AN: Hello everyone! Hope you're doing well! Today I would like to present yet another crazy idea of mine, shaped into a story. Before we begin, I feel the need to explain a few things, so I strongly suggest you read it (won't be long, I promise!) in order to get a feeling of where and how will things go.

POINT 1. (as of 28/10/2021): This fic, while standalone, shares the mythos/verse with my two other works, namely "A Hunt Like No Other" and "Doom: Redemption Denied". What this means for the story? Background lore and some details that otherwise wouldn't be present in either Fallout or Nasuverse. You don't have to necessarily know or read the other two stories, though here and there it might give you a good idea about what we will be dealing with here. Why, then, is it part of the 'verse? To build more on the lore, to be honest, as it will give me more room to expand on, hopefully, everything that otherwise wouldn't make sense if placed in "A Hunt Like No Other" or another Doom-related story (which is a microcosmos in itself).

POINT 2.: I will rip the band aid right away and say that the Fate Route is canon and it may or may not be one of the main points of the story. Does this mean that UBW and Heaven's Feel aren't? … Yesn't. If I can say anything with certainty is that this story is, for the biggest part, an idea. I want to see if it sits right with me and the audience, before I could develop it further. And if I may say it, I am fucking terrified. I am terrified of getting everything wrong, I am terrified of messing up my writing, I'm even terrified of this brain child of mine, because I have no idea where it will lead, what it will bring on the table in terms of lore and how will that affect future stories. That said, if there is someone willing to make this a joint effort, or to help a wannabe writer in need, please feel free to contact me.

POINT 3.: This one is related to the one above. Some of you won't like this story. Maybe it will be the writing, maybe it will be a wish left unfulfilled, or maybe because I decided to fuse this story with my other two in a thinly-veiled attempt to gather more attention to them (in which case, you're half right). But. The reason why I think most will drop it is because I'm willing to break some taboos of Fate in order to retrofit the world of Fallout with its elements. A Heroic Spirit is still a superhuman entity capable of doing wonders, but when it gets a Fat Man to the face, well… Same works the other way around. A Supermutant Behemoth might be a bitch to put down, but if it, let's say, gets Gae Bolg'd, well… What I mean is that I don't want for one side to outweigh the other, because if we are going to be honest, both worlds are a damn nightmare to live in. And both have horrors and badass things in spades. In any case, Don't Worry About It.

POINT 4.: The Heroic Spirits, while retaining their nature as characters, will go through character development, which means it might go so far as to change their core beliefs and values. Remember that the story takes places in the radioactive ashes of a world. It is natural to have your worldview shaken when reality smacks you in the face. Those who believe in a brighter future for Humanity would start questioning themselves and whether they were naïve or not. In other words, don't expect them to be static characters.

If I happen to remember something else, I will be sure to update this list in the future.

Enjoy!

To say that the Great War messed things up for the Lockhearts would be an understatement of the millennium. The Eighth Holy Grail War that was supposed to happen on October 23rd 2077 became yet another pre-War detail that was lost in time, as far as Desmond was concerned. The civilization as everyone knew it had met its end in the most self-destructive way possible. Everything crumbled within the time frame it took for the planet to burn. The old lifestyle was gone. The old ways were gone. Gone were many great families, their ridiculous wealth, their filthy claws on the world around them. No Magus was responsible for it. That was the mind-boggling detail. The Magi, Humans who cast aside their Humanity to achieve the impossible, fell prey to the whims and conundrums of those far too mediocre and limited to delve into the secrets and teachings that the Magi had in possession. Such a heresy would have been unthinkable in ages past.

But then was then and this was now. As far as Desmond knew, he might have been the last member of his family that still hadn't kicked the bucket. Hell, he might have been the last Magi alive. The thought was heartwarming, because it meant that he had finally cleansed the Earth from the Calverts and their toxic presence.

It seems that not even the Great War could have stopped the age-old feuds between the likes of him and that damned brain in a jar, once regarded as one of the best scientists in the world. And the feud wasn't because one Calvert decided to marry one Lockheart or because that same bastard sent a package back home with her head in it, along with the wedding rings sewn into the eye sockets. No, his struggle had long ago ceased to be political and ideological. It happened because it was the most logical thing to do. He knew – as his experience had later proved – that if any of his "colleagues" and "fellow Magi" were left alive, they would have come for his head, Calvert included. So with the help of a pup (and an amazing one at that, he had to agree), he had destroyed one more family and their Magic Crest. Good riddance.

