All Right, I'd like to give a big welcome our next OC. But first, I'd like to give a few notes on what exactly is happening. THis is not a random series of OC's, I'm stringing this all together. The reason that Sentinel was in the past was because that fit a lot better than in the present. But enough about the story you're reading, let's get back to the story you're reading. Meet the All-American Mutt Jown Howard Jayne.

O

Al reclined in his pink chair. He took off his hat and sunglasses, and in the same motion, wiped his face. He laid a hand over his eyes, thinking. Is that what he's becoming? A force of nature, like the Good Doctor Keyser, unfettered entirely for his goals? Sure, he was going to change the wasteland, maybe for the better, but to simply execute that girl? For no reason other than pragmatism?

Then the Wanderer recalled facts. She was going to die anyway. Malnourishment, physical abuse, magnified by pregnancy. If she did survive, then she'd kill herself when she found out her parents were dead. And what could the Wanderer do anyway? Take care of her and the child? The Raiders and Super Mutants wouldn't politely wait aroudn while he played daddy to some Waster.

But he could've done something. Not just stand there slackjawed. Al sat up, elbows on his knees, face in his palms. He should've done something. This would be so much easier if Al had more of the doctor in him. That uncaring, rational thought. The way that some could place value on lives so easy, and then judge that value to the future. The sociopathy to take lives without...remorse...

That's when it hit. Sociopathy. But at the same time, that is what gave Raiders and Mutants their strength. They didn't care who lived or died. Merely that they were satisfied. And in a way, Keyser was the same. It's simply that his goals were more agreeable than the Raider's. He leaned back in his chair, sighing and letting his hands go slack, dropping to his sides in the crevices of the chair.

He'd had well enough of moping for one day. Too much of that takes a man down a dangerous path. He needed something to do, a distraction of sorts. Something physical, or atleast focus-grabbing. A few things came to his mind. Namely, repairs that were necessary after his equipment's long disuse. He got up, hopped to it.

On his desk lay his gear. His forest green combat armor, gifted from Reily's Rangers, his plasma rifle, Blackhawk, shotgun, were all dumped on it. He sat down, and pulled from a drawer a few tools he'd need. He got to work diligently, starting on the armor.

O

After time passed, the Al failed to recall how much, he finished all the projects on his desk. He'd saved painting the armor for last, as he'd used black Talon Company Armor to fix his green armor, and so a shoulder and the breast plate was black. He pulled a can of spray paint, held up the armor, and painted over the offending pieces. He scrawled on with white paint from a jar the insignia of Reily, and hung it over the rail to dry.

He leaned back, smiling. It felt good to finally feel like he did something absolutely right. He glanced at the clock on his Pip-Boy, and it read 1am. His smile faded as the lethargy, suddenly realizing how late it was, hit him in a wave. He rubbed his eyes with both hands, and heard a small whine from his dog. He turned around in his chair, and looked at his boy, who held his head on his paws, giving him a pleading look.

"Aw, I'm sorry boy. I guess I forgot to feed you." At the mention of food, his stomach rang out in chorus. "I guess I forgot to feed me." He chuckled at his own joke, and stepped out of his chair and over Dogmeat, picking up his foodbowl along the way. He grabbed a few boxes of salisbury steak, and divided them between the dog and he. They ate in silence. It wasn't as if Al could speak the language of the canine. The humans were so pathetic that way.

O

Somewhere between getting his food and going to bed, Al must've passed out. Looks like sleep beat hunger into submission. He found himself drooling onto his park bench in the morning. Groggily, and with some shame, he wiped off the drool with his sleeve. He jammed some chips into his gullet before heading out. He needed to buy another screwdriver, the handle of his broke off last night.

The town was lonely today. Not many people walking around. It was miserably hot that day. In the crater, humidity builds. It's not so bad near the edges, but then you had the sun glaring down upon your poor soul. Al had left his coat in his house, simply pulled on a pair of jeans and a dirty white undershirt. He took the long way around, passing the Saloon. His cotton mouth begged for some liquid, but he denied. After yesterday's hangover, alcohol was the last thing he wanted.

