LAMPLIGHTERS' FATE
A Fanfiction by Oddish


Prologue: The End

It was the oldest continually occupied settlement in the Capital Wasteland, having existed for two hundred years, eight months, sixteen days. It had been established a short time after the war, by the eighty-odd fourth-graders from Sunnyside Elementary who had been abandoned by their advlt minders and denied entrance into Vault 87 for reasons that remained unknown. Its laws had changed over time, to reflect changes both within and in the outside world, but one law remained absolute: when you got too old, you had to leave.

How old was too old had changed over time, depending on the food supply, the space available, and the whims of each individual mayor. At times, its citizens had been ordered out upon reaching their fifteenth birthday, at other times, they were allowed to remain until age twenty. However, the previous mayor (a muscular youngster known as Machete) had dropped it from seventeen to sixteen upon her election, which had sent no fewer than five of her citizens into exile in the deathtrap known as Big Town. Her immediate successor had not changed it. Indeed, said successor had not had time to really change anything; her first act upon election had been to attempt to alter her title from “Mayor” to “Princess”. There had been no second act, since a pint-sized, filthy-mouthed nine-year-old named Robert J. Macready had punched her in the snoot and promptly been appointed mayor in her place. Macready had also kept the age limit at sixteen. Indeed, there had been talk of lowering it back to fifteen. The food supply, never plentiful, was especially light lately, and fifteen-year-olds were typically hearty eaters.

However, despite his young age (or perhaps because of it), Mayor Macready possessed an iron-hard core of absolute loyalty to those he considered his own. Rather than eject any of his existing people early, he had instead abolished the century-old rule that any unwanted child who needed a safe home had to be admitted into Lamplight. He had turned away no fewer than five young orphans in his three years as mayor; only two had made it in. One was a little girl named Betty, since rechristened Bumble. The other was the new arrival, Bryan Wilks.

Despite the current hard times, no one had expected Lamplight to die. Over the course of its two tumultuous centuries, it had survived radroaches, yao gui, a deathclaw, raiders, slavers, super mutants, and well-intentioned advlts who felt that its young citizens needed to be in more conventional homes. Ironically enough, the thing that ultimately killed it was the same thing that was rapidly restoring life to the rest of the wasteland: clean water.

The water in Lamplight had always been irradiated, but despite the lack of a filtration system, it was far cleaner than it should have been. The reason for this was the fungus that grew in the caverns; it svcked the radiation from the water to nourish itself. Unfortunately, it was dependent on a highly radiation-permeated environment. Its supply had already been on the wane due to the overall decline in radioactivity over the past century, and would have died out within twenty or twenty-five years anyway. With the tidal basin now full, the pure water was relentlessly advancing its way up the Potomac, and it had accelerated the process fiftyfold. There was now no edible fungus anywhere in the explored caverns. With the supply of scavengeable food also at an all-time low, Macready and his fellow citizens knew that they faced a simple choice.

Leave… or starve to death.

1. The Lamplighters: Lighting Out

Robert J. Macready blinked his eyes yet again as he looked about the wastes. He was not used to the sun; Lamplight caverns had no access to the survace save a long and convoluted tunnel that admitted no outside light. Therefore, the settlement had no natural illumination other than the occasional bioluminescent fungus. Thankfully, the internal lighting system kept it in a perpetual state of artificial twilight. The water-powered fusion generator that powered the system and the Ever-glo third-gen LED’s inside the lamps were rated to last indefinitely. A few had burned out, but Squirrel had replaced them from the caverns’ stores.

R. J. eyed the assemblage of children before him. It was hard to believe there were only nineteen of them in all. In the caverns, vast as they were, there was always one of them underfoot. Indeed, it sometimes seemed as if there were three of Zip, because he was always skittering along so fast. Maybe it was all the Nuka Cola he kept swilling down. No one knew how he kept finding the stuff, but he always seemed to have a bottle in his paw. He didn’t have one now, but that didn’t stop him from hopping from one foot to the other: Nuka withdrawl seemed to amp him up even more than Nuka consumption.

And then there was Angela, saddled with the ridiculous nickname of “Princess” ever since her five-minute stint as Lamplight’s mayor. For all her snottiness, she had a strong will. Unlike most of the Lamplighters, who kept their weapons in lockdown when not out looking for food, she kept her twelve-gauge sawed-off with her at all times, a trait R. J. approved. He did the same thing himself. Indeed, despite the unfortunate incident three years before, Macready had often considered her a surprisingly reliable aide and advisor. However, he knew better than to completely trust her; she was waiting for the opportunity to dethrone him and retake the mayorship. It had been a pipe dream at best; even at nine, Macready had been a surprisingly competent leader. Still, stranger things had happened, especially in Little Lamplight.

The other one who was usually packing was Billy, or Biwwy as he was less than affectionately known. The kid had picked up a laser rifle and a copy of “Nikola Tesla and You” somewhere, and he spent all of his spare time either rereading the book or tinkering with the weapon. Even more than Squirrel, the kid had a genius for playing with technological devices, but unlike Squirrel, he was lacking in people skills. He had been kicked off the scav team not because of his uselessness in that regard, but because no one else wanted to be around him.

Then there was Squirrel, the settlement’s other tech-head, and Sammy, who went everywhere with him. Both looked nervous to be out in the open and unarmed, but there wasn’t anything to be done about that. Their guns had been confiscated by the slavers who captured them, and there hadn’t been enough firerarms in Lamplight’s tiny armory to give them replacements.

Fourteen-year-old twins Knick-nack and Knock-knock were next to them, clad in their identical policeman’s hats and toting their equally identical hunting rifles. The former was the settlement’s designated trader and Mr. Fix-it, the latter… well, it was hard to say what she did, other than try to keep everyone’s spirits up. It had been especially difficult lately, as the food supply dwindled, but she did try. She even made jokes about herself: at the age of fourteen and change, she had finally started to grow boobs (puberty generally came late for the perpetually malnourished Lamplighters). So, she often wondered out loud if she should change her name to “Knock-knockers”. Despite her considerable workload, she was the only one who had really tried to make the new kid, Bryan, feel better.

Speaking of Bryan, he was unsurprisingly standing close to the girl in question. The vault kid turned urban legend had found him in Grayditch, the only survivor of an attack by fire-breathing mutated ants. Having rescued three Lamplighters from the slavers at Paradise Falls, “Mr. 101” (Daniel to his friends) had sweet-talked Macready into accepting the boy. He was obviously having trouble adjusting to life as an orphan, but not even Knock-knock really knew how to help him. Even though he was more used to the outside than most of the others, he looked haunted and fatigued. According to Knock-knock, he hadn’t had a good night’s sleep since he arrived.

Aside, little Bryan was perhaps the best-equipped for the journey other than Macready himself. Before escorting Bryan across the wastes to Little Lamplight, Daniel had cut down a well-padded merc outfit to fit the boy, and given him his old BB gun to boot. The heavy pants and coat wouldn’t protect against a yao gui or deathclaw, but would stop anything a radroach or wild dog could dish out, and might even deflect a .32 or 5.56 round, if they hit him at an angle.

Joseph and Penny were nearby. Neither had any weapon: Penny disliked guns and wouldn’t even pack one when she was serving on the scav team. Joseph had given his piece to Timebomb a year before, when the latter had been forced to leave Lamplight for Big Town. Generosity was just an integral part of the boy’s nature, and Macready knew all too well that would make him much loved and admired by others, right up until it got him killed.

And then there was Lucia, known to most as Lucy, the settlement’s medic. Most Lamplighters were orphans who had been dropped off at Lamplight caverns or found their own way there. Lucy, contrastingly, had actually been born in Lamplight, her mother had arrived at age fourteen, pregnant after being forced to “entertain” the raiders who had killed her parents and brother. She had escaped by killing one of her captors with his own switchblade and outrunning the others. Despite the horrible way Lucy had been conceived, her mother had dutifully cared for her until she left at seventeen (the departure age had been sixteen at the time, but then-Mayor Machete granted her an extension because she was still nursing her daughter), and then other Lamplighters had taken over the job. Despite the nature of her parentage, Lucy had grown into a caring and nurturing young girl, the ideal doctor, though she still had some of her mother’s ferocity at the center.

This ferocity had shown through upon the arrival of the little girl clinging to her hand. The youngster in question, four years old at the time, had arrived on the doorstep of the caves in a wretched state: snotty and tear-streaked, skinned hands, clad in a torn and filthy set of footie pajamas with a nasty-smelling dark patch in the rear. Near as anyone could figure (Bumble herself didn’t remember much of it), some well-intentioned wastelander had found her wandering out somewhere in the middle of nowhere. Unable to care for her himself but unwilling to leave a defenseless baby to die in the desert, he had taken her to Lamplight and abandoned her there. Macready had been prepared to deny her entry, in accordance with his rules; but Lucy had explained to him with deadly sincerity that if he turned that poor, pathetic figure away, she would wait until he was sound asleep, and then smash his testicles between two bricks. Confronted with such immutable logic, the mayor had agreed to suspend his usual rules as long as Lucy took charge of the girl. She had given her word to do so, and kept it, and now Bumble followed her everywhere like a jammie-clad puppy.

There were five other younger Lamplighters in the group, three boys and two girls ranging from eight to ten, and they were kind of divided between her and Joseph, since they were the most trusted authority figures. They typically gave Macready as wide a berth as they could, his brash manner and foul mouth could be very intimidating, and it was common knowledge that he wanted as little to do with the younger ones as possible. Clustered among the group were three dogs. There had been five, but Bandit had wandered off in search of food and never returned (probably eaten by something or someone), and Rex had died of what Lucy believed to be natural causes. Normally Lamplight dogs were given a proper funeral and committed to the fungus pools. Lamplighters who didn’t make it to sixteen, and the occasional raider or slaver they managed to kill, typically met the same fate. In this instance, with rations dangerously low, Macready had reluctantly ordered that the dead animal be salvaged for food instead. That left only Pete, Muttface, and Ginger. The latter’s swollen belly suggested that the group’s canine population would soon grow.

“That;s everyone, right?” Macready said.

“Yeah. No one left down there,” Joseph replied.

Macready nodded, and indicated the water-fueled fusion generator, which had kept the lights burning in Lamplight for 223 years, ever since it was put in to replace the old coal-powered one in 2055. As long as it was topped off with water once a week, it had pretty much served faithfully, requiring only general maintainence and occasional minor repairs. “Lights out, I guess.”

Squirrel nodded and flipped the switch. It took some doing, since the thing had rusted in place, but he pried it loose, and the humming generator shut down. The hundreds of lamps inside the cavern, most of which had been faithfully aglow when the bombs fell and rarely even flickered since, finally went dark.

Princess and Eclair had seperated themselves from the group. As Macready watched, Bryan gave one last hug to Knock-knock, then shuffled over and joined them. Macready approached them himself. “Are you sure about this?” he queried.

Princess nodded. “Positive,” she said. Eclair looked a bit more reluctant, but nodded as well. They had both already informed Macready of their intention to head for Tenpenny Tower, rather than joining the others on the journey to Big Town. Princess had refused to tell him why she wanted to head for the mungo settlement, but she was adamant, and had somehow persuaded Eclair to go along with her.

