http://i38.photobucket.com/albums/e130/achtungbaby162/sometime.jpg
(I can't post images using the [img] tags!)
Sometime In The Capital Wasteland

Chapter I

In the cantina of the Brotherhood of Steel Halcyon Bunker, Paladin Derwood was eating breakfast. He hated the taste of pork and beans in the morning, but it was all that was left. The field troops had rightfully taken the best food with them, leaving the Halcyon residents with cheap Wasteland meals. It was alright, though. At least there was enough for everybody, and that's a lot more than can be said for the rest of the Brotherhood settlements.

Derwood had just come back from the Citadel. He hadn't slept in days - the meeting with his high-ranking colleagues had lasted over forty-eight hours - but he wasn't feeling sleepy at all. Insomnia was common among the defenders of humanity.

"You look dreadful," came a familiar voice from behind him.

He turned to see Knight Emmerich, a Brotherhood junior and one of his best friends at Halcyon.

Derwood smiled. "Thanks, pal. Coffee?"

"Call that coffee?" Emmerich quipped. "None for me, thanks. I'll just have some water."

Emmerich took a seat next to Derwood and helped himself to a glass of water. It wasn't clean, but at least it wasn't irradiated.

"So, the troops left?"

"Yeah," Derwood replied. "Saw 'em leave this morning. Sentinel Lyons assigned Paladin Hurley to lead the team, so they're in good hands. Real modern heroes, those guys."

Emmerich sighed. "You know, I've never been on a single expedition. These patrols are driving me crazy, man."

Derwood smiled. "Don't worry. Sooner or later, you'll get to be Super Mutant breakfast," he said coldly. "That's the one thing everybody in this godforsaken place has in common."

He slapped down a handful of bottle caps on the counter and stood up.

"Water's on me."

On his way back to his quarters, Derwood was stopped by a lanky, shadowy figure in a dark corner of the hallway.

"Paladin Derwood?" the man said with a raspy voice.

"Who wants to know?"

The man walked up to him, and in the first rays of daylight that came through the cracks in the walls, Derwood saw the man's cracked face.

"Ghoul!" he hissed, reaching for his handgun.

"Wait!" the Ghoul pleaded. "Don't shoot, you don't understand!"

Derwood grabbed the Ghoul and pinned him up against the wall. "What don't I understand, carcass?! How the Hell did you get in here?"

"I'm... not here... to hurt anyone," the Ghoul gurgled. "I just... want a word... with you, Paladin..."

Paladin Derwood had never been afraid of Ghouls. All of his friends had stories of how they had been brutally attacked by these ragged men and women out in the Wasteland and everyone in the Brotherhood was trained to hate them. Raised to hate them. But Derwood figured that beneath their horrible exterior, these creatures were still human in a way. And there are different sides to every human.

He released his grip. The Ghoul coughed a couple of times and then looked him squarely in the eye again.

"I truly haven't come here to hurt you."

"Then what's your business here?" Derwood asked, withdrawing his weapon.

"My name is Shanks, and I represent the Wasteland Survival Guard," the Ghoul explained.

Derwood raised his eyebrow. "The what?"

"The Survival Guard is a group of people like me...," Shanks' face saddened. "People without a place to sleep at night. People who are no longer among the living, but not quite among the dead either."

"In other words, just another bunch of Ghouls livin' in the subway stations?" Derwood spoke mockingly.

"Not just Ghouls, Paladin. We accept all kinds of outcasts. I know that's uncommon in these parts. But while humanity is occupied with keeping the rich and the beautiful out of harms way, we look out for those your people do not wish to protect."

Derwood pointed his gun at Shanks' face again. "If you've come here to lecture me, Ghoul, then you're wasting your time! And mine!"

"Easy, now," Shanks said nervously. "I'm sorry, I'm a bit of a pvssyr sometimes. I'm here to ask you something on behalf of Miss Moira Brown."

At that, Derwood's eyes widened and his expression changed from angry to surprised. "Moira?"

"You know her, don't you? She said you do," the Ghoul continued. "Anyway, she wanted you to meet her at our headquarters in Grunge Town."

"What?! How do you know Moira Brown?"

"Are you kiddin' me? Captain Moira Brown is the leader of the Survival Guard!" the Ghoul explained.

Derwood couldn't believe it. Moira Brown, the beautiful, innocent, crazy-in-a-cute-way Moira Brown was associated with these post-human freaks!

"Why would pretty Moira hang out with... you guys?" Derwood asked, hoping for a completely logical reason.