Now he was alone. Alone with his time…

On the day the bombs fell, Desmond had accepted death with his whole being. He wasn't angry, being angry at a natural disaster was pointless, yet he felt a pang of sadness and bitterness, doubly so when he found out that he was one of the lucky few who remained alive to witness the nightmare that came after the explosions. The radiation had spelled doom for Great Britain and for everyone, and everything, in it. Those that, like him, couldn't afford a shelter or were caught unprepared became what he was now, a needlessly sturdy walking corpse known as a Ghoul. The lucky ones died painfully. As much as he hated Calvert, he would have never wished such a cruel ending to anyone.

The first decades were lost to him; a bland, fading memory he was all too happy to forget. The world was green, not in a good way. And hot, unbearably hot. Then the winter came and he suddenly remembered the day when he should have gotten the crimson markings on his hand. They were flayed away with the rest of his skin, thus fading back into obscurity as he reverted into the feral being that roamed the wastelands. He remembered once seeing them back on his hand, nearly a century later, which he first attributed to a hallucination due to lack of food and water. Then it got him thinking. Could it be that somewhere, someone fought in a Holy Grail War? Better (or worse) yet, could it be that there was more than one? And if so, how many? What the current one would be? Ninth? Eleventh? Twentieth? Fifthieth?

With new winds came new ways of survival and Magecraft was nowhere near them. Even Formalcraft, the lowest of the low, required peace and resources, two things he never had plenty. There would always be a nosy asshole or some messed up creature from the wastelands that wandered way too close to whatever hole he had deemed safe. Finding what he needed for Magecraft was beyond impossible in the ruins of the Old World, where everything was broken, destroyed or decayed, either due to Human negligence or because of the mysterious workings of time. He gave up on his ancestry and on Magecraft itself. There simply was no more room for it in the wasteland.

His trip to Point Lookout proved him wrong in many ways. In a disgusting swamp, itself so obtuse and unnecessary that not a single bomb had ever dropped on it, Desmond had found traces of Thaumaturgy, or whatever was left of it, between the deformed, inbred populace. Seeing dolls hanging from trees with a piece of string was a funny sight to him, though not excellent for his health. Apparently, radiation and inbreeding created the Swampfolk. Desmond didn't consider them Humans. No Human could take that many .44s and 10mm rounds and still be able to leap and bounce like they did.

More interesting was his encounter with a certain Blackhall that lived in the middle of the swamp, as well as the old mansion he had stolen from Calvert, right under his damn nose. The latter was a decrepit fort full of damaged tomes which he was sure to stash away before the maniac blew his own house. Some of it was the standard Magi crap he was forced to read as a kid, as he wasn't allowed to have a life until he became man enough to get a job as a member of the British spy agency. Not only that, he had also found, to his immense surprise, a relic from the past, something he took with himself, as he was sure that Calvert wouldn't need it after he would be done with him.

Some time after Calvert's death, Desmond had decided that Obadiah Blackhall had to die, so he raided his home and shot the bastard dead with his revolver. After burying the corpse, he decided to fortify the place further until he felt safe enough to deem it his permanent headquarters. Though he wasn't willing to admit it, he felt old and tired, despite being able to move with the body of an adolescent, save for the greasy and disgusting skin of one. With Calvert gone, the goal that kept him alive and kicking became nonexistent. He had no reason to live anymore. He had nowhere to go, he had nothing to do.

Thus, one day, Desmond Lockheart, the last living member of the Lockheart family, came to the conclusion that world didn't need him anymore. He went to the upper floor of the manor, sat on a chair in the middle of an empty room and put the barrel of a gun to the side of his head. After years of struggle, after years of sleepless nights and never-ending pains, after years of drinking tainted water and eating centuries-old packaged food, Desmond Lockheart wanted to join his ancestors in whatever afterlife that existed out there.

And he was ready to pull the trigger right then and there if it weren't for a weird red rash on his hand.

There was no way around it. The Capital would most likely be a lost cause.

