Now I'm Learning to Love the Wasteland

James

Springvale was a breath away from Vault 101, less than a day's walk from Megaton. Memories came flooding in from when I made the trek all the way from Rivet City with my baby and a young Brotherhood knight at my side. A then sprightly Old Lady Palmer had been sent outside to see if it was “safe” yet.

It wasn't, it still wasn't, and it never would be.

I was in Moriarty's Saloon. Wilde crying in my arms. She'd been crying ever since her mother went into cardiac arrest, it seemed. Like she knew all the world's sins and what had been lost. What had been taken. When Palmer approached me, whispering that her Vault was in dire need of someone with my experience, Wilde quieted. That's how I knew to follow.

“Er, Remington...” I said now, shivering exhausted against the wind, “I can't be this close to town... If my daughter were to return...”

The young man comforted me as he picked up a tattered rug behind a dusted counter inside what used to be a local Diner. He draped the rug over his motorbike, “We ain't gonna be long, sir. Not so much as a merchant bothers with Springvale. And besides--”

Remington took down a framed dollar from the aged wall. He pressed a bright red button decidedly with his fist. His half-heartedly manicured beard twitched with a bashful smile,

“--I learned from the very best how to find the good hiding spots.”

The metal flooring behind the counter shifted to reveal a long, wide staircase. Remington winked with a snaggle-tooth grin at me as he carefully centered the framed dollar back over the wall and clomped his way into the depths. I followed.

“Now, by my accountin'...” Remington brayed as he slammed another switch below to shut the shelter doors, “Your daughter's probably headed towards Galaxy News in the heart of the city, or she's already there. So it's my professional opinion: we steer far out from the city and the Mall. ...Also, due to some ...personal conflicts... I am no longer allowed in any major cities in the D.C. Area.”

“Are you a violent person, Remington?” I frowned. Did this 'Mei Wong' deceive me, did I decieve myself? I understood killing was necessary for survival just as much as anyone, but had I saddled up with a bloody-handed fiend behind the friendly mask? If that was so, we in more trouble than I thought.

“No, sir. I am an honest person. And that's more offensive to Washington than anything else.”

I breathed and took a seat on an old, overstuffed couch. The handstitched poncho covering the back was newer--dusty with orange-reds and lavender.

“Ol' Leadeye and Blindbelly Jones made me that to remind me of the desert sunsets. I miss Los.”

Remington offered me a bottle of clean water and a stimpak from a miniature fridge. I took them shakily.

Remington draped the poncho over my shoulders, “Hey. It's going to be alright. And if you need to cry, you go on ahead and do that.” He said oddly while he hung his hat on a crooked nail over my head, “All the best heroes cry.”

I thought of my daughter again. Bundled up in pale blue, her tiny hand clutching at my armored labcoat. Wailing in the cold gray light. And I did feel the need to cry, but I found I could not. Instead, I nodded in thanks with a weary smile. I lost my grief by further observing the underground shelter. Weapons and supplies unlike any I'd seen hung on a handmade rack directly across from me. A life-size cardboard cutout of a lanky looking cowboy propped up nearby startled me.

“Sunset Sarsparilla. The most popular beverage in the West! E-S-T 1918.” Remington sang as he cleared off a cluttered workbench at the east end of the cramped space, “Don't mind Festus, he's never done any harm.”

Remington motioned at my wrist. “Alright, let's take a look-see at that Pipboy.”

I unsnapped my once trustworthy device from my right hand and gave it to the man with the strange habit of naming ambient objects. Remington inspected it, whistling. He turned back to his workbench.

“Left-handed, huh? This is a bulky old model. Things are really rare.” Remington muttered to himself, “Damn shame.”

I was distracted by a large, hollowed out gumball machine in the corner near the workbench. He was growing plants in it, with a homemade heat lamp and a strangely rigged up filter with little plastic tubes running all through the rusted out base.

