Fallout 4: Gods of the Wasteland

Author's Note: "Gods of the Wasteland" is a direct sequel to my Fallout: New Vegas fanfic, "The White Hand of Robert House." I advise reading that story (it's short) before reading this one. This Sole Survivor is depicted as a neutral-karma Minutemen character. The Lone Wanderer is portrayed as a Best-Karma (Savior) character, allied to the Brotherhood of Steel. The Courier is a bad-karma (Soft-Hearted Devil) character following a Mr. House ending. This story begins directly after the end of the Nuka World DLC.

Abernathy Farm.
Six Months after the Nuclear Option.
Minutemen General Benjamin Franklin.

"Are you sure you wouldn't like to stay the night, General?"

I smiled, appreciative of the warm generosity.

"Thank you, Mr. Abernathy," I said gently, "But I'm meeting my advance guard in fifteen."

The middle aged farmer offered a soft nod, making his way through the ramshackle kitchen and through the door that led outside. Alone, I allowed my head to drop into my hands, my breath escaping in a slow hiss.

My mind was as exhausted as my body. Flecks of blood still stained my bare left arm and the black leather of my jacket. My hands were slick and greasy with sweat and gunpowder, and the soles of my combat boots were slippery and irritable due to being wet and dank. I had chosen to travel incognito, and had donned Kellogg's Kevlar-lined biker jacket and tactical boots in favor or my General's Uniform, and had since stained my army fatigue pants with blood and soot and worn my fingerless gloves to tatters. In my head, the fresh memories of the Gauntlet and my liberation of Nuka Town threatened to push me to the brink of insanity.

The last year had been hard on me, harder than anything I used to think I was strong enough to bear.

After awaking in Vault 111, I embarked on my well known campaign to find my son and destroy the Institute. After my success, I formally took on the title of General of the Minutemen and immediately took the fight to the Brotherhood. Having been friends with one of their number, a synth named Paladin Danse, the decision was not easy. However, after several murdered peace envoys and failed attempts at negotiation, the Castle opened fire with its mortars and brought down the dirigible flagship, the Prydwen. Their leader, Elder Maxson, met me head on in battle on the slopes of the Castle, where he fell before me. In his dying breaths, he revealed his overall plan for the Commonwealth: an iron grip on all tech in the wasteland, and to purge the Commonwealth of all mutants, ghouls (feral or not) synths, and any who did not follow his grand plan. There were ghouls and synths alike that I trusted with my life, and his blind discrimination was a terror I could not allow. I knew, from Danse's teachings, that the Brotherhood had several chapters in America and only a handful were as radical as Maxson, yet it pained me nonetheless to have had to remove a potential ally as powerful as the Brotherhood from the future of the Commonwealth.

Only a few short weeks after the bloodshed ended, the fragile peace in Boston was interrupted by a sharp increase in wandering assault robots attacking travelers on the road to Diamond City. I set out with a detachment of volunteers to discover the source, and was led on a wild technological adventure that led me to a young girl who called herself the Mechanist, who was behind the creation of the rogue droids. After convincing her to stop making mindless war machines and to begin repairing robots for the Minutemen, I returned to the Castle seeking rest and refuge only to be met by my best friend, the synth detective Nick Valentine, who then took me on a trip off the coast of Maine to Far Harbor. In that desolate place I pacified a war between three factions, one of them being a synth village led by an old friend of Nick's from his days in the Institute. The experience drained what energy I had left, and I was forced to place my adventuring on the back burner and take up a more political role with the Minutemen while my body healed. I had believed this to be a more practical use of my talents, having served six years in the Army as a shock trooper and almost completed my associates in Political Science before the Great War, I quickly became bored of the monotony. Trade agreements, treaties, land disputes, balancing accounts, and military formalities had nearly driven me up the wall with boredom until I received a radio broadcast informing me of Nuka Town. I almost died playing the Gauntlet, and instead of seizing the opportunity to become the greatest raider king of all time, I instead played a game of subterfuge for two weeks before I finally had become powerful enough to wipe out all the raider gangs that dominated the trading post, setting the merchants and travelers free. As the theme park's new Overboss, I was left with yet another territory to monitor and control, along with another set of responsibilities. Sure, I could move the Minutemen into Nuka World (and I likely would, having considered the option many times) and use it as a central trade hub to fund our campaign, but that would open a dozen more political and strategic doors I just wasn't ready to open yet.

