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Chapter Text

It was the year 2277, in a world where the 50s' idealistic 'atomic future' had come to fruition.

But perhaps a more apt word would be 'devastation'. 200 years prior the bombs had dropped, as the war between China and the U.S. had reached its breaking point. All over the world the mushroom clouds sprouted--sickly orange blooms releasing mankind's worst fears in one fell swoop. And as the fire and smoke settled, so did a deathly silence.

White-picketed suburbs became rotted out ghost towns, neighbors blood-starved fiends and traitorous scum ready to shoot you over a bottle of water, pets and friendly wildlife were now something monsterous and deadly. Even the trees were burned shadows of their former selves--leafless, gnarled, and ungiving to anyone looking to escape from the sun.

The American Dream transformed into something warped and ugly. The world was reborn, and it was taking no prisoners.

Most people perished the moment the nukes fell. Some--those in vaults or with just plain bad luck--had the misfortune of surviving.

It was the year 2277, in a smoke-soaked bar nestled in what had once been D.C.'s prestigious history museum, two ghouls--humans turned as scarred and jaded as the earth herself, thanks to an unlucky gene and ungodly amounts of radiation exposure--talked over shitty vodka.

Charon

"127 years. What's the point?"

"Dude. Harshin' the buzz. Minus five points."

"I'm serious. I've been stuck here for 127 years. Haven't past the front steps once. At least Quinn and Charon get to go out every few weeks... Ain't that right, big guy? Gearin' up to catch some of that fresh air?"

I growled an unintelligible response. Fresh air. Right. Get out and get shot at by smoothskins and deal with all the unsavory types. I refocused on inspecting the large duffel bag of weapons Ahzrukhal had handed me that morning.

At least he knows how long he's been here, I thought. Something bitter hit the back of my throat accompanied by a pain in my head. I pushed it away.

Focus. Focus. The two ghouls had stopped staring at me, turning back to their piss poor drinks. I didn't mind. Most of the residents in Underworld either ignored or watched me carefully. I was intimidating, even by ghoul standards. Unforgivingly tall and silent, slim "with the strength of five Cuchulains", as Doc Barrows liked to joke.

I was the bar's restlessly short-leashed watchdog--and I'd only bite if Ahzrukhal told me to.

Speak of the devil. Ahzrukhal had slithered out of what seemed to be nowhere, now behind the bar, grabbing the parcel of weapons that I usually trudged out to deliver every month.

"Charon," He wheezed, "Why don't you check up on that slimy rat bastard Barrows, hm?"

If the boss wanted to check in on a slimy rat, he could find a fucking mirror.

I stayed silent, staring emotionlessly at Azhrukhal’s shifty grin as he slid the parcel of weapons back beneath the aged marble countertop.

“That’s an order, boy.”

I grumbled another wordless response, although inwardly I felt relieved. A trick you had to learn pretty early was to complain more visibly when you actually liked something. Azhrukhal was more likely to ‘ask’ those favors of you later.

As soon as I was outta eyesight I left quickly, sighing as the double doors shut weakly behind me. I brightened a little, slouching slightly as I breathed in the “fresh” air beyond the hellish establishment I was forced watched over.

The rest of Underworld wasn’t much of a change in scenery, but it was something. Winthrop, that fellow that usually made rounds and did the repairs, kept the place as tidy as it could get. The rubble was nearly all cleaned up, and the off-white marble that covered nearly everything was slowly returning to its dull shine. The light fixtures and small fires emitted their flat, threatening orange glow a little brighter each day, it seemed. Poor Winthrop was probably running low on scrap metal again, cleaning obsessively to keep himself busy since he couldn't fix damn near anything.

I spared a small wave to Carol, who was leaning over the bannister of the staircase opposite the one I was heading down. She was one of the oldest ghouls there, pre-war, and something of a mother to a lot of residents. She'd shown me nothing but kindness, but there was a strange sadness about her ever since that Gob kid left. I knew Ahzrukhal kept trying to get Carol to come by the bar, probably to get her hooked to chems.

Which is why I'd warned her a few months ago to stay away, in my typical accidentally-frightening fashion. Luckily, she'd steered clear so far.

Quickly down the long staircase and directly behind was the entrance to 'The Chop Shop', Barrows' lab. I passed the large sculpture smack dab in the middle of the wing--the most intact structure left over from the exhibit--which was really just a mass of black stone cut to show hundreds of human figures scrambling and clawing and twisting themselves to the ass-end of nowhere. I hated that damn thing. It reminded me of ferals. Or the smoothskins up top.

Of all the ghouls residing in the old Museum, Doc Barrows was the one guy who seemed the least guarded around me. Normally I didn't like doctor-types and I never was the type to have friends, but in spite of all that Barrows had been the closest thing to one since I could remember.

The Chop Shop was a reasonably sized office-type situation made crowded by several cots, a makeshift operating table, tools and meds, and a small computer where his assistant always sat peering over mountains of research. A large window opposite the entrance peered into another room. Doc was slouching in front of it, chewing a pen over his clipboard.

"Well, if it ain't my favorite lab rat." Barrows greeted without turning. He was the opposite of me--short and somewhat stocky, good humored, talked too much.

"Making progress?" I peered into the window, obscured slightly by a film of dirt, staring at the two ferals Barrows had been watching over for a while now. 'Glowing ones' everyone seemed to call them. Had so many rads pumping through them that they were mostly shambling green lightbulbs and not much else.

"Eh. Meat's been chewing his arm, like usual. The other day though, I swear Ethyl was trying to communicate with me. Mostly just groans. I oughtta send you in, you two could have a great conversation."

"Very funny." I snorted.

Doc waved dismissively at a nearby cot, "Sit down, sit down, let's have a look atcha."

Barrows set to work--checking my ears and nose (what was left of them, anyway), shining a tiny light into my eyes, asking to follow his finger as it traveled steadily through the air. Inspecting teeth, heartbeat, reflexes. Standard fare. Each time he worked intently, nodding and painstakingly writing stuff on his trusty clipboard. The Doc took his time on all ghoul patients--especially with the 'wanderers'--the ones who went out into the wastes regularly. Like Quinn or Willow or myself. I didn't mind, since I knew this kind of thing was going towards the research. Barrows wanted to know what made us all tick, and even hoped to reverse our condition someday.

I didn't think it would ever happen. If there was a cure for ghouls, it wouldn't be taking so damn long.

"You finding any answers, Doc?" I attempted to ask conversationally. Barrows had gone over to a little cabinet near the door, looking for something to take a blood sample with.

"Only more questions, it seems," Barrows answered, cursing for a moment under his breath about needing Quinn to get him some more clean needles, "Like: why do some of us keep a full head a' hair? Or: Do we all talk like old chain-smokin' hollywood mobsters because it's become social norm, or is there a physiological cause? ...I swear to God I had a clean needle just the other day... "

I chuckled, rubbing my face tiredly for just a moment. Even after countless years living as a ghoul, the feel of my own skin would still startle me at times. Leathery, coarse.

"You still ain't sleepin', huh?" Barrows asked.

I answered robotically, "Every second I'm sleeping I'm--"

(dreaming)

"--Not doin' your job, yeah, yeah." Barrows sighed. He was the only ghoul in Underworld (other than Azhrukhal, of course) who knew of my little 'condition'--that's what he called it, anyways. He'd been trying to figure that out, too--as stubborn as he was dark humored--but to no avail.

"Aha! Found one... Hold your arm out for me, yeah? Thanks.

First the rubber band...

now the sting..."

I spaced out for a moment, lost in the strange, red disfigurement of my own hands. The small sections of 'normal' looking skin interrupting like a bad joke. With the exception of my face and arms, most of my skin looked fairly human. Doc once said that I was lucky--aside from the large expanse of exposed muscle on my shoulder and right calf and a few spots on my ribcage, I had held up pretty well.

The largest part of the mutation exposing my shoulder--the one that ached arbitrarily and all too often--I didn't like thinking about that one too much. Hurt my head and seemed to make all thoughts short.

My head had taken the worst of it. ("Your days on the silverscreen are over, but cheer up. There's always radio!") was Doc's attempt at making light of it all. Then again, I never met another ghoul that had managed to keep their nose, either. Hair, maybe. I had barely any of that left to call my own. Just a few patches of dark red against skin that appeared burnt to hell and frozen over.

I stared into the small vial now housing some of my blood. Frowned. Same red as any old smoothskin's. Speaking of smoothskins, I noticed the cot empty cot off in the corner then, empty except for the small halo of warm yellow light created by the wall fixture above.

"What happened to that girl that was recovering over there, Doc?"

Barrows got up, sealing the blood sample and rummaging around for his clipboard.

"Hm? Oh, uh, the Riley gal? She woke up."

"Always knew you were a miracle worker."

"Don't make me laugh. It was that Vault Dweller everyone's heard so much about. It was last month, while you were ... running errands... for your boss again."

I grumbled wordlessly again, looking away as Barrows eyed me slyly. Everybody wanted to know where I went during 'errands', but I wouldn't breathe a word. And it wasn't Ahzrukhal's threats shutting me up, either.

"Anyhow..." Barrows quickly moved on when he realized today was not the day for spilling secrets, "You heard about her. Three Dog can hardly contain himself over a hero type like that. Radio's gone half-static with his excitement. She came in here, asking if I needed help--"

I chuckled. A smoothskin samaritan. That was rich.

"Actually talked shop for awhile. Nice to meet someone who knows as much about medicine... scientific method and all that mess... got a bit touchy when I asked for a kidney, though."

"Barrows," I rubbed the pain from where he'd just drawn blood impatiently, "you're ramblin' again."

"Oh... right. Anyway, woke that knocked out smoothskin right up when I had my back turned. That peeved me a little--I don't like people taking over for me, ya know? But like I said, Vault Gal's a bleeding heart."

I shrugged and got up, deciding it was time to get back to my post. I could practically hear the gears in Barrows' green egg-shaped head turning on my way out. I rolled my eyes and sighed the moment he heard him speak up:

"That reminds me... remember what we talked about a while back? 'Bout seeking new employment?"

"I told you, it ain't that simple. I can't just ask--"

"Bleeding. Heart. Tell her a sob story about your situation and I garun-fuckin-tee ya she'll buy the contract from Ahz. I swear on Meat 'n Ethyl."

I'd reached for the double doors and was halfway to the plaza's statue by the time Barrows was done jabbering.

Barrows called after me, "At least consider it, huh?!"

consider it

Yeah. Right.

----

There was a painting right outside the doors to The Ninth Circle. It'd always felt familiar to Charon--and even though it was ruined to the point of being nothing more than faded shapes, he could always make out at least three figures.

One redheaded male, bending to rip the throat from his dark-haired brother. His knee breaking his back. And the winged demon overhead, his face a ruined smudge of green--but grinning widely.

It was the year 2277, and Charon's life had not changed in the least since he'd arrived in Underworld.

But it was about to. Charon could feel the strange premonition crawling up his back and slithering across his bad shoulder, the moment he paused to stare at that painting. The instant the sound of the door to the concourse--'outside'--echoed open and shut, and Patches began whooping like the obnoxious town drunk he was,

"Whoo-ee! We got ourselves a tourist! The Vault Gal, none less!"

Chapter Text

Wilde

"Hold on Jonas, I-I need to record this first.

I... I don't really know how to tell you this. I hope you'll understand, but I know you might be angry. I thought about it for a long time, but in the end I decided it was best for you not to know. So many things could have gone wrong, and there's really no telling how the overseer will react when he finds out. It's best if he can blame everything on me.

Obviously you already know that I'm gone. It was something I needed to do. You're an adult now. You're ready to be on your own. Maybe someday things will change and we can see each other again. I can't tell you why I left or where I'm going. I don't want you to follow me. God knows life in the vault isn't perfect, but at least you'll be safe. Just knowing that will be enough to keep me going."

Jonas' voice--my father's assistant and best friend, my mentor--bright and ever-amiable. I teared up a little each time I heard it:

"Don't mean to rush you, Doc, but I'd feel better if we got this over with."

My father's, gentle and reassuring:

"Okay. Go ahead. Goodbye. I love you."

The garbled sound of a lever being pulled, the lazy, frightening groan of metal: of Vault 101 opening its maw. Changing the world--my world--forever.

