Shion

The Night was aglow.

Buildings burned, people screamed, guns rang and swords clashed. The village was once a small but stable settlement, usually calm and kept proper by regular huntsman visits. With the CCT connection, they could even call or send an emergency signal to Mistral or Atleasian troops. The signal would also alert other huntsman teams to its aid if that was the case.

Unfortunately, the CCT had recently collapsed; a tragedy burrowed in many people as the events at the Vytal Festival had been recent. For nearby bandit groups, this seemed like the perfect opportunity; a small defenseless village in the middle of nowhere.

And so the Branwen Tribe laid siege upon the Village, as their marauders pillaged, burned, and killed those that stood in their way. Through the burning streets of the town, blood was spilled as the valiant but outnumbered guards were being slaughtered by the bandits.

"THERE ARE TOO MANY OF THEM!" One of the guards yelled as he let out a small stream of bullets, taking out one of the more careless Raiders.

"FALL BACK!" An older man spoke, waving his hands back towards the Airship station, where most of the civilians ran. "FALL BACK TO TH-"

Lighting struck.

The Airship station had been made of cheaper material; after all, this was a small village, lacking both funds and materials for stronger and sturdier buildings. So when it struck a small flame sparked which turned into an inferno. The Airships themselves weren't atlas-made and just used some homemade sailers with gravity and air dust to fly.

And so as the building was lit up, so did the people's only escape. Children clutched their mothers tightly, tears streaming, and the elderly felt their hearts sink as all hope they once held for the next generation had been crushed. People cried, cluttering together the sheer amount of negative energy that was attracting the Grimm, who they all knew would soon swarm and kill them all.

Gazing upon them from one of the ruined buildings she was; A red and black dress with armored plates over the arms and dark leggings. Over her face was a white and red bone mask in the shape of a corvid with feather-like hair running down her back. Her ōdachi was strapped to her hip as the blue light dissipated from her hand.

She gazed upon the hapless fools who could not stand against the might of her tribe. If they had wanted to live and thrive they should have been prepared; should have been mightier. But like most fools, they relied on others' strength to live their lives and now paid the price.

The Weak die, the Strong live; such was the way of things.

Back on the streets, a particularly green guard was struggling to fight a bandit armed with a machete. He dodged and side-stepped attacks to no avail. A punch landed and he was thrown backward, dropping his baton and was at the mercy of the bandit.

Said bandit let out a chuckle as he loomed over his prey, a bloodthirsty glint in his eyes.

"Well pal, I'd throw ya to the Grimm, but…" a cruel smile spread. "Been too long since I killed a man, so let's make this nice and painful."

He raised the weapon up, and the guard closed their eyes.

BOOM

The bandit's upper body exploded, his blood splattering the surroundings while limbs, intestines, and other organs plopped all around. Others turned their heads towards the now barely shaking legs which crashed to the ground now with a lack of torso. The fighting stopped, and widen eyes upon the corpse. The only thing that littered the background was the crisping of the flames and the sobbing of children.

"OI!"

The bandit's heads turned towards the source of the voice, its booming and electric tone having come from the edge of the forest. Seven-foot-tall, armored plates covering his body and holding a strange rifle covered in coils. The Armor was white, yet dirty, scorched, and rusted. Claw marks, bullet damage, and other sorts of battle damage covered the armor like a warrior's scars though most seemed to have been patched to a degree.

Stepping from the Forest they loaded a strange battery-like thing into the Rifle.

"Let's fuckin go, Cunts!"

They took aim and pulled the trigger. Another "Boom" rang out and a bright cobalt projectile slammed into another bandit, erupting their bodies into a gore-balloon. Several screamed their instincts telling them to hide, causing most bandits to take combat positions and cover.

Those unfortunate enough to lack guns, either charged at the newcomer or hid behind cover. The bandits shot back; their makeshift lever-action rifles or even the rare few with Atlasian assault rifles aimed at their enemy. Unfortunately for them the bullets simply pinged off the armor, the cheaply made dust rounds barely damaging the hardened and modified suit of power armor, as they strode forward, the energy weapon loaded.

Another shot from the strange weapon and another bandit were blown apart. Another battery was loaded in and the gun charged again. The gunshots from the increasingly panicking bandits were like rough rain on a metal roof; loud but ultimately harmless. Another aim and another bandit was killed.

