AN: Apologies for the delay, I've been incredibly busy of late. I'm hoping to have other chapters up with more frequency. Thank you to all for your patience during the delay.
"Are you sure about this guy, sir?" Donavan inquired with the same tone he'd started using whenever asking Daring Dashwood a question, a sort of subtle humility that suggested the tech was one hundred percent convinced his own opinion on the matter was wrong and he merely wanted to hear the elderly adventurer explain why.
The jaunt to the small commercial airport several dozen klicks away from Rivet City had been entirely uneventful. The size of the party, totaling eight now with Dogmeat included, discouraged all but the most reckless raider, and the Super Mutant menace, normally so prevalent in this portion of the Capital Wasteland, was oddly muted. Riley wanted to attribute that to the Brotherhood of Steel's campaign against the greenskins, but somehow doubted that were the case. It almost seemed like the mutants were in hiding, building their strength for something truly unpleasant. Yet even those thoughts were pushed aside with concern for Charles' well being. What Daring said about Point Lookout…The thought of him trapped in that place chilled her more than she cared to admit.
Dogmeat bounced ahead, leaping over rubble and rock, seeking whatever had caught the attention of his senses, likely nothing more than a molerat. Even so, the sight of his wagging tail and excited, smiling features helped take Riley's mind off the danger Charles was in, if only for a few moments, before her naturally protective instincts returned.
Dashwood had been remarkably coy about what they'd find at the airport, or even where it was exactly, as if he thought his traveling companions would object if they knew the true destination.
He's probably right, certainly Jericho might, hell, Jericho probably will even if we find a fully stocked monorail with a suit of Power Armor for everyone…
It wasn't until they actually neared the airport that Riley noticed the rising smoke. Someone, or multiple someones, had a fire going implying civilization, however temporary, had come to the old airport. Jericho and Charon, both of whom were taking the lead aimed their weapons towards the pillar of smoke hunching slightly to reduce the chance of being shot dead. Whistling for Dogmeat to return Charon waved the dog back, allowing the group's forward scout to take some measure of protection behind the guns of his more sentient companions. RL-3 hovered about the rear with weapons readied whispering fanatically about purging communists, both Chinese and Canadian, Riley couldn't really make it out. She was with Dashwood and Donavan near the center of the group, the tech providing an armed escort and Riley keeping the battered map level for Daring's gaze, marking the tattered parchment at the varying points instructed using a pen she'd brought along for such a purpose.
The old tarmac seemed in relatively good condition, almost exceptionally so considering the surrounding wreckage. The area was clean, swept free of dust and stone, no doubt by the figures gathered around the several garbage can fires. A small wall of portable steel barriers ringed the cleaner portion, erected in a manner that could provide modest protection to a crouching man or small child, more for the purpose of deterrent than actually keeping out anything bigger than a molerat. Taking one good look at the setup, Riley was convinced there'd be no way over that barrier without alerting the figures inside its defenses. A few crudely manufactured guard towers broke the cover at various intervals, flanked by skull studded metal poles, proudly displaying the remnants of those who'd attacked the airport, unsuccessfully. A small picket gate rested between two of those aforementioned guard towers, providing an obvious entrance into the camp, at least, for those who wished to do so with some semblance of peace. Strung between two tower wrought iron poles flanking the gate, so it hung above the entrance as a grim warning, was the body of a Talon Company mercenary, sagging loosely against the hemp bindings holding the corpse aloft. Beside the gruesome display was a flagpole, proudly displaying a flag Riley hadn't seen before. It was olive green, shade identical to the military-style tents she could vaguely make out within the compound, and bore only a single symbol, a white skull with an X drawn across its forehead.
Stowing the map within a leather belt pouch, Riley determined this was the group Daring had been so coy about, pulling Infiltrator off her back in an attempt to feel more secure. Even with the assault rifle in her hands the effect was limited. Taking a quick glance through the scope she managed to get a glimpse of the figures. While she was still too far away to make out any distinctive facial features she could determine the general layout of equipment.
There was a certain uniformity to their appearance, although not nearly as strict as the Talon Company mercs she'd run often afoul of. Each tried to dress resembling an old US military look, with green combat fatigues or something close enough accompanied by old helmets, combat armor and bandanas. One of them seemed to be wearing nothing but a harness, combat pants and a beret. Behind the shirtless man hovered a gaudily painted Mr. Gusty, puttering about the barrier, a patrolling pattern clearly programmed into the robot's mainframe.