I was exhausted to the point of a breakdown.

War, I thought grimly to myself, taking a sip of what I imagined was supposed to be coffee, war never changes.

From outside, a shout stole me from my thoughts.

"General!" Connie Abernathy called, "Your men are here!"

I rose slowly from the crude wooden chair, wincing at the pain in my left side. I was no medic, but I was pretty sure a couple of my ribs were either bruised or broken. My left wrist was swollen and red from a punch I'd landed on a raider with a heavy face mask, and I knew I had an appointment with the Auto Doc back at the Castle to take a look at my brain, as I was certain I had a mild concussion.

Let's hope that Preston brought a brahmin caravan with him so I don't have to walk all the way across the Commonwealth, I thought with a grim smirk, knowing the idea was unlikely.

Stepping out of the cool shade of the Abernathy farmhouse, I squinted as my eyes adjusted to the stark light that cast the surrounding landscape in a pleasant summer glow. In front of the slab wood house, several dozen rows of various crops from razorgrain to mutfruit stretched out a hundred yards in either direction, enclosed by a chain link fence. Two machinegun turrets hummed with power atop a pair of lookout towers that allowed for a protective view over the settlement and its critically important resources. A path wound through the center of the farm, leading out into the wasteland to what remained of a main road, patrolled by a handful of Minutemen assaultrons.

And striding past those assault robots was a dark skinned man with a muscular build and a tan frock coat that would not have been out of place during the Revolutionary War. In one hand he carried a large green military bag, and in the other he carried a laser musket, signature weapon of the Commonwealth Minutemen. Six men and two women followed suit, garbed in perfect replicas of colonial militia uniforms, the navy blue tailcoats clashing wonderfully with the desolate gray-tan of the wasteland surroundings.

He made them come all this way in formal dress, I cringed inwardly, almost longing for the standard "blue collared shirt and tan trousers" battle attire assigned to the men for both comfort and simplicity, He's been a fan of the tailcoats ever since we found that stockpile at the Museum.

The man stopped a few feet in front of me, removing his colonial hat and dropping the bag at my feet.

"General Benjamin Franklin, the Gladiator himself," he said with a small smile, revealing even rows of white teeth.

I snorted with mock amusement. "I told you not to spread that title."

Preston Garvey removed his hat, wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, and then replaced it. "That's a title you earned, General," he said with a smirk.

I rolled my eyes at him. From behind him I heard a short, loud bark and the padding of paws racing towards me.

"Dogmeat!" I cried, dropping to a knee to embrace the German shepherd that rammed his head into my chest, his entire body wiggling with excitement as he made to lick every inch of my face he could reach.

"Easy, buddy," I said, patting him on the head and affectionately scratching behind his left ear.

Dogmeat barked again and resumed prodding my hand with his snout as I stood.

Dogmeat may have the physical characteristics of your average pre-war pooch, but I knew him to be far and beyond anything that could possibly be labeled as average. He had intelligent eyes that seemed to read and analyze any situation with as much precision and attentiveness as any man I'd ever met. When I spoke to him it was as if he not only understood the words I used, it had become apparent to me that he understood their meaning as well (in contrast to the average pre-war pet that chased cats and ate their own shit). He was, in the aspects of brainpower and self awareness, equal to human. And then there were his physical traits. Dogs healed faster and had higher tolerances to pain than humans as it was, an evolutionary trait to allow them to survive in packs and to excel as a natural predator. Dogmeat, on the other hand, had endured bullets, knives, deathclaws, ghouls, and even a mirelurk queen. In all instances, his wounds had healed even faster than my own, almost instantly if aided with a stimpack.

