Fallout Fridays – A Kick in the Head

Oh great! So she’s dead? Now what?

Back away everyone! Let me get a better look at her.

Oh shit! Did she lose an eye? Is that an exit wound or an entrance?

Does it matter? There’s no way she’s alive. That monster ripped her helmet right off.

Check for a pulse! She might still be breathing!

How the hell are we supposed to even get her out of this thing?

Oh god oh god oh god I promised we’d get there I promised I promised I promised.

She’s not dead yet, this is The One who’s going to change everything. I’ve Seen it.

You mean you hallucinated it while you were stoned out of your gourd, you old fraud!

Easy now, easy! Who has a stimpak? Med-X? Some spare gauze? Anyone?

Preston, turn that valve and let’s get a better look at her.

Let’s just see if she’s got anything on her instead.

We are not robbing her! And I can’t even turn the valve until we get this thing off and turn her over on her side. Everyone give me a hand!

I’m not doing that! It’s bad luck to touch a Deathclaw!

Only when they’re alive. Don’t be such a coward.

I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry.

You’ve got to be strong kid. There’s more to your destiny. You’re a woman out of time. But all’s not lost. I can feel your son’s energy. He’s alive.

Mama Murphy, now is not the time.

It’s okay Preston, not everyone understands The Sight. But I don’t need you to believe me, I just need her to listen.

I can’t believe it! She’s got a pulse!

Get her out of that thing.

See if she’s got any caps.

That’s not funny! And you’re not helping. Stand back.

Give me a clean shirt and a knife. The bullet’s gone clean through but we’ve got to stop the blood loss.

What’s her type? I’ll donate mine!

She’s not a Gunner, and you don’t even know your own. Stop trying to be a hero!

I’ve got the bleeding to stop at least, but she’s gonna have a hard time pulling through.

Let ole Mama Murphy give her a boost.

What the hell is in that?

The last of my stash. Jet with a Psycho chaser and a little boost of Mentats. Nothing that’ll kill her. Trust me.

What a surprise, chems! That’s her solution for everything!

Careful there, Mama.

It’s gonna be fine, quit your fussing.

Okay everyone. Let’s see if we can carry her to that place Mama Murphy knows about.

She knows about it? You mean she ‘saw” it while she was high on chems, as usual.

You got a better idea? Anybody? Well alright then. Let’s get going before nightfall.

You were right, Dogmeat. This one’s a keeper.

We’re gonna make it we’re gonna make it we’re gonna make it we’re gonna make it.

“Well here she is already. The least resilient woman in the Commonwealth.”

I try to turn my head but there is nothing to see. In fact I’m not even sure I can feel my body or tell it what to do anymore. There is only darkness and the voices inside my head have drowned out the ones outside.

“What’s happening? Where am I?”

I know that voice. But he can’t be here, can he? Not inside my own head.

“People always hope for something better. They usually end up with something worse. This world, this life? Pain and suffering. Death is its only escape.”

Am I already dead? Is this my own personal hell? Is hell actually real?

“Who said that?”

He laughs and hacks in a way that might make my skin crawl if I could even feel my skin anymore. But there is no skin anymore. No pain. No body. Only the sick knowledge that somehow, The Man With The Scar is my only company.

“I’m the one who helped you understand what happiness really felt like. It’s only looking back, by comparison with what comes after, you ever really understand. You know you were the worst thing that ever happened to them. If it wasn’t for you, they never would have met me. But you can still try to catch me if you think you can.”

“I’m gonna murder you, you son of a bitch.”

“That’s the spirit. Better hurry, Shawn ain’t getting any younger.”

Fallout Fridays – A Kick in the Head
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Fallout Fridays – The Battle of Concord

October 24, 2277. A date which has become known as The Battle of Concord. At least for the new residents of Sanctuary.

It was never my intention to kill anyone except The Man With The Scar. The Man who killed Nate. The Man who took Shawn. But The Wasteland has a way of changing who you are, and what you will or won’t do, rather quickly.

After shooting a few rounds into the Mr. Handy robot-butler somehow still trimming our irradiated hedges, eventually he helped me salvage supplies and a holotape with Nate’s handwriting. “Hi Honey!”

That holotape became my only way to remember the sound of Nate’s voice. Or Shawn’s. I play it every night through my Pip-Boy like a lullaby. Proof that The World That Was was more than a dream before this waking nightmare. Hope and Happiness truly existed, once upon a time.

Codsworth gave me a direction to point: Concord. And the lone radio station within range told me where to go after that. Diamond City. “The Great Green Jewel of The Commonwealth.”

