Tales From the Wasteland

FALLOUT 3 Fan Fic

The Following is based on actual gameplay

Another day, another scavenge through the wastes. The Capitol Wasteland had long since stripped me of any illusions of safety. Out here, survival wasn’t just a skill—it was an instinct. I had my trusty Mister Gutsy model by my side, its metallic frame clanking softly against the cracked pavement as we moved. His voice module crackled to life, as it always did.

"PATROLLING THE MOJAVE ALMOST MAKES YOU WISH FOR A NUCLEAR WINTER!" he blared, entirely too loud for my liking.

"Wrong Wasteland, buddy," I muttered, adjusting my grip on my dart gun.

The day’s haul had been meager—some old pre-war junk, a handful of .308 rounds, and the distant hope that maybe, just maybe, today I wouldn’t have to put another bullet in someone’s skull. That hope didn’t last long.

Up ahead, a rusted-out water processing plant loomed in the distance, its corroded pipes leaking god-knows-what into the dirt. Raiders. They were clustered around the entrance, laughing, drinking, probably hazing some poor wastelander they’d caught. I took a breath and signaled to Gutsy. He didn’t need much encouragement.

"TIME TO DIE, MAGGOTS!" he roared, storming ahead with plasma bolts spitting from his arm cannon.

The raiders scrambled, cursing as they turned their weapons on the metallic menace barreling toward them. Perfect distraction. I slipped into the shadows, raised my dart gun, and took aim. One by one, the poison-tipped darts found their marks, paralyzing their limbs before they even realized they were dying. It was a quiet, efficient slaughter.

When the last body hit the ground, I gave Gutsy a nod. He hummed in satisfaction. "HOO HAA. TIME TO HIT THE SHOWERS!"

I didn’t bother searching the bodies—raiders never had much worth taking. Instead, we moved on, cutting through the husk of an old highway. That’s when I spotted them.

Talon Company.

A full battalion, patrolling like they owned the Wasteland. Mercenaries didn’t travel in groups this big unless they were hunting someone important. And knowing my luck, that someone was me.

I raised a hand to Gutsy. "Hold position."

For once, he listened. I slipped into cover behind a pile of rubble, pulling the missile launcher from my back. The thing was battered, held together with duct tape and hope, but it had gotten me out of worse situations. I lined up the shot, checked V.A.T.S.

Twenty-five percent chance of a hit.

Good enough.

I pulled the trigger, and the missile shrieked across the wasteland, a streak of fire cutting through the air. It smashed into the center of the patrol, detonating with enough force to send bodies flying. I expected return fire. I expected a fight.

What I didn’t expect was the explosion had attracted something worse.

A giant radscorpion, its chitinous armor glistening in the sun, burst from the nearby hills, drawn by the chaos. The Talon Company mercs barely had time to regroup before it was on them, tearing through their ranks with monstrous pincers. Screams filled the air as men were impaled, shredded, flung aside like rag dolls.

I watched from cover, my finger hovering over the trigger. No need. The scorpion was doing my job for me. By the time the last merc fell silent, the beast stood victorious, twitching its pincers in satisfaction.

Now it was just the two of us.

I lined up a shot with my sniper rifle, exhaled slowly. Two rounds cracked through the air. The first punctured its carapace. The second drove through its mutated brain. The radscorpion shuddered, let out one final screech, and collapsed into the dirt.

I slung the rifle over my shoulder. Ordered Gutsy to follow me. But before we moved on, I did my due diligence. Talon Company had tried to kill me more times than I could count, so I figured the least they could do was provide me with some fresh combat armor. It was still warm from the poor bastard who’d been wearing it, but in the Wasteland, you took what you could get. A little scuffing, some dried blood—nothing a quick wipe-down wouldn’t fix.

With my gear restocked and my pockets a little heavier, I set off again, Gutsy humming along somewhere behind me. Or so I thought.

