This statement puzzled the former slaves, but Ira refused to explain himself, instead deciding to stare into the flames of the bonfire. When it became apparent that their rescuer would not speak further, they began looting the bodies, stripping the Swamp Foot corpses of their armor and weapons. As the slaves prepared to scamper off into the night, they took one last look at their savior. He still sat, unmoving, staring into the flames lit by the Swamp Foot raiders at the beginning of the night. The slaves approached him then and left a small tribute, a helping of ammunition that the raiders had had on their bodies. Ira nodded slightly, but otherwise gave no indication that he had seen their contribution. The slaves left the ground puzzled at this odd behavior.
When Ira saw that the former slaves had left, he stood up then, gathered up the ammunition left behind for him, and began the tedious process of examining the bodies. It soon became apparent that these corpses did not bear the mark that he was looking for. Ira sighed heavily, and then began to leave the sight of the slaughter. As he did so, he wiped from his eye a single tear, a silent memento for the dead men that he left behind.