Confusion in the Wastes

A burning sensation in my wrists awakens me. My heart immediately picks up, pounding painfully in my chest as my eyes adjust to the light around me. I try desperately to take hold of my memories, wondering just what I had been doing to end up in this macabre place. Skulls line the walls, hung from cords or skewered on metal spikes that have been crammed in the flooring. I shake the confusion from my head, trying to understand my situation.

I run through the things I know as facts.

I had told the Brotherhood that I wouldn't help them with their attack on the Enclave Imposters. I'd returned my issued equipment and met up with Mr. Edson to gather my things. We went to what was considered the settlement's bar and drank a little. He rambled on to the bartender about how bizarre the wasteland was while I listened to The Buzz on my Pip-Boy.

I don't remember the passage Purity recited. I don't remember the song that played afterward. I just remember feeling an intense desire to go to Rockville. I told Edson about it, and after listening to one of the broadcasts, he agreed to join me.

The rest is still a bit fuzzy. We slept at the makeshift hotel and left first thing in the morning. There's a huge blank spot there in my mind; one second we're leaving the hotel and the next we're running from raiders. I don't know how big of a gap, but it had to be at least three hours, because I remember looking at my Pip-Boy's clock before falling unconscious.

My wrists rip me from my recollection. They're bloody, the flesh torn with thick ropes digging into them. I get the taste of iron in my mouth—more blood, I assume—as I feel my throat burn with thirst. I try to take a breath to soothe the burning only to find my mouth sealed with something, maybe tape or cloth, I can't really tell in my stupor.

But I hear a voice beside me cough, "You finally awake, Johnny?"

Mr. Edson. I nod, not certain if he can see, and speak my muffled confirmation.

"Good. The way that woman was beating you, I wasn't sure you'd make it…" He sighs in some kind of mix of sadness and relief, "I'm sorry, Johnny. This is all my fault…" I cock an eyebrow silently. He must notice, because he starts to explain. "The post office. We were fine until one of them stirred up some dust. My asthma and all."

The memory bursts in my mind as he talks. We were following the highway north to the ruins of Little Rock when our road crossed some railroad tracks. We'd heard some gunshots, so we took off running down the road, into a small abandoned neighborhood. We found shelter in a post office that turned out to be the raiders' camp-away-from-camp. What luck!

"Quiet over there!" a gruff, dumb-sounding voice screeches. "Or do ya want s'more bruises? I don't like my meat tender!" I assume it's the woman Edson mentioned.

With the events leading to my capture filled in, I can relax and focus on the location. We're outside, if only barely, sunlight cascading around the crumbled walls of an extremely old brick building. If I didn't know better, I'd say this place had taken the full blast of a warhead. Edson sits trembling a few feet to my left. Just ahead of us is a small circular wall, five bricks tall, with flames blazing within. The smell of wood burning catches my nose for the first time.

Five raiders stand at different distances from the fire. The smallest of them stands just beside the pit, tossing hunks of dead tree into it. He's wearing a thick mask fashioned out of burlap sack with two small slits for eyes and thick rubber gloves. The pants are minimal, shoes nonexistent, and shirt in tatters. He's tiny, for a raider.

There's only one woman present in the group, and she stands with authority on the other side of the fire. She casts glances at us periodically, her eyes shining with a sick desire that forces me to cringe. She's wearing the bare minimum clothing, highly ineffective in a combat situation, made of metal with spikes, probably nails, protruding from every inch of what little she has on.

Two of the others look almost identical, dirty and bloody with matching rags. I get the feeling that they aren't really raiders; rather two smart men who know how to stay alive. Join the crowd or get trampled, I believe my dad used to say. If it works, don't knock it.

But the last of the five is the most intriguing. He isn't near as dirty as the others. He stands tall, holding his head high with…dignity? His outfit is much more practical than the others' and made of entirely different material to boot. No rags or rusting metal for him; he's decked out in what appears to be a full set of Vault Security Armor, minus the visor on his helmet. A baton at his side and a pistol in his hand, he doesn't belong with them at all.

