"If war is not holy, man is nothing but antic clay." ~ Judge Holden
War. War never changes. When man's own judgment by fire scorched the earth, those who could escape fled underground into their own safe and secure arks. Time passes. Vaults open. A ruined world waited for them outside. A ruined world full of all the darkness and ugliness humanity once tried to cage away. Others survived in new shapes and forms, and birthed new towns and nations from the wreckage of the old. All of mankind and kin returned to their tribal ways as the great monuments slowly withered away around them.
Most of the once humble Midwestern Commonwealth has been transformed into a hellish dustbowl, ravaged by radioactive cyclones. The Great Lakes have been sundered into toxic swamps, breeding strange new life. The few pockets of remaining civilization are battered and scarred warzones. Torcity, the Big D, is a dark arena where the ghosts of ethnic strife and Canadian riots in the wake of the Great War still do battle.
This is the way it's always been in Torcity, for as long as anyone can remember. But things are about to change in the Big D, changes that threaten to engulf the Motown Tribes. Soldiers in power armor have been seen making their own trouble in the villages to the west. Scouts dressed in garments of an ancient culture are taking slaves, and establishing their own foothold in the peninsula. And something that should have stayed closed, is about to be opened. Torcity may not be interested in the world, but the world is now interested in them.
He is a young man, growing up in the fenced-in neighborhood of Livon, safe from the ghouls, super mutants, raiders, and slavers ruling Torcity. He is a prisoner of comfort and protection. He has only heard that the world is dark and wicked. But no man can escape his rite of passage, and some rites are born in blood.
"Hit 'em again Manny! Hit 'em again! I want to see the blood run down his face."
The next blow came down on him like a runaway train; it stuck him across the head and made everything go white. The force of the object hitting him caused him and the chair to topple sideways and down onto the dirty concrete floor. The pain was so intense; his thoughts became disjointed as all of his senses rattled around him. He heard a crack a second later, and couldn't tell if that was the sound of shattered bones or something else entirely.
Someone was lifting up his head, as one of the guffawing goons pulled him and the chair he was tied to back up. He swung his head a bit, dazed and still blind. One of the goon's grimy hands was gripping him underneath the chin, and pulling his head up. The whiteness became hot and brighter, and his vision slowly adjusted now to the light that was being shined down into his face. He could see the silhouette of the man who struck him, but everything else was unclear. The voice of the sinister outline began to speak to him again.
"Look, you seem like you're a nice kid. You were from one of those suburbs, yeah? Torcity isn't a place for bubbleheads like you folks. You got laws, but you've got laws because you've got food. Kid, down here in Torcity, everything is different. And that's the thing you've got to understand. This isn't malice, this isn't business, this is just our law. Motown Law. Don't take it personally. You can't blame the lion for eating the lamb. That's just how it is."
His assailant slapped him lightly on both cheeks in an affectionate way. He turned to one of his goons-his filthy, slack-jawed, laughing goons-who handed him a large board with a large, bloodstained rusty rail spike driven through it. As that board was tapped up and down in the ringleader's hands, the nice kid tied to the chair felt the truly primal fear that dwells in every human's gut.
He was still disoriented. His vision went blurry. Everything slowly went dark as he got one last glimpse of his would-be murderers. Right before it all went black, he thought he could hear the familiar strains of his mother's favorite song, "You Never Miss a Good Thing". The Miracles, with a young Smokey Robinson crooning on lead. B-Side to "I'll Try Something New". 1962, three hundred years and more ago.
I know you might miss your water
When the well runs dry
You might miss the sunshine
There's a cloudy sky
You might miss your dream
That never could be
But you, girl, you ain't missing nothing, no
Not like you're going to miss me
Cuz you never miss a good thing until it's gone
You never miss a good thing until it's gone
You never miss a good thing, baby, until it's gone
FALLOUT: Arsenal of Anarchy
Chapter One: Nobody's Coming Home Again
"Breathe."
Cyril took a deep breath. His hands wouldn't stop shaking. His body was so intense, his heart palpitating wildly. The rifle in his hand started to shake, until the sentry reached out and held it still with his steady hand.
"Relax."
Cyril exhaled slowly. He breathed in again, and exhaled slowly. He loosened up. His hands slowly stopped its spasms, and he gripped the rifle a little more confidently. He let out a slight grunt that he was ready.