I replayed the holotape on my Pip Boy again. Again. Burning it into my brain, turning it in my head over and over again for any kind of hint.

There wouldn't be one. There hadn't been a single one since I'd discovered the holotape on Jonas' body--murdered by the vault's guards--and escaped from The Overseer's sudden, explosive madness after my father left.

"Selfish and insubordinate, just like your father..."

There was no 'puzzle', no cryptic message here to be solved. Really, the holotape had become nothing more than a father speaking to his daughter for the last time, and my grip on reality.

And goodness knew I needed that lately more than ever.

This new world was everything the old films and books back in 101 promised it would be, and yet nothing like it at all. So much light and noise--even the silence in the wastes was disorienting at times. Death, mutation, utter chaos. The complete opposite of the place I called "home" during childhood.

Somehow the outside was better by a longshot. Horrifying, but better.

Even still, I was losing my head. I could barely keep track of the days anymore. The loss of Jonas and my father (who I hoped was still alive), and the pressures and growing reputation I had as a result of helping a few downtrodden wastelanders were beginning to take their toll. Helping out Riley and her band of mercenaries had been a close call for Dogmeat because of it.

As hard as it was to admit, I found myself in need of help. And feeling alone. The Wasteland had that effect on you. Its emptiness gave you the notion that a thousand dead eyes were all fixed on you. Even the winds and abandoned buildings were heavy with whispers.

Someone with a gun would work. Someone with experience would be best.

Which was partly why I'd returned to Underworld.

"a-TEN-HUT."

I jumped, startled by the Mr. Gutsy now floating directly in front of me. A spherical robot equipped with plasma weapons, a barking voice, three optics and snake-like metal arms.

"Hello Cerberus." I smiled. The little guy reminded me of the more refined (and clumsy) Mr. Handy we had back at the vault--Andy, his name was. I probably missed him more than the majority of people living down there.

"Area secure! Go Underworld! Go ghouls!" Cerberus whirred under his breath, "...Curse this stupid pansy zombie programming..." He zipped away, continuing his patrol upstairs. Winthrop had explained that the strange ghoul-hating code was his handiwork, but sometimes I wasn't so sure.

I'd already asked the guard outside, Willow, if she'd be interested in joining me. She'd shaken her head, saying "Tch. Travel with a smoothskin? Sorry tourist, guardin' a Deathclaw would be safer."

I followed Cerberus up one of the large staircases now, trying to find Quinn. That's where I'd encountered him the first time I'd ventured down to Underworld.

One of the residents had explained that this place was an exhibit in an old museum, showcasing what various cultures thought of the afterlife. It was too bad that most of the resources were gone and the art destroyed. I had a penchant for learning about the past that seemed so deeply tied to this world, and I was constantly searching for more.

I was looking forward to talking to Carol again--of all pre-war ghouls I'd met so far, she seemed the most open about her experiences. But I sighed upon reaching the door to her little corner of the strange, marble-covered 'city':

sorry we're CLOSED. Greta's feeling under the weather. Have a nice day!

"Doctor Barrows said ghouls don't get sick...?" I heard myself whisper. I was talking to myself so much more often now that I was getting on my own nerves. I chuckled at this and turned. My face fell. The only quiet place left to sit down and think was the bar right across the way, 'The Ninth Circle'.

Carol

"She's headed to The Ninth, now. You owe me one." I said, letting the huge double doors slam behind me.

Barrows groaned impatiently, jokingly, as he fumbled with his pocket. He withdrew several bottlecaps--the brave new world's currency--and dropped them into my marred, outstretched hand.

"What makes you so sure?" He asked, lighting my cigarette.

"Cause I just looked inside, you dolt. What makes you so sure? Ahzrukhal's no fool. Why would he sell?"

"Patches told me he was lookin' to sell." Barrows shrugged.

"Tch. You can trust Patches about as well as you can keep parts of him falling off."

"I have to. I have to trust it. ...I need to get him out. 'Sides, I got a feeling, alright? Call it premonition."

We stood in silence for a few moments, right outside the exhibit's doors. It was quiet in the huge circular concourse of the museum, empty. I regarded the other entrances to old exhibits surrounding us on all sides. There was one for Abraham Lincoln, another for some World War. The last one was marked 'The Resource Wars, 2052-PRESENT'. The entrance to that one was completely blocked off by rubble.

"Imagine the guns we could've gotten out of there, eh?" Barrows broke the silence, as was his habit, "And what's with the mammoth? Do you think it's real?" He chuckled. Barrows was pre-war, but you wouldn't know it from his demeanor. He wouldn't tell you, either.

"It's about as real as this plan of yours. Ahzrukhal's not selling."

"He'll sell." Barrows snapped, turning around to stare at the gigantic skull etched over our city's door, "I know it."

"How?" I stared into the ember of my cigarette, eating away at the paper oh-so-slowly. I remembered my father's shadow. How it had seared into the ground when the bombs had fallen. How dark it was, against all that blinding light.

"I know. Charon's losing it."

Charon

"I should be heading out. May I have the parcel."

"No, no." Ahzrukhal insisted, "You'll be staying here. That nosy little do-good smoothskin is making her rounds. Go be useful in the corner and try to look a little more intimidating. Go, go."

(consider it)

He shooed me away from the counter. I obliged, clenching my fists at sides all the while. I didn't want to stay. Not today. Not when there was a chance of leaving this godforsaken place for good. Not while there was something giving me even a sliver of a hope. Hope was a splinter in the brain, and it had to be removed as soon as possible. As far as I knew, all it ever led to was a feverish disappointment.

I took my place beside a sad, marble pillar on the same wall as the entrance--the farthest, most dim section of the bar. It was here that I could simultaneously watch and ignore every patron and my boss.

Ahzrukhal's voice boomed its fake pleasantry as he served another round to the lonesome pair seated on tall stools (Patches and someone else I didn't care about), "Here ya go boys--drink till she's pretty, huh?"

They all laughed uproariously. I rolled my tired eyes. The radio hummed its tinny sounds in the opposite corner:

"I don't want set the world on fire..."

Static rang along in the background, a grinding undertone that seemed relentless. I rubbed at my eyes, straightening up at the sound of a door opening and timidly closing shut.

"Well, Ahz. I think I mighta drank too much." The two ghouls stared in awe, then laughed at the exhausted looking woman who'd just entered.

Spending most days standing in a corner had given me a keen eye for people. I knew what drunken townsfolk sobbed about, what most tourists were looking for, how far they needed to go. Who was addicted to what and how often they needed it. Who would start fights or need to be carried out by the end of the night.

She was taller than most smoothskins I'd met. Still shorter than me by plenty. Probably came up to my chin. She was skinny in every place but her hips. Had an old-world look about her--a pretty face framed by a wavy blonde bob. Her haircut was uneven--Snowflake, our local jetted out 'barber' had probably convinced to sit at the mercy of his scissors. She was pale, and the skin across her nose was badly sunburnt. I imagined all those vault people would have that problem. For some reason, I found myself smirking.

Blue eyes. Like mine, but clear. Like the sky on a day where the debris and the fog up top wasn't too awful. They were bright and wide, zipping around the room, taking note of every detail. She was book sharp, probably. But that also meant she knew next to nothing about the way things worked out here--and I was right. One look at her armor and pack said it all. She'd merely strapped a shoulder guard, belts and some pouches to her blue leather jumpsuit and called it a day. '101' was emblazoned on her back in bright yellow. A strange plasma rifle strapped there slightly obscured the numbers. An overstuffed pack down by her side jangled with the weight of many things, but mostly bottlecaps. That factor alone was enough to paint a giant bullseye on the back of her head.

She stepped up to the bar, looking back with uncertainty at the limping, pointy-eared mutt that accompanied her. She was lost. No, no. She'd lost something.

Ahzrukhal tsked in feigned sympathy at the sight of her bandaged dog. Misery was the man's favorite vice.

"Poor thing..." His voice rattled, "Why don't you pull up a chair and tell Uncle Ahz all about it."

Patches now, in a way that made me want to rip what was left of my own face off, "Hey. Hey. Barrows said you was a doctor? I got a gentleman's issue I need a look at..."

The tourist grinned, full of geniality, "Ah, Patches. They warned me about you. As vile as you are smelly."

If Patches had a tail, it'd be between his legs then. It took everything I had not to burst out laughing. I allowed myself a snort of a chuckle, to which Ahzrukhal responded with a deafening glare. I silenced, promptly straightening up.

"Anything to drink, miss?"

"No, thank you. Have you boys seen Quinn around?"

"Unfortunately, Quinn is out scavenging. He left quite some time ago."

She frowned, looking down at the clunky brown old-world tech strapped to her left wrist for a few moments. Pip boys, I think they were called. Extremely rare. Another risk.

She seemed to be considering whether or not she wanted to leave, then eyed the empty table in my corner.

"If you don't mind I'd like to stay awhile, gather my thoughts?"

Ahzrukhal nodded, visibly irked by her refusal to drink.

The mutt arrived at the table first, laying down beneath it, eager to rest her leg. The tourist took the seat directly facing me.

(consider it)

I wouldn't even know the right words to bring it up, let alone the fact that I knew Azhrukhal well enough that he wouldn't give me--a prized guard dog--up to just anyone.

Even if that person did obviously have a foolish amount of caps.

I shook my head, trying get that ugly hope out.

Most tourists flinched when they saw me. But she... she actually smiled.

I didn't respond. I didn't know how. Instead, I withdrew a cigarette from my pocket and lit it with a match, watching the flame die as I waved it away.

Wilde

Everything about him seemed strong, as though he was wrought from iron and hellfire. His height and frame, his jaw, his cheekbones. The weathered condition of his leather armor. Even the intensity of his clouded blue eyes revealed the tired grimness of someone who'd travelled the Capital Wastes too often.

He leaned against the wall for a moment, stooping a little to light a cigarette. I thought of the titan Atlas, carrying the whole of the cosmos on his back.

I had to speak to him, no matter how prickly he looked.

"Hey. Hey. Big Red. Over here."

His eyes narrowed impatiently.

"You look like you've traveled. You wouldn't happen to have seen an older gentleman? A ...smoothskin. Looks like me, gray hair?"

"Talk. to. Ahzrukhal."

His voice had the same rough affect as most other ghouls I'd met. It was calm, measured and assertive, nothing like Quinn or Barrows' spirited way of speaking.

"But I--"

He raised his right hand, "No, no. You talk to Ahzrukhal."

His rudeness didn't phase me. In fact, it only further fueled my curiousity. I stood up, commanding Dogmeat to stay when she perked up her head.

I marched up to the bar. Ahzrukhal looked up and smiled warmly. I returned it, but only outwardly. Any fool with half a brain could detect his sleaziness.

My first visit to Underworld, Barrows' had relayed that ghoulification varied as uniquely as a fingerprint--everyone's level of 'decay' was different, the patterns of exposed muscle all distinct, skin color came in shades humans hadn't known before.

Ahzrukhal was a peculiar shade of pallid yellow--like the edges of a page from a pre-war book. His suit held the same parchment-like hue, as though he hoped to remain camouflaged against the walls of his bar at all times. His eyes were dark and dim, though not from a lack of intelligence.

His voice didn't so much rasp as it did gargle. It was the voice of a man constantly drowning, and his words were sinisterly amicable--a person trying to pull you down with them.

"Ah..." His mummy-like hands rubbed together in anticipation, "Can I get you something to drink, darling?"

"Please, don't call me that." I smiled wider. Ahzrukhal brought his shifting hands down by his side.

"Your man in the corner there... not too friendly, is he?"

Another warm grin, this time brimming with excitement:

"I see you've met Charon. He's the best bodyguard this side of the capital wastes, probably in the entire country. More than valuable than an average merc. There is something that sets him... apart from all the rest."

"Oh yeah? What's that?"

"He isn't bogged down by a stupid sense of morality. Anyone who holds his contract, holds his gun. Charon was brainwashed."

Bullshit. "How."

He waved a hand dismissively, "The where's and who's are not important. What's important is Charon deserved it... and when I point at something, he hurts it."

I turned for a spell to look back at Charon, who was moving his head away from us at that moment, visibly restless, though his face remained emotionless.

