A fanfic of Fallout. Probably the only people who will understand this story are the diehard Fallout fans--those who played Fallout 1, 2, 3, and New Vegas. Events are heavily tied to Fallout 2. An unresolved loose end I wanted to tie up.

I had plans to make this a choose-your-own adventure story, and if it were a side-quest in a game, there would be a lot more points where you could make decisions and affect the outcome, but that's way too complicated to implement on SF and FA.

So, for the Fallout fans, enjoy!


The story is too long to fit here. Download to read it, or check it out on Sofurry.

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“Infant Mortality”
A side-quest for Fallout: New Vegas
by Tagenar

“Fallout” and all related names are trademark and/or © Bethesda Softworks, Obsidian Entertainment, Black Isle Studios or Interplay. No violation of copyright is intended. This is presented as fanfiction.


The path ended hours ago, and you’ve been climbing a gradual, rocky slope ever since. As the morning sun rises to its zenith, you decide to make camp beside a large rock outcropping and rest. You lay your pack down and take out the matches. You cut some wood from a nearby fallen tree and build a fire. You pull out the tongs and the waterproof pouch you keep the raw meat in. You unbuckle it, grab the Gecko meat by the tongs and hold it over the fire.

You learned how to cook their meat out of desperation. Walking the wasteland taught you a great deal about survival. It’s a perk that came with the job as delivery boy for the Mojave Express. Any other person would get themselves killed out here. If the Geckos didn’t kill you, the temperature extremes would. Fortunately what threatens your life also has the potential to preserve it.

The meat starts to drip. You grab a junk cup and hold it over the fire with a second set of tongs and catch the blood as the heat squeezes it from the meat.

Another trick you learned in the wastes is how to distill blood into drinkable water. It still tastes faintly like blood, but it goes down easier and doesn’t make you sick. Being able to derive water from any source is invaluable out here in the desert. You wish you could go back and meet the man who taught you how to do this. Probably saved your life a hundred times by now. Life in this desert was sparse, and what little survived here was spiny and harsh. If it was easy to kill or harvest, it was devoid of nutrition. If it had nutrition, it was either covered in thorns, had claws, or breathed fire on you. Mutated Geckos keep you going.

As you wait for the meat to finish cooking, you wonder if this lead is worth it. The longer you walk, the more the feeling builds that you’re heading in the wrong direction. Perhaps you should’ve gone with your first instinct, that your answers are in Vegas. It’s a feeling that started biting your ankles at the start of your journey, as the nagging voice of self-doubt and fear of the unknown that keeps many-a-person from achieving anything in their lives. Now the feeling has a death grip on your neck, having become the voice of resolution that tells you this isn’t working and it’s honorable to turn back.

The meat is done. You pull it away from the fire and set the cup on the dirt to cool. Holding the meat in both hands, you take a bite and gnaw off a hunk. The meat is dripping with lizard grease. It stains the dirt between your feet. Cooked Gecko meat is tough and coarse, not at all like Brahman. As it fills your body, it also clears your mind. By the time you finish the last bite, you’ve decided to turn back. You’re convince now: answers are in the Mojave, not west.

You hear a scrape from the rocks behind you. You set down your steak and pick up your rifle. In one swift move you’re on your feet, gun aimed at the rocks.

“Don’t shoot,” says a raspy, forced voice.

“Who are you?” you shout.

“I’m not your enemy,” chokes the voice.

You aim your gun in the direction of the sound. It’s coming from behind the large rock outcropping just a few paces away.

“I need your help,” it continues. “Will you help me?”

“Depends. Why would I help you?”

“I can’t answer that. All I can do is ask you for it.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m a friend in need of help.”

“Why are you hiding? What’s your name?” you ask.

“My appearance tends to... inspire distrust. I’d rather plead my case first before revealing myself.”

You think about that for a moment, staring at the rocks that stand between you and whoever is talking. It occurs to you that you could climb it and have a look yourself, but... Maybe it is better not to antagonize him. Yet.

“All right,” you say. “You sound like an intelligent person. Start talking.”

“Thank you. I notice your clothes. You work for a delivery service, and I need someone who can make a delivery for me.”

