Fallout 3: Mutatis Mutandis Chapter 33, a fallout fanfic

So…

Apparently there's still an audience. That is a LOT of people who responded, both in reviews and in private. Thank you to every single one of you. I hadn't realized there were nearly that many people still interested. Now I just feel like a fool. I'm both overjoyed and amazed that there's so much support for this series. I feel like the whole fandom just stood up to shout me out my stupor. Thank you guys. :)

Anywho, without further ado…

Mutatis Mutandis 33

In a way, Sarah thought as she watched the Vaulties approach her, this was her fault. She should not have been wandering the reactor sublevels, especially that late at night. But she had to do it. Sleep was elusive at best, and the few hours she could manage always left her feeling more exhausted than she would have been had she stayed awake. The struggle to maintain herself, to not let the sound of crashing waves and floating buoy bells overwhelm her was too much, and it grew worse around others. She needed solitude. She had craved it enough to risk this, even though she knew it might result in a confrontation.

The vault had been in a tense state for a while now, and there were a few vault dwellers who wanted to get back at her specifically. In their view, the Wasters had usurped their home, so perhaps their anger was somewhat justified. The simple fact was that she could not bring herself to care. Even after they found her, all she wanted was for them to leave her alone. She was not afraid. At least, not for herself.

There were three of them, all wearing identical leather jackets. The two followers were unfamiliar to Sarah, but she recognized their leader; a pale young man with a close-cropped haircut. A fuzzy memory floated through Sarah's hazy mind. Wally Mack was his name, she was sure of that. She had pointed a pistol at him, threatened him out of Jason's apartment. The man had obviously neither forgotten, nor forgiven. A baseball bat dangled loosely from his left hand. The other two were armed as well.

"You're in the wrong place, Waster!" Mack declared quietly. He tapped the bat on his palm. "All of you are. Think you can walk all over us vault dwellers? I think it's time the Tunnel Snakes taught you people a lesson."

"I didn't want to be here!" Sarah replied carefully, eyeing the man's weapon. She could hear the buoy bells beginning their toll, and fought to keep them out.

"We don't want you here, Waster." The boy proclaimed coldly.

"Then let me go."

Wally Mack grinned. "Oh, we're long past that."

A sudden throbbing headache assaulted her, emerged just behind Sarah's eyes, and she took a few steps backwards, pressing her palms into her face. Unbidden images flooded her mind. Her thoughts were haunted by more than violent acts. She saw a foggy, repulsive realm far removed from the earth. She was catching glimpses now. Where before her memories had been filled with merciful holes, she now saw images. A city of kaleidoscopic grandeur, with thin towering spires of unsettling geometry and impossible colors-

Sarah stumbled backwards and landed painfully on the floor. Images of were flickering past her inner eye. She could hear voices, echoes of the eldritch chants that had summoned the personified nightmare of Point Lookout.

A human voice broke through the haze. "She alright? She doesn't look good, man."

"Should we care? You're a lot less tough without your gun, aren't you." That was the leader. Kill the leader!

Her mind only partially her own, Sarah saw growing things. Fruit, shaped as human teeth. Clutching vines, writhing roots, and temple with fluid carvings hidden deep, deep beneath the bog. At its apex, the pedestal. Graceless forms encircled it, amoebous and slithering.

Sacrifices!The whispers demanded. Death and rebirth! Ug-Qualtoth the dead god dreams of you! A great crack shall open in the earth and swallow all!

"Shut up!" Sarah yelled, her head throbbing. "Leave me alone!"

The vault was a long way away, but she could still hear the three humans standing there.

"What the hell'd she say? Was that French?"

Their leader answered. "Who gives a fuck. It wasn't American English. Let's just do the crazy bitch and go!"

The world refocused, and Sarah's gaze was suddenly crystal clear. More clear than it had ever been. She could see all of them.

All of them.

There was the young blond woman, sprawled out in the basement of her concrete prison. There were the three vault dwellers around her, intending to do her harm. The leader stepped forward, using repurposed plant matter to crack his fellow primate's head open; the opening salvo of an irrelevant war.

In another level of the vault, Elder Rothchild was pacing back and forth in his circular office, pondering how to keep his little concrete world together. Kodiak and Glade sat two levels below, playing cards. Kodiak had the winning hand, but was bound to lose.

At the vault's door, humans gathered for a battle, as did the supermutants across the irradiated river. Another war, and a minor event, given what was to come.

Across the continent, a city and the surrounding desert at the brink of war. It was full of lights, enough to drown out the sky above. Whores danced, gangsters plotted, and money changed hands. A young woman with a history of violence spoke of peace while her surviving victim plotted her destruction: A secret war.

A ghostly city with lumbering, wayward guardians, as deadly as the air itself. Two ancient rivals, one dead and the other still alive, battled for the riches of a vault, and the love of a woman: An ancient and private war.

A canyon, miles away from the city. Life grew there, only for death to defiled it again. The Burned Man preached violence, his acolyte, peace: An undecided war.

