Disclaimer: Well, I do own a copy of Fallout 3.
Warnings: Keep in mind that this is a fanfic of an M-rated game. So, swearing, violence, drug use and sexual themes are possible. Most of them are probable, too.
The inspiration for this story started when I was in the actual game, going to find the runaway kids and then some Talon guys showed up. The two idiots just kind of stood there, and I though about how that might have really played out. Then I got a little bit attached to them. And the rest of the story, well, it only really worked for me when I was playing with a male character, so ... yeah. If it bothers you too much, well, then -Jedi Hand Wave- "This isn't the fic you're looking for."
Humanity
I pause suddenly in my interrogation of Pinkerton about the history of Rivet City. This relieves both of us, since I'm bored out of my mind and he is hostile and stubborn about giving up any sort of information.
I stopped speaking because I have just noticed a holo-tape on Pinkerton's desk (hidden beneath mountains of other things). I could be completely wrong, but this reminds me of the other tapes that I have found recently in doctors' offices. All of them were to do with Zimmer's android. The very same goddamned phantom android that I have been seeing fleeting traces of for weeks, months even, all across the Wasteland, and there is another tape sitting here in Pinkerton's little hideaway. I have to ask about it.
"Have you heard anything about an android?" I ask suddenly. I notice that he looks surprised, and pounce on it. "He was looking for a facial reconstruction and a memory wipe. I can't imagine there's anyone more qualified for it than you in the Capitol Wastes," I continue quickly, pandering shamelessly to Pinkerton's massive ego. In fact, I think I should charge Moira extra for this. Going to this length to find the truth really goes above and beyond the call of duty, and dealing with Pinkerton has to be worth something extra.
After a few moments of suspicious dithering, his pride wins out and he begins to explain at length about his genius.
I smile and nod with the requisite enthusiasm, and ask, rather more meekly than I like, if I might be able to download the records to my Pip-Boy, to admire the before and after pictures. With some luck, I might even find some sort of historical record as well, and I can appease Moira with an accurate history of Rivet City at the same time. Kill two bloatflies with one bullet.
The pandering serves its purpose and Pinkerton agrees to let me see his computer. I am relieved, because the longer I spend in his presence, the more tempting it becomes to simply shoot him and hack the terminal. I could probably have done it, but this is better. Less conscience-straining.
I plug my Pip-Boy into the old, well-used terminal and start downloading. I figure I can sort through it and discard the junk later. And there might be something amusing in here, like the diaries of Pinkerton. Either way, the sooner I'm out of here, the better.
I scroll down the list as I'm waiting for the copy to finish, and notice a transcript from some old meeting. It would have been about when Pinkerton claimed to have founded Rivet City. Thinking that this might be what I'm looking for, to finish off Moira's book. Hearing the tell-tale 'ping' that signals the completion of the download, I mark it out to come back to later, and say my farewells to Pinkerton.
Though the curiosity about the android's identity is killing me, I'm going to wait to check the photographs, and I'll wait even longer to check Pinkerton's notes. There's only so much self-congratulatory crowing you can read.
Also, I have some thinking to do; I need to decide what the hell I'd do with the android, and I feel like I should decide just what that is before I know who it (he?) is.
/\/\/\
"You've been rather busy lately." My thoughts are interrupted abruptly, and I feel myself making a rapid shift from bewildered to annoyed straight on to angry as the irate woman before me concludes her tirade. I had just trekked back into the non-Mirelurk infested area of Rivet City and I barely had time to wipe the sweat from my brow when this crazy old woman grabs me and pulls me aside, without so much as a hi-how-are-you before she starts browbeating me.
"I'm sorry?" I ask, straining for politeness despite the counteracting effect of my time in the Wastes. I find that if nothing else it shocks people into confused silence for a few seconds as they grapple with the fact that their parentage, mother or face has not yet been insulted. Of course, it also marks me out as an outsider (and Three-Dog crowing about Arefu and that stupid violin does not help matters any).
This time it doesn't work, and she keeps talking as if I hadn't spoken at all. I wonder idly if this is a rehearsed speech, and that's why she is still so unwilling to acknowledge my speaking. "Or maybe you have some personal grudge against an innocent Android, who simply wants to be left alone," she says, and suddenly I understand. "Please tell me, I'd really like to know."
I pause expectantly before answering, waiting for another interruption. When she looks at me impatiently, I answer her. "I prefer it when people introduce themselves before criticizing my morals. You apparently feel you know exactly who I am, but the feeling is not at all mutual."
