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 from me, 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.
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