He looks at us periodically, though his eyes reveal nothing of his intentions. At least with the woman, I know she wants to do us harm; he's a mystery, and that scares me. He could be anyone, work for anyone. But I…

Feel safe? How? Why? When my eyes meet his, I feel safe?

As he turns back to face the raging flames, the woman begins her march toward us. Edson tenses up, drawing his legs closer to him. I feel a fire in my gut start to burn, the rage from days ago reemerging in me. Something about this woman pisses me off, and I've barely heard her speak! She's said nothing to me directly, done nothing I can remember, and I have this unreasonable anger swelling inside.

She rips the tape (it was tape after all) from my mouth and it takes everything in my power not to spit vehemently in her face. I contain myself long enough for her to titter, "Aren't you just the cutest piece of jerky I've met all month? Shame I've got a quota to fill, or I'd just as soon mount you on the wall." With a devious smile, she groans, "But I'll tell you what: since I like the way you look with that blood dripping down your chin, I'll kill the old man first!" Her hand flies from her hip headed straight for Edson's throat.

I use my anger to fuel my launch forward, the ropes tearing into my wrists with bloody spurts as my head lands hard against her own. She falls back instantly on her ass, the small knife that was just about to execute Edson flying across the ruined building with wasted momentum. As my head throbs and my ears ring, I spit the still-pooling blood onto the woman's boot.

"Don't you fuckin' touch him, bitch!" I snarl. The fire is in full blaze now, the pain in my wrists fading entirely. All I can feel is my head throbbing, blood running. If my hands were free, she'd be dead. I can feel it: my hands are twitching as if I were actually holding a knife in them. This isn't right, but I need it.

The two raiders in rags waste no time drawing pistols as they see their leader fall. By the time I've spit, their guns are ready to kill us both. My outburst ends and I struggle to break free from the ropes; the metal pole I'm tied to vibrates weakly as I strain against it.

The slightly taller of the two snaps, "Stop struggling, dick! We'll kill you both!"

"Go ahead!" I snap back, the fire inside burning my chest. I need to release it. I have to release it. The pole breaks near the base and I fly forward on top of the stunned woman. Before I realize it, my head is smashing against hers. Once. Twice. Three times.

A red warmth fills my eyes and I close them tight in fear. I roll off of the woman and hopefully away from the fire pit. Two gunshots ring out and I shudder to think that Edson might be dead. I push my face into what feels like grass in the hopes of removing the blood from my face, the soft cool blades contrasting impressively with my warm pulsing flesh. I crack my eyes open just in time to see the fifth raider looming over the woman.

With a slight shake of his head, he releases a bullet into hers and it explodes! The smallest of the raiders is standing weakly beside the fire pit, his hands trembling as he aims his pistol. I don't even know where he could have been keeping it, but I know that the fire in my gut won't be quelled until he's dead. He's a threat! The suited man just killed a raider, and I have no quarrel with him, but this small monster has to die!

I shove myself from the ground, my heart pounding. With some difficulty, I make it to my feet. The raider turns his gun on me, still trembling, hardly able to touch the trigger in his unsteady nerve. If I could see his eyes, I could bask in his fear. I charge forward carelessly, unafraid of a bullet from either party.

Just as I reach the trembling figure, he drops his gun and screams in absolute terror. The scream rips me from my rage, a fear so deep it couldn't possibly come from an evil individual anchoring me to the facts. He's tiny compared to all of his companions. They've hidden his face. Instead of watching us, they had him doing the menial labor. His voice was kind of scratchy.

Just as I'm about to tackle this raider to the ground, my legs lock up. I fall to the ground in some weak attempt at self-control. He does the same out of fear. I stare into the eye slits of his mask, hoping to see some kind of humanity on the other side. The slight shimmer of a tear meets me from somewhere within. Maybe his eye, maybe his cheek. He could've been crying the entire time for all I know. I take a few deep breaths, settling myself. This raider can't possibly be a raider.

Another gunshot rings out and, as I flinch, the raider falls limp to the ground. Blood spurts from his chest. A black boot enters my view as a calm voice rings out.

