Disclaimer: Fallout 3 is the property of Bethesda Softworks. I gain no monetary profit from writing this.

ATLAS

Chapter 4: Outside

From The Constitution of the Second Republic, Article 4, The Bill of Rights, "1. Congress shall make no law abridging the right of the individual to produce or trade, nor shall it make laws respecting a particular institution thereof, nor shall it appropriate funds to or from an institution thereof, nor shall it make laws abridging the right of property, nor shall it levy special taxes upon an institution thereof, nor shall it do any of these to an industry as a whole or in part, nor shall it abridge the right of property of an individual without due process of law. Congress may make laws prohibiting all trade with foreign nations whom the United States is engaged in hostilities with, with the understanding that any such prohibitions shall end along with the hostilities."

It was daytime.

At first, that was all Marcus could determine. It was day, if only because it was so bright out. It was like turning the lights on in the Vault, from a dark room, only worse. Holding his hand up, he shielded his eyes. At first, nothing happened. His eyes were still too unused to sunlight.

And then…

Everything resolved slowly. A sea of brown and gray, at first. Then, different shades formed. Outlines then, and finally, details became visible.

Gray stone, brown soil. And, when he dared look about for it, he stared upward at the sun, for the first time. White light and unimaginable heat streamed into his retinas from the distant star. His eyes watered after only a moment, and he looked away. 'I'll have the rest of my life to get used to it,' he thought, blinking.

Scents wafted towards him. The faint smell of smoke ('Somewhere, something's burning'), of ash ('Somewhere else, something's long since burned'), and others that he didn't recognize. One scent, though, was unmistakable: decay. 'Somewhere, something's dead. In other places, long since dead.'

A trail lead downward from his position, but a much shorter path lead to a sign that read "Scenic Overlook". Figuring a good vantage point was the best place to start, he approached the cliff, and stared.

Sights he had seen in books, read about in books, and imagined… were nothing compared to the reality. Below him, a road. A paved road, made of stone ('No, cement') as opposed to a metal one. His eyes followed the road, spotting… what had to have been a town, a short distance due east. All of the structures had long since burned, but the original shapes of the homes they had been were plainly visible.

Just past the houses, there was something red… 'A Red Rocket deuterium fuel station, for the fusion cell automobiles,' he realized. Analyzing the distance as best he could, he shook his head. 'A deuterium station, not even a whole kilometer from the Vault. Even if there wasn't any fuel left, the materials might have still been in good enough condition to contain fuel. I might have been able to fix the generator with just this!'

He clenched his fist in frustration, torn. Part of him wished he could march back into the Vault, just to sock Almodovar one more time. He shook his head again. 'It's not my problem any more.'

To the south, a monstrous… something. Images and concepts flickered in his mind, fitting themselves together like jigsaw pieces, making connections and chains, forming a coherent and useful whole. 'It's horribly degraded, but… that must have been a raised highway.' Marcus had never seen a road before, never mind a highway or a bridge. But knowing what all those things were made it possible to fit the essentials together to make a new concept.

His eyes raked back towards the town, stopping at a metal structure. It was round, sitting on top of some kind of metal frame. The bottom swooped at the middle, forming a trough, from which a pipe ran, into the ground. 'A water tower. It looks to be in good condition, all things considered.' That much had been in his books. He made a note in his PipBoy.

Further away, off in the distance, silhouettes. Something tall and pointed… 'The Washington Monument.' Further away, a round shape ('A dome'), with something on top… 'The Capitol Building.' They were the only recognizable structures, but what was left of DC was visible.

He looked down, preparing to leave the overlook and follow the trail down, when he noticed… 'A pair of Vault-Tec issue boot-prints; they aren't mine. Father stood here, only a few hours ago.'

He smiled. He'd never known why his father had kept the truth from him, not that he'd been all that good at hiding it. So many details that others expected him to overlook: his father's scars, the calluses on his feet and hands (that no one else had), the toughness of his skin… Even without knowing what he knew, it would have been obvious that his father had been somewhere the rest of them hadn't.

Movement caught his eye. '…There!'

