A Wasteland Maverick, a fallout fanfic

Her Grandpa taught her everything she knew.

It was a rarity, she supposed. The wasteland was harsh enough that having even one family member alive was a miracle. Let alone that family member being a second degree.

Her parents were bad people. Mom got in with slavers and soon became a head honcho. Dad was a chem hustler whose job was to purposely get people addicted to drugs by forcing it down their bloodstreams while they were sleeping.

They'd met when he tried to get one of her slaves addicted. She thought it was cute and spent the night with him. They had her soon after their tryst.

Gramps at the time was a mercenary-for-hire. He'd known his son was doing something bad, as evasive he was about his "trader" job whenever they'd spend time together, but the extent of it he hadn't an inkling.

Until word spread that the infamous Slavin' Clade Jones had a kid out of a one night stand with Steele "Chem Charity Case" Glennrock.

What happened next, with Gauss Rifle-shooting and Fat Man-launching, Grandpa Gristle Glennrock left a whirlwind of limbs and gallons of blood. The only thing left was a very small baby, sitting among the remains of her parents, that was spared a slave branding and a shot of X-Cell. A quasi-baby shower of sorts.

Her earliest memory of him was him looking down at her, covered in blood, but softly, with obvious love and relief.

She had her first smile in about two days of her birth.

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"Keep the glabella smack dab in bertween the cross hairs. You'ave to geddit right at the metopic suture."

Gramps adjusted the scoped rifle in her arms.

"You gotta geddit there, ought you shaint split the skull correctly."

She forced her shoulders to keep the rifle dead steady. It was a difficult position.

Gramps took her out on her eighteenth on a weeklong hunting trip. She'd gone on many hunting trips with him before but this one "was gern't to be a doozy". Now that she was a grown woman, he'd said, it was time to teach her how to kill the most dangerous "wretches" in the Commonwealth.

Which is why, after a ghouling expedition down in the subway, she was now facing off a sleeping Yao Guai. "Getta practise in aiming athe spot like it's yer nature and a movin' target'll be no big deal." A logical teaching method. She had no complaints.

"You can throw 'nades at 'em all ya want, but if ya dunt split the skull and spill them brains, it ain't gonna do nothin'. Fur and fat like a fuckin' power armour suit."

She managed to figure out how to keep the cross hairs right at that spot (a rarely used muscle in her right wrist helped). She held her breath.

And shot.

It was a brief second, but had her rifle been slightly worse and the bullet flew slower, the bear would've jerked its head reflexively away.

That wasn't the case.

A loud SHIIIIIIIIIING. Followed by the sound of cracking. The bullet imbeds itself somewhere deep in the grey matter of its brain. The matter leaks out through the crack and plops down onto the Yao's snout.

"Yes, kiddo, that's 'ow ya fuckin' do it!" He lifted her up before she could process that she actually "split the skull and spilled them brains". She was being hugged and bounced around. She smiled and returned that very proud hug with just as much excitement and fervor.

"'Is is cause to break out the Bourbon!" He gave her a toothy grin. They walked over to the dead Yao, and she, with the skill learned from many years of being taught, left the carcass save for the fur and bone they were going to transform into useful resources later on.

"Why is it that we never head down to the Fens?" She asked him without looking up from a punch card Computer manual. "I noticed it when we passed by the Covenant. We seem to be unusually isolated." Her speech was notably more eloquent than Gramps. Listening to pre-war tapes can do that. Also, not having a section of her tongue sliced off helped.

He grunts, displeased at the question. "Shweetie, I can teach ya 'bout killing any wasteland wretch out there. Ar've been to the Capitol, been to California and even caught some right sun in the Mojave, never met a wretch that could best me. Wretches are easy - they don't like ya and I don't like 'em. Shoot em, blow em up.

But people - ya never know whose gonna twist yer arm from behind, or shaggle daggle ya from the front. Sometimes ya can't fight. Ya gotta word-tangle with em. Sometimes ya think they wanna fight but they in trouble. Someone made them fight. Or maybe they're lyin' and no one made them fight. Ya decide ya don't wanna kill a kid or a lady who looks like yer grandchild. But en, ye get a nasty scar." He moved his pant leg up to reveal the crescent chunk of flesh just missing from his leg. Weirdest and ugliest scar anyone has seen.

"I ain't no talker. I ain't no charmer. If I gettya in there, I risk yer life. If I teachya how to do the chat, ya might learn sumthin' retarded and getcha self killed. Too big a risk fer ya, a Deathclaw is easier to deal with." He goes silent, staring at the Deathclaw hand in a picture frame above the mantle. Her first Claw.

Leaning back on the Yao hide couch he is sitting on, he takes his smokes out and puffs. She knows he's remembering his precious baby Steele and realizes just how much people risk when they decide to love and care for them. Her and Gramps mortality feels palpable.

"Ya should gertof that book 'o yers. Ya thinkin' too much 'bout science and tech. Look at what it brought." He splays his hands out exaggeratedly, demonstrating the expanse of our relatively attractive yet very isolated home.

She sighs, and closes the manual for that evening.

"What are you writing there, Grampa?" She tried to get a glance from her position at the stove. She was trying her hand at flipping some Mirelurk patties that she took off a Mirelurk legendary a while back. She'd never managed to see any words on the pages of his journal.

