Finally, the longest of intermission is finished. I will be grateful to anybody who continues to read after that. I hope you enjoy part 2.
Part II
Ian stared into the bonfire unflinchingly.
Its massive heat roared through the darkness, touching at Ian's eyes with its invisibly searing fingers. Black smoke rose from the hidden core of it, floating slowly away into the twilight sky. The sun was setting somewhere, sinking away behind the silhouetted horizon with an apathetic slowness. If he looked hard, Ian could see darker smudges within the fire's deep red body. He couldn't tell if this was truly them or just something he'd convinced himself of. Surely, Markus and the other dead had burned away long ago, leaving just a figment in Ian's eye.
As the night air lost its heat of day, Ian felt the fire ever more. With every moment, the flames seemed to spread outward. Ian could feel them reaching toward, toward the buildings, toward the sky, trying to burn up the whole world. The death pyre wanted everything.
He stood for a long time, saying nothing. Ian could see people milling about in the corner of his vision, but he paid them no mind. He couldn't hear anything except the hungry crackle of flames. He couldn't see anything save for the ever growing flare, the screeching light of fire which welled up before his eyes.
Ian didn't know how long it had been when he finally walked away. The sky's light seemed to have all gone away, but that might have been the residual blindness from staring into the fire. Daylight could have fallen all around without Ian taking notice.
What was he doing? It seemed to scream at him. There were so many questions, all circling his head like scavengers. All around the town and in every window, watching him. Chase his father? Stay here? And what about Amata? Had he made the right choices before? It had seemed so clear to Ian at the time, but now the self-assurance was fading. Maybe he should have left her there. Fuck, maybe he should have stayed himself. That would have probably meant death, but what did it matter. Markus would still be alive then, and so would every person who died in that siege and the counterstrike.
At the core of all the tragedies were choices that Ian made. He never saw the consequences until it was too late.
Ian stumbled over something, a stone or some pit in the sand, it didn't matter. He just barely managed to catch himself against a railing, uttering a coarse word in the process. Climbing back up, Ian looked around. In thought, he'd wandered away from his house. This was the complete opposite direction.
Growling to himself, Ian turned around and headed toward the distant building.
"Hey friend," a half-friendly voice called from above, "Are you drunk?"
Ian paused and looked up toward the voice. It was Colin Moriarty, standing on the platform just outside his bar. The man was leaning over the railing, staring down at Ian with a look on his face. Was that… pity?
"No," Ian called up to the man before turning away again. However, he only managed to turn halfway before another volley of words fell down on him.
"Well maybe you should be. This is a hell of a day to be alone and sober."
Ian shook his head, not even looking up this time. "That's not…"
"Just get the fuck up here kid. Your goddam drink is on me."
Ian sighed and stared at the dirt for a moment. There wasn't really a choice, was there? The man was just going to keep insisting until Ian relented. That much was obvious.
"Fine, I'm coming up."
Ian headed up the ramp and managed to find his way to the bar. It was all just as rusted as ever. The door opened before his hand and Ian found himself thinking of Burke, the man he'd shot here. It wasn't a lingering thought even a momentary fixation. Just one flashing scene of the bullet breaking bone, cutting through the man's outstretched arm. Then, just as suddenly as the vision had come, it was gone.
"Ah, there you are," Moriarty said, eyes gleaming like marbles full of malice, "What will you be drinking tonight?"
"Just a nuka… a cola is all," Ian said, knowing he would have to order something.
Moriarty shook his head disapprovingly, "Bullshit. I don't care if you've sworn off the juice. Coming from a funeral, you drink whiskey. Gob! Get some fucking whiskey over here!"
The ghoul grumbled in the distance, but Ian could hardly hear it. The room was painfully full of noises. The layered sounds of a dozen conversations, set at odds with the static-spewing stereo. Every few moments it would spit out a few words, seemingly at random. Scrapes and clinks and pounding noises. It all came as an oppressive wall of noise, something seemed smothering.
Ian wanted to throw up.
A small glass was pressed into Ian's hand and he stared down at the brown liquid within. It was lukewarm in his hand, almost too heavy for the weakened muscles to support. Ian managed to grip it tight with both hands as he leaned against the bar. He wasn't focusing on anything, except maybe the floating clouds of acrid smoke.
