A campfire story. Something you'd swap stories about, however horrifying they may be. Raiders, Talon Mercs, even Enclave Soldiers have all heard the tales. Tales of an unstoppable monster, capable of slaughtering entire regiments of Enclave soldiers, annihilating Evergreen Mills, and reigning down fire upon Paradise Falls. One could be forgiven for assuming that these tales were of a mythical creature; perhaps a Deathclaw with a grudge.
The tales went on, however. This creature was a hunter unlike any other. Day or night, it was an apex predator through and through, no matter the location of the sun. The tales stated that the creature was once a man, turned feral due to too much exposure to too many things in the Wasteland. Others suggested it was the offspring of a Deathclaw and human, it's only purpose to slaughter those it deemed unjust. Whatever was said about this creature seemed to only make the legend of it feared even more, so much so that many would-be Raiders or Talon Mercs would outright turn their lives around after hearing these tales.
Before this creature was unleashed upon the Capital Wasteland, Raiding may have been a dangerous way to live, but now it was death sentence. The tales included stories about how entire camps of Raiders would be slaughtered, with only one survivor. That survivor was allowed to live, however, after being pinned to whatever nearby post or wall or sign would hold a person up. Pinned by railroad spikes, to be exact, with one word carved into their stomachs every time: Leave. At first, camps were quickly reestablished, not fearing that lightning would strike the same location twice. However, these locations were metaphorical lightning rods. After the first few times, Raiders thought they could simply move locations. They were wrong. This apex predator would always sniff them out, and every time it would end the same way.
Talon Mercs had slightly different stories of this terror. However, one fact remained the same: One survivor. This monster would always leave one survivor to tell anyone who found them about this creature, and to warn them that they'd be next. There were stories about an entire platoon of Talon Mercs stationed at the Capital Building, a few days after taking it -again- from the Super Mutants. First, it would be the sentries. Always a center-mass shot, always by something large-caliber. .50BMG, more than likely. Next, it was the patrols around the perimeter, drawn together by the shots, usually gathered around their fallen comrade's bodies. These groups of five or six were almost always found to be dispatched at close range. Sometimes a single slash to the throat, others would be completely decapitated, and then there were the slash marks, eerily similar to a Deathclaw's slash markings, bringing life to the half-human, half-Deathclaw rumors and horror stories. Next came those inside the building. Three round groupings to the head, but there was never any reports of any shots fired, not by the creature, and not by the Mercs. And every time, there would be a survivor, pinned to the doors of the building, the word 'Leave' carved into their stomach.
The Enclave had somewhat similar experiences. After having both Raven Rock and their landcrawler destroyed, their Capital Wasteland operations were reduced to what seemed like small encampments, fueled by different factions within the Enclave which were birthed by the fracture caused by their entire foundation being destroyed. These encampments were usually manned by six or seven soldiers, one officer, and often times one or two scientists. Sometimes, they'd even have a bot or two with them, though that was becoming more of a rarity. Not because they were running out, but because this creature, whatever it was, is somehow able to remotely control these combat machines and use them to take out the camp, without ever having to lift a rifle itself. When there weren't machines to do it's bidding, however, the bodies of the Enclave soldiers often told a darker, more gruesome story. Their armor was often shredded, if not outright missing. Sometimes they'd find someone with a fist-sized hole in the chest of the armor, reaching all the way into the chest of the person inside, their heart literally ripped out of them.
Whatever the faction, whatever the kind of weaponry used, the result was always the same; Those who were often deemed unjust were slaughtered. These tales said so, and the evidence said so. Raiders were growing increasingly uncommon. Talon Mercs seemed to be keeping to themselves more often, and Enclave members were more and more reluctant to go out into the wasteland.
The commonfolk didn't fear this creature. Rather, they revered it. Three Dog, the Radio DJ, told stories of it's exploits, praising it. Turning it into a kind of Wasteland Messiah for people just trying to survive honestly. He told tales of how thin the herds of 'wasteland baddies' were growing. He'd had on guests who were personally saved from Raiders or Super Mutants by this predator. Though, not much was known about it. The people who were saved often saw nothing but a man-shaped figure, wearing a brown leather duster, under which was a condensed version of Combat Armour, sporting both a hood and facemask. Those who did see more than that usually said the same thing; He fights like the devil himself and his eyes were an icy blue, able to peer straight into one's soul. And as soon as the people were untied, he was gone before they could thank him. Disappeared from view, leaving nothing but a slightly distorted shimmer in his wake.
