War, War never changes. In the year 2077, Atomic fire rained down upon America. Countless people died in the initial nuclear detonation, and more followed, basking in the radiation. Project Safe-House, the American response to the nuclear threat, had failed. The corruption present within the shadow government, code name Enclave, led to the deaths of many who manged to reach the vaults. Those who had a spot in a vault, often suffered horrific fates, subject the the experiments of immoral scientists. Across the nuclear wasteland, many wanders wonder who launched the first nuke. Who doomed them to their fate.

In the Capital wasteland, there was one such wander who made it his life goal, to study the old world, to learn the trials and tribulations his ancestors experienced. That was not always his goal, however. When he had first set out, he had the vague goal, of finding his last family member. He was an only son, whose mother had died, like many other wastelanders, giving birth. His father was a man of obsessions, and his son was sadly, never one of them. His father, first grew fascinated by science, and in his travels, met his wife. She was also interested in science, but not for knowledge's' sake. Where he saw value, she saw purpose. She had wandered for some time, and saw the difficulties that everyone in the capital wasteland faced. She wanted to help the wastelanders the father passed by. Once she had passed away, the father distantly protected his son. Isolating him from the horrors around him.

One day, when the father had decided that his son was grown up enough, he left. He left, to finish his wife's greatest wish. Help the people of the wasteland. Through the science he helped his wife conduct. Their quest to purify the waters of Washington. He left with little more than a note on his son's night stand. Ignoring the chaos in his wake.

This had shattered the protection that he had made for his son. His son, who he had managed to shelter from the horrors of the wasteland, realized that his father never truly cared for him. That his own father, would rather obsessive over his long dead wife, than his only son. This, broke something in the young man. Something, which would make room for something that was slowly spreading into the Wastelands: Magic.

This magic, wasn't something anyone would just notice. It was subtle. A surer aim, better eyesight, a lucky shot, some extra ammunition, a few more bottle caps, a safer night. This magic, gave him a special connection to the wasteland. A sixth sense, which let him not only survive, but thrive in the harsh conditions. This magic, would only make him seem a little more Special. A mite stronger. More perceptive than most. Capable of enduring the wasteland. A bit more charismatic than most wastelanders. More intelligent than many. A slight more agile. Some even said he was luckier than most.

Time went on, this wanderer explored, he found his father, bent over a workstation, working furiously on a doomed project. This discovery, shattered what little innocence left in his mind. His one shred of hope, torn from him by his own father, the wanderer left, looking for something, or someone, to keep him wandering.

For some time, this wanderer assisted Moria Brown in her life quest, of the Wasteland Survival Guide, something that soon spread across the capital wasteland, and beyond. In a few short years, copies could be found as far as the Mojave desert. The Wanderer, was the first of many, to work under Moria Brown, in her noble quest. While others would forget the detials of his character, she will remember until the day she dies.

Afterwards, he continued his wanderings. This time searching for the answer every wastelander pondered. Who shot first. Whist searching for access to the ruins of the white house, he found a ghoul haven: Underworld. In this settlement, he learned of honest mercenaries, being corned by super mutants, and something awoke in him. A purpose, a reason to wander. With this newfound sense of self, he rushed to the Statesman Hotel, and fought through waves of Super Mutants. The Rangers who he rescued, would describe his fighting as almost impossible. He always had the first shot, the best instinct, the surer aim. The sturdier cover. They would describe him, later, as an avatar of the wasteland, centenarian, unyielding, unforgiving, yet infinitely kind. It was as if he himself didn't know what he was. Who he was. Or maybe he was just on a cocktail of drugs, and couldn't think straight.

He wandered the wasteland for years, he watched as the capital wasteland turned from a wretched, radioactive hive of scum and villainy, into a oasis of hope. He saw the horrors of the Enclave's experiments. He saw the brave brotherhood soldiers fighting for the common wastelander. He saw the effects of project purity upon the wasteland. He saw that when there was even one base, primal need fulfilled people who were savages days before, would rejoice in celebration. It was miraculous, the constantly closed gates of Rivet City, Megaton, Underworld, and even the Republic of Dave, opened. People forgot rivalries, and rejoiced, drank, and feasted. The wanderer however, felt something else changing.

His sixth sense, his inner connection to the wasteland, was fading. The very thing that had kept him alive and let him thrive, had started degrading. It was beyond frightening.It was as if he was going blind. He could feel it degrading. The very thing that had kept him alive, was slipping away. So whilst everyone else was in celebration, he left.

He became a legend in his next wanderings. What people didn't realize, is that he wasn't facing impossible odds to save a few, from the goodness of his heart. He was suicidal, with more than a dash of narcissism. He couldn't just hang himself, nor could he die to some mere wasteland creature. His death had to be suitably memorable. He had to follow in his father's footsteps. To die a meaningless death would dishonor his memory. So he turned away help, and and took increasingly difficult missions. Impossible odds, dozens of raiders for every shell he took with him. Every time he heard Three Dog exclaim to the wastelanders that the 'wasteland messiah' was still among them, he pushed himself harder, further dedicating himself to his mission. He traveled from the Capital wasteland, into places as far as Point Lookout, trying to escape his fate, or at least end it. China's counter intelligence couldn't end him, nor could the darkest magic the Dunwich family could gather.

