Let's put a Foreword!
Yes, I took liberties. I wanted to try my hand at writing Fallout Fanfic after not playing for years. It's been my favorite since forever, but I haven't had time to play.
Anyway, I've taken several liberties concerning the personalities of Sarah Lyons (although She's not very apparent in this chapter) and some other characters in the future. Otherwise, I believe I've been somewhat spot on. If there's somethign wrong, let me know and I'll see what I can do. Also, yes Myriam is my own character. :) Enjoy. :D
The sound of boots on the broken desert sand echoed off of every rock, every shrub, every bush. They were relatively quiet considering how heavy the steel of the armor was. A gun was strapped to the back of his light combat armor; an assault rifle to be exact.
His face was straight, stern, and willing. He had one mission and one mission only: Survive to make it to the Citadel's Commons. Or at least, what was now the Commons. His limp had been getting more severe, and his limbs were starting to feel the numbing effects of the blood loss. It had been three days since the Talon Company had sprayed bullets into his tent while he slept. It was a good thing he had just enough insight to stay quiet. The Talon Company never got too close to his camping area. They'd seen too many of their own die from close range combat with the Wanderer to know not to get that close.
His black hair was cut short, which prevented his normal curls from coming out, and his facial hair had just started to grow back after a short three days of not shaving. It had been four weeks of walking through the wastes before he'd come into contact with any type of knife to shave with. It had become unshapely to say the least. He was a handsome man, although one couldn't very much tell from the condition he was in.
Even considering the shape he was in at the moment, he looked a whole lot more built and handsome than before. He had let himself go after the incident at Project Purity. It wasn't his ideal ending, or even an ending that had ever occurred to him before now.
He was just outside of the Citadel now: A place he'd very much didn't want to be. But the Brotherhood called and while he was the Lone Wanderer, he couldn't bring himself to say no. If they had called for him, it meant that they had truly needed him. What kind of modern day vigilante would he be if he'd simply said "No, Deal with your problems on your own?" Not a very good one, that's for sure.
It would take a total of three days to recover from the bullets he'd had in his left arm, and never mind the amount of time it would take for him to be capable of any physical fighting.
He knew he had to make it into the Commons. Sure, he'd be fine if he made just into the city itself, and considering the amount of supermutant activity in the city, he was more than happy to. But one thought plagued him: He stood for hope. That was his motif, his figure, his whole meaning. He stood for the future in a wake of misery. How could he be the meaning of the future if he'd simply fallen in the middle of the Citadel's courtyard, almost dead. He was the death-defier and the whole reason for the progress of the Wasteland's revolt against the Enclave. He knew one thing if not many others: He stood for something. And he needed people to see that. In his eyes, even if he knew the truths about himself, truths that so many people would never get to know mostly because they had never asked, he wanted to induce some kind of change for the better.
The gates to the Citadel started to pry open, causing a shiver to crawl through the wanderers body and up his spine. It made him stand straighter, force himself to rid of his limp for simply a few minutes, and bring back his commanding voice, fighting back the teary, scratched up voice that threatened him below the surface.
A minute passed as he fought this internal battle between his mind's willpower and the relentless throbbing and aching and bleeding of his body. Then finally, Paladins and recruits stepped forward, nodded at him and held onto their guns, as if it were their safety, and essentially it was.
The Wanderer nodded back at them, looking around for a few minutes before stepping into the open gates.
At the end of the courtyard, where several recruits had stopped practicing to stand at the Wanderer's attention, was Owyn Lyons, standing solemn as ever.
The Wanderer let his eyes float over all of the recruits looking at him. His eyes seemed weak regardless of his efforts to make them steady. There was an obvious hurt in them, which he intended to cover as completely emotional pain.
The Wanderer kept his pace down to Owyn Lyons, to whom he stopped to face. "Sir."
"Ah, The Wanderer at last. Let us go to the quarters and discuss our calling you." Owyn Lyons said turning to the side a bit and gesturing to the direction of the quarters.
"No." The Wanderer said, letting his eyes flutter shut a moment and then shoot open, as he tried to keep his composure. "There is some business I must attend to in the Commons. A certain will of passion I must attend to. We can meet at the Quarters in twelve hours."
Owyn Lyons, looking half startled and half angry, stared at the Wanderer. "Is that So? We have called you for a very important reason, Wanderer. We need your first and utmost attention immediately."
"Is that So?" The Wanderer mocked unamused. "Twelve hours, Lyons." With this he walked with a certain swagger to him, down toward the bunkers of the Commons, a recent development after Project Purity. It was basically an emergency area for the near dying.
He opened the door to the Commons and stepped in, out of the sight of the hundreds in the courtyard awaiting his arrival. Something big was going on now. But, he had no time. He needed to stop his bleeding. When the door closed behind him, he stumbled against the door, let out an exasperated, angry yell of pain and continued to slide down the wall. No doubt everyone from the courtyard could have heard it if they'd been quiet enough. He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing the pain back with his willpower.
"Hey! We need a medic over here!" A female voice rang out, shouting to any person available.
The Wanderer opened his eyes and looked at the woman. She was blond, familiar in almost every aspect, except he couldn't place where he might have seen her. "No!" He yelled at her, reaching his arm up and grasping her wrist with all the might he had. "Are you trained in any," He stopped, holding back as much as he could as a striking pain arose from his side and left shoulder at the same time, forcing it's way through his veins and out of his mouth; a loud scream rang out through the bunkers.
"What is it? Out with it quickly!" She warned, coming closer to his face.
"Are you trained in any medical practice?" The wander asked, in a low, barely audible voice. "No one must know of my injuries. Not even Owyn Lyons. This must stay between you and I."
She was taken aback slightly, looking at him as if he were crazy. "I've been doing a small internship with the surgeon for the Citadel, but I am in no shape for major injuries' cases."
"You need to do this." The wanderer pleaded her, his eyes starting to tear a bit. "Please."
She looked around, a woman stood behind her, looking at the two of them, shocked at who she was looking at.
"Myriam, go, get the gurney ready and all of the surgery and medical supplies for any and every case possible. Put all of the items in Surgery room A1." The woman whose wrist the Wanderer clasped said to the other, as she turned to face her. Her blond hair swung as she turned back to the Wanderer, "Come, Wanderer, We'll get through this."
It tore through him like a knife that she'd used the plural. No one had ever said those words to him. What a nice way to die, he thought as he wrapped one arm around the woman's neck and the other clasping his right side, where blood was freely flowing now, knowing that at least someone tried to save me. The woman half carried, half dragged him to the next room, a surgery room. She really had prepared for the worst in such short time. No doubt this was Surgery Room A1. She pulled him onto the table and tore off his combat armor with a sharp combat chuckled, although it came out more like a sob, Maybe I'm not damned after all.
A swirl of lights overhead ended his depressive thinking, until he had no thinking at all, and slipped into the darkness of unconsciousness.