The mysterious assailants that one day teleported on the ruined streets of DC turned out to be an even bigger problem than the Supermutants. Unlike the 'uglies', as the Brotherhood of Steel used to call them, these monsters had the strength of numbers behind them, surging out from all sides like ants from a colony. They also came in many forms, one more terrifying than the other, and all of them a source of nightmares for both the populace and the esteemed warriors of the sect. Those few that returned from the battlefields spoke of things with red skin and big horns, of monsters that spat fire or even flew in the air, spitting bile before swallowing people whole.

With their presence came change to the explored parts of the city, becoming a war zone split into three factions. The 'Horde', as some Scribes decided to call the invaders, got almost everything south-east of Rivet City, going into the uncharted parts of the city, the ones that the Brotherhood never had the opportunity and resources to properly explore. The Supermutants, the smallest faction, being overpowered on two fronts, retreated north, on the outskirts and near Bethesda Ruins. The two threats to what remained of Humanity in the Capital Wasteland were slowed down by the Brotherhood of Steel, who fortified everything west of the river, all the way to Big Town, with troops, robots and makeshift walls wherever possible. The bridges that were deemed dangerous were detonated into oblivion and the people from Rivet City helped guarding the Jefferson Memorial, though they had their own problems, solvable with long-term solutions.

Going anywhere near the Horde meant certain death. Lookouts and scouts often brought back reports that could only happen in some pre-War comic book. The beings that came from there were the most stubborn of the three factions, often making small raids into other territories, though not often successful. Because of their extreme hostility and the near-invincibility in combat, they received the title of the worst crisis the Wasteland had ever faced.

The Supermutants posed a different kind of problem. With their numbers thinning as time went on, the stragglers were easy pickings for professional fighters. Occasionally one or two greenskins would turn out to be either harmless or precious additions to the Brotherhood, even if they vehemently denied having any ties with those they oh-so-happily slaughtered.

The Brotherhood was another story entirely. They defeated the Enclave, they almost wiped out the Supermutants from where it mattered, yet they were in constant state of shortage. Shortage of manpower, shortage of resources, shortage of morale. They stretched themselves wide, took in the folks from other settlements and even began developing agriculture thanks to the benefits provided from Project Purity. None of it made a difference. One could argue that the Brotherhood wouldn't stand a chance without those requirements. The optimists would often argue how their current position was one of the best possible scenarios that could have happened. The pessimists feared that it was true.

It wasn't a secret that the Brotherhood of Steel loved the brave and the strong in their ranks. Grouped into tactical units, these men and women held massive weights on their shoulders from dawn till dusk, and often beyond of what was asked of them. One such unit was the Lyons' Pride, comprised of the elite chosen by the daughter of the Elder. They viewed themselves as a family brothers and sisters that never gave up on each other and, what was their best trait, completed every mission given to them.

Their newest addition was a boy who barely touched his twenties. A whelp from a Vault, who later proved to be far superior in his abilities than anyone could have ever predicted. It was he who realized some of the greatest Brotherhood campaigns in recent memory and was, unfortunately, the greatest source of gossip among the populace. Even He himself used to bring strange stories to the Citadel, back when He was known as the Lone Wanderer, from horrifying to bizarre.

Especially that one story about the aliens and how He got abducted.

Sarah Lyons held him in great regard, going so far as to think of him as her trusted friend. She observed his gradual growth from a shy and scared teenager into a calm and somewhat less-scared adult. On their way back from an operation that required effective cleansing of Supermutants near the GNR station, Sentinel Lyons offered her unit a free shot of purified water once they get back to the Citadel. Everyone cheered, except for Him, who looked somewhere at the horizon. She tapped him on the shoulder, a gesture that would have been more effective if He weren't wearing His Power Armor, a model He got from one of His 'adventures'.

"Heads up, soldier. You've done a good job today, as always."

"It wasn't enough."

Sarah removed her helmet. It came off with a hiss that was silenced by the roars of the Vertibird. For someone who lived in a world where cosmetics were a thing of the past, her hair still kept that beautiful golden color he remembered seeing on their first meeting. Only back then, she used to be strict and had little patience for his antics.

"There's no need to think about the 'what ifs'. We've done our best and others respect that… despite our losses."