Down near the houses, in what was left of Springvale, something was moving. That it was metallic was visible even from this distance, but… 'Something's odd. It's not changing posture as it moves.' His eyes narrowed. 'Some kind of bot, perhaps?'

A much larger shape, recognizable only by its disorder, caught his eye. It was a seemingly-random amalgamation of badly rusted metal, but it was large. Consulting the data files in his PipBoy, he nodded. 'That must be Megaton.'

'Well, let's see what's in this bag of Dad's.' He opened the small sack, and lifted out... 'Bottle caps?' Indeed, the label read "Nuka-Cola", and the object was clearly a bottle cap. He peered into the bag. 'All caps. Judging from the size of this bag, I'd say... about three hundred of these. What for I wonder?'

He considered carefully. 'Small, metallic, interchangeable, manufactured, rare (given that they only made so many of these)...' He made the connection, staring at the metal object. 'It's... a currency. It has to be. It's the only possibility. A standard currency, as opposed to a fiat one.' He chuckled. 'I suppose it could just be Dad's collection... no, that doesn't make sense. He didn't collect these while he was in the Vault, even though we had some Nuka-Cola. And it was in there with his other Outside things. It has to be a currency.'

He started. 'Wait, a currency? Currency means trade. Trade means production. Production means settlements. Settlements mean people. And people means... the basis of civilization. Wonderful. This may not be as bad as I had feared.'*

As he replaced the small sack into his satchel, his PipBoy caught his attention. Thinking hard, he raised his arm, tapping the controls. Amazingly, a map came up after only a moment of searching. More amazingly, the map displayed his location. 'Hmm, seems like Vault-Tec's Terrestrial Positioning System is still up.'

Concentrating, he remembered reading about the Network. Before the war, Vault-Tec executives had pointed out (in a rare display of genuine foresight) to the President that, in the event of nuclear war, the GPS satellite network would probably be lost, since such a war would likely destroy the space-faring capabilities of the US. In response, the President agreed to add the TPS system to Vault-Tec's contract. The network was never completed, but as per the contract, Vault-Tec began work in the area surrounding Washington DC, and had apparently gotten quite a bit finished. 'Looks like... about 250 square kilometers. Good to know.'

Stepping away from the cliff, he started down the path. 'Half a kilometer, perhaps three-quarters. Not even ten minutes walk.'

He stepped lightly. After years of walking quietly in a place where sounds carried for hundreds of meters, it was unlikely that anything could hear his footsteps outside. 'Still, best to stay in practice.'

He stayed close to the cliff, drawing his pistol as he walked, moving confidently but cautiously. A primary disadvantage of living underground in a metal cage was that his ears were unsuited to open air, but he would acclimate soon enough.

He reached the wreckage of the town. Now finally able to get a good look at the bot, he noted how odd it was. 'Looks like that Soviet probe, Sputnik.' He moved towards one of the wrecked homes, his eyes fixed upon the grounded probe, keeping the pistol low.

It reached a fork in the road, and spun around, facing exactly the opposite way it had been going. Directly towards where he had come from.

He raised the pistol, fixing the steel sights upon the ball, as it… passed right by him. Now he was close enough to hear that it was playing some kind of audio file. '…is that… I Wish I Was in Dixie?' Thoroughly confused, he didn't move, watching the probe. 'Why is it playing a song from the Civil War?' It reached the cliff, spun around, and returned.

After a few minutes of this, Marcus relaxed. 'It's stuck on some kind of patrol pattern. It's in good condition, though. Wonder who built it? It'd have to be fairly recently...'

At this point, the chassis of the bot caught his eye. He'd noticed before that it was in good condition, but as he stepped forward, he got a good look at the metal. 'That's not any kind of steel I've ever seen... Ah, it's aluminum. Well, that means it could be pretty old, since aluminum doesn't corrode the way steel does. It has no sheen, so it's been out here awhile and been scored by this dust, but since the air's so dry there's been no oxidization.

'...which makes it impossible to tell how old this damn thing is. Still, it's playing Dixie. That means that whoever made this thing had access to Prewar data files.'

