To many people, the Lone Wanderer seemed indestructible, undefeatable, a hero of untouchable proportions. Raiders, super mutants, enclave, deathclaws and all manner of critters and killers in-between fell before the wasteland messiah like a man's ego when his penis failed to stand at attention in the bedroom. The image of pure machine efficient like destruction was a mix of truth, gossip and propaganda peddling by Three Dog, but even the most rational minded skeptic in the waste could agree that the Lone Wanderer was one bad ass motherfucker you did not want to mess with.
But behind the façade of old world action hero straight off a cheesy action flick, there was a weakness that few knew of. If they thought about it really hard, it should hardly be a surprise that the man who had single handedly destroyed the Enclave, pushed back the tides of super mutant hordes and personally castrated the raider population with a rusty spoon had this one flaw. After all contrary to what most people would tell you, the man was still human.
It was not really his fault this one chink in a seemingly indestructible armor of badassness, not a flaw that could be fixed or overlooked. If anything to blame, it would be his soft upbringing in the cozy vault of 101 where food was plentiful and most certainly not decayed, irradiated, out of date, filthy, or just plain inedible. Yes that's right, the Lone Wanderer got the shits. Not the occasional oh crap what did I eat, or god damn move out of my way I'm gonna blow shits. No, these were the shits that came out hot and fast, barely digested and full of liquid squirting out your asshole and leaving it feeling like a burning coal had passed through your rectum.
They came fast and unpredictably, a sudden grumble of the stomach being the only warning sign before his butt hole puckered up and began vomiting out the sometimes visibly recognizable half digested meal he had last eaten. They left the one man army cold with sweat, knees shaking, vision doubling, mouth hot sticky yet dry, and light headed feeling that made him want to vomit except there was nothing in his stomach to heave out after the emergency express evacuation of his bowels.
These times when his pants were around his ankles while he squatted in misery over some poor piece of earth or rubble that suddenly got a new brown (sometimes green) makeover were his greatest moments of weakness. All his senses were drained to nothing as his body forcefully evicts his last meal through his backside, honed reflexes that could snatch a fly out of the air reduced to an undignified jelly legged incoherent moaning tremble.
He'd loss count of the number of times he'd nearly died when one of his crap attacks hit. Damn slaver had snuck up on him with a led pipe once while he was doing a fairly impressive fire hydrant impression with his ass and damn near killed him. It had been one of the most undignified fights of his life, two grown and dirty men rolling around in shit covered dirt, slipping and sliding on the smelly excrements while trying to strangle the other. The fact that he had his pants around his ankle was mostly to blame for why it took him so long to win. It had been a horribly humiliating ordeal that still burned his face when his thoughts strayed to that unfortunate day.
Then there was that time a herd of bloat fly's had caught scent of his fecal matter, that had been unpleasant as well. Beating to death puppy sized mutant fly's that spat out a burning acid while wobbling around with his pants acting as manacles to his feet was an epic feat in itself.
Super mutants were walking displays of stupid and a perfect lesson on how not to be stealthy (hell their skin was green and they could only speak in yells), but hell if they didn't manage to sneak up on him when he body wasn't trying to set the record for most shit without death by dehydration. People may know about projectile vomiting, but he'd definitely be the one to coin the term projectile shitting if it wasn't a phrase already. Hell some days he was tempted to check he hadn't managed to push out his intestines with the force and speed it came out at.
There had been this one time when he'd been tangling with a deathclaw when his stomach had given an unpleasant tug and he'd been fairly certain he was a dead man as soon as his knees shook and his vision trembled. What he'd learn that day was that deathclaws had very sensitive nose, because even though the mean eyed beast had been all set to tear him limb from limb, as soon as his crap left his ass the monster had taken one sniff, whined like a beaten puppy and turned tail and ran. Maybe he should tell Moria to come up with a shit scented deodorant as a deathclaw repellent?
Heaving a sigh, the Lone Wanderer continued his steady walk towards where he had received reports from the Brotherhood of Steel about where some of the remnants of Enclave forces had been spotted. They had formally inducted him into their ranks just hours ago before he had set off, granting him the rank of Knight Captain as appreciation for devastating their age old enemy. The small feast they had been prepared had been wonderful given the state of food in the rest of the wasteland, and they had been kind enough to set him up with a set of polished power armor that looked relatively unused.
The sun had already set below the horizon and only faint fingers of light still stretched out in a sky that was becoming darker by the minute. Stars shown brightly in the pre-evening heavens, and the Lone Wanderer allowed a rare smile cross his face as he enjoyed the cooling air of the DC ruins. While he had many regrets since coming to the surface, one thing he did not was being able to see the open sky and breath in air that wasn't recycled.
A familiar grumble shook his frame as his intestines announced their intentions or rebelling against the feast he had heartily ingested. The intimate feeling of dread washed over the Lone Wander and he rushed over to the side of the broken road, clenching his buttocks shut with the skills that came with practice. Reaching a relatively safe looking spot he reached for his belt only for his hand to clang off metal. Staring down at his armor with eye widening, he realized he had no idea how to remove the power armor. In fact from what he'd seen of the other brotherhood soldiers, it took two people to remove the damn thing even though a person could put it on by themselves.
AN: Poor Lone Wanderer ;p I'm sure we've all had these moments. Until next time! Watch