"Well, we're here," Christine Kendall said, a hand raised against the sun to shield her eyes against the evening glare. "Megaton."
The Overseer of Vault 101 made no reply, but waved the brahmin caravan onwards. The butterflies in her stomach churned restlessly, though she let none of her anticipation show. It was a small caravan, with only two brahmin and half a dozen members. Vault 101 had little to offer for trade, having been largely self-reliant for two centuries. The two Brahmin were carrying surplus Pip-Boys and ancient pre-war rations. Overseer Amata hoped they would find a market for these items at least. A lack of interest at this stage would render the drive to establish economic ties with the rest of the Wasteland stillborn.
As the caravan passed under the watchful eye of a sentry on the gate and a Protectron deputy, Amata detached herself from the group. "You go ahead with the rest, Kris. I, uh-"
"Sure, Amata," Christine nodded with understanding. "I'll take it from here. You go."
As Amata looked around, she suddenly realised that she had no idea where he lived. Megaton wasn't particularly big, but the sun was setting, and already she could feel the beginnings of a biting cold descending upon the land. Not for the first time today Amata thanked her stars that she had had the fortune of being born in a Vault.
A black boy with a sheriff's duster a few sizes too large was sitting on a section of rusted pipe protruding out of the ground. He looked only about ten or eleven. Was he the sheriff? She approached the boy tentatively. "Excuse me, do you know where Silas- um, the Lone Wanderer's house is?"
The boy gave her an odd look. "It's right over there, first house on the left. M'am."
Silas's house looked just like any other ramshackle hut in the town, but the interior was another story. Silas had clearly taken great care to decorate his house to look like his old Vault dorm. Other than the corrugated aluminium walls the resemblance was uncanny, down to the clutter. Though here, the clutter seemed to be trophies. On one shelf power helmets of different makes were arranged in a row, while a veritable arsenal of firearms took up much of one wall. There were, here and there, miscellaneous trinkets – a teddy bear and what appeared to be a mask of dry mottled flesh. It represented, Amata realised, a dizzying array of experiences and adventures for such a short period of time.
The Silas she knew in Vault 101 had been a bookish, painfully shy introvert who shrank away from conflict whenever he could. Sometime in the two years since he left the Vault, the Wasteland had turned him into a gun nut. As she ran her fingers lightly over the memorabilia, Amata wondered how much she really knew this Silas, Silas the Lone Wanderer. Silas the Action Boy. Silas, Hero of the Wastes.
Their last reunion had been barely half a year ago, true, but it had been driven by crisis, and the speed at which events unfolded afforded them no time to reminisce. And the way they had left things, the way she had left things-
"Gob says we're going to turn this place into a museum," someone said from behind, startling her. "Sorry," the man said, "I didn't mean to give you a fright." He had an eyepatch over his right eye, which made him look slightly intimidating in the dim light, but he sounded friendly enough.
"Hi, I'm Amata. Silas's friend."
"From the Vault? Yeah, Silas's told me about you. Wouldn't shut up about you, actually." He extended a hand. "Billy Creel. I'm housesitting all this stuff till Gob gets off his butt and does this."
Amata took his gloved hand and shook it. "A museum? I guess Silas's kind of a big deal out here, huh?"
"As it should be, Amata. After all we do owe our clean water to his brave sacrifice. Among other things."
"Sacrifice?"
"Yeah." Billy's face fell. "Oh. I-I'm sorry. I thought you knew."
"I-" Amata found her words catching in her throat. It all made sense now. Amata could not believe she had missed all the signs. The man on the radio dedicating the song to the Lone Wanderer, the half-completed statue they passed in New Springvale on the way from 101. The look the boy sheriff gave her when she asked about Silas's house. Or perhaps she just had not wanted to see.
Billy stood around awkwardly for a moment, unsure of how to respond, before muttering some excuse about receiving the caravan and slinking away. Amata barely heard the door closing behind him. She was thinking about that day, the day her father stepped down and she became overseer. Oh, god. What had been her last words to him?
I'm sorry, but you have to leave. Goodbye.
Amata braced herself on a nearby countertop. It was only after she wiped her eyes on the blue sleeve of her vault suit that she saw what the countertop held – rows of rare Vault-Tec bobbleheads. She sucked in a breath when she noticed the bobblehead that looked like a doctor. She picked it up from its slot, turning it over and rubbing her thumb absently over the expected ink smudge at the base. Seeing it made her smile a little. The limited-edition bobblehead had been one of Dr. Chang's prized possessions. When Silas and Amata were six he took it from his father's desk and gave it to her, scrawling her name on the base in blue ink. When her father had found out though, he had made Amata give it back. A shivery laugh escaped her lips. I'd forgotten all about that.
Her reverie was interrupted again by the sound of whirring servos and propulsion flame from upstairs. Sure enough, presently a Mr. Handy drifted down the stairs. The sound of Billy leaving must have activated it from hibernation.
"You are not authorised to be in this home. Unlawful trespassing will be- oh. Madam. My apologies."
"Wait, how do you know me?"
For a moment the only sound the Mr. Handy emitted was the whirring of its servos. Being familiar with Mr. Handy robots and their fussy personality module, Amata could have sworn that it was doing the robot equivalent of rolling its eyes. In lieu of a reply a familiar message filled the silent house.
"THIS IS AN AUTOMATED MESSAGE FROM VAULT-TEC: VAULT 101. MESSAGE BEGINS: -it feels like you left home a long time ago, but I know you're still out there. I just hope you're still alive to hear this. Things got worse after you left. My father's gone mad with power. I changed the door password to my name. If you're hearing this, and if you still care enough to help me, you should remember it. MESSAGE REPEATS: THIS IS AN AUTOMATED-"
The robot stopped the audio loop there. "Played it incessantly, he did. It was enough to drive this poor butler quite mad."
Amata felt another stab of guilt, and, for the umpteenth time, wondered if she had done the right thing in expelling Silas from the Vault a second time. "It was necessary," she said aloud. Didn't being an Overseer mean making tough decisions for the good of the Vault? Whatever his faults, her father had taught her that. Hannon, Taylor and the rest of Vault security, not to mention many of the older residents resented Silas and blamed him for the Vault's troubles. Allowing him to stay would have been an insult too many. Amata buried her face in her hands. "You have to believe me, Andy, I had no choice."
"My name is Wadsworth, madam," the robot said, somewhat sniffily.
"Did he hate me?" Amata asked quietly. "After?"
Wadsworth began to assure her profusely that that wasn't the case. Amata could tell that the grief comforting subroutine had kicked in. She had heard it too many times, in the aftermath of the Vault crisis. Somehow, knowing that he had been programmed to say these things made his words hollow.
The ramshackle door creaked again, and Christine's head popped in.
"Hey, 'mata," Christine said, her voice low with sympathy. "I heard."
"The leading merchants of this town, they want to see you." Christine hesitated. "Should I tell them to wait?"
Amata sighed. "No. I'm coming." At the door, she turned to give the house a final glance.
"I had no choice," she whispered again, to no one in particular.
Christine gave her hand a supportive squeeze. "I know. We know."
Please believe me, Silas. I had no choice.
Maybe someday, she might even believe it herself.
A/N: The end of the 'Trouble on the Homefront' quest was probably the biggest emotional sucker punch in Fallout 3 for me. Wrote this right after I finished my last playthrough last year.