We weren’t far down the road when my PIPBOY flickered to life. That CAUTION warning sent a shiver down my spine. It meant someone—or something—had noticed me. I crouched low, scanning the area, and that’s when I saw them.

Enclave.

A small camp, set up next to some run-down barn, probably using it as a temporary base of operations. They were like roaches—always scuttling around, looking for something to sink their claws into. One of the soldiers had broken off from the camp, searching for whatever had triggered his suspicions. Which, unfortunately, was me.

I turned to signal Gutsy, tell him to hold position, but—nothing. No snarky war cries, no plasma blasts—he was just gone. Not the first time. That bucket of bolts had a bad habit of vanishing when I needed him, only to show up later with some half-baked excuse about “flanking maneuvers.” Whatever.

I had work to do.

I crept to the side of the barn, reached into my pack, and pulled out two frag mines. Carefully, I placed them right along the corner where the soldier was likely to walk. Then I took a few steps back, found cover on the other side of the barn. I was half expecting him to quit his investigation and return to camp, but no; the poor bastard strutted right over my mines, and the ensuing blast sent him flying. He barely had time to scream before I finished him off with two successful grenades. A clean kill. Efficient. Just the way I liked it.

But then I got cocky.

The Enclave officer at the camp had heard the commotion, and instead of playing it smart—using my dart gun, waiting for another opening—I took a couple of potshots with my sniper rifle. Not my best decision.

He saw the muzzle flash and zeroed in on my position like I had a goddamn neon sign above my head flashing HERE’S THE JACKASS TRYING TO KILL YOU.

I ducked behind a rock, cursing under my breath as plasma bolts slammed into the dirt around me. I still managed to drop him—one well-placed shot through the visor did the trick—but it wasn’t nearly as satisfying as the soldier. Sloppy. Rushed. I’d let my ego get ahead of me, and in the Wasteland, that kind of thing got people killed.

I took a breath, shook it off. No use dwelling on it. I had other business to attend to.

Since I was already in the area, I decided to make a little detour.

Word around Paradise Falls was that some do-gooder named Red had been stirring up trouble. Apparently, she thought the Wasteland could be something better than what it was. Slavers didn’t take too kindly to that kind of thinking. Last I’d heard, she’d gotten herself captured by Super Mutants and hauled off to the German Town police station.

The slavers wanted her back—alive.

I wasn’t in the business of asking why. I was in the business of getting paid.

When I reached the perimeter of the station, I took a moment to survey the scene. The place was crawling with muties, hulking brutes standing guard, drooling, babbling incoherently. I wasn’t in the mood for a firefight. I reached into my pack, pulled out a Stealth Boy, and flipped the switch. The hum of the cloaking field wrapped around me, and I slipped into the shadows.

I crept toward the front entrance, keeping low, taking my time. Every step had to be perfect. One wrong move, one stray piece of rubble crunching under my boot, and I’d have a swarm of mutants on me faster than I could say oh shit.

But when I reached the front door, I hit a snag. Locked. Tight. Every main entrance was sealed up tighter than a mirelurk’s butthole. I could already feel the Stealth Boy’s battery draining, its invisibility flickering at the edges of my vision.

I cursed under my breath, backing away before my cover fully gave out. The good news? I hadn’t been spotted. The bad news? I’d just wasted half my Stealth Boy for nothing. I circled the perimeter, moving slow, searching for another way in. After a few tense minutes, I found it—an entrance around the back, tucked away behind some wreckage. No guards. No spotlights.

Bingo.

Now, I just had to get inside.

The moment I stepped through the doors of the police station, my PIPBOY lit up like a Christmas tree from hell. Hostile markers—dozens of them.

I’d expected some resistance, sure. Maybe a few Super Mutants loitering around, keeping their pet human locked up nice and tight. But this? This was something else. The whole damn building was infested.

