Chapter I: Wasteland Messiah

a/n: This is the edited chapter one. The edited chapter 2 will be on its way shortly if I feel it needs it.

The gray sky hung ominously over the Capitol Wasteland like a ten million ton concrete slab, painted with splotches of red and yellow by the setting sun. The beauty would soon give way to the blackened hell of night, and all but the bravest scavengers were scurrying back toward their hidey holes. To be exposed at night would mean almost certain death if you were an average citizen.

The last remnants of a cigarette were smoked and flicked from the incredible heights of a sat-com array. The tar stained filter fell almost majestically in a way, a few stray sparks skittering away as it hit the rocky expanse 300 feet below.

Its previous owner, a tall, panther-like red-head of twenty, dangled his legs over the edge of the ancient structure and watched the sun dip back into its own hidey hole. He often imagined it set because it could bear looking at the war ravaged landscape no longer. He of course knew that was not the case, but the picture always came to his mind nonetheless.

The moon and stars took its place, giving the poor star a welcome reprieve. The man flipped a switch on his pip-boy and Galaxy news radio came on right at the end of "I Don't Want to Set the World on Fire." The DJ came in with a static-y howl.

"AHOOOOOOO! Hello there Capitol Wasteland! It is I, Three Dog, lord and master of allllll I survey! Project purity has recently stepped up its efforts and is now transporting water to every major settlement in the wastes. If y'all see the Lone Wanderer, be sure to give him a high five, and some ammo!"

The redhead flipped the switch back off in annoyance. "Ugh. I swear," He muttered, "that man is not going to stop until EVERYBODY in this hell hole WORSHIPS me."

He lie back in the satellite dish and grimaced. High above the wasteland, he couldn't help but contemplate his identity, and indeed, even his humanity. He had done and experienced much in the past year and a half. He had done things that no ten men could have done. And he simply couldn't understand how. How had he, a nerdy, lonely teenager from an underground vault, pampered and babied all his life up until recently, survived hundreds of confrontations with everything from battle hardened raiders to twelve foot tall monster-lizards to giant deformed mutants the size of skyscrapers? Granted, had he run into a Deathclaw his first day out of the vault he would have been nothing more than a red stain on the ground. Yet here he was less than two years later, able to laugh in the face of certain death and then shoot it in the face.

Though Dylan had never been a practicing Christian (after all, who in the hell could be in this kind of world?) he had always believed in God. He had been brought up a Christian, and in his opinion, Jesus was the only true God. It unsettled him to see so many people worshipping him so obsessively. He knew in his heart that the people would never turn to God, but he certainly didn't want to encourage people to worship him in His place

I wonder if I slipped and fell off this fuckin tower right now if they'd finally realize I'm just another person he thought irritably. The attention had been flattering at first, and the titles, small. Little things such as Sentinel, Defender, and Protector. Before long, they were calling him the Vault Legend, Hero of the Wastes, and Wasteland savior. He was honored of course, but he was beginning to become uncomfortable when people started kneeling and kissing the ground where he had walked moments before. Admiration, he loved, but worship…that was a different story. The dam broke when they began calling him The Last, Best Hope for Humanity. People simply couldn't get enough of him.

He had met a man who had traveled all the way from Rivet City to Megaton to see him because he believed he could cure his four year addiction to Ultrajet. Sure enough, all it took was for him to take the tablets of fixer that Dylan had given him whenever he felt the itch, and he was cured in a week. Of course, the man had been too naïve to realize that it had been the detox chem that had helped him, not Dylan himself.

The day they began calling him the Wasteland Messiah however, was a completely different story.

On October 18th, 2278, exactly one year and one day after Dylan had left vault 101, he entered the chamber of Project Purity and received what he was sure was a death sentence in order to purge the reactor. Astonishingly, he survived the dose of nine hundred, and ninety two rads. For two weeks, he lie in the citadel's infirmary, fighting for his life, and every day, he was expected lose that fight. Elder Lyons informed him that had he received just a few more rads, he could have died at the scene. For weeks afterward, he battled sickness, throwing up blood and sometimes even passing out from pain and exhaustion. He didn't tell anybody. He didn't want the people who counted on him to worry.