I spent the first night in an abandoned Red Rocket, clearing the place of gigantic vermin and befriending a German Shepard who looked as though he wondered out of Ms. Rosa’s backyard. I asked him if he had an owner, but he didn’t object when I locked up the station for a rough night of half-sleep.

As soon as I got to the center of the seemingly abandoned town, I could hear the ricochet of bullets and the twang of lasers. I only had a moment to decide my fate. And so I gave my aid to the man who asked for mine, although one of the men in leather managed to get away.

Sometimes I wonder how life might have gone differently if I’d refused. But once you’ve made a decision, there’s not much use in guessing what the other might have brought you.

The Museum of Freedom was now only chaos. But with their attentions diverted I managed to creep through the remnants of American History and slaughter the men I would later learn are called “Raiders”.

When my bullets got low, I used a switchblade to slit throats as the dog throttled limbs in gurgled silence. Better than using their crude pistols made out of pipes and spare bits of wood. There was no time to think between the pounding of my heart and the ceasing of theirs. Only the time to act before they could. Six lives ended in the span of three minutes.

As I approached the uppermost room I could hear the last two goons arguing about how to proceed. I pulled out the strange “laser musket” tossed down to me by the man in colonial garb moments ago. I gave the handle a crank, and the digital number behind the breech counted up to 1-2-3. I braced myself by the door to the main hall, ready to unleash whatever this weapon was capable of.

That’s when I noticed the frag grenade by my feet.

If it hadn’t been for Preston Garvey, I might already be dead. Then again, he says the same about me. I suppose that’s how relationships get started out here in The Wasteland. The ones who keep you alive, the ones who want you dead, and the ones who can afford to pay you to kill or get killed. Everyone else is just a scavver.

As the stimpak brings my vision from a dark red to a sickly brown, I begin to register who I risked my life for. An old lady high on chems. A mechanic with a greasy pompadour. A young man in the throes of a panic attack with his less-than-comforting wife. And Preston, who introduces himself as a “Minuteman”.

They say my dog is called Dogmeat. They simply call me The Vault Dweller before informing me, “Death is coming. And it is angry.”

I have less than five minutes to get into this rusted old Power Armor before a man who calls himself “Gristle” breaks down our barricades. I remind myself what’s truly important, because I know there may come a moment when I have to walk away and let the others die.

Stay Alive. Avenge Nate. Find Shawn.

Stay Alive. Avenge Nate. Find Shawn.

Stay Alive. Avenge Nate. Find Shawn.

Fallout Fridays – The Battle of Concord

Fallout Fridays – Prepared For The Future

Last Known Date. Last truly known date: October 23, 2077.

The Day which has become known as The Great War of 2077. The Day my country and another country destroyed The World That Was in less than a dozen hours. After years of fighting over territories and ideologies. Through mutually assured nuclear annihilation. It’s like my late husband said, “War never changes.”

But The World That Was, and my life, forever changed on The Day. And for every day I’ve spent in this Brave New World, affectionately known as The Wasteland of The Commonwealth by the people who inhabit it, the more difficult it becomes to remember What We Lost.

Sometimes, when the nights are quiet and still, and the illusion of safety creeps into my bed, I still dream about The Last Known Date. Because everything before that has become elusive as its relevance disappears. A story I recite like a prayer, but not one which I can truly say I faithfully remember anymore.

I was still a lawyer for JAG when we met, putting in for my career change to Psychoanalytics at CIT when we met in the lobby for his own court-martial mandated therapy appointment. We struck up a conversation, and within six months we were married so he could avoid immediate redeployment to Anchorage.

Thanks to the Sanctity of Marriage Act, we had one year after our wedding night to lead a Congressionally Mandated “Normal Life” before he returned to Anchorage. A year to settle and begin a family. And so we did, with the hopes we would eventually develop our new relationship into one worthy of the lifelong commitment we made before the United States Government.

We always knew we were living on borrowed time. But we never knew Fate would come calling in a trench coat and hat, holding a clipboard.

Would I have done anything differently if I had known this would be our last breakfast together? Would I have studied his eyes a little deeper? Told him any secrets we ran out of time to share? Or would I proceed as though it were a Normal Day, and savor that feeling of safety and certainty, rather than the details of the man I did my best to love while he was mine?


First Unknown Date. Possibly October 23, 2277.

Nate is dead. Shawn was taken. By a bald white man with a scar across his left eye. These facts are all I have now. Everything else is dead. Everything else is gone after a bright flash and a cold sleep.

I wish I’d never woken up. I wish we never made it to The Vault. I wish we just died in each others arms like the rest of the world. I wish I was dead. I wish Nate was the one left alive, avenging my own death and rescuing our son.

But that’s not what happened.