“Hate to break it to you, but I haven’t been a delivery boy in weeks. I didn’t take another job after my last one got me shot through the head. I’m on my own now.”

“I am sorry to hear that. And amazed you are still alive. You come from the Mojave, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“A scientist lives there, Doctor Henry. I’ve never met him. I only know him by reputation.”

“Henry? As in the former Brotherhood of Steel scientist now working on treating radiation mutations?”

“Actually he’s a former Enclave scientist from the west coast. I hear he lives in Jacobstown, in the mountains.”

You nod to yourself. You did that intentionally to see if he had a serious request and wasn’t just bullshitting you to catch you off guard. He passed the test. “I’ve met him. Just before I walked out this way.”

“You have? Even better than I had hoped for! Would you deliver something to him for me?”

“What do you need me to do, and why should I help you?”

“I need to send him genetic samples.”

You lower the gun. Of all things he could’ve said, that caught you off guard. “Genetic samples?”

“Yes.”

“What the hell for?”

“Something is wrong with my family line. Or, more specifically, with me. My children are always... stillborn, or malformed. I need an expert on FEV mutations to tell me why. If anyone can help me, it’s him, but I can’t make the delivery myself. It would require traveling to Jacobstown with my partner, and we’ll be shot on sight.”

“You a tribal?”

“No.”

“Ghoul?”

“No. Worse.”

“What could be worse than that?”

“Ghouls can at least walk into cities without getting shot. I can’t even show my body to a traveler without him raising a gun to my head.”

“You haven’t been in some of the cities I’ve seen,” you say.

“What do you think of my request? Will you help me? I can pay.”

“FEV? You and your family were exposed to it? What’s wrong with them?”

“If you promise not to shoot, I will take you to my home and show you the rest.”

Your weapon is already lowered. You think for a moment. Instinct is telling you there’s no danger. This person is very well-spoken and that likely means he doesn’t pose a threat. He might even be sincere.

You’ve heard stories of the Forced Evolution Virus. People exposed to it were never the same. There were rumors of some man who turned into a tree somewhere out east because of that stuff. If this man and his family were exposed to it, he needed help. You were going to turn back for the Mojave anyway. Jacobstown wouldn’t be out of your way at all.

You set your weapon on the ground in front of you and stand up straight. “All right. You have my word. I won’t shoot. Unless you start shooting me.”

“I’m coming out now. Don’t be afraid.”

Shifting feet moves sand behind the rock. Something large is on the other side. Something imposing. It sounds familiar. You’ve heard this sound before. You can’t quite figure it out consciously, and your instinct tells you to reach for the gun and start shooting. It’s a powerful, subconscious habit of survival--one that has kept you alive for years.

You resist, and focus on the rock. The body moving behind it is large. You rule out Super Mutant. This doesn’t sound like one of those beasts moving around. No, this is far more animalistic. Your heart races and adrenaline rises.

A grey hand wraps around the edge of the rocks. Its claws are massive. A moment later the foot appears, also grey, with massive claws to match, and crooked as a dog’s leg. Slowly, carefully, with slow grace so as not to startle someone, it shifts and slides into view from behind the rock. Its skin is grey, not brown. It stands twice as tall as you and its claws are easily the length of your entire arm.

A Deathclaw.

“My name is Goris,” it says.

The voice sounds strained and harsh, and now you can see why. It’s not coming from his tongue or lips, but rather from the back of the throat. His words do not quite match his mouth movements.

You gulp.

The Deathclaw folds his hands and holds them at his sides. “Yes, I need your help.”

You pant for a moment. Survival habit wants you to grab the gun, but the Deathclaw’s voice distracts you from the impulse.

“Come with me. I’ll take you to my home. I can explain everything on the way. Bring what you like, but keep your weapons out of sight.”

“What the hell are you?” you say.

“Walk with me. I’ll tell you the rest.”

Goris turns around. His crooked hind legs and thick tail only drive home that there is a Deathclaw talking to you.

A Deathclaw...

You don’t want to take your eyes off him. You back away, grab your pack and put everything inside. You keep your shotgun tucked between you and your pack and walk up the hill after the grey monster. He doesn’t look back to make sure you’re following.