All of those little battles. All of those little wars. They were all to be drowned out in a sea of blood.

Sarah saw a facility in Arizona. A former prison where the true Caesar and his allies plotted the second apocalypse, and planned humanity's rise from the radioactive dust. The second apocalypse. A larger war. And war? War never changes.

Yet there was a note of discord. A loose thread, threatening to unwind the magnificent tapestry. An unkillable man, a Child of the Atom, fighting against the symphony, in all its movements, as he had been since he had first walked the earth.

The explosion lit up the distant skyline of downtown D.C.. Even from the scenic overlook outside vault 101, Jackrum could feel the earth shake. He could hear the distant tumultuous sound of shattering glass as the force of the explosion rippled through D.C.'s core, destroying what few panes remained. A few of the taller skyscrapers crumpled into a cloud of pale dust which erupted over the city, obscuring the brilliant oranges and purples of the wasteland sky beyond. Seconds later a gust of wind arrived, pelting the Waster forces with particles of dust. Jackrum could see the progression of the wave as it passed through his army. The troops all held up their hands, rank by rank to cover their faces. As the dust cloud hit him, he did the same, envying the Enclave troops and their power-helmets. Jackrum paused a moment to let the dust settle, and then pulled his crumpled cigarette package out from under his breastplate.

"What the hell was that?" Summers demanded, striding up the dusty path to stand beside him.

"The Wanderer, probably." Jackrum guessed. He could hear murmurs spreading through the ranks on the road below him. A few whoops and hollers were shouted as the desperate and weary wasters thanked their savior and rejoiced in what must have been a momentous blow to the Mutant hordes. Jackrum took a few steps forward and shouted down to his commanders. "Get the troops to pack it up! Keep them quiet. I don't want any mutie scouts knowing how close we are."

Being discovered was not a likely scenario. Jackrum had his own scouts paced at intervals ahead of his army, all the way to the Potomac, keeping watch for a preemptive mutie strikes. He had the north and south approaches covered as well. Any mutant scouts would be spotted long before they got near the bulk of the human army. Tomorrow was certainly promising to be a long day.

The Merc leader turned away from the city, and treaded down the slope towards the rickety wooden door of Vault 101. For a fraction of a second, he wondered how on earth the Vault hadn't been raided yet, being protected by such a ramshackle partition. Then he realized that he probably was not getting enough sleep, and that the enormous cog-shaped monstrosity beyond was protection enough.

The tunnel leading down to the actual vault door had a low-hanging roof which looked to be one weak explosion from collapsing, making his short journey very uncomfortable. The two techs working on the vault door were both Enclave, as were the six leaders of the entry team. A dozen Talon mercs would follow behind, armed with combat shotguns. Jackrum had given his team strict and professional instructions to 'spread their fucking brains all over the walls' in case the Enclave troopers decided to try anything. He knew a combat shotgun shell at pointblank range would finish an enemy, power-armour helmet or not. Jackrum trusted the Enclave far enough to want to open the vault, but nothing beyond that. The former government shared the Brotherhood of Steel's strange obsession with old-world tech, but lacked the ethical scruples which had allowed the Brotherhood to coexist peacefully with regular Wasters, and Jackrum wasn't sure whether or not Summers had any special orders of her own. It was wisest to play it safe.

"Sitrep?" Summers barked. "We want in there, Sergeant. How long is this going to take?"

"A little while yet, Ma'am." The technician reported. "We could use some more light." He and his partner had opened up the control board, and they were both elbow-deep in wiring, taking readings from an electrical meter and noting them down in a small black book, alongside plenty of calculations. The circuit board they needed to install lay on a clean cloth atop the control panel. "I don't know who took this damned board out, but it's hell to reinstall. He really mussed up the wiring." The tech reached for the yellowing, crusty circuit board, picking up a can of electrical contact cleaner along the way.

"It was the Wanderer." Jackrum supplied. "He took it out to prevent the muties from getting into the vault. The enclave technician's hand withdrew from the board as if scorched, nearly dropping it in the process. He and his partner stared down at the electronics as if the inanimate technology had suddenly become possessed, or tainted by an evil spirit. Jackrum grinned in satisfaction. It was nice, sometimes, to savor the little victories. They were going to be in a pitch battle tomorrow with the same muties who wiped out the Brotherhood, yet Enclave grunts still found time and energy to be scared of the Wanderer.

Summers rolled her eyes. "Get it done, Sergeant. I'll see to it you get more lanterns."

"Yes Ma'am." The man said, his returned to his work, somewhat lacking in enthusiasm.

Jackrum and Summers turned to consider the vault door itself, thick and heavy as it was. For two centuries it had held back the Wasteland. In a way, Jackrum could understand the residents desire to keep it closed. It was entirely likely that the last true remnants of old-world culture, old-world learning, and old-world thinking existed just beyond that impenetrable barrier. To destroy it? A crime, possibly. But Jackrum had already committed worse crimes to see Humanity this far.

