Disclaimer: Well, I do own a copy of Fallout 3.
Warnings: Keep in mind that this is a fanfic of an M-rated game. So, swearing, violence, drug use and sexual themes are possible. Most of them are probable, too.
Summary: He likes to think he's enlightened, but he's still afraid of the monsters in the dark. This takes place sometime before the events of Humanity, and before (obviously) Epilogue. Just in case someone cares that much about timelines.
Death Warmed Over
I'll be honest, when I first walked into Moriarty's saloon, the sight of Gob nearly had me walking right back out the door again. Physically, he was a pretty repellent creature, and the way he stood, hunched over and waiting for a blow, made him seem all the more repulsive. I wanted to recoil in disgust. But strangely, the politeness driven into me from years and years of life in that godforsaken Vault stuck with me very firmly.
It served me well then, gaining me the friendship of a good, kind and honest man. It makes me wonder how many other people I might have misjudged because of initial feelings of dislike or disgust. Gob is an honest, trusting and loyal soul, the sort of person, honestly, that I could fall in love with. But when it matters, I am apparently shallow, and I recognize that in myself. This reality, like so many others I encounter out here, makes me desperately unhappy; that he should be deprived of the sort of happiness that most of us can find in other people, in each other, because of the terrible things that radiation has done to his body. Has he, have all ghouls, not suffered enough already?
Apparently not.
I try to think of myself as enlightened towards ghouls. Compared to most Wastelanders, I am. But I still hold myself slightly away from them, physically, because of what they are.
They are a reminder to any whole person, any smoothskin, of the terrible, lurking danger of the Wastes, waiting for any traveller fool enough to run out of medication and clean food and water. Their appearance is disgusting and repulsive to us because in them we see ourselves, dead. They are dead men and women – their skin rotting away, hair and teeth falling from their heads, flesh rotting and decaying – but still they walk among us, a cruel reminder that death is constantly waiting. It waits for us, hoping to catch us unawares – around the corner, across the way, in the hands of our fellow humans, at the claws of a wild beast, even within the very food we eat. They terrify us, not only because of their potential to become feral, but also because they taunt us with the death that we can never escape.
Because of this, and so many other little things, I have to steel myself before entering the Museum of History. More specifically, Underworld. It is a visit long overdue – I have been just about everywhere else that people have settled down in the Wastes, except here. This place, I'm afraid I'll have trouble with.
Thistle pushes me towards the door impatiently; my healthy, non-ghoul flesh is attracting the Super Mutants, and that is the last thing she needs right now. I try not to imagine the rotting flesh of her hand; try not to wonder if she's lost any skin, or if it is clinging to the back of my leather armour. I try not to shudder, too, but I think I fail. She draws away from me, seems disappointed that even the shining hero from the Vaults is frightened by the monsters.
The zombies.
Inside, Underworld has a strange, musty odour. There is the standard aroma of decay, and a whole lot of unwashed people and waste. But here, there is also the faint, pungent scent of rotting meat drifting as an accompaniment to the olfactory barrage. It makes me feel sick.
I stride forth confidently, despite my misgivings, and I treat any ghoul in my way like the human beings they are. I trade my scrap to Murphy for desperately needed stimpacks, and he gives me a RadAway for half-rate (because it's not like ghouls need them). I talk to Gob's 'mother' Carol, and she seems like a wonderful, sweet old woman.
And Crowley, well, Crowley isn't a crazy murderer because he's a ghoul, he's a crazy murderer because he's batshit crazy, and greedy. And frankly, I've met smoothskins who were worse; Mr. Burke comes to mind.
A friendly, lonely ghoul girl behind a shop counter smiles sadly at me, and gives me a book. Her smile and her eyes just about break my heart, and I've seen them before. On Gob's face.
All of this just goes to reinforce my conviction that they deserve to be treated the same as us, because they mostly are the same as us. But still, it's so hard not to recoil when faced with the prospect of touching what amounts to a decaying body, albeit one that is still moving around.
I try to get over it, by putting myself in contact with them more and more, forcing myself not to shy away too obviously from physical contact and even initiating it myself from time to time. I let the crazy druggie barber cut my hair, for fuck's sake.
It sort of works, but only in that it numbs me to my disgust. I can never quite manage to eliminate the initial, visceral reaction, but I suppress it very well, for the most part.
I am extremely happy to see Riley, broken and battered though she is, because she is what they are not – human. That sounds cruel – it probably is cruel – but I can't help myself.
And then I meet Charon.
Well, meet is a generous word. More accurately, I run into the stone wall that is Charon. I run into him only in the conversational sense, of course, because even I'm not stupid enough to touch someone as bristly and defensive as Charon; not with a ten foot pole. All I can get from him is 'Talk to Azrukhal,' plus some eventual undertones of irritation.
I used to pride myself on being able to irritate even the most stoic of the Vaulties. I have since learned that this is not a survival skill worth hanging on to.
So, reluctantly (I have some distrust issues with bar owners), I do just that. He leers at me and I sneer, asking shortly about the big, close-lipped ghoul in the corner. He smirks at me and explains the contract. I feel a sudden rush of pity and sympathy for the ghoul and ask, impulsively, what it would take for him to part with the contract. He names a price while I am still surprised at myself. His price makes me a lot more surprised. I splutter – I haven't been out here long, but it has been long enough to know that 2000 is a lot of money.
And yet, still, there is a part of me, the one that my father must have devoted his whole life to, that kicks and screams and says it doesn't matter how much it is, it's still worth less than Charon's freedom. It isn't all of me, anymore, though – I've grown a harder, callous shell to my thinking, and that part of me tells me that it may be worth less than his freedom, but it may be worth more than my life.
I can't afford it.
And from the look in Azrukhal's eye, I don't want to know about his 'alternative payment' bullshit, either. So I walk away, trying not to look Charon in the eye (I'm afraid I'll see anger, an accusation, or worse, nothing).
Then I actually talk to Riley, who has finally woken up, and I'm plunged into yet another 'frantic fight for your life' mess. But Charon's strange, dull eyes will haunt me for long nights, weeks afterwards.
So, like the summary says, this will be a series of oneshots, featuring Humanity's Lone Wanderer, because I've been ordered to write more (which is really, really, really flattering, by the way). They will probably jump all over the place, so no cohesive story, or particular order of events. I'll just write them and post them as they come to me. I'll see you when the next inspiration hits me!
Colvine