He rubbed the crust from his eyes with his forearm as he walked down the ramp. He blinked a few times, and was stopped by an odd sight. That one mercenary Moira had hired was sitting outside, on the chair. Al stopped as he hit the floor, and stared at the man a moment. He twisted a moment, searching for someone. Nothing. Not even Jenny Stahl was at her counter.

The mercenary simply stared at Al, and sat in his chair. A moment of silence passed, and in that time Al's face contorted in expressions of embarrassment, curiosity, and concern. Al swore he could see the phrase "Don't try anything" on his lips.

"Uhh..." Al began weakly. "How...how's it going?" He half-smiled.

"Fine." He said after a moment, in that perpetually gruff voice. Al clicked his tongue.

"So...can I...can I go in?"

"Nope."

Al made a face on contempt. "And why is that?"

"Boss is getting plowed." He said shortly. Al shook his head in disbelief. How long have I been away? When did this happen?

"Seriously? Like, she's in there," the merc nodded, "right now," another nod, "getting laid?" Al asked incredulously.

"Mmh-hmm. You're three for three."

Al rolled his head around, pondering the notion. "With who? I mean, what way does she...you know, swing?"

"It's some Wastelander." He shrugged. "Just walked in, woo'ed her, and kicked me to the curb." There was total apathy in his voice. Al decided to press an issue.

"Oh, I'm sorry." Al leaned in a little. "Did you ever want to-"

"Oh, God, no. Maybe when I first started working for her. She's got nice tits." He mentioned, cupping his hands over imaginary breasts. "But then I saw just how off her rocker she was. I stay away from the crazy ones." He shook his head.

Al smirked. "Hey, you know what they say, 'Crazy in the head, Crazy in the bed.'"

"That's a good point, but most of the crazy ones are raiders." He chuckled in response.

Al flicked his hand in conceit. "That's an even better point." They both shared a laugh, and then it got quiet again. "So...when did you start working for her?"

"'Bout a year before you and your dad came out of 101." He replied, then shrunk back. "Sorry 'bout him, by the way."

Al waved it off. "It's fine, I've done my mourning." Al pondered for a moment. The date was 4/5/80, so that meant that his father died about two years back. "What'd you do before this?"

"Caravan guard. For Crazy Wolfgang, no less."

"Really? That makes me think you'd be ready for the crazy."

"Oh, he's just faking it. It's a way to get people to buy his crap. Moira though, it's crazy twenty-four seven." Al nodded in understanding. Another moment of weird silence. Not as bad as before though. "You ok?" He asked. "You seem...nervous."

"I'm fine it's just...this is weird." Al finally caved. The merc asked what he meant. "I mean, ever since I've known you, the most you've said to me is 'Don't try anything' or 'I see you eyeing that.'" He made a motion towards himself then the man. "This is the longest conversation we've ever had."

"Yeah. I was just doing my job really. Nothin' against you."

"Good, I always wondered if it was something I had done, or you're day was shitty..."

The merc shook his head. "Nope. I'm just a grumpy sonuvabitch, you know?" Al shrugged and nodded. Then a noise went away. Al hadn't noticed it until it went away. "Oh. Looks like they're done."

"How long?"

"I dunno. Half and hour, give or take. I don't have a fancy Pip-Boy like you." He motioned to the oversized wristwatch on Al's left arm. "How does that thing work anyway?"

Al's eyes went wide, his eyebrows lifted. "No clue. Uses some advanced biometrics to analyze blood flow, chemical level, radiation level, adrenaline. I can give it a glance and it tells me how my body is."

The merc thought for a moment. "I didn't understand the whole first half of what you just said." He was honest, at least. Al shrugged, and was about to go in, before he was stopped again. "I wouldn't go in there so soon. I'd let it air out for a bit."

"You're probably right." Al stepped back, leaning on the rail. He was about to try and continue the talk, but someone called out to him.

"Hey! Al!" A feminine voice, sultry and smooth, called out to him. Al turned around. Nova was waving at him. "Get over here! Three Dog's on the radio!"

"He's always on the radio!" Al pointed out the obvious.

She swiped the air, making a face of annoyance. "Yeah, no shit, but he's live right now, calling to you!" Al nodded, and pushed off the rail.

"I'll be there in a minute." He started to walk off, but was stopped, once more, by the Merc.

