You Don't Always Forget With Time - Fallout 3

Chapter 4 - Reality

A/N - Um...long time no hear from, huh? I'm going to be honest, I never thought that I'd come back to this story. In fact, I'm surprised that I'm even uploading this but I'm just going through some of my files and uploading things that seem mostly finished. This chapter was done and just sitting there...gathering dust. I had to post it. This doesn't mean that I'll get regular with the updates but I remember that I had gotten back into Fallout 3 a while back and started writing after re-reading my old chapters. Call me sentimental but this was my first story on the site and I just want to add this to it once it was done. So...yeah. Hope you like it.

-o0o-

The Lone Wanderer shut off the recording program on his Pip-Boy and immediately set himself into motion. With an almost singleminded determination, he went about the self made dwelling that he calls home and began arming himself for the Wastes. A worn but well cared for suit of reinforced leather armor was taken out of a locker and adorned with practiced ease. It was his own invention made to offer more protection than the standard leather armor found in the Wasteland while remaining lighter and easier to move about in than Combat armor. On top of it, the Wanderer put on the trademark duster of the Regulators made unique by the dull blue and yellow "101" stitched on both the left side of the jacket near his chest and again on the shoulder of his right arm.

As much as he claims not to care about his former home, the Vault has become an irreplaceable part of his identity. The Wanderer could not imagine leaving any of his many safe houses scattered across the Capitol Wasteland without acknowledgement of it.

Properly clothed and armored, he moves to another nearby locker to collect the weapons he would be taking with him on this journey. After a brief moment of hesitation, the Wanderer decides to take only two guns and a combat knife holstered in his right boot. Slung across his shoulders goes a modified Chinese Assault Rifle repaired to nearly pristine condition and outfitted with a scavenged sniper rifle scope and a traditional iron sight moved on the barrel on a forty-five degree angle. This allows for accuracy at both long and close range and all he has to do is tilt the gun to switch his sighting. The Wanderer is very proud of his work with this gun and is sure that there is none like it in all of this post apocalyptic world.

Or at least, in the one he knows.

The Wanderer has seen enough to know that there are some things so above his comprehension that anything he creates in his spare time could have a better somewhere in some time. His experiences in that Brotherhood Outcast combat simulation, during the charge to retake Project Purity and Tranquility Lane were prime examples in his mind. Even though it was the most relevant example, the Wanderer pointedly did not want to think about the Mothership. That place was horrendous even for him.

For his second weapon, the Wanderer selected a simple scoped magnum, unique only in its near pristine condition. In all honesty, this could be said of every weapon the Wanderer owns. Repairing and maintaining all of his weapons is something he does often and is one of the primary ways that he spends his downtime. The magnum is placed in a holster on his hip.

After grabbing a sizable amount of ammunition, the Wanderer turns and leaves out his front door, muttering incoherently to himself all the while. Now that he is armed and armored, doubts about his decision start to plague him. Why go back to the Vault that kicked him out? It's clear that they have nothing but contempt for him. Amata was the only one who didn't and that went up in smoke the moment he killed Alphonse. Besides, Amata has likely long since forgotten him. Ten years is a long time.

But he hasn't forgotten her. He couldn't forget his only childhood friend and quite frankly the only woman he's ever loved so easily. Of course, there have been others since he left the Vault. Some of those relationships were more serious than others but none of them really worked out. Jenny Stahl, Lucy West, Sarah Lyons, that girl Cherry he escorted to Rivet City, Nova...hell, even Bittercup once or twice when she got a few years older and filled out a bit. The Wanderer truly made an effort to move on with his life but they all either wanted something that he couldn't give or it was the other way around.

The Wanderer harbors no ill will towards any of the women he's been with since he's been in the Wastes and still counts them all among his friends. Sometimes with occasional benefits. But it just wasn't the same as what he had with Amata. Even if they never slept with each other, the Wanderer just couldn't forget how perfectly matched their personalities were to each other. They balanced each other out and had such an easy companionship that he has never experienced before or since. Even the deluge of followers that he's amassed over the years did not fill the void that Amata's absence left in his heart.

Not that it's any of your goddamn business, of course.

That's what the Wander would say if presented with any of these observations. Contrary to popular belief, the Lone Wanderer is not a master wordsmith and he never had been. Amata was the one who could talk them out of anything in the Vault, not him. His charisma was rooted more so in his force of personality than in his ability to turn a phrase. Threatening people was more of the Wanderer's style though he has shown himself to be capable of diplomacy in extreme circumstances.