Bullshit. All bullshit. But I'd humor it. It was the only chance I had for a gun at my side in that moment. I didn't have much choice. Besides, something about the guy looked utterly miserable. A change in scenery had to be preferable, right?

"How much for the contract? I'd like to buy it."

That ugly yellow grin grew larger, I was being swindled by an old-war car salesman, no doubt. "Well now, I can't just give Charon away for any nominal fee. Being morally obtuse in this environment is damn near priceless, and I--"

Charon

"Three thousand caps."

The sound of Patches spitting his drink. The tinkling crash of a glass falling to the floor as the fella seated next to him dropped his.

I'd been trying to stealthily eavesdrop on the conversation since its start, but I couldn't help but gawk now.

"Done." Ahzrukhal replied, maliciously, "But I want the caps up front."

"Done." Everything out of her mouth seemed solely intent on mocking him. I couldn't respect much from other smoothskins I'd met, but I could respect that.

She walked confidently back to the table, grabbing up that jingly rucksack of hers. There was a recklessness to how stubborn she was. If it weren't for the shock taking hold and the desperate need to get out from under Ahz's employment, I would've realized the dangers of that right then and there--for both of us.

But hope makes a man stupid, especially when its becoming reality right before your eyes.

Back at the counter, Ahz was retrieving the contract from a hidden pocket in his suit coat. Asking the tourist for a pen.

Egghead, through and through. Only an egghead would have a pen in that moment.

She inspected the tattered document that held my whole identity very carefully. Ahzrukhal was pulling out a large bag at the bottom of her pack, his eyes glazing over with ugly lust at the sight of so many caps.

"That's it? One piece of paper? It's not even legible."

"Charon has the terms memorized. I'm not getting any younger, miss. Please, sign. You may simply cross out my name. Kindly print, as well. Underneath. That's right."

Why was he so fucking eager? It was a lot of caps, sure. But not much more than others in the past had offered. I was a 'masterpiece in the sciences of the human mind, a seventh wonder', he would always boast. 'More precious than clean water'. Yet there he was, simply handing over the contract to the first wanderer with the gall to offer nothing more than the highest bid.

I could feel my palms sweat as Ahzrukhal held up the seemingly ordinary piece of paper, reading the signature.

"You were named after the pre-war poet." He remarked.

"My mother's favorite." Her voice twinged with sadness. Her head bowed for just a moment, a little halo of light from behind the bar making her hair look even more golden. Reminded me of something.

(next one: 9 across, starts with 'A'. 6 letters

god of justice and warfare, born from zues' head

that's an easy one. athena)

Most of my memories came in short burst fires. There was never context, never clear understanding. No pictures. A scorched up book written by someone else. I only knew that they were mine, and that I needed to avoid them.

"Is everything in order?"

"It is. Take care of him. He's like a son to me."

Ahzrukhal relinquished the meager document to her. He immediately turned his attention to the huge bag of bottlecaps.

She perused it once more, nodded, then turned around.

What little emotions I had left all seemed to fire off left and right. My fists clenched to keep my hands from shaking. My face felt paralyzed. My chest dragged as though it had forgotten how to grab at oxygen.

There was a catch. A trick. There had to be, it couldn't be so easy.

I didn't know it then, but the catch was me.

The tourist was beaming as she approached my corner. I dropped my unfinished cigarette to the ground, stamped it out with a dirtied boot.

Wilde

"Well, it looks like I'm your new employer."

I held his contract up. He leaned forward, glowering at my freshly scribbled signature. His expression didn't move an inch. He didn't grab at it or even lift a finger, as if he thought the aged scrap of paper might burn him if he tried.

"That is... good to hear." Despite his now-polite words there was no happiness in his voice, no relief. In fact, he only appeared to be more restless.

His chillingly focused eyes were over my head, zeroed in on the bar.

"If you'll excuse me for just a moment, there's something I must do."

He moved past me quickly. I followed, not objecting. I supposed anyone might wand to say 'adieu' to their boss--even if they were a scumbag.

Charon

Dumb bastard hadn't even looked up from looking through the bag of caps, "Charon, m'boy. Come to say goodbye?"

"Yes." I answered. My own voice sounded strange. Far off and half-away.

It was only half a second, maybe, but when I blinked something flashed before me like lightning. A bark scorpion: ugly and yellow, considerably smaller than your standard wasteland variety, crawling across desert sand.

(i'm sorry

charlie

im so sorry)

Wilde

I'd only just reached his side when Charon had drawn his shotgun so quickly that Ahzrukhal barely even looked up from his caps to realize what was happening.

Charon muttered something a little odd. It sounded like "Well, I ain't."

A shot was fired. I stepped back, but only slightly. I was not afraid. Not after leaving the vault. Something was holding all of that back, as though it knew I needed to be brave in order to find my father.

To say Ahzrukhal's head was blown off would be a disgusting understatement. It was more of an explosion, spraying blood on the back wall. Splatters covered the neat little shelves and the dirtied glasses resting upon them. Some of the blood had landed on Charon and myself. There was a tiny splash as a small piece of Ahzrukhal's skull landed in Patches' amber colored beverage.

Even the radio seemed to short out for a spell.

Then the screaming started.

Charon looked unaffected, near trance-like. He stared at the empty space Ahzrukhal was occupying moments earlier. The concentrated mass of his brain and blood on the back wall, dripping slowly towards the floor.

I reached out a slightly shaking hand. I wasn't sure if I was trying to comfort him or draw him out of that frozen stance. Perhaps I was just trying to gain stability after such a raw event. Before I could reach him, he moved, brushing his shoulder off casually before lowering his gun. My own hand returned to my side.

He turned his head finally and gave me an expectant glare.

"We should... probably go." I said. The bar was now empty. There was no doubt that a panic was building outside.

"As you wish."

I whistled to Dogmeat, who perked her ears up instantly. She scuttled behind as I took up my pack. Charon swung the door open with such force that I could swear it'd likely broken. No one was out on the second floor with exception of Snowflake, who was in a rare state of silence, staring my new companion and me in shock.

We passed the painting. It was the only bit of scenery Charon seemed to pay any mind to on our way out.

"Dante and Virgil in Hell." I remarked.

Charon stared at me quizzically.

"The painting. That's its title." I explained, pointing to the two men violently ripping each other apart, "It's busted up, sure, but you can still make out the souls of wrath. See? I only know that because of the books my fa--"

Charon blinked and slowed his steps, "Did you want your caps?"

"What?"

"Your caps. On the counter back there. I'm sure Ahzrukhal wouldn't object if you took them back. ...There's weapons in there too, if you want them."

"I have too much to carry already. Let's just call it a donation."

He shrugged, continuing on towards the staircase.

Snowflake remembered himself all of a sudden, calling a barrage of questions off the bannister:

"What happened? Don't tell me he's dead. Don't tell me he's dead, man. I need my fix, okay. Charon?! What the hell happened in there. What have you done."

On the bottom floor other residents were scurrying--some away, some up the stairs. All in droves. Despite the whispers and the shouts and the lingering stares, Charon kept his eyes and feet headed straight for the main doors to the concourse.

Barrows and Carol were outside, standing by a barrel fire pit and arguing. The pair quieted as soon as we made it out.

"Well, strap a branch to my head and call me 'Harold'." Barrows smiled. I knew immediately by the mixed expression on Carol's face--the two of them had somehow planned this.

"Mind if I get a word with ya, Wilde? In private." Barrows asked.

I nodded to Charon, who was giving me another expectant look. If that little slip of paper was bogus, he was doing pretty damn good job of playing his part long after the point was moot.

"This way, please." Barrows started off hurriedly towards the Lincoln Exhibit, located closest to a gargantuan stuffed woolly mammoth statue. Charon sat beneath it.

"Sorry, no dogs. Don't want to disturb my patients."

Dogmeat wagged her tail. Poor thing.

"Go on, girl." She turned, parking herself near Charon.

"Smart pup." Barrows pulled out a set of keys from his bloodstained fatigues and struggled with opening the doors, groaning and cursing with the effort. When I attempted to help, he batted me away.

Barrows panted once he managed to get it to crack, "After you."

It was barely visible inside. Odd glowing dust particles suspended through the air revealed that it was nearly the same straightforward layout as Underworld, only in serious disrepair. The smell was near overwhelming--dank, musty and foul. I attempted burying my nose in the collar of my jumpsuit, but it was no help.

Barrows led me to an enclosed booth near the doors. The sign above it read 'INFORMATION'. He shut the door, locked it.

"Why all the lock and key?" I coughed.

"Sh sh keep your voice down. You'll wake 'em. Look, I've got a busy schedule and you're a smart cookie so we'll keep this short. You have the contract?"

I nodded.

"Let's see it."

I set my pack on the dusty booth's counter, unzipping a small side compartment.

"It's only one page. And you can't even read anything. I'm certain it's fake."

"Yeah, and I reckon Charon's beaten men he respects to a bloody pulp for owing a few caps for kicks." Barrows snapped it up from between my fingers, "But I figure you wouldn't go for hiring a person you thought was a--"

"I can't believe... You... you wanted me to think it was phony. You paid Carol to close up just so I would--"

"You're an excellent people-reader, Wilde. It's why we're such good friends."

"I've only spoken to you once before."

"...This... This isn't right. There's gotta be..." Barrows was ignoring me as he hurriedly turned the contract over and over in his hands, "Hang on.Turn on that pip-boy light of yours, will ya?"

I clicked my light on low, the screen on my wrist glowing an eerie green in the blackened room. It matched the dark green tint in Barrows' skin and hair. The opposite of Charon's red.

A gasp, "Holy shit... I knew it... I fuckin' knew it."

I paused, waiting for him to say more. Barrows wasn't the type of person you had to nudge to keep talking.

"Look! Look! You recognize this, don't you?"

I squinted. Held over the light between us, the page revealed a small watermark. A perfect circle, with three lines passing through it horizontally. It was a symbol any vault dweller would know.

"Vault-Tec." I whispered, "You think he was... brainwashed... in a vault? Vaults were meant to be residential."

"Not all of 'em. Some fucked up shit happened in most. Experiments, prisons. In fact, I'd say 101 was an outlier. Maybe it wasn't. You ever wonder why your little home was sealed up for so long?"

I blinked painfully, shoved it away just as quickly, "What does this mean?" I asked him.

"It means two things. One: Charon's pre-war. And two: His brain's locked up tighter than the place you called home. Except it's probably filled with fire and radiation. Lots of it."

Barrows handed the contract back to me.

I didn't know whether to feel guilty or appalled. Guilty for buying what was essentially a slave, appalled that I'd fallen for Barrows' well-intended and shoddy plans. Barrows was watching me intently, his brown eyes softening. His arm rubbing at the back of his head.

"I know this is a lot. But I'm trying to do what's best. I know you're a good smoo---person. And.. I need help."

I didn't have the time or the resources to. I was more suited for fixing wounds, not healing minds. I needed to find my father. And besides, my own head was feeling unstable. I imagine everyone's was. How did the sick heal the sick?

But the need to assist won out. It always did.

"What do I do? How can I ...fix this. Burn it?"

"No no no. NO. There's no tellin' what would happen if that thing got destroyed. His whole sense of reality is in the fibers of that thing. He's breaking though, I can tell you that. And when that happens, you bring him back to me. Carol and I will know what to do."

"How does... how will I know?"

SLAM. My heart jumped. I grabbed my pack from the counter instinctively and hugged it to my chest. A feral ghoul beat upon the scratched glass of the booth. Its teeth gnashed within its skeletal, glowing face filled with nothing but hunger.

Barrows procured a tiny vial within his pocket, also glowing strangely:

"'Fraid I'm all booked up today!" He raised his friendly voice over the sound of the feral's aggressive rapping shaking the booth, "I might have a three o'clock open later, check back then." Barrows tossed the vial out of a small slot in the center of the glass. The feral turned and bolted.

"They like radium." He shrugged. I was still a bit shaken, but Barrows picked up as though he'd never been interrupted:

"You'll know when you see it. Pre-wars block their memories for a reason. I mean, knock on skull that it don't happen tomorrow. Heh. Sorry. Ghoul joke."

A chorus of low groans and howls resounded in the distant and heavy blackness. I switched off my Pip Boy light and rested a wary hand on my pistol.

"No need for that," Barrows' voice hissed impatiently in the dark, "This way."