After the battle at Adams Air Force Base, the sickness had grown worse. He grew pale, and lost twenty pounds, in two weeks, turning his body into barely a shadow of the lean, athletic figure it had been. When he stumbled back into the citadel, he was diagnosed with terminal stomach, head, and neck cancer from acute radiation poisoning. He had fought the harsh desert heat and braved battles with the fiercest of demons, and as he was dying, he laughed bitterly at the irony. There he was, the wasteland 'messiah,' being killed by dividing cells.

He found out later that they had already started to arrange a funeral with full brotherhood knight honors. They had all doubted he would live. Somehow, the cynical young man managed to cheat death for the 3,421st time. (At least, that was his count)

Somehow, after three and a half months of intensive treatment, not a single cancer cell remained in his body. It truly had been a miracle, and he did not doubt that it was somehow related to the change in his DNA that had occurred shortly after entering the wasteland, courtesy of Moira Brown. He gave all the credit to God, and the incredible brotherhood doctors who had treated him.

However, after surviving such a fatal amount of radiation, and a bout with stage 4 cancer to boot, there were very few people who thought of him as anything less than God come to earth again. He knew better. God didn't carry an AK-47. He did. He was a very skilled mercenary, and nothing more.

His musing was interrupted rather suddenly by the sounds of gunshots and a woman screaming in fear. He shot bolt upright, his repeater in his vicegrip. He leaned over the edge of the satellite and stared through the inky black night. He saw her blow two men off their feet with well-placed headshots, but this was quickly followed by another panicked scream when she realized that she was completely out of ammo. Another man, presumably a comrade of the other two, advanced slowly on her.

"Not so tough now, are ya lil girl?" he asked with shit-eating grin. She backed away. "Take it all off now and I might let ya live," he yelled. Dylan looked down the sights of Abraham Lincoln's legendary repeater, aimed, and pulled the trigger. A loud, explosive bang ripped apart the calm of the night sky, the muzzle flash briefly illuminating his face as the young girl and the raider looked upward and spotted him, fear in the raider's eyes, admiration and relief in the girl's. In that one hundredth of a second, a thousand emotions played out in the minds of the three people on scene. A thousand memories, expectations, hopes, and dreams rang in their ears like a holotape over a vault P.A. system. Then the man's head exploded into a misty rain of blood and brain matter, and his body dropped like a lead balloon gracelessly to the dirt.

The two actors in this particular drama exchanged glances ever so briefly, both smiling at their rescuer/rescuee before Dylan turned back around, duster blowing gently in the breeze, lit another cigarette, and descended back into the tiny room he called home.

Back inside the satellite, Dylan lie back on the cot and put his feet up. It had been a very long day of scavving and selling to various vendors, and he was exhausted. He pulled the lock tight on the door and the roof hatch, turned on his radio to Agatha's station, and let the sweet melodies lead him by the hand into blissful unawareness.

Click click. Scritch Scratch. The sound awoke Dylan from a sound sleep, his battle instincts kicked in, and he quickly grabbed his repeater. Finally, he heard a soft voice, muffled by the thick metal door between them.

"I just wanted to thank you. For saving me earlier."

He frowned ever so slightly. "Don't mention it kid". He sat up against the wall, and pulled his pack of Big Boss out of his pants pocket, struck a match, and ignited the cigarette in between his lips.

A short, yet profound quiet ensued for a moment before she broke the silence.

"You're…him. Aren't you? The messiah," she asked.

"...No. I'm not. Just a man like anybody else"

Though he couldn't see it, she smiled. "You may not be a messiah…but you are a savior" she whispered "you are too kind, too modest, Lone Wanderer".

He scowled. "Please don't call me that. My name is Rose. Dylan Rose. People call me Messiah, or Lone Wanderer and it drives me insane".

"…May I ask why?"

Dylan sighed and took another long drag on his cigarette. "I am just a man. A very lucky, and yes, skilled man, but a man nonetheless. Don't get me wrong, it's nice to be respected, but when it gets to the point where it becomes worship, it's just too much for me to handle".

"…so…you don't believe you are the second coming?" she asked.

Dylan groaned. "Absolutely not."

She laughed lightly. "You'd be the only one".

"Tell me about it" he spat. "It almost tempts me sometimes to just end it to prove once and for all that I'm just a human being. To them, and to myself".

He could almost feel her frown. "Don't do that. Don't even think like that. The wasteland needs you. Everyone from Point Lookout to the Pitt loves you!" she practically shouted.

The young man snorted. "Not everyone".

"Everyone that matters though," she said softly, her words slightly muffled through the door.

