Mutatis Mutandis 2

Hello to returning readers. I'm glad to see you all back again for the final part of the Modus Operandi Trilogy. To all the new readers out there, welcome to the fold. I'm looking forward to this one. It'll hopefully be one hell of a wild ride.

The time has come, and so without further ado…

...Three Weeks Earlier...

Sarah stared across the flickering fire, into the motherly face of Bloomseer Poplar. She said, "I didn't ask you to do this."

The old woman smiled, "Yet here I sit."

Sarah glanced into the tree-filled shadows. Jason was there somewhere, she knew. He wasn't seen unless he wished to be, and she knew that she had no chance of seeing him through the darkness, nor of hearing him over the pacifying sound of rustling leaves.

She had no idea what favors he had called in to arrange the Tree-Minder's therapy sessions, and wasn't particularly keen on finding out. The vast majority of the Wanderer's dealings were exceedingly ugly affairs.

Neither had she expected the therapy to work, but it had. She was by no means cured of the night terrors, but her overall attitude had drastically improved. Perhaps it was Poplar's subtle influences, or perhaps it was simply the shock of green in the capital wasteland, but over her three-week stay in oasis, she had managed to care again. The horrors of her stay in Point Lookout had loosened their grip, giving her room to breathe, room to think. Room to remember her life before she had first set foot on that god-forsaken, desolate stretch of coastline.

Jason had helped too, putting his inner drive to work on her behalf. Every morning, his eyes filled with the same iron intensity he had applied to their adventure in the Pitt, he would leave the confines of the Oasis to forage and collect news. He'd return in the late afternoons, or evening and present his findings, although she knew that the stories he brought back had been heavily filtered and sanitized for her benefit. He did everything in his extensive powers to insure that her hiatus was as care-free as possible. It was gratifying to see him work so hard for her well-being. The actions gave her a much deeper understanding of just where his 'Benevolent Savior' myth had originated.

Unfortunately, she understood the way the Lone Wanderer's mind worked: cold, and clinical. Every decision was filtered through an enormously complex calculation of gains and losses. He had something to gain by spending so much time and energy on her, she had no doubt. She also had no doubt that it was not sex. That wasn't important enough. Sarah wasn't entirely sure where she stood in their relationship, but his reasons were probably more closely related to the Brotherhood. Keeping her father's spirits up, perhaps.

Regardless of the reason, he had dropped everything to take her up north to Oasis. The shock of plantlife had been a harsh one. A stunning blow to everything she imagined the Capital Wasteland to be, and exactly the sign of hope she had needed. The idea that the world would be green within her lifetime… it was powerful. Enough to make her believe again.

Poplar held out a wooden cup.

"Again?" Sarah asked.

The old woman nodded.

Sarah sighed and took the glass. The problem was her dreams, Poplar had concluded. That was where her issues originated. That was where her own energies had to be focused. To that end, she had presented Sarah with the Tree-Minder's sap. She knew what it would do. Jason had had her drink it almost the moment they'd set foot in the place.

She raised the glass to her lips and began to sip the thick fluid, feeling the now familiar warm rush, and the tingling in her extremities. Her vision blurred, and she felt her head grow heavy.

Jason Howlett, the Lone Wanderer, watched as the blonde woman slowly drank the liquid. She sat still for a few moments, then lay back on the heavy wooden slats of the central gazebo. As happened every night, Poplar moved around to her head and stayed there, her own head bowed, eyes shut.

Bloomseer Poplar had a …talent. Jason wasn't quite sure where it came from, or how she was able to use it, but she had been able to predict - with startling accuracy- some aspect of almost every single one of his adventures. He hadn't been raised to believe in the supernatural. Ghosts, goblins, and psychics… but he did know that there were things in the world which he did not understand, and he knew in his gut that if anyone had a chance of getting to the bottom of Sarah Lyons' unusual condition, it was Bloomseer Poplar.

He watched the two of them for a few minutes. Visually it was not a particularly interesting event. Sarah was spread out on the slats, lost in a drug-induced haze. Poplar would crouch over the woman and shut her eyes, locked in her own trance. He wasn't entirely sure where the two of them went, but it was best to leave them alone.

He slipped off into the darkness and reappeared outside a nearby wooden gate, surprising the guard.

"Linden." Jason nodded at the brown-robed figure.

The man stepped aside respectfully, letting him through.

Jason stepped into the central glade of the Oasis. The air was fresh, and his feet splashed in pools of cool water as he walked to the central tree. He sat back against the lonesome, twisted growth and adjusted his red bandana, cursing the fact that he'd been forced to cut and dye his blonde hair. It was growing back, sure enough, but he had rather taken to the blast-back look in combination with the red bandana. Anything shorter was uncomfortable.