It was His turn to take the helmet. Brown, unkempt hair lashed out like a mane that needed a good shower once in a while, the standard for most wastelanders. His eyes were atypical though. Emerald green and filled with a fire that threatened to explode from His body. Maybe this force was the reason behind his many exploits. He succeeded where others would have failed. Sarah believed that, in another life, she would gladly offer her hand in a marriage. No one knew that, not even her father.

He raised his Pipboy, the little Vault Gadget he carried around, and produced two holotags. He observed their contents with a frown. Lyons knew he looked for those among the dead, just so he could return them to the Citadel.

"These two… do they have any living relatives?"

"Not that I know of, no."

"I see."

Once, in a conversation, she asked Him why did he leave the safety of the Vault in which He was born. He told her it was because He needed to find his father. He was the only family he had. Lyons respected his decision. She cared for the wellbeing of her father, but her duty as a warrior called her to more urgent matters. He was an Elder for a reason. Nobody becomes one without sacrificing something that makes them Human.

"Will you bring them back to Scribe Jameson?"

A nod. She didn't want to press on further. No need to bring down the mood of the Pride. Happiness was a rare yet welcome thing.

The Vertibird landed at the Citadel, where a group of trainees and their mentors greeted the Pride in the way only the Brotherhood could. Even Elder Lyons was there. He gave a handshake to his daughter and a pat on her back, before turning to Him.

"Another day, another victory that you brought us, Roderick. In the name of the Brotherhood, I would like to express our gratitude once again. Thank you for staying with us."

"Always happy to help, Elder Lyons."

The old man's handshake was strong. It had to be for a man of his position.

"Your father would have been proud of you, son."

"I hope so, Elder. I don't know if he's… somewhere away or not, if he's in an afterlife. But in any case, I would rather die than betray his memory. I owe it to him."

"Ah, your words have touched this old fool's heart. Yes, I hope James got his much needed rest."

Roderick's gaze turned to the Pride, to Sarah, who replied with a look of her own before retreating into the building. The party that sang their joys to them returned to their daily routines.

"Is there anything else I can help you with, Elder?"

Lyons' tone lowered.

"It's true that I said what I said before you went away. I have something I would like to share with you. This is not a request. You have the chance to refuse this… offer. But know this: once you learn what I'm about to share, the way you see life will forever be changed. It will be a secret that you will have to bring to your grave. Are you sure you want to do this?"

A thin smile appeared on Roderick's face.

"Whatever it is, it certainly can't be worse than what I've gone through."

"Very well. Follow me please."

Together they traveled to the B Ring of the facility, where they reached a hidden elevator thanks to the efforts of two Scribes close to the Elder, whom not even Roderick knew of. Lyons distanced himself from Him, whispered something to the people in red garments and returned to Him.

"You still have a chance to avoid this path. There won't be any regrets available later. What you find will shock you, even terrify you, as it often happens to the uninitiated."

"Elder."

He raised a hand, "Stop. No honorifics or titles will be used in here. For you I am merely Lyons."

"Lyons." Roderick corrected himself, "In this short time span of me being outside the Vault, I've witnessed many things. Monsters, cannibals, killers, aliens and even magic, if you can believe that."

Roderick didn't miss the glint in the Elder's eyes as he spoke the last word. For being a father figure after his biological father's death, the old man in front of him suddenly felt small and frail. Not because of his wrinkled face and gray hair. It was because of his warning.

"Back when I left the Vault, I didn't know the kind of risks I would have to take when I decided to step into the world in search for my father. I know them now and I learned to live with them."

"It may be hypocritical of me, but you will fall into trouble. I know your nature, young man. You think that exceptions to the rules make new ones. And you are correct. It's what helped you unravel the secret of Oasis and even come back from the Pitt. You will find formidable, no, exceptional enemies after you have taken this step, ones you have never faced before. So I ask you again, Roderick, are you willing to bet your life, your dreams, your very nature in order to see reality from a different perspective? In order to learn the things kept secret from the foundation of the world?"

After a brief pause between the two, Roderick frowned and nodded. One of the Scribes behind them sighed. He tried to guess why.

"Very well. We will take this elevator, alone, where your initiation will begin."