By the time he was about to load his weapon again, the bandits that charged at him with their old blades, axes and arrangement of melee weapons finally caught up, with the closest taking a mighty swing at him. The blade made contact and shattered upon impact, the only thing the bandit held being a broken hilt.

"Oh, fu-"

The Stranger did not let her finish as his arm shot out and grabbed her by the throat. He didn't even look at her; aiming his rifle with one arm while pressure build inside her skull. The Armored stranger pulled the trigger, blasting another bandit apart while popping the trapped bandit's skull. He dropped the corpse and threw it at another nearby robber; screams and dread filled their heart as they were covered by their comrade's blood.

No care was shown by The Stanger from behind the helmet as he marched over the panicking bandit who was trying to get their friend off and stomped their skull in. The last bladed bandit who was close enough dropped their weapons and made a run to the forest; the thought that their survival in the Grimm-infested forest was greater than with the Stranger.

They were not given the chance, as the blue projectile shot through their body, leaving them on the ground with a massive hole in their chest. More bullets panged against the Stranger, a faint growl escaping his lips. Pulling out a tin-can from his hip with the words "RADIATION" plastered on a tape of white, he pulled the pin before throwing it towards the shooting bandits.

Confusion spread across their faces as they glanced at the rusted tin can on the ground. A second later they got their answers as the Nuka-Granade exploded in a shower of blue fire that took down a nearby building with it. Those closest to it had been vaporized into charred skeletons, others had been blown apart or burned to a crisp. The most unlucky ones were those who had been far enough not to die instantly but be set on fire as they ran around flailing their bodies.

Putting the Energy weapon away, they switched to another weapon strapped to their back. It was an assault rifle, yet it lacked the look that most modern Atlasian weapons had. Compared to the elegant polymer stocks, sleek designs, and white coloring, the wooden hand foregrips, billet stock, and industrial yet rusted appearance were a far cry.

The Stanger began unloading on the other surviving bandits, their screams silenced by 5.56mm rounds. Even after all this the rest of the Tribe still fought on; yet where once there was pride and sadism, only dread and doom was left to take their place.

"WHY ISN'T THIS ASSHOLE GOING DOWN!"

"FUCK! HE GOT HANZO, H-AGHHH"

"MY LEGS! I CAN'T FEEL MY-"

The Stranger ignored their cries, their pleads as he fought on, his once white armor stained a faint crimson, his mechanical boots resting upon a pile of corpses.

That was until something rushed at him, a trail of red following suit.

Raising his forearm he managed to block the slash from the sword, leaving a somewhat deep cut that chipped the paint. As he glared upwards, the Leader stood over a broken-down cart, her weapon glowing upon the broken moon's shine.

"Hmmm…" She tapped her foot, her head glancing at the corpses around her. "I'm disappointed really. Didn't think my men would perish this easily to a fool in tin armor."

The Stranger said nothing, the rifle was aimed at her, his finger on the trigger.

"Though I may be wrong…" She swung her sword in the air, a small amount of red energy forming next to her. "Normally I'd stay and be the judge of your skills myself, but we are about to be in Grimm company, so I'd rather depart now."

He could feel her smirk behind the mask.

"Perhaps if you survive this you'd be worthy of m-"

The trigger was pulled, the bullets shot out and the bandit used her sword to deflect the bullets. Not wasting time, she jumped into the vortex disappearing from where she stood.

A growl escaped the Stranger, he threw the empty magazine away.

"Monoluging Bitch."

With a click, the other clip went in and reloaded the rifle. He could see the fleeing forms of bandits who were making their way to the west side of town, jumping into vehicles like cars or bikes.

The Stranger took aim yet stopped when he heard the distant howls. Groaning he turned his back on the scum; he was gonna get them later. His head turned back towards the rest of the townsfolk who were huddled together; their eyes like dinner plates as they had watched him slaughter the bandits.

"You!" The armored Stranger pointed at the nearest guard. "Get these people to a safe building, I'll handle the fuckers."

"W-What!?" The guard took a step backward. "You can't beat back a Grimm hoard th-"

"DID I STUTTER?!"

"N-No, sir…"

As the guards began guiding the people towards the town hall, the Stranger turned his head towards the forest. Even though the helmet's grill, the sound of a whistle was clear.

"Dogmeat! Come, er boy!"

