Repercussions

The man in blue walked for hours on end.


He stopped to attend to his body's needs every few days, but was otherwise firm in his course north.

The first day out, he walked south. and was let into the area without questioning. The mayor handed him whatever he asked for without word, for he saw the Dweller's face. No amount of medicines, food, or water could serve as reparation for what had been done to him.

He was asked what brought him back to Junktown.

"Unfinished business", he said.

The Dweller exited the store, and headed towards the closest thing to a hospital, home to the only practicing physician he knew of in the Wasteland. Aside from Jerome in the Vault, of course.

He had only been inside the tiny, cramped house once before, on his way to the caravan hub. A bullet wound in his right forearm, the damage severe enough that even a stimpak couldn't heal. Mayor Darkwater directed him to the local doctor's hospital, which was really just a house.

Nobody was inside the waiting room or the operation room. Both were the size of an average vault-dweller's living quarters, which weren't too big to begin with. An open hole caught the Dweller's eye- with a ladder leading down into pitch black darkness.

The Dweller called down into the depths below, and waited for a reply. The only answer was his own call, bouncing back from the darkness. The Dweller's curiosity fueled his desire to learn more, leading him to indulge a little. He quietly descended the ladder, stepping on each rung with precision and carefulness. He ensured his foot was secure on each step due to his lack of faith in the aged metal which made the rungs a bit slippery. At least, he reached the bottom of the ladder.

He had torn apart the local raiding groups with only a sledgehammer. He had destroyed entire populations of venomous creatures with extreme prejudice. He spent weeks in the Wastelands, surviving off of only what his Vault's Overseer could ration out to him and whatever hapless animal wandered by.

Nothing would prepare him for this. His nostrils burnt, as he surveyed the room. Cadavers, blood, and organs littered the basement. Limbs and bone scattered across the floor, which was stained red, mingled with the dark maroon of crusted blood. A lone, swinging light bulb hung from the darkness above, casting a dim light over most of the room, excluding the ladder, which was immersed in darkness. Cutlery and other tools that weren't exactly medical resided on a surgeon's tray near an operating table, which had what used to be a corpse on it. It looked more like a scarecrow with it's arms and legs flayed, exposing the pink and red meat underneath, mingled with specks of bone. He didn't find the head, and it's chest cavity was completely emptied.

Bits of what was recognized as a radscorpion's carcass, and a mole rat's head laid on a table near by, accompanied by long, slender spikes and chopped bits of meat. Bone cutters and scalpels laid by the meat, blood dripping  off of the steel edges.

Plink. Plink. Plink. Freshly spilled. Bright red. A sign of fresh cutting.

The Dweller stepped forward to analyze the room a bit better. On the second shelf of the surgeon's tray rested a paper. Conventional stationary wasn't exactly common in the Wasteland. While most vault dwellers found the idea of damaging  any of the resources given to them by Vault-Tek repulsive, out here you had to be willing to make some sacrifices in order to get by, especially because not everybody had access to holodisks or computers. In this case,  the Doctor chose to use a page out of a university's textbook on the human anatomy. For writing, it seemed that he substituted a finely cut piece of coal, judging by the streaks of black, and the fact that there was a finely cut piece of coal lying next to the tray. On the side of the page facing up was a list.

Names and locations. Everybody on this doctor's payroll, it seemed. The Dweller was relieved to see that Killian's name wasn't on this list; Mr. Darkwater was one of the few Wastelanders he could actually put his trust in. A "Robert Lichter" topped the list, with "Downtown Hub, 3 days S" and "Food cart" listed next to it.

Jesus.

Arrows led from Robert's name to several other names and businesses, none of which were in Junktown. A 'Gretch Daniels", "Flash Thompson", and "Cougar Cannes", who all resided in Junktown, connected to all the businesses on the list, including Robert's cart.

The Dweller flipped the page over, and was greeted with a diagram of a man's body. The arms and legs were circled from the bone's connection to the torso, and stopped at the wrists and feet. The chests and heads had a question mark scrawled into them, while more names were listed on the sides.

FRITZ SMITH.
JERRY.
BENJAMIN DRILL.

All three were listed alongside "Fapizria, 14 days NW  Brotherhood, Basement" A little symbol that was once referencing an object's bio-hazardous nature accompanied the three names. Of course, nowadays everything tends to be bio-hazardous. It's a fact of life.

The Dweller paced over to an old, rickety book shelf, from which he pulled the thickest volume he could find. Something that wouldn't be needed, and thus missed by anyone.

Tearing out page 217 of a book called "Moby Dick", the Dweller returned to the surgeon's tray. Laying the "blank" sheet of paper over a flat piece of table, and the list of names under the sheet, the Dweller gently but firmly moved the charcoal over the blank sheet.

In a cloud of black, white marks traced the words written in only seconds. Flipping both sheets over, the Dweller did it again, using the indentations of the charcoal's marks on the medical page to transfer the names onto the virgin paper.

The Dweller sheathed the book back into it's place on the shelf, before taking one last surveillance of the room.

The room felt smaller than it really was. Similar tables of meat and spikes laid around the room.

The Dweller had to remind himself of his task out here in the Wasteland, as he scaled the ladder and left the still empty building. To save his own people, his Vault. They were going to die off if he didn't grab their salvation. These people would die without having a proper sawbones on hand to help them.  But the injustice, the sheer amount of vitriol the Dweller had for the doctor was suffocating, and stuck in his gut for the following months. Killian would turn a blind eye to the doctor's other activities if

Eight months later, the Vault-Dweller returned to Junktown after having exterminated most of the other names on the "mailing list", and saving his people. He said he was there to say his goodbyes.

He had another goal. A purpose, you might say.

In the dimness of the night, Doctor Morbid's hospital burnt to the ground. Guards and civillians alike rushed to the flames, but were soon scattered by an explosion, collapsing the hospital in on itself.  Seventy-five percent of Doctor  Morbid's patients died under his care, resulting in a death toll that night of 4. The bodies of Flash Thompson, Cougar Cannes, Gretch Daniels, and Jared Morbid were all uncovered in the days after, 800 pounds of industrial metal blocking their only exit out of the basement. A fire somehow started off inside the basement, burning all four to death.

The Vault-Dweller left the same night, and was never seen again by the people  of Junktown.

Weeks later, he stood in front of a building's ruins.  It may have been something else in the pre-War era, but in this world it was referred to as Fapizria, bestowed upon it by it's logo's only remaining letters. The little knowledge  anybody had of the location did not dissuade the Dweller. It only encouraged him, in his haze of rage and craving for vengeance.

Here, he stood. Ready to check off the mailing list. To end the lives of Fritz Smith, Jerry, and Benjamin Drill.  None could stand in his way. He had a mission. He had a goal.

He had a gun.