Exclaimer: I have not read past the beginning of the fourth book, so excuse any Canon errors with the Dresden half of this. I understand that many do not consider Tactic as Fallout Canon. I think the events of Tactics happened in one way or another in Fallout, but not in the way that the game portrayed.

I watched as the Humvees entered the city. They were covered in dust, rust, and blue paint. Each of the vehicles, one of them no less than an old Sherman tank, had a symbol with gold gears and a sword over it. Even though I am an old man, Harry Blackstone Copperfield Dresden can still spot a Radscorpion from over ten miles. Mister rubbed against my leg. Mister had once been a cat. Now he was more like a hairless sabertooth tiger. He was seven feet long, had claws the size of my foot, and an attitude to back it up.

"I know, Mister. I feel it too."

Chicago had been lifeless for all but the Vault beneath it, and those that I had been able to save. Most of them had died and went off to greener pastures to found Tribes, but those Tribes were the ones that knew me best. But there were a lot of people in that convoy of trucks and humvees. Enough to found a sizable village in their own right. And they had vehicles. Vehicles that ran on gasoline. The last time I had seen a fossil fuel car was...Gosh, over a hundred years now. And they had enough to operate APC's.

"Come on, Mister. Let's go make sure they don't step on my garden."

Unfortunately, the newcomers went straight for what had been Lincoln park. Now it was my garden, a miniature slice of Eden in the middle of Chicago. They must have sent scouts to check the city out before coming here directly. I don't know who these people are, where they're from, or what they want, but I'll be damned if I'm going to let them stomp on my petunias.

Ever since the Bombs fell almost a hundred years ago, I've been doing everything I can to breathe life back into the world, as much as I can.

"Apartarum," I declared, and a hole in the Never-Never, or what's left of it, opens. I took three steps, and I'm at my garden shack in Lincoln Park. It's not my home, but I do have a bed in here, with a stash of guns and ammunition and a second Blasting rod and a few talismans. Magic gets you far in the wasteland, especially in a ravaged city like Chicago, but guns really help. And I've got a lot of guns, each with some kind of rune or enchantment on them. My favorite is the shotgun that never runs out of ammunition. I just cock the slide and shoot.

I stepped out of the shack and approached the gaggle of people. Some of them were dressed in brown or purple robes. Others were dressed in some sort of metal armor. Each of them was packing heat. I'm packing, too, in more ways than one. I made sure that my trusty old .45 can be clearly seen by the newcomers. But I also make it a point to lean on my blasting rod as a walking stick to give the 'Old Man' look. I'm pretty old, at two hundred twenty. I've come to terms with the idea that these are the last years of my life, but I can still hold my own and my bones don't hurt too much. I can still kill just about damn near everything that the Wasteland has been able to throw at me. But some of these guys are in Power Armor. I'm not so much worried about the Power Armor so much as I am the fact that they have it at all. Anyone who can get their mitts on something like that and keep it knows how to fight.

"Excuse me, sirs," I call to them, "Might I ask what you are doing in my garden?"

I do a convincing quivering old man, but it's an act. An act I've perfected over the last century. One of the people in purple robes turns to me. He wore these moon spectacles on his nose, which he had turned towards the sky as he looked down at me.

"Your garden?" he asked, his voice reflecting his appearance of snootiness.

"Yes, my garden. This garden has been tended to for generations since the Great War, and I won't have you mucking it up with your boots! Back!" I poke my stick at him to get him off the grass. The man in the robes backs up obediently.

"I was told nobody lived here," he growled at one of the younger-looking men. This guy was wrapped in leather armor with metal plates on the chest. It wasn't true metal armor but it probably beat wrapping up in Brahmin skin.

"We didn't see anybody when we scouted it," the younger man insisted.

"You must excuse our intrusion, mister..." the man in the robes fished for my name.

"Dresden," I said. I didn't see any reason to lie, but I didn't see any reason to give him my full name either, "And you will be forgiven when you tell me who you are, and what you're doing in my city."

The man's nose went parallel to the ground, and the man smiled. He had whiting brown hair and hazel eyes. His smile was actually somewhat kindly. I didn't look into his eyes, I didn't care to know more about this man.

"I am Senior Scribe Erwin Packer. We are a contingent of the Brotherhood of Steel, and we are here to scavenge the city for technology, find recruits, and gather whatever knowledge of the Old World we can find. We are also here to expand our numbers and provide education and protection to the local primitives, Mister Dresden."

Brotherhood of Steel, huh?

"Where did you come from?"

"We are from out west, in California. We were dispatched to chase after an enemy of ours that fled the region after a war. I suspect you may have seen the Super Mutants a time or two in recent years?"

"Big, green humanoids with more guns than brains?"

"That would be them."

I bit the inside of my cheek. I had encountered the Super Mutants, and I'd made fast friends with some of them. Others I had to shoot to keep them from trampling on the garden. They kept their distance and I didn't want to start trouble with them.

"I've dealt with a few. They mostly leave me alone," I said, "Mostly because THEY KNOW WHAT HAPPENS WHEN THEY STEP ON MY GARDEN!"

I pointed my blasting rod at one of the Brotherhood of Steel guys who was getting too far into my garden. The guy paused and stared at me like a Brahmin stares at a charging Radscorpion.

"I thought you were here to collect technology and help the local savages?"

"Primitives," Scribe Packer corrected, "Not savages. Savages are raiders and tyrants. Primitives simply are uneducated. Our charter was to chase after the Super Mutants but we are also to live out here, Mister Dresden, and so establishing communication, education, and infrastructure is important for our operations."

I looked over the Scribe again. He seemed to be telling em the truth, or believed what he was telling me. I know liars when I see them, this guy isn't one. Just a snob.

