Author's Note: Before you begin, I would just like to note that this is my very-first fanfiction. I have little to no experience in the field of writing fan-fiction, but for this, I have given it my best shot. I am open to comments and critiques, so feel free to be honest. {I DO NOT own the rights to the Fallout Franchise or its likeness.}
War. War never changes.
In the late 21st Century, humanity fought ruthlessly for its few remaining natural resources: Petroleum and Uranium. In an effort to obtain these all-powerful resources, the United States and China would fight a bloody ground war that would determine no victor.
By October 23rd, 2077, the war to end all wars started and ended in two hours. The world was scorched by the fires of nuclear devastation and plagued by radiation for centuries. However, it was not the end to humanity's story. It was only the start of another bloody chapter for human history.
Humanity lives on in the year 2277, centuries after the Great War. In the ruins of the former capital of the free world, Washington D.C. continued to survive as a wasteland filled with impressive old-world relics, and even more impressive firepower. The Capital Wasteland is home to many communities of varying size and stature; slowly rebuilding their own little slice of civilization, so long as they can make their way through the hordes of raiders, slavers, and mutant monstrosities. Life itself is a daily challenge of survival. It is a bleak existence in an even bleaker world, at best. Hell, at worst. Few people are willing to trek into the ruins of metropolitan Washington D.C. and even fewer live to tell their story.
This is story of a simple scavenger named Conway. Born in the outskirts of Arlington in 2247, Conway was the son two traveling merchants that make their rounds all across the Capital Wasteland. It was by no-means an easy lifestyle. The never-ending traveling, the constant threat of raiding parties, the lack of permanent shelter; it molds the mindset for an impressionable child. Nonetheless, Conway did his best to assist his family in any way he needed to. He carried the family wares as his parents marketed junk to anyone with a pulse, he took shifts with his parents to stand guard over their camp, and he even become a barterer himself to seal a customer's deal. He didn't care about the hard work, for he cherished his family deeply. It was the only thing he was truly anchored to.
Time passed by, and soon Conway took over the family scavenging business when his parents became too old to traverse the rubble and debris. Unlike many in the wasteland, Conway's parents died of natural causes at the respective ages of 60 and 61. The life of a scavenger is not one for the weary, and it took its toll on their health. Now, at the ripe age of 30, Conway acts as a freelancer scavenger who reports to himself, and only himself; traversing the wide expanse that is the Capital Wasteland searching for treasures to make ends meet.
For that, Conway was a simple man with simple tastes, perfect for a simple scavenger. He needed clothing; brown trousers, a dirtied white t-shirt, trader's overcoat and combat boots suited perfectly for his rugged travels. He needed a weapon; his trusty combat shotgun found an old security office that worked nicely, even though it jammed on occasion would suffice. A small .38 handgun in his overcoat pocket couldn't hurt. Lastly, he needed a bag for his wares; his leather satchel found in a collapsed department store would do the trick. With gear in tow, Conway would get to work doing what his family did best, scavenging for junk.
Day in and day out, Conway would repeat the same routine. Wake up, get dressed, go scavenging, try not to die, and sell his findings before sundown. The only inconsistency of the day was where he was going to sleep that night. To many, that would be an inconvenience. To Conway, it was the most exciting part. That was when he had a choice to go where he pleased, rather than stay somewhere out of necessity. The best nights were when he had just enough caps to snag a room in Moriarty's Saloon in the makeshift town of Megaton. It just so happened that his weeks' worth of scavenging was going to net him enough caps for one week of rent. His satisfaction was beyond all comprehension, but he maintained a straight face as he counted the caps being exchanged to him. Without delay, Conway trekked diligently towards the mangled array of scrap and metal that formed the outer walls of Megaton. He immediately made his way towards the saloon, exchanging his hard-earned caps for a room with the silver-tonged owner, Colin Moriarty. 100 caps down, Conway entered his room, closed the door, threw his gear down and tossed himself onto the rickety, dirty mattress.
It didn't matter to him that the bed looked more worn than a raider's boot, it felt like lying down on a cloud. Any mattress is better than a concrete slab. Within mere seconds, Conway drifted off to sleep, smiling to himself. He would enjoy every minute of his rest, for tomorrow was another day.