Smokin' Hearts and Broken Guns

Prologue:
Ghost

Summary: The Commonwealth is not a forgiving place or the faint of heart. So much was lost in the blink of an eye. But, perhaps the Commonwealth is also probably not ready for the King twins when they come into play after springing loose from a Vault. Good luck out there, you crazy kids!

Disclaimer: I don't own anything of the Fallout franchise. That is all © to Bethesda. I just (barely) own the slightly fleshed out humdrum backstory and writing contents of this story. Any vague mentioning to any shows/ books/ video games/ songs that are mentioned in this story are all © to their respective owners, I do not own them either.

Note: I'm Fallout trash and suffering pretty bad brainrot, y'all. Here, enjoy a story. I have no clue what direction I'm taking, other than a wild ride and stupid blurb adventures and shenanigans.

Alliance: None

Companion: None

You are never coming home, never coming home
Could I? Should I?
And all the things that you never ever told me
And all the smiles that are ever gonna haunt me
Never coming home, never coming home
Could I? Should I?
And all the wounds that are ever gonna scar me
For all the ghosts that are never gonna catch me
— "The Ghost of You" by My Chemical Romance

There was a chill sweeping throughout the Commonwealth, one that heralded a warning. It shivered across the broken and scarred land, a disturbance that refused to be ignored, as subtle and fleeting as the warning was right now.

"And it all begins with the opening of a little ole Vault," a voice said sotto voce as he watched behind a windscreen, leaning forward in his chair. One hand gripped the barrel of a rifle that the watcher had on hand, waiting. The ground shook and trembled as metal creaked open with a mighty scream of protest. Wider and wider still, like steel jaws yawning open to reveal its innards.

And the innards soon came spilling to the surface in the form of a cog-shaped platform. It rose with creaking, tired doggedness. It was a process, that much was sure.

Two figures were standing on the platform, staggering as it came to a grinding halt. Their hands rose to shield their faces from the onslaught of the bright sun. Blinking, they stepped cautiously forward, blinking into the light after…

Well, who knows how long it's been for either of them since they've last seen it. If they'd even seen it before at all. Who knows with these Vault dwellers? The watcher scooted to the edge of his seat, brow beetling together as he observed the two figures dither. They were such bright, easy targets—all garbed up in the blue and yellow-trimmed Vault suits. Anyone could spot them a mile away, if they knew how and where to look.

The smaller, slimmer of the two—a woman, he deemed, judging by the curvy figure and long hair—stumbled forward. The taller, bulker figure—which he chalked up to most likely be a man—followed after the woman. They were too far away for him to catch their words, but they were animated in their movements as they exchanged words.

Everything drew to a sharp and steep silence as a baleful bellow rent across the formerly still and relative peace of the Commonwealth. The watcher startled out of his seat and up to his feet, eyes raking through the trees, searching for the source. It was far, but not that far. Close, but not that close.

It was both a relief and a worry.

"I think that's a wrap. At least for now."

He shot a cursory glance down toward the Vault opening, where the two figures had last been. He was startled when he saw the woman bounding away and into the wilds—right in the direction where that rising call had come from.

"Oh…shit. That's not good."

The man, in all his grace and wisdom, was certainly not as enthusiastic to move from what could be deemed "safe grounds".

The cries from whatever wasteland beast rose again, this time with a painful wail bleeding into its voice. That worried the watcher even more, as he slowly came to recognize what, exactly, it was that was making those noises—and it certainly wasn't some amped-up Radroach.

Quinn's legs were tired and aching, weaker than she would have liked. Something about her whole body, right down to her bones, felt off somehow.

The cries of something hurting, of something in pain, sounded off again and it sent a pang inside of Quinn that left her reeling. She pushed aside thoughts of her physical discomfort as best she could, and instead focused on the task of putting one foot in front of the other. Rinse, lather, repeat.

She could hear Quill crashing along behind her. He was feeling it too, she knew. That weakness, that bone-deep exhaustion, but he didn't complain. He was good like that. He wasn't a born-and-bred tough guy, but he was good at sucking it up when it really counted.

And something told her, this was one of those times.

The ridge they crested toward gave a dramatic drop about two hundred yards from the Vault entrance, well past the crumbling fence line and into the scraggly brush and standing dead trees all around them. Quinn came to a halt, eyes scanning the dense brush around them. Quill came to her side, heaving before he broke out into a wheezy groan as Quinn took off again, catching sight of what she was looking for.

"Queenie—Queenie, wait—! You don't—oh, god. You don't wanna go—go that way! W-we have to go to…Sanctuary!"