For a second, I thought about turning right back around and calling it a day. No bounty was worth getting torn limb from limb. But just as my fingers twitched toward the door handle, I heard something that stopped me cold. Voices. Two of them. Deep, guttural, twisted parodies of human speech. Muties. I nearly had a stroke. And I did. But it was a stroke of genius.

My Stealth Boy was on its last legs, flickering at the edges, barely holding me in the shroud of invisibility. I crept toward the two hulking horrors, sidled right up between them, and without a second thought, slipped a frag grenade into the belt of the closest one. A moment later—pop goes the Mutie. The explosion turned him into a fine mist before he even knew what hit him. Chunks of green flesh slapped wetly against the walls. His buddy barely had time to grunt in confusion before I did the exact same thing to him.

Boom goes the freak.

Before his corpse even hit the ground, my Stealth Boy gave out with a faint bzzt and flickered off. I stood there, breathing heavy, blood and viscera raining down around me, and that’s when I knew—I had this. Instead of retreating, I reached into my pack, pulled out another Stealth Boy, and activated it. Time to push forward.

Turned out my initial fears were slightly unwarranted. Yeah, the place was crawling with enemies, but a good chunk of the hostile markers lighting up my PIPBOY weren’t Super Mutants at all. They were radroaches. I let out a slow breath, not quite relief, but close enough. Didn’t mean I was about to get comfortable. I was still deep in hostile territory, surrounded by monsters that would snap me in half without a second thought. And Red—whoever the hell she was—was still somewhere in this hellhole, probably hoping for a rescue that might never come. I pressed on.

The basement was a dark, damp tomb. The air was thick with rot and mildew, the kind of stench that clung to your lungs and made you regret ever breathing. I moved slow, careful, my rifle raised. The last thing I wanted was to get blindsided by some lurking horror. And that’s when I saw him. Shorty.

A human captive, half-starved and trembling in the shadows. He was crammed into a corner like some feral animal, eyes wide with panic. He wasn’t just waiting for a rescue—he was waiting to die. And judging by the hulking brute standing guard over him, that death was coming sooner rather than later.

I didn’t hesitate. I tried to do my reverse pick pocket trick, but the damn mutant saw through the stealth field. Shit. Time to get back to basics. I pulled out my combat shotgun. It took multiple shells, but the last one, right between the eyes did the trick. The Super Mutant dropped like a sack of rotting meat. Shorty flinched at the sound, then blinked up at me, dazed. "Red," he coughed out. "She’s here. They’ve got her upstairs—in the cell block."

I nodded, already moving to loot the fresh corpse. It didn’t take long to find what I was looking for: a key. That was one problem solved. Now, for the next.

I turned back to Shorty, gave him a once-over. He looked like hell—dirty, malnourished, barely holding himself together—but there was something sharp in his eyes. An ember that hadn’t burned out yet.

I reached into my pack, pulled out one of the Talon Company combat armors I’d liberated earlier. "Here," I said, tossing it over. "Put this on." He hesitated, then took it, running his fingers over the reinforced plating like he’d just been handed the keys to a brand-new car.

"Shit," he muttered. "This is—this is real combat armor."

"Yeah," I said. "And this is a real gun." I passed him a Chinese assault rifle. He grinned. It looked good on him. Gutsy was still MIA, but now I had some proper support. Maybe Shorty wasn’t a seasoned fighter, but he had a gun, he had armor, and most importantly—he had a reason to fight.

Before we moved on, I took a little detour, searching the basement for supplies. God knew I wasn’t planning on ever coming back to this hellhole. I picked a door at random, my gut telling me it was worth checking out. It was locked, but that was nothing a little finesse couldn’t fix. I pulled out my lockpicks, worked the mechanism, and after a few tense moments—click. The door swung open, and I found myself staring at the holy grail of Wasteland weapons. A Fat Man. I let out a low whistle.

It was a thing of beauty—oversized, overpowered, and absolutely insane. A portable nuclear catapult. I could practically hear the carnage it would cause. Of course, it would be suicide to use one indoors. But soon enough, we’d be outside. Hopefully.