The Ghoul chuckled. "You definitely haven't seen her in a while, have you? She's no prettier than I am, chief."

Very nice. Your grammer's good, but I want to make sure of something. In this sentance ""My name is Shanks, and I represent the Wasteland Survival Garde," the Ghoul explained." Were you trying to spell guard or is that how it is supposed to be said.

Clearly, I wasn't thinking when I wrote that. It should read "Guard" now. Thanks for catching it.

Thanks for reading, also!

Chapter II
In an old shack out in the Wasteland, a couple of miles away from Halcyon, Wastelander Elliott Dodds woke up from a long slumber. He reached for his backpack and grabbed a pack of Sugar Bombs. He could hardly remember crashing down here the night before. It was all a bit foggy.

He got out of bed and it was only then that he noticed the dead body on the floorboards next to the bed. That's what that smell was, he thought. It was the body of a young man - late twenties, caucasian, dead as a doornail. It didn't take a doctor to figure out what killed him, though. The entire back of his head was gone, as if it had been chewn away or blown off by a double barrel shotgun. There was blood, but not nearly as much as you'd expect to spill from a wound like that. This man had been killed elsewhere.

Elliott Dodds started searching the man's pockets for clues. And caps. He only found eight bottle caps and a note:

Notice to all Good Men and Women seeking Lawful Bounties in the Capital Wastes:

Let it be known that the murderous person known as Elliot Dodds of fair complexion and average height is offered for bounty, either dead or alive, in the sum of 1,000 caps or similar compensation of expended equipment and/or medical expense.

Elliot Dodds is considered armed and extremely dangerous. The apprehending person should exercise special caution, as the bountied personage is noted for an uncommon aptitude with short range firearms.

Offered for bounty. Extremely dangerous.

"What the Hell?!" he exclaimed. "Thought you could make a quick buck, eh? Thought you were smart?" he went kicking the body. Whoever this man was and whoever had killed him, it was good that he was dead.

He went to the refrigerator and took out a bottle of milk. He put the bottle cap in his pocket. "Bounty hunters..." he mumbled after taking a few gulps.

Elliott Dodds was in his mid-thirties. He'd been a Wastelander for years, ever since he left his hometown of Canterbury Commons. Even though for all intents and purposes he was a loner now, he had been a real family man in the past. The only company he kept nowadays was a dog called Barfly, although he never let the animal sleep inside anywhere.

Arf! Arf!

"Easy buddy!" Elliott said. "Easy, now!"

Arf! Arf!

He opened the door to untie Barfly, who was jumping around on the porch. He didn't particularly like the animal - he was more of a cat person, anyway - but it was common knowledge that dogs provide some protection in the Wasteland. For some reason, Super Mutants and wild animals were always a tad more reluctant to attack if their opponents were also in the company of beasts. And in any case, they'd always try and kill the dog first.

"We gotta hurry up now, buddy," Elliott said. "You like milk? 'Cause there's nothing else, I'm afraid."

He poured Barfly a bowl of milk and waited for the dog to finish it. He looked at the dead body on the floor, and tried to make sense of it. Elliott didn't remember killing him at all. He remembered killing a bunch of Raiders and some of those mole rats on the way to this deserted hut, but not this man. This wasn't a Raider or a Wastelander. This man looked more sophisticated, somehow. Aside from having no brain, of course. This was either a Slaver or somebody from the Enclave.

He checked the man's pockets again to make sure. No identification anywhere. No wallet, no license. Nothing. The man's jacket was ripped and torn, but it was clearly one of those expensive bullet proof vests that they only sell in the larger settlements.

"Should've worn a helmet, too, you freak," Elliott commented, before covering the body with the sheets from the bed.

"Let's go, Barfly," he said, turning to the dog. "Grunge Town is only a couple of hours away."

Good job, This is a good fan fic that I will keep my eye on.

Thanks, man! This won't be as long as some other works I've seen around here. I'm just having fun writing this story and it makes it even more worthwhile if people enjoy reading it too!

Very interesting, but I dont recognize most of the places you've mentioned so far. Does this take place outside of the Capital Wasteland? Is it a different time? Whats going on here? Though I guess that increases the suspense a little.

Dont get me wrong though. I'll keep an eye on this story.

Yes, the two locations are indeed "fictional", but I've always had the feeling there's a lot yet to be discovered in the Wasteland. I tried to explain a bit about the setting by mentioning ghoulified Moira. Do note that this does not adhere to canon, but rather hopefully provides some insight in what I think *could* happen.

If that makes any sense at all...