He sat on the bed silently, not really sure what to say. He took a drag on his cigarette and held it in his lungs for a moment before exhaling softly.

The silence lasted for almost two full minutes, and Dylan almost thought she had left when she spoke again. "I need some ammo. Can you possibly give me a couple clips for a 10mm pistol?"

He got up and stubbed out his cigarette in one of the many ashtrays lying around. He opened the door and threw three clips out into the hallway before quickly shutting and latching it.

"Oh come on Dylan! Don't be so anti-social, I want to see you! Don't I at least get to take a look at my rescuer?"

Dylan contemplated it for a moment. He then quickly reopened the door. "Holster your weapon," he said. She did so quickly. He stepped back, letting her enter the small chamber.

He finally got to have a good look at her. She wasn't much younger than he, maybe seventeen or eighteen. She had medium length light blond hair tied back in a ponytail, and wore a plain wanderer outfit consisting of sandals, white jeans, and a faded brown hooded jacket over a red t-shirt. She had a knapsack over her shoulder, and her only weapons were her 10mm pistol, and a pair of spiked knuckles on her hands. Her eyes were a soothing dark blue, and her face reminded him of a cherub.

"You got a name stranger?" he asked.

She smiled. "Renee. I came here from Point Lookout".

"You came all the way from there with that equipment?" he asked, "now I'm impressed"

"More or less, yeah. I'm looking for work. Tried the Brotherhood, and the Outcasts, neither seem to want new recruits. I've just been wandering for a while now".

Dylan thought for a moment. "Do you actually know how to use that pistol?"

Renee laughed. "I can handle myself alright, when I don't run out of ammo in the middle of a fight. There were five other raiders with him though, for the record before things got ugly."

He went into his trunk and pulled out a spare regulator duster. "Ever heard of the Regulators?"

She shook her head. "I've only been in the capitol for about two weeks. Most of the groups around here are all new to me."

"Their headquarters is in a farmhouse west of Canterbury Commons. Wear this duster and tell them I sent you and that you want to join. And take that raider's right index finger with you. It'll net you ten caps, and should impress them somewhat".

She smiled and grabbed the duster, taking off her coat and slipping it on. "How do I look?" she asked.

Dylan's face was blank. "Like a vagrant. Same as before".

Her smile faded. "Do you think I'm pretty?" she asked, stepping a bit closer.

Dylan stepped back. "I have a woman. She's behind a thirteen ton door and I'll never see her again. I'm not exactly looking for a lover at the moment".

She sighed. "Oh. Alright then…I guess. I guess I just thought…I don't know what I thought. Nevermind. I guess I'm just tired of being alone…my family is all dead. I've been alone for so long now I don't even remember what it's like to have one. "

Dylan's gaze softened. "You'll have a family when you get to Regulator HQ. They take care of their own. You'll never be alone again. I know…how it feels to lose everything".

She stepped forward and kissed him on the cheek. "Thank you Dylan. I'm glad I got to finally meet my hero…my boyfriend wanted to be just like you. He was going to join the brotherhood".

He allowed himself to let his guard down for just a moment and hug her. Nonviolent human contact felt so good. He had to resist the urge to cry. He held her for a moment.

Then she turned to leave.

"You know Renee…you can stay the night if you want. I mean…there's only one bed, but I'll sleep on the floor. It's one in the morning. It might be better for you to travel by day".

She turned back around and Dylan could practically see the gears turning in his head. "Ok. But only if we share the bed. I don't want you sleeping on the floor".

He smiled. This girl wanted him badly. It was plain as the nose on her face. He slipped his duster, shirt, and boots off leaving him clad in only a pair of dusty brown cargo pants.

She pretended not to look, but he caught her staring at his chest out of the corner of her eye.

"I'm guessing you like what you see" he said with a smirk.

She smirked. "You're very…toned. You're not a hand to hand fighter too, are you?"

"I'm a Jack of all trades" he said. "What can I say? I didn't just wander the wastes like everyone seems to think, killing raiders and muties. I had a purpose. I trained every time I was somewhere safe, learned everything, lockpicking, hacking, hand to hand, maintenance, even cooking. I wanted to find my father. Once he died, I wanted to take down the enclave. Then, I focused on destroying the talon company, and wiped out the slavers in the Pitt. Up until recently, I've never left Megaton without purpose".