I was the one who got us into the vault. I was the one who wasn’t holding Shawn when we went into the pods. And so I became “The Backup”. That’s what the man with the scar who took my son and killed my husband called me.

The Backup for what?

The Vault doesn’t have any of the “creature comforts” that were advertised to us in the brochures that pushy salesman kept leaving with Codsworth.

There are no food replicators. No community centers. No media libraries. (Unless you count this copy of the Red Menace video game.) There’s nothing here. Nothing. They lied. Because they knew there would be nobody to answer to once the bombs actually dropped.

Nate is dead. Shawn is gone. Vault-Tec lied.

All of our neighbors are dead inside their pods. It doesn’t look like anyone has lived here for a very long time. And I’m not sure how long I can survive out there on my own. But there’s nothing here.

Except giant cockroaches. Working water fountains. Empty Nuka-Cola bottles. And thankfully, a 10mm handgun. With a Pip-Boy 4000 Mark IV, only slightly used.

My name was once Dorian.

Now I am the Sole Survivor of Vault 111.

Fallout Fridays – Prepared For The Future

Fallout Fridays – Kill Me, Cait

A red-haired white woman with a bloody baseball bat, covered in large nails.

January 8th, 2278

I’m out.

But I’m not sure how. That’s never a good sign.

The air outside feels real. I know it’s also highly irradiated but the crisp cool winter breeze against my face is exactly what I needed.

I seem to have stuffed my rucksack to the bursting point with every Institute widget I could find before escaping. Which would be great if I wasn’t trying to dodge bullets with a hundred pounds of bullshit strapped to my back right now.

“Oi, look out behind ya, feckin’ gobshite!”

I turn around to see a red-haired woman with a baseball bat trounce a man two steps behind me. The left side of his face goes soft as his body collapses into the gutter. She brandishes the bloody bat in my face as she closes the gap between us.

“You better remember who I am, Vault Dweller, because I sure as shite remember you. You’re the arse who killed all me customers. And I’ll be wanting proper compensation.”

I throw my rucksack in front of her and the weight makes an audible thud on the concrete.

“Take it. Take whatever you want. Go ahead and kill me too if you want. I don’t care anymore. I’m going to the Third Rail to get shithoused.”

I turn around and continue walking East. I can hear her heave the bag behind me and her footsteps catching up.

“So that’s it then? You’re not gonna fight me, but you’ll kill a whole theater of spectators in front of me?”

“That is correct.”

She scurries around me, panting with the extra weight but determined to match my brisk pace.

“That’s fucking bollicks. Is it because I’m a wee fragile girl and you don’t want to hurt me?”

“No. I am also a woman. And you would not be the first woman I’ve killed. You’ve done me no wrong. I have. Take what you feel you deserve and be on your way. I’m tired.”

“Oh aye, you’re tired, love? We’re all tired. You think you’re some kind of mysterious stranger with a heart of gold? We’ve all got tragic backstories here. You’re nothing special.”

“I know.”

She stops for a moment, falling behind as I dutifully press forward to make it to Goodneighbor by nightfall.

“You know what? I think you should carry all this shite for me. I mean, this is my payment, right? Well I only accept payment in caps or Psycho, so this won’t do me any good. I’m sticking on you until I am appropriately compensated.”

I stop to look at her. Her haughty face glistens from sweat despite the winter and her matted red hair shines in the pale sun. She has one boot defiantly planted on top of abandoned loot as I stare into her eyes. I can feel a deep unspoken sadness reflect back my own. And that’s the closest thing to trust or friendship I’m willing to accept right now.

I stoop in front of her and gesture toward one of the straps so she’ll remove her boot, “Sure thing, ma’am. I’ll carry that bag for you if it’s getting too heavy.”

“Now you wait just a goddamn minute, Vault-Tec…”

“I’m Dori.”

“…I’m Cait.”

We awkwardly shake hands and proceed past Boston Commons side by side.

“By the way, I’ve got a hit of Jet left if you want. I was saving it for a fight but if you need it…”

“Oh please, I’m not some charity case. I take care of my own Joneses just fine thanks,” she says as she slams a Psycho needle into her arm.

“Fine then, just thought I’d offer,” I take the final puff off my inhaler and can already feel the strain of the weight on my back easing.

She gives an approving nod as our mutual highs kick in.

“Only thing better than picking a fight is getting stoned, am i right?”

Fallout Fridays – Kill Me, Cait

Space Rat Saturdays – A Shrewd Negotiation

A distorted image of an empty bar.
160720-bar-empty-after-hours.jpg by r. nial bradshaw. https://c1.staticflickr.com/9/8513/28373565902_eb7f73313c_b.jpg

A handoff with a new connection is always tense, but there is a script to these arrangements. To the point it would be boring if it didn’t always come with a chance of murder, life imprisonment, or destitution.