The Wanderer will always express himself in the most direct and honest way that he can in nearly every situation. He tends to struggle with complex emotions and wears his heart boldly on his sleeve whether he knows it or not. So all of this speculation is just that: speculation. When the Wanderer figures out why he feels compelled to do something, he'll let you know. No sooner and no later.

A person well versed in the man's history could likely figure out why he does some of the things that he does, but there are very few of those people still alive to tell you. Even now, I am just a figment of the Wanderer's mind objectively telling his last story with as little bias as possible. In fact, I'd be most interested in how you came across this account as I am buried deep within the Wanderer's subconscious and should be inaccessible - even to him.

But that could wait, I suppose.

Meanwhile, the Lone Wanderer had exited the safe house and began walking around to the side of the small two story shack to an attached shed like structure. It is here that the Wanderer unveils one of the true treasures of the Capitol Wasteland: a working motorcycle.

It had taken him the better part of two years to get it working and it constantly needs repairs, but the Wanderer had a truly impressive knack for fixing things. He also had plenty of time on his hands for the job as he did nothing if he didn't want to do it. He moved at his own pace and can be more stubborn than an angry brahmin at times. He had simply set his mind to fixing up one of the many bikes littered across the Wasteland one day and just worked on it until it was done. The end result is what is likely the only operable land vehicle in the entire Capitol Wasteland. If he was proud of his rifle, then the Wanderer absolutely loved his bike.

Opening a small hatch on the back of the vehicle, the wanderer pulls out a faded white bandana and a relatively clean pair of biker goggles. He puts the bandana on covering the entire top of his head followed by the goggles over his eyes before hopping on his bike and starting the ignition. With a roar that could be heard for miles, the ancient machine comes to life and the Wanderer quickly speeds off in the general direction of Megaton and Vault 101.

During the entire ride, the Wanderer's ceaseless mutterings did not stop. There was a reason why he had never gone back to the Vault before now and those reasons were all rushing to the forefront of his mind. Those fuckers hated him and blamed him for all the people who died when he made his escape. Hell, he killed their Overseer. There's no way in hell they would just let him in, even if all he wanted to do was see Amata. He had less than no interest in the Vault other than her at this point in his life and the rest of the inhabitants of Vault 101 could all collectively go fuck themselves for all the Wanderer could care. However, the bottom line remains that it was unlikely that he would ever be let back in.

Normally the familiar thoughts would stop him in his tracks and force him to turn around out of sheer logic. They wouldn't let him in and since he wouldn't try and force his way in, there was no point in even attempting it. But it didn't happen today. Today, the Wanderer would finally pick up his balls and face Amata some way or another. Even if she would never look at him the same way he had always looked at her, the man just wanted his friend back. If that was all he'd get, then he'd take it. He wouldn't push for more but he would push a bit to get the chance to talk to her. The funny thing about it all was that all it took was Moira's persistence in getting him to record a set of memoirs to reignite his desire to reconnect with his childhood friend and crush.

He had to chuckle a bit at that thought. Moira was such a sweet woman and he truly has become fond of her over the years. He would never admit it but he finds her antics to be beyond cute. The Wanderer had even tried to make a pass at her years ago but she was so oblivious about the whole thing that it all but extinguished his desire to bed her. It felt like he would be taking advantage of the woman and he had no desire to ever harm her. Instead, the Wanderer took on a sort of brotherly role in her life and always made sure she was alright...and that she didn't blow Megaton up with her crazy experiments. When she asked him to record a memoir of sorts for a book she was writing on prominent wasteland figures he couldn't say no. He honestly had nothing better to do and this was infinitely easier than the last book he helped her with.

Motorcycle rumbling, the Wanderer passed Megaton in a cloud of dust and followed the pre-war roads all the way up through Springvale. He passed the formerly raider filled school that he cleared out years ago and carefully rode his way up the hill he knew led to the hidden entrance of Vault 101. A wave of nostalgia hit the Wanderer as he parked his ride near the scenic overlook that stood just outside the door. He took his goggles off and looked out to the crumbling ruins of what was once our nation's capitol and marveled a little at the sight. This had been the first glimpse he ever had of the land he now calls home.

