Just a little thing i started writing one day, just found it on my laptop and figured i'd finish it up and post. Neutral Vault Dweller with a touch of evil. ^_^
"… That is my story and I'm sticking to it."
The old man signed the tattered book and closed it. He sighed heavily and closed his eyes.
"Are you ok?"
He didn't bother to look at the speaker. "Yeah, Just bad memories."Yawning. he flexed his fingers which amazingly didn't crack with disuse. Despite his old age, he still remained agile. He scratched his face as he got up, a scar ran down his eye where he'd been wounded in his final confrontation with the Master. The only people to know where he'd gotten it were all dead now. Just like he'd be soon.
"You shouldn't think about it Dad. You should get some rest."
The old man laughed, His daughter was always worried about him. She'd inherited her Mother Pat's tendency to worry about every little thing. "Yes yes, you want to shush me. Don't bother mincing words."
The young woman pouted and got a serious look on her face. "I'm serious Dad; you shouldn't be up and about, not in your condition."
He knew exactly what was wrong with him; he'd known it for ages, a constant supply of Radaway kept him on his feet though. And he wasn't about to let someone tell him what to do. "Why don't you go take care of that little runt of yours? I'm sure he's feeling neglected by now."
His daughter shirked away, she wasn't ashamed of having had the child, but the father wasn't exactly the smartest Brahmin in the herd. "Fine, but don't stress yourself. We need you."
"Good riddance…" He mumbled to himself as she left. Now with some privacy, he could prepare for what was to come. He opened his footlocker and checked his provisions. A few canteens of water, a vial of Rad-X, and 3 pouches of Radaway, as well as the bag used to carry them. In his closet to his left he still stored some of his old clothes.
Most of the armor he'd found on his journey had gone to better use, traded for materials the village needed to survive. He'd given his Power Armor back to the Brotherhood after the Master's defeat, it didn't feel right to keep it. Now all he had left was regular clothing, a leather jacket, his only keepsake from his days prior. That and an old Desert Eagle he'd taken from the body of a dead raider leader. Though he only had a single clip left for it, it was too personal to him to simply trade away.
The council had tried to get him to give up the weapon; it felt strange to them with the village being peaceful to keep such a terrible weapon in their midst. He kept it though, promising never to use it in anger again. He felt strange in the village now; all of the original vault dwellers who'd joined him were dead now. He was the last one. The village was a full fledged tribe now, most of the people living were either tribals who'd joined them, or the children of the people who'd come from the Vault. He doubted many of them knew what a Water Chip or Robobrain were.
He'd forgotten about it long ago, there wasn't anything he could really do about it, but he still hated what they'd done to him. The only home he ever knew had forced him to leave and never return. He wondered if Arroyo, his new home, was a symbol of his strength or his failure.
Now, with the end looming over him. The Vault Dweller sighed heavily and put his things away, he'd leave early in the morning before anyone could see him. He wondered what they'd think, their invincible leader just suddenly up and walking away. Maybe they'd blame the spirits, maybe they'd think he ascended to heaven or some such brahminshit. Bah, it wouldn't be long now for him to be pushing daisys, mutated through they were.
Relaxing on his bed in the tent he'd been using for years now, The Vault Dweller closed his eyes and yawned loudly. Let them think he was tired, rest was better than sleep in his old age. Rest didn't bring the nightmares.
"You're a hero… and you have to leave…"
How…? Why…? Dammit this was his home. How could the Overseer keep him out? The bastard, the cold hearted son of a bitch! How could the self-righteous prick possibly keep this from him!? This old feeble man hadn't bled for days, he hadn't walked through the desert for weeks on end fighting off gods knew how many beasts, both human and animal. This motherfucking pompous asshole didn't lose half the vision in his right eye when facing the Master, something even the Brotherhood hadn't had the balls to do. This arrogant… pious overlord…he didn't lose all his friends, he didn't watch the boneyard go up in an atomic flame.
This sanctimonious wannabe god wasn't wearing body armor.
*BANG*
The .44 Desert Eagle Magnum had always kept him safe from the rats, even tenderized em too. The Overseer broke in half from the shot, and the Vault Dweller watched as his Overseer struggled to make it to the closing door.
If the Vault Dweller wasn't getting back in, neither was the Overseer.
Something the Vault Dweller always enjoyed was watching the sunrise, just before the actual star crested the horizon. With the Ozone gone, it was dangerous to look at the Sun directly. He wondered what percentage of energy the bombs that fell during the great war fell was of the Sun. Probably miniscule, less than a percent. Science was the ultimate qualifier, and a pointless study for someone only looking to stick to themselves.
"Dad?"
Goddamit. "…Shouldn't you be in bed?"
"I could ask you the same."
Sitting on the edge of a cliff face, she likely thought he was going to jump. If only his death could be so quick. "Come to talk me out of doing it?"
She was a strong woman, surviving childbirth with little medical equipment was more than proof of that. Her dumbass of a tribal husband probably had more radscorp venom in his balls than sperm so the kid would be alright. The Vault Dweller had given him a soft kiss before setting out this morning and getting caught up in the view. His daughter surprisingly sat next to him, unafraid. "Has anyone ever talked you into doing something?"
The Vault Dweller chuckled, and he put his arm around his daughter. If only she knew the full truth. When they found his notes, they'd know, at least a part of the story. So together, the Vault Dweller and his daughter watched the sun begin to rise, both covering their eyes from the nuclear starfire as it penetrated out from the horizon.