Before anyone could stop him, Dashing shoved his way past Charon and Jericho, approaching the gate without fear. The Bushmaster rested on his back, rather than in his hands and Riley knew the sweatervest and fedora would offer little protection against the weapons carried by the militaristic band of killers, of which she estimated there were about a dozen she could see, not counting the Gutsy. Holding his hands high, in greeting rather than surrender, Dashwood shouted, "Hey? Sergeant Tucker? Are you in there, you old son of a bitch? Daring's here to see you!"
The men and women around the fire jumped to action, drawing weapons and rushing towards the gate, pointing their various guns towards the old man. A quick head count showed one laser rifle, several combat rifles, one Chinese Assault rifle, a combat shotgun and a solitary plasma rifle, a far greater arsenal than that on their side. Still, that didn't stop everyone, save Dashwood, from raising their weapons in response, the sound of clicking safeties and cocking chambers echoing across the Wasteland stillness.
"Oh posh," Dashwood stated rather grumpily, "Everyone put down your guns, there's absolutely no need for this nonsense."
"How the hell are we supposed to trust these guys?" Jericho growled, jabbing his Chinese Assault rifle in the direction of the mercenary band, "They've got the firepower to take on a friggin army!"
"I trust you, you smelly old bastard, and you're far less pleasant than these chaps here," the old adventurer quipped with a chuckle, taking off his fedora and waving it towards the angry looking mob, "I don't see Tucker in there." He stated rather than asked, with the same tone of slight disappointment another would use to lament a lack of Nuka-cola variety in one's favorite bar.
The shirtless mercenary responded, jabbing the barrel of his laser rifle towards the old man, "Who the shit are you? I don't know you! What the hell makes you think you can just walk up to our outpost and demand to see the Sarge?" The comically oversized blonde mustache drooping over his protruding lips took away from the gravity of the tone, and Riley almost wanted to chuckle. Still, there was a killer's steel in the eyes behind the mustache that wasn't a laughing matter, so Infiltrator remained focused on the man's chest. If battle was joined he wouldn't be walking away.
"Don't get any bright ideas," Charon growled at the lead mercenary, yellow teeth gritted, fingers tensing around his shotgun's trigger, "I'd hate to mess up that haircut," gesturing with his weapon for emphasis. The fact that what of the mercenary's hair was visible beneath the simple military beret was a mere flattop, didn't seem to influence the ghoul.
"Freak! I'll put you in the ground where you belong…" A different mercenary snarled, finger tightening around her trigger, itching to fire. Riley herself mentally prepared for bloodshed, whatever Daring had hoped to accomplish by meeting the mercenary group wasn't going to be happening the way he'd intended. Hopefully the mercs didn't need to be alive to provide whatever the old man had been looking for.
"Wait!" A gruff voice from behind the mercenaries shouted across the tarmac, echoing throughout the emptiness, "Gunners, stand down! That's an order!" Grudgingly, in response to the command, the weapons were lowered, the shirtless Gunner spitting on the ground as he aimed the laser rifle towards the tarmac. After a moment, Riley waved for her own party to do so, which Jericho did with a notably vitriolic curse.
"That's the voice I was hoping to hear," Dashwood stated rather cheerfully, opening the gate and sliding into the compound without hesitation. Dogmeat trotted after him, likewise seeming oblivious to the heavily armed mercenaries standing all about them still appearing rather unhappy with their instructions. The old man pushed his way through the crowd with his typical devil-may-care flair towards the sound of the voice.
"How's he find the courage to do stuff like that?" Donavan whispered under his breath, trotting after Daring with a temperament that seemed almost identical to Dogmeat's.
"Because he's almost dead anyway," Jericho grumbled, pulling a packet of cigarettes free with grouchy monotony.
Someone's not happy.
Trying her best to emulate the same lack of concern the old man radiated, Riley followed, subtly slipping a piece of gum into her mouth, chewing nervously. That nervous tic might be noticed, but it was either that or tapping her foot, and the trained killers would certainly pick up that not so subtle gesture. Grinding the cherry-flavored gum into her molars, the mercenary captain followed Daring Dashwood into the compound, praying silently to whatever god was still listening that this exchange wouldn't end in a firefight.
Weaving her way through the tangle of bodies and weapons, Riley moved forward until Dashwood was in her sights again. The old, sweatervest wearing man stood tall and proud, hand outstretched for a shake, before another man who Riley assumed had been the one ordering these "Gunners" to stand down.