“Remington, where did you get that filtration system? It's ingenious.” I asked.

“I found a tiny one in a vault somewheres, rigged it right up.”

I trembled with the realization. This man was more than a ride and a gun. This man was a savant. My excitement was quickly interjected, however. I jumped and exclaimed at the sound of a ball peen hammer getting smashed nonchalantly through my Pipboy's old screen.

“We'll keep the frame.” Remington said, still laidback, “But the innards are lost. Sorry.”

“I need it... I-I can't possibly go on without...” My notes. My wife and child's voices on the small holotapes I kept on my person at all times. I realized I might never hear them again.

“I ripped a list of every vault location in this damnable place from their regional headquarters. We might can find one if we follow that trail.”

“Yes.” I said immediately, “Yes, that sounds promising.” I couldn't tell Remington until I fully trusted him, but I understood now. I understood why Mei Wong left me in Andale with nothing more than a flare and a tentative promise. If Project Purity was to be revived from its ashes, I'd have to search the Vaults. I needed this funny little man.

“Alright, let's go, then.” I started to get up.

“Now, hold on a Bloatfly pickin' minute. You're gonna need a rest and at least a few stimpaks before we step out. You're a wreck. No offense.”

I fell back into the sofa, my body shouting with electric currents. He was right.

“But.... I can't stop here. I have to keep going.” I felt like crying. I felt like dying. And all the same, I was terrified of both. There was so much left to do, I could not afford the luxury of 'rest'.

“You're gonna have to catch a break somewheres. I may as well start.” Remington coughed, grabbing up his guitar, “One time I was ridin' my motorbike. I was going down a mountain road. I was doing 150 miles an hour, I reckon. On one side of the mountain road there was a mountain. And on the other side, there was nothing--there was just a cliff in the air. But I wasn’t payin’ attention, you know.. I was just driving down the road...”

Charon

“Hey... uh, Charon, right?” A ranger called from the corner of a large, round table, “We're dealing for a game of Caravan. You in?”

“I don't play.” I said simply, not so much as looking up from cleaning Wilde's rifle. I worked.

“Shit, Ghoul doesn't catch a breather anywhere, does he?” Brick snickered as she threw some caps down.

Reilly laughed from her seat, Wilde's Pipboy in her hand, “I can't believe it! The smartypants spelled my name wrong in all her entries.”

“You really shouldn't be going through that stuff, Rye.” Another ranger quipped.

“Hey, she went looking through my terminal without asking. This is fair payback.”

“What's in there? Do those contraptions have games?” Brick asked.

Reilly shook her head, “Just journals after journals, it looks like. A lot about...” The leader of the gang eyed me furtively, smiled. Faded before a minute could pass. She shut the Pipboy off. Electric green glow left her now hardened features. Brick made a grab for it; stopping when Reilly told her sternly to back off.

The leader excused herself. I had a faint idea why. It stung, but I focused on Wilde's rifle instead. The serial numbers across it were strange, next to a symbol I'd never seen out here, but could weakly remember.

boston, Philly was gasping shredded meat, splintered glass in my head. I worked harder, until it was the only thing I could focus on.

Wilde

Reilly was waiting for me outside the entrance of the showers.

“Hey! Did you get that mapping data you needed?” My smile faltered when I noticed the concern—grim lines now deepened the shadows in her usually warm face.

“Sure did.” She said. Her voice sounded short.

“Be careful with the subway lines, there's ferals everywhere.” I said, trying to keep things light.

“Yeah. Speaking of Ferals.”

Oh, here we go. “You looked through my personal things, I take it?”

“Are you sure this is wise? I know you're tough, but he shot his last employer in the head. And the contract thing...”

“I've thought about that. And been warned about it. Multiple times, actually. Thanks, but would you kindly step out of the doorway?”

Reilly sighed gently as she moved out of the small doorframe, “You know, your stubborness isn't going to protect you like armor does.”

