Chap. 1 A Man's First Battle
(This is a Fallout story I wrote to practice writing for a much larger fanfic of a different series. Please feel free to give feedback, every bit helps. NOTICE: I do not own the Fallout franchise, or any characters from the original series.)
*This story takes place in what was called the Gulf Commonwealth in the series. All characters in this story so far are OCs. Should i continue it in future stories or chapters than i planned, that may change.*
Lonely Fire waited anxiously on the river bank, careful not to go near the irradiated water. Caravans were rare in the region, and they didn't have too much RadAway left from the last trade. His bow was in hand, arrow ready on the string. Another problem would be the...what did the traders call them, mirelurks? His tribe encouraged younger members to begin using both the tribal tongue and the common tongue. Wasn't too hard because they shared some words, and they've been speaking the trader's language since Fire could remember, but still not a...slice of pie? Fuck it, he'd just learn expressions later.
"Hola, pal, happy 16th year," whispered a raspy voice. He turned to see his cousin, Little Coon, crouched with his war lance at the ready, facing the water. Great minds think alike.
"We should collect the shaui pelts before sun fall," Fire said, examining the surroundings.
"Agreed," said Coon. "Tall Tree wants us back soon anyway. You know the raids get more frequent around this time of year." And that it did. Their tribe, the Wet Folk, were often targeted by raiders, and while no other tribes were hostile to their tribe, they were all too busy with their own battles to assist. Thankfully, the Wet Folk were smart and strong. They rarely lost warriors. Speaking of which, today was Fire's initiation into the warriors. He only had two errands left, one of which was gathering the pelts for his bedroll. The other was crafting his own tomahawk.
Fire and Coon carefully collected the snares and bodies of the shaui, the ringed tails beautiful in their own way. Fire's mouth watered at the thought of the stew he would have that night. Judging by the expression on Coon's face, he had similar thoughts. They then returned to camp and deposited the carcasses to the tribe seamstress, then made their way to the forge.
This was the most...unique part of the ritual. As he approached the forge master, Fire produced a rusted spike from the wooden & steel path. He then handed it to the forge master, who threw it into the coal box. After it was heated to a red hotness, he retrieved it and had Fire pound it onto shape: a head of an ax. They then fitted it to an oak branch that Fire had fire hardened the previous week. When the long process was over, and they put a decent edge on the blade, he held a finished blade. He had been looking forward to this for years. The young man finally grew to be a warrior.
Coon handed him a mirror shard, and he accepted. It was traditional for the Wet Folk to scar their face upon a warrior's initiation. Bigger scars were seen as more ambitious. The traders couldn't understand it, but when Fire thought of them wearing useless clothes most of the time, he couldn't wrap his head around that either. He took a deep look, at his long brown hair, curious blue eyes, skin that was somehow pale even after hours of hunting, and his face as a a whole. He retrieved his skinning knife and made a long cut from the bridge of his nose down to his jawline on the right side of his face. The forge master smiled ear to ear.
"Welcome to the club, hattak," he said. Fire could only smile in return, ignoring the burning sensation on his face. The smile soon vanished as a gunshot fired off, and the forge master's brain matter covered him and Coon and the body fell with a thud. They both dropped, and the village was in an uproar.
"Raiders! Hide the ohoyo y alla," cried the war chieftain, Tall Tree, who had more a growing train of experienced warriors in to and a revólver in hand. As instructed, many lead the woman and children to the safety of homes. He pointed at Lonely Fire.
"Fire, you are now a man. No time for ceremony, go and put your new weapon to use," he shouted. The new warrior could only nod as he ran off to the village gate to help keep out the fuckers out of the village.
As he was running to the gate, a wiry, twitchy man jumped the village wall, armed with a crappy rusted and pitted revólver. He leveled it at Fire's head but he never got the chance to pull the trigger, for Fire quickly used his free hand to grab the gun, twist the man's hand behind his back, then crashed his tomahawk into the raider's skull, spraying the two young men with fresh cranial matter. Fire relieved him of his weapon and ammunition, then continued to the front. It was his first man-kill, and he'd never forget it. His apparel, a patchwork of orange and brown colors, marked him as a member of the Snake Gang. Trash that never amounted to anything, petty raiders too stupid to survive any other way than like barbaric animals, stealing and killing.
They made it to the gate without much issue after that. They waited. But the raider's never came through. They lost too many men to continue the siege. But they had a parting gift. Fire heard a roar and turned to see a home on fire. Then he saw why. They were flinging flame bottles into the village, torching the wooden homes, women and children inside. Everyone ran to assist to fight the flames, but it was too late five women and twoof the children. One of them was Coons's little brother. another was their abuelo, their mother's mother.
Coon wept outside of the home as it burned, refusing to be put out. Fire had to restrain him from flinging himself into the pyre his blood was in. He knew at that moment, he would make the raider's pay for what they did to his people. Next group of traders that came in, he planned on leaving with them to hunt down the bastards responsible like the animals they were. As the smoke filled the air and they smelled the burnt flesh, he swore one thing: as long a he breathed, he would hunt down those raiders until they were gone. He noticed a young ofi, barely out of pup-hood, whimpering, looking into the flames. It belonged to a widowed village elder, so the dog now had no one. He walked over to it and scratched it behind its ear, and it perked up at his touch, turning to him so that they shared eye contact: together, they shall reap the harvest of revenge the raiders had planted for them. As he walked to his home to ready for his journey, the ofi followed, wagging it's tail menacingly. This was the first chapter of their new lives.
* The tribal language consists of a blend of Spanish, English, & Choctaw.