"Aim."
Cyril lightly chewed on his lip as he lifted the rifled up higher. He lined up the sight on the creature scuttling around on the other side of the junk wall. He listened to the hissing sound of the hideous radroach. Its nearly two foot long body spread its wings and folded them back into its body every couple of seconds. He couldn't quite see what the vermin was up to, but he took a step back as he kept his line of sight on it. The sentry kicked his feet into a better position and lightly adjusted the place where the rifle was aiming at.
"Squeeze and fire."
Cyril did as he was told, squeezing the trigger. His heart skipped a beat the first time he heard the crack of the rifle, and he winced when the butt of the rifle hit his shoulder. Down the wasteland and away from the wall it was clear that he missed the radroach. He looked up at his trainer, looking for any kind of expression to tell him what to do. The sentry was a blank slate. Cyril picked up the rifle again and ejected the spent cartridge. He held the rifle up like the way he was taught, aimed, and squeezed the trigger. He thought he was ready for the recoil this time, but he unconsciously flinched when the gun went off. He knew immediately that the shot wouldn't hit the radroach.
He grunted in frustration, adjusted his stance, and took aim once more after ejecting the cartridge. This time the sentry pressed the butt of the rifle into Cyril's shoulder, just above the armpit. Cyril chewed his lip, breathed, relaxed, aimed, squeezed, and fired. It felt right the moment it fired. In the distance the radroach spun in the air, its legs thrashing about. It crashed down on the earth hard, kicking up a small cloud of dust. It fell on its back, twitching. He couldn't see that pieces of its body were scattered around on the dirt, but Cyril smiled when he could see that the radroach was definitely down.
"You're getting better," the sentry told him, taking the rifle away from Cyril and ejecting the third spent cartridge. "If you press the butt of the rifle into your shoulder like I showed you, it will help you with the recoil. The worst thing that can happen is that you get a twitch every time you're about to fire. It'll ruin your aim."
Cyril sighed happily. His blood was running after bagging a kill on the radroach. He was already missing the feel of the rifle in his hands. Even in its chipped and scratched state, the rifle felt exquisite to hold. He looked out towards the wasteland from the top of the RV that had been fastened and molded into the town's protective junk wall. A molerat was wandering by, chewing on some of the remains of the dead radroach. He yearned to take one more shot.
Outside the walls of the protected town of Livon, the ruined suburban roads and buildings continued their slow and sorrowful decay. Not even nature wanted to reclaim it. Everything around them was dead, save the odd ruined tree. Cyril had heard there were parts less ruined in the Metro area, that this place was just hit hard by the Canadian rebels. When he was younger, he often snuck to the top of the wall, just to catch a glimpse of the end of the world and the ruins there in.
The sentry did some quick maintenance on the rifle and slung it back around his back. He took out a pack of cigarette, sighing as he took the last one out of the pack. With the cigarette in his mouth he crumpled the trash up in his hand and tossed it into the dirt and rubble outside the wall. The sentry took out his tarnished silver lighter. Cyril could barely make out the inscription on it. BETTER DEAD THAN RED. After lighting his cigarette, the sentry put the lighter away and sat down on the RV. He took long slow draws off of the cigarette. Looking at the kid he was training, he held out his smoke and offered him a puff. Cyril simply shook his head and the sentry went back to smoking.
"Why d'you want to be a guard," he asked, blowing smoke into the air. "Job is shit. Pay is shit. You're the first to die if the vermin and scum out there try and attack. Ain't worth it."
"So why do you do it?" He picked up an empty bottle of whiskey that had been lying on top of the RV. He threw it towards the molerat that was loitering around, falling far short of the target.
"Does it look like I have a choice, kid?" He held his arms out, inviting him to look at his shabby state of dress and his gaunt and battered body. "I don't got the intelligence nor the charisma for something like a doctor or a mayor. Not a bit of a luck in these bones either. But, I can shoot. And I can fight. They put me in jail after one too many bar fights, and gave me a choice. Rot or hold a rifle. Didn't have to ask me twice."
Cyril picked up another empty whiskey bottle on the RV, throwing it once more at the molerat. The bottle crashed into some nearby pavement, shattering into pieces. The molerat didn't respond to any of the attacks. It dug its snout into the ground, and then chewed on some more pieces of the radroach.
