[b]Bradley Hills, Capital Wasteland[/b]

The ruins of Bradley Hills were no different than any other of the innumerable suburbs that sprawled out from beyond I-495's "border" to the "hard" urbanization of DC. Dotted along the landscape, these identical neighborhoods once hosted identically happy families. It was the American Dream, of course. Every house had a hardworking mother, a ten year old boy, a kid sister, a happy and friendly dog - albeit one who occasionally barked at the mailman -, and a husband who drove his shiny Corvega sedan to a 9-5 whitecollar job. He would come home just in time for a steaming hot dinner prepared especially for him, and would listen to his son tell the family about his latest elementary school baseball game. All of those people were dead now, of course. And so was that idyllic version of the past. In place of the happy families were scenes such as a malfunctioning, twitching Eyebot shoved into the trunk of a burned-out car. It broadcasted the static of what once was Enclave Radio, apparently without a care in the world. Fox brushed past the wreckage in a hurry, unconsciously trying to avoid the cameras of the Eyebot despite knowing that they weren't connected to anything anymore and the whole device was merely a scrap of metal that just happened to play some noise every once in a while. It still scared him.

Ahead of him was a deteriorating overpass, on which a small crosstown road crossed over the residential street below. Beside it was a small area fenced off by a rusted, warped chainlink fence. A pair of dumpsters sat squat on the inside and a small fire burned beside them. Immediately, Fox reached for his rifle: another person. A threat. He dove behind a nearby mailbox, mind on autopilot. This man could be anyone. More than likely, he'd try to kill the soldier. Would it be preferable to take him out, or sneak by? Did he have friends nearby? What about his armaments? Big, small? Fox computed these questions in his head instantly, before leaning out to the side of the mailbox. He held his rifle up and steadied it on the side of the box, peeking down the scope. As he steadied it, the man in the sights became clearer. A simple, older man, dressed in Brahminskin rags and feeding some cooked meat to a mangy-looking dog. He looked curiously over at Fox, before smiling. "I can see you, you know," he called out casually. His dog nuzzled into his side, and the man directed his attention to the animal. Fox watched as he scratched its ears and petted it. The dog had a smile on its face, panting loudly so that Fox could hear even across the street.

"Don't move!" Fox commanded, clicking on his safety. He wanted its click to show that he meant business, but he didn't actually want to make a mistake and have a shaky trigger finger shoot the man.

"I'm not young enough to dodge you even if you did want to kill me," the old man admitted. Fox frowned. Why wasn't he doing anything? He was just sitting there.

"What are you doing? Who are you?" Fox asked, eyes widening as he looked down the scope. Maybe the man didn't want to kill him.

"I'm a trader. This is where I live," the man replied calmly, gesturing around at his overpass. Beside him was a scrap metal shack with a few metal shelves set up with all sorts of gear and goods on them. He stood up from his fire and commanded his dog to sit, before moving over to unlock the gate to the maintenance area. "If you like, I have some gear to sell. If you've got caps. And the physical ability to put away that gun. But your types are always touchy."

Fox lowered his gun just an inch in response, wondering what he meant. Your types? He raised himself up a bit more, lessening his cautious stance. Against his instinct, he seemed to be cooling down. "What do you mean?"

"You're some sort of gunman. Military or paramilitary, probably. You're very clean though. Maybe a Brotherhood guy."

"I can assure you that I'm not," Fox blurted out. He had stood up fully now, holding his gun low. Inside him, his rational side was issuing out warnings that were overruled by the emotional part of his brain. It was a kind old trader, he reckoned. It was bad for business to kill his clients.

"Well, it doesn't matter," the old man admitted. "Come inside."

Fox found himself stepping forward despite anything else. He quickly shuffled across the cracked concrete to the overpass, ducking into the trader's maintenance area. He felt safer, somehow. Safe enough to leave his rifle dangling on the sling. It felt good. The best he'd felt in a while. So the trader went to his shed and brought out an assortment of items for Fox to peruse at his own leisure. He then left to the maintenance tunnel at the rear of the lot to go and find a crate with some of his more valuable wares while Fox looked up at the bridge above him. Leaky, rusty, and ready to fall at any time. He wondered how long the man had been living there. But those were irrelevant questions. Fox's mind had been quite scrambled by recent events. He shook it, as if to clear out the irrelevant thoughts, and looked back down at the goods. There was an assortment of everything, really. Food, water, some ammunition, and other equipment. Nothing was really of use to him, except for the provisions. Canned goods that may or may not have been poisoned with botulism, some boxed things like frozen dinners and the like, and some Nuka Cola sodas. The soldier checked his pocket to see if he had enough money to purchase anything - the food he had stolen off of Gonzales were gone after the morning's breakfast. So Fox ended up buying a few sodas and cans of food, and leaving quickly. Although he had felt normalcy for the first time, he didn't want to stay.