Charon

"You know what they say," Carol remarked staring airily into the clear glass door leading to the Wastes, "You can never go home again."

I looked up from carving a 'W' into the butt of my gun with a combat knife. The mutt--Dogmeat--paced restlessly nearby, sniffing at the ground.

"This place was never home." I replied simply.

"Is that... is that blood..."

"Yes."

Carol quieted, wrung her hands. Half of me wanted to tell her I was not a bad person, just a person who'd been following bad orders. The other half wasn't so sure I wasn't a bad person.

Dogmeat barked. I returned the knife back to its sheath on my thigh and stood.

Wilde

"Have you been usin' that sunblock I gave you? Nose looks redder than Charon's hair. Jesus. One more thing. Ask him questions, but don't push it if he gets touchy. Encourage him to get his sense a' free will back, alright? Oh, and there's a nasty rumor goin' round that rads make you go feral. It ain't true, but Charon believes it. Keep that in mind..."

Before opening the double doors to the concourse, Barrows grabbed my arms gently and looked at me, like a parent sending their child off to school for their first day. Given our difference in height, I would have thought it comical, if it weren't for the ferals' feet pounding towards us.

"And be careful. He's my... like a... son to me."

"You might want to keep that to yourself. The last man who said that caught a bullet, Doctor."

"What? Oh for Harold's sake." He opened the doors, screaming into the abyss one last time before locking them up, "PIPE THE FUCK DOWN AND GO BACK TA BED. Damn kids."

"Leonard, we've got a problem." Carol pointed to the doors back at Underworld, where the panic sounded full blown now.

Barrows regarded Charon with his hands on his hips, "I swear to god, if you had ears I'd be draggin' you out by them. Scram. Both of ya's. I got a mess to blow over."

I took the hint and headed for the exit. Past the large archway, into a smaller circular section with a round desk littered with skeletal computer parts and swiveling chairs. Graffitied so much so that could hardly make out the original wood underneath. "Killroy was here" and "the centre cannot hold" were the markings that stood out the most.

Dogmeat and my new unique companion followed close behind as I opened the final set of glass doors.

The sun was searingly bright. I still wasn't used to it. I wondered if I ever would be. My eyes blinked at their own accord. Adjusted to the cracks, trash, and ghostly cars littering The Mall. The horizon was jagged with the silhouettes of gutted landmarks. The dead promises of a dead future.

My companions stood on either side of me, both silent and alert.

I will not, cannot be afraid, I told myself.

I lifted the wrist housing my Pip Boy, turned the radio on. A strange sense of comfort washed over me as Three Dog's voice blared out in its deeply buzzing, sage tone:

"Goooood morning, Capital Wasteland! Today's forecast: Excessively violent, with a chance of dismemberment..."

A smile somehow found its way to my face, and like so many before us, we set out--guns in hand.

Chapter Text

Charon

“You sure? Nothing you left behind, nobody you wanted to say goodbye to? ...Other than Ahzrukhal, I mean.”

“Positive.”

“Not even Doctor Barrows?”

“Nah.” I had no idea if I'd ever see him again. In these cases, it was better to say nothing at all.

“Patches?”

I snorted. Her head poked out from the back of the overturned Nuka-Cola truck she'd insisted on searching through, grinning playfully. Searching this place was a bust. These old delivery trucks had been among the first to get ransacked. Stripped for parts and gutted without ceremony. The odds of finding something useful were as slim as coming across a settler in a suit.

A wilted street lamp groaned above the truck. It'd been a few days of too-easy travel. We were outside an old grocery store then—Super Duper Mart, smooths called it. No signs of life, though the morning was getting particularly foggy and making me anxious.

This was raider territory, and the fact that none were screaming out from the woodworks of the long dead shop by now meant trouble.

Dogmeat sniffed the air. She relaxed for a moment, laying down. The tension in my shoulders eased up an inch. I was extremely thankful for the mutt. She was the only alarm I had, sensing danger before it could creep up from the labyrinthian city grounds and too-quiet valleys.

The smoothskin (Wilde, what a strange name) called from within the truck. She'd been attempting to make light conversation ever since our departure from Underworld. It wasn't going to work. I may have been honor-bound to keep danger off her back, but that didn't mean I had to be friendly.

“So why do they call you Charon?”

“It's my name.” I answered bluntly. If she asked something, I'd answer, but it wasn't gonna turn into a damned psychiatry session on my watch.

“I mean why do they pronounce it 'Sharon'. It's usually pronounced 'Kar--nevermind. Tomato, to-mah-to.”

“Nobody says tomato like that.”

She laughed, coughed, “Ugh, God, it smells back here.”

“Be cautious.” I warned.

She ignored me, loudly going through more rotting wooden crates and chattering on brightly, “Interesting name, Charon. Important figure in greek mythos.”

“Hm.” This was not an invitation for her to keep speaking so much as it was an acknowledgement that I'd heard her, but she kept talking anyway. Like I knew she would.

“He ferried the dead to and from Hades' realm along the River Styx. Escorted many greek heros—Psyche, the lovesick Orpheus, the mighty and handsome Hercules...”

“Well, I ain't no Hercules.” That was certain.

She laughed again. I did not understand her persistent optimism. There was nothing funny about this world and very little to smile about.

So far she hadn't given me any clear orders. Just a handful of 'wait here's and a request to 'please stop talking like a robot.' (which I didn't fully comprehend)

I'd had nothing to work with—just follow her and make sure she didn't get dead or worse.

She seemed hellbent on preventing me from even that, telling me to stand outside the old truck and watch for danger. There wasn't any, except for maybe a stray radscorpion or two. Even the raiders were quiet today, which I thought was odd.

It was foggy. Why was it getting foggy.

I noticed a small insignia slapdashedly painted on the rusted blue metal of the dark enclosure Wilde continued on scouring.

A snake in the shape of an '8'. Eating itself continuously.

“This symbol... it could mean danger.” I called.

“I like to think of it as my guardian angel.”

I looked up. There she was, as quick-appearing as my old boss. She lacked the slime and trickery, the smoke and mirrors feeling that shivered down your back in an awful way. Hers was more a mean beam of light through dust, a reaching blade of glass between parched earth. There was greed to her alright, but I knew already it was for vengeance on the behalf of others. I knew, but most of me refused to believe. There was no such thing as uncorrupted piety anymore, especially outside of where I came from.

“Shotgun shells.” She announced, slamming down a crate of ammo.

“And … Nuka Cola?” I raised my eyebrows at the wooden box she was pushing forward with her boot. The little glass bottles plinked with a strange, glowing liquid.

“These are not for drinking.” She winked, setting her rifle aside and opening up her bag. She jumped down from the edge of the bed before I could offer to help, pointed to the snake symbol,

“Ouroboros. Symbol of endless renewal, the cyclical nature of things.”

“Read that in a book too, huh?”

“Well, it got pretty boring in that metal womb they called home. Books and holotapes were all I had.” She faced away from the sun, shielding her brow from the sharpened, mist-ridden wind in a funny little salute motion, “It's not far, now. See that big great hill over there on the horizon? Most would just say it's a deathclaw or yao guai cave, but you walk down it—and bam. 101.”

She half-lifted her pack in the way those not yet used to the constant tiredness always did, pursing her lips disapprovingly as she went on, “Thought I'd die there, you know.”

For a moment I thought there was a chance our lives were somehow not-so-different. The jagged contrasts in our timelines could meet at a point. As with most things, I buried it away. Best not build camaraderie where it would only crash and burn.

I grabbed up the few shotgun shells left in the ammo box, hoping this wasn't some trap. Dogmeat echoed my fears at the exact worst moment, barking into the distance in the direction of the store's front. Wilde was moving to my side in an instant, lifting her palm,

“Don't worry. I've got this.”

“Why the hell did you hire me if--”

“Kindly, hush.” Her face fiercened. She moved quicker than me, almost quieter than a deathclaw, squinting down that fancy plasma rifle's sights like a natural. I followed at a distance and hovered a gloved hand over my own gun, but I wouldn't dare defy an order.

The steps were careful, the air thick. The fog seemed more stubborn and stifling than before. Could hardly see my damned nose, even if I had one.

It was when the most unbent of street lamps came into view and my eyes started to sting that I realized this heavy mist was no mist at all. It was smoke.

“Holy shit.” Wilde whispered, a figure waning blue and as barely-there as her voice, “Tell me I'm not seeing things.”

“You're not.”

The scene beneath our feet was grisly. Even by Wasteland standards. A large pile of burning crates and chopped up shelving in a strange mound in the middle of the black pavement underneath the streetlamp. Various body parts were strewn through and about—mostly dismembered torsos and heads. All self-tattooed and spiky-haired. Strange claw marks had ripped through most of their flesh, deep open gouges in near-every limb. Their faces were all twisted up in pained expressions, their eye sockets gaping and empty.

“Who would do this? Mutants? Other raiders?”

“This ain't really mutant territory. Raiders shoot other raiders, sure... but they don't... do this to their own.”

“They took the eyes. Why would they take the eyes.”

“Dunno. But if I had to take a guess, I'd say this 'guardian angel' of yours is anything but.”

“No. No. I've run across those caches innumerable times, but never this... It's just not possible.”

Wilde shook her head, wincing as though she wanted to solidify that point. She may've been a good shot, may've been able to charm a snake into a mongooses' mouth, but she had a lot to learn about the dirt in people. With ugly, anything was possible.

Dogmeat barked another warning.

“There may be danger here.” I insisted gently, an attempt to get Wilde to leave.

“Don't know if you noticed, Charon, but there's danger everywhere.”

Why the first name basis, the playful mocking as though we were equals or friends? It made me insurmountably nervous, especially when I knew how that tune would change drastically with the knowledge that I knew at least three of the disembodied heads before us by name.

Something beyond the smoke screeched as though to illustrate Wilde's rightness—a wordless sound that resounded and filled the empty lot with the bone-chill of a banshee and sliced through the shrouded veil of gray like a knife. It echoed unforgivably from all sides.

Wilde and I both backed away. Something old and rarely felt, something gnarled and clawing rose in my throat and burned my bad shoulder. Fear. Something told me whatever was out there was a warning, maybe even an omen. A catalyst for everything to come rushing forth. I didn't know what 'everything' was, but a conviction chided that I probably deserved it, and I best resign to it.

I could hear... drumming of some kind. Not thunder, not gunshots. Rapid and tapping.

(… hooves ...)

Like the settling after a flashbang grenade, those sounds drifted away. Wilde had done the unthinkable, turned on that little radio of hers. Blasted it as loud as the dial on that pip-boy would turn.

“--listening to the adventures of Herbert 'Daring' Dashwood, and my stalwart ghoul manservant, Argyle! Today's episode: Escape From Paradise Falls.”

Wilde

It was just a move to stop him from moving closer to that scream. To draw him out. Again.

It was also, partially, a way to communicate with whoever was on the other side of the bizzare, smoking carnage.

Charon blinked, his face confused, then angry:

“Turn that damn thing off! You're really good at inviting trouble, you know that?”

“Shh, sh. Listen. You hear that?”

All quiet on the shop front.

“Silence.” I affirmed brightly. It was hard to tell if he was listening. It seemed I was talking to myself even more than before. When he did answer, his voice was paired with wound up annoyance.

“The odds... of...” He trailed off into a low, impatient grumble. He didn't want to argue. He'd been stuck too long following orders. Maybe being a touch more reckless and pissing him off enough would do him some help.

Just try not to get your head shot off when it's time to part ways, my head chided. I flinched inwardly, not wanting to remember the risks

(youll know it when you see it)

because risks made you hesitant, and I'd rather make a decision and be alive to regret it than hesitate and wind up abomination-chow.

“What would you have me do?” I asked, taking up my pack again, “Plasma bullets are hard to come by, and I'm not wasting a bullet in this kind of visibility--”

“We coulda just booked it.”

“You would've shot. And hey, we're alive. Whoever it was didn't want us. No harm, no foul.”

He nodded conflictingly, slouching.

I whistled. Dogmeat paused from distractedly growling at a decapitated raider's empty sockets. She joined Charon's side, across from me. Across and distant, like he wished to remain a small scarred moon in my presence. He could remain cold and walled off as much as he liked—if Dogmeat trusted him, then so did I.