"Right. Well. If you want any fruit or vegetables or flowers, you'll have to barter for them, and I can't provide too many. I can't supply an army."

"We just want to know how your family managed to do this, Mister Dresden, so we might be able to replicate it elsewhere," Scribe Packer said.

"Magic," I teased. It was technically true. I'd used magic to remove poisons and radiation from the soil and to purify the air. A bit to engineer new plants to do that for me. But mostly it was just good old fashioned hard work and patience. This wasn't even the only garden anymore, I'd started five more, and I helped some of the tribes surrounding the area to cleanse their fields so they could grow maize and cabbages and potatoes.

"Right," the Scribe sighed.

"Listen, you don't want to be out here during the night. That building over there is pretty stable, you can use it. I've got a stash of guns and tools in there, please don't steal them, they're older than any four of you combined. Don't get cozy though. I won't be your home."

I didn't really want them to stick around but I also didn't want them to get torn apart by Deathclaws or Glowpires.

"Thank you Mister Dresden, we appreciate your cooperation. Might you be willing to enlighten us on your...Magic?" the Scribe asked. I smirked.

"It's fifty bucks an hour," I said. It was an old joke. Probably older than anything they'd ever heard, and it was joke only I understood.

"Right. I have...A collection of bottle caps for dealing with local trade, if that's what you wish. Let's talk for a little while."

The Brotherhood guys went about establishing themselves in the building I'd pointed out to them very quickly. By the time Packer and I were in the second floor kitchen, they'd already set up lights and some cables, which they turned on...And promptly fizzled out on them. They blamed it on radiation. I knew it was actually me; wizards and technology don't get along, which is why I don't usually worry about stray robots putting a laser in my back.

He put the bottle caps on the table and I pocketed them. The tribals used bottle caps as currency, so I used it as currency whenever I needed to trade, though usually they just gave me whatever I wanted because I helped them so many times.

"So Mister Dresden, you say your family has been working the park for generations?"

"No, I said that the garden had been tended to for generations."

"So this isn't necessarily a family business?"

"Well my daughter used to help me out but she moved on to a better place."

"I'm sorry to hear that..."

"Why? Cold Water's a great town. They have a casino and everything. She loves it there. She visits once in a while, too."

"She comes up all the way from Colorado to visit you?"

"She's tough. But it's been five years since I saw her last."

"So you were an apprentice at one point, then?"

"Once, yeah," this guy was asking all the wrong questions.

"Would you mind taking one of ours as yours, so that we might be able to spread your knowledge on how you've purified the land and maintained the park?"

I snorted, "Sorry buddy, but anyone you've got either doesn't have the spark, or they're too old. Besides, I'm too old to take an apprentice."

"That is too bad. Still, I ask that you help us with this. It would be a shame for all that knowledge to go to waste..."

"It didn't help us stop the Great War," I muttered. A silence fell on the room, and he simply nodded.

"That's what we're all about, Mister Dresden: Gathering knowledge to prevent something like the Great War from ever happening again."

I smiled; that's the kind of idealism I like to hear. But whether or not he means it? That remains to be seen.

"I got gardening books that I've written that you might want to copy. I can't tell you how to clean the soil of radiation and other poisons, but there are more...Mundane methods of doing so. I'll let you take a few of my plants, too. I bred them to remove radiation. But the methods I use overall? I'm afraid that knowledge will die with me."

"That is a tragedy. But I thank you, Mister Dresden, for your contributions."

"Just make sure you share that knowledge. It's important that people know how to do those things and understand it. Don't hoard it. I share copies of those books all the time. Doesn't matter to me who has access to the stuff, so long as people are helping breath life back into the world."

He nodded, "Those are the ideals that make us the exception, rather than the rule, among the Brotherhood. They're a conservative, stubborn lot that refuse to include others."

"I know the type."

"Some knowledge is dangerous, and we keep it to ourselves. But some knowledge should be shared with the world."

"Man after my own heart, then. You still got about twenty minutes."

"You know the region, correct? Can you tell us of any spots to keep an eye on?"

I shrug.

"Got a map?"

"I have a pip-boy," he raised his arm. I shake my head.

"It won't work as well as you think."

He nodded, and called for a map to be brought in. One of the Brothers brought in a map, and I started marking places for them. I decided not to include where my other gardens were just in case. They would have to earn those locations. It went a bit over an hour, but they had some kind of coffee made from tobacco and seeds, and I decided to accept a small bag of it as compensation. It tasted good enough and it had the effect of coffee, so I was happy with it.

The coffee had more of an effect on me than I thought, so I knocked on Bob's skull in the lab. Bob stirred, and appeared.

"Harry?" he muttered, "Harry, is that you? It's been..."

"Four years," I nodded, "You've been asleep for some time."

"What is it, Harry, are you...Dying?"

"Not yet, Bob. But remember our deal," I pointed at him. When I died, Bob was to immediately seek out and find Margaret, my daughter, who was, other than myself, the only known still-living wizard.

Wait, no, that's not true. I have grandchildren, and Margaret's been teaching them...

I had a handful of apprentices who were now Shamans in the tribes in the midwest, but they knew enough to defend themselves and their tribes from the supernatural when they needed it, and a bit of my purifying magic. They weren't true wizards. One day, maybe in a thousand years, one of them would become a true wizard. But not in my lifetime.

"I understand. What's going on? Are we bugging out?"

I sighed.

"No, I drank some coffee, and now I'm in a mood. Let's cook some potions, Bob."

A gush of wind emitted from the skull, "Harry, it would be my pleasure. First, we need a bottle of Nuka-Cola..."