Despite the height he had on her, the longer legs he had, Quinn could outpace the man trailing after her like nobody's business. She had to, in her line of work. She had to work twice as hard, twice as long, and with twice the effort as any man in her field, to even get a shred, a single scrap, of respect and equal standing among her peers. And she had to constantly fight to keep that respect, because one slip up, one mistake, would set her back.

If Quill were in her position, if he just showed up one day, he'd get a fucking trophy just for being there.

The way down was gentle, to say the least. Gentler than she would have expected. She slipped a few times, stumbling over her own clumsy feet and cursing herself for it. She was slow, she was uncoordinated, she—

—she was on her fucking face after having tripped over a goddamned tree root. She heard Quill wheezing out a laugh behind her as he came stuttering down the hill after her. Quinn pulled herself up with a growl, face growing red and heated, mouth opening to tell him off, but stopped at yet another mournful howl.

Quill's laughter died in an instant and he paled, reaching out to her, motioning to pull her back.

"Queenie…Queenie—let's go. We really don't want to get involved in that. You don't know what that is—"

"It's either something in pain and needing help, or it's dinner. I'm finding out, either way."

"'Help or dinner'? Queenie, I'm serious, you do not want to go messing with that thing out there—!"

Quinn whirled on him; face scrunched in suspicion. "What is it then? What are we running towards?"

"It's a goddamn Deathclaw, that's what! They're the most dangerous animal in the Commonwealth—in this game!—and for good goddamn reason! They have the name 'Death' in the name, for fuck's sake!"

Quinn scrunched her nose at him, sniffing pointedly as she crossed her arms over her chest. "This isn't a game, Quill. This is real life, and whatever that thing is out there, it's…" She hugged herself a little tighter. "It's in pain."

Quill hesitated, catching the crack in Quinn's voice. Anyone else wouldn't have.

But this was his sister. His other half. His twin, for god's sakes.

He knew her as well as she knew him.

"You always did have a bleeding heart for animals more than people," he replied softly. Quinn didn't answer, except to jerk her head in the direction of yet another wail, sharp and low.

"Give me the specs," she said quietly. Quill hesitated and hurried after his sister as she took off again, this time at a more brisk and measured clip rather than a full-out maddening dash.

"Big, bigger than a grizzly," he began. "Thick, scaled hides and long deadly claws—hence the name. Fast as hell, no way you can outrun it if it comes charging after you, but their turning speed is…probably not great. So, I would suggest zig-zagging—"

"Wait, what do you mean 'probably not great'?"

"I-I told you…this place, it isn't real. At least, it shouldn't be! It's—"

The words caught in his throat. It was so much harder to get them out this time around.

"It's supposed to be a video game, Queenie. This whole place."

Quinn shot him a puzzled look over her shoulder. "What, like the Last of Us? There aren't any Clickers out here, are there?"

She eyed a strand of fungal growth that had hiked its way up the trunk of a mostly-dead maple tree, as though to perfectly punctuate her point. Her hand came to rest on the pistol they'd swiped up on their way out of the Vault, nestled in the worn leather holster strapped to her thigh.

"No, it's nothing like the Last of Us—well, okay, it's kind of like that game, it's all post-apocalyptic and shit—but it's a nuclear wasteland. Not mushroom zombie outbreak. I've tried getting you to play this game, for like, years now—!"

That drew Quinn to a stop altogether. The hand on the butt of the pistol dropped. She kept her gaze trained straight ahead, unblinking, hard. Quill stumbled to a stop himself, blinking at her, dumbfounded. There was a gulch up ahead, and something big was there. He could hear it's heavy, laboured breathing—like it was trapped and hurt.

"…did you just say nuclear?"

"Yeah, like…you know, the big bombs being dropped and blowing everything up and shit and—" Quill's voice petered out, his excitement stifling right up at the side-eyed glower his sister was giving him. "What?"

"You just said that we are standing in the middle of a nuclear wasteland."

"Yeah, I don't see what…you're…oh."

"Nuclear. As in radioactive. Without protection. Out here," Quinn continued, restating her point very slowly, carefully, so she couldn't be misconstrued or misheard. The last of it clicked inside Quill as it finally pieced together.

"Oh, fuck."

"Where the fuck are we, Quill?" Quinn's voice was even, flat. Restrained. He didn't need to look at her to know she was simply vibrating with unfettered rage right about now, just from the sound of her voice. No more jokes. No more fun. Not like down in the Vault, when she thought he'd been screwing around with her.

This was 'About to Fuck Up Your Day' Quinn. And he was terrified for whoever would be on the receiving end when she let just let go of that fury.