Macready turned to Bryan. “Are you going with them?”

Bryan nodded. “My poppa said the supply caravans stop at Tenpenny. Maybe one of them can take me to Rivet City.”

Macready shrugged. He had been made aware that Bryan believed that he had family in the distant settlement, but knew that he had no chance of navigating the wasteland alone. Bryan was not the first Lamplighter to decide that he preferred life in mungo-land. A kid from the scav teams would disappear and not return, instead turning up in some settlement or other with new parents. No one really thought much about it: even though most kids who grew up in the wastes could take care of themselves if they had to, many preferred the warmth and security of traditional family life.

“So, uh, I guess this is it,” Bryan finally said, not sure what to make of the usually talkative mayor’s pensive silence.

“Yeah, so long,” Macready said. “But don’t come crawling back to me when the mungos throw you out on your ass. That goes for all of you.”

“Good-bye to you too, R. J.,” Princess cracked. A few kids giggled halfheartedly. Bryan and Eclair nodded acknowledgement of the mayor’s warning, there was nothing more to say. The group exchanged a few final hugs and handshakes, and then parted ways, sixteen kids and three dogs heading east, three kids proceeding southeast. Soon enough, they were out of sight of one another.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Guess I should have told you at the beginning: while this story has no sixuality or romance and has been policed for language, it does contain graphic violence. Sensitive viewers are cautioned.


2. Macready: Blood in the Sand

The attack came almost without warning, as attacks in the wastes often did. There had been encounters before, a pair of mole rats had approached the assemblage, but Macready and Knick-nack had dispatched them with their respective weapons (and then built a small fire, and prepared a feast of spit-roasted mole rat for the party). A bit later, a few raiders had approached, but had retreated after some bullets were exchanged, hitting no one on either side. Most Raiders these days preferred targets that didn’t fight back; the ones who were willing to attack well-armed adversaries had long since been exterminated by the Brotherhood, the Outcasts, the now-extinct Enclave, or the Lone Wanderer and his two comrades. Still, raiders and mole rats were easy enough to deal with; deathclaws were another matter entirely.

Sammy had no gun, and it wouldn’t have helped if he had; he never knew what hit him. One moment he was walking along, gnawing busily at the remnants of his last greasy chunk of mole rat. The next, his head was bouncing across the wasteland like a blood-spurting basketball, and the rest of him was collapsing like a house of cards. The deathclaw’s talons sank into his already-dead body and tore it open, slicing flesh and shearing effortlessly through bone, then threw it contemptuously aside.

The children of Little Lamplight had encountered exactly one deathclaw in the past, about fifty years ago. The creature had entered the settlement, punched through the relatively flimsy front door, and run amok in the place for nearly an hour. When it had entered, there had been forty-four live children in Little Lamplight. By the time it left, there had been thirty-one. The only reason that so many had survived had been the heroic efforts of the seventeen-year-old mayor, who had somehow lured the creature through the back gate and into the arms of the “monsters” beyond. The super mutants dwelling there had sustained horrific casualties as well, but had managed to kill the beast. However, there was no handy colony of monsters to rely on here. Deathclaws were almost impervious to most small arms fire, and their talons could even pierce the metal-ceramic composites that most high-grade modern power armor was made of. Even trained teams of soldiers frequently died upon encountering them, especially if the deathclaw surprised them.

The other Lamplighters reacted with commendable speed, though. The ones with guns fanned out and opened fire. The ones without expedited themselves out of harm’s way. Two of the dogs charged the beast, not that their teeth would have any effect on it. Ginger tried to follow them, but Lucy intercepted her; more by instinct than anything else. She knew that the dog was carrying puppies, and if she sacrificed herself foolishly, they would die as well.

The other two dogs were smashed contemptuously and bloodily aside by the deathclaw, but their courageous sacrifice was not in vain, for the monster had to busy itself with them for a few precious seconds, and that allowed most of the kids to get clear. One of the younger girls was not so fortunate; she had been too terrified to move, and the vicious creature pounced with talons whistling through the air and sent pieces of her flying in all directions even as the shooters’ bullets pummeled it from all sides. Most of the slugs bounced off the monster’s tough hide. However, it did take damage: Macready’s 5.56 rounds had a muzzle velocity of nearly 3,000 FPS, and that was enough to penetrate even modern combat armor: the bullets tore deep, bloody channels through the monster. Biwwy’s laser fire was even more accurate, and the creature roared in rage as lance after superhot lance of coherent light tore scorched holes in its hide. One of its eyeballs exploded as a lucky hit boiled the fluid inside it.

Enraged, the moster turned on the foe who had hurt it so badly. Had it had two eyes, it would have made red goo of him, but one eye was gone and its depth perception was off, so the horrible talon struck Biwwy’s rifle instead of his body, and the weapon went flying off over the wasteland. Biwwy was thrown several feet by the impact, but wasn’t hurt.

Before the creature could finish him, a deafening explosion lifted its hind end into the air, and it turned in a rage. Macready had given up on his rifle, tossing it to Joseph. Now, he had pulled out his ace in the hole, a small store of fragmentation grenades. The second one was in the air as the first was detonating, and it blew right under the thing’s belly. Scorch marks and bloody wounds indicated the weapon’s effectiveness, but it was obvious that that effectiveness was limited. And the only one the group had left was in Macready’s hot little hand. The creature was slowed, but there was no doubt it could still outrun them. The Mayor of Little Lamplight looked back, and saw what lay behind him: Lucy, Bumble, Squirrel, Joseph, several others.

Many people, Lamplighters and mungos alike, had said plenty of bad things about Macready during his three years as Lamplight’s mayor. He had even deserved most of them: by his own admission, he was a “ruthless little bastard”. Not to mention violent, rude, foul-mouthed, and closed-minded. However, he had never been accused of either cowardice or disloyalty, not even by those who disliked him most. He knew what was going to happen when the deathclaw reached that cluster of kids, and what he had to do to stop it. There was no time for him to tell Joseph to keep them safe, to get them to Big Town, or any other touching last words. Truth be told, it wouldn’t have mattered: Robert J. Macready was not a particularly sentimental soul. So, he simply spun on his heel, bomb clenched in his small fist, and suicidally charged at the advancing deathclaw.

Joseph and the others could only stand and stare in shock; even crippled, the thing was superfast, there was no time to do anything else. Boy and beast came together, and Macready’s arm came up. The horrific claws sliced around and tore through his belly, spraying blood and torn intestines across the sand, and his fingers loosened in his agony, but too late, the projectile was already on course. It flew into the creature’s gaping maw, bounced off the roof, bounced off the tongue… and exploded.

Deathclaw skulls were heavily armored, but there was only a thin layer of bone above its mouth, reinforced by soft tissue. Of course, deathclaw “soft” tissue was still tougher than Brahmin hide, but it wasn’t nearly enough to stop the cloud of razor-edged shrapnel that the explosion sent out. Dozens of fragments punched into the deathclaw’s brain, turning it instantly to jelly, and the saurian abomination collapsed in a motionless, smoking heap.

A long silence as the dust settled and the echo faded, and then Lucy was the first one to rouse herself to action. A terrified Bumble was clinging madly to her, she managed to transfer the whimpering youngster to Joseph with some difficulty. Then, she took her medical bag and set about examining the fallen. Sammy and the girl were beyond help; the deathclaw had made bloody sushi of them. A quick look at Macready indicated the same: the claws had all but torn him in two, only his spinal column and a few shreds of tissue held his upper and lower halves together. No one else had even been touched. Deathclaw encounters tended to be like that: you were either unscathed or you were decisively dead.

As for the dogs, Pete was dead, but Muttface had been struck backhand by the creature, and had amazingly only had a leg broken. Lucy, skilled at caring for dogs as she was kids, set to splinting it.

Joseph touched the assault rifle on the ground next to him, where he had put it after accepting Bumble from Lucy. It was still warm from the shots Macready had put through it. It occured to him that his leader and friend had passed far more to him than a mere weapon. One reason why R. J. had always made a point of carrying the thing around with him was that it was a symbol of his authority, and Joseph did not think it a coincidence that he had passed it to him before he died. He now held in his hands the lives and safety of all the remaining Lamplighters, twelve frightened young lives. Including that of his baby sister. He had never wanted to be in charge, but now he was, at least until a new leader was selected, and now was not the time for that.

“All right,” he said quietly. “We need to take care of the bodies. Does anyone have a shovel?” A couple of hands went up, the kids who had been on scav teams knew about essential camping gear. “All right. Squirrel, you’re in charge of that.” He knew that Squirrel had just lost his closest friend, and would need something to do to distract him. “Lucy, what’s up with Muttface?”

“Broken leg,” Lucy replied.

“It’ll take awhile to bury the bodies, but by the time that’s done, I need him up and able to walk on three feet. Otherwise…” he didn’t finish. He didn’t have to.

“I’ll take care of it,” Lucy said. She knew the reality of caring for animals; the sad duty of putting them down when necessary usually fell to her.

Joseph waited until the holes were dug, then the twins volunteered to handle the worst duty: picking up the remains, wrapping them in what sheets and blankets could be spared, and placing them in the holes with what reverence they could manage. They were the eldest beside him, and longtime Lamplighters, so they knew the realities of losing their own all too well. Joseph would have preferred to reserve the duty for himself, but Bumble was still clinging to him like a leech. With the corpses interred, the holes were quickly filled in, and marked with the largest stones that could be found on short notice. Lucy, who usually took care of funerals, said a few words and then the group pressed on. Muttface limped along on three legs, his head down, which pretty much captured the mood of the group. No one really noticed that they were four children short rather than three.

heh

Lovely writing there, you seem to be able to convey your story well, at the moment the characters seem a bit too much like stereotypical wastelanders, and a bit too cliche. But the setting is very original.

Well done so far....please write more!

I don't know if the Lamplighters qualify as wastelanders, stereotypical or not, since they don't live in the wasteland per se. The term "troglodyte" would probably be more appropriate. Nonetheless, thank you for the reviews, both of you. Positive reviews and constructive criticism are equally welcome. Flames, since they say far more about the flamer then they do the subject, will be contemptuously ignored.


3. Eclair: The Right Place at the Right Time

“You could have told them, you know,” Eclair said.

Princess snorted as she brushed her sweaty hair out of her eyes. “And what then? They’d have all come with us then, and no way we’d all get to stay.”

“What makes you think they’ll even let the two of us stay?” Eclair queried irritably. “I’ve heard stories about this place, and the old guy who runs it.”

“Tenpenny? He’s dead,” Princess said. “Died weeks ago. And don’t worry about the others. R. J.’ll take care of ‘em, like he always does.” She had no way of knowing that Macready was no longer capable of doing so.

They had seen the tower long before they reached it. Most of the buildings in the area had long since collapsed, but by a quirk of fate, the ten-story structure had survived with only moderate damage. Several other structures nearby had been demolished to provide material either for repairs or to build the towering wall that encircled the building, and it now stood there alone.