“Well, gee. It's a good thing I have armor, then!” I bustled past her in the tiny hallway.

“I'm serious, Wanderer. This is may be too heavy. Even for you. Don't let that kind streak keep getting you into trouble.”

“Kindness is the only thing that separates us from monsters.” And I refused to let this world turn me into one. Besides, I was capable of far more than niceties, just as I knew Charon was capable of more than violence. The key was choice. He just had to realize that.

“I'm telling you as a friend. That attitude's gonna bite you in the ass. ”

“Well, it's fortunate I've got ammo, too.”

"Ammo's fuck all when you've caught feelings, Wilde!"

I didn't have a comeback. Just a wiry, hot lump in my throat at the realization that the Ranger was right.

Charon

“You've returned.” I said quietly, more to myself than for her. I felt an alien kind of joy that she was still smiling, unflinching confidence in my presence as she settled down in the bunk bed across from mine, snapping her Pipboy back into place on her left wrist. Dogmeat left my side for hers momentarily.

Wilde patted the mutt's head gently. “Of course.”

“Last chance for newcomers.” Brick called. “Wilde?”

The boss was sifting through her pack, attempting to take stock of its contents, “No, thanks! Maybe later.”

Reilly rejoined her crew at the table. She seemed hardened with resolve by something. Once she had her cards in order and her caps thrown out, I knew:

“So, Fightin’ Irish… what do you miss most from before the war?”

All casual conversation and smiles drained from the room. Wilde looked up from her Pipboy in the Ranger's direction, stricken and livid. Reilly was grinning like a cat who'd just drug a giant rat from the bag.

She wanted me to crack. I recalled Ahzrukhal, hell even Barrows, doing similar things. Like there was a kind of ugly Secret, a code they needed hidden behind my teeth. So they'd throw up nonsense words when the bar was quiet and the doors were shut. I'd always forget them. The dreams, they stuck. There was nothing I could do about that. But now the When didn't hurt as much as I thought it would--not as bad as thoughts that leaked in with shoulder pains.

No, it'd take a lot more than some smoothskin's probing to break me. Especially when there was good work to do.

“I miss... funnel cake.” I said finally, plainly.

Wilde smiled from behind chewing at a fingernail. Brick was the first to let out a laugh, cackling, with the rest of the team joining in.

“Well, alright. Smartass.” Reilly said. I winked at Wilde. It was nice to see the bunker get a little brighter, with Roy Brown playing crystal clear in the background. No one hopped out on chems or miserably drunk. The war in my head could keep cold another day.

Laughter turned to fractured conversation, and then quiet. Three Dog could be heard talking about the Boss' father, questioning why he left. Three Dog was trying to say very little and instead make light of it all, as was his way, “What went on down there? Vacation? Revolution? Somebody fart?”

I could practically feel the sinking pit in Wilde's soft stomach despite the space in between us. As everyone else began to retire for the night, she still seemed shaken.

“You're going to find him.” I spoke up, after a long internal debate on whether or not my words could offer any sort of comfort.

“I know.” She replied in a hushed tone, “It mostly hurts that he left for Project Purity... he could've told me. Why didn't he let me help him?”

She took a deep breath. I didn't have any answer to that. I barely had the answers for myself as it was.

“Maybe my father was right. ...Before I met you, I told a fellow something about himself. I told him the truth. Because I thought it was the right thing to do. He gave me that rifle you're cleaning in thanks, but I can still see the pain on his face. And I can never take that back. Maybe I'm too implusive. Maybe… maybe I’m not good enough.”

“No use getting tangled up in old hurt.” I replied, “You're trying. Let the rest go.”

“I-- Thank you.” She said, “What about you? Riley's outburst was... unacceptable.” She shook her head.

“It's nothin', Barrows and Ahz were hinting at it for years.”

“It is far from nothing. Why didn't they tell you?”

“They were... frightened of me, I think. Seems everyone is.”

