Autumn's Tale, My attempt to put to "paper" the story of my FO4 character Options

[ArtemisNoir]

OK...*deep breath* here goes.
I've thought about actually writing down this story for several years, but, for one reason, or another, I've never quite managed beyond a sentence or two. Right now, my life is topsy turvy, but, ironically enough, it's also a good time to begin. Both encouraged by, and inspired by, Renee and Treydog, I've mustered the courage to finally post. Some notes first, though:

* Anyone familiar with the game will observe I'm using mods. I don't go overboard, or anything, but there are changes.
* This fiction is based on the main events of the game, but, sometimes, there will be differences in the details.
* I have tried to strike a balance between enough exposition so that anyone who doesn't know the game won't feel lost, while those that do won't be overly bored. I'm not sure how well I'm succeeding, but it's something that will evolve as it progresses.
* I'm hoping to post an installment once per week, each entry consisting of somewhere between 600 and 900 words. So... not huge chapters, but they're manageable. Right now, I'm not having any trouble getting out the words, so perhaps I'll eventually increase the schedule. As I wrote though, I'm also distracted by RL, so I'll see how it goes.

~ ~ ~

Entry 1: Awoken



Her first sensation was one of light. Searing and brilliant, it was nearly an assault after her struggle through Vault 111’s dimly lit passageways. Long moments passed, and then, perhaps jolted by realisation, as well as the view before her, Autumn gasped, reeling.

The Vault had been constructed on a small hill, and from her relative vantage point, she took in the wreckage of her home, and the small suburban neighbourhood in which she….no… they… had lived. The urge to scream and flail wildly almost overwhelmed her; somehow, maybe it was instinct, she repressed it.

Trying to steady her breathing, Autumn attempted some level of coherent thought. Time blurred, only the sun’s high position in that blazing, cerulean sky told her that no more than a few minutes had elapsed. Grappling with the stark certainty of her circumstances, and for want of a more obvious plan, Autumn slowly began to make her way down the hill, noting, despite herself, the dappled display of sunlight that glittered through the verdant canopy overhead. This, though, made her pause. The trees surrounding her towered high, their trunks gnarled and witness to countless seasons. Although she remained on the edge of hysterical panic, walking had calmed her somewhat, and it was impossible to ignore the onslaught of her thoughts.

“Those trees were hardly more than saplings..... how much time has passed?” she muttered. Her only answer was a strident caw somewhere deep within the leafy branches. “A crow?” she queried. Autumn shook her head, recalling the giant cockroaches that had impeded her progress through the vault. She, no doubt, needed to worry about whatever wildlife existed in this surreal new reality, but crows represented the least of her concerns. Another thing of note was that the path she followed, familiar, yet not, appeared oddly clear of debris, and an obvious attempt had been made to prune the bushes that sprawled alongside it. Autumn found herself unsure whether these observations provided comfort or unease.

A few steps further brought her to a small wooden bridge that traversed a glittering stream.
Miraculously, both were much as she remembered. Memories…. Autumn closed her eyes, flicking them open again as a surge of nausea threatened. Shaking, she lowered herself to the bridge, sitting down, her legs dangling just above the burbling water. Had she not seen her husband shot at point-blank range as he attempted to protect Shaun, their infant son, from kidnappers, mere hours before, and were it not for the grimy pastel-coloured rubble she could glimpse through the trees, it would have been almost idyllic.



Aware that she could not rest for long, Autumn attempted to stand. She swayed, light-headed; a sudden growling made her tense, but at a second wave of nausea she realised that it was her stomach, and she remembered her last meal, a bowl of Sugar Bombs and the coffee that had been prepared by Codsworth, their ever buoyant Mr. Handy Robot. The day had seemed normal, even finally opening the door to that persistent Vault-Tec salesman and securing their spots in the nearby underground facility, did little to indicate the turn their lives were about to take. After that, her recollections became a tumble… cuddling Shaun, discussing their plans for the day, then, Codsworth urgently calling them to the TV. They arrived in time to hear the anchorman announcing that bombs, nuclear bombs, had dropped. Panic. Horror. Disbelief. Their rush to the vault. Fragmented images flashed through her head. Autumn lurched, and vomited the contents of her stomach. Sugar Bombs did not taste sweet the second time around.

All too mindful, after voiding her stomach, that her body was now bereft of anything that might be considered food, Autumn willed herself to push forward. Up close, the jumbled, torn rubble, the homes her neighbours had lived in, and strewn human skeletons told the harrowing story of those who had not been on Vault-Tec’s list.

For possibly the first time, Autumn’s sentiments towards Sanctuary, the suburban community in which they’d lived, were without conflict, though she did reflect that its developers had likely never intended for the name to be ironic.

Walking up the gently winding road toward her old home felt strange; Autumn remembered all those times she’d ardently wished the place could be transformed into something different; she also remembered the never-ending fights with Nate as she argued that her apartment in Cambridge was a preferable location. Now, stumbling over rubble, fallen trees and the bones of her neighbours, she experienced a bleak, deep stab of remorse. A wave of memory engulfed her, and the impossible brightness of the day faded into black as Autumn teetered to the broken ground.



This post has been edited by ArtemisNoir: Apr 21 2023, 07:38 PM

[ArtemisNoir]

Thank you all, for reading.
Things are about to pick up a bit!


Entry 4: Needs Must



Uncertain of what might be inhabiting the Red Rocket, Autumn making sure that her pistol was loaded, crouched down and crept carefully through the shrubbery, cautioning Codsworth to remain out of sight unless his flamers and circular saw became necessary.