Still moving cautiously, he stepped into the bots path as it reached the cliff and turned about-face. He held the pistol in both hands, but pointed it down, since he knew that Prewar bots were capable of recognizing armed assailants. 'A bot that small can't have a power source of any great size, so it'd have to charge the capacitor for that laser just before firing. It couldn't afford to go around with it charged, since a body that size would mean insufficient air-cooling. So I should have plenty of time to fire if this thing's hostile.'

It neared him, and... went right by him. It passed so closely that he was able to read the serial number, printed just above the Combat Inhibitor Module mounted to its rear. 'Lets see... Ah, damn it, it's been scratched. I think that says... 2075. Hmm, so it is Prewar. What's that say? "Reconnaissance Eyebot"? Interesting.'

At this range, the fact that the bot had been modified was patently obvious. 'Those speakers are new... Looks like the camera on this one's been damaged. Radio antennae too. Probably why it's stuck on this patrol pattern.'

As it was obviously non-hostile, he let it be, and continued along the road. He moved south, towards the other row of ruined houses as he made his way towards Megaton. 'Gotta get used to using cover. I'd be exposed from all angles in the middle of the road.' He spotted an old ruined sign, reading "Welcome to Springvale". He raised his PipBoy, and marked the location as a permanent reference. A stray thought hit him, and he deleted the location of the Vault. 'I'll remember where it is, but you never know what might happen.' Another sign, obviously much newer, read "Megaton", with an arrow pointing up a dirt path, out of the town.

His eyes raked over everything in view, ears peeled for any anomalous noise. He spotted a house in good repair. '...wonder if someone's living there... I'll check it out later. Must establish a base of operations first, so I have a reference point to work from.'

The row of houses ended. 'Still sixty meters to go.' He stayed close to the short rocks as he approached the metal structure. A gunshot caught his ear, and he crouched, ready to run. 'What? Where?'

He spotted the source of the noise: a man atop the metal wall of Megaton, leveling a rifle down towards... 'What the hell are those...?' The man straightened, the combat obviously over, and calmly reloaded his rifle. Two men, what had to be a bot, and a large... creature, laden with something, stood before the gate.

Marcus stood, and continued towards the town.

To his surprise, the creature turned out to be some sort of cattle. A very odd sort of cattle, given that it had two heads, but cattle nonetheless. One of the men wore what had to be armor, and carried an assault rifle ('R91 probably. Can't see the condition from this side of him'). The other man was, quite startlingly, garbed in a Prewar business suit, and wore a pair of eyeglasses. He carried an MP5. The rifleman atop the gate was also armored, and wore what seemed to be biker goggles ('Probably for the dust') and a hood of some kind, covering only his hair.

For someone who had spent a lifetime underground, seeing the same people every day for nineteen years... seeing someone he didn't recognize gave him palpable relief. Seeing people surviving outside gave an even greater relief. And seeing a man in a business suit sent a pleasant tingle he didn't quite understand up his spine.

'That beast is carrying goods of some kind. Is he a traveler... or a merchant?' Marcus could only hope.

It turned out that the combat had involved the same sort of monstrous Ants mentioned in the scouting report Marcus had obtained from the Overseer's computer. Two lay dead, and even now a ragged-looking man was cutting them open with a small knife and carving out the meat inside. The goggled man atop the gate called out to him, "Hey Mickey! One of those is mine!"

As the ragged man finished, he walked over to the gate and tossed one of the Ant-steaks upwards to the goggled man, who caught it, before plopping himself down near the gate and tearing into the meat like a starving dog.

Nearing the suited man, Marcus holstered his weapon. The armored man relaxed marginally, and the suited man spoke.

"Welcome, welcome, weary traveler, to my caravan.

"You look like a traveler in need of relaxation and the finest of chemical assistance. Well, wander no more, my good friend, for I am Doc Hoff, procurer of the finest of medical goods and chemical assistance. How may I help you?"

'...a salesman?' "Tell me about your, er, caravan, Mr. Hoff."

He smiled. "I provide food, drinks, and discreet chemicals to discerning customers around the Capital Wasteland. I help ease the suffering of my fellow man. For a price."