It quickly became apparent that Fox wouldn't reach Rafael's tunnel by nightfall. He had gotten distracted on the road one too many times. The sun was setting as Fox tried to pick up his pace, but there was not enough time. To compound this, a storm had appeared on the horizon some hours earlier. Sinister, black clouds encroached on the orange sky, darkening all below. By dusk, Fox could feel the first raindrops. They were black, meager, and dripped onto the dry and cracked land. The ground, desperate for water, seemed to absorb it almost instantly. Yet nothing would assuage the cracked and abused Earth. Not even the rain could bring back life to the radioactive land. Of course, the rain itself seemed to be dangerous as well. As Fox scouted for a hideout, his PIP-Boy's Geiger counter began to tick. He unbuttoned the pouch and retrieved the tablet-like device, only to see a message warning him of light radiation: "1RAD/S." The soldier scowled, then looked up at the poisonous rain from above. He'd have to find the antirad medications soon, lest he spend an uncomfortable night baking in the stuff. Nobody wanted to wake up the next morning a Ghoul. To have their DNA warped and shattered like that, manifesting in rotted skin and hair loss. They looked almost like living skeletons, with the soft tissue of their noses and ears long since eroded. Fox had decided long ago that he would force his sidearm down his throat rather than live that way.

The best way to avoid this was to simply get out of the rain. He needed shelter, and he found it. A few minutes later, he had kicked out the window of an industrial park's office building and slithered his way into a corridor there. He had climbed a muddy hill, crossed a parking lot littered with rusted automobiles, and climbed onto the second-story roof: a Herculean task for the man who had been on the march all day with a pack that weighed as much as a small animal dragging him down. So he slid through the window and fell to the floor, laying in the pile of broken glass he had created. For some reason, Fox figured that it would be a good time to sleep. The Geiger counter had stopped his ticking: he was safe for now. The soldier lay unmoving, sprawled out on the floor, and felt his eyes grow heavy. Within the minute, he was sound asleep. The world turned to black around him. He loosened the death grip on his revolver as he fell away from the realm of reality. It was an uncharacteristically deep sleep. That is, until he awoke seconds later. With a gasp, he sat up and looked around.

The office building was far behind him. Fox looked down at his body, and found that he was naked save for a pair of tasteful plaid boxers. He blinked and looked up at the striped, yellow wallpaper. All pristine. To his right, a rising sun shone in through a pair of windows covered with tasteful blue drapes. Fox looked at the white plaster ceiling, and saw a light fixture turn on. Puzzled, the soldier swung out of the welcoming queen bed and onto the carpeted floor. His feet felt something that he hadn't felt for a long time: the warmth and the plush softness of a carpet that hadn't been soiled by two hundred years of the nuclear apocalypse. He dug his bare toes into the stuff, momentarily forgetting that he was supposed to be worried about the sudden change of scenery. At this point, however, he began to rationalize that he was dreaming. This wasn't real. Yet he still hadn't fully grasped that concept yet, so he began to walk around to investigate further. A quick check of the bathroom revealed a spotless - almost surgically clean - toilet and bathtub. The bathroom mirror reflected Fox's face. A face that was not permanently burnt and peeling. A face without the scrapes and lacerations of everyday Wasteland life. A face with life in its eyes. A face without grey hair on his twenty-seven-year-old scalp. Fox ran his hands over his face and through his hair: it was softer without the grease and dirt and mud that made it coarse.

Returning to the bedroom, Fox saw a dresser directly across from the bed. Inside were neatly folded clothes: clothes for outings and family events. Vests, slacks, button-downs. In his closet were several uniforms hanging from a rail. They were not grey, but green. They bore insignia of the US Army, not the Enclave. Then he saw something out of the corner of his eye. He turned his head, and saw several women's dresses hanging beside the uniforms. Sun dresses, formal dresses, and casual dresses. A rainbow of bright, cheery colors. And in the back, covered in a plastic dry-cleaner's bag: a brilliant white wedding dress. Fox's eyes darted from the dresses to the bed, and he stepped back from the closet. Beside where he awoke was a woman with her face buried in the sheets. Pale skin, red hair. She seemed slender. Fox froze, gazing upon the sight. Was she the same woman who owned those dresses? Where was he? Was this his house? His breathing became shallow, almost panicky. The woman awoke now, rising from the bed. A night dress covered her otherwise bare body. A smile on her face. Her hair was unkempt from the night's slumber, falling across her face and obscuring it. Then she spoke, a brilliantly beautiful voice that echoed across the room: "Up already? Well, have a good day at work. I love you, dear." Then the sun's light flashed blue, washing through the room and receding just as quickly as it entered.