He lie down on the bed and pulled the blankets back, allowing her to get under them with him. She slid her duster off and stripped down to her pants and a thin cotton undershirt. She tried to cuddle with him, but he slid away slightly and she stopped.

"I said you could sleep with me, I didn't say you could sleep with me" Dylan scolded, "I already told you, I'm not in the position for a relationship".

She laughed and pulled the ponytail out of her hair, letting it fall across her shoulder. "Who said anything about a relationship?"

He smirked despite himself. "I did. Don't get me wrong, I have no qualms with sex. But I don't want to have sex with a girl that I'll never see again after tonight, especially someone as sweet as you seem to be".

"Who says we'll never see each other again?" Renee asked, "You're a regulator, I'm soon to be a regulator. I'll see you around HQ won't I?"

Dylan shook his head. "You might see me once a month tops. I keep the fingers on ice and deliver them all at once. Otherwise the profit isn't even worth the trek from Megaton. Ten caps is barely enough to buy a meal, and a shitty one at that. 1000 caps on the other hand is an entirely different story".

She looked at him with curiosity. "Dylan, how many people have you killed?"

"Let me check. My pipboy keeps track of things like that. This thing seems to have a life of its own sometimes".

He pulled up the page with his records.

"2496 as of tonight" he said casually.

"You act as if there's nothing wrong with that"

"All but one of those was someone who was a threat, either to myself, someone who was innocent, or the wasteland itself. The other was my former vault's overseer's father. After I saved his vault not once, but twice, not to mention protecting his daughter my whole life, he told me I deserved to wander the wastes alone forever. I gave him a chance. Told him to draw his weapon and shoot me. We had a duel. I was faster, and I blew his brains out before his gun was even completely out of his holster. I killed him because he was a dick. Plain and simple. I know that Amata hates me for it, and I certainly regret it, but you can't change the past, so I don't try. I try to change the future".

He reached down from the cot and unlatched his trunk. From it he pulled two bottles of wine.

"Would you like a drink?" he asked.

Renee contemplated it for a second. It had been a long day. She normally tried to stay away from all addictive substances, lest she fall victim to their power and spend what little caps she had on them, but she was worn too thin. She grabbed the bottle, popped the top, and took a sip. It was a delicious white wine. It was a light, bubbly drink and the flavor was exquisite, reminding her of fizzy soda and something more delicious than the freshest fruit she had ever eaten. Though warm, it tasted perfect.

"This is amazing! I've never had wine this good" she said, licking her lips.

Dylan nodded. "Straight from Tenpenny Tower. If the bar weren't so good there, I might have killed those bigot bastards a long time ago. But it's hard to get a good drink in the wasteland. I figure if they know how to make wine this perfect, it means they're at least good for something".

They each took another drink. Dylan grabbed a syringe out of his trunk. "Med X?" he asked.

"I don't do chems," Renee replied, "They cloud the mind and take your focus off of survival".

He chuckled. "Honey, you're with one of the best mercenaries in the wasteland, in a locked satellite over 100 feet above anything or anyone who could hurt you. Just relax, and we can float away together and forget all of our fucking misery".

She chewed at her bottom lip thoughtfully. "I don't want to become an addict".

He nodded. "I understand. But I read this recipe for a new chem a while back. As far as I know, I'm the only person in the capital wasteland who knows how to make it. It's called Fixer. It pretty much removes any trace of addiction from a person's body. I keep it around in case I run outta caps, so if you start craving, let me know and I'll give you a couple tablets".

She weighed the options. She had taken Med X before for pain from a bullet wound to her shoulder. Not only had the pain disappeared, but the high was something from a dream. So if she was sure that she couldn't get addicted, why on earth would she not?

"Alright then. I could stand to get high after all the shit that's happened these past few weeks".

She took the syringe and injected it into a vein in her wrist. He took another syringe and did the same. Moments later, every muscle in their bodies relaxed. Renee's eyes fluttered open and shut as she rode the med x train.

After about twenty minutes of utter bliss, the girl fell asleep, snuggled into Dylan's chest. Dylan reached for his cigarette pack and swore when he realized it was empty. Between his two pack a day habit, his med X addiction, and his growing Jet problem, he wondered if it was time to take some fixer himself.

"…Nah. Fuck it. At the rate I'm going, I'll die from stress far before chems".

That was his last thought before he drifted off into a quiet slumber, curled up against a woman he barely knew.