First, you pick the place. Gives you the chance to scope things out and make sure your gut isn’t telling you to get. Gives you a chance to screw your head right with a couple toxics before kicking things off. He knows that of course, if he’s smart, but you’re also the one who has his cargo. So that’s his own burden to worry about. You stand your ground on that shit.

Second, you buy him a toxic when he arrives, even though he’s the one who is about to pay you. No, it doesn’t make any fucking sense and yes, it does slow down the whole process. But trading requires gestures masquerading as friendliness for most crooks of most species. So you stick to the script.

Third, you exchange pleasantries neither of you have interest in, while avoiding discussion of the cargo you’re carrying until he finishes his first toxic. At which point he will either buy you a drink or toast to your new partnership or some other overly-friendly gesture so it feels less obvious the only reason you know one another is your mutual distaste for the Confederacy.

Fourth, after this exhausting bit of social interaction, then and only then can you finally even mention the actual purpose of your meeting. Keep the actual subject matter vague. No specific credits per unit, no descriptions of cargo, no discussion of planets of origin. If he fucks up and breaks this rule, make sure he knows that you noticed, but don’t accuse him of anything yet. If he fucks up again, tell him you’re leaving but let him talk you back. If he fucks up a final time, stash the goods and lay low while finding a new connection.

Fifth, he bitches about something in order to try and lower the price. You argue back and demand what you’re owed. It could be delays, it could be damage to merchandise, it could be discomfort from Con activity, so long as it’s your fault. Any crook who doesn’t at least try to rip you off at least once is probably not a crook. So don’t trust them.

Sixth, a pissing match of some sort is required in order to display your ability to hurt him and his business before he will pay what he promised. A small display of violence to preview a much bigger violence he doesn’t want goes a long way. Make it big, make it flashy, but keep it controlled. Papa was fond of triggering a small amount of plastic explosives within their eyesight, but I’m more partial to flipping a table or smashing a glass as it requires less prep work. But this is the part where you actually have some freedom to get creative and improvise.

Finally, he agrees to the terms you had already established, perhaps even more if step six was especially impressive and you’re lucky. You have your robots tug the cargo where he wants it, and he gives you the credits on an encrypted drive. You give the toxtender an incredibly generous tip and thank them for their discretion. Everybody walks away happy.

This new connection is a Sapien man named Anthony Gates, and we’re about halfway through Step Five already. He’s young, loud, and definitely way too confident in himself and his bored looking avian bodyguard, whose colorful plumage looks uncomfortable in a tailored suit. This next part might actually be fun.

“Look man, I don’t want excuses! I want my fucking product delivered on time or otherwise I lose money which means you lose more money.” He slams his third drink onto the bar, causing snores of the old man sleeping in the corner to pause for effect.

That’s as good a cue as any.

I grab the back of his head with my left hand and he reacts by reaching into the right side of his jacket. He then resists having his face smashed into the bar, so I allow him to fling his body backward by letting my arm go limp while I kick his barstool with the heel of my right foot instead. He falls flat onto his back and while the wind is knocked out of him, his pistol scattering sadly across the hard floor.

I belt out an overly friendly laugh and say, “Whoa, careful there friend, we haven’t had that much to drink!”

The toxtender glares at us. The bodyguard is off his seat. But I’m already extending a friendly hand to his client, whose red face glares up at me as I keep mine resolutely, frustratingly pleasant. Eventually he accepts my hand and his defeat. I guess this one is a fast learner.

Jackie’s on the way with the tugboat. I made enough credits to pay for half my return circuit to Remidian IV. He’s got enough product to make back three times what he just paid me. And the toxtender has enough money to quit and work somewhere else if they’ve finally had enough dealing with toxed assholes. Everybody walks away happy.

Space Rat Saturdays – A Shrewd Negotiation

Fallout Fridays – Sixty Feet Under

A scientist named Enrico is addressing three "Gen 1" synths, warning them to keep power consumption to a minimum. The three synths and scientist stand in a bright white room in front of a door labelled "Robotics".
A scientist named Enrico is addressing three “Gen 1” synths, warning them to keep power consumption to a minimum. The three synths and scientist stand in a bright white room in front of a door labelled “Robotics”.

January 5rd, 2278

Every day I ask the old man when I can leave, and every day he tells me to relax and get to know his “family” better. It sickens me. These are the people who kidnapped my son. Murdered my husband. And then had the gall to raise him as their own. These are the people who made him into their image of “Mankind Redefined”.

He’s not my son. He’s their son. The Institute.