The ride took ten minutes. Ten minutes of silence as the two men ventured deep into the earth inside a rusty container. Roderick sneaked a few glances at the Elder, who seemed to be having an inner conflict. He didn't say anything, focused instead of what he would do after whatever the Elder had in store for him. Wandering lost its charm after having explored every nook and cranny of the Capital Wasteland. His skills were needed in a war for survival, a war he knew, deep down, to be a lost cause. However, if the Brotherhood falls, so will the people and then everything would be over.

And he would be damned if he would ever let that happen.

He had seen the Horde with his own eyes. He knew how strong their ranks were. It was only thanks to his experience and vast arsenal that he managed to survive for that long. Oh well, he would think, what was another trauma or two when he saved dozens of lives?

The elevator thumped.

"We are here. Come."

A metallic door opened automatically as soon as Lyons stepped in front of them. He led Roderick through a short, metallic tunnel, then in front of a larger door. It had strange symbols painted in white on its surface. Lyons put his index finger on one of them and traced the lines until he completed the whole symbol.

"It is time for you to be my student again. Are you happy?"

"You tutored me once and it made me a better man. Now I feel like it's time for the other way around."

Lyons chuckled to himself as the door slowly opened. A stench of heavy air blew against them, as if the room hadn't been opened for quite some time. Roderick was used to it.

"Welcome to my humble Workshop. I'm sure it might not be up to the standards, but it's the best we have at the moment."

To say that it was weird was putting it lightly. In one corner of the room stood three rust tables filled with chemistry sets, a microscope and a pile of books that had seen better days. To their left, a giant board covered the wall, filled with equations and more strange symbols that Roderick had never seen in any of his adventures. The room might have looked more presentable if it weren't for a lamp on the ceiling that seemed like it would die out at any moment.

"A bit empty for a workshop, if I may comment. Couldn't you get more tools from Rivet City?"

"Not for our purpose. What you see before you is a little kingdom cut off from the rest of the Wasteland."

"So, a hidden science lab?"

"Not science." Lyons shook his head, "But Thaumaturgy."

"…I'm sorry?"

"Magic. No, Magecraft. That's a better term."

"I know what 'thaumaturgy'means. I had an education in the Vault, you know? It's just that… wow."

The elder raised an eyebrow.

"You don't look too surprised."

"You expected a different reaction?"

"Truth to be told? Yes. Yes I did."

Roderick shrugged, "I told you I had a supernatural encounter before."

"You mean that thing you found at the Dunwich?"

"Yeah… I had to bring a book there once. It burned as soon as it touched the obelisk. Then my Pipboy began finding traces of radiation for some reason."

"A book?... You didn't tell me that."

"Didn't feel like it was important."

"And Do you remember the name of the book?"

"I think… it was called Krivbeknih. Something like that."

Lyons's complexion turned several shades whiter. Roderick caught that too.

"You seem familiar with it."

He received no response.

"And back when I mentioned magic…" It didn't take a genius to connect the dots, "So, what, you know something more? Magic's real? Like, abracadabra-I-set-you-on-fire magic?"

"It's Magecraft…"

"Whatever."

Lyons took a piece of chalk and played with it in his hands. He didn't respond for a long time. And then…

"I see. Everything is connected."

"I'm sorry?"

"Back when we first met." Lyons explained, "I felt a trace of something deep within you, something I haven't felt for most of my life. At first I thought it was just a trick of my silly old mind… But much later, I felt it again. And it was stronger than before. If I had to guess, that something had been under influence of the energies released form that cursed book. Who gave it to you?"

"A certain man by the name of Blackhall. In Point Lookout. Why?"

"Because not everyone can have such books at their disposal. Roderick, that person you met must have been a Magus. I'm sure of it."

Lyons turned to Roderick. Something in his behavior changed, as if he had removed a mask he was wearing all this time.

"…Is that a good or a bad thing?"

"Depends."

"On what?"

"On whether you have the 'gift' or not."

The gears in Roderick's mind began to move. He became aware that, whatever Elder Lyons was about to tell him, it would most definitely mean more trouble for him. He looked at the floor, then at the board, then back at Lyons.

"Well, only one way to find out, I guess?"

AN: And here we are again. End of the first chapter. Do you have suggestions? Do you have critiscism? Something you would like to share? Feel free to write below.