Endgame (Fallout 4)

Prologue

NOTE: I don't usually write in first person, only for this. This prologue is more an introduction to my story, and to get to know my character. It has mentions of violence, alcohol abuse and suicide, just be warned. It does ease off though in the main story.

I've also decided I'm going to do an art piece to go with each chapter, something about my character and the Fallout world. Please let me know what you think of this idea!

War. War never changes.

This is a tale of war. Of war, of love, of peace, and of tragedy. Out here in the Commonwealth, tragedy seems to be the ghost of pre-war, haunting us everywhere we go. 

These days, I go by Night. I don't remember my real name, but it doesn't matter. I'm not the same person I was back then. Back before everything went to Hell.

War had a way of messing with every little detail of my life. I had a long history of violence, and it just never seemed to end.

My story began back when I was born. December 7, 2055. I was born in Las Vegas, Nevada, to two proud parents. I had an older brother, but they were never biased when it came to the two of us. My dad was an army veteran. Though his long line of service, unfortunately, was only beginning when I was born.

I can't say I ever knew him much. Growing up in Vegas was hectic enough without dad coming back every few months, too drowned in booze to bother with his kids. Though being grown up now and having seen the things he saw, I don't blame him.

Things got better, though. Dad managed to get a grip on his alcoholism, probably because mom told him he couldn't see his kids unless he did, but nonetheless he handled it. Once he did, life got great. Every time he'd come home he would take me and my brother out on a camping trip, days under the stars, led by the lunar light to the wings of freedom that awaited.

Many cold nights by a campfire and stargazing are what I remember of dad. I guess I had it pretty good. My family wasn't particularly rich, but we got by. It was when I was just seven-years-old that my troubles started.

My brother, Jacob, was diagnosed with a rare form of cancer - a highly aggressive one. Being a kid, everyone just figured he was sick and in pain all the time because he was just acting as a kid did. Little did we all know...

The doctors gave Jacob just a month to live, but he outlasted that. He was my hero, always there when I needed him, always there to stand up to the bullies at school, to jump in to my defense when I'd pissed off mom with my shenanigans. It even seemed like he was getting better somehow. He spent less days sick, and more out playing with me. I was only seven, I was naive. 

He died eight months after being told he only had a month to live. I was devastated - as a young boy would have been. If only I'd understood the tragedies that would plague my life forever onwards from that moment. I just might have cherished the time I had with mom a lot more.

Mom got in contact with dad, tried to get him home for the funeral, but he just couldn't make it back. I don't even know if he wanted to, honestly. A part of all of us died that night, with him. I wish now that dad would have just given up the fighting and come home, because maybe things could have been different.

Just a week after Jacob died, two days after the funeral, we got a phone call. I couldn't hear what they were saying, but I just remember mom collapsing to the floor in total agony. All she could manage to say to me was "dad's gone". But the truth runs deeper than that, though that's another story.

I was lost, all I had left in the world was my mother, who I loved dearly. I couldn't have asked for anyone better to raise me. My only regret is not understanding her grief enough to prevent what was happening next.