"How is the lady doing?" a dry voice asked in a slow, absentminded drawl. If a watcher had been looking closely, they would have noticed the strangely shaped knot in the tree he was leaning against, and the way it appeared to move whenever the dry voice spoke.

"Getting better." Jason replied. "Thank you for talking to Poplar."

"Orderin' her's more like. 'Bout that, it's wearing her out, you know." The voice told him sadly. "She was telling me this mornin' she's worried it's gonna kill her."

Jason shrugged and pulled a sheaf of papers out from under his brown duster. He said, "It might."

"That's awful cold'o ya." The voice admonished.

"Bloomseer Poplar is valuable to the Tree-minders, but inconsequential to the wasteland." Jason replied. "Sarah Lyons is important to the well-being of the Brotherhood. She gets priority."

"Is that all?"

"Almost." Jason licked a finger and flipped open the front page of the papers. The title was typed in large, blocky print:

#315A- Mariposa Incident Report

High Elder: Rhombus

Master Scribe: Vree

"Almost?" The voice asked.

"She's a close friend of mine."

"Close?"

"Close enough." Jason snapped, his tone demonstrating that the conversation had ended. He turned his attention back to the sheaf of papers. Rothchild's report on 'Mariposa'.

The report itself was a long-winded affair, with the bulk of the papers being taken up by technical data. Schematics, technical data, and scientific studies including an autopsy report by the Scribe Vree. Jason found himself scanning through them in a bored stupor until he reached the report itself. It wasn't what he had been expecting; a professionally written, Official Report done in the Brotherhood's usual blustering style. What he received was a heartfelt memoir which hit far too close to home, dredging up emotions and memories he himself had buried years before.

The one good thing about growing old is that you get your way. The new leaders of the Tribe (they refuse to call themselves Elders until I have passed on, whenever that will be. I don't know. I've been through so much that I sometimes feel about as human as the master.) want me to record my knowledge for future generations. Bah! What knowledge they need is to be found with sweat and blood, not some letters on a page. But the future is a great unknown, and they may have a point. To make them happy, I've written down what I feel will be important. (The important words being "what I feel will be important.")

They want me to write my memoirs. Fine. I'll do it. But as the song goes, I'll do it my way. And I'm old enough that I will get my way.

The War
I know little about the War, but it doesn't really matter. A lot of people died when a lot of atomic bombs went off and nearly destroyed the world. If you don't know what an atomic bomb is, then imagine the worst thing possible. Atomic bombs were worse than that.

The Vaults
Like all of the original members of the Tribe, I came from the Vaults. Before the War, the government of the United States, which numbered in the thousands of villages, and had many, many tribesman per village, paid to have these huge holes dug in mountains and huts of metal and stone built underground. There were many Vaults. Some were close to cities, and some far away. These Vaults were to be used as safe places in case of atomic war. As you may guess, when the War came your ancestors made it to a Vault, Vault 13 to be specific.

Jason's mind was shunted sideways. He felt as though he were once again witnessing the outside world for the first time, four years ago. The same shock ran through him, mind, body, and soul.

For several generations, your ancestors and mine lived within the Vault. As best as they could figure, it was too dangerous to try and leave the Vault. They grew their own food, recycled their waste, read, worked, slept, had families, and even purified the necessary water within the Vault. I was born in the creche, and was raised by the community (and a robot). It was a good life, but all good things come to an end. About three generations after the War, the water-purification chip the Vault relied on to create the fresh water broke down. All the spare parts were missing or busted, and without the water-chip the Vault was doomed. Something had to be done.

The Overseer gathered the healthy of us between a certain age and made us draw straws. Guess what? I drew the short one. Wouldn't be much of story if I didn't, would it?

I left the Vault the next day.

Life on the Outside

My first few days were harrowing to say the least. I fought off some giant mutant rats that were more interested in eating me than they should have been.
My only clue was the location of another Vault, Number 15. I spent a couple of days stumbling through the desert before I came upon a small settlement. I stopped there for help, and encountered the little town called Shady Sands. I helped them, and they helped me. Understand that survival requires that you work together, even with people you may not trust. I did earn the trust, however, of two prominent citizens of Shady Sands - Tandi, and her father, Aradesh.

With their knowledge, and the help of a man called Ian, I continued on my way to Vault 15. The ruins of Vault 15, to be more specific. Ravaged by the elements, scavengers, and time itself, Vault 15 was no help for my people. The control room that contained their water-chip was buried under tons of fallen rock, and I had to move on.