The sky above was lit up like a blood orange. A stark contrast against all the choking smoke. If there was a god, he was stamping a cigar out above all our heads.

“Red sky at morning, shepherd take warning,” I whispered.

I was never very good at abiding the advice of dead men, anyway.

“C'mon. Dust storms will get us before any of these poor souls do. Megaton's this way.”

Charon

“Welcome to Megaton! Do not be alarmed, the bomb has been disarmed!”

I stared distrustingly at the ratty old bucket of bolts before me—it was different from Cerberus. Shaped more like a person, a tiny hat perched atop its conical shaped 'head', reflecting the sun hanging low from behind. It twitched and jerked as though it was contemplating shutting down at any moment.

“These metal man things self-destruct?”

“Huh? The securitron? ...No. Robco tech, I think. Harmless, mostly.”

Mostly. Hmph.

The robot chirped and sparked its near-broke limbs menacingly, looping brightly again, “Welcome to Megaton! Please, do not be alarmed! The bomb has been deactivated!”

Was I going nuts? Did that... thing just reiterate itself in a slightly different way?

I leered down into its blank face, “I ain't afraid of youse.”

It jerked its claw-like hands violently in response, causing its little cowboy hat to plop plainly into the dirt. A fake plastic sheriff's star glinted mockingly at my feet. Dogmeat sniffed.

There was a dusty cough behind me, rattling like movement through bones. Wilde was kneeling down before the source of the worrying sound: a dying man, his body twisted against a misshapen pile of metal right outside Megaton's matching (though substantially larger) gates. His skin was cracked and color-worn—like an old candy bar wrapper or the depleted vein of a river. Empty, windswept, forgotten.

Wilde brought her smooth hands to his face, shushing, comforting the stranger as he continued to wheeze. I didn't see what good false comfort would do for him now, but I stayed quiet. She lifted his eyelids, swiveled his head with a thumb, inspecting him with a shrewd eye.

“Stomach..” He croaked weakly, “it burns...”

Dried vomit caked his tattered shirt. Hair falling out. I hadn't seen a bird in many years, but I was sure vultures would descend upon him by sundown.

“Is he ...ghoulifying?” Wilde asked.

I shook my head, “Rad poisoning. He's a goner.”

“Water... please.” The unknown smooth clawed for her arms desperately. I growled. So did the dog.

“Sh sh it's okay.” It was impossible to tell if her words were meant for me, Dogmeat or the dying pile of rags below.

“What are you doing?” I asked as she reached into her pack, pulling out a pair of plastic water bottles. Their clear surfaces were marked with the words 'CLEAN' in large, black handwritten letters.

“Whatever I can.” Wilde responded.

I knew not to argue, I knew better. But I couldn't help myself:

“That's your water. That sucker's good as ashes. What's the point?”

Her voice was aggravatingly gentle, “You help a man today, he'll remember it tomorrow.”

“Tch. Or the next time he's thirsty.”

She shot me a look, but before she could open her mouth to speak, a deep voice belted from above:

“HEY! WILDE!”

“Lucas.” She smiled and dropped everything she was doing, waving both arms above her head and jumping gleefully.

I glanced upwards. A large and genial looking smoothskin waved from above. His skintone matched the strong, black-brown metal surfaces comprising the intimidating wall of the settlement. He wore a dusty brown cowboy hat, with the same plastic star centered above the brim as the bucket of bolts still chattering across from that dying man. Lucas shouted back down and revealed a white, wide grin offset by a roughly trimmed beard.

I could pay no attention to the friendly conversation that followed between the two, as Wilde's rucksack gaped open and unattended nearby. The thirsty sonofagun had started to move shakily, reaching for the pack and grabbing for the water all at once.

His hand froze like a spider trapped beneath a drinking glass as soon as I moved my boot over it.

“You wanna know what it feels like to get your hand busted to pieces?”

He trembled, shaking his head, terrified. Part of me felt satisfied by the reaction—it brought stability. The expected outcome, grounding me to reality. Part of me felt a pang of shame.

“Take what she gave you and go.” He followed my suggestion, shambling upwards like a drunk and turning his back to me, moving towards the sun. The bottles of rare sustenance sloshed in his rattling hands.

More shouting. “Open the gates!” Rumbling, screeching—metal sparking against metal. Megaton's solid, rusting ebony doors sliding slowly apart.

“Marvel, isn't it? They built it out of old planes. See the turbine engine? There, up above the gates.”

It just looked like a bunch of scrap. I mumbled my sentiments, but Wilde didn't seem to hear me. She seemed so enchanted, I didn't want to repeat myself.

“Hey...” Wilde hesitated, casting a glance to the pile of rubble to the left of us, “What happened to...”

“Fella left. He... he said 'thank you'.”

Wilde smiled.

Didn't know the sense in lying to her. Guess I just didn't want to see her disappointed.
Stupid. I scolded myself, don't. get. attached.

The gates were up fully now. We headed inside. The interior of the fortress was decently large--not as impressive as Rivet city in size, but far more developed than places like Arefu to the northwest. The gates opened straight, steep downhill dirt path. Makeshift scrap shacks—their surfaces weathered and dented a thousand ways--surrounded the beaten, well traveled earth in congested stacks. A chaotic network of pipes, balconies and welded walkways snaked around the homes. Some of the settlers had begun to stop in their tracks or exit their dwellings, leaning on the walkways' railings out of curiosity. They watched Wilde the same way the hungry would eye a loaf of bread. They did not seem venomous or even fearful of me following close behind her, just fascinated. A few whispered to each other and even smiled. A pair of children waved. In an uncharacteristic moment of meekness, I waved back, hoping Wilde didn't turn around. Thankfully, she kept her eyes straight ahead.

I focused on the '101' stitched into the back of her leather jumpsuit. Stepping close, but not too close.

“This your first time here, son?” The large hand patting my shoulder startled me. The man named Lucas was grinning warmly at my side.

“Er... yes.” I distanced myself from the touchy man subtly. I'd been outside the gates, but generally, ghouls avoided smoothskin settlements. Even traveling above ground was ill-advised. The subways were a mess, but at least they were an expected mess.

Lucas continued, “Megaton's a little wary of outsiders, but any friend of The Wanderer's a friend of our little town. Name's Lucas. Lucas Simms. Lemme know if there's anything you need.”

I didn't know how to react. My whole existence outside Underworld felt like struggling to untangle barbed wire with Wastelanders. Here was one swinging his arm around me and calling me 'son' before he knew my name. I was at least 50 years older, maybe more. The hospitality was almost laughable.

Ahead, a haggard looking settler was cupping her hand over Wilde's. I couldn't hear them over the clanging of creaky metal as children chased each other along the upper walkways and some old man shouted from in front of a building marked with a crookedly painted 'atom' symbol. Wilde was shaking her golden spun head. The settler, however, looked determined.

Lucas was still keeping pace with me. I could sense his stare—confused and mildly scrutinizing. Like he just didn't know what to make of things. As soon as I noticed the pair of stimpaks my baffled looking boss had received from someone who likely had nothing else of worth, I knew. These people were not handing me kindness and niceties out of the goodness of their all-accepting hearts. The people were calm and holstered for 'The Lone Wanderer'. That hazy radio-static hero with the Vault 101 jumpsuit. And by extension, I wouldn't get shot at.

This wasn't a simple guard gig in the least. She was protecting me just as much as I was protecting her, whether she was aware of it or not. Safe passage in the land of the living. I didn't know whether to appreciate it or hate it.

“Your dog looks like she found a spot of trouble.” Lucas mentioned conversationally.

Dogmeat was panting tiredly at my feet, eyes on Wilde winding her way back up the path.

“Ran into a slew of mutants at the old hospital in Vernon Square...” Wilde called, “Poor thing persevered, but she deserves a rest. Brought her back to see if someone would watch over her for just a little while.”

“Doc Church could use some company to cheer him, I think. Be good for his patients, too.” Lucas nodded.

“Thank you, Sheriff.”

Lucas tipped his hat in response, whistling lowly. Dogmeat perked up, but not without whining at Wilde first.

“Go on.” She said. Dogmeat scuttled off, close behind Lucas' feet.

Wilde then turned her attention to me, “Gotta drop some stuff off. My house is this way.”

The path opened into a large circle, the stacks of shacks and outer walls grew taller and more dizzying. Lanterns and tiny lights were strung overhead, already quietly burning in the almost-dusk light of the cloudy sky, their delicateness a stark contrast among the hulks of metal people called 'home'. Where Underworld had order, here there was mostly chaos. Sloppy signs and crooked doors. A greasy looking stand right on the corner of where the path and the cul-de-sac met stood out—a hanging neon sign in chinese characters.

What stood out more was the fact that I understood what they meant.

Perplexity at my own mind got swept under quick. The sight of a small atomic warhead, wedged into the earth and surrounded by a tiny pool of sick green—irradiated water. The old fellow you could hear shouting from all the up at the entrance was balancing on a crate in front of it, the painted atom symbol above his head on a silver of metal nailed above a sad looking entrance. A group of settlers had gathered to hear him speak.

“You got a goddamn bomb out here? That's sleeping death!” I couldn't hide my shock.

“Town was built around it. Relax, it's disarmed.”

“How do you know? If they told the truth this wouldn't exactly be prime real estate...”

“I disarmed it. This way.”

The old fart's gibberish ceased for just a moment, then his crazed eyes glazed over to me:

“See here! A chosen Son of Atom! He hath passed through the fiery eye unscathed, and ascended! No longer bogged by sickness, stripped of the worldly burden of time! Frozen! Between this life and death, to bring wisdom and--”

And blah and blah-de-blah-de-blah.

“Children of Atom,” Wilde explained, “They worship the bomb. I guess they like you.”

I bowed my head made lifted my hands as though to sweep hair from my forehead, but really I just shielding away from the hyperfocused eyes of the crowd. Crazies, all of 'em. Ghoulification was no gift. It was not bestowed, or a condition to be coveted. No use crying over it, either. As with most things, it just was.

We passed an elderly couple on the way up the nearest walkway. Old man whistling a patriotic pre-war song. His wife smiled at Wilde, then me. An eyebot—a spherical radio type machine bobbing along cheerfully--accompanied them. The Enclave radio played clearly from it, “President Eden” babbling on nonsense about how 'the Enclave would save America' and what not. Hardly any soul listened to that shit anymore. It was senseless myth, a far-off farce. If there was any form of powerful underground government out there I sure as hell hadn't seen it yet.

We turned left on the walkway. What Wilde called home was on the second 'level', overlooking most of the town's activity. Plain and square, it appeared unremarkable from the outside.

On the inside though, it was apparent this lady had a problem.

A serious hoarding problem.

“Ok. Before you say anything, it's not a mess... it's a sophisticated system.” Wilde's voice trailed off as she stepped lightly over several piles of pre-war junk before dropping her rucksack down with a clank.

I stood in the doorway, mouth hanging open for a bit. Never had I seen a place so big, yet filled with so much crap. The large square room was packed. Towered Vault-Tec terminal parts dominated one wall coupled with homemade shelves of books—most of them burnt beyond recognition. A funny looking stand with a few old Vault-Tec bobbleheads sat against the opposite wall. I made my way over to it, (taking care to avoid all the holotapes and old newspaper scraps scattered along the floor) bent in front of it, tapped one gently with a finger. The bobblehead's wobbling cartoon features smiled back, winking and frozen in a perpetual thumbs-up.

“Really rare, those Vault Boys. I'm trying to find them all.”

Wilde was leaning in the doorway of what look like some kind of kitchen. Another small room next to it. Restroom, I guessed.

“There's med supplies upstairs.” She pointed. Balconies surrounded the main room on all sides. A nuka-cola machine, workbenches, a medical station that almost rivaled Barrows' setup. Little strings of light matching the ones outside hung every which way from the cold scrap metal ceiling.

“Moira... the lady at the general store? ...She tried to hang some lewd lamp up there... I had to take it down...” Wilde blushed and fiddled at her pip-boy absentmindedly. She recovered quickly, “Bathroom's down here. Plumbing works and everything. Kitchen's no good yet but I'm working on it... There's a locker right here with ammo and extra guns and everything.”

She motioned to the lockers beside the bathroom's closed door.

“Big place.” I replied. Most people I knew were lucky to have a cot to call their own, “You rooming with someone?”