"Cyril, right?" The sentry asked, kicking his feet up on his duffel bag.
"Yeah, it's Cyril."
"You never did answer my question." He put his hands behind his head and rested.
"It's either this or spend time with my mother. Right now, she's probably at home, praying. And if I was home, she'd harass me to go on a date with Sally Bevins. Then I would try to ask her about my father or the wasteland or the Great War, and then she would try to change the subject. Any time I have any questions about anything, she gives me the same answers over and over again, or changes the subject to something about the neighbors. No, I don't think I want to spend time at home."
"I can understand that, but still doesn't explain why you want to be a guard. Go and work in the library if you want out of the house. You don't seem to be too dumb of a kid. Certainly can't be as dumb as I was when I was seventeen."
"I need answers. I want to see the world, but this is as close as I can get."
"Fool words," the sentry said, getting up and lifting the duffel bag over his shoulder. He took the cigarette butt out of his mouth and flicked it into the wasteland that they treated like a trash heap. "Hey, kid, Cyril. I've got about an hour until my shift is up. Traders aren't going to come by today. If they were, they would've been here by now. Nothing's out there."
"Um, okay."
The sentry rubbed the back of his head, looking slightly embarrassed as he kicked his foot around. "Well, y'see, there's this game going on, and I kind of want to get there before betting's closed. So, I was thinking you finish my shift for me. Work's easy. You just sit up on the wall here and watch. I taught you the rules, you know what to do. When the next guy gets here, just tell him the reason I'm not there is because I went to put my guns away. He'll believe ya."
Cyril blinked. "I get to be the guard?"
"Yeah, knock your socks off."
Cyril smiled and furiously nodded his head. The sentry chuckled while he climbed down the ladder propped against the RV. He looked up at the kid and waved at him. "Thanks a million, kid. I really owe you for this one. Whatever I win, I'll give you a cut of it. Just remember everything I taught you, okay?"
The sentry took off down towards the downtown area of Livon and Cyril stood proudly on top of the protective wall of the town. He was filled with a sense of power and responsibility, and it felt good to be in charge of something. He looked out across the vast dead lands and watched for anything that would come into his field of view.
It hadn't occurred to Cyril the drudgery of standing guard and doing nothing. There really wasn't anything out there. After he was done throwing empty bottles at the molerat, he just sat and stared at it, seeing nothing else to focus his attention on. Eventually the molerat got bored itself, and wandered off. Cyril looked up at the sun, looming ominously behind the nauseous green-and-gray tinted clouds.
It was around forty minutes after when Cyril noticed a small cart was rolling its way down the cracked and beaten roads. It was being pulled by two Brahmin, and when it got closer he could see a ragged, bearded man with salt-and-pepper hair holding the reins. The cart shook back and forth as it moved, like it was ready to fall apart at any moment. When it was clear that it was moving towards the walled-off town, Cyril noticed that there was a second man, white-haired and bearded, sitting in the back of the cart.
The cart came to a stop near the RV and the driver looked up at Cyril. "Could you see it in you to let us in?"
"Who, me?"
"You're the guard, ain't ya?"
Cyril was taken aback. He grinned and puffed out his chest. "Yeah, I am. I'm the sentry posted here. And as the sentry, I'm obliged to inform you that we don't let traders inside. All trade is done outside."
"Yeah, I know," the driver started up again, "'cept that those hockey-mask wearing raider freaks, called what?"
"Blood Wings," the man in the back responded.
"Yeah, those hockey-mask wearing raider freaks called the Blood Wings. They've come out here now. They're attacking traders and caravans. We can't do the deals outside anymore because none of us know when those crazy bastards are come at us guns blazing. We was up near Novi, and a caravan got attacked by those raiders. They were waitin' 'n' hidin'. They cut those people up somethin' awful. They know you suburb people don't let anyone in, so they just ambush us now."
"There's no one around here to ambush you."
"Do you know that? Do you know that for sure? We've come a long way, son, and we want to go home 'fore it gets dark."
"Where are you guys from?"
"Downriver. We got a safe house not far from here where we'll be stayin' tonight. We're just here to deliver somethin' for the mayor. Just let us in and we'll finish and be off."
