* To my followers: I am rewriting most (if not all) of Wasteland Perspectives. I plan to add content as well as revise previous entries. I apologize for the hiatus. Life got in the way of writing, but I've found my muse for Fallout once again. Thank you all for sticking with this story. I hope the edits and new chapters will be to your liking.

When I left the vault, I told myself that I had to do it. For necessity's sake; for survival. If I'd stayed it would have meant torture, maybe even death. I doubt dear old dad even considered such a fate for me. He probably thought the Overseer would simply question me, perhaps give me some ridiculous curfew or something as punishment for his departure. Lights out at seven pm; constant supervision until the Overseer felt I wasn't a "threat." None of this happened though. Instead, our ass of a leader lost his mind.

That crazed fanatic believed my father had fled to start a rebellion. Since nobody but myself remained, it was decided that I should be punished for dad's supposed crimes. Brilliant logic that. He also brutally murdered Jonas my father's lab assistant and close family friend. A man I admired; someone I looked up to. Without warning, sometimes, images of Jonas's broken body assault my vision. I can see him splayed about at odd angles on the floor, his right eyeball drooping out of its socket. His elegant mind splattered like paint about the walls. . . .

All the handy work of our security team. Vault residents sworn to uphold the law. Men and women reduced to savages simply because the puppet master pulling the strings began to condone violence. Apparently, thinking for yourself, and questioning the regime isn't anything our law enforcement felt the need to do. They, along with the Overseer, care only for submission.

In true depraved style, the Overseer even brutalized his own daughter, Amata. My best friend since childhood beaten for what? So he could learn of my whereabouts? To slap her around until she couldn't take anymore? To force her to concoct some lie about me? Not even our resident bully Butch DeLoria would've sunk so low. Really, bad Butch is a pussycat compared to the Overseer, and the Overseer is a lovable shmuck compared to half the people I've encountered since that night.

The Capital Wasteland is my home now. The heat, sun, and the stench of a radiated Virginia have become my new norm. It's a harsh place to eke out any kind of existence. It's like everyone wants a piece of you; nothing is for free. Food, water, supplies, information, and friendship come at a price. The mentality of the wastes is, "I'll scratch your back if (and only if) you'll scratch mine." I'm outside in no man's land with fuck all hope and even fewer caps.

Most days I wish I didn't have a pulse. There's no place for me anywhere. No safe-haven. The vault was insufferable and the wastes are unhospitable. The happy endings I once imagined as a girl have died. All turned to ash the moment civilization got nuked, long before I had ever dreamed them. In truth, I'm scared almost ninety-nine percent of the time. Scared of the uncertainties; scared of my own insignificance. I mean, I'm only one person dammit. A cog amongst other cogs. An orphan looking for her father. A newly minted child of the wastes, no, hero of the wastes.

Thanks to that damn disc jockey Three Dog, people are hailing me as some kind of savior. A do-gooder. A saint. I'm none of these things. I'm simply doing what I have to do. I'm attempting to make sense of the wastes as well as pops' disappearing act. Nothing else. All I care about is finding answers. What I don't need is anymore pressure, like Joe Blow settler viewing me as some sort of heroine.

Sure, dad might say I'm following my conscious. That I'm doing what I inherently feel is right in brutal situations (and believe me, I've faced some brutality out here). It's just. . . I don't believe in his words anymore. If anything, I think dad would be disappointed in me. I'm all jagged lines and unforgiving angles; I'm not the daughter he once knew. I'm no longer that soft rosebud he'd tend to. His little girl is more like a pebble in your shoe, constantly needling your skin as you try to walk past my presence. What I am is a careening force destined for oblivion: A lone wanderer. An imperfect child, not some agent of the"greater good."

I am nobody's martyr. I will not become anyone's goddamn deity made flesh either. I'm human; I'm fallible. But, mostly, I'm just a nineteen year old girl. Green. Scared. Looking for hope in a hopeless place. That's it. That's all I am. I'm a wide-eyed nosebleed clinging to the remainder of her sanity in an over sized Tunnel Snake jacket. My name is Gemma, and I've left the vault because I wanted to. I'm searching for my father because I need to. I live for myself. I survive for myself. I make my own path, follow the beat of my own drum because I am free to do so. I am no man's urban defender. I am just Gemma, and I walk alone.

* As a reminder, I am not the owner or creator of the Fallout 3 universe. I did not create the characters, story or lush landscape. Fallout 3 belongs to Bethesda Softworks. Furthermore, Fallout 3 was and is a sequel to Interplay's Fallout 1 and 2 games. Any references I might make to those games are property of Interplay.