“Well, there's Dogmeat. Other than that, just Wadsworth.”

Wilde

Charon gave me a strange look.

“Wadsworth!” I called, “Come meet Charon.”

Wadsworth zipped down the stairs. Wadsworth was a RobCo Mr. Handy—same as my childhood robot, Andy.

Charon's face quickly switched to “grim frown mode”,

“Another robot.” He tensed.

“Good to see you're alive and well, madam!” Wadsworth chirped pleasantly.

“Wadsworth, this is my... Charon relax, he's harmless. He came with the place.”

Charon crossed his arms obstinately, “It's got a circular saw attached to one of its.... tentacle... things.”

“It's quite useful for slicing cake!” Wadsworth quipped, “And the occasional amputation, as needed.”

This wasn't going well.

“Um... Wadsworth? Why don't you tell a joke.”

“Ah, yes. Ahem. ...Two atoms are in a bar. One says, 'I think I lost an electron.' The other says, 'Are you sure?' To which the other replies, 'I'm positive.'”

I laughed. Charon remained unmoved:

“I don't get it.”

“Without an electron an atom becomes... you... you still don't...” I tucked some hair behind my ear, “Nevermind. Let's regroup. I have a duffle bag around here... somewhere...”

“Don't need it. Got pockets.” He raised his hand, walking over to my own pack and stooping over it, “...But may I make a suggestion?”

“You don't need to ask, alright? Just talk. I need ...input. That's what I hired you for in the first place.”

He rubbed at the back of his neck nervously, staring off at some old ads I'd hung up on the wall to try and liven up the place. Then he straightened, stiff as a board. Nodded. He still seemed to have trouble looking me in the eye,

“You need to travel lighter.”

“Ok!” Finally, something. If this partnership was going to work, we had to communicate.

He unzipped the main compartment of my plain, reinforced backpack.

“It's just books in here.”

“Yeah, well. Books are important.”

“Can you eat a book. Can you kill someone with a book.” He looked up at me with those intensely blue eyes.

“Technically, with enough force—Oh, fine.”

It took quite some time, but we got through it. Pretty much everything but med supplies and what I found in the cache at Super Duper Mart went on a shelf or in the lockers.

“Fixer?” He asked. There was a note of confusion in his voice at the sight of the small tin of pills meant for treating chem addicts.

“For Gob. Keep it.”

“You know Gob?”

I nodded. I wanted to mention that Gob was right here, in Megaton, but Charon pried no more into that subject—he merely stood up, mentioning I was out of food. He walked tentatively to the kitchen (if you could really call it that), carefully stepping around holotapes and other various knick-knacks I had yet to find a place for. He returned with a few dry vault rations and every single box of Fancy Lad Snack cakes I had.

“Essential.” He growled, dropping the boxes down before my cross-legged position.

“Is... this... all you eat? Really?” I pointed at the Snack Cakes.

“Essential.” He reminded.

Jesus, how was he able to function? How was he even alive?

Regardless, I packed away the junk food. Charon had moved over to a bookself, distracted for a moment. He stared at a framed picture of my father and I'd taken years before (shot by Jonas), then to the larger, framed cross-stitched piece my father had insistently shown me everyday since I could remember.

I quoted the etched stitching out loud, almost automatically:

“Revelation 2-1-6: I am the Alpha and Omega,
the beginning and the end,
I will give unto him that is athirst of the fountain of the waters of life,
freely.”

“...My mother made it.” I finished quietly.

“No picture of her?” He inquired.

“She died giving birth to me. That little verse is all I have. I try... I try to...” I looked down at my hands, picking at the callouses forming on my flesh for just a moment.

I tried remembering her face. Her voice. On very quiet nights, I swore that I could. Sometimes it was a blessing, others it was a sharp and stabbing kind of pain.

“I think she would've been proud of you.”

Charon's comment was unexpected, almost unbearably so. A wave of strange emotions welled up inside me. Silence settled between us for a short while. Nothing but the sounds of Wadsworth puttering about upstairs, the creak of metal and some chatter heard through the thin walls outside. It was not uncomfortable, but it felt deep, resonating. In fact, it was the first time I didn't feel the need to speak since I could recall stepping out of the vault. It felt comfortable.

“Charon?” I wondered why my voice was so soft-sounding. Maybe it was because I didn't want to break that moment just yet. But I had to know, I needed answers. And this seemed like the right time to ask.

He turned his head, seemed surprised by the tone of the question.

I took a deep breath, hoping that what I was about to say didn't press to hard, “About Ahzrukhal...”

“I don't know how I came to be in his service.” He said quickly. His voice was gruff again.

“No... I … Why'd you kill him?”

Charon blinked.

“Pardon me, I just don't want to make the same mistake.” I could feel my voice shake. Had I said too much? Too quickly? It was so difficult to tell here. Usually it was easy, figuring people out. With Charon, I was finding little to grasp onto.

“He was an evil bastard.” Was all he would say.

Again, silence. But this time, I felt the urge to fill it with something, anything. I looked down at my nervously fiddling hands and blurted the first guilty, “evil” that sank into my mind like a rock:

“When I was young, I spit on a sweet roll and gave to a boy I didn't like.”

Wadsworth could not make him laugh, but for some mysterious reason, that did it. It started as a half-chortle, crescendoing up to full howl. Like an old furnace starting up—rusty, a little frightening, but bursting with warmth. His teeth were straight, slightly yellowed, but his smile was wide and comforting. It brought a beaming sort of grin to my own face in return.

The laughter came to a full stop abruptly. Charon cleared his throat. We worked in silence the rest of the time, rearranging everything within the confines of my pack.

“We can't live on fancy lads alone.” I mentioned. Silently, Charon reached into his leather jacket. He revealed three thin, brown square packets of varying size. He hid it away so quickly I could only catch a glimpse of one label--'MEAL, COMBAT READY'.

I wanted to ask where he found those, but I had a hunch already. We had similar things back in the Vault. Instead, I concentrated on repacking the Nuka Cola bottles I'd acquired back at the Super Duper Mart. Flashes of the slaughtered raiders entered my mind. The pounding of drums and an otherworldly scream, suddenly shifting into the sirens of Vault 101's sirens alerting the guards of a young woman with a BB Gun and a softball bat. Kill on sight, the loudspeakers had commanded.

Friends, boys I'd dated, girls I'd passed notes with in class. All shouting and banging from within little windowed rooms, “This is all your damn vault. You and your no-good father.” The aforementioned childhood bully whose sweet roll I'd ruined on my tenth birthday—begging me for help with his drunken mother as radroaches overtook her, getting me halfway through the trek to The Outside in return. Even gave me his jacket.

“Careful with them bottles.” It was Charon drawing me out of the bothersome, hiccup-y images this time around. It took me a moment, but I realized I'd been clutching two bottles by the caps so tightly that the skin between my thumb and forefingers were an angry red. I put them into the bag shakily, zipping it closed.

“You'll get used to it.” He said simply. But there was a little something like a lie in his voice.

“How?”

“Welp.” He grunted, rising to his feet and adjusting his shotgun, the belt of pouches around his waist, “Best thing to do is find someplace or something to help you forget. Even it's just for a little while.”

I rose along with him, rubbing the pain away from my hands as I thought of the perfect place. “I've got it! C'mon.”

Charon

The Saloon stood on the highest landing, centered over Megaton like a lopsided temple. The slanted sign above it read 'GOB'S SALOON'. 'Gob' was a recent change, judging by the dripping red paint over some other faded name I couldn't make out underneath.

Wilde slipped through the small crowd chattering around the entrance easily. I followed behind, ignoring the raised eyebrows and low whispers. Bent in the doorway, breathed in the smoke. Inside was livelier than any other bar I'd seen. Swathes of orange-y light provided by several lanterns warmed the rusted interior. Clusters of settlers were gathered around dusty wooden tables. There was some cowboy fellow playing to them on a ratty looking guitar, hollering some song about a house in 'New Orleans'.

I could barely fathom it, but there he was. Gob. Happily taking the fixer from Wilde and handing her a small white envelope in exchange. Smiling tiredly from behind the counter as he rubbed at a dirtied glass with an old rag. A curved woman with short, spiky red hair was grabbing Wilde by the arm, smiling and chattering genially. Leading her away to a table in the corner.

Before I could say a word or make a move to protect her like I'd meant to, Gob was shouting my name jovially:

“Charon?! Holy sh-- Ey! Ey Cher get over here ya old bastard!”

What was the harm? Redhead didn't seem to be with ill-intent, Wilde was more than capable of handling her own in a town like this. I grabbed a rickety metal stool at the bar farthest from people mingling nearby.

Gob shook my hand and leaned in to pat my back. He was a neurotic and slouchy kid, young by our standards, he'd turned around twenty years ago. Or was it more than that? I hardly knew. It was tough being post-war. Most times suicide hit the youthful ones before any of the horrors outside. Shock of the scarring, Barrows always deduced.

Gob's green eyes brimmed with shock. Words spilled out fast. He was talkative around his own. I seemed to be the exception to that rule.

“Nice to see another ghoul up here. Most of 'em room down at the Church of Atom. Although they're not much for conversation unless you're looking to get converted. You're not...?”

“No.” I replied shortly.

“Well then what are you doing out here? What brought you outta that corner?” Little radio on the counter interjected loudly with static. Gob leaned, banging and cursing on it with a fist.

“Change of management.” I responded. Gob composed himself and chuckled, asking me if I'd like a drink. I declined, lit a cigarette instead. He moved along to the next question playfully, “Didn't think Ahzrukhal'd ever fire your lazy ass. You a gun for hire now? Fellow named Mr. Burke was looking for one... he skipped town a few weeks back, but--”

“Ahzrukhal had an unfortunate accident. Wilde's my employer now.”

“Funny. Same thing happened to my old boss. God rest his soul.” There was an obvious note of satisfaction in Gob's voice. He looked over his shoulder and stared at the redhead next to Wilde. Sweet on her. Hell, sick in love, I'd venture to say. Poor joe, “You take care of Wilde. She's good people. Helped Nova get off Med-X.”

He was getting lost in her. Sighing. She was telling Wilde a secret. Wilde laughed, a thin brown cigar between her lips. All the while her arms were crossed, obviously uncomfortable with something. Her eyes were locked on the cowboy.

I coughed, trying to distract Gob and myself, “Carol will be happy to know you're doing well for yourself. Got yourself an entertainer, even. Ninth Circle couldn't even claim as much.”

“Ninth Circle was a shithole.” he growled, “No offense... and that crazy cowboy wasn't hired, he's just been camping out here for days--Hey, Orpheus!! Pipe down, will ya? Some of us are trying to hear the damn news!”

The cowboy in the corner crooned and played louder.

“Throw him out.” I looked at Gob.

He rubbed his brow nervously, “Can't. Nova feels sorry for him. I don't trust him. Says he's a bounty hunter but he's looking for just one escaped slave. Claims he's from Los.”

“Texas? Bullshit. Los got blown half to hell. Even still, there's nothin' but rads out there. How come he's not one of us?”

“You're telling me! He's got even more colorful stories than that. A working motorcycle, rare weapons, alien abduction. Just you wait.”

“I'd rather not.” I quipped.

“I always liked you Charon, even if everyone said you were scary. ...You know, in 25 years I've never heard you talk so much.”

I shut up quicker than a mutant's trap. Gob liked anyone who showed him a semblance of kindness, but I was getting far too comfortable since I'd left Underworld. Showing a side that was against the rules. Maybe it was the light of the saloon, maybe it was the damn music. Maybe it was Wilde's infecting brightness. Either way, it was bad for my job—bad for her.

Wilde and the gal Gob called 'Nova' were getting up from their seats in the corner just as the cowboy's braying tapered off into quiet, labored clapping from the audience. He bowed low, dipping his ebony hat low to a reveal a sweaty mess of short, wavy brown hair atop his tan skull. 'WAR IS GOOD BUSSINESS' was written along the instrument's body in huge, sloppy handwriting. Business was spelled wrong. He was muscled and chubby, barrel-chested, with a weathered yet somehow babied face. At first glance, he seemed cocky and dull. He was not exactly a threat, but I disliked him almost immediately.

Gob voiced my dread as The Cowboy tailed and groped Nova flirtatiously, who was making her way through the crowd back to the bar with Wilde.

