Hey, I'm back. I am going to take some liberties with this story, weapons, names, and people. Hope yall like it.

My name is Marc, Marc Brown. I live in the Capital Wasteland, in the city of Megaton. I don't know why I'm writing this; guess someone needs to know my story, how my world was turned upside down by naïve, innocent, vault girl; where to begin…

The Wasteland held many dangers, raiders, slavers, and deathclaws; yet what seemed to be more dangerous than anything was destiny. A new wind is blowing and it is blowing towards a certain boy living in the rusted metal hulk of Megaton City.

June 27, 2294 Megaton 9:00 AM

The old Vault-Tec issue mattress creaked and groaned loudly as the body of seventeen Marc Brown shifted in his sleep. He had been hunting with his neighbor Billy Creel and his daughter Maggie till late last night and had just gotten to sleep, his eyes shifting back and forth as he dreamed.

Suddenly he shot up from his bed, his shirt plastered to his chest. He had dreamed of dark men in armor, helms glowing with fire. They had come to Megaton and broken through the gates, the bodies of Billy, Maggie, Simms, and Harden lying dead; but what scared him the most was the body of his mother. He wandered across to the atom bomb and there, nailed upon it, was his mother…Moira Brown.

Her dark hair, usually tied back in a bun, now hung in her face. She was beaten to death, wrists tied to the bombs frame with barbed wire. Marc stumbled forward, tears streaming down his face, falling down into the muddy, irradiated water. Marc could feel the radiation seep into his skin, causing him to become more nauseous than before; doubling over, he retches his stomach contents into the water.

Wiping his mouth, he looks into his mother's eyes; now white and vacant. Crawling forward and reaching out, he touches her leg; mutilated and bloody.

"Ma…Mom?" Marc asked, tears flowing down his grime-covered cheeks, "what happened?"

'BANG' BANG' came a loud knocking on Marc's door, startling him and making him fall out of his bed. As he tried to untangle himself from his bed, he heard his mother's voice calling to him.

"Marc…MARC!" shouted Moira from outside his door, "It's time to get up!" she finished as she walked downstairs to the shop. Finally extricating himself from his sheets, Marc stood and walked to his bathroom sink. Turning the rusted handles, cold, mildly radiated water came rushing out; splashing water on his face and chest.

Grumbling to himself, he walked to his drawers, drying his face with a clean towel. Pulling it open he selected a plain white T-shirt, only slightly blood speckled from a previous costumer at the Craterside Supply.

Smirking as he remembered the man, drunk as much as Hell was hot, the man had tried to hold up the store. The drunk had pulled a measly Chinese pistol on his mother; the magazine wasn't even fully in when the man pulled the trigger. The result was explosive to say the least, the top of his cranium was gone, splattered along the wall and Marc's shirt; thankfully on a little bit stained it, Marc liked this shirt.

Pulling it over his head as he opened his door, he walked quickly downstairs. His mom was adding a few adjustments to Marc's Glock .40, a hair trigger and an extended magazine; for a rainy day.

Walking into the main shop area, he sat on a barstool bolted down in front of his mother's workstation. Looking up from her work, Moira greeted her son with her normally crazy smile and grease stains on her cheeks.

"How did you sleep Marc?" she said smiling as she slid the trigger into place, her tongue slightly out.

Shrugging his shoulders he replied, "Eh, could have been better; stayed out to long with Maggie and Mr. Creel last night." Picking at a scrap on rust on the tabletop, he glanced up. "So…you think I could go to Springville today?"

Moira looked up from her son's pistol, the same one left by his father thirteen years prior. He had his eyes, a deep blue, and the kind that you only saw in old Pre-War magazines of oceans. Sighing to herself, she expertly pieced the Glock together, ejecting the magazine after remembering Marc's blunder the first time he held it a month ago.

She looked at Marc, "You…are so much like your father; could never get tied down in one place." Laughing as he shrugged his shoulders, "Yup, you have his mannerisms as well."

Smiling as she flipped the pistol grip forward, offering it toward the teenager; his hand reached forward quickly.

Snatching it back, she laughed loudly; echoing through the shop. "Now remember, safety on at all times when you are in the city walls." Placing it in Marc's hand, she reaches under the counter, pulling the gun safe key from its hiding place.

Pointing to her room, saying "Go pick a rifle, you always want to make sure you have one out in the Wastes." Groaning as he went into the adjoining room.

"I know mom…I'm not a kid anymore." Marc said opening the safe, an old weathered box with scorch marks from his mother's experiments.

Swinging the door open, he let out a low whistle. After years of seeing these weapons, he was still at awe in the sheer amount of firepower. There were rifles and pistols galore, enough to arm the residents of Megaton and then some. He scanned the rifles, going through what his mother had taught him.

"Alrighty, R91 assault rifle, .32 hunting rifle…no too weak, not enough penetration; ah-ha!"

A huge grin spreading across his face, Marc pulled out his choice weapon. The 5.56 custom-made Infiltrator as he liked to call it; silencer with a scope mounted on top of the receiver; what made it special was that it was his father's before him. The rifle had a matte-black finish, expertly painted to blend in with the shadows.

Reaching into the shelves above the rifles, Marc pulled free another heirloom from his father. A brown duster, scuffed and patched together bullet-holes adorned the exterior, but on the interior, there were holsters for three medium sized revolvers or automatics.

Standing at 5'11 and weighing about 160 lbs. Marc was a force to be reckoned with...well that's what Uncle Gob said all the time. Slipping the weathered duster on, tying the straps down and slipping a serrated combat knife into his boot and a slightly smaller version into the sleeve of his left arm; he stood back to examine himself.

"Wow, Nova is right." He said thinking back to a conversation with Gob's wife, "I do look like Dad.

Standing tall, twisting and pulling at the jacket; testing his flexibility and movement, his sandy brown hair; normally cut short slipped into his eyes. Brushing it out, he tied a red bandanna around his forehead, effectively holding his rowdy hair in place.

Nodding in approval, he snatched up his rifle, slinging it across his back. He then bent over; sliding his father's Glock in a rapid release thigh holster…on safety of course. Standing up he walked back into the shop and stood before his mother.

"Well, I'm heading out. I'll try to head back around nightfall or I might stay at Silver's old place" explained Marc, shifting from foot to foot. He was nervous, it was only the second time he had been allowed to go by himself outside of the walls of Megaton.

Walking from behind the counter, Moira placed her hands on either side of Marc's shoulders. Looking in his eyes she simply said "Be safe…ok?"

Nodding his head, Marc turned and walked out the door; the last thing Moira saw was his duster billowing out in the morning wind and as the door closed she imagined Marc squaring his shoulders; ready for his first adventure.

"Hmm, he is just like his father" thought Moira as she picked up an old lantern and cracked open its casing. "Let's hope he won't be as lonely."

Well, that's my new story. The Wasteland: New Hope; I hope yall like it. Reviews are like presents, I really want them, even criticism; that's like getting socks. Well I'm going to bed night yall.