"Documenting. Gotta write my hunting tactics down. God forbid all the Nuka-Colas I been drinkin' slows my mind down. I ain't worried bout my reflexes but a man's gotta harve some kinda finesse in his livelihood." He said that gruffly but she had a feeling he was worried about something.

He'd been jittery as of late. Missed a couple of shots here and there. He'd laughed and blamed it on the wind. It wasn't like him at all.

Sensing she shouldn't press him further on the contents of his journal, she sautéed the meat with some Bloodleaf and the aforementioned Nuka-Cola.

She wished later on that she pressed him harder to find out the contents of that journal.

I snapped out of my reverie at the feeling of wet rain falling on my face. Gramps dead body was limp in my arms. The loud hiss of rain falling and hitting the wildlife and ground helped mute the thoughts fighting in my head to be heard. I merely sat, motionless, with his body even more motionless.

No more hugs. No more chats. No more "I love yous". No more hunting trips. No more family.

I'm alone now.

Somewhere in the pool of thoughts I could hear myself say, "Why, even after comfortably learning how to handle Deathclaws, do I feel more vulnerable than I ever have? Why hasn't he taught me how to not be alone without him?"

I'm cold now.

No tears come. I just feel like I turned to stone. 'Or a Sentry bot'. I'd never thought much about what trauma would feel like but I'd assumed there'd be crying and begging. Lots of that. There wasn't any crying. Begging was missing - but, I'm sure I'd be begging to join him in the damp ground in a few moments.

No more smiles.

I smiled easily usually. Now I felt like a Raider used a railroad spike to staple my face into a frown. I vaguely remembered my Gramps relating what a charming person did in the city. Smile a lot. I had a feeling I was going to have a lot of trouble.

Looking down at the corpse, you'd think that he died naturally. But I knew what happened to him. I'd seen that face the day I was born. An overdosed slave. Shot up with Psycho by my father as celebration of my birth. My Gramps shot at a singular tablet of Mentats from 200 feet. There was no peace in that face.

I don't remember what happened next very well. I somehow managed to dig a crude hole in the rain with my bare hands. I also made a metallic hold for his body to avoid radiation turning him into a ghoul. Somehow I put him into the ground, set up an epitaph and I came to my senses as I sat in the bathtub of my bathroom, water falling on my clothed body.

I was wondering what to do, the fizzing noise of the shower mimicking the rain outside calming my tumultuous brain. There were some dark thoughts swirling there.

Then I remembered the journal.

I stood and went to his study, too far off my dry eyed head to care that I was dripping on expensive "wretch-eather". It only took me a few moments to find it (my lock picking skills more than sufficient to crack the safe) and I opened it to the first page.

"My dearest Jade. If you are reading this journal because you're too curious for your own good, I'll know right away. You're always emotional when it comes to me. If not, and I am gone, I want you to know that I have always dearly loved you.

I named you Jade. I named you… like my son Steele.

(The writing at that part became rougher, like it pained him just to mention him.)

In our family, we tend to name people after their characteristics. I'm Gristle, because I'm a gnarly old fart that's tough to chew. I was just the same as a baby.

Steele. Well, he was a steely baby. Grey eyes, loved to kick. Stomach hard as, well, steel from the moment he was born. So he's Steele.

But when I saw you, in the midst of the carnage of Slaver's Bay, your green eyes shining and your premature smile, I knew you were destined to be Jade. Rare, shining and strong. My beloved granddaughter.

I'm sorry. I did not teach you enough. I have also left you alone. I'm a stubborn old man. I'm a skilled hunter, but I'm a stubborn old git of a hunter. Steele landed into the drug business because someone talked the talk and he was weak and dark. Easy to exploit. I didn't trust that I could make you strong. I trust you, but I ended up being the weak one. Hence your lack of friends.

This journal contains hunting practices for all sorts of animals - we didn't cover nearly enough. An encyclopedia of sorts for you to use.

I've also marked locations of some of my best weapons. They may be safe to access but mostly they aren't. You can thank Raiders for the heightened security.

I used to be a mercenary. That has some use. I've included a list of people who owe me. I've ranked them from most trustworthy to least. The least guarantees you one favour out of respect for me, but don't ask again. Believe me.

You're onto something darling, with your computer manuals and secret theory writings. Can't hide anything from me. But I got instincts. It'll lead you to people. You're gonna have to learn something that I could never teach. It'll be dangerous.

I believe in you. I'm sorry. I love you."

A single tear dropped onto the page, blotting the 'sorry' out. It would be a long time before she cried again.

Author's Note

This story is set in the Fallout 4 universe with references to 1, 2, 3 and New Vegas. This is not the "Sole Survivor" but rather a different person. Other characters from the game will appear in this story.

This story will deal with quite a few themes and one of them (as spoiled in the story tags) will deal with romance. It will not, however, completely take focus away from other post-apocalyptic themes the story will talk about.

Rated M for violence, disturbing scenes and sex.

Expect more Grampa Gristle word-isms in the future.

I only own Jade and other original characters.

Other than that, I hope you enjoyed the intro to the story! Please Read and Review!