The full force of understanding came crashing down harder than any bomb could as Quill spoke without even thinking.

"This…this is Fallout 4, Queenie. We're in the middle of…a nuclear wasteland and we're…probably going to die today."

The pair stopped to argue. A lot.

The woman was the faster of the two. She was also smaller, which was impressive considering the height difference between her and her male companion.

They certainly seemed to know one another, given the familiar tones they took with one another.

The watcher shivered at the wails that filled the space of the empty air. Chances were, they weren't the only things that heard the death throes of the Deathclaw. Something else was bound to come along and scavenge it for food if it was dying.

It was the law of nature, after all. Nothing goes to waste, and to the victors go the spoils.

Deathclaw hides sported a pretty price in most markets, and they made formidable enough armour—if you knew how to do it right. Maybe they'd be lucky to scavenge the thing when it died first.

He found himself stopping and starting almost as often as the pair as they drew closer to the source of their objective—and he had to wonder. Did they know they were moving off further into the wilderness, when there was a…

Well, he wouldn't call it a perfectly suitable location, per say. Not yet, not by a long shot. But it was largely untouched and unspoiled, especially by Raiders. They rarely ventured this far northwest; not when they could control all the more equitable and desirable territories and trade routes of the cities, like Concord down south. Now that piece of land was always in dispute between the different gangs. But this nice little slice of suburbs, just east of where they were heading? Maybe they could get that crazy Mr. Handy to stand down for once.

He'd been trying to get Desdemona to consider it as a possible safe house or at least a stop along the way for their runaways for quite some time now, and he still hasn't cracked her. Not yet, but he would.

The pair came to yet another stop and he had to wonder what their deal was.

Were they family? Lovers? Friends with benefits? Something else entirely? They were definitely familiar with one another, that much was abundantly clear. Maybe they had once been neighbors. Maybe they had been acquaintances.

Whoever they were, they'd been in that Vault for quite some time. Enough time that even he couldn't figure out a way to crack the place open. Not from the outside.

Had to take an insider to get the job done, he mused briefly, as the woman once again got her motor running and was off again. The man was finally seeming to get his feet under him, and he was able to keep up with her.

Down the hill they went and down he went as well, picking his way at an angle, keeping a good distance from them as he did. The woman was heading for a gulch, rounding a bend between rolling hillocks and rising tree lines separated by what he could only assume to have once been a riverbed.

He was close enough now that he could gather a hint of a word or three here and there.

"Queenie, wait—please stop!"

The woman—Queenie—rounded the bend, right out of sight. Her taller companion darted on after her, but he stopped short just before disappearing altogether. A look of horror crossed his face, and he brought a hand up to cover his hinged-open mouth.

As the watcher picked his way around—and it was just such slow and tedious work—he could finally see what it was that they were looking at.

And what do we have here, folks, bingo! Deathclaw, called it, he thought.

But man, what a pitiful sight it was.

Half-mangled, half-melted, and right on death's doorstop. It was a strangely humbling sight to see a creature, more feared than most anything else in the Commonwealth, brought down to its knees.

Or, in this one's case, a lack thereof.

How it was still alive, he'll never know. It looked like it had been vivisected in half, and—was that a…Mirelurk Hunter? At least, that's what it looked like from whatever was left of it. Looks like whatever had transpired, it had been a duel to the death and neither of them are coming out of it unscathed.

It was a long way from home, if that was what it was. The coast was at least a three-day hike, given all the death and destruction and Raiders and animals of the wastelands that stood between this place and there…

The Deathclaw wailed again, but it was weak and tired, struggling to lift its great horned head from the ground. It couldn't even move it's clawed appendages, the very namesake it once proudly adorned. He almost felt sorry for it.

Almost.

The woman's companion remained glued to his spot, but the woman ventured closer, caution lining every step she took. She had one hand out toward it, like she was trying to placate some wasteland mongrel, while the other settled on the pistol at her side.

If that thing somehow managed to rally enough energy for one final attack, he doubted she'd be able to pierce its thick hide with the gun strapped to her. He doubted she'd be in one piece.

The woman knelt, speaking softly, until she rested a hand on the Deathclaw's head. It whimpered, and it was such a strange sound to hear coming from such a beast. It almost seemed impossible to fathom. Just as impossible to think that a diminutive woman wearing nothing but a Vault suit was uttering soft nothings to placate the dying monster without fear.

The man finally seemed to snap out of his stupor and crept closer, hesitant and fearful as he approached. He rounded what was left of the Deathclaw, peering at the dead thing beside it, his low voice rising in pitch, but not loud enough to make out the words, not from this far.

