Christopher’s house took no prevalence above any other. A box of scrapped aluminum siding wedged behind the men’s bathroom in Megaton, Christopher didn’t do too much other than lay around, asking himself why he had ever sprinted off from that gang he had such great control over. He screwed himself over, and he had lost the most promising opportunity in his life because of it.
“You’re young,” he said, speaking to himself, “You’re young, and you’ve got a whole life ahead of you… you’ll have other opportunities…” he paused for a moment, and thought to himself of how old he really was. Pre-apocalypse, he’d be young… his life expectancy would continue decades from now. But now… in a post-apocalyptical wasteland… how long would he really live?
He couldn’t dwell on this for too long, as it caused him to tremble, and he almost shot off his magnum when he picked it up from under his bed. He stuck it in his pocket, and strapped his carbine over his back. He already wore his combat armor, a charcoal black to match his motorcycle helmet that covered his head. He stuffed all the Stimpaks he could fit in his pack, and he was off.
Where was he off to? He asked himself the same question, and answered it for no one. The looks he was given as he strolled out of Megaton were those of concern, as he hadn’t gone anywhere except from Moriarty’s Saloon and back to his home in the last… the last… has Christopher ever done anything else? Where did he even come from? …he hadn’t been the most social with his neighbors over the last year… he couldn’t have them find out anything about him.
Walking slow and steady, his ankle acting up again, Christopher walked through the gate that the guards so generously opened up for him. And, in a spur of the moment decision, he called up to the gate operator for the general direction of Rivet City, and he was pointed in the right direction. If he was going to make anything of himself, it was going to be in the community on water.