“I'm not.” She said quietly, “I just didn't want to hurt you.”

I recalled the way she smiled when we met. How every time I was struggling, she looked ready to reach out. Ahzrukhal had taken chunks of me away to dig at later. Barrows, however friendly he was, treated me like a test subject stuck in a tube. Something you could only help when the gloves were on.

The irony that the first soul to treat me like an equal also held my contract didn't escape me. But it was clearer now: Wilde was the best hope. Not to fix my mind, nobody could do that. She was the one willing to standby. And that meant more than I could ever allow myself to express. Instead, I could only tell her what she wanted to hear, and what I was starting to believe:

“You're not good enough. You're better.”

It sounded clumsy coming out of my mouth, but it brought a hint of glow to her face and got her back to something close to normalcy. That was all that mattered. As she hummed along with the radio, I couldn't help but wiggle a foot along. Her presence was growing on me. Hopeless and stupid. It was like standing near a barrel of radiation—unnerving how much comfort I found in it.

Ahzrukhal's watery wheezing behind my ears, “Don't you remember, boy? Everything you care for will be ripped away, and it'll be your fault. I'm trying to help you.”

No. He would not win. Not today, not ever. Not even from beyond his damnable grave. I tried reigniting hatred, anger. Distance through disdain. Complete failure. Dogmeat'd curled up near me and Wilde was yawning that it was time to turn in.

With the click of the Pipboy light came silence. With silence came the threat of memories. I wasn't about to let myself dream again. I left the compound quietly. The Contract yelled within to stay, that I was Breaking the Rules, but I wormed my way out of it. Reilly's compound was secure, a whole crew of friendlies rested in other bunks, I would be back as soon as the sunlight hit.

It wasn't until the night air hit my wartorn face that I realized this was the first time I'd been totally, utterly alone by my own volition. Awkward and anxious at first. Like a shut down escalator in the middle of an antsy crowd. I lit a cigarette shakily, marched. Found some molerats in the nearby alley to devote my attention. But what did I do when they were all dead and gone, when all I was left with was silence?

Enemy of my enemy.

I found the nearest subway entrance and descended. I wasn't there to kill the ferals, no. They'd leave me alone. Their forms still scared me, even when they were innocuously scratching and laying about. It was probably an insane thought, but somehow powering through the fear in places like this (I was not them, I would never let myself be them) helped.

For a time, anyways. A bothersome blip of a memory ushered in with the flicker of an emergency light on the track nearby: hands are clean but the iron smell of blood is raw and close in its assault. hair on my fingers in clumps. these monsters are all lined up on either side of the long passage to kill me, they're going to kill me. but they do nothing. i'm coughing out breaths in like a broken exhaust and i'm ripping at a silver chain around my neck. my shoulder is all red. the skin peels from under the dried crusty brown of a shirt i'm pulling away. my voice is scared and crying and cracked like the thoughts in my head. i'm crying for philly and yelling for frank but there's no sound. why isn't it healing. why are they staring

how long? 23rd october. thats the last day i remember cause its when the bombs fell. we felt them. all the way down here. they really did it. they ended the world. on my fucking birthday jesus christ

i'm changing the password. trying to ignore my hands, shaking. bleeding now, skinless. 76 subjects, 13 researchers. i was going to die here. frank's gravelly voice 'no, you're already dead.' this is doctor alexander khaulman, boys. not even a goddamned paperclip. the vault door is sealing with a scream. i look back once. there's no numbers on it at all--

Two soft tones from above. “Your attention, please: Report any suspicious activity to the nearest security personnel. Thank you for choosing D.C. Transit.” If I could find the source of the recording, I might've shot it. Some of the ferals nearby howled, sniffing deliriously before going back to mindless gnawing and flinging through rubble.

I took a deep breath. Too long in this sick chamber. Had to go up for air.

The same tones from before, “Help keep The Capital clean. Throw all trash into the nearest receptacle.”