He pushed himself up, and stepped forward. "Name's Frank." He extended his hand. Al took it, and shook heartily. Frank's oddly warm smile disappeared when he felt the steel in his hand. Al looked down as well, and realized he forgot to replace the polymer. He made a quick apology, and hurried off.

"Hey!" Al turned, embarrassed. "Don't try anything." He said with a wink.

O

Al, with a lingering smile, pushed open the door to the saloon. Nova and Gob were crowded near the radio. Apparently, all the people, in trying to escape the heat, invaded the saloon. Al pushed his way past the citizens, and behind the bar. The mood was very tense, as people had to bump elbows constantly. Al pulled Nova away, asked her what was going on.

"Like I said. Three Dog's calling." She pushed Al towards the radio, forcing his head down. Al tried to listen, but was drowned out by the crowd.

"Hey!" He yelled. The people didn't listen. The Lone Wanderer tried a few more times, each with no success. He then gave up, and whipped his pistol, pointing it at the floor. He fired, and everyone in the building fell into a deathly silence. "Shut up." he said calmly. They complied, and Al thanked them. He then turned the radio up.

"-is message repeats." Oh, what convenient timing! "I just got a ring from the town of...well, Big Town. They said they needed, once again, the help of the roughest, toughest son of a bitch to walk these wastes. Three guesses as to who that guy is. And no prizes for the right answer. Al, you should be shovin' off real soon. Don't worry, I'm sure htye'll have some tea and crumpets for your trouble." Al rolled his eyes. He appreciated the admiration, but he didn't feel praise-worthy as of late.

He stepped away, and made his way to the door, silently. Just before he left, he turned. All the people were still silent, awaiting his word. "You may continue." He said, motioning like a circus ringleader. They picked up where they left off. Al left, and made his way to his home. He needed to gear up. Whatever was going on in Big Town was obviously...big. And they needed his help.

Al barged in, scaring Dogmeat a little. After he saw who it was, he laid back down, and continued to nap. He went to get his Ranger Armor, but something stopped him. It was strange, but he simply didn't feel worthy of donning that mantle. The paint must not be dry, he thought to himself. Had to be it. He stepped past, and grabbed some ammo for his shotgun and plasma rifle. He pondered getting some metal armor on, but the sweltering heat outside vetoed that idea.

He went with some leather armor. He had to dust off the suit, it'd been so long since he'd worn anything but the Ranger armor. He strapped on all his gear tight, then left. He rushed to the exit gate of Megaton. In his peripheral, he noticed Craterside Supply's door open. Al didn't look to see who exited.

Outside, he waited until this mystery man Damon showed up. A few minutes later, the gate opened, and a big burly man stepped out. A little shorter than Al, but then again, most people in the Wasteland that weren't green and screaming their heads off were shorter than Al. The man had on full woodland camouflage, with a security vest on it. He had a .45 on his hip, a rifle of a type Al'd never seen on his back, and a hatchet strapped to his belt.

Now here's where he started looking like a nut. Guy had a Mohawk, high and tight, and these huge sideburns on him, all the way down his face. No beard though. He looked over at the Lone Wanderer leaning against the wall, and grinned.

"How are you, partner?" And one of the craziest accents Al'd ever heard.

"I'm alright. Just waiting for some guy to show up." Al replied nonchalantly. In his time, he'd seen weirder looking folks. Most of them were wearing tires for armor though.

"Ah, heard about that one on the radio." He said, with an odd mix of Western and German accents. "You that Al Sorenson feller?" Al nodded. "Ah, pleased to meethca. Name's John Howard Jayne." He extended a hand.

Al looked at the limb in unease. "You the guy who was...with Moira earlier?"

"Red-head, nice tits?" A quick nod in confirmation. "Yep, that's me. She was a fiery lass, let me tell you." He bit his lower lip in memory. Al's very soul shuddered in agony.

"Yeah...so...what are you in town for?"

"Some supplies. I've been running low lately, need some food." He pulled out that hatchet. "I would've used my axe here, but game's scarce up north here. You know?"

Al smiled and nodded. "Oh, I do. I've lived around here for years. It's tough."

"I'm sure." He said, with some disbelief. Al's smile faded a little. "So, you're the 'toughest sonuvabitch' 'round these parts?"