She hadn't cried, and she'd given him the last of their radaway. Strange as it was, the Vault Dweller was likely one of the last people on Earth to need injections of it, the other people in Arroyo having developed immunities, or at least resistances to it. He'd be okay for a few weeks, then the withering would start.
The trip started out well, nothing but a few easy to kill raiders. They had no idea just how easy it is to aim down the barrel of a gun when your only working eye has gotten so much practice at it. Their bones would bleach in the wasteland, after the dogs and mutated vultures had had their fill. Surprisingly there were no ghouls or mutants. It seemed almost odd to be wandering out in these wastes again and not have their presence.
Tycho would be the best companion in this trip. The old hard bastard would have been a great backup, but he was long dead. The worst part was not even knowing how, simply leaving him in Adytum on that last day. Everyone must have thought he died in the blast, if only.
He wandered East, following the broken interstates and surviving the best he could. The wasteland was constantly trying to kill him, but nothing could touch him now. His desert eagle had been holstered, an assault rifle taking its place, freshly stolen from some stupid sleeping raider in a car on the highway. Just another notch on his many guns.
Even the wounds didn't hurt anymore, a stimpack here, some psycho there, and the Vault Dweller had become a beast. Fury and skill had met and now nothing but a Deathclaw could stop him. There just weren't any around.
It had been almost two months now, and for some godforsaken reason, he kept finding what he needed. Radaway, Stimpacks, Food, Ammo… It was like some giant cargo plane blew up in the skies and everything he would ever need just rained down around him. The fact that he had to kill to get it all was inconsequential, it was there.
He'd been walking a long way, and wearing tarnished Combat Armor, likely from some military silo that had been raided a dozen times over, finally did he meet something he'd never seen before except in vids.
It wasn't hostile, but it evidently had noticed him. It walked, or rather floated right up to him and saluted. "Greetings! I am Sergeant RL-3! Reporting for duty!"
The Vault Dweller just gave the robot a confused face, in the middle of the anus of nowhere, he'd come across an actual friendly combat robot.
As strange as it was, the Robot was an amazing companion, His screams of rage as he charged face first into battle were uproarious, and his aim wasn't bad either. The fact that he could carry all this shit that the Vault Dweller had in his backpack without complaint was a nice touch as well.
But that had been 3 months ago, and 2 bad batches of Radaway more.
He was finally dying, the weakness, the pain in his body, the dry lips and peeling skin. This was no way to die. Forcing his head up from the vomiting, the Vault Dweller looked at RL-3 who just for a moment, seemed to be concerned. "So Sarge… I guess this is it."
"All soldiers die, sir. Just a matter of time and bullets."
Chuckling, the Vault Dweller rolled over onto his back and leaned up against a rock. If he had to guess, he was somewhere in South Dakota. Halfway across the states and his body had given up. "You think anyone'll find me out here?"
"Negative, Sir! Sensors report nothing but radioactive wildlife. Recommend moving to covered position!"
Coughing, and now feeling the coppery taste of blood in his mouth, the Vault Dweller thought about the last few months. RL-3 had been the perfect companion, silent, observing, and never sleeping or resting. The fact that he came with a flamethrower and a Plasma Projector weren't that bad either. He'd also learned that RL-3 liked him. Geniunedly liked him. Something about a karmic assessor in him told him that the Vault Dweller was a Soldier, someone to trust and follow orders from.
Following a Hero is suicide, a demon is the pathway to a pitchfork in the -3 seemed like he had the right idea, but not the reasoning behind it. With nothing else around, the Vault Dweller had started talking, He told the little Robot everything, the Vault, the Water Chip, the Brotherhood, the Master, he even told the little ball'a Guts about Tandi.
In a way, RL-3 had become his last journal, his last message to the world. Looking up again at the ball of encased whoop-ass, The Vault Dweller sighed and spoke quietly. "Don't suppose I could ask you a favor?"
RL-3 nodded his 'head'. "One Soldier to another, Sir."
Bowing his head, the Vault Dweller prepared, he knew RL-3 wouldn't hesitate. "Roast me. Don't let the birds pick at me when I'm gone."
Bracing for the inevitable agony, it seemed delayed. RL-3 simply cocked his head and looked at him intently. "Did I hear you right Soldier?"
Spitting out some blood, the Vault Dweller nodded. "Don't be a fucking hero. I'm counting on you Sarge, you're all I got left in this part of the world."
At the goading, RL-3 moved his actuators over. An order was an order and they had to be followed. Instead of immediately using his flamethrower though, RL-3 aimed his plasma projector at the Vault Dweller's head and fired once, then spun around quickly and finished the job. Communists deserved the pain, this comrade in arms deserved a proper burial. Using the flamethrower without hesitation, RL-3 burned it all away. Nothing was left for the carrion, only ash and the few things the man carried that were flame proof. RL-3 made quick work of it, now alone again.
RL-3 processed the information the Vault Dweller had given him, all of it. He compressed it all and stored it onto his secure memory storage and personality matrix. Sergeant RL-3 was no fool, and General Atomics knew how to build em. The best parts would be ingrained in him forever, becoming as much a part of RL-3 as the Vault Dweller now was of the wasteland. The Pentagon could use soldiers with that mentality, and now RL-3 continued his journey to regroup with his brothers in arms.