“Yeah, yeah, I hear ya.” I waved a dismissive hand towards the ceiling and turned heel for the entrance.

---

It was still dead night by the time I returned. I was surprised to find Wilde awake, sitting up in the dark and turning knobs on her Pipboy, her face scrunched up with intent.

I dared to ask, “What are you doing?” I would've taken a seat at my bunk, but Dogmeat had claimed it. Snoring fierce.

“Playing Red Menace. Sh, shhhh... shit.” Wilde scooted to the right, inviting me to sit with a half-aware nod. I did so, but not unlike a battered mongrel might reach for a gentle hand.

I could feel myself trying to become as small as possible, my hands curled upon my knees with my back hunched in way that was borderline cartoonish. Wilde looked comfortable, cross-legged. One glance at the freshly bleeding nail on her left thumb, though, made it clear she was not.

“Bad dream.” It was less a question, more an acknowledgement we were in the same sinking boat. Armed with two buckets with holes at the bottom. Rotted oars.

She turned off the Pipboy and rubbed at her forehead with a soft hand.

“I woke up seeing Reddin. The way she just threw herself...” Wilde shook her head and trailed off, then twisted around to blink at me. Her gaze was so sharp and so bright, even in the depths of darkness. When the boat was broken, she'd be the one showing everyone how to swim. This thought was a scoffable weakness any other day, but now it brought warmth.

“What about you?” She asked.

“Went for a walk.” I answered quickly. I didn't intend to say anything more. But I backtracked, slowed, and found myself asking, “Wilde ....Is there such thing as a Vault with no number?”

The shocked blink passed quicker than I thought it might. Then came the knit eyebrows and the disappearing bottom lip in concentration.

“No? As far as I'm aware, Vault-Tec always numbered their experiments and kept records.”

“Experiments?”

A little nervously, “Not exactly a comforting thought, I'm sure you're aware.”

“What'd they do to you?” I asked. It was more welcoming than I could say. I hadn't been able to confirm if anything I could recall was real.

“I think... they wanted to see how long they could keep the door closed. Not everyone had it so easy. But from what I've learned, the Overseer failed at that before I could even walk.”

“Whole damn world failed the day they decided treating people like lab rats was a good idea.” I grumbled.

“That's no reason to quit fighting.”

“I didn't say nothin' about that.” I was the one to smile at her now, laughing quietly. If there was one thing I knew how to do when everything else went to hell, it was fight. She glowed right back.

A rare kind of peace was with us. Safety. For once, I was content to share it with her.

“I'm going to fire you one day, you know.” Wilde yawned. Then, in the highest confidence, “You’ll be alone. You’ll go where you want. And you're going to be okay.”

The statement terrified me—but which part? The prospect of freedom, of change? Or the thought of losing purpose?

Losing this, the thought slipped through the wall I’d worked so hard to build. Unease and comfort blended together underneath my stony skin. Even now, as Wilde settled down and fell asleep, my inner dogs were fighting. War.

I held on to consciousness as long as I could, there in the gripping, sweet dark. But much like death, sleep took us all, one way or another.

James

“And it was at that very moment that I looked down at my hands and saw the pickle was bein’ beamed up alongside me. That I knew for sure that, that I didn't want a pickle--”

I raised my hand to the Cowboy in the middle of his off-key little story. His gentle strumming stopped.

“It was only a fistful of caps.” That nagging detail still perplexed me. “I don't mean to insult your intelligence, but you realize that's... nothing?”

“You don't get to the grand prize by counting coins. Am surprised I gotta tell a feller in a labcoat that. Then again, maybe I shouldn't be.”

“I'm sorry?” I laughed. So cryptic for someone so simple, “What?”

Remington returned to his melody, humming low. In a matter of minutes, to my own shock, I was singing along. I felt more comfortable than I could remember.

The right path. All over again. It would change, as things often did. But here was where I needed to be now.