Out of the treeline, an unusually large blue heeler jumped out of the tree-line. The dog had a certain age, small scars dotted its body as he was covered in kevlar dog armor. Over the armor, small bags and pouches had been attached carrying all sorts of weapons, gears, and ammo. The hound was dragging a large heavy duffle bag. For most dogs they would find it impossible to carry such things; but not Dogmeat.

"Good boy." The Stranger petted the top of Dogmeat's head and opened the bag. His arms grabbed what was inside and pulled out the Gatling Laser "Vengeance". The Stranger then cracked his neck and aimed his weapon at the incoming darkness; hundreds of red eyes glaring upon their prey.

Psycho was injected into his body, and so was a small dose of Med-x and a inhale of Jet; this was going to be a long night.

The townsfolk had hidden in the town hall's basement, the guards and surviving huntsman guarding the entrances while the common people had been sitting in the very back of the room huddled, tired, and fearful. The entire night they could hear the sounds of combat outside; the screams of the Grimm, the screeching of metal, the repeating lasers vaporizing its enemies. Yet any moment they were waiting for it all to go silent.

They knew the second the gunfire stopped it would mean their 'Savoir' has fallen and that the claws of their ancient enemies would come for them. Explosions shook the foundations, and howls and growls were finished off by gunshots and energy weaponry. Sometimes they could hear some of the Grimm getting too close to the buildings only for a blast from the Stranger's weaponry to finish them off.

After several sleepless hours, they heard the last blast of ion and then...silence.

Most people nearly despaired at the thought of their end and as they waited for their doom. Yet as minutes passed, non of the Grimm broke through the wall or door.

Minutes turned to an hour and after drawing some straws, one of the guards left the building.

The town was empty; the corpses of the bandits, guards, and such were the only thing littering the ground. They were almost no traces of the Grimm except for a claw mark here, and a bone mask there.

The Stranger had fought off both the bandits and the Grimm.

Yet as they looked around they didn't find him.

Just as he had arrived, he had left.

They didn't know his name, his face, or why he saved them, only that he did.

For in the end this stranger was no huntsman or soldier of fortune, but a Lone Wanderer.

War.

War Never Changes.

From the smallest ant colonies to the mightiest nation the craving for violence has been inherited in all creatures of mother nature. Blood has been shed for many reasons; Food, survival, politics, and even psychotic rage.

Though many would think this is a trait only shown in the people of Earth who in the year 2077 burned their world in nuclear fire, there are others. In the universe, there are thousands of worlds, and thousands of lifeforms. Yet each and every single one of them has one trait that shines through; the need for bloodshed.

Even in the furthest space, in a star cluster far from Earth in a world beset by forces of darkness; humanity is divided from petty politics to people who want to watch the world burn.

Because war?

War Never changes.

Agony.

He shuffled his body through the woods, Dogmeat tailing him like the good, loyal dog he was. Though Stimpaks, and Med-x were busy keeping him together nothing could keep the pain down. The pain that filled his heart, the pain of his broken legs that were slowly being stitched together, the pain of his burning skin, and the pain in his soul.

Even though he was clad in hardened winterized T51-F power armor, there were still leaks; A claw mark there, a slice here, a dent over there. The damage only added to the armor's grizzly and worn appearance. It was funny; they say the clothes make the man but in all honesty, his suit was a perfect representation of who he was. They called him many names back home; That crazy kid from Vault 101, The Vault guardian, Lord Death of Murder Mountain, the Ranger of the Wastes, and other bullshit that Three-Dog spewed. Yet the two that stuck the most were the Lone Wanderer and later on the 'White Knight of the Wastes'.

It had made sense really; He wore winterized power armor, was a knight of the brotherhood, and had been known for his selfless actions and 'heroism', beforehand. Unfortunatly everything has a price, everything had consequences. For every life he saved, every Raider he took down, every faction he destroyed, the burden became heavier.

Damage both physical and mental had been plaguing him.

It didn't matter if he fixed the armor, if he polished it, covered the damage, and such. It would always come back to this; covered in blood and showered in waste.

Blood.

He stopped, his legs finally collapsing as he crashed into the back of the tree; the weight nearly causing the tree itself to fall. He looked at the armored hands, their colorization changing from steel to copper.