"Victoria Watts." She looks as though she will continue, so I resume speaking pre-emptively. "Alright then, Ms. Watts. What exactly do you propose I do? You understand that I have been offered a significant reward for returning the machine to Zimmer?" She nods, opening her mouth as if to object to the word 'machine' and for once I might agree with her, but I want to seem as mercenary as possible. I cut her off, "And I assume you realize also how harsh this Wasteland is, and that this reward may very well be necessary to my own survival? I have not lived this long out here through the charity of strangers, Ms. Watts."
"How much have you learned about him, through your 'investigations'?" She asks suddenly, avoiding the real issue, I think. "I know that someone has performed a memory wipe and a facial reconstruction," I reply, studiously avoiding referring to the android; I'm not sure whether to say 'it' or 'him'. She would take the latter as a victory, and I don't want my cooperation to be taken for granted here. "I think I know who performed the operations. I haven't looked into it yet; I don't know the android's new identity." All technically true, if you feel like quibbling. I haven't actually read the file yet.
"Good. Don't. I don't know if you realize, but he is now, for all intents and purposes, human. A thinking, feeling human being." Hearing her talk down at me and question whether I understand the implications of my own actions, I feel another burst of anger, distributing another small shot of adrenaline to my system.
The adrenaline is probably all that is keeping me on my feet at this point, after spending an hour dodging Mirelurks and Pinkerton's homicidal system of booby traps, then taking a quick stroll back to Rivet City through the midday heat. All I want to do is crawl back to my rented room in the Weatherly, peel off this stinking leather and sleep for a day. And pop a RadAway for good measure, after my little dip into the Potomac, although that is always truly unpleasant on its way out of my system. I'm bruised, scraped and battered, I think that I have a Mirelurk bite and definitely a few claw swipes, and I want this stupid woman to stop causing me moral dilemmas and just go away.
She probably senses my weakness, because she moves in for the proverbial kill. "Look, all I'm asking is that you bring Zimmer this component and tell him the android is dead. Don't ask me how I got it, but it is unique to this particular sort of android. He'll believe you, and leave the poor man alone. Think it over, please," she says, and holds out a small, mechanical-looking device. I would be better able to analyze it if I weren't practically asleep on my feet.
I look at it warily for a moment, some corner of my mind that has saved me countless times before cautioning me that it might be a trap. Finally, overcome by weariness, I hold out my hand. She places the component into my gloved palm and then pushes my fingers around to shelter it with something close to gentle protectiveness.
It glows gently and the light seeps out between my fingers. For some reason it still feels warm. Must just be residual body heat, I reason, storing it in a reinforced pocket on my forearm near my Pip-Boy. "I'll consider it." She nods and walks off.
I proceed up the stairwell absently, lost in thought, and bump into a security guard heading in the opposite direction. Stumbling backwards and on the verge of falling down the stairs, I flail and grab for the railing. My fingers slip off and I think detachedly 'stupid cut-off gloves.' Then I think that I might be about to crack my skull and die, and that would be a remarkably stupid last thought.
Luckily, while I am thinking the officer has grabbed my shoulder and arm, and I am no longer in danger of tumbling down the stairwell to my death. I finally take a look at the officer, and just my luck, it's Chief Harkness.
"Do try not to plunge to your death. It would be terrible for Rivet City if Three-Dog's lone wanderer, who is apparently immune to 'Death by Super Mutant', were to be killed be a Rivet City stairwell." I may be hallucinating, but I think he just cracked a joke. An honest-to-god joke! Will wonders never cease?
"I'll try," I reply, and make to move on, up the stairs. My leg doesn't cooperate, and I look down at it. My hair falls across my eyes in dark clumps, and I flick it away in irritation. What do you know; I was right about the Mirelurks taking a few swipes at me. This one didn't look so bad when I saw it, and it didn't do more than twinge when I walk, which is nothing compared to most injuries I sustain. This means that I didn't bother bandaging it, but it is still oozing blood, and it has been at least two hours. That isn't good.
Grunting with the exertion, I twist around to sit down and fumble in a pouch on my belt for one of my Stimpacks. Peeling the stiff leather away from the cut slightly I curse, then press the Stimpack into my thigh near the cut. I grip the now-empty syringe until my knuckles turn white as muscle at the very base of the cut (deceptively shallow; it probably nicked a vein) begins to knit itself beck together. This is not a pleasant process, and I feel myself breaking into a sweat before the cut is repaired, thanking god that it isn't a broken bone because those really hurt.
Chief Harkness is still looking on bemusedly, and I stand up gingerly, stuffing the empty syringe pack into the pouch on my belt. "Sorry about that. I'll just be on my way now," and I walk up the stairs, trying to avoid hobbling for the sake of my pride.
