The Things We Do
A/N - This story takes place 14 years after the events of FO3, but all relevant info is taken from The Vault (Wiki).
Italics = Narrator's thoughts
Chapter 1
Disclaimer: I don't own Fallout or any related materials.
It's another cool night in the Wastelands.
The moon and stars are out in full force, giving the sands an ethereal glow as a soft wind brings with it the smell of burnt hair. I look around for the source, but find nothing. In fact, there's nothing around me except for dead trees and sand. No burnt out cars, no billboards, not even the remnants of a building in the distance. Only dead trees and sand.
Something wet and warm hits my face. Coughing out of surprise, I sit up and spit out most of what went into my mouth. I can only taste smoke, but I think it was piss. I feel distant, almost outside of myself. Am I dreaming? No, but it feels like the only thing keeping me grounded is a constant humming in my ears. My clothes feel tight or maybe it's just my skin. I hear someone talking, but I'm not sure if he's talking to me.
I wipe a bare forearm across my eyes and look up. The bright lights blind me for a moment, filling my already foggy vision with spots. Only lights are overhead, means there aren't any windows in the room. At least that's good. Everything looks blurry, but I'm pretty sure this is a holding cell. The guy's mouth is moving, but it's hard to keep up when you've got piss in your mouth and ringing in your ears.
"What?" I ask groggily. Head feels heavy, like it's filled with sand.
"Who are you?" The blurry man with the wide-brimmed hat asks in an authoritative tone. There's a shiny star-like pin on his jacket. He looks like the type to want the "Sheriff" title.
"Jake. Where am I?" I respond, wincing as I try to rub my eyes to clear the fog. I've probably got full-body bruises, fractured ribs and a vicious sun burn to boot.
"Jail." he says. Thanks jackass, as if I couldn't have figured that out for myself.
"Where? What town?" I mumble, trying to keep my voice low.
He looks at me funny and cocks his head like a dog.
"What town?" I repeat, louder this time and I hate him for making me do it. Head throbs like I drank a bottle of vodka mixed with irradiated pond water.
"Megaton."
"How long have I been out?" He doesn't respond immediately, but I can feel his glare, even in my haze.
"3 days," he says, sounding a bit disappointed. "Red didn't think you'd make it. Should've done the Wastes a favor and just died."
The combination of throbbing pain, bright lights, piss and this asshole are wearing my patience thin. I just want to reach out between the bars and grab him by the throat. Even slapping him a little would suffice, but I sigh knowing I can't do either.
The weathered man continues to hover over me, the room thick with the stench of his murderous intent. I have questions and I bet he has answers, but I'm done dealing with people for the moment. I'm in no mood to play nice, but I also don't need to wind up in a ditch. So, I do what any man in jail not wanting to speak to his jailer would do. I lay down with my back to him, close my eyes and try to ignore urge to vomit.