I’ll never get another chance to raise a child. No more hopes of first steps, first words, first day in school. Nate will never get a chance to teach him how to swim. I’ll never teach him how to read. He’ll never know his cousins or his aunts or grandparents. He’s gone.

A bald man with a gray mustache, Justin, stands before a room filled with monitors showing recordings both inside and outside The Institute. He says he's going to have to keep a "closer eye on me" for the near future.
A bald man with a gray mustache, Justin, stands before a room filled with monitors showing recordings both inside and outside The Institute. He says he’s going to have to keep a “closer eye on me” for the near future.

They have surveillance everywhere in this place. And when I met with the acting director of Synth Retention this week he didn’t make a secret about it. Hell he even told me I was going to be monitored even more heavily, the moment I met him. Looking at the monitors, it’s obvious they’ve been watching my every move since I woke up. There are cameras watching the Vault. Watching the museum at Concord. Watching Diamond City. Watching Sanctuary. These people have never known a life without scrutiny, so why should they think anyone else deserves one?

Two women engineers are examining a "Gen 2" synth. A woman in yellow, standing, is complaining loudly about how the phase out of older synths can't come quick enough. A woman in white appears to be fixing something behind the synth's left knee.
Two women engineers are examining a “Gen 2” synth. A woman in yellow, standing, is complaining loudly about how the phase out of older synths can’t come quick enough. A woman in white appears to be fixing something behind the synth’s left knee.

But I’ve also been watching them. On the surface they are very clean, very pleasant, very polite, very advanced. But with the smallest degree of inconvenience they lash out at those beneath them. Either those of lower rank or the synths they’ve created. In fact they are constantly threatening the synths around here. No wonder the ones who gain free will try to escape this place.

Right now I can hear a man screaming outside my door.

“You call this floor clean?! Maybe you need a memory wipe and reprogramming. Although at this point it may be more useful to scrap you for parts.”

“My apologies, sir. I will recalibrate my receptors and disinfect the floor to your liking.”

A balding man in a lab coat berates a "Gen 2" synth in front of a water fountain. The hallway is all white, clean, and illuminated, but the man continues to yell at the synth for dust on the floor.
A balding man in a lab coat berates a “Gen 2” synth in front of a water fountain. The hallway is all white, clean, and illuminated, but the man continues to yell at the synth for dust on the floor.

I peeked through the door. I haven’t seen any open violence here just yet, but I can feel it bubbling below the surface. It reminds me of living with my father, or Kellogg’s memories with his dad, or some terrible clusterfuck of the two. Waiting for the explosion is always worse than the act itself.

Right now I’m doing everything I can to remember my training as a counselor, although I specialized in development rather than trauma. I can feel the crushing weight of hypervigilance in my bones. It’s somehow stronger than even out navigating the Wastes. At least there conflict happens quickly, in the open, and resolves with finality. Usually in less than a minute.

Here, my jaw aches from holding my tongue in every incessant social interaction. My joints creak from restraining my reactions to angry words from men with power. My heart wavers from the unreasonable demands of the constant flow of epinephrine.

Of course, knowing that intellectually doesn’t really do me many favors. I ran out of Daytripper and cigarettes two days ago. My knuckles are bruised and scraped from reacting to small sounds in my sleep. I tried drinking until I passed out last night, but that finished off the last of my vodka.

I should be working on how to escape from this place, but I’ve also had a hard time getting motivated for much of anything. Finding Shawn has been my sole motivation since I escaped from the Vault. So now…what exactly is there?

Do I go back to my home, where there’s an overzealous militia eager to make me their General? Do I stay here, where “Father” wants me take over for the dirty work Kellogg can’t do anymore? Do I work for the Railroad as Codename: Professor and work to destroy the only thing keeping a shred of my past alive anymore? Go work with Nick solving mysteries, knowing all the while my mystery has no solution?

Maybe…maybe once I get out of here I can just find a quiet place where nobody will bother me. I can salvage an old typewriter and work on my writing. Try to create something my barren womb couldn’t. Maybe that reporter in Diamond City might even publish some of my work in exchange for a few caps. Nate always liked my writing.

I miss Nate. I miss my mom. I miss my sisters. I miss my nephews.

I don’t know what I have to live for anymore.

But I still don’t want to die. Especially in this place.

Fallout Fridays – Sixty Feet Under

Fallout Fridays – Shawn Gone

A ten-year old white boy with brown hair stands slack, head down, in a glass room.

January 1st, 2288

It’s a new year and I have found Shawn. Except there is no Shawn. Shawn is a synth. The Shawn I see in the last of Kellogg’s memories when I dream isn’t real. He’s limp and lifeless in a glass room where “Father” can tinker with him. The body of the child I never truly had turned out to be nothing but a hobby for an old man.