That man was tall and strong, with a hawk nose and sharply roman chin. His closely cropped black hair was hidden beneath a dark military-style cap, eyes concealed behind a pair of sunglasses. The face was a mess of scars and burns, with the letters B+ tattooed on his forehead in a dark red ink. A drooping handlebar mustache of the same color hung down over closed lips. A large cigar was clenched tightly between the teeth, emitting pleasant smelling smoke, vaguely remaindering her of a campfire.
Dark military boots on his feet, military camouflage pattern pants on his waist led up to a shirt of forest green covered by a US military jacket. A bullet-studded belt went around his waist, on which a large, aggressive-looking 10 Millimeter pistol and switchblade rested. A combat rifle hung loosely on his back, the handle appearing worn from use. This man stood with an air of subtle authority that clearly marked him as the, "Tucker," Daring had asked for.
At Tucker's right shoulder was another mercenary, this one a short, stocky woman, built like a bull. A crop of brilliantly red hair stuck outward over a face that was mostly hidden behind the old United States flag bandana wrapped around it. Only the eyes, an icy blue, were visible, squinting out at the intruders. A similar forehead tattoo was visible, only it read A-. Her attire was close to Tucker's, though with several plates of combat armor overtop the military-style fatigues and an unstrapped United States army helmet tottering atop her head, reminding Riley vaguely of the bobble-heads Charles kept in his Megaton home. The woman held an old MP-40 submachine gun in her battle-scarred hands, and gave off every impression she knew exactly how to use it. Unlike Tucker, who had an almost relaxed air about the entire situation, this woman seemed utterly wound and ready to lash out at any moment. Riley was certain that, if violence still came out of this meeting, the stocky woman with the bandana would be her first target, the shirtless man be damned.
Tucker looked down at Daring's outstretched hand with a raised eyebrow, "What the hell, old man?" He asked casually, blowing a cloud of smoke away from Dashwood, "You expect me to shake that? After all the crap you've put me through?"
Herbert Daring Dashwood, true to his name, didn't hesitate, "Your damn right I do, son. After I saved your ass more than once from that Deathclaw pack we ran afoul of near Salem. And that time I got you out of a Super Mutant stew pot, unscratched, with the caps intact. Or that one time the Mirelurk Queen had her claws around your entire damn Gunner company. Come to think about it, you owe me. Quite a bit, actually."
"You stole my girlfriend!" Sergeant Tucker bellowed at the smaller, older man, shifting his posture in an attempt to tower over him. Dashwood didn't back down, staring the bigger man in the eye, almost nose to nose except to avoid the burning tip of the cigar.
"Maybe you should have kept a better handle on her."
For one moment, Riley was afraid Dashwood had finally bit off more than he could chew, ready to rush in, guns blazing, to the old man's defense. Jericho, for his part, did his best not to snicker, muttering something under his breath that vaguely sounded like, "Old man's got a pair on him, that's for sure."
Then, out of the blue, Tucker erupted into a great belly laugh. "Daring, you old son of a bitch, how've you been?" The bulky merc wrapped the adventurer in a great bear hug, sliding his cigar to the side of his mouth to avoid causing damage to the wool sweatervest. Daring, for his part, returned the hug enthusiastically, clapping Tucker on the back with a surprising vigor.
"My back's killing me," he said with a wink implying something Riley would rather not picture," And I cut myself shaving this morning, otherwise I'm doing dandy."
"That's great," Tucker told him with all honesty, turning to face the stocky woman to his rear, "Molly? Stand down, this crotchety old piece of burnt leather is a friend of mine." The woman frowned, but lowered her MP-40 as instructed by the sergeant.
"I'll be damned," Charon murmured softly, "That's not how I expected things to go down."
"For once, zombie," RL-3 stated, rather more loudly than he no doubt intended, "We are in complete agreement."
If the banter in the background bothered the leader of the Gunners, he didn't show it. "How'd you know we were in DC?" The cigar-chomping mercenary added, looking quizzically towards his elderly friend, "You aren't on the memo list. Besides," he gestured with his cigar to the surrounding rubble, "We usually stay Commonwealth-side, that's our wheelhouse."
"Well I know Captain Wes hates your weaselly guts," Daring stated matter-of-factly, to which the sergeant nodded with a rueful smile, "And I know he hates the Capital Wasteland, too many damn Mutants. Plus the Talon Company is always undercutting the ops the Gunners do attempt. But, when the opportunity to expand comes along, you take it. But, seeing as you're not sure how well it's going to go, you send the guy you don't like."