***


“It happened about 40 years ago. Vault 13. My clan took shelter there after escaping the Enclave. They performed experiments on Deathclaws with the Forced Evolution Virus. Thought they’d make excellent soldiers, if only they could be taught how to follow orders. Well it turned out the FEV did change us into intelligent beings. Intelligent enough to realize we were slaves, so we broke out, tried to start a new life in an abandoned Vault.”

You walk a few paces behind Goris up the steep hill, keeping your eyes on him at all times. You don’t feel that comfortable walking with a killing machine, and if you hadn’t given your word, you’d have your shotgun at the ready. A shotgun would be useless against a full-grown Deathclaw, but physiological reassurance was all that mattered.

Goris is keeping his hands folded at his sides. As you listen to him, you get the feeling the gesture is meant to put you at ease. It’s the equivalent of a man keeping his hands on his head to show he’s not going to cause trouble. Of course, if a Deathclaw kept his hands above his head, it wouldn’t be so placating. Perhaps he learned this gesture after years of trying to interact with humans.

“I was a scholar. Can you believe that? I did cultural research on human beings and Deathclaws. I tried to compare us to how man developed. Then a tribal showed up looking for something called a GECK. Invited me to tag along, help deliver the GECK back to a place called Arroyo safely. When we got there, the whole tribe had been captured by the Enclave. So I helped my friend defeat them. What a group we were. A few humans, a tribal, a ghoul, a mechanical dog, a Super Mutant and a Deathclaw on a journey to stop the Enclave from destroying the world. Still makes me laugh when I think about it.”

You find your voice again for the first time in a good half hour. “I heard stories about a tribal who destroyed an oil rig out west years ago. Same one?”

“Yes, I was there. I helped make it happen. At first I said I was going for cultural research. That was my intent, but let’s face it. I’m a Deathclaw. I was built to kill, which made me an asset.”

“Yeah. I’ll bet.”

“Anyway it came at a price. The Enclave found Vault 13 and destroyed my clan while I was away. I was the only survivor. The victory over the Enclave was hollow for me. My friend offered to let me stay in Arroyo, and I did. I continued my cultural research. I even became a teacher, educating the tribals in Arroyo for many years about computers, history and survival.”

The slope is getting steeper. Goris has no problem climbing it, but you are gasping for breath and your pack feels a hundred pounds heavier.

“Then one day I realized everything I was doing was for nothing. Eventually I was going to die, and then what? What was to become of me? Stories for the tribe to pass down about the benevolent Deathclaw who lived among them? I couldn’t let it happen. I owed it to my clan to my species alive, so I left Arroyo and searched for Xarn. My friend told me he was free and might still be out there. I searched for months, but found no trace of him. That’s when I realized the burden of my race’s survival lay on me.”

Goris unfolds his hands and grasps a vertical ledge. He pulls himself up the cliff, scratching dirt and pebbles down on you. You lean on your knees and pant. Briefly you look back the way you and Goris came. You are far above the land, perched on the edge of a steep cliff. You turn and look up. Above you is a chain of rolling mountains. Not high enough to gather snow, but high enough to convince you you’ve entered the Sierra Nevada range, and you are off the beaten path. You look at the cliff. You can’t climb it. Even if you dropped your bag right here there’s no way.

Goris turns around and stretches his hand down to you. Claws thicker than your arm are inches from your face. Your heart races as you look from his claws to Goris, then to the claws again. Finally you wrap your arms around his. Goris lifts you off your feet, up over the ledge and sets you down next to him.

“Thanks...” you say.

Goris backs up a step and hides his arms again. He crouches to be closer to your eye level as he speaks.

“I know you’re tired. That’s why I chose this cave. It’s high enough that nobody will find it. I don’t fear the Enclave anymore, but there are still people who may want to kill me.”

Goris turns and walks away. You follow close behind, expecting him to continue, but he remains silent. This unsettles you, as Deathclaws are always silent. They’re not like dogs or cats. They don’t snarl or growl. They don’t make any noise, even as they ambush you from behind. Listening to Goris speak helps you forget what he is, and now that he’s silent, the impulses to fight and flee rattle your spine.