“Oh, here we go.”

“Howdy. Don't think I've seen ya'll round here.” The crooner tipped his hat in Wilde's direction. Nova giggled charmingly. Surprisingly, the boss did not. She appeared unusually wary and off-put. She took the empty barstool next to me as though she was stepping around a landmine. It put me a little on edge, but I could hide it better. Or so I thought.

Wilde

I would not take my eyes off the man with the guitar, even if I disliked the look of him. The stubborn part of me was convinced he was here to kill Gob. The first friend I'd made out of 101, a friend I'd killed a man for. A man named Colin Moriarty, a man who terrified the town with greed, beat on Gob, and made a fatal mistake when he waved and teased knowledge of my birth outside the vault in my face without concrete answers. Nova and I had done so together--'happy accident', Lucas Simms had called it.

Colin Moriarty was the first man I'd killed up close, leaving me with the occasional shakes and flashbacks. But all's well that ends well. Townspeople seemed happy to hand Gob their caps instead, and Lucas had one less burden to carry on his hefty shoulders.

But Colin had friends. Mr. Burke--who'd mysteriously skipped town after I'd left. Jericho, who more or less stopped showing when he realized Nova wouldn't give him the time of day with Colin no longer breathing down her neck.

And now this stranger with sad puppy eyes, a crooked-toothed charismatic smile and a guitar strapped to his back along with a sniper rifle—pacing around almost day and night. My father always told me life had little to do with coincidence. “Formulas and miracles”, he forever insisted.

The only formula I saw here was one of foolishness or ill-intent. And one of the first things you learn about The Wastes is: the foolish never last very long. The reckless? The heartless? The stubborn? Sure. But fools could count their days on one hand.

“Name's Remington,” The cowboy prattled on in a slow, deep drawl. He stretched his hand out to Charon, who in turn gave him a mean look and turned back around, taking another drag on his cigarette. The cowboy recovered, taking off his hat and running the same hand through his hair, “Er. Don't know if ya'll heard, but I'm lookin' for someone. Someone by the name of Mei Wong. Sometimes calls herself 'Sally Hatchet'. She--”

“Knock it off,” Gob spoke up from behind his post, “We don't take kindly to slavers.”

I nodded firmly. Charon still had his back turned, eyes cast down. Inhaling. Exhaling. A thought crossed my mind that perhaps he thought of me that way. I bit my lip.

Remington placed his hands on his hips defensively. His sleeveless tan duster flared back like the plumage of some offended peacock, revealing a strange pistol on his hip I'd never encountered before. It looked something like a pre-war toy. Retro by design, only shiny and new—brushed silver with stripes of teal light along what one could deduce was the barrel. Plasma? Maybe. It most certainly didn't shoot regular bullets. It begged questions, but I chocked it up to it being my inexperience with post-war weapons.

“I already told you, I'm a bounty hunter. This woman is wanted across the Mojave for robbery, arson, crimes against--”

“What? Is there some kinda law down there where you come from?” A stranger listening in on the conversation chortled. Laughter roared from a few others.

Remington looked flustered and began twisting the brim of his hat with his dirty hands, “N-Now, now,” he stammered, “This is no time for jokes 'n pokes. She's quite dangerous and--”

“Is it true?” Nova perked up as she strutted up next to Gob behind the counter. Gob smiled at her like he was drunk. She didn't seem to notic, “Her eyes can make men turn to stone? Everything she touches falls to ash?”

“Nah, but let me re-it-er-ate: quite dangerous. There's truth in fiction.” Nova's eyes widened and Remington seemed satisfied that he was being taken seriously again, “You two seen 'er? She's short, muscular. Black hair. Got a ghoulified horse. Name of Ghost.”

“You're really pulling it out your ass, now.” Gob laughed, “There's no such thing as a ghoulified horse.”

Charon and I exchanged a quick and knowing glance. There was something like fear between our seats. Electricity.

“Come on, sweet cheeks, speak up.” Remington snapped his fingers at me.

My eyes and mouth formed into thin lines, “Don't call me that, please.”

He ignored me. “How 'bout you, handsome? Huh?”

Charon stayed silent, calmly stamping out his cigarette in a nearby ashtray.

“Quiet type. Alright.” Remington stepped forward, moved so that he was right next to my partner. He bent low so that he was whispering right into his unmoving ear, “What's your name, hoss? Did you hear 'em? The hooves? Ya'll believe me. I can see it.”

Charon refused to move. He didn't even blink.

Remington frowned and stood up straight. He tipped his hat in my direction, “What's with your boyfriend? You two quarrelin' or some shit? Reckon you get this monk to talk, sweethear--?”

"He's not--"

The angry groan of a bar stool as it moved backwards. A quick flash of color and sound as Charon proceeded to slam Remington's face into the wood surface of the bar. I watched, terrified as he began to pick up the stool he'd been sitting on moments earlier.

Jesus. He was going to kill him.

“Don't!” Nova yelped.

“Stop!! Please.”

If there was any doubt that he was brainwashed left, all that swept away in a moment. He sat back down immediately, like a violent machine unplugged.

Remington stumbled back and clutched his nose. There was no panic in the room now, just stony watching eyes. Most of Megaton was going to side with an acquaintance of mine over any passing traveler. Like mine, Megaton's trust was hard earned and even harder lost.

The cowboy swiveled on his feet close to the entrance. He half-crouched and stumbled like an aggravated brahmin. For a split second I thought he was prepped to charge forth and retaliate. Several had their hands and postures primed for something, anything. Nova shook, lifting her hands to her mouth.

A long, low wailing sound escaped Remington's mouth. I could hardly believe it. He did nothing but cry. Everyone except myself, Nova, and Charon rolled their eyes and turned their backs.

“Oh Harold, not again.” Gob sighed and waved his rag out to me, “Would you take him outside, please? Whether it's from drinkin' or fightin' he always gets like this at some point. Really kills the vibe.”

I moved toward the sobbing mass on the dusty floor, lifting his right arm and gently steering him towards the outdoors, now shrouded in night.

Charon took his other arm carefully.

I hissed, “What the hell was that?”

“I think I got a splinter in my nose....” Remington sobbed.

“You told him not to call you … that name.” Charon blinked, as though he'd just done the most logical thing he could ever think to do.

“I also didn't tell you to go rabid on people in bars! Or is that just a bad habit I don't know about? A funny little side effect of Ahzrukhal's influence?” I gave him a stern look.

His face seemed to collapse with guilt. We exited to the 'balcony' out front, settling Remington down against the wall near the entrance.

Charon argued then, “You didn't like the look of him. I didn't like the look of him. You can't just give people the benefit of the doubt whenever the whim hits you. It's... it's idiotic!”

“You're fired.” I snapped.

“Wai—What?!”

“You heard me.” I raised my hands and stepped back from him, “Go back. Go back home to Underworld. It's done. I'm over. Do whatever the hell you want.”

“You can't just... It doesn't work like that. I need...”

He looked up at the murky sky, rubbing at his brow, his shoulder. Something was difficult for him, gnawing at his insides.

“What? What is it?” I should've been more tender. But I had to nip this impulsive, violent streak of his in the bud.

“I need a fuckin' job, alright? This job.” He nearly shouted. It was the first time his voice seemed uneven, “I got nowhere to go. I'm pretty much cast out of the only warm place for a ghoul after what I did. And out here? Heh. Without 'The Lone Wanderer' I'm just another fucking zombie. 'Aim for the head'. And they might as well, cause without work I am nothing.”

Silence. Laughter and drunken shouts swelled and moved from within the saloon. Shadows passed over us. Charon looked down and shuffled his feet like a nervous child. In the light cast from the small threaded bulbs above and from inside Gob's Saloon, I could swear I saw what he looked like before whatever hell tore him up and spit him out. Something gentle and sad. Soft and proud. Someone with a clear and moral code.

“Alright.” I took a deep breath. “Alright. But no more fisticuffs with strangers, alright?”

“What if they--”

“Just ...consult me.”

Charon sucked his teeth finally, “As you wish.”

A cough from the wall nearby. “Don't s'pose one a ya'll could hand me that rag anytime 'fore next Sunday?”

“Oh my God!” I rushed over, holding the rag out to Remington's face. Gently patted his bleeding nose, “Tilt your head back. Not that much. Okay. There you go.”

Charon

Nova rushed out, nearly jumping up and down, “Wilde? Wilde! Three Dog's talking about your Dad on the radio! Quick.”

Wilde's eyes were the size of milk bottle lids. She handed me the bloodied rag, asking if I could take her place for a moment as she zipped away from the scene.

Nova did not follow her inside immediately. She whistled to get my attention.

She regarded me coldly, "If you hurt her..." She finished by motioning an elegant finger across her neck.

"I didn't.... I wouldn't..." But she was already long gone. Jesus. What kind of a town was this.

Begrudgingly I knelt before the man. “I don't have any diseases,” I assured him.

“I was raised by ghouls in Los,” The cowboy took the rag from my hand, “You can spare me the smoothskin diplomacy. ...You ever seen an alien before, Hoss?”

Kid was delusional. I'd only broken his nose, that shouldn't have rattled his head too hard. I didn't argue. Let him keep his comforting lies, I thought.

(the benefit of the doubt)

I blinked, “I'm.... er... sorry I hurt you.”

“You're an overzealous merc. S'happens.”

Something like that, anyways.

“I ain't a slaver.” Remington said quietly.

“I know.” I said, after a small moment of hesitation. This was the first time I'd ever had more than a threatening conversation with a man I'd punched. It felt hellishly unlike me. And yet, I felt better. A little lighter than before. Things kept getting stranger and stranger.

“Where is she? Mei.”

“Near the Super-Duper Mart. But she's probably long gone by now.”

“Dammit." Remington cried fresh tears, "I loved her. I love her. She stole everything but what's on my back. Just wanted to... I don't know, man, I'm a mess.” He sobbed and choked for a few minutes. I told him he was fool. He huffed,

“I know.”

I helped him up to his feet, awkwardly shook his hand when he offered it a second time. Fella gripped like a python. Blood was drying under his nose and on his teeth but he still grinned sheepishly.

Wilde returned from the saloon, staring into her Pip Boy's screen and marching fast.

“He didn't mean harm.” I said to her.

“Good.” She smiled at me, then turned to the cowboy, “Are you alright, sir? I have to get moving.”

The cowboy kid revealed a joint from within a pocket beneath his duster, “I'll be fine. And It's Remington. Remy to my pals.” Not fifteen minutes before Wilde had been eyeing him like the devil and I'd smashed his face into a counter. Boy really was a dunce. Then again, we'd helped him in spite of it. Maybe we all were fools somehow.

Wilde nodded shortly, “You pay Gob, alright?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Wilde threw him a stimpak and began to move down a ramp.

“Ya'll be careful!” Remington's voice rang after us, laughing almost hysterically, “Mei Wong's a live wire! You're lucky you ain't meatloaf already!”

We passed the Church of Atom where the madman sat atop his perch, cheering me on. I turned a blind ear to it. I was genuinely interested now, where The Lone Wanderer's father might've gone, if he was still alive. Buying into the hero myth.

“What'd Three Dog say?” I had to liven my steps to keep up.

She slowed down a bit, double-checked ammo in her belt distractedly, “He mentioned Dad's name... that he'd stopped by GNR studios. Three Dog mentioned his satellite and the shit connection. Then, the rest cut out. Damn that static.”

“So you're headed there in the morning?” I asked.

“No, we're heading there now.”

“Woah woah. You can't make that trek at night. It's dark out.”

“Oh!” Wilde exclaimed, “It's dark? Gee! Did anyone ever tell you that you're quite tall?”

“Smartass.” I countered, “You said you needed advice. I'm giving it. What about Mei Wong? After what we saw at Super--”

Wilde shook her head, “Stories!”

“You're a story. Isn't some of it at least a little true?”

She avoided my gaze persistently, “Look, I'm going. Either give me an alternative or stay back here with Dogmeat. This is too important to delay.”

There was no way I would stay back in Megaton and sit comfortable. I pressed my mind for a while. We were nearly to the settlement's gates by the time an idea came. It was risky, but it could work:

(river styx)

“The subway.”