I had always wondered where he'd come from, how old he was, how many other people he'd followed and offered his protection to, and in light of recent events I couldn't help but question if the Institute held the answers to his origins. It would make sense, after all, for Dogmeat to have been a result of clever genetic engineering, and only the Institute had such technology. Whatever the truth was, I was sure I'd never know.

And as long as he remained by my side, I'd never ask him.

"You do anything exciting while I was away?" I asked, patting him on the head.

Dogmeat's ears lowered, and he sighed dramatically.

"That bad, huh?"

Dogmeat barked again.

Preston motioned towards the bag and placed his hat back on his head, lofting the laser musket over his shoulder. "There's a clean uniform, a couple stimpacks, and a few hygiene products in there. A virtibird will be here in a few minutes to take us back to the Castle so you can debrief me and the other officers on what happened in the amusement park."

I guess a virtibird is certainly better than a brahmin caravan.

I barely resisted rolling my eyes, dropping to a knee and unzipping the duffle bag. "Right," I said, seizing a can of purified water and cracking the seal, "Because that's exactly what I want to do after stomping across a demented amusement park, " I peeled my jacket and armored shoulder piece and the t-shirt underneath, kneeling shirtless in front of my men, "Killing a few dozen raiders," I poured the water over my arms and head, a red-gray pool forming on the ground below me, "Usurping three different factions in the most violent and bloody coup I've ever seen," I dropped a dab of homemade soap between my palms and began cleaning the grime from my hair and arms, rinsing with a second can of water, "And finally, liberating a whole town of slaves and prisoners."

I shook my hair out, feeling marginally cleaner, and reached for my jacket again.

I found it in Preston's outstretched hand.

"I know you're tired, Benjamin," he said calmly, "But I'm the only officer who knows what happened. If we're going to trade with Nuka Town you'd better bring the others up to speed."

I groaned as obnoxiously as I could. "I know, I know."

I reached past Preston's hand towards the bag, deciding it better to allow at least a shred of formality to be displayed in front of the men, and quickly stepped into my General's uniform, tightening the straps on the chest plate underneath for good measure.

Donning my hat, I slung my rifle (a handmade version of the Chinese assault rifle from before the War) over my back and tucked Kellogg's revolver into my belt. After ensuring my spare magazines were ready to snatch at a moment's notice, I nodded to Preston, who took his place beside me and began to march towards the open field that stretched towards Sanctuary in front of the farm. Dogmeat padded along beside us, happily snapping at the other Minutemen and the stray cat that roamed the Abernathy homestead.

"Nice gun, General," Preston said, eyeing my handmade weapon that was dyed in a colorful tye-dye print.

"An imitation of what used to serve as the Chinese standard issue," I replied without looking at him, "Some of the raiders must have come across a real one in their travels and tried to replicate it. It's a bit rough, but it's reliable as hell and it's easy to use."

Preston nodded slowly. "Find anything else useful over there?"

I shook my head. "There's places to be explored and things to be discovered, sure. I'm just not planning to do that anytime soon."

"That's a shame," he said with a sigh, "The Commonwealth still has many threats to face and we could use whatever advantages we can get."

I stopped in my tracks, glaring at him.

Maybe it was the two weeks I'd just spent locked in a three front war with the most powerful and dangerous raiders on the East Coast, or perhaps the constant ache in my joints, or maybe it was even simply because I was all too aware of the hopeless troubles that came with trying to tame the Commonwealth. Maybe I got heated because I'd only been back from Nuka Town for a couple hours and Preston was already badgering me with debriefings and reminders of the work to still be done. Either way, my mounting frustration poured over the edge.

"Clear the area!" I barked, waving a hand at the escort party, "The Colonel and I need to talk."