You follow Goris in silence for a while longer. Then you see the opening of a cave in the side of the mountain. Goris steers both of you towards it.

“Stay close to me,” Goris says. “If she sees me bringing you into the cave, she won’t attack. Don’t go near her unless you’re with me, don’t look at her unless you’re with me, and do not approach the nest.”

“Who is she?”

“My partner.”

The cave opening is tall enough for him to enter without stooping down. The cave reeks of Deathclaw stink, and again you want to feel the cold comfort of a firearm in your hands. As you descend deeper, the light from the entrance fades. You switch on your Pip-Boy light. It helps, but the place is still spooky.

“You won’t need that in a moment. I have a chamber with a lamp and a terminal. It’s where I continue my studies.”

“In here?”

“I’ve scavenged a lot of power cells and batteries over the years. I can keep a terminal running. Once in a while I come across a traveler willing to trade protection in exchange for data tapes.”

“Uh, no offence, but... How do you use a terminal?”

Goris looks back at you briefly before rounding a corner. If his face weren’t so rigid, you’d swear you see him smile. “These hands can do more than kill.”

You follow him around the corner, deeper into the cave. The Deathclaw stink only becomes stronger. You’ve never been in a nest before, but you’ve heard stories over the years of people who dared to raid a Deathclaw nest, and lived to tell about it. Researchers, prospectors looking for anything valuable, cities trying to exterminate the nest to protect themselves from future attacks--all of them agree it was the stupidest thing they ever did and leaving with their lives was their reward. These stories swirl in your head for a few dozen paces. Then Goris pauses and looks at you over his shoulder.

“I smell your fear.”

You pant for a moment. Collect your thoughts. “Habit. I stay as far away from Deathclaws as I can. It’s why I’m still alive.”

“Calm yourself. If she smells fear on you, she may attack.”

“Of course I’m fucking scared! This is a bit of a shock to me! I’m talking to a Deathclaw! He’s leading me into his nest because he wants to send a package through the Mojave Express!”

Goris turns around and faces you directly. He closes the distance between you and crouches face to face with you. His hands are still folded up at his side.

“You can wait outside if you want, but there is so much more I can show you in here. Can you keep yourself under control or not?”

You think for a moment, breathing the Deathclaw’s air. Being this close to one does not help your nerves.

“Maybe this will help?”

Goris unfolds a hand and slowly places it on your shoulder. The gesture is there, but his hand is too large to be equal, and it ends up wrapping around your back as well. Your heart rate speeds up.

“I’ve met other travelers over the years,” he says. “Sometimes this helps. Nobody is going to hurt you. In fact, back in Vault 13 we took in many humans. We cooperated with them. Lived in peace with them. If only some record of them still existed. That’s why I need your help. A little ways up is the nest, and what I need to show you.”

You feel his claws shifting around your back, intentionally touching your skin, but never with enough force to cause harm. The longer you breathe the air coming off his voice, the more reassuring that voice seems.

“Actually,” you say, “keep talking. It helps me forget where I am.”

Goris’s hand slides away and folds at his side again. “I can do that.” He backsteps away, rises to his full, hunched height and stalks further into the cave. His upper body leaves the dome of light produced by your Pip-Boy. His tail and hind legs are now the only thing you can see.

Goris keeps talking. Smalltalk. You were hoping for more details, but Goris seems to be dodging the issue now. You ask him once more what’s going on, but again he says he wishes to show you instead of tell. Right now showing and telling carry equal weight and you don’t care.

“So what about you?” Goris asks. “What brings you out here alone?”

“Uh. I wouldn’t be walking this way if it wasn’t for a mutant in Jacobstown. Marcus, I think was his name. He heard of a man who shot a Mojave Express courier and stole the delivery. He heard it was something that would unlock some secrets in a demolished oil rig far out west.”

“Marcus?” Goris says. “Jacobstown... I knew it sounded familiar.”

“Hm?”

“Never mind, please continue. So you struck out west following a mere rumor?”