Bryan Wilks had been on the malnourished side even before his arrival in Lamplight, Fred Wilks had done his best, but he was rarely able to procure enough food for himself and a growing eight-year-old. To be fair to him, when he died, he had been even more underweight than his son had been. The fact that Bryan had been unable to make himself eat much of the vile-tasting fungus that was the Lamplighters’ primary sustainence had only made his condition worse. His declining health had not been improved by chronic lack of sleep or frequent nightmares. All of these issues were commonplace for newly orphaned children just arriving in Lamplight. Most adjusted eventually, the ones who didn’t generally wound up in the fungus pools. Death was a fact of life in Lamplight, just as is was throughout the rest of the wasteland. Between accidents, outside attacks, and malnutrition, one Lamplighter in four expired before his or her sixteenth birthday.

In any case, Bryan was exhausted to the point of collapse; they had had to stop to wait for him two or three times. Eclair wasn’t much better: he had been shot in the foot a year or so back, and while Lucy was extremely competent for an eleven-year-old, she hadn’t been able to fix it properly. He was limping badly, and he knew that if he tried to help the boy, they would both collapse.

Princess, seemingly oblivious, simply strode imperiously ahead. In her defense, she had noticed Bryan’s plight. But, it had long been Macready’s policy that while “babying” the little ones was not forbidden, it was strongly discouraged. It still happened from time to time, both Joseph and Lucy doted on little Bumble, and R. J. had let it pass. Princess, however, had been only too happy to not have to worry about wiping noses and giving piggyback rides.

Finally, they reached the gate, and came to a halt with weary relief. Princess turned to Eclair. “Now, what’s my name again?”

“Angela,” the older boy said irritably. They had been through this before.

Princess nodded. “Don’t you forget it, either.” She might have wanted the title of Princess, but as a nickname, it was just annoying. She strode to the intercom and pressed the button. “Hey! Anyone in there?”

A male voice responded. “Yes. Who are you and what are you doing here?”

“I’m Angela,” Princess said. “These are my friends, Bryan and Eclair. Can we come in?”

The responding voice was carefully neutral. “Maybe. What’s your business at Tenpenny Tower?”

“We’re hungry and we need a place to rest,” Princess said. “Co’mon, open up.”

Inside, Security Chief Gustavo considered the request, then turned and saw the tower’s new owner approaching. Glad to have the decision taken out of his hands, he faced the suit-clad man. “Mr. Burke, a group of children are outside, and they want in. Should we make them pay an entrance fee?”

Burke peered through the peephole. He had seen them coming from his balcony, which encircled the entire tower, that was why he was down there. Getting a closer look, he took in the wretched state of the young visitors. “I don’t think that will be necessary,” he replied mildly, aware that his tenants were mostly decent people at heart, and might take offense at his people putting the screws to that collection of waifs. “Let them come in, but encourage them to expedite their buisiness.”

The door slid open, allowing the three former Lamplighters to enter. Chief Gustavo approached them. “Welcome to Tenpenny Tower. If I could have your weapons.” He indicated the prominently placed sign, indicating that visitors could retain any sidearms they were wearing (aside from plasma weapons or sawn-off shotguns), but combat armor, long guns, and explosives had to be temporarily surrendered. After one near-massacre some time back, Gustavo and his people were taking no further chances. Rivet City, incidentally, had learned from the tower’s misfortune and enacted similar policies.

A listless Bryan handed his BB gun over without protest, but Princess hesitated. “Will we get them back?”

“They will be returned when you leave,” Gustavo assured her. Princess nodded and passed her sawed-off over. Eclair handed over the Chinese pistol he had been carrying. It was technically a sidearm and he could have kept it in theory, but no reason to quibble with a group of men carrying assault rifles.

Another guard approached and indicated Bryan, who was barely remaining erect. “What’s up with the boy? Is he all right?”

“I think so, ma’am,” Eclair said. “He’s just tired. We’ve been walking all morning. Do you have a bed somewhere?”

“Sorry, we don’t have a sleeping place for visitors,” Gustavo said.

“I’ll let him use my bunk,” the guard said. “I’m not going to be needing it for awhile. Come along, honey.” She tenatively held out her arms. Bryan, only too glad to be off his feet, went to her and allowed himself to be gathered up and carried off.

Glad that that was dealt with, Eclair turned to Gustavo. “Uhh… do the supply caravans come through here?”

“Yes, they do,” the chief of security said. “Why, you don’t look like you have that much to trade.”

“No, sir,” Eclair said. “It’s just that our friend kind of needs to get to Rivet City. He says he has family there.”

“Did he give you the name of the person he’s looking for?” Burke queried offhandedly.

“Vera something,” Princess said. “He didn’t know her last name. He didn’t think it was the same as his, though.”

“Doctor Hoff is scheduled to arrive here sometime tomorrow,” Gustavo said. “He might be willing to transport your friend, for a small fee.”

Eclair thought about his pitifully small supply of caps, but said nothing. However, he didn’t have to: his face said it all. The man in the striped suit spoke up: “That probably won’t be necessary. I’ve known Hoff for some time. I don’t think he’ll have any problem with helping your young friend out, if I call in a favor with him.”

“Really? Thank you! Thank you very much, sir,” Eclair gushed. Had he known Burke better, he would have known that the man’s motives were not simple benevolence, but rather a deft ploy to curry favor with the tower’s residents. He owned the place lock stock and barrel, of course, but managing a community was always easier if the people there liked and respected you. Further, knowing things was his business, and he knew a great deal about every prominent citizen in the wasteland. He knew that Vera Weatherly, a wealthy businesswoman in Rivet City, had been trying to ascertain the fate of her nephew ever since news of the disaster in Grayditch (and her brother’s death) had been made public. The skinny little waif who had arrived with the group was almost certainly the child she was seeking. Ergo, Vera would be extremely grateful to Doc Hoff for safely delivering her last remaining family member into her care and keeping, and would express this gratitude with caps. Therefore, he wouldn’t really have to call in any favors with Hoff: if anything, it would be the other way around.

“Now, what about the two of you?” Burke queried politely. “I’m assuming that you’re both from what was once Little Lamplight, and you’re seeking new accomodations. Is that correct?”

Eclair read between the lines of the man’s statement. “You know about what happened to Little Lamplight?” The settlement had been having problems for some time, but the kids hadn’t made that common knowledge. “How?”

Burke gave him a vaguely paternal smile. “I have my sources, young man. You can leave it at that.” He considered. “I would have thought that you would join the others in heading for Big Town. They have plenty of room there.” He knew more about why that was than the boy would have realized, but did not reveal it. Knowledge was power, and Burke disliked sharing power with anyone.

“Too many losers there,” Princess dissented. “This place looks much nicer.”

“It is,” Burke said. “Assuming you can afford to live here, of course.”

“Which we can’t,” Eclair said, suddenly wishing he had headed for Big Town with the others. Even before Princess had told him the truth about the place (which she had done shortly after they left Lamplight), he had never believed the stories that were told about it. Still, at least he would have been welcome there. He wondered why Princess had been so adamant about wanting to come here, and why he needed to come with her.

“Not many can,” Burke said offhandedly. “You are free to rest here, and shop for essentials if you wish. I’m sure Chief Gustavo can answer any questions you have.” He turned and departed the group.

Eclair turned to the security chief, who was looking a bit impatient. “Uh… sir, is there any food here?”

“The Café Beau Monde is open,” Gustavo replied. “It’s not cheap, but Ms. Primrose is the best cook in the wasteland.” That didn’t say much, not really; even a master chef could only do so much with 200-year-old canned food, even supplemented by hydroponically grown produce from Rivet City and the fresh meat that was coming in. With Roy Phillips and his army of feral ghouls dead, Gustavo had been able to reassign some of his considerable security force to hunting duty.

As the chief walked off, Princess turned to Eclair. “All the sirs and ma’ams,” she said scornfully. “Are you gonna get down on your knees and svck him off next?”

“Shut up,” Eclair said irritably. “Unlike you, I grew up around mungos. If you talk to them right, they’re a lot easier to deal with.”

The café was indeed open, but the tables were full, and there were a lot of impatient-looking diners at them. Eclair looked around as he entered. “Looks like it’s open, but I don’t see any cooks.”

“The cook is taking a break,” Margaret Primrose, seated within earshot, said tartly. “If you want to eat, you’ll need to wait a bit.”

Eclair looked around, taking in the situation: hungry and impatient diners, weary-looking hostess. He had been there himself, more than once, especially when he had still been recovering from being shot. “Is there anything I can do to help? I know my way around a kitchen.”

“Do you now?” The elderly woman eyed the decidedly grimy youth carefully. “Well, you can start by washing up, and I think I might have an apron that will fit you.”

Princess sat in silence for the next twenty minutes or so, watching the ensuing proceedings with some interest. Ms. Primrose, dubious at first about the new arrival, set him mundane work at first: taking orders, delivering food to tables, cleaning up spills. However, as the work piled up, she delegated more and more to him. Eclair had played second fiddle in Lamplight’s kitchens until the previous cook had turned sixteen and left for Big Town (he had been captured in a slaver raid barely two weeks after arriving there, and was now cooking for his new owners in what had once been Pittsburgh); he remembered how to take direction. What would have taken Margaret an hour to do alone was accomplished in barely a third of that time.

Once the dishes had been gathered in, Ms. Primrose beckoned Eclair over to the table and set three large bowls of squirrel stew on it. “There you go. Your lunches are on the house, of course. And I’ll save some for your little friend, too.” Bryan was still dead to the world and would remain so for some hours. “Now, what brings the two of you to Tenpenny Tower? Not to be a godsend to me, I’m sure, though you certainly were today.” The Tower’s population had not ballooned the way that of other settlements had, but it had grown a good deal. And the café’s owner, everyone said, was not getting any younger. Longish waits for lunch and dinner were not uncommon, but today had been far worse than most.

“We’re from Little Lamplight,” Princess explained as the ravenous Eclair set about inhaling the stew. “We had to leave because of that dumb Project Purity thing.”

Margaret Primrose was taken aback by this. She, like nearly everyone else in the wastes, welcomed the seemingly unlimited supply of clean water that the purifier was churning out. “How did that happen?”

Eclair, who had had a better bead on the problem because of his involvement with the food, explained in detail what had happened between bites, and the consequences for the wasteland’s oldest settlement. “I guess it’s good that everyone’s got clean water,” he admitted. “But it messed things up for us.”

“So what are you going to do?” the elderly restauranteur wanted to know.

“I dunno,” Eclair said. “I guess I could try to find Big Town, if nothing else. I don’t know about Pri… ah, Angela.”

“If you’re looking for a place to work, I could definitely use your help here,” Ms. Primrose said.

“But would we be able to stay here?” Eclair queried. “I mean, I heard it costs a lot to stay here, and I…”

“You don’t need to worry about that,” was the reply. “I will speak to Mr. Burke. As an employee at this café, you would have a place here guaranteed, and at no charge. It might not be much, but it would be safe. Plus, you’d be entitled to three meals a day, no charge. And I’d even be willing to pay you for your work.”

“How much?” Eclair wanted to know. As far as he was concerned, room and board would have been enough in itself.

“Ten caps a day,” Ms. Primrose stated. “Maybe more later, if you work out well.” She knew that she could have gotten off with a far less generous offer, but she was essentially a fair-minded and good-hearted person. As long as you weren’t a ghoul, anyway.

“That sounds great!” Eclair gushed. “What about Angela? Can she…”

“I’m afraid I only require one helper,” the woman said primly. “However, perhaps one of the other people here can use some assistance.”

“I’ll be fine,” Princess assured him.

It occured to Eclair that there was something strangely convenient about all of this. But Princess couldn’t have known that this would happen, could she? She had never served on a scav team, never been out of Lamplight at all aside from occasionally slipping out for a bit of fresh air (lots of Lamplighters did that, it kept them from going stir-crazy) since arriving there eight years before. She had never even seen Tenpenny Tower, so how could she have known that there was a job there for him, a job perfectly suited to his talents?

He decided not to worry about that. He had a comfortable and secure place to live, three squares a day, the opportunity to cook with the best food in the wasteland, and even a little money on the side. It promised to be hard work, but he was used to that. Perhaps it was best not to look a gift horse in the mouth. Not that he had any idea what that meant, since he had never seen a horse in his life.

Good story and that last chapter almost made me think twice about killing Burke.

That's one nice thing about using Black Widow to seduce Burke... it paints him as a bit more sympathetic. I'm not saying he's a good man, he most assuredly is not. But he at least seems more human. I picked that up and ran with it in this story.

If you haven't seen the letters, here they are quoted: http://fallout.wikia.com/wiki/Love_letter_from_Burke

But let's leave our new arrivals at Tenpenny for awhile, and see what's going on with the youngster who mysteriously went missing...


4. Biwwy: Outcasts

Defender Rococo Rockfowl wouldn’t have believed it if he hadn’t seen it plain as day, but there it was. A small boy, all by his lonesome, obviously searching for something. What made it odd was that they were miles from anywhere, and there was a dead deathclaw nearby. The Brotherhood Outcasts went out in teams of three, wearing power armor and carrying the best weapons available, and usually with an armed robot for backup. But if they saw a deathclaw, alive or dead, they got out of the area as quickly and quietly as possible. Pretty much everyone else did the same.

Well, not everyone, Rockfowl admitted. There was Daniel Quentin, that insane kid from Vault 101 that the guy on the radio was always yapping about; he and his oddly matched posse actually went around hunting the things. Rococo would not have believed that Daniel even existed, had he not seen him with his own eyes. Though he had been primarily affiliated with Owyns’ mockery of the Brotherhood, he had aided numerous other factions over the course of his career, including the Outcasts themselves: not only had he brought in half a dozen laser weapons, a plasma rifle, and three sets of Enclave power armor (one of it the Tesla variety), he had also somehow found a weapon that the Outcasts’ techies were sure was of extraterrestrial origin, and a couple of equally alien power cells for it. That was more than enough to put him in Casden’s good graces.

Still, not even the vault kid would have been dumb enough to hang out in deathclaw country alone and with no weapon. So the question, Rockfowl thought, was what this one was doing here. However, he was an Outcast, and as such, he tried to have as little to do with wastelanders of any age as possible. Especially dumb wastelanders.

However, the kid chose to address them. “Excuse me,” he said. “I’m Biwwy. Have any of you seem a wazer wifle? Mine’s missing.”

Rockfowl started to reply, but his current robot companion, Sergeant RL-3, beat him to it. The custom-built Mr. Gutsy had been purchased from a wandering seller a few weeks ago. He was fierce in a fight, and seemed to like the Outcasts’ general philosophy of “live and let live”, but was very temperamental. More to the point, his customization package made him highly resistant to reprogramming. This was the case even with simple things like an order to respond to queries from all Outcasts, rather than only Rockfowl, who was his designated commander. On the other hand, he had a number of useful added items, including a large cargo module and a sophisticated metal detector. The robot was not responding to the boy proper, but carrying out a standing directive to hunt down all potential tech items it picked up. “Anomalous item detected. Scandium alloy, 2.464 kilograms. 100.11% the mass of a standard AER-9 Laser Weapon.”

“Can you locate it?” Rockfowl said. He doubted it was a real weapon, of course, but if it was the same size and composition as one, it might consist of real AER-9 spare parts. That in itself made it worthy of interest.

“Affirmative.” The Mr. Gutsy unerringly hovered over to a spot some yards away.

Rockfowl started toward it, but the kid wasn’t wearing encumbering power armor and therefore moved quicker, and he scooped it up. “Theh it is. Thanks a wot, Mr. Wobot.”

“Can I see that gun?” Rockfowl asked the kid.

“I guess,” the boy said sadly. “I think it’s bwoken anyway.”

Rockfowl examined the piece. Sure enough, the focusing lens was cracked. Without it, the laser would not fire. Since it was unable to put a coherent beam on target, and since trying to shoot it with a cracked lens would result in certain disaster, its internal failsafes deactivated the firing circuit. This prevented a dubiously educated soldier (as many soldiers were, especially in the later part of the war when the draft was reinstated) from trying to fire a broken gun and having it explode in his hands. Still, a skilled armorer with the right spare part could have the gun ready to fire again in under ten minutes.

But that wasn’t what had him interested. He had carried an AER-9 before graduating to the gatling laser that was his current weapon of choice, and knew that this piece had had some custom modifications made, modifications he had never seen before.

He started to ask the kid about it, but was interrupted by one of his comrades, who had been examining the dead deathclaw. “Sir? You might want to have a look at this.”

Rockfowl looked. The brute had taken multiple laser hits, all right, as well as hits from a 5.56 assault rifle and a few other guns. Most of the shots were well-placed, but the laser hits had been especially accurate. “What’s up?”

“These laser wounds, sir. Something’s screwy about ‘em. Way too much damage for an AER-9.”

"Plasma wounds, maybe?"

"No, no sign of molecular destabilization around them, they're just scorched. It was a laser, all right."

“Well, this gun’s been modified; maybe that’s why,” Rococo said. “I guess we can examine it back at the base.”

“But what about him?” said the other. “You know the rules.” Protector Casden’s strict rules of conduct did not allow Outcast personnel to forcibly seize weapons from either live wastelanders or occupied settlements. Scavenging them from corpses was permissible, as was offering compensation in the form of grenades, ammunition, or chems. A nine-year-old probably wouldn’t have much use for those items, but maybe they could give him candy.

“The damn thing’s broken,” Rococo said irritably. “It’s no use to him.”

“Still, rules are rules. And we can’t leave him in the middle of nowhere without even a knife to defend himself.”

Rockfowl regarded the other Outcast dubiously. There was no rule to that effect; Casden’s philosophy was that if a wastelander was dumb enough to trade away his only means of self-defense, the human gene pool was probably better off without him. “So what should we do with him?”

“Let me,” was the reply. He went over to the boy. “Hey, kid. Your rifle’s broken. I don’t think it can be fixed. How about if…”

“It can so!” Biwwy said indignantly. “Aw it needs is a new wens. I could get one fwom wots of pwaces.”

“Wait a minute,” Rockfowl said. “You know how to fix this thing?”

“Yeah. It’s aw in ‘Nicowa Teswa and You’. That’s how I wearned to fix it up and make it shoot better.”

“I’ll tell you what,” Rockfowl said. “If you let us have this gun, we’ll get you home safe to Little Lamplight. That’s where you came from, right?” He seriously doubted anyone else would have given a kid a weapon that deadly.

“There’s no one weft in Wittle Wampwight,” Biwwy said. “We aw had to weave ‘cause there wasn’t any mo’ food. Evewyone went to Big Town. And if you want my wazer wifle, you’ll have to pay me for it. Five hundwed caps.”

Rockfowl’s companion checked his map. “Big Town’s out of our way,” he said.

Rococo decided. “All right. Let’s take him back to Independence. We can put him up for the night. And we’ll even fix his gun for him.” The other man tried to interrupt; Rococo continued. “That way, we can take it apart and get a good look at its insides. And if we have to keep it more than a day, our stores are there, so we’ll be able to compensate him.” It was also possible, he didn’t say, that Casden might decide that the usual rules didn’t apply to children.

“Well, then, let’s go.” The other Outcast eyed the deceased deathclaw nervously. Those things took a lot of killing. “If there are any more of those things about, I want to be out of here before dark.”

*~*~*~*

Back in Fort Independence, Protector Casden had just finished cataloguing what his previous patrol had brought back. Most of it was crap: random scrap that could have come from anywhere, an obsolete sensor module, and a broken laser pistol that probably wouldn’t even make spare parts. Now, he headed into the basemant. Just as the Outcasts had stopped calling themselves “Knight” or “Paladin” in favor of less medieval-sounding titles, their Scribes had rechristened themselves “Specialists”. So, the man he was now talking to was Specialist David Ventrix.

“What have you learned?” he queried, once Ventrix had put aside the half-dissassembled alien pistol.

“Well, we know it uses a pulsed x-ray laser beam,” Ventrix said. “Much more powerful than the visible light lasers used in most normal laser weapons. We’re pretty sure we can replicate it, but not with nearly the same degree of miniaturization. Our version would be about half again the size of an AER-9, but would have nearly four times the power. The bad news is the power cells, they consist largely of an isotope of ununnilium that we’ve never seen before. We’d need a pre-war atom smasher to even try to recreate it on an atomic level. But we think our version can be adapted to run on standard microfusion cells with only a small loss in efficiency.”

“Good work,” Casden said. “How soon can you have a version ready for testing?”

“Hard to say,” Ventrix replied. “It’ll take a few months to fabricate the parts, and then I’ll need…”

“Shhh,” Casden squelched him; he had heard a distinctive voice, a voice that had no business in or anywhere near Outcast headquarters. “Was that a kid’s voice I just heard?”

“Sure sounded like it,” Ventrix said. “But what’s it doing here? Did someone leave the door open?” That was not likely; Fort Independence was far from any settlement where a child would likely be found.

The answer came as the door opened and Biwwy bounded in. He was fresh despite the long journey; even though the Outcasts had no Brahmin for him to ride, Sgt. RL-3’s large cargo module had served a similar purpose. “Oh, uh, hewwo. Aw you Pwotectow Casden?”

“Yes,” Casden said. “Question is, who are you and what are you doing here?”

“Uh, I can explain, sir,” Rockfowl said casually. He knew that once Casden saw the kid’s modified laser rifle, he would at least understand Rococo’s actions, if not condone them.

Casden started to reply, but was distracted when the kid went right over to a jumble of discarded pieces, which included a couple of focusing lenses. “Yay! That’s the pawt I need right theah! Can I have one?”

“Don’t you want us to…” Rockfowl began, but trailed off as the boy dissassembled his rifle with the deftness of a Brotherhood quartermaster, his small brown hands almost a blur. It was plain as day that he had completed this operation many times.

Once the part was installed and the weapon put back togather, the kid spoke up again. “Do you have a pwace where I can twy it out?” Ventrix, equally amazed, indicated the small firing area that had been set up in the lab’s corner. The kid took a few shots, went back to the workbench and deftly adjusted the gun with a handy wrench, fired a few more rounds off, went and did some more precise calibration, and fired twice more. Satisfid that it was dead-on, he slung the weapon. “Theah. That oughtta do it.”