I took a quick inventory, shuffled things around. Dumped a police baton, a laser pistol—junk compared to this. I slung the Fat Man over my back, turned to Shorty. "Let’s go get Red." We left the basement behind.

We moved in a crouch, our footsteps barely making a whisper against the cold, bloodstained floors. The air in the police station was thick with decay and death, the kind of stench that clung to your skin and made you feel like you’d never be clean again.

My PIPBOY’s screen was lit up like a Christmas tree—multiple hostiles, all packed together in this godforsaken place. I knew most of them were just radroaches, but some… some weren’t. And one of them was something much, much worse. A Super Mutant Overlord.

I froze. My heart hitched in my chest. The Overlords were a different breed. Bigger, meaner, and tougher. They weren’t like the usual dumb brutes you could mow through with a few well-placed rounds. These bastards were as tough as Behemoths, but without the size handicap—hard to hit, harder to kill. My hand instinctively went for my stash of Psycho. Empty.

Shit.

This was going to be a slog. I glanced at Shorty. He was gripping his rifle tight, his breathing fast but steady. He didn’t know what we were up against yet. Didn’t matter. He was about to play the most important role in this fight: bait. I didn’t even have to tell him.

The second we stepped into the hallway, he opened fire. The echo of his gunshots shattered the silence, and the Overlord turned on him with a guttural roar. Shorty kept shooting, kept moving, doing exactly what I needed him to do—keeping that bastard focused on him. I bolted. Darted through a side room, sprinted past overturned desks and bloodstained lockers, moving fast and quiet. I came out into another hallway, just behind the Overlord. It had no idea I was there. I leveled my shotgun.

Boom.

Point-blank to the back of the head. It barely flinched. I pumped the shotgun, fired again. And again. And again. Ten shots? Fifteen? Each one tearing into its rotten flesh, each one making it stagger, but none of them putting it down. The bastard was built like a tank. I kept firing, kept hoping it was too stupid to realize what was happening—it was.

The Overlord stayed fixated on Shorty, unloading plasma rounds in his direction, not realizing it was already dead on its feet. Finally, finally, the last blast hit something vital. The Overlord let out a wet, choking gasp—then collapsed in a heap, its oversized rifle clattering to the floor.

Silence.

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. Shorty was still standing. Breathing heavy, but standing. "Shit," he muttered. "That thing was built like a goddamn tank."

"Yeah," I said, wiping the sweat from my brow. "And we just scrapped it." I nudged the Overlord’s corpse with my boot, making sure it wasn’t about to pull any last-minute surprises. It was well and truly dead. "Come on," I said, reloading my shotgun. "Let’s go get Red before something worse shows up."

But before we moved on to liberate RED I wanted to check out the armory. After all, I had just gotten my hands on a FATMAN, who knows what I would find here. But I was too busy counting my chickens that I didn't notice the frag mine on the floor outside the armory's door. The second I heard the beep-beep-beep beneath my feet, my stomach dropped.

"Shit."

I bolted. Sprinting across the room, ducking behind a rusted-out desk, I had more than enough distance. I was safe. But just as I was counting my blessings that damned fool Shorty, who was apparently just following me, walked right into the explosion.

For a moment, I thought he was dead. And then I heard a weak, agonized groan. I rushed over, my PIPBOY already scanning. The readout looked bad. Real bad. Nearly every limb was crippled, his vitals barely holding together.

"Goddammit," I muttered, fumbling for my stimpaks. What an idiot! How the hell are you going to survive a fire fight with a Mutant Overlord just to walk right into an active mine!? I tried to offer him some stimpaks, but he wouldn't let me apply one directly so I just gave him some hoping he'd have enough sense to use them on himself. He didn't. Crap. 'Let's just go get Red,' I muttered as Shorty limped behind me.