Every so often one would brush up against hi already burning eyes or slip down into his lungs. Coughing fits and watering eyes. Ian drank some of the whiskey and had to farce it down. Nearly as acrid as the smoke. It buzzed in his brain, humming like a drowsy engine. Ian finished the glass and found it being refilled quickly.
Moriarty was waiting around in that area, seeming like a scavenger or some sort of lazy predator. His eyes remained constantly affixed to Ian and he glass of whiskey. Ian led a stray glance that way once or twice, only to find the man's unflinching gaze headed back. He was obviously waiting for something to happen.
Ian let the second glass of whiskey sit half empty for a long time. Moriarty tried to fill it, but Ian pulled the glass back toward himself. It was poison, but Ian could feel what it was doing to him. The son of a doctor should know basic symptoms. He would be drunk soon.
Without thinking, Ian poured back the rest of the whiskey.
It was a shock in his system, but that subsided as it had before. Ian found himself leaning against the bar more heavily than before. This should have worried him, but he didn't care. His thoughts seemed thicker and slower, a fact Ian was happy of.
"Well, it looks like that took the edge off," Moriarty said, suddenly standing just in front of Ian. There was an evil glint in the man's eyes that Ian never noticed. "Now the really reason I called you up here is because I've got something for you."
Ian stared at the man.
"What's that?" Ian asked. His words sounded far away, and his mouth felt strange in the articulation.
"Just a spot of information, if you're interested. Now that you're not tied up with Moira and those backward experiments of hers, I thought you might want some help with what you're really here for."
"What's that?" Ian repeated. His gut felt slick, and Ian thought once more that he was going to be sick. Was this from the alcohol, or the grief? Had he eaten something poisonous? His body rumbled for a moment and the feeling was gone.
"Your father," Moriarty provided.
The words shocked Ian and he recoiled.
"How do you…?"
"Don't be thick. You look just like him. James was here just a few days before you. I figured I could let you know where he went."
"That would be…" Once more, Ian trailed off and was interrupted, both at once.
"Of course, I can't be parting with such valuable information for free. I'm going to have to require a bit of payment."
"But… I don't have any money…" Ian muttered disappointedly.
"I thought as much. We'll just have to adjust the plan a little. Instead of a payment up front, you can work it off. There's an empty room upstairs that you can stay in until you've paid me back. Then you can be on your way with the information. Of course, I can't be telling you upfront. Then you might just go running off, so I'll hold onto the info until such a time as I can let you go off after him. Does this sound like a deal?"
Ian tried to think it over. He knew that this was something important. He needed to find out where his dad was, and this seemed to be the only chance of that. However, the tiny, not yet smothered by alcohol, portion of his mind rejected the idea. There was something wrong here, but he didn't know what.
Probably just nerves.
"I think tha… that's…" Ian began. However, before he could finish, there was a loud bang and the radio burst to full life for a moment. There was a clip of some prerecorded music, then a voice came on.
"Hello everyone, it's Three Dog here. Now I know how much you love the news, so I decided to put that off a minute. I've got a visitor here, so we're just going to talk on the air. Send out some friendly voices into the scary wasteland. Here is James Attison, the doctor you might know from…"
Ian's head whipped around toward the radio. It had faded back into static, quickly being lost in the white noise buzz of the bar. Ian had heard his father's name, and now he knew where to look. Sort of. Wherever the radio signal came from, Ian needed to get there.
"Godammit," Moriarty growled out, turning toward the now silent radio. There was a man there, standing with one hand atop the radio, balled up into a fist. It seemed that the two locked eyes for a moment. "What the hell did I tell you about fucking with that piece of shit." Moriarty left Ian behind and began to advance on the man.
Ian watched this, but did not see the actions. He was too focused on his thoughts. Three Dog was with his dad right now. Ian turned to the nearest person and asked, "Hey… Do you know where that guy is? Three Dog?"
"Yeah, he's up at GNR, northeast."
"Thanks," Ian spat out, already climbing from the seat. He was out the door in a moment, heading away into the darkening night. Below, the fire blazed on, letting out its churning column of smoke. Ian moved past it, ignoring the roaring flames as best he could. Galaxy News Radio to the northeast. Three Dog and his dad.