If asked about what kind of weapons this creature carried, observant people who were rescued would usually say the same thing: All they really saw was often a rifle or two strapped to his back, the kinds of which varied slightly, and a revolver. Not just any kind of revolver, however. This thing was unlike anything else they'd seen. Absolutely massive in size and scope. When fired, they would claim, it was like the boom of a thunder cloud. They often had stories of the odd knife usually strapped to the lower back of his duster, of how the knife seemed to be the sharpest thing in existence, being able to cut the limbs of raiders clean off, or able to slam down onto the helmet of a Talon Merc and go straight through the steel alloy of the helmet, often times splitting their heads in two all the way down to the mouth or nose.
Whatever the case may be, everyone knew what, or rather, who this creature was. It was the Lone Wanderer. Three years ago, he was a kid straight from a vault, searching for his father. However, in his wake, death seemed to travel for all those who stood in his way, a theme that increased exponentially as time moved on. Now, he was standing in the cafeteria of a hospital in downtown DC, Super Mutant bodies surrounding him as he made his way to the stairs on the opposite side of the room. He had just absolutely obliterated his way through the hospital and adjacent hotel, carving his way through to rescue a group of people. Mercs, to be exact. Reilly's Rangers. Supposedly the best trained Mercenaries this side of the country.
He had agreed to get them out of a jam after meeting Reilly herself. While he was mostly a stoic and non-emotional individual, the fiery redhead had somehow brought a strange feeling into play. Something he hadn't felt for a very, very long time. She practically begged for his help, and he had a code to uphold; Sacrifice anything and everything, whatever the cost to himself or those outside the Capital Wasteland, to help those in need and help the Capital Wasteland rebuild. She had known who he was, of course. The duster, the face mask, the way he carried himself. His eyes. That's how she knew for sure. Icy blue eyes, able to take in more with a single glance than anyone else could with minutes worth of surveying. Eyes that almost seemed to be older than time itself. Eyes that said: "I've seen more than you ever will"
Her eyes, however, were green. They seemed to dance with emotion, and looked positively stunning when she smiled after he had agreed to rescue her comrades. He remembered the spark he felt when they shook on it. Everything about her seemed to put him at ease, or at least made him less feral. He knew that it wasn't a good thing, what he didn't know was if it was an objectively bad thing. She had stirred up feelings that he thought were long dead. And for the moments he allowed himself to think about her, he felt.. Happy. At peace, even.
That feeling of peace came crashing down as soon as he was about to round the corner on the roof, hearing gunfire. Steeling himself once more, he readied his suppressed rifle and pushed forward. One glance was all he needed. Six mutants. One Overlord. Three Sledgehammers, Two hunting rifles, one R91 Assault Rifle. With a slight, yet very intentional movement of his lower three fingers holding the grip of Suppressed R91 Assault Rifle, he felt a familiar sensation hit him. Just like that for a few split seconds, time slowed down to a crawl. Targeting the Overlord first, he put two rounds each into the back of the kneecaps, crippling it's movements and ensuring that it won't hit anything it fires at. Switching targets quickly, he puts three rounds into the heads of each of the sledgehammer-wielding mutants, effectively ending their charge. With a few moments left, he fires at the buttstocks of the hunting rifles, knocking them out the Super Mutant's grasp.
Time rushed forward as the feeling of VATS left him. The Overlord with the perforated kneecaps wails as it tries to turn around to shoot at the interloper, however the Lone Wanderer is quicker, unsheathing his Kukri and burying it into the head of the mutant, stopping it mid-turn. As he yanks the blade out of the mutant, he becomes acutely aware of several eyes on him. He turns to face what he assumed were the Rangers. Pulling his face mask down as he approached, he takes something attached to his back and tosses it at their feet. A fission battery. Just what they needed to get the elevator working. One of the Rangers approaches the Wanderer and extends a hand, along with a question.
"I take it you're our backup?" He asks, though it was really more of a statement than a question.
Michael grasps the extended hand firmly, being careful not to crush it. "Yeah. Let's get you guys out of here."
It's been a while since I last did any serious writing. I revisited my older documents on my laptop and decided to get back to it. However, I really, really enjoyed the plot of what I have planned for this story, but I felt like if I took this story down and re-uploaded it with the new Chapter One, I'd be doing all those who followed this story to begin with a disservice. Overall, I feel that this is a much better way to start what is planned to be a cross-game, multi-dimensional saga. As I stated in the Author's Note on the previous chapter (What I will now, and in the future refer to as the 'Beta Chapter) I have a massive plot line written out for this story. It spans over twelve pages in Microsoft Word, and that's with very minimal writing, just major events that I want to happen.
As I'm writing this, I'm getting ready to start the second chapter, which will be much greater in length than this one. Overall, I plan for the entire series of stories to be finished at around 500k words, at an average of 6k per chapter. That's approximately 83 chapters total. I plan for two sequels, one of them already written down in the plot line, the second being made more clearly by the day.
In short; Daddy's home and he's got a glass of scotch along with a new muse.