Ventrix went over to the boy, got down on one knee. “Kid? Can I see that gun?”

“I guess.” Biwwy handed it over.

Ventrix examined the piece. Unlike Rockfowl, he spent most of his time tinkering with the things, so he had a better idea of what had been done to it. “Were you the one who did all this stuff to it? These modifications, I mean?”

Biwwy nodded. “Uh-huh.”

Ventrix took the gun over to Casden. “Look at this. The way he’s realigned the power relays and channeled the waste power into the emitter unit… I’ll bet he gets at least twenty percent more thermal energy with each shot.”

Rockfowl had seen the wounds that the gun produced firsthand. “More than that, I’d say. Thirty at least.”

Ventrix turned the gun over. “And he’s enlarged the MF cell magazine as well. Kid, how many shots does this thing hold?”

“Thiwty,” the kid said. “It took twenty-foe when I got it, but I pwayed awound with it, and found a way to make it hold moe.”

“And if you had the tools and spare parts, could you do this same thing with any other AER-9? Like the ones over here?” Ventrix indicated a stack of refurbished weapons on a table.

“Yeah,” Biwwy said. “No pwobwem.”

At this point, Casden took charge of the matter. “So, Billy, you like playing around with these kinds of toys, do you?”

The boy nodded. “I wike it a wot.”

“How would you like to stay with us for awhile? We have laser rifles, but we also have pistols, plasma guns, power armor, and lots of other cool things for you to tinker around with.”

Biwwy grinned. After all the crap he had dealt with from the Lamplighters, the idea that people would appreciate his knack for fixing up weapons rather than ostracize him for it was almost too much to grasp. Maybe mungos weren’t so bad after all. “That would be gweat!”

“All right, then,” Casden said. “Johnson, can you find him a bed? And probably some food as well.” The Outcast nodded and led the youngster off.

Aware that both Ventrix and Rockfowl were staring at him, Casden gave them both a hard look. “What? We’re supposed to be preserving technology, are we not?”

Rococo spoke for both of them. “Yes.”

“Well, maybe even more important than just saving up tech is preserving the people who have the know-how to use it. And not only use it, but make it better,” Casden said. “If that kid’s half as tech-savvy as it looks like he is, he’ll be worth more to us than fifty laser rifles.”

“I guess that makes sense,” Rockfowl said.

“What? You think that just because we’re Outcasts, we’re not supposed to care about other people?” Casden said. “Of course we care, we just understand that our top priority is helping humanity as a group.”

“You’re right as always,” Ventrix said. Rococo nodded agreement as well.

*~*~*~*

Night had fallen, and most of the Outcasts had either turned in or were getting ready to. As Annemarie Morgan headed for her room (there were too few women in the group for them to rate a barracks), she spotted Casden, peering into the gloom of the men’s quarters, and the small blanket-shrouded form on one of the top bunks. Though there was nothing romantic going on between them, they were good friends, and she was the closest thing he had to a confidant. “Bottlecap for your thoughts,” she said to him.

“Waste of money,” he said. “I was just thinking… we spend our time, collecting tech to preserve it from those ‘idiot locals’. But then, along comes one of those locals, and…”

“I know,” Morgan said. She had come in late, but had arrived in time to see Biwwy (only it was Billy now, the Lamplighters might have made fun of the kid’s speech impediment, but Casden’s bunch had no use for such childish unpleasantness) and Specialist Ventrix going a mile a minute about how to adapt his modifications to a laser pistol. “But you didn’t just take that kid in because he was good with toys.” Casden looked at her, eyes narrowing. “Not that that wouldn’t have been reason enough,” she quickly added.

“I suppose you’re right,” Casden said with a resigned, half-humorous sigh. “On both counts.”

Morgan raised an eyebrow.

Casden elaborated: “Back when I was with the Brotherhood, the real one I mean, we had a handful of squires with the group. I always kind of liked teaching them, watching them grow and learn new things. I guess it was because it was as close as I’d ever get to having my own kids.”

Morgan nodded understanding. “I guess I can understand that.” Few Brotherhood members had families, and none of those who did had joined the Outcasts. For one thing, post-apocalyptic soldiering and domestic life rarely went together. And furthermore, it was only logical that those with loved ones outside the Citadel would share Lyon’s vision of a safer wasteland. If you were an Outcast, it was because you were willing to think in the long term, to give up your own interests for a greater good that you might never live to see.

“I guess until that kid showed up, I never really knew how much I missed it,” Casden concluded.

Neither of them said anything else, there was nothing else to say. Morgan gave the Protector’s shoulder a gentle squeeze, then headed to her bunk. Casden watched Billy sleep for a bit longer, then followed suit.

Just a little thing I noticed, not really complaint worthy but at first you call Ventrix a specialist then an anolyst. The writing style is still good and I like how you are making the Outcasts look more human. Looking forward to the updates as usual.

Really enjoying this Oddish. It flows well and is well thought out. Looking forward to the next chapter now.

An interesting place for Biwwy to end up....as a Outcast Squire. ^_^ I wouldn't have thought of it but it is fitting that he would find a new home there. A couple questions though....Rockfowl talks about the LW in both the present and past tense. First he mentions that the LW is currently prowling the Wasteland blasting things that need killin' then talks about him as if he were either dead or not adventuring anymore. I would recommend that you revise that part to clarify what Rockfowl believes to be the current status of the LW (which could be different from what you have decided that status is, of course). And are you implying that Burke and the LW are Confirmed Bachelors? Not that there is anything wrong with that.

Oh...and it's Protector Casdin, not Casden.

The story is great though...keep it up!

OK...

Zollum: Ouch. Got me. In the original draft of this story, I made Ventrix's rank "anolyst". Then, I read here ( http://fallout.wikia.com/wiki/Brotherhood_Outcasts ) that the Outcasts only use three ranks: Defender, Protector, and Specialist. So, I changed it. Guess I was sloppy. In any case, it's fixed. Thanks for keeping an old fogey like me (my first gaming passion was Pac-Man) on my toes.

Tiberius: Remember that I based Burke's character on how he responds to a Black Widow using player. So, he is definitely not a confirmed bachelor, he's just currently single. As far as the Lone Wanderer goes, well, he appears in later chapters, and your answers will arrive with him.

KPNuts: Thanks for the kind words. Next chapter follows...


5. Princess: Royal Highness

Doc Hoff eyed the child who sat on the bench a few yards away, happily licking the remains of a quick breakfast of Cram and reconstituted eggs from his fingers. “Take him to Rivet City? That’s all?”

Burke nodded solemnly. “Yes. And if you’re concerned about being compensated, the boy’s aunt is Vera Weatherly. You know her, I’m sure.”

“Of course I know her,” Hoff said. Since he sold food and alcohol as well as chems, the hotel’s proprieter and he did frequent business. She was one of Rivet City’s wealthier citizens, but she didn’t make a big deal of it the way Bannon did. “All right, we’re headed for Rivet City anyway. I guess we can manage it. Come along, son.”

Bryan scooped up his small bundle of things and his BB gun, which had been returned to him, and hurried over to the assemblage. “Are you going to take me to Rivet City?” At Hoff’s nod, his face lit up. “Oh, boy! Thanks very much!”

“Just put your things on my Brahmin,” Hoff said. “Matter of fact, we’re traveling light, so you can ride if you want. It’ll speed us up if we don’t have to wait for you.” Even with his gear, Bryan weighed less than fifty pounds. A healthy pack Brahmin could carry many times that.

“Really? Cool!” Bryan needed no further urging. He hurried over to the massive, two-headed cow and allowed Hoff’s guard to boost him up.

Hoff smiled at the lad’s infectious happiness. “You ready?” Bryan nodded. “All right, let’s move out. I’m sure the hunters are waiting for us.” The Tenpenny merchants had been greedy, purchasing every scrap of meat in his possession. He would need to rendezvous with a group of wasteland hunters to get his hands on more.

Burke nodded with satisfaction and proceeded inside. Time for breakfast, he decided, preferably before the Café Beau Monde got crowded. Even though Margaret had hired the boy from Lamplight as an assistant, there was sure to be a wait if he went in during peak hours. At least, he thought, he would be assured of a table. Tenpenny’s reserved table, which the sour old recluse hadn’t used once in his final five years, had been passed on to the tower’s new owner.

He thought about his deceased employer again as he finished his breakfast. No one really knew exactly who had given it to the old man, he had just been found on his balcony with his beloved sniper rifle lying next to him, surrounded by shell casings and with a neat .44-caliber hole in his head. The consensus among Burke and tower security was that Tenpenny had been shooting at some passing ghoul or wastelander (as he frequently did), and his target had returned fire. Burke could hardly blame whoever was responsible, if someone was shooting at you, it was only logical to shoot back at them. Despite this, he had offered a sizable reward for the shooter. Alastair Tenpenny had been a reclusive, peevish old man, but he had been a good friend.

As he left the café, he sensed someone behind him. The girl from Lamplight, he quickly realized. “Excuse me, mister?”

Burke turned to the grimy youngster, ice in his eyes and dripping from his tone. “Yes, young lady?”

“Uh... I... uh... hear your balcony has the best view of the wasteland anywhere,” the girl said, a bit uncertainly.

“It does,” Burke said, then added. “Now I suppose you're going to tell me you want to see it for yourself.”

“Yes, please,” Princess said, using the P-word for perhaps the first time in her life.

Burke rolled his eyes, but nodded assent. “Well, come along, then.”

They proceeded up to the elevator, one of the few in the wasteland that actually worked, and rode it to the top floor. Burke indicated the suite that was his, and nudged the girl along ahead of him, so that the guard would know without having to ask that she was his guest. They proceeded out to the balcony together. A long pause as they stared out over the wasteland.

Burke scowled at the sight of Megaton, sitting there in its rusty glory, but knew that he had had a near miss there. He had heard of the kid from Vault 101 and had planned on recruiting him to rig the ancient nuclear device to obliterate the grimy eyesore, but the young man had disarmed the bomb before he could even make the offer. Burke had been made aware of his subsequent actions; much of which consisted of delivering violent justice to raiders, slavers, and pretty much anyone else who… well, who did the sort of thing Burke had been trying to do. He knew that if he had actually made his proposal, that kid would more likely than not have decorated the wall of Moriarty’s Saloon with his brains.

Princess broke the lengthy silence. “Now I know why you wanted me to bring Eclair along.”

Since they were now alone, Burke let his facade of iciness drop. “Indeed,” he confirmed. “For a young man of his culinary talents to die in Big Town would have been a tragic waste of the first order. Ms. Primrose is getting on in years, and needed an assistant. Your friend was perfect for her needs: young, capable, and willing to work.”

Princess turned and eyed him dubiously. Burke reminded himself that while the girl shared his mindset to a great extent (he had known that even before making contact with her, and their numerous brief conversations during Princess's "fresh air breaks" since then had confirmed it), she wouldn’t be human if she wasn’t at least a bit concerned about her young comrade’s future. He resisted the urge to pat her on the head. “Don’t worry, my dear Princess. Margaret Primrose is a kindhearted woman. Your friend will be well-fed, well-paid, and well-treated. And Margaret is elderly and has no living family. When she retires or passes on, he’ll almost certainly inherit the café from her. I think that there are worse ways to end up than being the owner of Tenpenny Tower’s most prosperous business.”