The old man claims he is my Shawn. He says Kellogg kidnapped him sixty years ago, not ten. And even though I wanted to say he was full of shit, even though I wanted to kill him, I couldn’t do it when I looked in his eyes. Those eyes are still the same.

But if they can put those same eyes into that little boy, who is to say they couldn’t put them in an old man?

Why would Kellogg look nearly identical from my memory of Nate’s murder from when I murdered Kellogg if those dates were supposed to be sixty years apart?

A bald man with a scar across his left eye, looking inside a cryogenics pod through the glass.

Once again it keeps coming down to counting the dates.

This…Father…who claims to be my son, he was the one who released me from the Vault. He was the one who put Kellogg in my crosshairs. He has been orchestrating nearly every encounter I’ve had since I woke up. And with his ability to make robots indistinguishable from humans, it’s likely I have no idea how deep the rabbit hole truly goes.

I hacked into his terminal and was able to retrieve Kellogg’s personnel files. They truly do go back over sixty years, including records of his augmentations and longevity. Either this is false information meant to confirm “Father” or it’s the truth. Unfortunately I have no way of knowing at the moment. And that old man who claims he’s my son continued to use him even after learning what he’d done.

He wants me to stay here. He wants me to see what he’s accomplished. He wants me to be proud of him.

That’s why he woke me up.

Because he was curious if I would survive.

He was curious if Kellogg or I would die.

He was curious if I would find a way into the Institute.

But the old man stacked the deck in my favor. All these scripted events and breadcrumbs have been strings pulling me along a story he wants to tell. It would be touching if I wasn’t so manipulative.

I don’t know how to leave this place but the old man keeps saying I’m not a prisoner. He also insists I meet the department heads of his Institute before discussing anything further. He wants me to see his justifications for his actions.

This is not the first time I’ve been trapped living somewhere dangerous. I know how to play this game. Smiles and courtesies and calculations and stories. Make them feel safe while maintaining vigilance.

I don’t know what else to do now that there is no Shawn for me to Find. All I can do is survive and observe.

Fallout Fridays – Shawn Gone

Space Rat Saturdays – Tox Etiquette

Courtesy of NASA. A dark but illuminated Earth is visible past two orbiting satellites.

Earth.

I hate Earth. Or at least what it is now.

Papa grew up here during the Third Space Race, the last time Sapiens pretended to give a shit about spacing. He used to play those old vids on a loop whenever he was feeling down.

You could always tell how he was feeling based on what vids were playing on our ship.

Papa had an immense, dense bank of computer storage in the Dodger dedicated solely to old Sapien vids, mostly from the Media Infancy era.

Outdated News Vids usually meant we were out of money. Cartoons meant things were good and life was easy for a bit. British comedies meant we were feeling rebellious, probably at the Cons’ expense. Mystery shows meant something needed fixing on the ship or Papa had a new idea he wanted to research.

Grandma would always complain about all the noise of the ship. But she never turned off the vids. She loved them the same way she loved Papa. Resentfully in the open, but with kindness in secret.

That’s the only Earth I actually understand. Pre-Con Earth still doesn’t look like a place I would want to live on, but at least it makes a sort of sense, in easily-digestible chunks.

You would think growing up with constant vids would make the bombardment of walking out into the street from Customs easier, but there’s never only one thing begging for your attention. Right now even with my earbuds I can still hear an advert for shaving cream, an announcement about curfews, continuing requests for other ships getting a Confederate shakedown, and a looping trailer for something called Martian Marshalls that keeps making explosions. I thumb down a cab and try my best to inhale and exhale slowly through gritted teeth.

The driver is a reptilian biped wearing a tank top and pinstriped pajama pants. Their vertical pupils eye me hungrily when I say, “If you can find me the closest tox bar with no Cons I’ll pay you double. Double that if it’s quiet.”

I peek down as we lift off the street, whizzing around a skyline that’s nothing like what I grew up watching. If it weren’t for the Statue of Liberty, I wouldn’t even recognize it.


“Intoxicants are one of the universal signs of intelligence,” Grandma used to say. At which point Papa would likely whisk me away and tell me about ancient Sapien agriculture and it’s connections to ethanol.

It’s not like she was drunk all the time. Who could afford it?

But because people are generally cowards when it comes to crime, intoxicants are part of the parcel. So she taught me how to order toxics and still keep my wits about me.

“Always keep it simple, Peewee. You want the toxtender’s good will, and they don’t like people being pissy about how they do their job. When toxtenders don’t like someone, they remember them.”

The driver was more than happy with my double-double tip, and I was pleased with the quiet basement bar they found for me.

“I’ll take a vodka and soda, with a cannabinoid inhalant please.”