Vera Weatherly's pet robot takes one look at me and tries to give me the medical attention that I so obviously need. I side-step it; I still don't like the look of that spinning blade, not even after years of living around Andy. I barely remember to smile at Bryan, who is sitting at a table in the front room picking at what looks, amazingly, like one of the vegetables from the science lab. Some things apparently never change.
Inspecting the cut leather of my pants again in the safety of my hotel room, I curse again. I'm going to have to mend that, or pay someone else to do it, and I have neither the caps nor the material to spare. I really hate Mirelurks. I remove the rest of the layer of leather lining my body gingerly, jab my arm with a Med-X so I'll be able to sleep, and fall into the bed without bothering to remove the sweat encrusted clothing that is attached to my skin. The bed is blissfully soft, and with the Med-X numbing me I'm asleep almost before I hit the pillow.
/\/\/\
When I wake up, I experience the small moment of panic when I realize that this is not, in fact, my room in Vault 101. It doesn't seem to matter where I am, or how long I have been away from that place. Every once in a while, I still wake up and freak out, although it has become much less common recently.
I can't really imagine why it's the Vault I look for; the run-down shack in Megaton is more my home than the Vault could ever have been. Maybe that is because it's mine. I feel like everything in that place, inferior though some of it may be, is mine.
Sitting up, I groan. I should have changed before falling asleep. I feel disgusting, and the feeling isn't new to me at all. I can count on one hand the instances that I have been properly clean since being ejected from the Vault.
It's times like this that I really wish I had taken Burke up on his offer, because Tenpenny Tower had some of the most pure water in their plumbing I have ever seen outside of a Vault. A bath in irradiated water tends to leave you felling dirtier afterwards than you did stepping in, and you need to take either Rad-X or RadAway. Both are unpleasant, and I think that Rad-X is mildly addictive. RadAway could never be addictive; the way it cleans your system of radiation is not something that you want to experience again ever, never mind often.
While I'm complaining to a captive audience, I guess I should just get it all out of my system. This place, the Wasteland, is so hostile. Not just the people, the environment seems to want you to give up and die. Everything is volatile or dangerous or deceptive, and you always feel death creeping up on you, or lurking in the corner of your eye, or waiting to leap out of the shadows.
And everyone wants something from you, and they're always trying to get it from you for nothing. The Raiders want entertainment, the Traders want caps, and everyone else wants help, or protection or something. No one does anything out of the goodness of their heart, no one trusts anyone unless they've known you from birth (and not always, even then), and people always expect the worst from me. Sometimes I just want to prove them right, and be the terrible asshole that people obviously expect; just take what I want, do what I want and not bother with the objections from my conscience or sense of justice.
But I don't, of course. Why? I don't know anymore. Before, in the Vault, maybe it was because Dad would be disappointed, or the guards would get me, or just that I was acting according to my sense of right and wrong. But now I can just run away or kill people. And my father has no right to be disappointed by anything I do; he abandoned me, he washed his hands of me, and he would be lying if he said he didn't know what the Overseer was likely to do. He's that smart at least.
So what is stopping me from doing what I want? My principles?
Good lord. I must be a total idiot. I suppose that they are valuable, but what good will they do me if I starve because I refuse to steal?
Ah, fuck. Morality is so complicated in the Wasteland.
This latest convoluted situation is a prime example. I lurch over to my pack, next to the heap of discarded clothing, and take inventory in my head. It has become almost automatic, and the list of possessions is depressingly short, (and most of it is weaponry).
A hunting rifle (if not the thing closest to my heart then at least the thing that keeps it beating), a long, notched combat knife, the beautiful old Magnum (Agatha says her late husband called it Blackhawk, but the day I start naming my guns is the day that I go utterly nuts), the leather suit, which is starting to really show its age, some energy cells that I'm going to sell to Flak, in exchange for as much ammo as I can get. A pair of sunglasses I found on that crazy bastard near Paradise Falls, a few sets of Vault-issue uniforms that are now filthy and grubby, an extra pair of sturdy old boots that I removed from the latest Raider camp, a surgeon's outfit, Wastelander clothing, leather gloves.
A collection of spare parts, mechanical components to repair my gear when I can, and whatever beat-up, worn-out medical supplies I can scrounge. I also have a small stockpile of chems hidden in various pockets and pouches, but I have to be careful with those, because I swear the junkies can smell it on you when you've got their next fix.
