Waking up with a major headache, a metal plate in my head, and no idea of who I am, I wonder what fate will decide. With no memory of my past, I can only worry about the future. The one promise I can make is that I will find the man who put the bullet in my head.
A/N – Having written stories for Mass Effect (a few) and the Elder Scrolls (one so far), I am currently writing a story for Dragon Age, and the last game series I wanted to write a story for is Fallout. Having given it some thought, I figured the best one to write about would be regarding New Vegas, with all the factions and the length and breadth of the story I can adapt.
What can you expect with my story? I guess you'll just have to find out! I have a few plans, though nothing is concrete at the moment. My stories generally develop as I write them, adapting ideas as I go along, though I always know how I want to end the story. (Sometimes I'll write the start, the end, then fill in the gap. I can at least change the ending if I need to!)
Finally, there is a little bit of influence from the Bourne series, more the movies than the novels, so that might help explain the title. And the main character, when introduced next chapter, shares the same name as the central character of my story 'Land of My Fathers' and the Dragon Age story I'm also writing. His name is adapted from Bernard Cornwell's 'Saxon Stories' (and explains my username.)
I always start my stories with a very short prologue.
The sound of a gunshot echoes in my head. It feels like it goes on forever. Perhaps it lasts only a split second, and this will be my life for eternity. The sound of a gunshot. One would believe a gunshot would be followed by a bright light and then… whatever is meant follow it. Heaven, hell, purgatory, whatever you happen to believe. Or the unending darkness of death.
But there is no light. There is only the darkness. But I am thinking these words, so I must not be dead.
Or, at least, I am not dead yet. Perhaps this is the moment of death that is meant to last forever, where I will live all my past regrets over and again. I doubt I will be given any joy as I die. Not that life had much joy to begin with.
But the darkness does not last forever. Does it last a second, a minute or an hour? I'm not sure. I'm not counting. What's the point in counting when you're meant to be dead?
I open my eyes, and I find myself in a strange town. At the same time, it feels oddly familiar. The buildings. The people. The sounds. The smell. I look around as I walk the main road, reading signs though they don't appear legible. Whatever this town is, I'm not sure where I am. But there is an air of familiarity that I cannot shake. I take a seat on a bench and watch people pass by. Across the road is a man working at a bench, hammering away at metal, making something, though I'm not sure what. It seems peaceful enough. Not idyllic. Nothing about the world we inhabit now can be considered that. But there is peace.
Or, at least there was, until the bear-men came.
I hear the screams first, then the firing of guns. I look down to see a rifle across my lap. I look right to see an advancing column. I rise to my feet, aim and fire, slowly moving backwards, the column ever advancing. I walk backwards past the fallen. I hear the screams of men, women and children as they are rounded up or slaughtered. I feel nothing but fear. I am not scared to admit that. Whatever is invading, they do not appear to be human.
I go down. I must have been shot, though I feel no pain, looking down to see no blood, nor wounds. But I close my eyes, and wait for the darkness.
I open my eyes and find myself walking a deserted road. Above the sun is baking the earth, the road, myself. The heat is oppressive. I look around, but there is no shade. Nothing for miles. There is only me, the road, the sand. Barely a gust of wind. I carry on walking, my destination ahead, wherever it is. I have a rifle slung over my back, a pistol holstered at my side, a knife sheathed to the other. The world is a dangerous place. The open road even more so. I've already walked past those who had not taken precautions. But it is not just people who can be dangerous. The animals can be and generally are a whole lot worse. I'm on constant lookout, my eyes glancing left and right, constantly checking behind. It is exhausting. I grab my canteen, hoping the water will be cool. But it is warm and hardly refreshing, but it is liquid, and it will keep me alive.
I close my eyes as I walk along. It is a straight road. It's not like I'm going to bump into anything.
My eyes shoot open and I am met by a kaleidoscope of colours, noises and sounds that make no sense, surrounded by so many people, I'm not sure where they could have all possibly come from. I weave my way through the crowd, the drunks, the lovers, the fighters, the schemers. I recognise no-one and nothing, but again, there is a familiarity I recognise. But no-one recognises me. No-one tries to stop and talk to me. It's like I'm not even there.
I close my eyes, and there are no more dreams. Or nightmares. Or memories.
Instead, there is the sound of a gunshot. There is no bright light. There is only darkness.
And I feel like I am falling…
Falling…
Falling…
It feels like it goes on forever.
I eventually hit the bottom of wherever I am. It is softer than I imagine it could be. I feel a sense of relief. And the darkness goes on.
But I'm not dead yet.