"That sounds roughly accurate," Tucker admitted puffing a cloud of sweet-smelling smoke towards Riley, "Goddamn does Wes every hate me," there was a self-deprecating chuckle, accompanied by a dull snorting from Molly. "But he hates turning down caps more. Someone wants to steal Talon Company territory and start a few brush fires in the Capital Wasteland? He crosses his fingers and sends me. It's a win, win for the old bugger anyways. I live he gets paid, I die he never has to see my ugly mug again." He shrugged rather eloquently, "Hey, what can I say? It's a living."
"You seem to be doing alright," Donavan noted, gesturing towards the mercenary's corpse dangling from the poles above the gate, "Judging from that."
"We've got big guns," Molly muttered, shaking her head.
"Aye, that you do," Daring said in a chipper, sing-song voice that seemed a little too excited for Riley's tastes, "And I know you'd put those guns to good use." He paused, scratching his long white beard happily, "However, that wasn't what I was hoping you'd use to pay off your dept…"
"What debt?"
"The Super Mutant kitchen incident, remember?" The old man raised a bushy eyebrow," You went down there with a full team of Gunners, looking for a caps stash? Argyle and I saved you from being a mid-afternoon snack, still sorry about your men by the way…"
"Eh, Gord was an ass," Molly muttered, to which Tucker nodded half-approvingly.
"Okay, so maybe I do owe you for that one," The mercenary sergeant grumbled, looking down at the ground as if he'd much rather do just about anything other than give the sweater-wearing man his gun for free, "But the Deathclaws incident doesn't count!" He paused finally accepting that Dashwood wasn't leaving without his favor paid off. "Alright, who'd you want me to shoot?"
"Oh, I'm not looking for you to shoot anyone," Daring stated coyly, "If all goes well you'll not even have to draw that 10 MM." He glanced slyly towards the tents, as if trying to find something that Riley couldn't see, "You don't still keep Vera around do you?"
"Find the sap of the Mother Punga…Then your spirit will be free…"
Hadn't he done that? He thought he did? Why were his hands so blurry? Everything was green? His stomach was on fire.
"Find the sap of the Mother Punga, eat it, left your spirit fly free…When you've looked inside yourself then, only then, can you walk among our tribe."
Why was he so sick? It was the sap, had to be. How much had he eaten? Only a little bit…Just a bite, a nibble, sickly sweet, going down his throat…like molasses and honey…Such a contrast to the taste of Mirelurk, eaten raw on the journey towards the massive fruit. It had been enormous… towering over him but now? Head was throbbing, stomach growling, twisting and leaping and growing higher towards the roof of the cavern…
Yet now he knew he had to leave, had to stagger back towards the rickety plank door that opened up into the grotto where he'd found the plant and the 'Lurks, to find the open air and sun, be free of this headache, this nausea.
Why was everything so dark?
Charles staggered to his feet, moving slowly away from the giant plant, sap still dripping down from where he'd bitten into it, like blood from a wound. Why was everything upside down? The trees shouldn't be growing down from the sky…That was all wrong…And why was it so dark? The torches that the tribals had used to light the path must have been blown out by some foul wind.
He was walking forward, boots dragging against the mud, Vault Suit so very restricting, when he realized how wet everything was…The water was up to his waste but the trees and starless sky was all wrong, still, still it was wrong...
Yet the water didn't stop him, still he pressed on, forward trying to find the door that would take him back to the island. Then, something bumped against him, not a log, as it bent around him, smelling foul, sinking his heart with fear when he felt it.
Glancing down towards the object, half submerged in the murky, scum covered water, Charles recoiled in horror at the sight, falling backwards into the bog. It was a corpse, the body staring lifelessly upward towards him. Moria Brown, the enthusiastic, almost annoyingly so, shopkeeper and dear friend who he'd assumed was safe in Megaton. How'd she come here? How'd she met this horrid fate?
He felt tears stinging his eyes, heard his own panicked screams echoing as if they'd come from another. He scrambled away from Moria, the bog water thrown aside by feet and hands as he dodged the body. Soon enough however, his flailing limbs struck another corpse and, in terror, he glanced down at Lucas Simms' limp face, hands reaching outward towards him. Charles fled again, making it nearly two feet before tripping over another body of a friend, falling face first in the slimy filthy water. It was a horrific crawl, Sarah Lyons, Donavan, Sydney, Charon, Jericho, Wernher, Father Daniel, Dogmeat, Butch, Jericho. All dead, all looking up at him with vacant eyes demanding to know why he hadn't saved them, why he'd let them down.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry…."