The pair seemed to argue, but it was fleeting at best. A moment of silence passed, the sounds of their voices waning, and then…

Boom.

One gunshot rang like a death knell. The woman stood up, holding the smoking gun in hand.

Nothing came from the Deathclaw after that. Not a twitch, not a sound, nothing.

The man pulled the woman into a one-armed sideways embrace, rubbing her arm. They stood like that for a while, before they started to turn away and leave.

The watcher decided that that was perhaps enough for today and took that as a cue to take his own leave—but stopped when the woman did as well. She stalled, turning from the man, and whirled back on the corpse of the Deathclaw. She dropped down to her knees and seemed to be rummaging for something, her body blocking what she was doing—until she came spinning around, clutching something big to her chest.

Oh, well that's good fortune. Breakfast for dinner, he thought as he recognized what it was that she held: a Deathclaw's egg.

Maybe these two wouldn't be so shit out of luck after all. But if they were, they wouldn't do so on an empty stomach. Silver lining and all that.

Welcome to the brave new world, Vaulties. And best of luck, he thought. You're gonna need a shit ton of it.

Sanctuary Hills was a quiet place, largely untouched save from the elements and general neglect. The dilapidated homes were just like Quill expected them to be—rusting metal bowing under the weight of over two hundred years of disuse and abandonment. Weeds choked the grounds where pristine lawns should have been, browning and near-dead. The asphalt and sidewalks were broken and shattered from plant life struggling to the surface.

It was eerie how the silence carried around here.

Quill watched as his sister clutched a trio of eggs to her chest like they were some precious treasures to protect. He saw them as dinner and was starting to feel like his guts were one step away from gnawing on themselves for some kind of sustenance.

He took the lead, nodding his head forward as they stepped between two barren homes with rusted cars and sagging walls. The sun was warm and constant as it unwaveringly, cheerfully, beamed its light down on the world below it. The wind, in contrast, held the promise of winter.

"There should be a Mr. Handy somewhere around here—his name's Codsworth and in the game, he—"

"Quill, just stop with the whole 'in the game this' and 'in the game that'. Because right now, this isn't a fucking video game, it's real. And I'd rather skip over the 'I got isekai'd into this place' phase of everything."

"…how do you even know what that is?"

"You're kidding me, right?"

Quinn shot him a look that answered his question. He sighed, shoulders sagging. "Right, of course. Why wouldn't you know." Quill rolled his eyes before he sobered and continued, "Look, just…please follow my lead on all this? I know what this place is all about, and if you'd bothered to play the copy of the Fallout game I've sent you, you would too!"

Quill sent his sister a sour look, even when she flipped him the bird.

"Just…follow me. He should be around here somewhere…"

"Lead the way," Quinn replied, pausing long enough to let him in front of her. He sighed and nodded in relief.

The street curved along gently, but the house they needed to get to was right there, on their left. It's fading blue paint was overtaken by more browning weeds and rust and holes. Quill's relief was palpable as he spotted a flash of shining, silvery metal that moved about the front of the house in question.

All three eyestalks were focused on the task at hand—pruning a dead bush—but they swiveled when Quill called out in his direction.

"Uh…hello! Hi there! Excuse me!"

The robot gave pause and its round metallic body swiveled to face them, it's three arms tucking in close to its body.

"My word…who are you two?"

One eye stalk moved off to the side, as though it was trying to peer around something. Quinn shuffled to a stop, still clutching all three Deathclaw eggs in one arm, the other rising to rest on the only pistol between the two of them, strapped to her side.

"Quill…you sure about this?"

"It's fine, Queenie. Trust me. Okay?"

He shot his sister a reassuring smile before turning his attention back to the Mr. Handy.

"Hi there. Uh, I'm Quill and this is my sister Quinn. We're…kind of lost. Not from around here."

The robot made a noise of disgruntlement.

"Well, clearly! Where did you two come from?"

"The Vault," Queenie answered before Quill could. She motioned with a nod of her head in the direction they'd just come from. "Up on the hill."

One of the eye stalks moved again, as if to try and focus through all obstacles in its way off to the side. It swiveled back into place, its lenses tightening to focus on the two.

"From the Vault? But that's…impossible. Nobody's come from there, not since…not since…"

There was a dip in the Mr. Handy's floating, as if it was a hiccup, before he regained his composure.

"We…we were all frozen inside. It was a cryogenics facility."

"You mean…you were all frozen for the last two hundred years?" The robot affected an incredulous tone, and Quill's heart wrenched at the slash of hope that marred his voice. "Was there anyone else who made it out? Like you two? There was a man and a woman—they had a child—an infant with them—!"

"…there was nobody else. Everyone…they're dead. Their pods malfunctioned and…well…"

The eyestalks drooped, as did the limbs of the Mr. Handy. "Oh…oh goodness me. That's…that can't be right. It's…"

"I'm…I'm sorry. Were you close to these people?"

"They were…the family that bought me. To help with their daily lives and their child…" The eyestalks rose up to focus on Quill. Quinn seemed like an afterthought, inconsequential in that moment. She chose to move a bit closer, still wary of the machine. A shudder wracked the Mr. Handy. "Did they suffer?"

"I…think they went in their sleep. It was painless." Quill hesitated. "But there was no infant in any of the pods. We checked. There were only adults."

That got the robot's attention. "No infant? Are you certain? Absolutely certain?"

"Hey, we checked," Quinn inserted herself, sounding gruffer than she had meant. The robot shrunk back a few inches, as though expecting her to start swinging at him. She cleared her throat and softened her voice. "We didn't find any children in the Vault. There were none in the pods or anywhere else inside the Vault."

"Oh! Oh, then…then that means…young Shaun must still be alive! But that also means…someone took him? But how? Why? I don't understand!"

There was elation and grief all wrapped up together in the robot's voice and he shuddered again.

"I…I don't know about all that," Quill replied. Only Quinn caught the hitch in his voice, that little telltale sign of him lying. She said nothing, watching as her brother stumbled over possible theories to try and placate the distressed robot.

"Maybe he's still alive," Quinn finally stepped in, hoping to smooth over the stuttering mess Quill was becoming in his endeavor to subdue the increasing distressed Mr. Handy. "Maybe we can find out why he's missing. But we need a place to recover. Would it be all right if we stayed here to gather our bearings?"

"Oh…oh! Oh, but of course! How thoughtless of me. I apologize for the state of things, it's not exactly an easy ordeal to keep a household running when there's no one to run it for…or any proper materials to ensure it runs smoothly, period."

The robot turned and motioned for the two of them to follow him. Quill shot Quinn a relieved look over his shoulder, along with a thumb's up. She rolled her eyes in return but trailed after him.

Right now, she wanted to rest and to check on her leg.

It was feeling creaky.

"It's like a ghost town up in here."

"Minus the actual ghosts," Quill added with a half-hearted, nervous smile. Quinn hummed back, shifting from one leg to another as she fed another piece of wood to the fire they'd built for the night, ringed by a group of cinder blocks.

"It has been lonely…save the occasional traveler, I have not had company for quite some time. Not for at least two hundred and ten years."

Codsworth seemed to be trying to make light of this, but there was sorrow lacing his voice. Quill was carefully helping buff out a rather nasty ding he noticed earlier in Codsworth's metal chassis. Part of his outer shell was popped open, revealing the mechanical innards of the robot. Quill was working away with what tools they had managed to scavenge around the surrounding neighborhood.

The way he worked was tender, almost loving. The Mr. Handy had powered down the little jet of fire that kept him aloft for this repair job. Quill had already worked out a few dings in other parts of Codsworth chassis.

One eyestalk was focused on what her brother was doing, another was focused on her, and the last one was on a swivel. It was as though the last eyestalk was taking account of their surroundings. She hoped he sounded the alarm in time, in case they were attacked…

By whom or by what, she wasn't sure. But that prickle along the back of her neck, the one that sensed danger and hasn't failed her before, was tingling like crazy. This place was setting all kinds of internal alarms and she was already trying to figure out what's what.

I have to talk to Quill alone, without Tin-Can Man around. He said he knew this place, so…I should get that information from him, as soon as possible.

She doubted that Codsworth needed sleep, so that option was out. Maybe we can go scavenging for supplies, just me and Quill. We can talk then. In the morning.

She wished they could do it sooner, but the sun had gone down, and she didn't trust something that goes bump in the night will stay away. Better safe than sorry.

She leaned over in her seat and reached into the pack she'd recovered from the Vault. Her pack. It was her pack. Everything she had left from her old life was in this pack. And that duffel bag, over in the corner, right beside the other pack that belonged to her brother.

It didn't seem quite real, not yet.

She was used to living a minimalist lifestyle. This wouldn't be the first time she's lived out of a bag. And it seemed, for the next foreseeable future, it won't be the last time either. Quill, on the other hand…she worried about him. He liked his collector's items. He liked his toys. He liked his geeky merchandise. He liked his cameras and equipment and software and hardware—

He was fine for now, but she wondered how long that would last.

For now, she'd be counting what good fortune she had—even if it meant lumping in the tin can into that equation, and this ghost town of a suburban neighborhood. Every little bit helps.