One of my best rehearsed lines.

The toxtender looks mammalian, with a thin semi-translucent fur making distinctive markings on their face and forearms. Their “mammalian assets” are proudly on display in a shimmering dark leather top, but the fashion seems out of place in a dive like this. The toxtender takes my credit chips without words, for which I am immensely thankful.

I sit at the bar and fiddle with my comm nervously as I wait for my toxics. I check the corners of the bar but see only an old Sapien sleeping on a back booth, his hat resting next to his gray head. The only noise to drown out his gentle snores is one lone vid screen, scrolling the news at a minimal volume. It’s quiet, but not silent. Which is perfect.

A tray is silently brought to me and I toss back the drink and take a large hit off the inhaler.

“Another please,” I say to the toxtender, who continues to serve in silence.

I can feel my heart finally beginning to slow down as I fiddle with my comm settings. But I can never get these damn holographic buttons to actually recognize my fingers. Papa used to blame our calluses.

“Fuck this,” I mutter in exasperation, slamming the home button projected through my palm with my free hand until, finally, I hear a chirp in response, “Jackie, can you contact our employer for me? Send him my current location and try to sound intimidating if you can.”

“Right away, boss,” a tinny distant voice shouts from my hand.

“The wonders of technology,” the toxtender scoffs while bringing my next round.

I smirk at them as I raise my glass, “To your health, kind one.”

I swear, toxics and money are the only things worth being terran-side.

Space Rat Saturdays – Tox Etiquette

Fallout Fridays – The List

“General, if it’s alright with you, Minuteman Long and I will bunker down in Tenpines Bluff for the night. That way we can let them know The Minutemen are finally back.”

His words barely even register. Nick and I have been talking for hours while the two men from Sanctuary have been inside picking for parts. While the two of us have been counting days. Even though I promised myself I wouldn’t.

I give Preston a weak salute and he seems pleased. Jun is looking at his feet, rifle clicking away in his hands once again. Preston takes him under his own arm and gently guides him. In the still air of a fresh kill, I can hear Jun’s quiet whispers to himself

“I did it just like I said I would I promised him I promised him I would make myself useful I promised him not to be sad I promised we would get there I promised…”

In my backpack are military-grade circuit boards, a Biometric Scanner, and a Sensor Module. The last three things we need to Find Shawn.

Find Shawn.

Which brings us to The List. The mutated fruits of our efforts to make sense out of nonsense. I read it over and over from my Pip-Boy, only half paying attention to the road while Nick leads the way back to Sanctuary.


The LIST

CONFIRMED

  1. The Day The Bombs Fell — October 23, 2077.
  2. The Day I Woke Up. Saved Sanctuary Settlers. — October 23, 2287
  3. The Day I Met Nick. — October 27, 2287
  4. The Day I Killed Kellogg. — October 29, 2287
  5. The Day My Brain Got Fucked — November 5, 2287

RELIABLE BUT NOT REMEMBERED

  1. I return to Sanctuary for the Power Armor. While helping the settlers search empty houses I opened Mr. Jahani’s root cellar and was attacked by ghouls. My former neighbors. Reportedly I fled the scene as soon as they were dead wearing the power armor in exchange for my vault suit. — November 24, 2287
  2. Children of Atom from the Glowing Sea report meeting someone in Power Armor looking for a scientist. Presumably this is also the day I met Virgil. — November 28, 2287
  3. Nick finds my barely conscious body on the edge of the Glowing Sea. He says when we woke up from the Brain Fuck I didn’t trust him and went off by myself. Sounds plausible. — November 30, 2287
  4. We arrive in Diamond City. Doc Crocker does what he can. — December 2, 2287

REMEMBERED BY NOT RELIABLE

  1. The Day I Killed The Courser — December 10, 2287
  2. We arrive in Goodneighbor — December 11, 2287
  3. We find The Railroad — December 13, 2287
  4. We arrive in Sanctuary — December 23, 2287
  5. I wake up in Sanctuary — December 27, 2287

I can’t believe I slept through fucking Christmas.

Tomorrow we’re going to finish the teleporter.

Tomorrow I infiltrate The Institute.

Tomorrow I Find Shawn.

Fallout Fridays – The List

Fallout Fridays – Taking Down The Joneses

I already knew Kellogg was sharing space in my brain, but the thought of other people knowing makes me feel contaminated.

I hurl my empty 10mm at Codsworth and his metallic body lets out a clang as the pistol falls to the floor. All three of us are silent, Garvey still behind the doorway with his laser musket aimed at my chest.

“Get out of my room, Codsworth,” I say flatly, “I need to talk to Minuteman Garvey.”