To the people of the wasteland, he was a shining example. A hero to be revered. A true icon of what the future could be. Someone who came from the safety of a vault, and fought for the wastelanders. Someone, who fulfilled the promise that President Eden had been making for years. The promise to make America great once more. To charge forth, taking the hits, only to soar higher. To bring down a hell worse then any had seen in generations, to the threats to the common wastelander. A man who, was young and in his prime, and wasn't afraid of losing both.

He was a man, who traveled great distances, just to reunite a mother with her daughter. He fought for project purity, the source of clean water for everyone. He rescued the last band of honest mercenaries. He made the wasteland survival guide into a staple of every merchant. He discovered the secrets of the fire ants, and removed them from the capital wasteland. He forged the alliance between Arefu and the Family. He brought democracy to the former Republic of Dave. He taught the people of Big Town how to defend themselves with the marvels of science. He rendered Canterberry Commons safe from the superhuman conflict. He lead a band of escaped slaves to the Lincoln memorial, and established a safe haven for any slave, which only made his future worse.

Soon after the astounding success of Project Purity, the wanderer heard tales of the Pitt, a land of hopeless slaves put to work in radiation and mutagens until they died. he heard the words of a man who escaped, and was seeking help in liberating his people form their plight. He left his home with a crate of munitions, and light heart. When he returned, months later, he had neither. He had left with the acknowledgement that he could easily die. He had made peace that it would be for a good cause. When he returned, his once immeasurable will was being sapped. His almost childish desire to save everyone was gone. His choice, his actions which dictated how the Pitt would be ruled, by whom it would be ruled, had changed him. The moral dilemma had taken more than he could handle. To side with freedom, at the cost of the future, or to side with progress, whist hundreds suffer? His choice, changed him.

How could it not? To choose between a caring father, and a heartless bastard should be easy. It should be a fast, almost instant choice, that you know in the deepest pit of your soul was right. But what if the right answer, is also wrong? What if choosing a caring father, means you choose death and hatred. Or to choosing a heartless bastard means that the future doesn't improve? There was no right answer. And this small fact, broke him more than even his father's sacrifice. It drew out the last shred of innocence, and cut it away. Burnt off the severed soul in the harsh rads ever prevalent in the wasteland.

It was a simple mission. Charge in, fire off his Metal Blaster at every Super Mutant he saw, and rescue Reilly. A quest like any other these days. Charge in with little more than a doctor's bag and a bandoleer of microfusion cells or shotgun shells. Convince anyone that wanted to come along that it would be better if they didn't tag along. In this case, have them prepare to launch a surprise assault elsewhere. To prevent the Super Mutants from reinforcing Roosevelt Academy during the rescue.

In all honesty, it was how all of his plans were. Charge in, shoot up everything hostile, use whatever skills he has as needed, and win to fight another day. Every time he tried a suicidal charge, he won. Raiders broke before him, super mutants charge to meet. Even among the Enclave, his name brings terror. He was an emblem, a symbol more powerful than Old Glory. Old Glory lead millions to death in Alaska. He had only had a dozen die by his side. Cross, James, Charon, Artemis, Bael... each one he remembers. How can her not when he sees them every night?

But today, his wishes were partly answered. He would no longer be among capital wastelanders. And his mission would be competed. But that would not be without its price. You cannot gain something without sacrificing something else in return. Something he had learned early into his wasteland quests. To gain without losing first, means you will pay later, one way or another. Often times, it was better to pay up front, then let the cost fester.

He had done it, again. Saved the girl, and barely got scratched doing this. Of course, this is the one person he never risk dying for. Ever since he first saw her. He knew, he knew that if she asked him to take over the wasteland, he'd hand her a crown. He knew he had no chance in this wasteland. Since when have such facts mattered to those in love? He couldn't help but wonder. What it'd be like. What he can never have. Would it be worth it?

Such thoughts, can be disastrous when they distract you. In this wasteland, a moment of intention, means you don't see the glowing green grenade. You don't react to your certain death. But sometimes, the wasteland sees an opportunity, and you can bet that the wasteland is an entrepreneur. Peace is its competitor, and you know what they say about competition: It sucks.

In a single instant, Reilly knew something. That if her rescuer had died, the fragile peace would break, and generations would suffer. So she took it upon herself, to save him from the deadly plasma, about to be unleashed. She pushed him away, and leaped to her end. But where her story ends, a new story begins to blossom. Wings sprout forth from unadorned sides. Hair grows out into a mane, and a tail follows. Eyes widen, bones shift, and fur spreads. All things change, the most fundamental rule of the wasteland. No one is as they were two hundred years ago. Her story ends so that his may begin anew. The cost of a new story, is the end of hers.

Author's Note

Normally I'll have these at the top with little loading screen wisdom and lore tidbits. But for now, let me welcome you to this story. If you see any errors, continuity or otherwise, please point them out.
~~Irradiated Blue

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