Autumn had expected to find some new monstrosity, either of the two-legged, or four-legged, variety. What she had not anticipated was the exuberant German Shepherd that now gambolled elatedly about her legs. Codsworth floated from the bushes where he’d been hiding.

“I say, what an impressive pup, and he’s friendly as well! That is rather unusual!” The dog barked, excited at the favourable acknowledgement.

“I take it dogs these days aren’t friendly?” questioned Autumn. “Indeed not Ma’am, usually they’re dangerous, feral beasts and there’s no recourse but to kill them.” The shepherd’s ears and tale drooped, and he let out a mournful whine. Sharing his sentiments, Autumn knelt down to reassure the dog, tentatively offering her hand for him to sniff; in exchange, she received an affectionate lick.

Just as she started to rub the animal’s velvety ears, the nearby ground began to bubble, and a series of discordant grunts and squeaks filled the air. “What the…,” Autumn exclaimed, reaching for her weapon. A few minutes later, multiple hairless, pinkish bodies littered the area; Codsworth, with surprising finesse, was enthusiastically using his saw to skin and gut them, and, much to the dog’s evident glee, splattering copious gore in the process.

Autumn felt her stomach heave, and tried to look away, “Um, Codsworth, what WERE those things, and WHAT are you doing?”

The robot turned from his grisly task, “Mole-rats, Ma’am, a little larger than you might remember, and they make for a fine dinner. At least, you appeared to enjoy them last night.”

For a moment, she fought the urge to gag. Reality, however, soon asserted itself. As Codsworth had noted, she had enjoyed the meal, and she reminded herself that even if Super Duper Marts still existed, they were unlikely to be in plentiful supply. Autumn also had the distinct impression that Codsworth was delighting in the moment. Could a robot enjoy a jest at the expense of a companion? She recalled Codsworth’s sometimes painfully terrible, yet endearing, jokes and puns from before, but she’d always assumed those to be part of his programming. This, however, seemed very far beyond AI, sophisticated though that AI might be.


Mole-rats sufficiently butchered, they started toward the Red Rocket’s beckoning interior. Intriguing as the gas station was, however, they were deterred from more extensive exploration by the shepherd’s insistent barks further ahead. It was clear that the animal wanted them to follow.



As the weathered, wood and brick structures came into view, Autumn felt a sharp pang of nostalgia. It was perhaps fortunate, however, that she had little time to dwell on the feelings that had started to surface.

Gunshots could be heard coming from multiple directions, and they saw several scruffy, leather-clad figures darting about the road and milling in front of The Museum of Freedom. “Raiders,” spat Codsworth, with obvious loathing.

Preferring to remain unseen for as long as possible, Autumn directed her companions to follow as she slipped into familiar alleyways. Once they began to approach the area in front of the museum, where most of the raiders were now clustered, she silently removed the pin from one of the grenades she’d found in Sanctuary. Autumn’s aim, to her considerable surprise, proved accurate… Seconds later, the air became permeated with the unmistakable odour of burning human flesh.

Cries of bewilderment mingled with horror; amidst the chaos, one raider, seeing his companion fall, choked out in a strangled, frantic voice, “Don’t you die on me!” It was one thing to rehearse combat manoeuvres with practice dummies, training guns and set dressing, but it was another thing entirely to experience the visceral act of killing in the real world.

Logically, she knew these raiders would slaughter her, her companions, and anyone else standing in their way without a moment’s thought, but that didn’t prevent the overwhelming wave of nausea. Autumn staggered back into the alley, knees buckling as she violently retched, images of her own helplessness, as Nate was gunned down, far too vivid. Finally, she was able to stop her shaking, and, trying to avoid the charred bodies, she returned to Codsworth and the dog, who had dispatched the remaining raiders with little trouble.

A voice sounded from the balcony above, “Hey, I don’t know who you are, but I have a group of settlers here, and there are more raiders inside. Take this gun, we need your help!”

“Settlers?” Autumn wondered. But no, now was not the time for questions. Loading and cranking the musket the man had thrown down to her, Autumn braced herself, and they entered the museum. Unfortunately, the raiders, perched on the ramp-way above, held the advantage. Nonetheless, the musket, slow and unwieldy though it was, boasted impressive range and force, and she was able to down one of the gunmen. However, before she had a chance to duck into the darkened room to her side, she felt a bullet lodge into her lower leg; dragging herself into the room, Autumn swore. Codsworth quickly appeared at her side.

“Here take this Ma’am.” Autumn remembered stimpacks, seemingly miraculous hypodermic syringes that could alleviate pain and staunch the flow of blood in mere seconds, and she lost little time in jabbing the medication into her leg. “We’ll need to remove the bullet later, but that should do for now.”

Autumn nodded her thanks, reloaded her weapon and, crouching from the shadowed room, took aim; given the acute throbbing in her leg, it was impossible to repress the twinge of satisfaction when her assailant fell.

The raiders on the second floor were few and isolated from one another, so it was not long before they reached the building’s upper level, where a room at the end of a hallway held a small, ragged group of individuals. It was evident that their recent experience with the raiders had been the final culmination of a prolonged struggle. When their leader, Preston Garvey, a kind-featured man uniformed in a tattered colonial duster, described the group’s flight from the home that had been seized by Gunners, and their subsequent losses before finally arriving in Concord, Autumn’s guesses were confirmed.

This post has been edited by ArtemisNoir: Apr 21 2023, 10:30 PM