Now Marcus was smiling. "Of course." 'The Capital Wasteland? It fits.'

Hoff's smile widened. "I don't have a home office, exactly, but I organize much of my trade with Ernest Roe, in Canterbury Commons."

"Canterbury Commons? Where's that?"

"Oh, it's about... maybe twenty klicks to the northeast. Nice little town, Canterbury."

"And this Ernest Roe, he's the mayor?"

"I suppose you'd call it that. I and my fellow caravan drivers run most of our trade through Canterbury. Ernest Roe founded Canterbury, along with his late sister."

"Hmm." Marcus made a note in his PipBoy, and marked the probable location of Canterbury Commons on his map.

"If you don't mind my asking, whereabouts are you from, stranger?"

Marcus's face rose. "West. I'm from west of here."

"Ah, the Vault, perhaps?"

"... Yes. I'm from the Vault. How did you know?"

"Aside from your friendly and articulate speech? Your skin. I'm not much of a doctor, no matter my professional title, but I can recognize skin that's never seen the sun before. Besides which, you have a functional PipBoy. I've seen a few of those around, but none that work properly."

"Ah. Well, that explains that. So, what do you have for sale?"

Hoff opened the beast's pack, displaying his wares. He noted something that looked vaguely like a Pre-war asthma inhaler. "What's that?"

"Ah, that's Jet. One of my more... discreet chemicals."

Marcus perused the remainder of the Doc's goods, noting the quality. It was, without exception, inferior to what he'd brought out of the Vault with him, but he didn't say anything. Eventually, he decided that while he didn't need anything the Doc was offering, he might as well pick up a few things. The Doc was a friendly sort, and honest about his pursuit of profit. 'I need to practice bargaining anyway.'

He gestured to the Doc's stimpacks. "And those cost...?"

"I sell my stimpacks for 30 caps a... ah, I forgot. Caps are..."

Marcus interrupted. "I know what caps are. 30 caps a piece, you say? Hmm... I don't think I need any extra. Not for that price anyway."

Hoff smiled. "Getting a leg up on haggling, are we? Good, you'll survive well out here if you pick things up that quickly. Let's say, 25 caps, then."

"Hmm," Marcus murmured noncommittally, "What are those? I don't recognize them."

"Ah, one of my newest wares from Point Lookout. They're called Punga. Some sort of fungal fruit, apparently. These yellow ones are the so-called 'Wild' breed, while these white ones are the cultivated variety. My supplier called them 'Refined'."

'Cultivation...?' "Someone grows these?"

"Some place called the Ark and Dove Cathedral, from what I hear. A group of tribals live there, and they cultivate these for food and for trade."

"Hmmm. How much for two of each?"

"12 for the Wild, 28 for the Refined. Two each makes 80, plus the stimpack makes 105."

Haggling was a new skill for Marcus, but he did fairly well, if only because the affable Hoff was going easy on him. He eventually talked the Doc down to a price of 90 caps, part of which was paid with the Police Batons he had stolen from the security officers as well as the cigarettes and Pre-War cash he'd taken, totaling to 50 caps in cash.

"So, Point Lookout you said? Does that refer to Point Lookout National Park?"

"Well, I don't know much about that, but my supplier asked me to give these flyers to whoever asks," Hoff shrugged, and handed Marcus a flyer that read 'Greetings from Point Lookout!'

'Advertising?' "I'll keep that in mind, You have a nice day, Doc."

"And you my Vault friend."

Leaving the good Doctor behind, Marcus approached the beastly structure that was the wall of Megaton.

A nearby Protectron spoke up as he got close, "The Bomb is perfectly safe, we promise!"

'Bomb?' While Marcus stared at the bot, the man high above him flicked a switch, opening the outer gate.

After a moment of confused contemplation, Marcus decided to ignore the bot, and approached the inner gate.

Author's Notes: My most sincere apologies to all my readers. I managed to write through the 6th page of this, and then hit a bad case of writer's block that wouldn't go away. I managed to "plow through" the block by working slowly and carefully, but forcing myself ever onward.

I had originally intended this chapter to cover Marcus's experiences in Megaton, but I eventually decided to cut it short.