“It beats Big Town, anyway.” Another long silence, then Princess continued. “How many kids from Lamplight did you have spying for you?”

“I’d hardly call it spying,” Burke said, though that was exactly what it was and they both knew it. “I just like to know the lay of the land, in all the settlements.”

Princess decided to concede the point. She was not particularly afraid of Burke, but he nonetheless did not strike her as a good person to argue with. “OK, how many kids were working for you?”

“Only two,” Burke assured her. “The other was the young woman you knew as Machete. She was far easier to accommodate than you were.” All the former mayor had asked for, in return for briefing Burke on what was going on in Lamplight, was enough caps to get her settled properly in the town of her choice. She had opted for Canterberry Commons, a small but prospering merchant community that the raiders generally avoided, and never looked back once.

“So why didn’t you go after R. J.?” Princess wanted to know. Obviously, he would have been the best person to recruit: the mayor always knew the most about what was going on.

“Thanks to Machete, I knew that he would be a poor candidate,” Burke replied. Foul-mouthed and abrasive as he was, Robert J. Macready had been as close to incorruptible as any prepubascent child could be. “She actually expected that you would succeed her as mayor, but no such luck.” He had not known about Princess’s five-minute turn as mayor: Machete had been gone before it occured, and Princess (unsurprisingly) never spoke of it.

“So you didn’t even try with R. J.?”

“No, I knew that there was no point. Young Mr. Macready did not strike me as someone who could be reasoned with.”

“I think I only know one person who actually ‘reasoned’ with R. J.,” Princess said with a giggle. It could be argued that threatening to squish someone’s nuts in his sleep was not exactly reasoning with him, but it could also be argued that one normally did not run for political office by socking the incumbent in the nose. Little Lamplight had always run by its own peculiar set of rules.

“In any case, the early dissolution of your community has created a problem,” Burke said. “I know that I promised you a suite of your own, but that wasn’t supposed to happen until you turned sixteen. For one thing, I have no suites available right now, and in any case, it would be problematic to lease one to a twelve-year-old.” The wasteland had no set age of majority, but sixteen was the informal cut-off for most settlements. Plenty of young teens had to do the work of grown advlts, but they were still regarded as kids.

“Well, you have a spare room here, don’t you?” Princess queried. “I could live in that, until I was old enough.”

Burke cocked his head. “Hmm. I didn’t consider that solution,” he said. Turning it over in his head, he quickly saw the pluses. His word, which despite his utter lack of morals he took seriously, would be kept. His stock with the residents would go up a great deal; any man who would take in an orphaned waif and raise her as his own couldn’t be as bad as they thought he was. More to the point, while he had no unwholesome interest in her (Burke was no saint, but neither was he a pervert), the idea of being a parent was not without appeal to him. He had been irradiated heavily in his younger years, and would never be able to produce biological children as a result. He did not exactly miss this loss; the idea of two-o’clock feedings, diaper changes, and annoying children’s songs did not appeal to him, but he sometimes thought it would have been nice to have someone to follow in his footsteps. It was a charming bonus that the girl had the same Machiavellian mindset as he did: the last thing he needed was a prosthetic conscience.

Princess did not have to anolyze things nearly as much. It was perfectly simple. Tenpenny Tower was a kingdom of sorts, and Mr. Burke was its monarch. If she could persuade him to take her in, she would be what she had always wanted to be.

Finally, Burke nodded and smiled wryly. “All right, young lady. You have a deal. But if you’re going to be a proper Tenpenny resident, you’ll need to look like one. That means bathing regularly; the bathtubs up here dispense clean water. We’ll also get you some proper clothes from Mr. Ling’s store downstairs. And, you’ll want to talk to our neighbors next door, they have a Mr. Handy robot who can cut and style hair.”

Other children might have considered this to be bad news, but Princess actually liked the idea of being clean, groomed, and well-dressed. “OK, Mr. Burke,” she said. “By this time tomorrow, I’ll look like a princess.”

Things were just looking better and better.

I thought you were saying the LW had used "Lady Killer" on him to make him think better of his plot.....the last chapter explains quite nicely what really happened.

No, no. None of my male characters use that particular perk. Black Widow is fun, but Lady Killer is something of a waste.

The relationship between Princess (Angela now) and Mr. Burke is actually meant to loosely parallel the relationship between Annie and Oliver "Daddy" Warbucks in Annie, a show I recently performed in. Without all the corny songs, some of which still get stuck in my head sometimes.

Let us now return our attention to the main body of Lamplighters, and the terrible discovery that awaits them...


6. Joseph: Dry Well

Given the fact that all Lamplighters were supposed to be future Big Towners, not to mention the fact that most Big Towners were former Lamplighters; it is odd that there was next to no communication between the two settlements. Indeed, it was a terrible surprise for all exiled sixteen-year-olds to arrive in Big Town and find that they had stumbled into a death-trap. Only two children of Lamplight had really known just how false the stories told about Big Town were, and neither had known due to any form of communication from the settlement itself. Both Machete and Princess had been told the unvarnished truth by Mr. Burke, which was why both of them had demanded alternative accomodations as a price for their services.

Neither had told anyone else, however. Machete (the more altruistic of the two) had been all too aware that if the new “mungos” knew that they were being funneled into a super mutant meat grinder, they would likely refuse to go. More likely than not, their younger friends would support them. What would happen then was anyone’s guess. If the advlts had remained in Little Lamplight, they would have either taken over or at least depleted the food supply with their advlt-size appetites. Either way, everything that made Little Lamplight what it was would have been lost. So, with great sorrow, she had kept the knowledge of Big Town’s true nature to herself.

As for Princess, it had been a far simpler decision. Burke had told her that if she blabbed, the deal was off and she could head for Big Town when the time came. The thought of being captured, dismembered, and ingested by a bunch of hideous green-skinned freaks of nature at the age of sixteen was more than enough to keep her silent.

Joseph realized that something was up as he and the twelve remaining Lamplighters approached the bridge over the moat that led into Big Town. The settlement had acommodations for several dozen people, and Lamplight had sent a lot of its former citizens there in the last few decades. And yet, the place appeared to be utterly deserted. The guard post was untenanted, and several doors were standing open, as thought the town had been repeatedly looted.

Bumble, who had been clinging to Joseph’s hand as they walked along, spoke for all of them in quiet disbelief. “This is Big Town?”

Joseph started to reply, but was interrupted when a pale, gaunt blond-haired figure emerged from one of the buildings. It was hard to recognize her, but Joseph looked closely and realized who she was. “B-bittercup?”

Bittercup nodded. “You remember me. I was wondering if you would. What brings all of you here? Did Macready decide to throw all of you to the super mutants as well?”

“No. R. J.’s dead,” Joseph explained. “And Little Lamplight’s empty. There’s no food left. We came here, but…”

Bittercup let out a cackle of laughter, horrifying in that it made it very clear that her sanity, questionable even during her Lamplight days, had departed some time ago with no forwarding address. “Oh, yes, Big Town, where all the grown-ups go. Plenty to eat in Big Town. Well, that’s true, anyway. There was plenty to eat in Big Town if you were a super mutant! A veritable cornucopia!” She laughed madly at the joke.

“Bittercup, for crying out loud! What happened here? Where is everyone?”

Bittercup calmed down a bit and told the tale more rationally. It was a grim story, and the six or eight silent graves not far outside the compound lent credence to it. “Of course, most of us didn’t get buried,” she added. “The slavers took ‘em away to sell, or the muties took ‘em away to snack on.”

“What?!” Joseph’s stomach suddenly seemed to fall into his left leg. “You can’t be serious!”

“I saw it happen with Sticky,” Bittercup assured him. “They were hungry, they didn’t even take him away. They just dragged him right over there. I was hiding, so I saw everything. They threw him on the ground and tore off his clothes like they were unwrapping a cut of meat. They were so rough, I could hear his bones breaking as they did it. Then when they were done ripping off clothes, they started ripping pieces of him off. And gobbling them up while he was still screaming. He screamed for a real long time.” Bittercup pointed. “You can still kind of see the bloodstain.”

Joseph stared down at the brownish discoloration on the sand. He and Sticky had been only a few months apart in age. “The others?”

“Shorty, Kimba, Pappy, all taken. Yum yum.” She giggled again. “They’re all big stinky piles of mutie poo by now.”

“How come they haven’t taken you?” Squirrel demanded. His tone suggested that he wouldn’t have minded if they did.

“They don’t see me,” Bittercup whispered. “I stay out of sight all day, and I don’t have any lights on at night. They think they got us all already. Not even the scavvers bother anymore. The Brotherhood doesn’t come either. Too bad, I miss the clean water.”

“So you’re the last survivor?” Joseph felt sick.

“No, no. A few of them were rescued. By the Looooone Waaanderer,” Bittercup prattled. “Simms left Megaton, and that vault kid got elected mayor in his place. He let ‘em come and live there.”

“How many?” Lucy wanted to know. “How many did he rescue?”

“Four,” was the reply. “No, five. They got Timebomb back from Paradise Falls before he was sold.”

“Why didn’t you go there, too?” Joseph queried. “To Megaton, I mean?”

Bittercup laughed again. There was something very creepy about that laugh. “Not enough room for all of us. Barely room for four. With five, they’re probably packed in like sardines.” Her smile disappeared. “You should take the kids back to Lamplight. There’s no place for you out here.”

“I told you, we can’t go back,” Joseph said. “We’ll starve.”

“Well, you’ll last longer that way,” Bittercup said. “Maybe you could eat each other. Better than having the mutants eat you, anyway.”

“Ughhh,” said Lucy. “That’s sick.”

“Welcome to Big Town,” Bittercup said, and then she turned and shuffled off, muttering to herself. No one was particularly interested in following her and continuing the gloomy conversation.

Joseph sighed, then turned and addressed the dead-silent Lamplighters. “All right, you guys,” he said. “It’ll be dark soon. Let’s get to work. See if there’s any food left over. And for now, we’ll keep the lights out. Best that whoever’s out there still thinks this place is abandoned.”

*~*~*~*

If there had been a clock in the town square, it would have been striking one. However, few places in the world still bothered with town squares, large striking clocks, or any of the things that their ancestors had taken for granted. In a bustling and prosperous world with a population of around eight billion, according to the 2070 global census, such things made sense. In a scorched and shattered world with a population loosely estimated at 800 million (might have been twice that, might have been half), no one bothered with ostentatious ornaments.

Lucy had lay on her bed and watched in silence as Joseph sat between Bumble and his little sister and talked to them quietly while gently rubbing the former’s back until they were both out, then left. She figured he was going to the bathroom, but he did not return, so she had followed him. He was silent and still and carried no light, so finding him wasn’t easy. She saw him at first only as a large amorphous blur, seated in front of the row of crudely inscribed tombstones. Staring at them in silence. “Joseph? You OK?” she wanted to know.

“No,” he said. “I’m not OK. Our home is gone. We sacrificed four kids to get here.” (three, actually, but he had no way of knowing that Billy was safe) “And now, we finally make it, and it’s a dry well.”

