Hello everyone! My name is Devlin, call me Aldebaran if you wish, and I present to you my first ever Fallout fanfic. In Damnation Memoraie is the twisted tale of personal vendetta, revenge and atonement, taking place in the setting of the Mojave desert circa late 2281. Follow my very own complex Anti-villain OC as he searches for someone he's lost touch with for over a decade, someone who has as much bearing on the Wasteland as Mr. House, but isn't the easiest person to find. Along the way, will this weathered man end up finding himself? Or something Bigger?
A brief teaser of the story:
Speak Softly, Carry a Six-Shooter...
A man once unknown to all of Freeside steps out of the licentious Atomic Wrangler, face drawn.
He senses danger as the sun challenges his vision. Hints of ozone dance through the air,
Two men appear clad in rags, their faces dissolute by squalor. A lead pipe appears in one of their hands. Then the laser pistol he was expecting.
The man smiles. A tense moment stirs the air.
The first thug with the pipe lunges at him, who is still standing there. Not with the usual helplessness of an ‘innocent’ victim but with the firm resolve of someone familiar with violence. As his final moment meets him head on the man sidesteps the overhand blow, parting his black duster to unsheathe his weapon. Combat armor sparkles underneath. In a blur of motion he slices his attacker’s arm clean off and in the blink of an eye the curved sword’s hilt is protruding from the other thug’s chest, his now lifeless corpse crumbling into the asphalt while the other writhes on the sidewalk.
The man left standing hasn’t broken a sweat, his smile has but finally left his lips after silently embracing his victory.
Denizens of southern Freeside look on in bizarre fascination while the mysterious man kicks over the dead thug and removes his weapon. He wipes the blade on the corpse and slowly walks over to the mortally wounded one- completely in shock, and not worth saving. The screams are drawing attention. Discreetly, he reaches into his cloak, withdraws a revolver, and puts a .44 special into his skull all the while murmuring some archaic Latin phrase.
A gentle wind sweeps in on the stifling silence, onlookers still glued to his every move.
Reaching back into his duster he produces a small woven bag and takes out two circular coins. They shimmer chromatic gold as one by one he tosses them onto the thug’s bodies. The man walks away completely unscathed. Not a speck of dust had landed on him during the fight, which could hardly be considered a fight at all- he resumes his business as if nothing had happened; the nearby impoverished residents rush in to be the first to get the money behind him. A severely malnourished woman is beaten down by a man twice her size. A boy smeared with dirt and grime gets trampled by three people. At first he reaches for his gun, sickened by the sight of such squabbling profligates fighting over eight caps worth of currency, but quickly holsters it like he just remembered something. For a brief moment he stops, closes his eyes, and deeply exhales-
Then, having walked down the street, he disappears into the Silver Rush.
Enjoy what you've been reading so far? Look no further; the rest of the story can be found here: