Another Unoriginal Oneshot Book

To Set the Record Straight

AN: This was written during a nasty bout of college freshman homesickness.

I don't usually write stuff like this. I'll rate it PG-13.

For Bismarck. He knows why.

Capital Wasteland, September 2277.

-

Aniss awoke on the hard ground, her back aching and tear tracks streaked down her face. The skeleton of the old building that had served as temporary refuge loomed large around her. She'd been desperately grateful for the little protection it offered. It even had a section of roof intact, so she could look up without having to see the stars.

The stars made her feel like she was about to fall off the face of the earth. She hadn't been out of the vault long enough to get used to the awe of seeing the universe arrayed above her. They were a constant reminder of her everpresent reality: every time she closed her eyes in the Wasteland, she might not wake up.

She pushed herself to sitting with a groan. Sighed, and groaned again, gratuitously.

"If a..." she began. Her voice was dry, and too loud over the silence. There was never enough water out here. She started again. "If a vault rat groans in the Wasteland, and no one is around to hear it, did she even make a sound?" Since she was her own audience, she forced a laugh. The world fell silent again.

The loneliness was oppressive. Sometimes it was a subtle hum in the back of her consciousness; others, a howling chasm of despair. Even in Megaton, or the other halfhearted clumps of civilization she'd found, it gnawed at her.

It took a third groan to get to her feet. She packed up the few belongings she'd taken out for the night, choked down half a ration of Cram, and was on her way.

GNR buzzed in and out of tune. It made the world seem even more silent, so she reluctantly switched to Enclave Radio.

The jaunty marching songs put a bit more pep into her step. She half-skipped down the decrepit old road, towards who-knew-what.

-

Someone squeezed off a few gunshots in the distance. Aniss dropped reflexively into a crouch beside a chainlink fence and scanned her Pip-Boy radar for the danger.

Nothing, nothing — then, three red dots in the distance. No green. Either the bad guys were fighting each other (preferable), or the nonhostile party had run, or worse.

She didn't have the guns for this. She definitely didn't have the armor for this. All she had was the Pip-Boy, some brains, and, she was told, no shortage of will. She clicked the V.A.T.S. screen over and over, wanting to be ready to shoot as soon as the enemy showed itself.

Three feral dogs loped over and around a mass of rubble that used to be an overpass. She aimed and shot one dead before registering what exactly she was facing. One of the mongrel's companions heard its dying squeal and paused to lick at its blood. Aniss was filled with revulsion, remembering sadly the Vault's depictions of fluffy purebreds in perfectly-arranged houses, surrounded by smiling family. Dog-eat-dog world, she supposed.

Her supposition was cut short when the third dog pounced on her, knocking her heavily to the ground.

It was relatively small despite the force of the impact. Yellow teeth, shaggy fur dark with dirt and blood. She whacked it across the face with her rifle, but the gun discharged into the dirt a few feet away.

The combustion startled them both, but Aniss recovered quicker. She opened V.A.T.S. again and began punching, half-blindly. The dog snarled and whimpered. Aniss managed to extricate herself from under it and kicked out.