Even partially destroyed, the landscape still has its own morbid sense of beauty. Enough so that the Wanderer felt a slight hitch in his breath as he took in the sight, feeling once again like that scared nineteen year old who was forced to escape from the Vault so long ago.

Amid it all, the Washington Monument still stood defiantly and proud amongst all of the broken stone and rusted metal that makes up the wastes. A metaphor for humanity as a whole in his mind. Even though he couldn't see it, the Wanderer knew that at the top of the spire sat an old satellite dish from the old Virgo II lunar lander. A dish that emitted tales of hope and empowerment from the mouth of an eccentric radio jockey to the people of this desolate place. A voice that he personally ensured would continue fighting his good fight no matter what.

A fight that the Wanderer sometimes yearns to be a part of again.

As much as he tries to tell himself otherwise, the Lone Wanderer still cares about a great deal of things. The Capital Wasteland will forever be a part of him, much like the Vault he is standing in front of, and he wants to see it thrive. He wants the Muties eradicated, he wants closer relations between settlements for trade and protection, he wants the roads patrolled and maintained, DC cleared out and inhabited again, and a whole lot more.

At the end of the day, the Wanderer is James' son and he truly believes in his mother's verse. It's why he worked so hard to start the purifier and why he was hell bent on utterly destroying the Enclave. The wasteland is dying of thirst and he wants the waters of life to run freely. The Aqua Pura should just be a start. The Wanderer envisions more for his home but he strangely does nothing about it. Three Dog's continuous messages on fighting the Good Fight always reaches someplace within the Wanderer that he just can't turn off, but he doesn't lift a finger to propose anything. Knowing him, he probably just doesn't want the responsibility of doing it by himself anymore.

Because let's face it, if he were to take it upon himself to wholeheartedly tackle the remaining problems of the Wasteland, he would largely be doing it alone. It's how things have always worked in the past and the Wanderer did not believe anything would change. Yes, he's made friends that he could call on in times of need but the result would remain the same.

If we were to nitpick, the Lone Wanderer is an officially recognized Knight in the Brotherhood of Steel, an informal member of Riley's Rangers, and a full fledged Regulator. At the drop of a dime, he could have the might of the three most powerful groups still active in the Wasteland crashing down upon his foes in a manner of hours. But when it comes to the more domestic issues he wants solved, he cannot escape his own shadow. Whispers of his deeds - some true and most not - have reached all corners of the Wasteland and everyone thinks him to practically be the second coming of the Vault Dweller: a man so legendary that tales of his exploits have reached across the entire country from California to DC.

They all assume that all the Wanderer needs is a marker on his Pip-Boy and that he'd make whatever problem they had go away one way or another. He was the Lone Wanderer, the Capital Wasteland's simultaneous bane and guardian and there was nothing he couldn't do. Backup or help would only get in his way so it was beat not to send any. It was infuriating, but the sad part was...

They are all right.

All he DOES need is a few map markers, a general explanation of the situation and you could consider the task done. Backup DOES tend to just get in his way and the Wanderer works far better alone. Those tales that circulate around are all based in some form of the truth so he HAS done the vast majority of the things people say he has, it's just the details that are off. Truth be told, he is practically a walking God amongst men whether he knows it or not. But does that mean he has to like being pushed to shoulder the Wasteland's problems by himself? No, it doesn't. He wants the people of the Wasteland to rely on themselves and their own strength and not just him. Until they got that message, he wasn't doing shit to help them.

Of course, it isn't like the people of the Wasteland truly know this. No matter how hard he tries to explain, the Wanderer can never get the message across as clearly as I have. As I've said, words are not his strong suit so you may get overly emotional or vague explanations that is difficult to make complete sense of. In fact, the only two people who had ever understood him perfectly were either dead or hidden beneath two tons of rock and steel.

The Wanderer finally turns away from the nostalgic scene in front of him and moves to the wooden door leading the cavern that leads into the Vault proper. He doesn't really want to, but he simply cannot stop himself from reaching out and touching it. Dry and dusty, the thin wood gives easily at his touch and swings open on rusty hinges. It screeches and creaks with age and disuse but it opens cleanly enough to reveal the inky blackness of the cavern.

The Wanderer sighs and as he's done countless times before, he swallows his trepidation and makes his way through the door...and whatever reception may await him.