“Don't you worry, Dad. There's gold at the end of alla this.”

I already knew. I thanked him, regardless.

Penny

Rory never abandoned us. Fretful kind of fool he was, he might’ve been late, but he showed up. He fought harder and meaner than I’d ever seen him that day. I don’t know what possessed him, but it had bite. I didn’t think he’d have it in his guts. That was partly why I blew my cover to help him.

Not that it did much. He’d dropped his gun as soon as a dog nipped at his heels, and the water he brought us religiously for years went flying. For all his mustered might, Rory ended up collared and fallen in line with the rest of us kids.

Sometimes we fought, and sometimes we lost. It was an ugly and unfair thought, but it was the truth. I had known nothing about the world claiming otherwise.

Ahead of me as we marched, (well, it was more of a shuffle, we were so tired) the new kid was sniveling, shaking. (His name? what was his name? one of the slavers hit me with some kind of flashing light and zapping noise I’d forgotten) One slaver screamed at him to hush. It must’ve been the same one to zap me in the struggle, I thought. He wore something like an eyebot on his fist, whirring funny.

“Ssh, sh.” I dared nudge the new boy, silent and gentle. The booger, half my height, pulled himself together. That was relief. We needed to stick together as long as possible. We needed to watch our heads and steps to fight.

I just prayed I had strength to keep fighting. I was trying, looking for a crack in their ranks or my gun anywhere. But just knowing where we were all going—lined up single file with the dirty men and their open fanged dogs bearing down on either side, with the funny little plastic collar around my sweaty neck--the odds of me having fight left by the time we reached Paradise Falls were getting slimmer than none.

Charon

Slimey on the face. Licking. I groaned, my eyes screwing tighter in disgust.

“Offa me, dog.” I grunted. I scratched behind the mutt’s ears despite my tone. My mind still refused to function damn near enough to want to open my eyes yet. Above all, it was Wilde’s laughter that pushed me to join the living once more. I sat up, wincing as my head lightly bonked the top bunk and cracking the bones in my neck.

“Come on, Mr. ‘I don’t sleep’,” The Boss teased as she secured a strap of armor to her chest, “I’d like to head out for Rivet City before noon, at least.”

I shook myself upright and blinked awake, wiping at my marred face as Dogmeat panted happily off the bunk and over to the poker table to hunt for scraps.

“Ya’ll be wary, now.” Brick paused between forkfuls of scrambled eggs, “Wilde flirts with death.”
Wilde winked at me as she countered, “Oh, you’re one to talk, Brick.”

The way her hips moved along to the radio was oddly captivating, I had to struggle to forget about it. I stood and lit a cigarette while she and Brick swatted playfully at each other with words. Thanked whatever God my face was already red. Cracked my knuckles. To work.

There was something warmer in the air while we gathered our pack, weapons, and headed for the narrow staircase leading out of the cold bunker. A harmony. Even Reilly was a little less leery at me before we left. Not that it would affect me, of course.

Only one thought could, now.

i’m going to fire you one day

I winced. The thick metal door of the bunker and out to the Wastes veered open. Dogmeat slipped out first, excitedly rolling in the dusty alley for just a moment. I popped a Rad-X. Overcast and, yup, still ugly. Wilde’s radio clicked on and played soft. The voices of Reilly’s rangers calling their goodbyes from below were faraway and veiled in a fizzy static I’d learned to cope with for years. Even my limbs, my self, felt unfamiliar. The only thing that felt real was the weight of my shotgun. Ran my thumb across the carved end again.

you’ll go where you want. and you’re going to be okay.

But I was finding the desire to stay. What then?

I shook it away like those hell-awful dreams, forcing myself to tunnel vision on the present. For her sake, I hoped we could find Wilde’s father in Rivet City smoothly.

We wouldn’t, the longer we walked I was aware, but I hoped.

And hope makes a man stupid.