And I carry as many caps with me as I can, but I always leave at least one hundred at home as well, just in case something really crappy happens and I suddenly need it. It's a weird feeling, having a place that you feel is safe enough to leave your shit in, and have it still there when you come back for it. Of course, it helps that Wadsworth with the flamethrower and spinning blades is there (and Dogmeat).
I still feel a bit guilt about leaving him behind, but bringing him with me to Rivet City seemed like a bad idea, because the strange mutt seems to like swimming, and I don't want to be fishing him out of the river the whole time I'm out here. Anyways, I have an arrangement with Maggie and Harden to feed him; Wadsworth gives them five caps a day, they buy him a Brahmin steak a day and they get to split the rest. And he seems to like Maggie, which is weird because that dog doesn't like people.
My Pip-Boy is a class all on its own. It gives me light, radio, all the information storage I could ever want, a map that updates itself as I travel, and of course V.A.T.S. I don't like to use that though. It feels like a controlled adrenaline rush, for one thing, and it leaves me weak and shaking. And I am very uncomfortable with handing over partial control of my nervous system to the Pip-Boy, no matter how useful I find it to be.
Right now, though, I wish it weren't quite so useful, because in here is the potential to ruin someone's life. I don't know whether I can think of the android as being alive and, well, human for lack of a better word, but right now he thinks that he is. Maybe that's all that matters.
That Commonwealth technology would be a dream to play with, though. And I'm sure I could get a tidy pile of caps from Zimmer while I'm at it.
Fuck, what do I do? There has do be a better way out of this.
I sit there for a long time, thoughts swirling too fast to help me, too frenziedly to connect. In one hand I'm clutching the android component from Victoria Watts, in the other a handy little backup disk that I 'borrowed' from Pinkerton's lab. Physical reminders that I have a choice to make.
It seemed so simple, from the outside. Zimmer was an asshole with a malfunctioning runaway machine. He was willing to pay handsomely, and give me a new toy, if I could bring it back for him.
But now I've got Watts' Railroad claiming that these androids have reached a state where they are close enough to human that keeping them they way Zimmer does is slavery. And that is something that I definitely do disagree with. Slavery is one of those few areas where I can still think in absolutes; right, or wrong. In this case, wrong.
I realize that these things are way more advanced than, say, a Mr. Handy or a Robobrain. In a totally different league, you might say. You can't really compare the two, and I don't consider owning Wadsworth to be the same as slavery. But are they really self-aware, sentient beings? I mean, they are at least part organic, according to Zimmer. And the motives that the android claimed for running away: guilt?
This thing could be self-aware, it could think independently, and it's got ethics! Christ, that's more than you can say for some of the Wastelanders I meet. But could that all just be part of the programming?
I call up the recording that he left for Zimmer (fuck, now I'm calling it a 'him') and played it through. It definitely sounds human. It sounds guilty and defiant and vaguely terrified. I play the next note, and now it's more elated and relieved, but the terror is stronger, too. I guess that's understandable; he was about to erase his entire identity. Just… go to sleep (and the last thing he'd see would be Pinkerton's ugly mug) and then wake up as someone completely different. It'd be like dying.
I shiver involuntarily and then look around angrily for something to wear. Sitting here in this getup - sweaty underwear and tank top – is not helping my mood any. I don't feel like running around in the leather armour today (it's hot in all the wrong ways), so I cross my fingers that I won't be getting into any fights today and put on the Wasteland gear. Then I put everything I don't need back into my backpack – an old, heavy thing, made of Brahmin leather and canvas, and damn near indestructible.
The things I do need I shove into pockets and pouches on my person. I strap the hunting rifle onto my back, although in a crowded city it's mostly for show. The Magnum hidden inside my jacket or the knife attached to my side would be far more effective. Sometimes I think that it's strange how easily I have adapted to this violent, suspicious way of life. Then I remember the first few weeks out of the Vault, and I know that I had only two choices; adapt to the Wasteland, or die at the hands of some crazed, shot-up Raider in the ass end of nowhere.
I shove the pack underneath the bed, and ponder setting a scavenged bear trap next to it. That may sound extreme, but it's about the only way to guarantee that no one messes with my stuff while I'm gone. I decide against it.
Only then, once everything else is finished, do I finally read Pinkerton's notes regarding the android. I read them all, despite the fact that most of it is self-congratulatory bullshit. I need to know everything I can about this whole stupid situation. I read the notes, as quickly as I can, then sit back in shock. This can't be right, I think. Right here in Rivet City, so close to Zimmer and neither of them realize. I feel like the audience in some sick play, where I know what's going on but the players don't.
Harkness.