“I wouldn’t have trusted a Super Mutant to give me reliable information, but he gave a very accurate description of the man who shot me. It was enough to convince me the mutant might be telling the truth. I figured he couldn’t have been too far away by now. I hadn’t found any other leads, so I’ve been walking west for the last three weeks.”

“A demolished oil rig out west? If it’s the same one I’m thinking of, I’d advise you to turn back. That rig was completely destroyed. No secrets left to uncover there.”

“I just came to that conclusion. I was about to turn back and head east again. Something tells me my answers are in Vegas. Not out here.”

“That’s a long time to chase a rumor.”

“I had nothing else to go on. I abandoned the Mojave Express. Figured having a bullet put through my head is a reasonable excuse to terminate my employment. Now I’m a scavenger. Nothing better to do with my life than find answers. What the hell was so valuable about that poker chip? It must be worth a fortune. It better be worth as much as my life.”

You feel a lot better now, and you recognize what Goris did. The easiest way to calm a tense situation between strangers is to get the other person to talk about themselves. He’s obviously had a lot of experience with this. Makes you wonder why you’ve never heard any wasteland tales of things like this.

Finally, Goris slows down. By now the Deathclaw smell is suffocating.

“Walk by my side,” Goris says.

You catch up to him, walking side by side with his folded hand. The cave is just barely wide enough for both of you. If Goris didn’t keep his hands out of the way, there might not be enough room at all. You feel a lot more comfortable being this close to him than before.

At the fork ahead, Goris bears left. On your right you hear the hum of a CRT terminal and the faint glow of an electric lantern. Ahead of you now is more Deathclaw smell, and movement in the darkness. The tunnel opens up into a large chamber.

Broken eggshells litter the floor, and resting among them are a dozen tiny Deathclaws. All dead. Most look like they died in the egg, as they are half- or three-quarters formed.

Heavy breathing comes from the back of the chamber. The light barely catches her, but the adult is unmistakable. She crouches in front of what looks like a clutch of eggs. Unhatched.

She doesn’t move, but you can tell she’s watching you. Only you. You get the feeling you should turn off the light, but that feels both like a wise precaution and a suicide move at the same time, so you don’t move a muscle.

“Look at them,” Goris says.

You look at the massive pile of egglings. Twisted, half-formed bodies lying one atop the other, intermingled with broken eggshells and dried yolk. In the light of the Pip-Boy, their faces are sharply twisted and contorted into horrible moans of agony, though you know this is your imagination imprinting human emotion onto animal faces. The remains of at least a dozen eggs are in here. You can’t see the cave floor through the eggling debris.

“This is... horrible,” you whisper.

“I know,” says Goris.

“And she is not like you.”

“This is what I’ve been doing for nearly forty years. I’ve been traveling from place to place, seeking out females, trying to have many children as possible. But so far, this is the result.”

You scan the pile of eggling waste again. Goris narrates as your Pip-Boy highlights individual pieces.

“That egg actually hatched. It’s one of the only eggs I fathered that did. What came out... She had no arms and two tails. She lived less than an hour before she bled to death.”

Your light travels over a particular, flattened egg.

“That one never hatched. It sat in the cave for far too long. I knew what had happened. The same thing that happens every time. I crushed it in a fit of rage. She nearly killed me that night, but maybe she knew... I like to think she knew.”

You sweep the light over something towards the back. Goris tells story after story of grotesque offspring, unhatched eggs he broke. You listen for nearly twenty minutes as he relives them all. If he had tearducts, you have no doubt Goris would cry. Then you stop on an unhatched egg, and the mother behind the dark curtain.

“My latest effort,” Goris says. “Forty years ago I hoped to have children that would be like me. Intelligent. Self-aware. Scholars, perhaps. Thinkers. But from the very beginning, clutch after clutch doesn’t hatch, and on the rare times one does, the eggling is deformed so badly it dies within a day. Forty years of failure...”

You feel the mother’s eyes on you the whole time. Silently watching you. Until now you’ve never seen a Deathclaw be so still. It makes you wonder what’s going through her mind right now.

“Come with me.”

Goris backs away. You back away with him, not wanting to let that female out of your sight. At the fork you follow Goris down the right hand tunnel. You feel a lot more comfortable out of her line of sight. Only the tip of Goris’s tail is caught in the Pip-Boy’s light, and you speedwalk to keep up. The hum of a terminal grows louder.

