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From the parched glare of the wasteland I spot two small figures cowering in the shadows. This is no place for children.
As I approach, the caustic burn of plasma sears my side. The Regulators have tracked me down again. Always at the worst moment.
They follow me relentlessly, these self-appointed lawmen. Death – mine or theirs – is the only way to stop them. Negotiation is not an option. Not since Megaton. Not since they put a price on my head.
I take to my grim task with abandon, unloading round after round. I have seen many fall like this: the slow guttural groan of defeat, the geysers of blood. I find myself anticipating the separation of head and body with glee.
Survival ensured, I turn to the children; it’s the drunk’s son and the cleaner’s daughter from Rivet City. I’ll take them home to safety, a small piece of redemption for my sins.
But I can’t. These children fear me, like they fear the rest of the wasteland savages. Perhaps they’re right.
Before running, the drunk’s son looks up: “Do you like being bad? Or is it just you can’t help it?”
I don’t know any more.
The rifle given to me by the Replica Man, just moments before I betrayed him. The “Ultra” SMG I stole from Sydney’s bloody corpse. The sheriff’s hat.
These are the constant reminders of my sin.
They weigh down on me, these cursed items. Only drink can keep me going now. Whisky, Vodka, wine, beer – anything I can find from scavenging the wreckage of people’s lives, anything to dull my senses. Only alcohol gives me the strength to carry on.
But it’s a temporary, illusory rush. Before long the weight of my past comes crashing back down and I can barely set one foot in front of the other. Something needs to change.