Besides, Old-World thinking hadn't done Humanity much good in the end anyway…

Glade's first visit was to the vault's mortuary. The room itself reeked of death. Kodiak was already there, staring down at the bodies. The two vault dwellers bodies were laid out on cold tables. Their skin was pallid, their eyes wide with shock, though glazed over. The wounds inflicted upon them were grievous, and their suits were stained with blood.

"What's the story, Greg?"

"This one died of a headwound." Kodiak reached over to the nearest corpse and gently gripped it by the chin, turning its head to the side. The movement revealed an enormous hole with jagged edges. Ridges of pale bone circled the gaping maw, flecked with dried blood. Brain matter was visible between the cracks, though the victim's blood-soaked hair obscured the worst of it. Glade grimaced. "How?"

"A baseball bat." Kodiak said, pointing to an adjoining table. There was indeed a baseball bat there, alongside an ancient rusted kitchen knife.

"Take a look at the second body." Kodiak prompted.

Glade obeyed, circling the table until he came to the shorter of the two victims. The man's chest was a bloody mess of deep stab wounds with puckered, yellowing lips and brown bruises. They were concentrated in the lower abdomen, just below the ribs.

"seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve…" Glade fell silent, counting as many wounds as he could find. "…Jesus…"

"Twenty-five in total." Kodiak said quietly. "Sarah didn't have to… she knows how to kill quickly. Neck or inner thigh, right? I mean why that many? Right in the gut, too… If she were fighting in self-defense she would have finished it quickly, right?"

Glade stared down at the victim. "This is the same one who she booted out of the Wanderer's apartment."

"I know…"

Glade glanced across the table at Kodiak, their expressions identical as they each considered the mental state of their former leader. "Where is she, Greg?"

"Solitary confinement." Paladin Kodiak's tone slid from official to personal. "But it's bad, sir. Like she was after she got back from Point Lookout."

Glade let out a long, tired breath. He had expected as much.

"Take a look at her knife, though." Kodiak led his superior over to the second table and handed him the weapon. At some point in the past, it had been a regular kitchen knife. Yet the blade had that thin, ragged quality carried by weapons which had been sharpened far too many times, and the handle was a porous grey wood. Very light and almost soft to the touch. The handle was driftwood, bleached on the open sea by the salt and sunlight.

"I've never seen anything like it."

Glade was forced to agree. All the kitchen knives in the capital wasteland had handles of plastic, or polished hardwood. None of the knives Glade had seen shared the strange bone-like qualities of this one.

"That isn't the strangest part. Check this out." Kodiak produced a small vial of blood from a drawer beneath the table.

"Where did you get that?"

Kodiak thrust a thumb over his shoulder at the dead vaulties. He casually poured the vial out over the knife. To Glade's amazement, the blood seemed to vanish into the handle. It was porous, yes, but this was something else entirely. The blood flowed freely across the blade, dripping down the table, but wherever it touched the pale wood, it would seep into the cracks, flowing along the seams and grains before vanishing deeper into the wood.

"Touch it." Kodiak prompted.

"I think I'd rather not." Glade said. He bent down until his eyes were level with the table and peered more closely at the stark, cracked handle, watching the last droplets of blood seek out cracks and fissures, some defying gravity to get where they wanted to go.

"The hell?" he murmured, eyes narrowing. It may have been his imagination, but the very tip of the blade was vibrating ever-so-slightly.

"When I tried it the first time, the handle was dry after. No stains or anything." Kodiak informed him. The young paladin had taken a few steps back from the table. Glade couldn't blame him. The Star-Paladin rose and searched the drawers until he found a roll of bandages. He unwound the strip and bunched it up.

"What are you doing?" Kodiak asked carefully.

"Letting Sarah answer some questions." Glade explained grimly. "I've never seen anything like this before. But I bet she has."

"Glade, I don't know what happened to Sarah at Point Lookout. No one does. But seeing how fucked up she was when she got back… it might not be a good idea to put her and that knife in the same room together."

Glade paused, staring down at the knife. He said, "You might be right, but two people are dead, Greg. We need answers."

Rothchild rubbed his forehead as he stared out the small circular window of the Overseer's office. A crowd of angry vault dwellers were gathering in the atrium, led by the dead boy's father. The man was shouting obscenities at Rothchild, and making some very lewd gestures. The moment the crowds had begun to form, Rothchild had locked down the upper levels of the vault, creating a safe haven for the wasters and separating the two factions. Brotherhood remnants along with one or two of the more level-headed Megaton residents stood on the balcony above, weapon holstered but visible.,

That particular detail was not a move Rothchild approved of as he felt that things were already tense enough. Out in the Capital Wasteland, people grew far too comfortable with the noise and effect of firearms, but down there in the vault? The 'vaulties' as they had been nicknamed were liable to panic and do something rash. It would undoubtedly start a fight.

Miscommunication. That was the problem. Too many people did not understand exactly what was going on, including Rothchild himself. He had only even begun to hear rumors of murder after the mob had begun to form.

He turned to Glade, the Paladin still standing at ease, just beside the desk. Good god, the man was straight as an arrow and reliable as clockwork. Rothchild was forced to wonder why he had never given the knight more thought or attention during all those years at the Citadel.

"What do we know?" The Elder asked.

"An hour ago a couple of Megaton residents found three dead vaulties, and one of ours in the lower levels." Glade reported obediently.

Rothchild nodded, a terrible suspicion taking root. "One of ours?"

"Sarah, sir."

The Elder sighed. "Where is she now?"

"In their jail cell. The other woman got moved out."

"That cell can't fit two?"

"Apparently Sarah insisted on being alone."

"Of course." Reginald shut his eyes, silently apologizing to Owyn Lyons, as he had done a thousand times since returning from Point Lookout. Lyons had been his closest friend. The two of them had survived so much together. Rothchild remembered the day Sarah was born. The first time he had held Owyn's daughter in his arms. And under his care, she had been abused, humiliated, and eventually destroyed by Point Lookout. It had been Owyn's orders, and the mission one of utter necessity, but that did not help the guilt.

"You visit her." He ordered. "Find out what happened, and see if you can help her, Glade. I'm going to see if I can get this mob sorted out."

"Already planned to, sir." As the Star-Paladin departed, Rothchild reflected on just how invaluable the man had become. Glade had to be pushing fifty now. He had been a member of the Lyons pride since the start. Before that, he and Sarah had gotten along so well he had acted as her escort and teacher, just as she had been for the young squire Maxson.

The boy hadn't made it out with the Brotherhood survivors… he must have been very frightened and alone when he died. Squire or not, children deserved better.

How the Brotherhood had fallen. A quarter of a century ago, when they had arrived in the Capital Wasteland, they had been a mighty powerhouse. A mutant-killing juggernaut of an organization, capable not only of protecting but of planning, building, and insuring a future for everyone.

Then they'd lost a third of their troops and all their best tech to the Outcast traitors, and Owyn Lyons had started to grow a few grey hairs. After that, Project Purity- the wasteland's greatest hope, and what should have been the Brotherhood's crowning achievement- had faltered, stumbled, and come grinding to a crumbling halt. James Howlett had vanished with his infant son, leaving the Brotherhood to trickle bullets, caps, and blood into their eternal war with the mutants.

It was a wonder they had held the Citadel as long as they had. If it weren't for the Wanderer, they would have lost it to the Enclave eventually. But even he, even Jason Howlett hadn't been able to hold back the tide. And now the Brotherhood numbered in the dozens. They were trapped in an underground bunker, barely able to keep what small peace they could find.

These days it seemed all he could do was reminisce.

Rothchild stepped out onto the balcony to a wave of jeers and angry hollering. He raised his hands, trying to calm the seething crowd below. All around him, the Brotherhood remnants tensed, hands on their weapons. He felt the hostile eyes of the Vault dwellers focusing all of their scorn and frustration on him.

"Please, stay calm. A tragedy has occurred. I understand you're angry, and you want answers, but-"

"I don't want answers!" a man in a red baseball cap fought his way to the front of the crowd. Rothchild recognized the man as Allen Mack. "I want my son's murderer!" Oh god… Mack was clutching a baseball bat, and he looked ready to use it.

Come to think of it, the crowd was full of objects, both blunt and sharp. No guns visible, though anyone who had tangled with Raiders could speak of the horrors inflicted by bats, tire irons and switchblades. Rothchild's worry could do nothing but grow.

"She is being held up here in a jail cell until we figure out exactly what happened. All I-"

"I already know what happened!" the vault dweller snarled. "My son is dead! I am so fucking tired of you wasters fucking us around!" The atrium filled with the mob's roaring approval.

"I understand. I just need a little more time. Please just wait a little longer!"

"I say we've had enough waiting! I say we march to the security office and grab the bitch ourselves!" the vaultie turned to the crowd, ignoring Rothchild's pleas for patience.

"Justice!" he shouted, hefting his baseball bat. The vaulties responded in kind, waving their own weapons. "We want justice!"

The mob's volume began to increase with its ferocity. Rothchild tried once again to calm the situation, and a few listened, until an unknown face in the crowd threw a beer bottle at him. Then all hell broke loose.

The cell's lights had been muted, apparently at Sarah's request. Glade entered carefully, scanning the shadows for her. Sarah was hunched on a cot in the corner, a mere shape in the shadows. He could see her eyes glinting in the darkness, but couldn't make out much more than that. The room was utterly silent, even devoid of human breath.

"Hello Sarah." The blanket of silence swallowed his words, making them vanish like a breath in a cold wind.

The cot creaked in the darkness.

Glade glanced around playfully, trying to lighten the mood. "Would you like me to light a candle?" The glinting eyes vanished, and he heard the back of her head thump softly against the wall. He sighed. "Sarah, two people are dead. You were found at the scene, literally red-handed.

"Yes." The word was a whisper, missed but for the absolute crypt-like stillness.

Glade nodded. He had suspected as much, to his dismay, but now it was at least confirmed.

"I have the knife here with me." He said, holding up the bundled cloth.

"Best take it somewhere else." That at least sounded a little like her. The voice was thin, drawn out and frail with recent tears.

"Where did you get it, Sarah?"

"It was in my hand."

"Did you bring it with you?"

"No."

"Did one of the vaulties have it?"

"No."

"Did you find it down on the lower levels?"

"No."

"Well how did it get in your hand?"

"It just…was. When I needed it."

"Is it…" Glade swallowed. The only thing he feared more than his question was the answer. "Is it from Point Lookout?"

The darkness scoffed. "You already know."

"What's so special about it, Sarah?"

"It opened Colvin." At her words, Glade felt sudden moisture against his palm. Something was soaking through the fabric.

"And Gallows." The darkness added. "Who knows how many more over the centuries… Men, women, children. I doubt Point Lookout cared much for who. Just how many."

There was more than moisture now, wetting his palm. Droplets were seeping through the cloth, thick and warm. He could feel thin streams of the liquid running down his fingers, pooling at his joints and tracing the rough lines of his knuckles. He didn't dare look down, but he knew the cloth was sodden.

The darkness spoke again. "That's the knife that killed me."

Drip

Gallows winced as the first droplet hit the prison's concrete floor.

Drip

"You want to know what the really frightening part is, Glade?"

Drip

"I feel sane right now."

Drip

"I feel normal."

Drip

"I can think clearly. The voices are gone."

Drip

"I think I need to kill to stay sane. I think that's what it wants."

Drip

"It's a craving I can feel sometimes. But it isn't mine."

At this pronouncement, Glade began to slowly and carefully step backwards.

Drip

"I kill when it wants me to, or it takes me. I understand now."

Drip

"It needs violence, and death, and war. Especially war. War never changes."

Drip

The intervals between each impact began to speed up to a steady patter. At that same moment, the cot creaked, and he had a vague sense of the shape in the darkness rising to its feet. Glade sped up, backing into the light.

He slammed his hand into the door controls, and as the shadow-filled portal slid shut he saw her face, a foot away from the entrance and moving closer. No footsteps had heralded her journey from the cot to him. Sarah's gaunt face merely drifted towards him. Her cheeks were sallow and skeletal, her pallor pale with an odd blue tinge. But her eyes… she was watching him quite clearly. Her gaze was steady, dispossessed of the fog which had taken her since Point Lookout. There was resignation in her expression, but also something lifeless. Lifeless, yet angry. As he backed away from the closed door, he knew that haunted face would plague his nightmares, though at that moment, he had a much more real terror to confront.

The cloth was soaked through, and the liquid poured out in a steady stream. He could feel it soaking through his recon boots, but he didn't dare look. He could merely stand there in the middle of the security room, stock still and staring at the door as the fluid puddled on the tiles at his feet. To either side were the cell's darkened windows, and he was dreading her ghostly shape appearing in one of them, staring at him.

His grip began to loosen, and the strands of fiber slipped from his fingers. The dagger, in its soaked wrap, landed on the tiled floor with a dull splat. Droplets of the unknown ichor splashed across Glade's pant leg, but he kept his gaze averted, fearing what he'd see.

A tapping at the window. Sarah was there, her face gaunt and shadowy. She met his eyes, and her gaze was as cold and alien as he had feared. The woman carefully raised one hand and pointed over his shoulder.

"Hey, Waster!"

Glade turned and found himself face to face with a dozen vault dwellers, looking blood-stained and rabid. The man in the lead had a goatee and a red baseball cap. As more of the world beyond Sarah's madness coalesced, Glade realized that he could hear gunshots, and alarmed shouts echoing through the halls. He drew his pistol and trained it on the leading vaultie.

"What the hell's going on?"

"Get outta the way, Waster, I'm here for the girl!" the man was aggressive, but refrained from stepping any closer. He was eyeing Glade's pistol with an apprehensive look, fully aware that for all his fury, he was at a terrible disadvantage.

"Go to hell!" Glade replied, his finger tightening on the trigger.

Another man jostled his way to the front. He was an older vaultie, with an authoritarian air softened by desperation. "Please! Stop this! Stop this at once!"

Glade kept his pistol aimed at the more volatile of his enemies, but he gave the newcomer as much of his attention as could be allowed under the circumstances. "Name. Title. Purpose." The Star-Paladin barked.

"Alphonse Almodovar. Former Overseer." The man replied obediently. "My people have been driven to riot. I fear there's going to be more bloodshed."

"We aren't your people, Alphonse!" the man with the baseball cap snarled, "Your entire fucking family has done nothing but lead this vault from bad to worse."

The man named Alphonse ignored his comrade and instead spoke to Glade. "My people are rioting, but yours have better weapons, and far more experience. I can call it off, but I need something to placate them."

"Maybe I should just wait until all of yours die out." Glade replied coldly. As if to accentuate his point, somewhere in the vault, there was another gunshot and a scream to accompany it.

"Let's just rush him! He can't kill us all!"

"Quiet, Allen." Alphonse cautioned.

"We don't deserve to die being hunted like rats in our own home."

"Sounds like you're finding out what it took my people just to get this far." Glade said.

"And how many of yours are left?"

For the first time, a crack formed in Glade's stalwart defense. He had raised Sarah since she was a little girl. He had seen her grow and train and mature and rise through the ranks to become the Brotherhood's pride. Their best warrior, and his own commander.

But the woman who had come back from Point Lookout wasn't her. Not completely. She had never quite felt like the same person, like that same little girl he had come to love and respect. He thought of the damage the Mutants had done to the Brotherhood. He thought of Kodiak and of his brothers and sisters, all sharing the same tomb. And Rothchild could well have be the last Elder in the east coast. Where did Glade's responsibilities lie? With Sarah, or with the Brotherhood? It was his job to protect all of them, to make sure that the Vaulties and the Wasters could coexist down here. If sacrificing Sarah could stop the violence…

Sensing his opponent's wavering resolve, Alphonse raised a calming hand. His gaze was oscillating between Glade's face and the prison window. No doubt Sarah was standing there, watching the proceedings with that disquieting impassivity. "I understand you want justice, and you want to protect your own, but this has gone past the point of a trial. I can stop this, but I need a scapegoat. There are only a few hundred of my people left in here. And less than that of yours. How many more can either of us afford to lose, especially if things are as bad as that outside? Let us take her, and I'll put a stop to this, I swear it."

"And what are you going to do with her once you have her?" Glade asked, telling himself he was merely trying to gain the full picture.

"That is up to the mob. I know this is ugly, but sometimes as a leader, ugly choices have to be made."

An old memory seared itself across Glade's inner eye; a young blonde-haired girl. She was four years old, and barely strong enough to aim a rifle. Beyond her, the city of Pittsburgh was burning, she was staring up at him with that utter confidence young children have. I'm going to be a knight one day!

Glade glanced backwards at the figure in the prison window, taking in her gaunt, sallow features and dead eyes. He felt shame fill him for considering, even for a moment, handing her over. That little girl he had met in Pittsburgh was still in there somewhere, no matter what had happened at Point Lookout. Elder Owyn Lyons had assigned him to be her mentor and protector, and he would not falter from his duty. He owed the Lyons family too much. He turned back to Alphonse Almodovar and said, "You're right."

There were fourteen vault dwellers before him. His first shot hit Allen Mack between the eyes. The bastard fell backwards into the arms of his surprised comrades. Glade's second shot grazed the temple of the man behind Mack. The man dropped to the floor. Perhaps he was dead. Perhaps he was unconscious. Either way, he was out of the fight. Glade fired a third shot, catching a woman in the belly. Her cry of rage was cut short as she stumbled and fell. Glade's fourth shot caught Alphonse Almodovar in the arm, spinning him into a row of lockers.

Glade kept pulling his pistol's trigger, throwing the inexperienced mob into disarray as they tried desperately to avoid the gunfire. The moment his clip ran out, he swiped a lead pipe from a dead vault dweller and rushed into the fray, swinging his weapon to and fro, aiming for elbows and knees and heads as he fought to keep Sarah safe.

On the floor behind him, the cloth he had dropped, stained with unknowable ichor, lay empty.

The tunnel outside of Vault 101 erupted in a sudden flurry of noise and activity. Red lights flashed, and klaxons blared, signaling that at long last the vault door was opening. There was a cheer from the waiting soldiers, both Enclave and Talon Company.

"Form up!" Summers ordered. Her enclave squad immediately gathered in front of the door, forming a power-armoured wall, five men abreast and two men deep. Behind them, armed with batons and combat shotguns, stood twenty-four Talon Veterans.

Jackrum was among them, allowing himself a moment of wonder as the giant cog-shaped door slid backwards with a terrible grinding noise that left his ears ringing. Cool blue light flooded the tunnel as the door rolled aside, and the invading forces raised their weapons in preparation.

"Breach! Breach! Breach!" Summers yelled, and her soldiers charged forward with the Talon Company close behind them. The entrance consisted of a flight of stairs and a plateau with a control panel which had been shot to pieces. The smell of an electrical burn lingered about the raised portion of the room. Several dark patches on the porous concrete walls indicated locations where someone had tried to clean off a bloodstain.

Jackrum had to admit, the Enclave troops were quick, silent, and very efficient as they cleared the lower levels of the vault. Several prisoners were taken, a few dressed in wasteland rags, others in the clean blue vault uniforms. They were armed with pipes and kitchen knives. The Vault appeared to be caught in a little battle of its own and the wastelanders and the vault dwellers were taken prisoner sometimes in mid-struggle. Each prisoner was hauled out -protesting madly- by a few of the Talon Mercs and handed over turner's forces outside the Vault.

He followed the Enclave forces as they swept through the maintenance area and down a short flight of stairs to a door marked 'Atrium/Upper Levels'. There was a pounding on the other side of the metal barrier. Jackrum watched as the two leading hellfire soldiers opened the door. A vault-dweller's corpse spilled out into the hallway, blood seeping from a grievous head wound. The victim's surprised attacker, a dark-skinned wastelander in recon armour, barely had time to register the Enclave forces before his was slammed into the nearest wall, a hellfire commando's gloved hand over his mouth. The prisoner was carted off noiselessly, and the Enclave forces continued up another set of stairs into a large atrium.

A crowd of vault dwellers had gathered there, bloodied and exhausted, but victorious. As Jackrum stepped into the room, he observed a woman's corpse, strung up a few feet above the heads of the crowd. It was gently swinging to and fro.

Catching sight of the enclave invaders, several bat-wielding vaulties yelled wildly and charged towards their enemy, only to be tossed several meters across the atrium by Hellfire commandos. The sight of their flying comrades gave the rest of the vault dwellers pause. The enclave forces spread out into the room, weapons trained on the crowd. Behind them, Jackrum and the Talon Company mercs followed, showing a little more hesitancy.

The atmosphere grew tense and silent as the two opposing forces sized one another up. A gap had opened up, several meters wide between the Vaulties and the Enclave forces. The vault dwellers were woefully outmatched, and seemed thankfully aware of that fact. The atmosphere was tense and uncertain, and Jackrum took advantage of it, pushing his way to the forefront. He examined the crowd of blue-coats, struck into stunned silence by the sudden appearance of heavily armed and armoured infantry in their vault.

The corpse hanging above their heads was a young woman with blonde hair and a set of worn recon armour. Former Brotherhood, if Jackrum had to guess. He wasn't sure exactly what she had done to deserve being lynched, but to say he was unimpressed with the vault dweller's conduct would certainly be an understatement.

"What the hell is this?" he asked, gesturing at the hanging body. His voice was swept away by the silence, falling somewhere into the void between the two sides. He grabbed the nearest soldier, who happened to be Enclave, and said "Cut her down."

The man gave him a look of arrogant disbelief. "I don't take orders from primitives."

"Primitives…" Jackrum murmured to himself. He could hear the Talon Mercenaries behind him muttering in anger. Jackrum said, "Name and rank, kid?"

"Private Malone. B-Company of the Seventh Enclave Infantry."

"How old are you corporal?"

"Twenty-six."

"Really?" Jackrum leaned in, unintimidated by the Private's bulky Hellfire power-armour. "By the time I was your age, I was a corporal pushing Sergeant. I bet you wouldn't dare face down a Supermutant without that fancy armour of yours, like me and my boys have done every day."

A couple of the Talon Mercs grinned, and Jackrum was pleased to see the Enclave soldiers shifting uncomfortably; he had hit a nerve. Good! He continued, "I earned my rank by going through shit you haven't. So either you follow your damned orders, or you take that armour off and we'll discuss this outside where I'll knock your sophisticated teeth out with my primitive fist!"

A few of the Talon mercs jeered.

His ears clearly burning beneath his helmet, Malone turned to Summers. The Lieutenant had remained silent until that point, merely watching the scene unfold with a bemused expression on her face.

"Ma'am?" the private asked.

"Commander Jackrum is actively in charge of this operation." Summers said fairly. "We are here to assist him and see that his objectives are successfully completed. Obey him." She was looking around the vault with a smug and satisfied smile on her face. Jackrum knew why: the Enclave had finally gotten into Vault 101. It was not a happy thought.

Malone turned back to Jackrum, who gestured at the hanging corpse. "Hop to it, kiddo. We don't have all night."

The Private obeyed, finally, and grabbed a companion to help give him a boost so he could reach the noose. A Ripper was produced and handed to them as they breached the Enclave firing line and crossed the deadzone between the intruding army and the men in blue. Jackrum followed the enclave soldiers, watching the crowd part before them. Though several of the vault dwellers were gripping pipes and bats, no one was willing to incur the wrath of the invaders.

The corpse was cut loose and carefully lowered to the ground. Jackrum crouched beside her to examine the body. The young woman was not breathing, and he could find no pulse. The skin about her neck had been burned and torn by the rope. Blood had dried on the coiled length and the fabric of her collar, stiffening both. She was a blonde-haired woman, possessing a gaunt face which held hints of former beauty. The color and vitality had drained from its features. Her lips were cracked and her hair frazzled. Her blonde eyes were only half open, staring into space.

Jackrum carefully rose to his feet, feeling his knees let out a mild protest. Behind him the corpse was being dragged away, but he strode even further into the silent crowd. They formed a loose circle around him, no matter where he moved, a few meters of free space remained between him and the onlookers. All of them sensed his rising anger, and none wanted to be singled out as a target.

"Who's in charge here?" he asked the room at large.