The tunnel opens up into another chamber, fully lit. A terminal is perched on a high ledge against one wall, which is eye-level for Goris. The rest of the room is full of Old World books, bones, weapons and various other scraps. There are a lot of weapons. Rocket launchers, flame throwers, lasers, guns, rifles. All neatly stacked upright against the walls, evenly spaced. A small space in the corner is free of debris.

“Nice den,” you say.

“Thank you,” Goris says from a corner. His massive hands are at work. He’s holding something, but his bulky body is in the way. After a moment, he turns around and walks toward you, holding an open bag.

He stops in front of you, holding the bag so you can see inside. You lean over and look. A dead Deathclaw eggling lies crumpled and twisted inside. On top of it, an unhatched egg, and a few vials of red liquid. They’re labeled with a crude “G” or “P” or “E.” You look up at Goris. His face is backlit by the lantern at the far side of the room. Every fold and crack in his thick, scaly hide leaps out at you.

“This is the package,” he says. “Take it to Doctor Henry in Jacobstown as fast as you can. I believe he’s the only one who can give me answers. If I could, I’d go there myself and ask him, but I hear it’s a community of Super Mutants and Nightkin. I used to be able to disguise myself with a robe and sneak into settlements, but I was much smaller back then.”

You carefully take the bag from Goris. It’s heavy, but nothing you can’t handle.

“So what do you think?” Goris says. “Will you help me? I won’t lie to you. Carrying that corpse and egg will probably draw predators and scavengers to you. They smell a dead Deathclaw, they’ll jump on the chance for a free meal.”

You look into the pack one more time. Then up at Goris. You’ve come this far...

“What are you hoping for?” you ask. “A whole community of... smart Deathclaws?”

“My species is dying. Do you have any idea what it feels like to have the survival of your entire race resting on your shoulders?”

You shake your head.

“It is the most unbearable burden you can imagine. It has consumed my life. Brought me to insanity and back, trying to prevent it but powerless to change it. Only recently did I take a step back and realize something else is wrong.

“There are blood vials in there. The ones labeled with a G are mine. P is for her, my partner. E is for the egglings. I also included a few semen samples. Everything the doctor needs to figure out what’s wrong with me, and how I can keep my species from dying off.”

“And... payment?”

Goris straightens up. “Look around you. I’ve collected a lot of weapons and artifacts over the years. Look through them and take anything you need.”

You look. His collection is beyond impressive. “Sure. Thanks.”

“If you deliver the package to Doctor Henry and bring his reply back to me, I will pay you for that trip as well.”

“How?”

“You’ll see. I know I’ve given you a lot to take in.”

He looks back and glances at the terminal on the ledge.

“It is past 22 hours,” he says, turning to you. “You may rest here until morning if you wish. My partner won’t come in here. She prefers to guard the nest, and that I stay out.”

You pause. You think for a moment. “Yeah, this is a lot to take in. It’s hard enough just getting used to the idea that a Deathclaw is speaking to me. Not ripping me apart.”

“That’s one reason I want my species to survive.”

“All right. I was on my way to the Mojave anyway. I’ll take this with me.”

“Thank you.”

“And I’ll be glad to sleep here. Be nice not to sleep with one eye open, looking for Geckos.”

Goris turns and walks to the far wall of the den. He adjusts a knob on the lantern. It dims and then winks out, leaving you encased in the glow of your Pip-Boy once again. Just beyond the light, you make out Goris curling up and closing his eyes. The cave is silent. You feel oddly safe in this room, though the thought of a massive Deathclaw mother in the next chamber does gnaw at your stomach. This fear seems much quieter with her in her cave, and you in this cave.

In the company of Goris, you feel a strange ease now. You switch off your light. The cave is completely black. The stink of Deathclaw is all around you, and the sound of Goris’s breathing becomes white noise. You take off your pack and use it as a pillow. You keep the Deathclaw bag to one side so you don’t forget. You’re not sure if it’s possible to sleep in this atmosphere, but it’s the safest place in the wasteland to rest.

***


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