Fox didn't reply. He jumped, in fact, and scrambled out of the room without a word. He was frightened now, breathing heavily and sweating. What was happening? Still in his underwear, he arrived in a hallway. Down it was a living room, furnished with an unsoiled couch and a television that wasn't broken. Fox, shaking ever so slightly, crept until he flattened himself against a wall next to a corner. In the kitchen, he heard a slight humming noise that drowned out a quiet radio. After a moment of hesitation, he braved a look. A Mr. Handy robot manipulated a cup of coffee with its claw, taking it out of a coffeemaker and placing it down on a nearby breakfast table. Its "eyes" focused on its task, not noticing as Fox revealed himself in the hallway. He slid closer to the robot, slowly and purposefully. His footsteps, muffled by the carpet, made no sound. On the kitchen counter behind the robot was a large cutting knife, and Fox moved to take it. As he grasped his hand around the wooden handle, the Mr. Handy jolted around. Its eyes swung back to Fox, and it raised all of its appendages. "Good morning, sir!" it announced cheerfully. Its grasping claw swung back to pick up the cup of coffee. "Do you need your coffee, sir?"

Fox dropped the knife back onto the cutting board and jumped back. Steadying himself on the fridge, he managed to eek out a response: "Who the fuck are you?"

The robot was instantaneous with its answer: "I am MT-902412/246, manufactured by RobCo Facility Denver and purchased from Radiation King Electronics in Bethesda, Maryland by you. You call me 'Matt.' I am your robotic Mr. Handy servant."

Another flash of blue. Fox blinked again, rubbing his eyes. What the hell?

"You have woken up early, sir. Trouble sleeping?"

"What?" Fox asked.

"Are you having trouble sleeping? I can contact a physician and acquire medication to assist," the Mr. Handy suggested cheerily. Its eyes eerily stretched towards Fox, the focusing lenses of the camera making noises as they zoomed in.

"I... no... no, I'm fine. Just needed to... get to work early."

Fox's breathing had subsided now, and he recovered from his defensive posture. This Mr. Handy wasn't insane, like the others.

"Well okay, sir! I will make breakfast for you shortly. Would you like to listen to the radio?"

Fox nodded, gulping his panic back down. It was alright, he assured himself. It was a dream. It was not real. The Mr. Handy turned away towards the refrigerator to prepare breakfast, while the soldier made his way to the breakfast table. A radio - situated next to his steaming cup of coffee - was turned to the national news station, where a segment focused on a reporter translating for someone who didn't speak English. They spoke some odd tongue, probably from Asia or another place like that, that sounded completely gibberish. He was babbling and screeching about something, while the reporter calmly translated it into what appeared to be a humanitarian displacement by Chinese-backed rebels. Fox sat down at the table as another flash of blue blinded him for a moment. He felt a little sickly just then: a new development. He decided to ignore it. It was just a dream.

The Mr. Handy turned around with Fox's breakfast and set it down on the table. "Wonderful news, recently," it chimed.

"Oh?" Fox inquired, looking down at the breakfast.

"Oh yes! They say an experimental Communist bomber crashed down. Maybe your military intelligence groups can take a look at it and figure out what makes those damned Commies tick!"

"A bomber?" Fox asked, eyebrow raised.

"A bomber!" repeated the Mr. Handy. "They say they've never seen anything like it."

"Huh?"

"Never seen anything like it!"

"What the hell are you talking about?" Fox almost shouted.

"The bomber, sir! The bomber! A Communist bom-"

"I know about the fucking bomber, dammit! Tell me what's so fucking important!"

"It's a bomber! Nothing special! What are you talking about? Are you feeling confused and tired, sir? Are you having trouble sleeping? I can contact a physician and acquire medication to assist. I can contact a physician and acquire medication to assist."

"Wha-"

Before the Mr. Handy could explain, Fox felt his energy drain out of him. Weakness flowed over his body, and a flash of blue seemed to tear out his eyesight. Fox had no time to cry for help as he slammed facefirst into the table. His arms and legs went limp: he felt the distinct sensation of floating. Then, he saw nothing but blackness. Heard nothing but a faint ringing. Felt nothing but a void. Then he woke up in the real world, a figure towering over him. Fox didn't have time to react.

Above him was a man in leather armor, a Chinese rifle in hand. He looked down at Fox, and then crouched next to him. "Warrior?" he asked. "Warrior, wake up. I was sent by Rafael. Let's go. You did well. He shall talk to you. We don't have far to go."