After a small problem with some raiders, who would continue for years to plague not only myself, but the Tribe, I found myself in Junktown. It was here that I learned the most important rule of all: doing a good thing sometimes means being a very bad person. My memories of Junktown are tainted, and I feel no remorse for my actions in that place. It was there that I came across a dog, who adopted me and was my faithful friend from there on. I miss Dogmeat to this day.

While Junktown was a city of traders (and traitors), it did not have a water-chip. I was not desperate yet, as there was still time for me to recover the chip and return to my home, but I needed to move on. Fortunately, they pointed me in the direction of the hub, the largest city in the wasteland.

The Hub was a larger city than both Junktown and Shady Sands combined. You could drop the Vault in there, and you probably would not notice. But the people of the Hub had no life, and it was a desolate place just the same. It eased my mind, however, to hire some merchants to bring water to the Vault. Looking back, it was probably a mistake to do so, but I was still innocent of the evils that lurked through the ruins of civilization. A small clue led me to the city of the ghouls, the place they called Necropolis. It was there that I encountered large mutants, armed with weapons of an unknown origin. It is with heavy sadness that I say that Ian lost his life in the city of the dead. A Supermutant burned him to death with a flamethrower. The passage of time is no proof against the memory of burning flesh. His sacrifice was not in vain, as I did find the water-chip buried beneath the city. It was with easier steps that I returned to Vault 13.

Enemies of the State
While the Overseer was obviously happy to see me returned to the Vault, alive and with the necessary water-chip, he was distraught at my description of the super mutants. It is here that I realized the mistake I had made with the water-merchants. I had pointed them, and others, in the direction of our home. Without the protection of anonymity, the Vault could easily have been destroyed. The knowledge of the fate of Vault 15 did not help. The Overseer tasked me with a new mission. Find and destroy the danger of the super mutants. Once again, I left the Vault. This time, it was easier on my heart. Looking back now, I realize it was also the first time I should have seen the true hearts of the other vault dwellers and the Overseer.

I returned to the Hub, looking for clues. Some time was spent there, and I discovered a shady underworld amongst the hustle and bustle of that large city. They thought they could manipulate me, but I proved them wrong and used the crooks instead. I did rescue a young man who belonged to the Brotherhood of Steel. A few trouble-makers tried to stop me, but I learned much about survival since leaving the Vault.

It was in my best interest to leave town for a while. I journeyed to this Brotherhood. Thinking they would have the knowledge I sought, I tried to join them. They required me to go on a quest before they would let me in. Thinking it would be a short and easy quest, I agreed and set off for the place they called the Glow. The horror of atomic war was never so obvious to me until then. The Brotherhood was surprised to see me, and even more surprised to see that I had not only survived their quest, but succeeded. They gave me the information I required and some of their technology, and I set off in search of the Boneyard. On my way, I took a detour and stopped by Necropolis in order to see some old friends. Unfortunately, that place was now truly the city of the dead. All the ghouls had been slaughtered. Large mutants roamed the streets. I found one survivor who told me that the mutants had attacked shortly after I had left. Before he died, the ghoul told me that the mutants were looking for pure strain humans, and one in particular. The ghoul's description of the mutants' special target fit me perfectly. It was with a heavy heart and a cold burning on my soul that I continued on to Boneyard.

The Master

The city of Los Angeles must have been the largest in the world before the War. The LA Boneyard stretched forever, the skeletons of buildings lying under the hot sun. Not even the wind entered this dead city.

I found many enemies, and a few friends, in the Boneyard. I killed when necessary and learned more about the nature of my true foes. Deep under the ground, I found an evil that was behind the mutants and their army. Within a dark and forbidding Vault, where the walls dripped with human flesh, and the screaming of dying echoed through the halls, I found many evil creatures and mutants. I also lost my left eye.

Walking among the misshapen ones, I killed one of their servants and took his clothing. Hidden from casual searches, I made my way to the bottom of the Vault. The deeper into the Vault I went, the more gruesome the journey. More and more flesh was to be found, integrated into the very walls. The worst part of it was that the flesh was still alive, and even aware of my presence.

After a while, I found myself in the presence of the most hideous sight yet. I still cannot bring myself to write of this discovery, but let it be known that when I left, the Beast was dead and the Master of the mutant army was no more.

The Vats
My job was still not finished, for I still had one task remaining. The Master had literally built his army one mutant at a time. Humans, preferably with little radiation damage, were to be captured and sent to the Vats. There they were dipped in something called FEV, which transformed them into the large, grotesque mutants.