“We had to come somewhere,” Lucy reminded him quietly.

“Well, here we are,” Joseph said. “No food, hardly any caps, low on ammo, and surrounded by monsters who want to eat us. And our leader is buried somewhere out in the wasteland. Macready may have been a pain sometimes, but he looked out for us.”

“That’s your job now, Joseph,” Lucy said. Seeing him turn to look at her, she went on: “Well, who else is going to do it? Squirrel’s still getting over Sammy. Knicky’s better with gizmos than he is with people. I’m too busy dealing with skinned knees and bloody noses to run things. And who knows what happened to Princess? Not that anyone wanted her back in charge.” They both shared a laugh at that. Five minutes with Princess in charge had been four and a half minutes too long.

Joseph’s laughter died in his throat and he stared at the gravestones. “I’m no leader,” he protested. “Never wanted to be.”

“R. J. chose you,” Lucy dissented. “And he knew what it took, maybe better than anyone.”

Joseph sighed. What both of them had said was true. He was no leader, but he was all the new Big Towners had. It wasn’t what he had chosen, but it appeared to be what had chosen him. “Well… the little ones can’t stay here. Anyone who can’t protect themself, we need to pack them off somewhere. Megaton, maybe, I don’t know.”

“They can’t go tomorrow,” Lucy said. “They’re too exhausted from the journey. And the deathclaw attack didn’t do them any good, either.”

“And we need to know they have a place to go,” Joseph added. “All right. Knick-nack's been to Megaton and says he wants to go back, something about wanting to meet the mungo who wrote the Wasteland Survival Guide.” The book in question had appeared in large quantities, and it hadn’t taken the Lamplighters’ scav teams long to acquire a copy. “We’ll have him head there tomorrow.”

“Then we should head for bed tonight,” Lucy suggested. “We’ve got a long day ahead tomorrow.”

“I just hope we’re all around to see the end of it,” Joseph said, and they headed for the bunkhouse together.

Can't wait for more. :tops:

And you don't have to, Emo. Here's more. :hehe:

As well-suited as Billy was to the Outcasts, I'm surprised no one really noticed that I placed another major character with them, one who I thought was even more perfect for them. Since he wouldn't have gone with Daniel (whose Karma hit Good before he even left the Vault and never went back), I thought Sergeant RL-3 needed a good home too.

And now, as Three-Doggie would say, this is the story of a little boy... a little boy named Bryan Wilkes.



7. Bryan: Home At Last

The caravan had rendezvoused with some hunters a couple hours out of Tenpenny Tower, and they had offloaded about 260 pounds of mole-rat, dog, ant, squirrel, iguana, Mirelurk, and Yao-gui meat onto Hoff’s Brahmin. Unlike all too many wastelanders, who only took a small quantity of meat from the animals they killed, these men were highly efficient butchers. For them, a plump mole-rat could yield fifteen or twenty pounds of edible meat, and a Yao-gui could be harvested for three times that. He had only ordered two hundred pounds, but with Tenpenny’s voracious appetite for meat, he had been lower than he had expected to be. The men wanted to unload the meat while it was still fresh, and Hoff was delighted to take it all. However, with that much extra weight piled on his pack animal, Hoff had politely informed Bryan that he would have to walk. The Brahmin had several hundred pounds on it, and that was as much as it could carry over a long distance.

It had been a long, hard journey, but an interesting one. Doc Hoff was full of fascinating stories and had welcomed having someone new to share them with (his long-suffering caravan guard had already heard them all). They had passed Cliffside Caverns, which had once been a raider stronghold. However, by the time the so-called Lone Wanderer had passed through there, he had acquired a pair of comrades. One was a power-armored and cybernetically-enhanced star paladin who had taken leave from the Brotherhood to fight at his side. The other was what was known as a meta-human: a being externally identical to a super mutant, but who had survived the transformation with his mind intact. Wielding some of the deadliest weapons ever conceived by mankind, the odd threesome had killed, captured, or chased away every raider in the complex, and thrown the corpses to the Yao gui that lived in a neighboring cave system. A group of less barbaric wastelanders had moved into the now-vacant caves, and while they hunted their own meat, they were only too happy to buy canned food, liquor, and chems from Hoff.

They also passed through the small hamlet of Andale, which looked to Bryan like a very friendly town, complete with two kids about his age playing happily near one of the houses. However, Hoff and his guard quickened their pace as they went past it, and had their guns drawn the whole time the place was in sight. Bryan asked why that was, and the two men merely exchanged glances and told him not to worry about it. They also passed the Alexandria Arms, another former raider stronghold. The Brotherhood of Steel, tired of being shot at every time they entered or left their temporary base in Arlington Library, had cleared them out. Doc Hoff had heard rumors that prisoners were taken there as well, but didn’t know what had become of them.

Bryan was worn out by the time they reached the purifier, which was still sending millions of gallons of pure water a day into the Tidal Basin. Hoff obligingly let him ride again, making room for the boy by carrying his satchel of chems and saddling his guard with a couple of meat packets. From his slowly swaying perch, Bryan watched the floodgates as they went past, impossibly vast quantities of clean water foaming from the gargantuan machine day and night. According to Hoff, the entire Potomoc would be drinkable within a year or two. Efforts had already begun to use irrigation to cleanse the radiation from the soil and get some form of outdoor agriculture going; in time, the neverending hunger that was just part of life for most residents of the wasteland would be a memory.

Then, they were past the purifier, and Bryan saw Rivet City in the distance for the first time. He didn’t realize the sheer vastness of the thing until they got a bit closer, and saw a person walking along the flat top, a person dwarfed to ant size by the sheer bulk of the 90,000-ton vessel. The ship had broken in two, but over two football fields’ worth of her was left, and well over a hundred people called her home these days. Hoff had commented that in her days of actual service, that number had been over six thousand, but a lot of the vessel remained uninhabitable.

As they approached the scaffold that provided access through the nearly impregnable steel hull, Bryan felt strangely nervous. He barely remembered his aunt, since he hadn’t seen her in years. Would she be willing to take him in? Would she even remember him? There was no way to know. And he had no idea where he would go if he was turned away.

*~*~*~*

Had Bryan possessed even a fraction of Burke’s vast net of contacts, he would have known the answer to his questions. He would have known of Vera’s frantic efforts to find out what had happened when Grayditch fell suddenly silent, and that those efforts had redoubled when it was revealed that Bryan had survived the deadly infestation of fire-breathing ants that had killed everyone else there. Indeed, Vera had only just heard from Security Chief Harkness that Bryan’s ultimate destination had been Little Lamplight. Unfortunately, she had no idea what to do with this information, since very few advlts were allowed to enter the famed “city of kids” for any reason, and Harkness had no contacts there. He had been trying to deal with this issue when news reached Rivet City that Lamplight had been vacated. It was speculated that the former occupants might make for Big Town, unaware that it had been virtually abandoned for months, but there was no way to know for sure.

Vera Weatherly sighed and reread the handwritten report in front of her. According to it, the next step was to send someone to Big Town and see if the Lamplighters had arrived there. The area around the caverns was still swarming with Yao-gui, deathclaws, and super mutants, so it was very possible that few or none of the kids would survive the trip. Ironically, the person Harkness proposed sending was the same one who had caused this whole mess by taking Bryan to Lamplight in the first place.

There was a knock at her hatch. She unlatched it and slid it open, revealing James Hargrave. “Hey, Ms. Weatherly. Seagrave said to tell you that Doc Hoff is on his way. He’ll be at the gate in ten minutes.”

She looked at the clock and sighed. “He’s earlier than usual,” she said. “Thank you, James.”

The boy nodded curtly and left for his next assignment. Vera didn’t know whose idea it had been to put the youngster to work around the ship, but it had been quite a coup. It kept him busy, and actually made him feel appreciated some of the time. He was still far from congenial, but he was a far cry from the detestable little brat he had been a few months before. It had been Vera’s idea to pay him in credit with the merchants, credit that only he could use. This made it impossible for his useless mother to drink up his earnings.

Seagrave Holmes was waiting for her at the main entrance. Vera approached him and said, “I don’t suppose you’d like to go and buy some stuff for me.” Seagrave knew what she usually needed for her hotel, and he was a better barterer than she was. He often chided her for being too nice, and she supposed he was probably right.

The man was usually happy to oblige, so it came as a surprise for her when he shuffled and avoided her eyes. “Uh… well, I think you probably kind of need to talk to him this time. You’ll see why when you get there.”

“All right,” Vera replied, feeling more than a bit mystified; she couldn’t think of any reason why Hoff and she would need to talk. She picked up her satchel of caps and fell into step some distance behind Seagrave as he headed through the marketplace. Cindy Cantelli and Gary Staley were also headed in that direction, also carrying large quantities of currency. Flak and Bannon both stayed put: Hoff did not typically carry weapons, ammunition, clothing, or anything else they typically sold.

Hoff was almost there by the time they reached the bottom of the stairs, accompanied by a pair of armored, submachine gun-wielding security guards. Hoff had his own guard with him, and the three nodded politely as they met, thet turned to keep an eye out for raiders; it was not uncommon for the ragtag thieves and killers to hit people during a business transaction of this sort. Vera knew that Harkness’s best sniper was up in the bridge tower, watching everything that went on through his telescopic sight.

She eyed Hoff’s sturdy Brahmin, and noted happily that it was carrying what appeared to be plenty of food packs and liquor bottles. And… someone else was there, Vera realized, riding atop the animal. A boy, seven or eight, obviously tired out from the day’s journey. And then, she got a better look at the child’s face, and her heart seized up in her chest. She had not seen her nephew in some years, and he had been better fed then, but she hadn’t forgotten what he looked like.

“Ah, Miss Weatherly,” Hoff said, noting her reaction with considerable pleasure. “I believe I have something you might be interested in.”

Vera looked up at the child in wonder. “Bryan? Is that you?”

“Yeah,” Bryan said as he carefully slid down from his perch atop Hoff’s bundles of merchendise. “Are you my Aunt Vera?”

Vera struggled not to burst into tears. “Yes. That’s me.” She gathered the boy over to her, hugged him fiercely. It was when he felt those soft, warm arms encircle him that Bryan knew, really knew that his perilous odyssey was finally ended, that he was finally home. He returned the embrace, feeling his own eyes turning moist, and was too choked up to say anything when Vera finally calmed down enough to begin questioning him: “What happened to you?! I was so worried!”

Bryan could not answer, so Hoff spoke for him. “We picked him up at Tenpenny Tower, he arrived with a couple of other former Lamplighters.”

“Well, thank you for getting him here,” Vera said. “From the bottom of my heart, thank you.”

“It’s all right,” Hoff assured her. “He wasn’t much trouble.” Bryan had actually been no trouble at all, indeed he had been a pleasure to have along. However, admitting this would not help his profit margin. That was also why he had ensured that Bryan was riding at the end of the journey. If Vera had seen his precious cargo staggering along exhaustedly, she would have been far stingier when compensation time came. One reason why Hoff and Burke had always gotten on so well was that they shared a very similar philosophy.