"I will get in so much trouble if I let you in. Hold on, I'll get the mayor myself." Cyril started to move towards the ladder, and then stopped when he realized he would be abandoning the post, leaving no one to guard it. He thought maybe he could meet them out there, but that seemed too dangerous if they were right about the raiders. "Okay, so here's what we're going to do. I'm going to let you in. You give me whatever you have for the mayor. Then you leave."
"Seems fair to us," the driver said.
"Okay, hold on." Cyril climbed down the ladder of the RV and jogged towards the main gate. He could hear the cart rolling along on the other side to meet him there. At the massive gate made out of sheets of steel, he looked around to make sure that no one was watching. The coast was clear. Almost everyone stayed away from the wall and gate, for fear of accident and attack. Cyril gripped the first crank, turning it until the first sheet of metal slid open. Then he jogged to the crank on the other side, turning it and opening the second. The main gate was now open, and Cyril realized that this was the first time in his life he had seen it opened. His emotions were zigzagging as he let the first group of outsiders in.
The cart slowly entered, stopping just as it got inside. Cyril approached the cart. The grizzled-looking traders got off of the cart, moving wares around in the back. They were both wild-looking men, exchanging very few words with each other.
"We're looking for the package, one moment," the driver said. The older man was throwing things around in the cart haphazardly.
"Have you two been doing this sort of thing very long?" Cyril asked.
The younger man looked at the older man. He stared for a second, and then turned back to Cyril. "Yeah, I suppose we been. I don't keep much track of these things. Just find what I can find, sell what I can sell."
"What's it like out there? Is it as horrible out there as they say it is?" Cyril asked.
This time the older man spoke up. "What's with the questions, kid? Ain't you ever been to Wasteland or beyond? I'm sure you've never stepped any foot into Torcity, but haven't you ever been to Plym or Novi?" He laughed when he finally found a brown box in the back. He took it over to Cyril.
Cyril took the box from him, shaking it a bit to listen to what's inside. He was too wrapped up in the conversation to think anything about the strange, clinking metallic sound in the box. "No. That's why I wanted to know. Sorry, I've just never spoken to anyone from outside the walls before."
The old man went back to the back of the cart. He was looking for something again. The driver walked towards Cyril and put an uneasy hand on his shoulder. "Anyways, kid, it's a messed up world with messed up people out there. You have to watch your back at all times. I'm sure the adults around here tell you all the stories. You got your feral ghouls and your super mutants that drag people off. Then you got your murderous psychopaths, gangs, and slavers. And now there's some new freaks moving in. It's a big ol' blood and guts party out there."
Cyril nodded his head in agreement. He was starting to feel a little uncomfortable at the conversation.
"You're pretty sheltered," the older man said. He let out a nervous, cracked laughter. It rattled Cyril's bones.
Cyril nervously laughed it off. "Yeah, I guess I kind of am. It's just the way my mom raised me. And no one else in town likes to talk about anything. I honestly just forget about it sometimes. It's kind of cool that I can speak to some people who have been outside there."
"Cool, eh," the younger man said.
"Yup," the older one grunted.
From the minute that Cyril had let them in, there seemed to be something off about the two men. Cyril couldn't quite put his finger on it. At first he thought it was just that they were from the Wastes. As the conversation had gone on though, something about their demeanor had made Cyril shudder in sickness. He wanted to be away from them. "Well, I'll let you two be. I suppose you probably have to get going now.
"I suppose we do," the driver replied, turning towards his comrade and nodding at him.
Cyril turned to walk towards the cranks of the main gate. The sooner he was rid of these men, the better.
"Hey kid," the driver called out to him. "You want to know the first rule of the Wasteland?
Cyril's stomach twisted into knots and a chill ran up his spine. "What?" he asked. He slowly turned back towards them.
"You never trust anyone from the Wastes."
He never had time to react to the chemical rag that was pressed against his face. He flailed and resisted, but only briefly. He dropped the box, which opened when he hit ground. It was full of nothing but dirty silverware. Cyril went down, unconscious. The driver scooped him up and hid him in the cart, placing him underneath a blanket.
They quickly drove out of the town, leaving the protected neighborhood in the dust behind them. They looked to one another with broken, toothy grins, happy with the prisoner they had stolen.