"If you're going to murder someone, don't have a change of heart half way through. That's how the raiders around these parts win." He lifts me from the ground by the back of my armor and frowns at me. "To be honest, I was waiting for some excuse to kill these bastards. Disgraces, all of 'em."

I try to find the words to express my confusion. All that comes out is a simple, fatigued grunt.

"Of course, I wasn't about to let them kill you. Not yet, anyway." With a rough knee to the stomach, I fall again to the ground. He grasps a handful of hair and pulls me up halfway. "That gun in your bag—where'd you get it?" I can hear a venom in his voice. A hiss, almost.

Gun? What gun? My laser pistol Officer Michael gave me? The railway rifle I took from Spike? The 10mm I looted from Michael's body? No, surely he doesn't mean those. Those could come from anywhere. I could've made those from scratch! So what does he mean?

I try to think. What gun do I have that he might be interested in?

And then another memory comes flooding back to me. After leaving the hotel, before we made it to the gate out of White Bluff, we were stopped by Old Man Miller! He's the reason we followed Highway 365 the long way around, instead of taking Interstate 530! He warned us about raiders and explosive cars on the interstate! And…he gave me a bag of ammo. Big bullets, I remember, because they were really heavy. But…

A gun! He gave me Lights Out! He said we might need it if we come across trouble! Lights Out must be the gun the raider wants to know about! Redfield's gun, the gun that killed Junior Knight Hayes…a sad gun.

"Where'd you get it?!" he repeats, shaking me violently. I can hear my neck pop as I try to form the words.

I manage to stammer, blood still running from somewhere in my mouth, "Redfield. Raiders." As the words escape me, he releases my hair and my face lands dangerously close to some makeshift fire poker. I can't tell if he's upset or happy, but the smile that stretches across his face is ominous.

I hear Mr. Edson begin another coughing fit, the excitement and multiple near-death experiences of the past few hours probably threatening to shut him down entirely. I'm sure his asthma would be having a field day if his adrenaline weren't pumping.

The raider lifts me to my feet, much more gently than last time, and dusts off the front of my armor. His smile fades into a simple expression, "You don't say." He draws a knife from a pouch at his side and spins me around. The burning in my wrists soothes slightly as the rough ropes fall to the ground in a wet heap. "You killed the legendary Redfield? Impressive, kid."

I stare down at my wrists, bloody and torn from my struggle. It's a wonder I can even control my hands with what damage must have been done to my muscles. As I turn my attention to the not-raider, a large black bag pounds against my stomach. I cough wetly as I take the bag, the familiar weight soothing my troubled brain. My hands move on their own as I drop it and rummage around inside. A canteen glistens as I pull it from its pouch, the contents sloshing around temptingly.

The liquid hits my throat and washes the iron taste from my mouth, just as cool as the air around us. My next target is a stimpak, which sits in its pouch on my belt inside the bag. As I jab the syringe into my arm, relief washes over me instantly. The burning in my wrists gives way to pulsing; the throbbing in my head fades to a slight beat; and I can feel the blood in my mouth start to pool slower. With one last spit, my mouth is blood-free.

By the time I've recovered enough to actually speak, the not-raider has freed Edson and given him his things. His highest priority meets his lips with desperation, the gust of medicated air filling his lungs. I have to wonder what happens to him once his inhaler runs out…

"My name's Scott. Scott Tanner. And you are?" The not-raider approaches with an outstretched hand, his smile less threatening than before.

I take his hand and shake, sighing, "Johnathan Neal, and that's Dwight Edson."

He scans us up and down, cocking an eyebrow with a knowing smirk. "So what brings you to Sweet Home?" He grins arrogantly as I look at him in confusion. Is he…trying to be funny? "You don't look like the kind of rabble that would be in this area. Mostly raiders and animals."

"We're headed for Rockville," I grunt, taking another swig of water.

His eyes light up at the name. Releasing my hand, he laughs, "Really? So was he!" With a wave of his hand, the smallest raider is brought back to my attention. A knot forms in my gut as I grab hold of my previous train of thought.

Small. Doing labor. Hidden face. Small.

I have to know. I can't go on not knowing. I walk slowly over to the corpse's side, my hand reaching cautiously for the mask. Why would the raiders care enough to try and keep his identity a secret? What makes this raider special?