"I am." An older man stepped forward. He had narrow, beady eyes and a crafty countenance which set Jackrum's teeth on edge. The self-appointed leader also had a bandaged arm, soaked with blood. The man held out a hand. "Alphonse Almodovar. Overseer of Vault 101."

"Uh huh." Jackrum ignored the man's extended palm and instead reached behind his breastplate. He pulled out his cigarette packet, beating it against his chest once or twice to loosen the contents. "Why'd you hang such a nice-looking young lady?"

"She murdered two innocent Vault Citizens."

"Sure." Jackrum produced a set of matches and carefully detached one. "Anyone else you were planning on hanging, Mister Overseer?"

Almodovar pointed to the back of the Atrium, where another prisoner was on his knees, bound and gagged. "That man shot me and killed two more people attempting to protect that woman from proper justice."

"Yeah. Cos' the phrase 'Lynch mob' just drips with Justice don't it." The mercenary asked sarcastically. He glanced back at the prisoner, and recognized him as Glade, a member of the Brotherhood of Steel. Jackrum had dealt with him on multiple negotiations, and had rather liked the man. He added, "Mind if I smoke?"

"Smoking isn't allowed in the Vault."

"That's a little unfair." Jackrum lit the match and applied the flame to the tip of his cigarette. "After all, it's not like someone can just step outside for a moment, right?"

"The smoke clogs our air."

"And all the well-mannered drivel you guys puke at each other doesn't?" Jackrum asked pleasantly, though he allowed a certain amount of menace to seep into his tone. "You know, I ain't seeing a whole lotta civilization out there right now. Gotta say I expected a little more inside'o here."

Almodovar's eyes flickered towards the enclave's firing line, bristling with energy weapons. He said, "I want to assure you that every proper procedure was taken to insure that we treated the suspect with-"

"Oh, shut up. It doesn't take a genius to see what happened. You got pissed off. You lynched her." The Commander marched over to Glade and ripped the gag off. The soldier stayed silent, instead directing a contemptuous glare at the Vault Dweller.

"What's your name and rank?" Jackrum asked.

"Star-Paladin Glade. Capital Wasteland Brotherhood of Steel." The kneeling man answered.

"I remember you." Jackrum told him. He cut the man's bonds loose and helped him to his feet. Glade winced and groaned his way up, revealing the beating the Vaulties had laid on him. Jackrum had to admit that it did not help their case at all. Glade rolled his shoulders, and then fixed the Vault Leader with a spiteful glare. The Paladin's body was tensed, his fists clenched tightly. He looked ready to murder.

"You." He hissed at the vaultie.

"Now hold on just a minute." Jackrum stepped between them, his hand on the man's chest, hoping to hold him back.

"Get out of my way." Glade ordered.

"Can't do that." Jackrum met his eyes. "I'm sorry."

"They killed Sarah!"

Breathing heavily, the man batted Jackrum's hand away. "It'll make me feel better!"

"The Wanderer locked all of you in here to protect you all." Jackrum said. "What good will killing them now do? It sure as shit won't bring her back, and we'll have less fighters on our side. Stand down, soldier."

"You don't have the right to all me that!"

"I'm in command of the only organized human resistance left in the wasteland. I can call you whatever I want, and if you continue this goddamned feud then I certainly reserve the right to call you stupid!"

"You don't get it."

"An' apparently you don't either." Jackrum turned back to the enclave firing line. "Get this guy outta here pl-"

Glade rushed past him, roaring towards the Overseer. Halfway to his terrified target, he was tackled by a pair of burly enclave soldiers in full power armour. The Paladin had extensive hand-to-hand training, but could only squirm impotently against the armoured soldiers who were dragging him bodily behind the enclave line and towards the entrance. The soldier kicked and struggled all the way, swearing and shouting obscenities at the Overseer and his Enclave captors.

Jackrum waited for the noise to die down, and then turned back to Alphonse.

"I would thank you for your discretion, but I'm afraid I've missed your name." the Overseer prompted politely.

"You don't need to know it." The old Mercenary responded coldly. "I just dragged a fighter outta here to save a coward. And I only did that so that when the dust settles there'll be somethin' left, but you're on thin ice, Mister Overseer. Now, we're gonna march right up to your office and tell everyone to stop fighting. You vaulties are dumb enough to continue, I can't help you." He paused and puffed on his cigarette, taking pleasure in the way the man's sour face twisted. Jackrum added, "Actually I could. I just won't."

I started this one off with a bang. Mostly because it's where the muse decided to go. Whatever; I'm just glad it's going anywhere again. I'd rather have this be a strange fic than a dead one. Keep in mind that Mutatis Mutandis takes place during the events of Fallout: New Vegas, probably just before the DLCs.

Sorry if that opening scene felt like advertising. I was trying to psyche myself up for the sequels. I know, I know; gotta get through this first, but whatever helps, right?

I'm tired of writing the Capital Wasteland. At least, the way it is right now. I think I'll be okay once I get to the sequel, but I actually have to get there first.

I'm leaving for Australia on the third of next month. I got a good 20 hours on a plane with nothing to do but write.