There were still things left to find out, though. Ian didn't know the exact whereabouts of this place. He summoned up a quick list of the people who might help him, but it took nearly a minute to decide. Even with the bite of night air all around, Ian's senses and thoughts were muddled.
After a few minutes of stumbling along dirt and metal paths, Ian pushed his way through the door of Craterside Supply. As always, the main room was dimly lit with large patches of darkness sitting around. Moira was in her usual place behind the counter, though a good deal of the chipper seemed to have gone out of her. She looked up at Ian as he entered and greeted him with a resounding lack of cheer.
"Hi Moira," he said, taking great care not to look at the empty space. Markus should have been in that corner, standing guard like part of the shadows.
He wasn't, and there seemed a constant sense of that fact.
"What are you looking for?" Moira asked. She had her hands down on the counter and appeared to be supporting herself with those two limbs. Ian was starting to regret coming here. He doubted if there was any place in town which held such a strong ghost of the man.
"I'm leaving town tomorrow, and I need some information." He said it simply, hoping to avoid any drawn out conversation. It seemed there was none forthcoming from Moira. She just nodded slowly and asked him what he needed.
"I need to find a place called GNR."
"Galaxy News Radio, that's the place up northeast. What do you need to know?"
"I need to know how to get there, that's all."
She nodded and reached under the counter. A bit of rolled up paper came out, clutched in her hand. After rolling its wrinkled body out, Moira revealed it to be a faded tourist map. Long dead places were marked and circled in sharp ink. She pulled a pen out from somewhere and made quick work of it.
"That's us, here… Megaton… and Galaxy News Radio is around here. Once you cross the river you'll have to take the subway tunnels because everything else is blocked off by wreckage."
Having explained, Moira rolled the map back up and handed it to Ian. He held it one hand and thanked Moira before heading back to the door. He had it halfway open before she called out to him. There was a hint of her old vitality as he came back, but still an evident sadness.
"I've got some old equipment you can have. Nothing fancy because, y'know, this is a business, but I can't just let you go in there with nothing. No need to thank me. This stuff is old and I bet half is junk, but the other half just might keep you alive. Follow me, it's in the back."
Moira stepped out from behind the counter and led Ian through the doorway at the other end of the room. The light there was even fainter, leaving huge gaps of darkness between spots of aged and rusted furniture. Mixed in with everything was a seemingly random assortment of clutter.
They went up the stairs and Moira began to root around through the mess there. She pulled out a wide variety of things from the sprawling piles. A large, tattered canvas backpack, a rusted pipe, a length of rope, yellowed by age. It seemed that she was procuring anything from the area which might become useful in the slightest. The stack of equipment grew constantly, continuing to pile with all manner of items.
As this occurred, Ian's vision became caught on something beyond the commotion. There were two beds at the room's far end, each tucked into their own corner. Bare coverings ornamented the mattresses with plain colors. At the foot of each sat a battered footlocker, apparently salvaged from another age.
Each had a title stenciled onto it with flat black paint. The one further away held the words "MOIRA's THINGS".
The nearest simply stated, in the same block script, "B4-01".
That title sent a brief shiver through Ian and he found his hand searching out the key. It was hidden away in his pocket, as it had stayed since the day before. Ian took it out now and stared at it. Surely enough, the key said the same it had before. This was what Markus had been giving to him.
"Hey, what have you got there?" Moira asked, apparently having abandoned the collection momentarily. She was standing just behind Ian, looking over his shoulder at the key.
"I think it's the key to that footlocker," Ian said numbly, "Markus gave it to me before he… he gave it to me yesterday…"
She was silent. They both were.
Neither of them moved as they stared at the key. The air was thick and Ian didn't know if he could make it to the footlocker. The thing suggested an ageless immobility, and Ian almost felt afraid to go near it.
"He gave it to you…" she whispered, a touch sadly, "Open it…"
Ian looked at Moira for a moment to confirm before going forward with the key in hand. He knelt before the strange footlocker and found the lock quickly. It was an old contraption, constructed half from rust and half from some dense, heavy metal. It was cool in his hand, holding a chill of death. Despite the given key in his hand, Ian was beginning to feel wrong about opening it. This footlocker belonged to Markus, whatever hand held its key.