The Minutemen dispersed without hesitation, forming a circle around us officers. Once I was certain they were out of earshot, I rounded on Preston.

"Do you think I'm fucking stupid?"

Preston recoiled, taking half a step back. "Absolutely not, General, why would you-"

I yanked the assault rifle off my back and hurled it with a snarl fifteen feet away where it clacked and banged against a small rock pile.

"I'm aware of the fact that even with the Institute gone, the Mechanist tamed, and the Gunners and raiders giving us a wide berth, that we still have another fifty years at the earliest before this place is considered entirely safe," I jabbed a finger at Preston aggressively, my nostrils flaring and my temper uncharacteristically elevated, "Even then, if we can't somehow tame the Glowing Sea we will always have super mutants and deathclaws and radscorpions and who the fuck knows what else! I think we both know there's probably more than one Glowing Sea out there, too. That's the reality of the world now, Preston, it can't be settled like it used to be, not entirely. What about Far Harbor? What about Vault 88? That was a fiasco that we still haven't recovered from. No matter what, we will continue to have issues that need addressing. We may have safe areas like the Commonwealth here and there but until all the radiation and all the raiders and all the factions that seek to dominate and destroy are gone off this earth, we will always have work to do so for the love of God shut the fuck up about it!"

I turned away from him, my chest heaving. My face burned and my hands were shaking, and from behind me I heard Preston sigh.

"Benjamin," he said softly, taking a step closer and placing a hand on my shoulder, "You're right, you're absolutely right. This country will likely never be completely settled again. And it'll probably never be the same as it was in your time, but we can start with the Commonwealth, right? Clean water, clean food, and safe harbor for all who want it. That's the goal of the Minutemen, that's my goal. Only you can make it happen. I'm just a soldier, I'm not a leader. I need your help."

He removed his hand from my shoulder and remained standing behind me, silent as the grave while I fumed. It wasn't that I didn't want Preston's company, or his advice for that matter, he was just always so difficult. He was the most driven person I'd ever met, save for Nora, and his selfless need to help others often overcame his need to eat or sleep, or to allow other people to do so

"I need you, Benjamin. I need my brother on this, on all of this."

I stubbornly stared forward, still too angry to look at him.

I could hear the whirring of a virtibird's engines getting closer by the second, but I paid it no mind. Preston was right, and I knew it.

My relationship with my second in command was tricky, to say the least. He was the first person I met after leaving the Vault, the first one to show me a helping hand. Initially I'd declined his offer to lead the Minutemen, deciding my priorities lie in chasing after Shaun. After I'd travelled with Nick Valentine for over a month, I returned to Sanctuary Hills to rejoin with Preston and the Minutemen to build the Relay Interceptor, at the cost of helping him rebuild the Minutemen when I got back from the Institute and my face off with Shaun. In the months that followed leading up to my assault on the Institute, we had become close, similar to the bonds I'd formed with my old unit. If it wasn't Nick Valentine at my back, or Dogmeat at my side, it was Colonel Preston Garvey who was to be found knee deep in the blood and shit and muck that was the chaotic Commonwealth battlefield. Despite many questionable choices made by yours truly, he never lost faith in me.

To have snapped at him in such a manner was inappropriate, to say the least.

"Preston, I-"

An explosion shook the ground, and before I could so much as finish my apology, I was thrown off my feet and tossed through open space for what felt like hours before I came to a sudden, bone shattering halt in a crash of broken wood planks and timber beams. From somewhere nearby, I could hear the cries of my men, howling out in agony and despair. Someone was shouting what sounded like battle commands, and shortly after I heard the signature electronic blasts of a laser musket sounding off. Another explosion shook the ground, and another heap of rubble fell on top of me as I fought blindly to free myself from beneath the pile.

From my left, I heard a dog's bark, a whine of pain, and then silence.

Disoriented and enraged at the idea of harm befalling Dogmeat, I reached for my pistol, only to find an empty holster before blackness enveloped my thoughts and I slipped from consciousness.