""Yes," Al retorted, "I am."

"Oh, I know. Moira had a lot to say 'boutcha. How you did all this research for her, went above and beyond the call of duty."

"Yep. The Wasteland Survival guide. And I did all that back when I was fresh from Vault 101. You can imagine how it went from there." Al boasted, smirking. It was good to remember one's accomplishments.

"Oh, I believe you lad. I do. But I gotta have some proof." He said, then leaned on his hand against the same wall as Al, and said: "How about we go help out this Big Town and you show me how tough you really are, Vaulty?"

Al didn't need his help. But now, his pride was hurt. He had to accept. "Sounds perfect. I'll show you just how tough the Capitol Wasteland makes a man." John and Al had leaned in close, each giving a look of new rivalry.

O

Once their cockfight was done, Al and John actually got to talking. It helped that when you're walking, conversation not having to do with who's better comes pretty easy.

"Yeah, I got a big family back southwest. The Jayne clan has had that land from before the War."

"Really? Southwest? From what I hear, it safer back there."

"Yeah, but we still have raiders. And those that are there are tough to get rid of. Takes a lot of ammo to dig them out of their holes."

"You haven't seen D.C. raiders. Fuckers are so hopped up on jet and psycho they hardly feel pain. Constantly angry, constantly hungry, and they have to be tough enough to survive Deathclaws, Yaoi Guai, and Super Mutants."

"Damn. And you said you lived in a Vault till what? Eighteen?"

"That's right." Al gloated.

"So, if some Vault Dweller can just show up and become the most dangerous guy in comparison to these Raiders, what does that say about them?"

That was a good point. "You haven't seen the kind of shit I put up with on a daily basis. The only reason it isn't so fucked up now is because for the past three years I've fought tooth and nail to clean it up. And I'm still not even half-done."

John made a noise of contempt. "About thirty of us Jaynes could do all that in half the time." He said, trying to one-up Al.

Al got his comeuppance. "So it'd take fifteen men to do what I did, by myself, in a few months?"

"Oh, fuck you!" He said, laughing.

"No, no. If you had your family to teach you and give you your gear, then good for you. I didn't have shit. I had basically no one to teach me, or give me armor. I had to earn it. Fuck, I ran around with nothing but a baseball bat because I was trying to conserve ammo for few months." Al pursued, pointing an accusatory finger.

John made a humph of thought. He was thinking up some witty response, rubbing his chin like a statue, when something interrupted him. A potshot from a hunting rifle hit the sand near his feet, making him jump. He quickly hit the dirt, crouched, and pulled out his rifle. He took short controlled bursts at the Raiders. Al charged, seeing a nice rock he could take cover behind.

"Move up!" Al yelled at John. "I'll cover you!" He pulled out his plasma rifle, and fired wildly at the attackers. The plan worked. They stopped shooting long enough for John to get to safety. Al reloaded his rifle, and peeked around the corner. Five raiders, small group. Mostly riflemen. One shotgunner, waiting for one of the duo to approach. Al relayed his findings to his friend. Albeit with much more profanity.

"Shiesse!" He spat. He pulled out a grenade from his belt, and Al got the idea. He copied the motion, and they both pulled out the safety pins. John counted down from three on his fingers. Three. Al thought in his head how he should toss it. An upwards arc would be best. It'd give him time to advance in the dust the explosion would cause. Two. Al lowered his arm, feeling the weight. He saw John's fist tighten, and Al did the same, and felt the grenade's primer kick in. One. They tossed in unison.

The two ovals flew, and landed a few feet from one another. Then the BOOM! For a split second, it all sounded quiet. Al rolled out of cover in that silence, and John, smiling at the ballsy charge, did the same. They sprinted towards the Raider's little farmhouse, spitting lead and plasma towards where they guessed the Raiders would be.

As they passed through the clearing dust, they saw that they had taken out three of the riflemen, and the last one was injured. Al raised his rifle, brought it to bear, and fired before John could take it for his own. The man melted into atoms and dripped down the wall. John cheered and laughed, yelled "I Valhalla Jag Rider!"