He paused there before it, but finally made himself fit the key in. It entered easily, and turned with a small amount of effort. The lock clicked open and Ian twisted it off the latch. Then his hand was resting on the lid. Apprehension was strong now. Anything could be inside, and whatever was inside belonged to Markus. He was an intruder here.
Markus had given him the key. That fact reverberated in Ian's skull once, pushing him forward. The man had wanted him to have whatever was in here, and that was that. Setting aside his apprehension, Ian opened the footlocker, moving his hand slowly as if afraid to jostle the contents.
Staring down into the metal box, Ian's eyes ran over the contents with a measuring glance. It took only a few moments to see everything there was. Two boxes of ammunition stood to one side, while a third occupied the other. However, the third had the lid off and propped against it, revealing a tangle of clothes to be shoved inside. Littered across the crate's floor was a silver revolver among a wide assortment of spare parts and miscellaneous items.
There was something very sad about looking over a dead man's belongings. The gun seemed to be in extremely good condition, and Ian could almost see the man cleaning it and changing out parts for spares.
Ian shut the footlocker without a word. He put the lock back in place and hammered it closed. It shut with a resounding snap.
"What was in there?" Moira asked, curiosity suppressing anything else.
"Just… his stuff," Ian answered. Why had Markus given this to him? Ian felt plagued by that question. It had to be for some reason. "Can I…?" He gestured toward the crate with his empty hand. It wasn't very big, and Ian thought he could lift it easily enough, if allowed.
"Oh, sure…" she said nodding, "He did give it to you after all. And… you know what? If he gave you that stuff, he'd want you to have the rest too. They brought it to me after… I'll go get it for you."
Moira went away, disappearing from Ian's sight. He could still hear her nearby, fumbling around with something or other. There was a metallic rasping noise from the other room, and a tinkling noise. Ian supposed she had dropped a couple of bullets onto the hard metal floor. That was just his guess, though.
Soon, she was back. Moira was carrying Markus's rifle, and his backpack, and several other articles of his equipment. Ian recognized, with a fearful chill, that the man's boots and belt and some other pieces of indispensable attire. It disturbed Ian to see them there, as if the man had merely faded, leaving all of this behind.
Moira handed the whole assemblage to Ian, and proceeded to continue with collecting the junked equipment. It seemed she was going to go through with that in addition to handing over Markus's own things. It didn't take long for her to finish, but the process had left bits and pieces sprawled out across the ground in haphazard piles.
Together they pulled the equipment together and managed to fit it all into a pair of nearly ruined backpacks. In the end they were left bulging to the brim, threatening to break apart under the pressure. Neither did, though, and Ian managed to make it out of the building with all the gear in tow. He said goodbye to Moira, and thank you, before departing into the night.
He had to move slowly under the weight of it all, but did not despair. Ian knew he was in no hurry. This was the dead of night and he would not be leaving until morning at the earliest. He would have to go home and ready his equipment before leaving, anyway, and this could not be done with haste. There were many things in these bags which were obviously not useful. (The rubber soul of a boot, detached from anything else, stood chief among those) He would have to take time to sort out the things he could use and the things which would be left behind.
Even if it wasn't for the plans to be made and work to be done, Ian would not have hurried. Even without the excess of equipment pressing down on his back and shoulders, Ian would have felt restrained and held down. These things that were the memory of Markus were pressing down on Ian, shoving him lower and lower.
There was smoke in the air which Ian did not want to breathe, and the pyre's embers were visible from above, glittering and dancing with death. He was no less solemn for company.
Finally, Ian made it back to his house and trudged inside. The lights came on before the door shut and Wadsworth was upon him. The robot asked insistently if he needed anything and began to continually fret over Ian's wellbeing. It seemed that the butler had deemed him "outside the normal parameters for human sleep patterns" and to be attempting "activities which ludicrously overestimated his physical strength in such a condition".
Ian flatly informed the robot that he was just having a rough couple of days, and that he was just moving these things in.
"Oh, I see…" Wadsworth replied "I must say, I would prefer it if you summoned my assistance for such grievous physical labor."
"How could I? You were over here."
"I have a remote tie to the Megaton computer system. With proper access codes I can be summoned from anywhere in town and called upon for help in such matters."
"I don't know any access codes," Ian said, struggling to bring the equipment up the stairs, "and besides, this is hardly killing me."