Most of it, he didn't regret one bit; The Slavers, Raiders, Talon Company, and Enclave fuckers he ice'd all had it coming and if he had to he would do it all again. But the Pitt? The Tribals of Point Lookout? Tenpenny Tower?

The Vault?

He could hear the screams every night.

Groaning, his fingers wrapped around his helmet and he pulled it off. The shadow of the tree line hid his face from the rest of the world, as he felt the fresh air caress his scars.

Project Purity had not been kind; apparently, he had been in the process of turning into a ghoul when they found him after he activated the Purifier. Fortunately (or unfortunately if one could ask) during his trip to Vault 87 he had apparently been infected with traces of the FEV. Both processes balanced each other out and gave him a new mutation instead.

He looked like shit but gained a few strange abilities like being able to heal from the sun, developing some rad resistance and absorption, and the 'nuclear anomaly' as the scribes called it.

He had been a one-in-a-million case of becoming a genuine fuckin freak.

The bags under his eyes gazed emptily at the blue sky, as the wind blew into his burned face. This hadn't been the plan; non of it was. All of the pain he had to endure, had to face he asked for non of it. Worse is that he does his best to help people, to make his parent's legacy proud, to make the wastes a better place.

And yet for every step he takes, every hand he gives he is betrayed.

He supposed he couldn't fault the people of the wastes too harshly; the Scorpion and the Frog concept being very fucking obvious. He probably should have left that damned place a long time ago. But he didn't, he still clung to that naive optimism that Brotherhood and Wastelanders would make DC a better place.

He let out a chuckle; hollow and dead as his soul. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it, the nicotine entering his lungs and easing his mind slightly.

Fuck the wastes.

After what they did to him? Is it really any wonder why he left? Why he came here?

It's funny in a way; when he looked through Mothership Zeta's records with Sally and Elliot, they found the E.T's sons-of-bitches star chart. Looking through the planets these creatures had scanned he had found one that was far away from earth yet, strangely enough, had also humans there.

Not just that but the world had strange minerals and lower gravity than normal.

After a long time of thinking, he decided that he wanted to go there alone with Dogmeat, that they should drop him there and leave him.

Elliot and Sally protested, whined, and found that he was taking things too far. After an hour of arguing they came to a compromise; they would drop him off with Dogmeat and his gear but he had to carry a distress beacon in case he ever needed help.

He had been tempted to break the thing the second he made it to the planet but decided against it. Though they may have been a pain in his ass Elliot and Sally seem to be the only people who didn't fuck him over, who didn't scheme against his back, and who aided him all that time ago.

He owed them at least that much.

After finishing the cigarette and dropping the stump, his eyes started getting heavy. Dogmeat whined and sat next to his master, puppy-eyes even though the hound could tear a man's throat with ease.

The Wanderer chuckled, and pet the dog before letting sleep overtake him.

I met a traveller from an antique land

Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone

Stand in the desart. Near them, on the sand,

Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,

And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,

The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed:

And on the pedestal these words appear:

"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings;

Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare

The lone and level sands stretch far away.

By the time he woke up, the sky was rose. Though light still pierced through the twigs and branches, the woods were, dark; a shad upon a lit canvas. With a groan he raised back up, Dogmeat's sleeping form stirring next to his master. The Wanderer gazed upon the forest, slight darkness shrouding the maze of trees and bushes. His eyes turned to the ground; the trail of cars and bikes still somewhat fresh from the last night when he ran them off.

After having fought off the Grimm hoard that attacked the town, he proceeded to loot the corpses of the bandits for any goodies. One might be surprised at how he managed to fight off so many monsters when entire armies would be crushed under the sheer numbers and well you'd be somewhat right.

That entire battle had been hell; constantly injecting himself with stims and psycho to keep up with the fuckin critters. Fortunately thanks to that bastard Desmond he learned a thing or two about being a Superior Defender. That plus most of the wolf creatures tend to get cut down by a Gatling Laser.

Really the main issue had to be giant Deathstalkers and the gorillas. Still, most of them fell real fast once he figured out that their bone armor did jack shit to gauss shots.

After being done with the looting, he immediately went after the bandit's trail, regardless of their headstart. However, while he was limping and marching through the woods, they had vehicles which certainly made catching up impossible.

But it didn't matter.