Al raised a rifle, but something felt amiss. He took a head count. One Raider (ah ha ha) had Blastmaster armor. The second (ah ha ha) had Painspike, and an assault rifle in absolute shit condition. The third and fourth (Ah ha haaa-okay this gag's gotten old.) both had Badlands armor. Four. Where was the fit-

BANG!

A shotgun's blast rang out. Al prepared for the burning of buckshot in his arm, but never felt it. Al opened his eyes, and with his left hand, pulled out his Blackhawk. He swung his arm around to meet the raider, but it was too late. Al fired, but he'd shot second. The raider fell at about the same rate John Howard Jayne did.

And just before he passed out from the pain, John muttered something. "I'm gonna need a band aid, doc."

O

When John came to, he felt a tightness around his left forearm. He lifted it to meet his sore eyes, and saw it had been wrapped up in gauze. He checked everywhere else on him, tightening muscles to test if he was still functional. All systems were go.

He lifted himself up with some effort, and saw Al sitting, staring out into the wastes. Without looking, Al greeted him. "Good to see you're still kicking. I was almost worried." He grinned,, chuckling at himself.

"Yeah..." The injured man said. "It's gonna take a helluva lot more to put me in the ground than some buckshot."

Al now turned to him, grinning more wide and sly. "Good, good. Glad that your clan life hasn't made you Jayne men soft."

"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. You got lucky. If it'd been you who'd been shot, I'd have left you. I'm just thankful you're such a pleasant person." He said, the sarcasm dripping onto the floorboards.

Al made an exaggerated gesture with his hand. "Oh, of course. I couldn't let my prime source of entertainment die that easily." They guffawed at each other's expense for a bit, then quieted down.

John piped up first. "In all seriousness, this is some pretty nice work. Where'da learn?"

Al scooted a chair over. "My dad was the vault doctor. I had to learn something from him. I would occasionally help out in the clinic, mostly basic stuff, first aid, bruises, easy stuff."

"Ah. Doctorin's a good skill to have. Wish more of us knew 'bout it."

"Oh, I'm not that good. I can deal with gunshots, bites, bleeding, but when it comes to the internals, I'm clueless. I can set a bone back, but I can't do a damn thing for a ruptured spleen. That's what the town doctors are for."

"Eh. You can't do everything." John stated, resigning himself to human limitations.

"True enough." Al muttered back. A few seconds of silence. Wasteland crickets and the occasional gunshot filled the air. Standard night. Not too hectic, nor too calm. Al actually preferred it this way. If it was too quiet, he got paranoid that something was going on that he wasn't aware of. If too noisy, then Al's chronic hero syndrome would force him to get up and check to see if everything was ok.

Well, he did back before. Nowadays...now he found himself lacking in his compassion for the Wasteland. Before, he could find something to fight for everywhere. One could say he idealistic about the world. That everything had some good in it. That one day, with some luck, Al would set enough of an example to sway everyone to work together, and Al could retire.

It was hard to think that way. People died back then, just less. The most difficult thing to do was trying to build a castle out of mud. No matter how hard you tired, eventually the mud would just go back into a puddle. For the first hour, you could entertain the notion that it'd pay off. But after enough time, you get so jaded that it seems pointless.

"Hey." John said, lifting his head up. Al turned, ripped from his thoughts. "I'm gonna hit the sack. Wake me up if'n you want me to take watch."

"Nah. I found some mines. Hypothetically speaking, if one does go off, we'll wake up."

"And, hypother-...hyp..." He trailed off, scratching his chin.

""Hypothetically."

"I was about to get it!" He defended. "Just as I was about to say before I was so rudely interrupted, if hypo-thetically don't wake up if one goes off, then what?"

Al grinned deviously. "They'll just have to get past more mines."

John mirrored his friend. "Great plan. God, I love explosions."

"They're just so great."

O A/N

OMG that took way too long to do. But just an update on everything, I now have a laptop, so my writing will increase in speed, as I can now write without having to worry about crashes or interruptions. I'll be pumping out chapters like I faster than a 13-yr old faps to s3xy pr0nz, so to all the best, most patients fans a crappy fanfic author could ask for, thank you. This is for you guys.

Let me tell you, the second part to this will be coming out very soon. I just wanted you guys to know that I'm still alive.

Chubs out.