The last body was the hardest, he couldn't look at her, couldn't face her, he stepped over the fallen woman and scrambled onto the marshy land. He felt himself sink into the mud, but it was better than the bog of corpses, so he crawled forward as energetically as possible, shoveling mud past him as he moved. Yet his fingers found something curious as they flung aside the muck of the bog, something plastic.
Pulling the object free and brushing the filth away with an almost robotic compulsion, Charles saw it was a Vault-Tech bobblehead exactly like the ones he collocated back in DC. This particular version of Vault Boy was pointing forward, a cold sneer set on his plastic visage. Beneath the yellow and blue paint was the following inscription, "Charles, everything is your fault."
With a scream of panic, the Lone Wander dropped the plastic man and fled further down the path, lashing out towards the reaching branches, tearing his suit on something he couldn't see. A second bobblehead appeared to be hovering in the air right in front of him, pointing exactly as the one before. Though Charles tried not to look at it, the inscription was somehow crystal clear, "You even killed your own mom. Not the nicest thing you could have done."
He collapsed to his knees, huddling in a ball, unable to go forward, unwilling to go back, "Make it stop…" Charles whispered to whoever was listing, "Please, just make it stop."
"It's not real, son," a calming, sagely voice that he instantly recognized said. Spinning around, Charles saw his dad, arms outstretched, walking slowly towards him. "This is all a hallucination, brought on by your own inner turmoil."
"Huh?" Charles tearfully muttered looking up through blurry vision at the smiling, bearded face of his father. James drew closer and closer, before kneeling beside his son and resting his hand against the younger man's forehead. Dad's skin was remarkably cool against the burning sensation he felt.
"You've ingested Punga sap, a great quantity of it, and it's amplifying what you feel inside, making you see your worst fears as reality." He paused, letting his son acclimatize to his words, "But it's not real. Charles, my precious son, it's just a hallucination. Son," he cupped Charles' face with a smooth hand, "You need to let the guilt go. My death wasn't your fault, the deaths of the Project Purity staff wasn't your fault. You did everything you could, and then some."
"So," Charles sniffed out, the throbbing in his head growing worse, almost like a blade cutting through his skull, "You aren't real, are you dad?" He asked the image of his father, a fresh grief ripping its way across his heart, "You're just a manifestation of my inner turmoil?"
"I'm afraid so, Charles" the spectral James told him, wrapping his arms tightly around the Lone Wanderer and pulling him in tightly, "But that doesn't change what I said." He paused, as if formulating the best way forward. "When I was dying in that room, gazing across the glass towards you, my last thought was of you. How proud I was, how much everything I'd heard you did meant to me. Megaton, Riley's Rangers, The Pitt, even the small things, the water you'd give away, the subtle humanity you treated Ghouls with, all these things swelled my heart with pride. Even as my eyes closed, I knew I'd left the Capital Wasteland in good hands."
"Dad…" The Vault Dweller finally looked up from his knees, gazing into the face that seemed so real it hurt him, "Dad I let you down, I left the Capital Wasteland behind. I didn't do what you wanted…I didn't save anyone."
"You got Madison Li out of the Jefferson Memorial safely," James said firmly, his tone not allowing Charles any modicum of doubt regarding the importance of that simple action. "Without her this project will be well and truly dead, you, and only you, saved it. Do not ever forget that." He gestured towards the surrounding trees and muck with an almost callous disregard, "As for Point Lookout? You needed time to greave, son. You needed time to move forward and come to terms with everything you'd felt. With my leaving, death, Amata banishing you from 101, it was all so much, so fast; you never really had that chance." James paused, breathing out once through his nose, "Son, I'm sorry, I'm afraid I robbed you of that process."
"Daddy…" Charles shook his head, tears running down his bearded face, "Why did you leave me?" The question he'd hinted at, wanted to ask, and thought he'd go to his grave not knowing finally out in the air, "I needed you."
"I needed to make the Capital Wasteland better. I owed it to your mother. However," he paused, looking down lovingly at his son, "I was wrong. I wanted to protect you and I thought that leaving you behind in the Vault would keep you safe. Had I known the kind of man you'd become, what you'd do for DC…I would have told you what I was doing, brought you with me from the start." He paused, squeezing his teenage son tightly in his arms and refusing to let go, "Though, if I'd done that, we'd both be trapped in 112 with Braun right now… the Lord works in mysterious ways," he chuckled a little bit.
