The wasteland stretches ahead of me, endless and unkind. The cracked asphalt beneath my boots winds its way like a scar through the desolate land, leading me away from Megaton and deeper into the unknown. The landmarks grow sparser with every step—the twisted skeletons of long-abandoned cars, the occasional jagged rock, and weeds that claw at the barren earth like desperate fingers. Every few steps, a stray piece of rusted-out metal or a gnarled root juts up from the ground, waiting to trip me up if I'm not paying attention. The road is lifeless, but I can't shake the feeling that I'm being watched.
I keep my pistol holstered but ready. My hand hovers near the grip, fingers twitching at the first hint of movement. Out here, the quiet isn't comforting—it's oppressive. Every rock, every patch of scrub grass feels like it's hiding something, watching me. My Pip-Boy hums faintly against my wrist, its dim green glow reassuring and eerie all at once. At least I know I'm on the right track. North, toward Minefield, toward whatever fresh nightmare Moira's sent me into.
I wipe sweat from my brow and adjust the strap of my pack. It's not heavy, not yet, but it digs into my shoulders all the same. My vault suit's patched-up fabric clings to me like a second skin, stiff and uncomfortable. I miss the static hum of the fluorescents back in the vault. The filtered air. The walls. Out here, there's nothing between me and the sky, and it feels wrong. Exposed.
The ground starts to rise, and I glance up at the horizon. The ruins of Springvale are far behind me now, the faded, crumbling houses sinking back into the dust. The air is dry and heavy, full of grit that sticks to my teeth and makes my throat ache. I catch myself thinking about the vault again, about the water fountains, about cool, metallic-tasting liquid rushing over my tongue. And I have to shake it off. Thinking like that doesn't help. Not out here.
That's when I hear it—a faint scraping sound, carried on the wind. My chest tightens, and my hand closes around the grip of my pistol. I stop walking, scanning the area, every nerve in my body screaming to stay still. The sound comes again, closer this time. Scraping. Skittering. Claws on rock.
It appears over the ridge first, sniffing the air, its beady little eyes catching the light. A mole rat. The damn thing's ugly—pink, hairless, with oversized teeth and a twitching nose. Its body looks soft, but I know those claws can tear right through skin. It lets out a high-pitched squeal, and my stomach turns. I don't even have time to raise my pistol before another one shows up beside it. And another.
Three of them. Perfect.
I draw the pistol, the movement slow and deliberate, trying not to make too much noise. It doesn't matter. The first mole rat charges, its claws tearing up the ground as it barrels straight at me. My grip tightens, and I fire. The shot cracks through the air, hitting the creature in the chest. It stumbles, lets out a sharp, wheezing sound, and collapses.
The other two don't slow down. One darts to the side, circling me, while the other rushes head-on. I fire again, missing the first shot, then managing to clip the second mole rat's flank. It lets out an ear-splitting squeal but keeps coming. My hands are shaking now, the pistol slick with sweat. I adjust my stance, gritting my teeth as the creature lunges. Its claws rake across my calf, tearing through the fabric of my suit and drawing blood.
"Dammit!" I cry out, stumbling back.
The third one sees its chance. It lunges for me from the side, jaws snapping. I twist my body just in time, raising my pistol and firing. The shot hits its head. Blood sprays, and the creature collapses in a heap. But the second mole rat isn't done. It's injured, dragging itself forward, its teeth gnashing as it inches closer. I aim one last time, taking a deep breath to steady myself. My hand doesn't feel like it's mine anymore. It's trembling, too loose, too slick.
The shot lands true. The mole rat goes still.
My breath comes hard, fast. My leg burns where the claws tore into me, and I can feel warm blood trickling down my skin. I drop to one knee, letting the pistol hang loosely in my hand. My head swims, and for a moment, all I can hear is the sound of my own heartbeat, hammering in my ears.
I glance back at the bodies, at the blood pooling around them. My stomach churns, but I force it down. There's no time to wallow, no time to think about what could've happened if I'd been slower. I just need to keep moving.
The road slopes upward, the terrain becoming rockier, the horizon just a little clearer. I climb, each step sending a sharp jolt of pain through my leg. I don't stop. Not until I see it.
There's a cluster of shacks and buildings in the distance, their jagged edges outlined by the pale light of the setting sun. I squint, trying to make out details, but it's too far. It's a town—or what's left of one. My stomach twists with equal parts hope and dread. Maybe it's a place to rest. Maybe it's a death trap.
I don't know its name. I don't know if it's safe. But I don't have a choice. I adjust the strap of my pack and tighten my grip on the pistol, forcing one foot in front of the other. Whatever's waiting for me there, it can't be worse than what I've already seen.