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, man. There are some questions better left unanswered." I can feel the concern in Scott's voice. Of course he knows the answer; he travelled with them for however long. He has to know what makes this raider special. "It won't be pleasant."

"I have to know," I mutter in reply, my hand taking hold of the top of the mask. With one swift motion, the disguise is gone and a young face meets my eyes. Thin cheeks, teary eyes, and a smoothness that only comes with innocent youth adorn this raider. The realization washes over me. "A child…"

Edson steps up beside me and his hand meets his mouth, an audible gasp accompanying his shock. Scott sighs, "I told you, didn't I? It wouldn't be pleasant. That's how the raiders around here win." I hear the click of a lighter and a plume of smoke fills my face. "No one wants to kill a kid, not even a raider kid."

"But you did…" I groan, somewhere on the border between blame and gratefulness. I would've killed a kid if he hadn't. Yeah, the rage went away, but it would've been a matter of time.

With a sad grunt, Edson lands beside me, holding his legs close to his body with one arm, the other muffling his sobs. He's old, set in his ideals, the Vault's ideals. This has to be so much harder for him. And besides, this is his first encounter with raiders…

Our newest acquaintance takes another puff of his cigarette before chuckling, "You can't stop a raider just because you have a kid in your group. I would've let them kill you if you didn't have my brother's gun." The thought takes a second to register in my head. His brother's gun? "As far as I'm concerned, that makes you my boss."

"Boss? Brother?" The thoughts come pouring out, confusion and anger taking root in my tone. "Are you related to that piece of shit Redfield?!" I'm on my feet before I even realize it, my pistol ready. I think back to how I killed the raider trash, his limbs and then his head.

He smirks, taking another puff. "Yep, he's my older brother. Can't you tell?" He removes his helmet, revealing a familiar orange shimmer. Greasy red hair, almost the same texture as the raider bastard from days ago. "I didn't want to be a part of the family, so I left. 'Course, once a raider, always a raider. That blood lust doesn't go away." His helmet is back on before he finishes talking, the outstanding red subdued by the black metal.

The odds are incalculable. That I would meet the brother of the leader of a band of raiders that I was forced to fight thanks to the Brotherhood, after leaving the Brotherhood, is just…so hard to comprehend. And that Old Man Miller would give me a gun that he cares so much about, just coincidentally in time to make that raider's brother not kill me…

Could…Could Elder Wallace have been right? About destiny? Fate? Are the wastes trying to tell me something?

I shake the ignorance from my head and snap, "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't kill you here and now!" I place my finger on the trigger, sights aimed for his skull.

He flicks his cigarette into the fire pit and laughs, "Because you want answers, kid. Who am I? Who was Redfield? Why did I just incur the wrath of every raider from Fayetteville to New Orleans, all to save your sorry ass? Those are the questions only I can answer." He draws his pistol with lightning speed, aimed at me before I can even register his movement. "Besides, I'm an amazing murderer. You might find some use for me."

I lower my pistol, knowing that even if it came to gun slinging, his gun would win. It's huge, about twice the size of my pistol, with a brighter shine. The bullet he fired from it earlier made the woman's head explode entirely, after all.

"Are you offering to come with us? To Rockville?"

"Yeah, that sounds about right. Assuming the old man will have me along."

We turn to face the still-shaken Edson. He's lowered his hand and relaxed a little bit, but I can see in his face that the kid's death is eating at him. He finally blinks a few times in succession and stands up.

He crosses his arms as if to hold himself together; I know the feeling. "Do you trust him, Johnny?" he asks quietly. I nod, not entirely certain. He hasn't killed us yet, at least. "Then I'll trust him too."

I relay the message, "Sounds like it's settled then. But so help me God, if you make one wrong move, I'll blow your brains out!" My words are met with a happy grin.

"Wouldn't have it any other way, Boss!"

Footnote: Level Up!
Perk Added: Ferocious Loyalty
Effect: You can't explain it. Even if you've barely just met, your companions are willing to give it all to help you out. When you become injured during combat, your companions really step up their game!