Because like the Raiders from the wastes these were just human garbage; literal shitlords who could barely shoot straight with a below room-temperature IQ, who think that just because they were a bit luckier in the genetic lottery when it came to brawn they can do what they want.

Darwin defiers like that needed to be reminded of their own flaw.

That there's always a bigger fish.

Letting out a sigh the Wanderer placed his helmet back on.

"Let's go, Pal!" He yelled, alerting Dogmeat.

The Dog gave a confirmatory bark and grabbed the duffle bag with its teeth. The Lone Wanderer took it from his Dog and strapped it to his back, like a golf bag. With the Gauss Rifle in hand, he made his way through the forests as the sun started to sink across the horizon.

The way was tedious and lengthy. Though when he had first arrived here he had been amazed by the nature it came at a cost. Forests unnerved him; the trees, bushes, and leaves covered up a lot of ground, making it perfect for ambushes. The wastes tended to be open so even if he was ambushed he could always prepare himself better as he could spot them easier.

But in the dark shrubbery and labyrinth of trunks and leaves? His nerves were high. They reminded him too much of Point Lookout, and the less he had to think about that cursed, incestuous, fucking place the batter. It didn't help that the Grimm were a thing, though at least they didn't sound like hicks and screamed about making you 'squeal like a pig.'

After a few hours of hiking and when the broken moon loomed over the horizon, he made it to a clearing. The grass there was flattening, extinguished fireplaces dotted the area and so did do the wheel marks. Yet there was no one here, the embers of the fireplaces long dead with only dry ash remaining.

His helmet's flashlight illuminated the former camp; cigarette buds and empty beer bottles were left next to the extinguished fireplaces. Other trash such as shell casings, bones, and even cola cans dotted the place.

The Wanderer stepped forward, the Gauss rifle was placed on his back. He instead pulled out a sword from a sheath. It was held firm in his hand; a large lawnmower blade that had been sharpened attached to a quantum-gas tank handle with tubes attached to the blade itself. His head was aimed at the shishkebab, distant memories flooding his mind.

Memories of a dark time in his life, when he had been nearly broken.

When his title became not something people related with some goody-two-shoes or some paragon of virtue, but when he began a mass slaughter of the wicked and damned. When he would carve the degenerate and reprobate and leave their bodies hanging from pikes.

"Then the fire of the Lord fell and consumed the burnt offering and the wood and the stones and the dust, and licked up the water that was in the trench." The Wanderer began his hand getting close to the valve of the sword. "And when all the people saw it, they fell on their faces and said, ""The Lord, he is God; the Lord, he is God.""

When he struck fear into the hearts of lesser men, and ironically while helping the wastes. When he committed pest extermination so horrific and long he made the Brotherhood's Scourge of the Pitt seem like a fucking Joke.

"And Elijah said to them, "Seize the prophets of Baal; let not one of them escape"."

The sword was ignited, a bluish-white flame covering the blade, in holy atomic fire. The blade was named after the valley in which the old kings of Judah sacrificed their children in the fire, cursing the place to damnation. The sword was the destination of the wicked and the unworthy as hundreds of raiders fell to it and brought down to its namesake.

It was Gehenna: the holy sword of the Lone Wanderer and bane of raiders.

"And they seized them. And Elijah brought them down to the brook Kishon and slaughtered them there."

No matter where the bandits ran, no matter how far they ran or how fast, he would eventually get them.

Quest Started: I'm Gonna Take to the Road

-Find the Branwen tribe and Exterminate them

Because they could run, but they certainly couldn't hide.

AN; Oh boy.

This story has been in the making since last year. I originally began writing this after reading a few Rwby Crossovers with Fallout. A ton of them were absolutely great and well written, however, there was something I noticed; there were barely any Lone Wanderer-centric stories. I mean there were a few, but most of them either were never finished, or I always felt never did the Lone Wanderer justice.

There were some that were on the right track, but not all of them got what I really hoped on getting.

That and the lack of giving their characters Power Armor, made me cringe.

(On a side note we need more fics giving the Fallout Characters a suit of Power Armor; just wanna see a guy in a T45, gun down Grimm, lmao)

Regardless this is only the first chapter of the fic, and more is gonna come in the coming days. Technically I wrote 10 chapters of this, now I just gotta edit and proofread before uploading them.

Regardless I hope you enjoyed this rather short chapter of "Wasteland Soul" and I'll see you all next time!