I found the cell block. I told Shorty to hold up in a room across the hallway that was secure. Where was that damned Gutsy unit? I burst into the room holding Red. Surprisingly the cell block was empty quiet except for Red who was still alive. I unlocked Red’s cage, she looked at me, first thing she asked about was Shorty. Her spirit wasn’t broken… yet. Then I hesitated. I came here to get her for the slavers. They were paying for her. But honestly? It wasn’t like I owed them anything, and she seemed nice enough. Don’t find that too often out here in the Wastes. But then I thought about Shorty. The dumbass was still in the other room, barely holding together after his little incident. Even if we fought our way out of here, he’d just slow us down. Maybe get us all killed. And that’s when I knew what I had to do.

I reached into my pack and pulled out the Mesmetron. A strange little piece of pre-war tech. Hard to say who built it, but the slavers swore by it. One zap, and the target became as pliable as wet clay. I powered it up and aimed it at Red. She barely had time to react before I pulled the trigger. A blue pulse of energy washed over her, and just like that, her eyes went glassy. Dazed. Vulnerable. Susceptible to any suggestion I wanted to give her.

I reached for my bag, ready to slap an explosive slave collar around her neck. But then—

Shit.

I didn’t have one. I had used my last collar days ago on some Talon bastard who picked the wrong fight. That changed everything. No collar meant no easy way to ship her off to Paradise Falls. That left only one option. I sighed. "Guess you’re going home."

When Red finally came to, she didn’t remember a thing. I handed her the other set of Talon combat armor and my last Chinese assault rifle. She suited up and we were good to go. We went to retrieve Shorty who was still holding his position in the secure room. They looked like quite the pair in the Talon armor. We just might get through this alive after all.

Once outside we fought some more super mutants. To my utter surprise everyone survived. Even more shocking, after our skirmish I actually saw Shorty use one of the stimpaks! There might be hope for him yet. A quick scan from the PIPBOY showed he had indeed healed himself. Not 100% recovered, but close, and even better his limbs were no longer crippled. I quickly gave him some more stimpaks and even handed some to Red too. Things were looking good. Real good.

Ugh. Spoke too soon.

I had been in some bad situations before, but this? This was about as Fallout as it gets. Me, Red, and Shorty, sprinting through the Wasteland, barely a breath away from freedom. The ruins of Germantown long behind us, nothing but open night sky and dead trees ahead. We were home free. But as we crossed a bridge over the Potomac I heard it—CLUNK-CLUNK-CLUNK.

I froze.

That sound.

That goddamn sound.

A Sentry bot. The pre-war military’s last, best idea for battlefield automation. Over-armored and over-powered. I didn’t have time for this, but I did have something for it. I yanked the FatMan off my back and booked it to higher ground. I needed a clean shot. Only had one mini-nuke, and I wasn’t about to waste it. I flanked the Sentry bot as it engaged Red and Shorty, lighting up the night sky with a barrage of gatling laser fire. I dropped into V.A.T.S.. Lined it up. Fired. Then—BOOM.

The explosion sent a shockwave through my chest. When the dust cleared, all that was left of the bot was a smoking crater and some glowing scrap metal.

Bullseye. I grinned. One and done. I turned to check on Red and Shorty. Red was fine. Shorty? ...Not so much. The bot must’ve caught him in just the wrong way. His head was gone. Just gone. For a second, I just stood there. Then, I sighed.

Well, that’s Shorty for you. I looted the corpse for everything I could carry. It wasn’t like he needed it anymore. Then me and Red set off for her home. The rest of the trip was quiet. No more mutants, no more robots, no more surprises.

When we finally reached Red’s little village—Big Town, or whatever they called it—she looked like she wanted to talk. Maybe thank me. Maybe ask me what I was going to do next. But I wasn't in the mood. I was off to Paradise Falls to get another slave collar. "I’ll be back," I shouted as I ran into the wastes.

The End