Note: As of Nov. 15, 2012, voting has been closed on this story. A link to the next chapter can be found at the bottom of the page, right above where the comments start.
G'day ladies & gents! What follows is a little fan-fic I wrote, with a poll at the end that will decide what direction the main character goes in the following episodes! I will try to update the series as much as I can, from time to time, depending on how popular it becomes and my personal schedule. So enjoy! And do comment and vote on the poll =) --Skire (talk) 23:23, November 6, 2012 (UTC)
The date was October 23, 2077. It was 9:40 in the morning in Boston. I was late to work again, and yet once more stuck on Storrow Drive. The sounds of car horns and shouting filled the cold morning air. To add to this symphony of sounds I had turned on my car radio to listen in on developments in the war against the Reds.
It seemed to me that with each passing day, all the news sources became less and less objective, and even more enraged and saturated with pure propaganda. I wondered why I even bothered listening to it any more.
Apparently tensions were extremely high, with threats of a global nuclear war. “Hopefully not”, I had thought, “Maybe later. I’m only 48.” It made me worry even more about my son and daughter back at home in the suburbs. All too unfortunately, these threats didn’t remain as threats.
I would witness the end of my world whilst being stuck on Storrow Drive.
Slowly but steadily I continued east on Storrow Drive. Just a few weeks ago, I had found a digital journal at a camp run by a few scientists from the Institute. They had been wiped out by a deathclaw, I presume, judging from the gory nature of the scene.
The journal was written by a Robert Carlisle, who shared the same surname with me. I wonder if we could be related. In it contained something that struck my curiosity even more, “It made me worry even more about my son and daughter back at home in the suburbs.” My father, before he was captured by raiders, had always told me about our ancestors. I was never really sure whether to believe it all or not.
He told of his father, my grandfather, Henry Carlisle, who worked for the Institute and died defending a branch of it from a large swarm of raiders. He also told of his grandfather, great-grandfather, and great-great-grandfather and so on.
The farthest his stories went were those about my great-great-great-grandfather, Oliver Carlisle, whom, according to my father, was born in 2062 and was 15 when the bombs dropped. The closest ones hit Boston and the suburbs were relatively safe. However Oliver Carlisle’ father had gone to work that morning in Boston. One small detail about the stories popped into my head: Oliver Carlisle had a sister too, according to my father.
And so I’ve kept with me as I moved from temporary residence to temporary residence this digital journal, hoping to unravel its mysteries one day.
It’s amazing what I knew because of my family’s tradition of oral history. According to the Institute camp logs, the journal had been retrieved at the bottom of the Charles River. It said that the journal never would’ve survived at it not been in its water-proof case at the bottom of a river, considering it was almost certainly written while the bombs were being dropped… Amazing…
And here I was walking on Storrow Drive, which was right next to the Charles. For a second I tried to visualise what the scene would’ve been back in the days of civilisation. I tried hard to picture the splendour of the Charles, full and lively with clear water, ornamented by the multitudinous sailboats I see depicted in so many old pictures of the river. I tried hard to picture the lustre of the Bostonian skyscrapers that stood as little more than metal skeletons today.
I was heading over to the largest of the skeletons – the corpse of the old John Hancock Tower.
Perhaps I forgot about some vital details regarding all this. Let me make up for that: I am Jack Carlisle, a 16-year-old wanderer of the wastes. My father told me that back before the bombs fell you had to be 18 to be officially known as an adult. I’ve been travelling on my own for 3 years now. 18 seems ridiculous by today’s standards…
My mother, along with my younger sister, were brutally killed by raiders when I was 8. My father and I had been away when it happened…
We used to reside in an old deserted hotel tower – just my father, one of his friends, and myself. It was not that bad, as we received some help from the Institute guys in setting up some farms and purifying water. All that changed when a group of raiders came in from fucking Somerville and captured my father. I was getting supplies from an Institute camp down the street when all this happened. Luckily those at the camp had the firepower and coordination to wipe out the entire raider gang.
I couldn’t find my father amongst the corpses, so I presumed he had been captured, never to be seen again.
A few days later my father’s friend ran off, leaving me a few caps and a note.
Dear Jack, I am sorry of the recent news of your father, but I must tell you that I have departed, never to return. I realised I couldn’t stay with you after his death being partially as a result of my own incompetence and mistakes. Words cannot sufficiently express my sorrow and so I will cease in the attempt to make them do so. I am heading south, in seeking to join this group known as the Brotherhood of Steel. But there is more – you have a second sister, Jillian, only a few days older than you. We sent her to work for the Institute; we were in need of some money… I wish you the best. Take care, Will
Well that’s just fucking fantastic.
So it seems that there has been unanimous agreement for Jack to go find his sister. And so the sequel can be found here.