My blood is churning into foam and my ears are ringing, but I maintain my poker face. The robot follows my orders, because this is my house.

“At attention, soldier! Double Time!” I bark to Garvey.

He immediately lowers his weapon and stands at my feet. I stare him up and down with my best impersonation of drill sergeants from the stories Nate told me.

“Soldier, what you just heard is classified information. And I need to make sure it stays classified. Do you understand?”

“Sir, yes sir!”

Damn, I didn’t expect that to be so satisfying.

“Minuteman Garvey, I need a full status report on the teleportation project and any remaining needed hardware.”


I couldn’t stand still in that creepy place, so I’ve taken Preston Garvey and Jun Long on a milk run to get the last missing components and provide an assist to another settlement nearby, Tenpines Bluff.

I know Garvey can at least aim that musket of his, but I’m not so sure about Jun. As we passed through Concord and saw the rotting corpses of the very first men I killed being picked apart by crows, Jun’s rifle clicked in his shaking hands. I shared a bit of my personal Day Tripper stash, at least then he can keep his hands steady.

“I don’t see how you expect to be in fighting condition while using recreational substances,” Garvey says disapprovingly.

“Better living through chemistry, right Jun?” I reply after taking a handful of pills, “If I couldn’t get stoned on a consistent basis I’m pretty sure I would have died a long time ago.”

Jun nervously accepts my offer while stealing glances at Garvey, “I’m sorry. I promise to make myself useful. Nobody likes a grown man feeling sorry for himself.”

I give Jun a brief hug. Chalk it up to being stoned and him having a vague resemblance to my Nate. Dogmeat barks playfully as we leave Concord and make our way Northeast.

Tenpines Bluff turns out to be a tiny shack with a garden and two residents, but we quickly learn they’ve been getting attacked by feral ghouls at the nearby Satellite Olivia Station. So we make our way Northwest through the sparse “woods” toward the huge satellite dish in the distance.

“This is exactly why the Commonwealth needs the Minutemen,” Garvey puffs up, “Most folks are just trying to get by and just need a hand once in a while.”

“At least now we can kill two birds with one stone,” I joke, “A military site is bound to have all the hardware we need.”

It’s dusk when we  approach the site. That’s when I hear them. Those awful sucking/shrieking scream they make with what’s left of their vocal chords. I can handle Raiders and Super Mutants and all kinds of other shit that tries to kill me in this world. But zombies still freak me the hell out.

I hold up my fist and direct my companions to take cover on a nearby hill. Once they’re on their bellies, Dogmeat and I creep forward. I can’t see any of them, but I know they’re in there. I lob a molotov into the middle of the courtyard to get the party started.

That’s when everything gets strange.

Time itself seems to slow down and I see them. Eight shambling corpses crawling out of Mr. Jahani’s basement in their tattered rags. The smallest one wears nothing but a baseball cap and I stare into his eyes as I put a bullet between them. The screams echo all around me.

Is that Ms. Rosa? Was that her little Louis? Oh god what have I done?

My pistol falls from my hands and I run for the big Oak tree in the middle of the cul-de-sac as they swarm me. Decaying fingers gouging and scratching. Putrid breath churning my stomach. Screams deafening my ears and chilling my bones.

“I’m so sorry I didn’t know I’m so sorry oh god please”

Why didn’t I make sure they got into the Vault too? How could I take cover while others got burned alive? Why did I have to be the one who lived?

Dogmeat drags Mr. Peters off my leg and rips out his throat. But…but that’s not right? I thought I lost Dogmeat at the Fort Hagen? Where did he come from?

A red flash illuminates the sky and suddenly Mrs. Peters collapses onto my chest.

Where did that come from? What is happening?

I fish my combat knife out my boot and stab Mrs. Donoghue in the head. She’s still wearing that beautiful blouse I asked her to borrow.

It’s hard to see through the tears and the hands grasping my face, so I just keep stabbing and punching blindly. I don’t know how long we struggled, but eventually I was the only one left moving.

Once everything goes still, I vomit on my hands and knees, staring at chunks of half-digested Sugar Bombs and Nuka Cola.

Dogmeat’s cold wet nose against my arm makes me jump and I thrust him away before I can apologize. He whimpers but comes back to lick my outstretched hand.

That’s when it slowly dawns on me that I’m not actually in Sanctuary Hills. Because that is a giant satellite dish. And these ghouls are not my former neighbors. They don’t look anything like them.

I hear the flick of a match behind me and I snatch my pistol from the ground and whip around. It’s Nick!

“Well kid, that settles it. I’d say it’s past time we put our heads together again and try to get some answers. No matter how grim they might be.”

Fallout Fridays – Taking Down The Joneses