"Analysis of your mobility patterns suggests a high percentile chance of your losing balance somewhere in this ascent. Should such a tragedy occur, the abundance of equipment could drag you down the stairs at a dangerous and unfortunate angle. From what I…"
"I'm fine," Ian insisted, leaving the stairs behind and entering his room. It was at the end of the hall, where he had shambled into two nights before. The haphazard piles of equipment from the previous morning still existed in the same places. Ian threw down the bags of equipment and got to work with it all.
The first thing he did was set aside Markus's things, putting the equipment atop his bed and the footlocker in its corresponding place. He would deal with those later, once he'd calmed down enough from the events of tonight. Until then, Ian had plenty of other things to go through.
He collected the obviously unusable things off to one side and wondered silently what was done about refuse. These things included bits of string, spent shell casings, and the aforementioned boot portion. Ian set these away quickly and focused his time on the others.
Like before, bullets were arranged by caliber. Ian put similar components together as often as he could, but the similarities of many pieces of equipment became troubling. At one point he gave up the sorting of bullets to separate the different sizes of springs.
Miscellaneous things were set apart after every attempt at organization failed. There were some beautifully useful objects in the pile, though. A dust and blood stained hazmat suit, glass face piece completely intact or a flashlight with a solid, metal body. Ian cherished these discoveries as he mourned the more abstract items.
After a long while of sorting, Ian's task was interrupted by Wadsworth's sudden announcement.
"There is a message for you," the robot said from the doorway.
"Later," Ian said dismissively as he looked over a canteen he'd found. It seemed to be intact, but Ian wanted to be sure before putting anything in it.
"There is an urgent message for you," the robot amended.
Ian groaned and set the canteen down in flurry of exasperation.
"What is it?" he barked out.
"This is a message from Doctor Church. Message contents…" the robot's voice faded away and was quickly replaced by an audio recording. There was something strange about it, though. The doctor's voice seemed strained with either effort or panic. This aspect initially drew Ian's attention. It wasn't until he heard the second voice screaming in the background that Ian was leaping up from the pile.
"Hey kid, you've gotta get over here. Now!" Doctor Church growled through the recording
"Who are you? Where am I?"
"She woke up a minute ago and… she's not taking it well."
The recording ended, but it didn't matter because Ian was already heading out the door. Ian's footsteps seemed thunderous in the motionless night. He tore down the hill from his house and toward the hospital.
If the situation had been different, Ian would have assumed some record to be broken by this dash.
As he neared the building, Ian began to hear Amata's shouts. It wasn't until he flew through the door that the full sonic brunt became apparent. Ian had no difficulty in finding her from the direction of her voice.
As he entered the room, Ian found Dr. Church struggling against Amata, trying to get the wildly flailing girl back toward the bed. He was bigger than her, but Amata seemed mad with fear and constantly managed to slip from his grasp and elude the man's strength.
"Don't just stand there," Dr. Church said, spying Ian from the corner of his eye, "Help me!"
Ian went forward and did his best to assist, though he couldn't shake the terrible worry of hurting his friend.
"What are you doing!?" Amata roared as they managed to put her upon the bed. Ian stepped back for a moment and was repaid with a desperate lunge in his direction. She tackled him to the floor, suddenly recognizing Ian's face there.
"Ian…?" She spluttered out, "What's…. what's going on?" She tried to get off of him but her body seemed to resist. Amata fell backward and half caught herself against the floor. "Where are we?"
The fear on her face was awful.
"This is…" Ian began, searching desperately for the right words. He took a breath and said, "We're outside the vault."
"What do you mean we're outside the vault!?" she cried out at him. She seemed very close to tears, and her voice was full of fearful desperation.
"We're outside… When I was leaving you got… you got hurt and…"
"…and you took me?" there were tears in her eyes and in her voice. Amata collapsed against the bed and flinched at the contact. She was staring all around, trying to take in the terrible scene. This was horror. This was the wasteland. This was nightmares and the stuff of warning stories. He could see it in her eyes as she looked around.
This is hell.
"I had to," Ian pleaded, "You would have died if I didn't."
She didn't say anything. Amata seemed to stare through him and through the whole world, as if she could look back into the vault and crawl home by the sight.
"I didn't have a choice…"
Still no words. She seemed stunned and dumb, effectively cut off from everything. No part of her moved expect for the darting eyes.