Vera Weatherly got his drift, and smiled wryly. “Of course, Dr. Hoff. I understand. I trust two hundred caps will be fair compensation for your… inconvenience.”

“That’s more than fair,” Hoff assured her. He knew that she would have paid ten times that for her only living relative’s safe delivery. He expected that she probably knew that the job had not put him out at all. However, if he gouged her, especially where her last living family member was concerned, the other Rivet City merchants would remember. Likewise, if she had been unnecessarily cheap with him, the other Canterberry-based traders would have been no more forgiving.

As Vera, one arm still wrapped tightly around Bryan, extracted four fifty-cap bundles from her satchel and handed them over to Hoff, Seagrave sidled over to her. “If you want to take him in hand, I can see to the rest of it,” he said quietly. Vera nodded thanks to him and handed the satchel over. She still wasn’t sure what to make of his decidedly checkered past, or his sudden romantic interest in her, but he was a good friend nonetheless.

As the two of them made their way up the ramp, they were greeted by a burly man with a race-tuned plasma rifle slung on his back. Harkness had given up his original plasma rifle to the famed Lone Wanderer early in the latter’s career, for services that remained unknown. However, the weapons had been far more available fallowing the Enclave’s defeat, and it had been easy enough for Harkness to obtain a replacement. “Good afternoon, Miss Weatherly,” he said. “Care to fill me in on who you have there?”

Vera realized that Harkness might well have seen Hoff arrive with the boy, and her paying him. Even though Rivet City security typically turned a blind eye to slavery outside its borders, the same could not be said within them; a slave who entered the settlement was legally considered free the moment he or she set foot on the bridge servicing it. Even before Paradise Falls went out of business, the few slavers who had tried to retrieve a runaway there had wound up getting riddled with bullets and thrown to the mirelurks as a result. Vera was quick to reassure her friend. “Harkness, this is Bryan, my nephew, the one I told you about. Doctor Hoff found him at Tenpenny Tower, trying to find his way here.”

Harkness nodded. He had not for one second believed that Vera was purchasing a slave. It was simply against her nature to treat a human being as property; the woman even talked to her robot like it was a fellow human. Furthermore, one did not hug slaves. “Well, I guess I can tell my associate not to worry about Big Town,” he said. “Just make sure you get him to Preston as soon as possible.”

“Of course,” Vera said. Ever since the tragic radiation-related death of a newly arrived immigrant, people wanting to become either citizens or temporary residents of Rivet City had to undergo a routine medical examination. “We’re headed there right now.”

“Very well,” Harkness said, then offered a hand to the boy, which Bryan accepted and shook. “Welcome to Rivet City, Bryan.”

“Thank you, sir,” Bryan replied.

Vera escorted him to the ship’s small but well-equipped and stocked infirmary, pointing out sites of interest as they went. Dr. Preston was there but had no patients at the moment, so he was able to see to the new arrival right away. Spending half an hour sitting on the doc’s table wearing only the tattered remnants of his one remaining pair of underwear was not Bryan’s idea of a good time, especially while getting poked and prodded in various ways. However, after the misery he had been through over the course of the past six months, a mere examination was nothing. Eric Preston was a kindhearted man and a very able physician; he had little trouble verifying that Bryan was decidedly underweight and suffering from vitamin deficiency, but otherwise in acceptable health. He gave his newest patient a couple of shots and a small bottle of supplement pills, and admonished Vera to make sure he got plenty to eat.

And Bryan learned quickly that getting plenty to eat was not a problem in Rivet City, even if that wasn’t true anywhere else. Meat might have been in limited supply (aside from mirelurk, which was plentiful), and the supply of canned food in the area had dwindled away to nearly nothing, but the massive hydroponics bays Dr. Li had assembled in and around her lab in the stern put out over a thousand pounds of fruits, vegetables, legumes, and grain a week. They were even able to export it in small quantities, mostly to Tenpenny; the rich folks who dwelt there paid out mounds of caps for it.

As he was pushing away from the table, he heard footsteps outside the hotel entrance. He turned, and saw a familiar face: that of a muscular young man with a mane of golden blond hair and a short beard, dressed in a merc outfit with a heavily customized laser pistol on his hip. The person who had saved Bryan’s life, shortly after his father’s death, and then killed off the mutated ants responsible for the tragedy. Bryan ran to him, his face lighting up. “Daniel!”

With a smile, the famed “Lone Wanderer” caught the charging youngster under the arms and scooped him up for a hearty bear hug. “Hey, kid! Great to see you. How are you doing?”

“I’m good,” Bryan said. “How’d you know I was here?”

“Harkness told me,” Daniel explained. “He was going to send me to Big Town to look for you, but then you showed up here on your own. Much to your aunt’s relief, she was worried sick.”

“Yeah, Vera’s really nice,” Bryan said. “She says she’ll need me to help run her hotel, and I can have all the food I want.”

“That is awesome news,” Daniel said with a grin. “I’m so glad you made it here.”

“Thank you,” Vera said, her tone a trifle cooler than it needed to be. “If you’d thought to find out if he had any living relatives, rather than simply bundling him off to Little Lamplight, you’d have saved us both a lot of grief.”

Daniel eyed her, but knew immediately that her words had been motivated by genuine concern for the boy, and deep grief at the ordeal he had endured, and so took no offense. “Mea culpa, Ms. Weatherly. I’m very sorry,” he said quietly, gently lowering Bryan to the floor. “And I apologize to you as well, Bryan. If I’d known you had family in Rivet City, I would have brought you here in the first place.”

“It’s OK,” Bryan said. “I guess I should’ve told you, huh?”

“I should have asked,” Daniel said. “Don’t believe everything Three-dog says about me on the radio. I’m not a saint, I’m not a wasteland savior, and I’m sure as hell not the last, best hope of humanity. I’m just a man, fallible as any other.”

“It’s all right,” Vera said. “Would you like a room? Or something to eat?”

“No, I still have to get to Big Town. If the Lamplighters are headed there, then they’re in grave danger. I’m heading back to Megaton on the 6:45 barge,” Daniel said. “I just wanted to say hi to Bryan before I went.” To Bryan, whose face had fallen at the news, he added: “Relax, kid. I’ll be back in a few days.” As mayor of Megaton, he needed to touch base with the Rivet City council at least once a week. There was no central government for the wasteland as of yet, but the leaders of the large settlements frequently needed to discuss matters that affected all of them, such as water distribution, rebuilding infrastructure, and managing various resources.

“It’s true,” Vera confirmed. “He spends a lot of time here. He sometimes even stays at the hotel.”

“So you’ll definitely see me again.” Daniel ruffled Bryan’s hair, then left the hotel as more footsteps became audible. Kids’ footsteps, from the sound of it. Bryan turned and looked, and there were two youngsters there, a dark-haired boy a couple years older then him and a sweet-faced girl about the same age.

“Oh, hello, James, C. J.,” Vera said. “What brings the two of you here?”

“We heard your nephew was staying with you,” the boy said, speaking for the two of them. “Is that him?”

“Yes,” Vera said. “Bryan, meet James and C. J. They live here, too. Why don’t the two of you show Bryan around the ship?” She had given him the basic tour, but she knew that Bryan would enjoy seeing the ship from a kid’s perspective. And, since there were a lot of kids who had newly arrived due to the community’s recent expansion (anything sitting in a gargantuan basin full of pure, radiation-free water was going to be extremely desirable real estate), he was unlikely to be regarded as an outsider.

“All right,” James said. “Co’mon, Bryan.”

Bryan followed the two youngsters. A safe new home, good and plentiful food, a loving new parent, old friends, and now maybe new ones too, he thought. Life in Rivet City was looking better all the time.

Nice update.I enjoyed reading it.

I have not much critisism to give you, most things I would have done differently is merely a writing style issue, and thats pure a personal thing.

The things as interpunction, spacing etc. are well in order.

No chapter today, I'm still rewiring Chapter 8 (there will be 10 in all, 11 including the prologue). However, I feel I should apologize now, because I accidentally posted an old draft of this chapter. In the current version of the story, there is no central government as of yet: the need for a capital council is still several years off, and the capital building will take years to restore anyway. Daniel still periodically pops up in Rivet City, but it's to negotiate with the council over matters that affect them both. Although it's never stated, it's reasonable to assume that Mr. Burke does the same, as head of the Tenpenny settlement.

If you're new to this story, you will have no idea what I'm talking about, since I fixed the mistake already.

Grr, write more now.

In other words I like it :foodndrink:

I could've done without the child gore scene, but whatever. I guess it added to the story.

And you're only doing ten chapters :sadvaultboy: ? It's really good .

QUOTE: I could've done without the child gore scene, but whatever. I guess it added to the story.

Understood, but I kind of saw it as necessary. One thing that Fallout 3 kind of insulates you from is that the wasteland is a cruel and merciless environment for children as well as advlts, because characters under a certain age are essential. In one of her dialogs, Lucy mentions that part of her duty is to ensure that Lamplighters who don't make it to 16 get a funeral. She is doing what I am, reminding the player that everyone is in danger, even if the game's rating doesn't allow you to see it.

If it helps, I will tell you that no child in this story dies at the hands of any human being.


QUOTE: And you're only doing ten chapters :sadvaultboy: ? It's really good .

Thanks. There might be 11 or 12, I don't know. If I do have additional chapters, they'll probably be pretty short. There were only so many Lamplighters to begin with, and some just don't really need a whole big long chapter devoted to them.


A little more indulgence, if that's OK. Chapter 8 is proving more problematic than I thought

it's slightly dissapointing to know there will be only 10 chapters.

Then again, you are right, there aren't as much lamplighters, and I guess you are only telling the story of where they end up after lamplight has been deserted.

I just feel some of the characters and results you have written are interesting enough and give to possibility to tell the story of how they end up as advlts. Billy and Princess to give to obvious ones.

As always, your story, your decisions. Just saying there is more potential to certain characters than just telling where they've ended up.

Wow. Just wow.

Your talents as a writer are very impressive, and even though there were a few issues other people mentioned, I am very glad I took a glance at your link.

Very interesting story. Perhaps you are thinking of writing more stories on different areas of the wasteland as well? You know you can count on me to read them :goodjob:

Anyways keep it coming. :clap: :clap: :clap:

Loved it, so far...

It's like watching someone who's just beaten Fallout 2 let you watch their 'ending vignette', as it were.

The most remarkable thing about the characters... is that you show people how there can be MORE to a character than what you see... because each of us only see -so- much of one individual, based upon our interactions with them. A different person gets to know a completely different aspect of an individual, when done right.

Keep up the awesomeness!

I'm definitely going to keep reading.

I was really hoping to be done by or around the 19th, since that's when we're all likely going to lose interest in Fallout 3 and the Lamplighters and start obsessing over the New Vegasans, but no such luck. However, the story is mostly done: there will be 11 chapters and an epilogue set some time later. You won't see the characters as advlts, but you will see them a short ways down the road. I hope that you guys can take a few minutes away from NV to finish reading about the ultimate fate of these obstreperous but adorable youngsters.

If I'm not too glaze-eyed from playing my own copy of NV, I will have Chapter 8 up tomorrow. It was difficult, but I worked it out. Chapters 9-11 and the Epilogue should quickly follow.