Growing up in the wasteland came with many expectations and few promises. You either slept poorly or you learned to fall asleep at will, on either a molding mattress or a pile of irradiated dirt. You ate poorly or you learned to eat anything that moved, be it a torso of a Radroach or Mirelurk eyeballs. You thirsted for water or you accepted drinking water that poisoned your body. Such were the expectations a Wastelander aged with, were nursed from womb to tomb on. The beliefs that luxury was a tin shack with a door and a mole rat for dinner.
Another such expectation was loss. The loss of supplies, the loss of idealism, of dreams, of warmth or comfort, however bastardized such ideas formed within the wasteland. People were simply another such item: You either grieved for the lost, or you simply found new company.
It was standing at the charred entrance to Big Town that Haskel ruminated over these droll facts, keeping his mind on the analytical aspects of life to overshadow their personal ache. He had anticipated concern, anger and even a level of nonchalance from little Felix. After all, Lamp Lighters grew and were dealt a far harsher hand than other Wastelanders. For them, loss and hardship were the wide sea while the lamp lighters were the ships that dared to sail it.
So it came as a quiet surprise that little Felix was consumed with grief upon entering the deserted settlement, signs of faded battle painted with abandon around him.
Vincent sat down beside the injured Timebomb and the disheveled Kimba. After reassurances and some food and water were shared, Kimba began to shed light on what had transpired: Super Mutants had attacked the camp in force, taking Red, Shorty and Flash with them, leaving Dusty dead and Timebomb in critical condition. Pappy and Bittercup had fled during the fighting and had yet to be seen. Kimba had hid and escaped unfazed if shocked by the blitzkrieg that had taken nearly her entire community.
"We have to go after them; we have to get them back." Felix snarled eyes wide and teeth flared.
Weighing the weight and costs of such a deal was second nature for Haskel, but for a young mercenary Vincent did it admirably. His face betrayed how much he did not wish to pursue what were likely to be butchered or mutated Wastelanders for what would surely amount to be piecemeal.
And yet… Vincent had ordered Haskel to return to Minefield with Virginia and Jaxon (What a joy it would be traveling home in roaring silence with the pair) and to have Anais and Sledge rendezvous with the group outside Germantown. For his pragmatism and stubbornness, Vincent was still regrettably young. It was an unavoidable fault, one that Haskel had expected.
For in the wasteland, you either lost people, or you moved on to something better.
A morsel for those of you who came back to the fold after nearly two years (!) of silence on my end. This story breathes with new life, and those of you who keep reading will be rewarded with more action, more snark and more weird fallout fan fiction. So sit back and guzzle this like I guzzle coffee and criticism.
-Blue Jaye