"I can't… I can never go back… never go home… can I?" she whispered pitifully.
Ian couldn't speak. He just shook his head and watched as she leaned back against the cot. She wasn't unconscious, he could see her eyes. She was just staring straight up at the ceiling.
"I'm sorry," Ian said, knowing it could do nothing.
"You're sorry?" she said hollowly, "You stole me from home, brought me to hell, and you're sorry?"
Ian heard the anger that should have been in those words if not for the numbness she surely felt.
"I know this is very stressful," Dr. Church said slowly, "But I can't have you lingering in this room. This sounds like a problem that can be solved somewhere else. I'm sorry, but I need the room empty."
Ian looked up at the man and felt a smoldering hatred form. Just the same, Ian stood and tried to help Amata up. She cringed at his touch but stood slowly. Her legs seemed weak beneath her, and Ian had to hold her up as they walked away.
As they left the building, Ian felt Amata begin to shake. She was staring around at everything with a growing panic. She saw the stars and flinched, saw the distant window lights and cowered. He had his arms around her and could feel the distinct shivers. Suddenly, surely accidentally, one of Amata's hands clamped around Ian's own. A vicelike grip, strength fueled by fear.
The journey was short but drawn out by the pace. Amata moved along at a shuffling crawl, as if afraid every step might leave her swallowed into the ground. She had to be careful to keep this fate at bay. Eventually they reached the house, and Ian brought her inside quickly. The door shut behind and some of her fear seemed to go away.
"What is this place?" She whispered, looking around, "It's big…"
"This is my house," Ian answered.
"How can you? How can you have a house? You've only… You're…" she responded, confused by it.
"I'll get you some food, I'll explain, "Ian hoped that there was food somewhere, "Sit over there, there's a table." Ian discovered this fact as he told it to her. Amata seemed surprised by its appearance but went over to it just the same. She was moving slowly, every twitch an exaggeration of intention.
Luckily, Ian found a refrigerator with food stocked inside. From the strange assortment he chose a couple cans and brought he prepared substances over Amata. He sat opposite her and did his best to explain what had happened since he left the vault. Her fear subsided slowly as curiosity grew.
Her speech returned slowly to its normal vitality and soon she was participating in the conversation as much as he. She was amazed by the giant subterranean insects and seemed to hold a faint hostility toward the world beyond Megaton's wall. The existence of that wall came as a relief to her, apparently easing a multitude of doubts.
"You haven't found your father yet, have you?" she asked suddenly in a short lapse.
"No, I haven't," Ian responded, "I was planning to leave soon to look. I have some clue about where he might be, but just that much. I don't know how long it will take."
Taking a slow bite of the strange food, Amata said, "I hope he's okay, my dad said that this place can…"
Food fell back to the table as tears shot up in her eyes.
"You bastard…" she muttered, hardly comprehensible, "You…"
"Amata…" Ian tried to say.
"No!" She shouted, tearing through the quiet atmosphere. "You killed him! And you… You killed my father in cold blood!"
Ian tried to say something else but Amata leapt up from the table, knocking her chair away in the process. It clattered loudly against the floor. Ian stood after her. She stepped around the table, trying to get toward the door. Ian saw this and moved between her and it.
"Amata please…"
"No!" She screamed, "No, you get away from me!" Her head and eyes were whipping wildly back and forth. Without warning she bolted up the stairs. Ian ran after her, still trying desperately but ineffectually to calm her.
She reached the top a moment before him and shot into the nearest room. She threw the door shut behind her and Ian heard its lock click.
"Amata I didn't… I didn't have any… I'm sorry..." He knew she could hear him but there was no response. Ian was practically speaking into the door, doing anything he could to console her, but it was all useless. Amata was absolutely silent.
Some great time later, Ian was laying on his bed, awake. All the lights in the house were out, but he couldn't sleep. Amata had never come out of the room. If Ian was quiet and ceased his breathing for a moment, he would be able to hear the faint sounds of her sobbing through the walls.
Every moment drove the spike deeper. He'd done this, all of this, to his friend. He felt like throwing up, knowing this was all his fault. Amata was in there crying because of him. Her father was dead by his hand. She was homeless for his failings. Ian had ruined the world for her.
When he finally did manage to sleep, Ian was plagued with a seething multitude of terrible nightmares.