Knowing who it is changes things. Fucking Harkness, who seems as human as anyone really can be, spending your whole life in the Wasteland. But then, he hasn't, really.
And it is so typical of Pinkerton to do this. Leave an activation code, as if I didn't already have enough in the way of moral dilemmas.
Then I open up the pictures, looking for confirmation. The first one is about as mechanical as you can get while still appearing human. And the second is, unquestionably, Harkness. The differences between the faces are so subtle as to hardly be noticeable, but when you put them together, all on one face, then it is just a totally different face. I will give Pinkerton this much; he's good at what he does.
Shit.
It is so much harder to sell someone out when… shit. What the hell am I supposed to do now? Can I really give him to Zimmer, when I know… What do I even know? Nothing!
No, that's not exactly right. I know he thinks that he is human. I know that even when he knew he was a machine, he felt guilt over what he was doing, and ran away. I know that even though he looks human, at least some part of him is mechanical. And I know that the Railroad believes that they are… persons. Not human necessarily, but fulfilling all of the requirements to be a person, and eligible for protection under the law. This would be a huge deal if we still had laws, wouldn't it? As it is, the problem is just my own little ethical dilemma. If I were a true Wastelander, a true merc, I would have no qualms. But apparently I'm not.
I just, need to know if he's actually… well, human isn't really the word, is it?
But, none of this needs to happen right now. If worst comes to worst and I seriously can't decide, then I'll just tell Zimmer that I've lost the trail, and destroy the holotapes. If I can't decide, no one else gets to either, and Harkness will stay Harkness until… Shit. Will he die?
Can he die? Because that would make the whole 'human' thing look a little bit less plausible, if he stays alive and the same age for the foreseeable future. Are his insides really the same as a human's, or was Pinkerton full of shit? If his insides are the same, what differentiates him from another human being? And does he eat? Drink? I mean, Zimmer said he does, but why? Does he actually process it for energy, is it just filtered through his system, wouldn't there be an eventual need for maintenance either way, what is his power source if not the food, how does it work…
Wow. Christ, this is what I get for working with the maintenance guys and trying to blend in. I got too damn interested, that's what happened. Well, I'm tired of thinking, tired of debating, tired of caring. I want to get drunk, I want to punch something, I want to be destructive and uncaring and self-centred and not worry about anyone but me. Sometimes I think that the Raiders have the right idea.
As I head for the Muddy Rudder, I am still thinking along these same dangerous, angry lines and apparently it shows on my face, because most people give me a wide berth. But because the universe has a sense of humour (and an unfunny one at that) someone does stop me, and they are bearing the slightly less filthy than usual clothing that marks them out as Rivet City security.
Not, thankfully, Harkness, but some woman I've spoken with once or twice. Is it Judy? Janie? No, Jessica, that's it. Jessica looks at me warily, and then hands me a scrap of decaying paper, asks "Have you seen C.J. Young around lately? Her parents have reported her missing." I want to say, 'so what?' but kids are important these days. There are so few of them, after all. "No, sorry, I haven't seen her," I reply, distractedly.
"If you do, let us know." I nod, moving on already.
/\/\/\
Down in the Muddy Rudder, a little bit later and halfway through a disgusting, watered-down Scotch that tastes like Brahmin piss smells, something occurs to me. I look around the room for Tammy Hargrave (it's after noon, she's always here). "Hey, Tammy. I haven't seen James around lately," I remark casually.
She slurs a reply, and I feel a sudden urge to do violence. I was wondering why the kid is such a little monster, but his mother makes me understand. Completely. "Yeah, th' little shit's run off somewhere. He'll be back."
"Do you remember when he 'ran off'?" I ask, carefully avoiding accusing her of anything (that will only make her act defensive, and that is the last thing I need). She shakes her head, and then pointedly returns to her drinking. I curse, deciding that C.J. definitely ran off with James. Where the hell would they go? Not in Rivet City, obviously, or someone would have found them already. Which means that the little idiots are outside, hiding somewhere in the Capital Wasteland.
Fuck. Now I feel obligated to find them (read: I'm secretly grateful for the distraction). There'd better be a reward for this.
I call up my Pip-Boy's map function, centre it on Rivet City and zoom in. They're two little kids who've spent their lives in one of the safest places in the Wastes; they won't have gone far. All I can see within walking distance of the city is a train station. Thinking that this should be a relatively short trip, I walk up to the market to unload the energy cells on Flak, tuck my caps away and depart Rivet City for the nearby train station.
/\/\/\
So, I wrote this all in one big lump, but I'm putting it up in chapters because I suspect those are easier to read. See you in a bit (figuratively)!
Colvine