I had to find these Vats, and put them out of action as well, lest another take the Master's place and continue to build the mutant army. Fortunately, my friends at the Brotherhood had a few clues, and helped me reach my goal. Invading the Vats, I came across more mutants and robots. None could stand in my way. I had a mission. I had a goal. I had a really large gun. It was here that Dogmeat fell, a victim of a powerful energy forcefield. I miss that dog. I destroyed the Vats that day, and with it, the mutant army. The last I heard, they splintered and disappeared into the desert.

My Return to Vault 13
I was not treated to a hero's welcome when I returned to Vault 13. The Overseer met me outside the massive Vault door, and told me point blank that while my services to the Vault will always be remembered, he could no longer trust me or what I had become. He said something along the lines that I had saved the Vault, and now I must leave. Bastard.

So, I left.

Jason stared down at the page, his heart pounding. He wasn't alone! His story was not the only one. Someone else had gone through it! Someone else had had their life stolen! He wasn't alone! He wasn't the first! Hope and anger coursed through him. Indignation on the writer's behalf, and his own. He found himself trying to imagine the narrator's face. Someone grizzled as only the true travelers were. Beset by age, but carrying a quiet dignity and weight of vast knowledge. All the images he could conjure up looked somewhat like his father, James.

He felt the weight of history bearing down on his shoulders. Somehow his own story sounded like a repetition. An echo of some greater tale. He read onwards frantically, taking in every word, feeling the full impact as each paragraph embedded itself in his soul.

The days and weeks that followed were hard on me. I had met few true friends outside the Vault, and they had died following me. Now, my family had kicked me out and said that I could never return. I screamed. I cried. Slowly I came to realize that the Overseer may have been correct. I had changed. Life outside the Vault was different, and now I, too, was different. But I have never forgiven him for doing what he did to me.

Jason nodded. That was it. Exactly it. Just that simple. Amata, and her bastard father.

I wandered the desert, but never moved far from the mountains that shielded the Vault from the rest of the world. Perhaps I wanted to return, and force my way in, or plead for them to take me back. Fortunately, it did not come to that. I found a few wretched souls, a small group of Vault dwellers, who upon hearing of what happened to me, had decided to leave the Vault and join my side. They knew little of the outside world, and would have died if it were not for my assistance.

The paragraph brought back memories of his own deepest, inner fantasies. Jason had dreamed of that occurrence. That one day, the Vault would open, and everything he had said and done would be somehow vindicated. He would be able to help them, be of use, and once again be accepted.

Together, our little group moved north, away from the Vault, and away from that old life. Slowly, I taught them what experience had taught me. And together we learned to thrive.

The Tribe
Over time, our ragtag group turned into a tribe. I fell in love with one of them, and we raised a family, like all of our tribes people.

We founded the Village, beyond the great cliff. It is a secure home thanks to our hard work. We would send scouts back towards the Vault, to help others who thought like ourselves, but that slowly came to an end. We no longer head in that direction. I often wonder what became of Vault 13, and the other Vaults, but I never had the time to go exploring again. Perhaps I will, one day.

I taught the others the skills they would need to survive and grow strong. Hunting, farming and other skills to feed us. Engineering and science to build our homes. Fighting to protect what was ours.

My love and I led the village and the Tribe. The Tribe grew, and grew strong with our help. But all things come to an end. Our sons and daughters are now the leaders. I'm sure that the Tribe will continue to grow strong under the leadership of our children.

My love perished years ago, and not a day goes by that I do not think of Pat's face. I see it every time I look at our children. This journal is our legacy to them, to their children, and to the rest of the Tribe. That is my story, and I am sticking to it.

-Albert Cole, The Wanderer

The memoirs do exist. I believe they are part of the intro to Fallout 2. The mentioned autopsy report exists too, if you feel like finding it. It was about darned time he read the report. it's been sitting there since the end of Modus Operandi...

Alright, so I realize that Sarah's recovery might be a little bit of a let-down, especially considering where she was at the end of Aqua Vitae. But there are only so many ways one can write "And then she got a little bit better…". I also warned that I'd be skipping a little bit forward. The only thing we're missing out on is her seeing oasis for the first time. Something tells me that it would have more impact if she hadn't just got back from Point Lookout.

Besides, I have a chapter or two to flesh that part out more. If myself or Krow Blood (this series' co-author, and my partner in crime) comes up with something that gets the proverbial juices flowing, I'll see what I can do. But for now, we're passing over that particular section, and skipping straight to the juicier bits.