"That's what Father Daniel always said," Charles stated robotically, merely stating a fact, rather than allow the grief to overwhelm him, "I miss him."
"I do too," James admitted, "That chaplain was one of the first to vouch for me when I turned up at 101 with you in my arms. When they told me the GOAT put you as his apprentice and the Vault's future chaplain, I was so proud. I knew with your compassionate heart and full mind you'd be perfect for it, they'd need someone like you."
"I rather mucked up being a man of God," Charles told his dad with a coughing laugh that echoed more regret than mirth.
"I wouldn't say that," James riposted, "You may not be a chaplain, but there's more than one way to help the people of DC, which you've done over and over again." He ruffled his son's hair, like he did so many times before, nearly breaking Charles' heart in half with regret and loss, yet filling him with a joy he couldn't explain at the simple gesture. "And you aren't done yet, no matter what you might think. Charles, let go, let go of your guilt, let go of your grief. It's time to move forward."
"How can I?" The Lone Wanderer mumbled, "I don't think I know anything else anymore."
James paused, "Do you know why I named you after your mother?" Of all the statements that figment of his imagination Dad could have made, that was the one Charles expected least. When he shook his head no, his father continued, "Your mother was the strongest person I ever met. She was unfailingly cheerful, unwaveringly optimistic, strong, compassionate and loyal. Every time I wanted to quit, every time I wanted to give up and sink into despair it was Catherine who wouldn't let me. She'd make some quip about whatever it was that had us down and then keep working. When I looked into your tiny eyes the day you were born…I knew, I just knew, you had her heart, you had her spirit and you would far surpass me in every way. And I'd happily cheer you on, every step you took into the world that needed you desperately."
"Wow," Charles sniffled, hugging his father back, "No pressure, right?" James chuckled but didn't say anything. His son sat silently in the muck, pondering everything his father had just said, "Dad, how do I do that? How do I live up to my name?"
"You let go of the baggage, you let go of the grief, and you just be." James patted Charles above the heart, "I'll always be with you son, in here. So will your mother, and Father Daniel and everyone else you've lost. Don't be afraid, just be."
There was a long pause, laden with deep though, finally, the younger man spoke, "I will try."
"That's all I ask."
A new voice, cold and harsh, cut through the fog and grief addled mind, "This is all very touching, but the time has come to wake up now." Charles looked past his father to see the suited form of Mr. Burke standing in waste-deep mud, expression clearly unhappy despite the sunglasses hiding his eyes. The suit he wore was stained with blood, two holes remaining in his chest from where Charles had shot him so long ago, back in Moriarty's saloon when he'd moved in with Simms for an arrest. In Burke's hands he held a miniature nuke, almost a perfectly replica of the one Charles had disarmed during his day in Megaton.
"Give me a moment," James said harshly, showing no concern in the face of the long dead man.
"You know how it works." Burke wasn't swayed, rising his hand high preparing to slam it down on the mini-nuke in his grip.
James turned and faced his son, "Charles, I love you, don't forget that."
"I love you too dad."
Then the world exploded.
He was outside the grotto, the mother of all headaches riding around in his skull and a horrifying taste running down his throat and tongue. Yet, despite the headache, the bad taste, lingering itching from Med-x withdrawal and general soreness from lying on the ground Charles felt good, far better than he'd been in a long time.
Pushing himself to his feet and shaking his head once in an attempt to loosen the cobwebs from his brain, the Lone Wanderer glanced towards the sun. High noon, he'd been in the cave most of the night, hallucinating or unconscious. How he'd managed to make it to the grotto entrance while tripping out of his mind was a miracle he didn't want to dwell too much on.
"If the tribals wanted someone with an open mind, I think I qualify now," he muttered to himself, taking a few shaky steps in the direction of the Ark and Dove. Fully confident he wasn't going to face plant in the muck; Charles took a few more, with full confidence, finally settling into a steady trot.
He had a mission to accomplish. He couldn't go back to DC without caps, he couldn't find caps without aiding Desmond, and he couldn't aid Desmond while wallowing in self pity. Remembering everything his father had said to him, Charles set his jaw in grim determination and plowed forward.
"Thanks dad," he told the spectral fragments, still lingering in his mind after the overwhelming potency of the Punga sap. "Thanks for everything."
AN: And so the plot thickens! Fun fact, Tucker was my second OC for Fallout 4. Besides, I love me my Gunners, so interesting. As for the hallucination scene, I wanted something personal and I really love it. I hope you had as much fun reading it as I did writing it. Until next time!