Chapter Text

Barrows

The sound of a brush violently scrubbing away at marble stopped. Carol paused for just a moment, wiping sweat from her frizzy stranded brow. I watched the unsettling mixture of weak soap bubbles and blood glisten in the soft light.

“Leo... If I knew what you meant by Charon 'losing it'...”

I ignored her and the attachment she had for the Vault Gal. Instead, I turned my attention to the sounds of Patches scuttering and moping right outside the broken door, in front of the flimsy velvet red rope between two golden poles Carol had set up earlier. The only denotation we had for an ugly crime scene.

“Patchy,” I shouted with annoyance in my tone as I grabbed another blood splattered glass from the shelf, “Unless something's on fire, buzz off.”

Patches shuffled his feet, shyly kicking at one of The Ninth Circle's broken doors before poking his head in the doorframe,

“But.... Doc... there's a tourist. She wants a drink.”

“So? Tell her we ain't got none. And don't come round here again unless there's an emergency. Go see Nurse Graves if anyone's hurt.”

Patches dragged his feet away. There was an angry slosh as Carol dropped her brush into a sad blue bucket at her feet.

“Leonard. I know you heard me.” She snapped.

I looked back at her sullenly. Her emerald eyes, rimmed with purple and green-hued flesh, glared back accusingly. The same eyes that trembled at me over two hundred years prior. The first human eyes I'd seen since the horrors of Germantown. Back when I was a regular old joe--an injured doctor staring deliriously back at a young bomb shelter survivor who'd been searching for a “safe place”. She was a regular joe, too. We all were. As more people arrived, as the ghoulification started, she was there. We knew what to do.

“You're using her.” Carol glowered. Anger in her gaze searing.

Carol and I built this place. We made it what it was. She was the daughter I never had. I owed her answers. I owed her everything.

“I wouldn't be doing this if I didn't think it'd work.” I argued, “You know nothing about Charon, nothing about....”

“Charon doesn't know anything about Charon.” She hissed, barely hiding the harshness now.

“Carol, please. Trust me.”

She cocked her head in a questioning way. I shook mine. Charon had to figure his past out himself. I couldn't risk bringing anyone into his secrets. Too dangerous.

“If he so much as splits a hair on that smoothskin's head...” Carol retrieved her brush from the bucket, “It's your blood I'll be scrubbing at next.”

“Cool.”

Carol and I both turned, alarmed by the sudden and friendly interjection.

Ugh. The aforementioned tourist.

Her dark eyes stung acutely like pinpricks at the back of your skull. Eyebrows as thick as my hair was gone. She was dressed in ragged, bloodstained clothing that appeared hand-stitched. Thin strands of shiny, black hair stuck out from beneath a solemn gray scarf atop her head. She tugged at a matching gray scarf at her neck with a nervous grace.

“Don't look at me.” She snapped. Her voice was annoyed and warning. In spite of the tone, it sounded like honey dripping over an opiate. It commanded you cling to every word. Her charisma was reminiscent of our last visitor—but tempered with something far more sharp and sinister.

Carol and I averted our eyes to the ground immediately. The stranger removed the large scarf around her neck--revealing belts layered with chrome and grenades, a tattoo on her neck.

“Ma'am, we're closed.” Carol was the braver, finally daring to speak.

A devilish, well-humored smile, “I didn't see a sign on the door. ..What's left of it, anyways. I only need a drink.”

She wasn't from around here, her speech lacked that little transatlantic flair. Her forehead shined with tiny rivers of sweat. Her eyes were dilated to wide, black pools. Her knuckles rapped upon the surface of the bar shakily. Not out of fear. But I wasn't concerned with her origins, her hypnotizing muscular frame or what substance she was on. Mostly, I was fascinated by the tattoo on the nape of her neck.

“What would you like?” I asked cautiously.

“Barrows--” Carol snapped behind me angrily. I cleared my throat and she quieted, going back to cleaning the wall. Our disagreements rivaled the best of them, but she'd understand. Eventually.

“Surprise me.” The stranger answered. She pointed at the ugly stain on the back wall, “You shouldn't clean it. It's a good color.”

I started to grab a clean glass from the shelf, searching for something to serve.

“Not that one. I want one of the bloody ones.”

Carol cast me a bewildered, suspicious expression. I shrugged, obliging the woman at the barstool. I settled for a Nuka Cola. Everyone liked those. Even weird smoothskins.

“You wouldn't happen to have a spare kidney, would you?” I asked as conversationally as I could, passing her the drink and a stained glass.

The stranger's eyes glowered in silence.

“Forget I asked.” I backed away defensively. The stranger unwrapped the scarf about her head and neck, using it to take the lid off the cola with a decidedly loud 'pop'. She poured a little in the glass, sipped it like whiskey.

“Nice tattoo.” I pointed at her neck, “Do it yourself?”

She nodded, patting at the sweat on her face with the lonely gray cloth.

“Chinese right? What's it say?”

Her eyes turned guarded again, “Gee-ah.”

“Home.” I said half-mindedly as I balled up my rag and twisted it about the bottom of another glass. The word was barely above a whisper. The girl jolted as though I'd just thrown a bottle at her bent head.

“What did you say?” She snapped.

“Oh, uh... I didn't say nothing.”

“Don't test me. Where the hell did you learn that?”

I considered further sidetracking the conversation, and I didn't have a clue why. Her knee-jerk reaction? My guilt surrounding the source? Perhaps it was the sense of doom-driven fury the silent stranger was now emanating—like seeing a tornado suddenly twist downward from heaven set on swallowing up anything nailed down. Whatever the case, this was a corner I had to wiggle out of carefully.

“That's not exactly casual information to share with a tourist.” I decided brashness was the best tactic. She might respect it, “What's your name?”

She swiveled about as though there were others in the bar aside from us three. Finally, she hissed:

“Sally.” Her countenance turned a bit gentler, “Forgive me, I'm just interested in ….where you learned that, is all.”

“This is a museum. Lotta books lyin' about.” I responded curtly.

“Hm. A likely story.” Sally took another slow sip. It was bullshit, and she saw right through. Before I could attempt to traipse my way through another white lie, her eyes snapped to the mess on the back wall that Carol was slaving over.

“You do that? Who did that?”

“Nobody,” Carol replied sharply, “You sure ask a lot of questions, miss.”

“Just my nature.” She smiled. It was a shot at a warm one, but something about her was cold and predatory. Wolf in sheep wool. You could see it in the plain, camouflage-y way she dressed, the threatening amount of grenades nestled in the belt across her chest—some found, some homemade. The hatchet at her hip. The mirrored aviators hanging crooked over the center of her top.

She was hiding a message that spelled out bad news and trouble.

Another creeping sip. Another seeping grin. Her gaze was not for me. It was focused on the wall behind the bar.

Sally's voice was as pleasant as wind on a hot night, “How many kidneys did you need?”

An anchored sensation wrapped itself around my stomach—I'd done what Carol was warning me with her posture this whole time—a very endangering, foolish thing.

Wilde

“...ratsafrassim gate... fuckin'..”

Charon was grumbling and cursing to nothing and no one in particular—something I was fast learning would be ritual for him. Not that I minded. It was better than the quiet.

I smiled contentedly, staring up for a moment at the dark, clouded sky. Charon continued to swear shamelessly at the rusted-shut gate. I had a good feeling about this, about Three Dog. He was an omniscient force--the all-seeing, all-at-once eye. Any wastelander breathing heeded him and one of the last power-armored forces alive bled on his behalf. In a world of scoundrels, Three Dog kept what he called, “the good fight” alive.

“I think Three Dog will know. I think I'll be able to find my Dad if we go talk to him.”

“Won't be that easy.” Charon replied shortly, “Wish it was. But wishes in one hand, shit in the water.”

“I thought it was 'shit in the oth--' … nevermind.” I watched him attempt to pick the lock for a while. I'd offered to shoot it with my rifle, but he argued about wasting ammo.

“Who the hell locked this? How'd you get in before?”

“It wasn't locked when I went in. It was probably that strange scientist.”

“Is that what caused this town to go apeshit?”

I took a precursory glance about. The first time I'd stumbled across this small settlement—Grayditch, the locals called it—it was half on fire and crawling with giant ants. Everything here was dead or rescued now. Far away.

“...An egghead has no business being in a subway... ” He muttered inaudibly to himself. But I caught it.

“And I've never seen a steakbrain picking a lock... but, here we are.”

He looked back at me for a moment, eyed me as though he'd taken offense. But he scoffed, sneaking a smile, and resumed.

I watched him work. Something about the way he held himself had me transfixed from the start—like he was keeping pieces of his soul at bay. Or maybe it was the way the sections of exposed muscle in his one-sleeveless arm moved, tireless and unphased. A man who had nothing to hide, but so full of secrets.

“Aha, ya bastard! Got it. ..Wilde? What're you staring at.”

“Your anatomy.”

“My what.”

“I don't mean that in like... a bad way... Say, you wouldn't be willing to part with a blood sample, would you? Just a small..”

Charon snapped, “I am available for combat services only.”

“Forget I asked.” I scolded myself silently. Just when it seemed he'd start being a little more friendly I'd managed to make him prickly, speaking as though he was pre-programmed all over again.

A short, impatient tiff escaped from his mouth. I hopped off my perch on the downward staircase.

“Lemme go first. I can see in the dark.” Charon held his arm out as though it could stop me.

“I raise your ghoul eyesight one pip-boy light.” Click. The nameless abyss transformed into a moody, green-swathed tunnel, “Besides, I've been here before.”

I took long steps over the carcasses of huge, dead ants scattered among shattered concrete and piles of ash. Scorched circles dotted the barely traversed walls, the stinging scent of heat still lingered in the air.

“...The hell happened here.” Charon whispered to no one.

“Science. Fire ants, to be specific.” I shook my head, “The gentleman responsible had the best intentions, but you know how that goes. As I understand it, he was to trying to make them... smaller.”

“And you killed him?”

“No. I just helped him... fix this. I assume he left.”

“You fixed this?” Charon asked. There was quiet amazement tempered in his voice, “How'd you do that?”

“It involved every frag grenade I could find. Shh sh. You hear something?”

“Just some radroaches. Leave 'em be.”

I shuddered, “I hate those things. Give me the creeps. Are you sure this is safer than just--”

“It's safer. And faster. No need to cross the Potomac, less mutants to deal with. All we gotta do is take the white line all the way to the museum station. Might be a little troublesome since you're here, but nothing to sweat over.”

“Troublesome?”

“The White line's got ghouls. Ferals.”

I bit my lip as we moved past an old payphone swaying limpidly in the stillness. I didn't like killing ferals, let alone fighting them. They were frightening, pitiful things.

“Do you ever feel bad?” I asked Charon. He was stomping out a radroach who'd decided to get too close.

“Hm?”

“Killing them. The ferals, I mean.”

My partner grimaced as he lifted his boot and scraped the slimey guts of the bug along the ground, “Nobody kills without feeling nothing.”

“Double negative.”

He gave me steely stare. Then continued, “If it's a comfort... I know for a fact that taking out ferals is just pulling them out of misery. Quick end to a long pain.”

“But Doctor Barrows--”

“Barrows is a decent sort, but he's misguided.” Charon winced and sighed, as though he regretted bringing anything up at all, “He's convinced... that... with enough experimenting, he can find a cure.”

“What if it's true?”

“Even if it is, the day he finds the cure is the day I...” His voice crackled off into silence, a tiny spark, a fading flare. I watched his eyes sullenly focus on my backpack, traveling upwards to the numbers on my jumpsuit collar. I stared for a moment at the way his hair stuck out oddly at his temples and above his forehead, the scars and burn marks on his face and neck. All of it seemed to highlight everything that made him beautiful in the old world. I found myself wondering what he was, before the bombs. A bored pencil pusher locked away in a cubicle? Perhaps something completely ridiculous—a talking head or a boxer who threw his fights.

I wondered if he knew, like I knew the contract was entering his heavy mind.

“We could burn it.” I rushed the words out, hoping they wouldn't hurt him.

selfish and insubordinate

“...I could sell it back to you! Ten caps!”

He hissed as though I'd just suggested something taboo, “It doesn't work like that! You feel guilty. I get that. But I need that thing. It's in my head. It is my head. I ain't testing what happens when it just up and poofs.” His sleeveless hand motioned upwards as though he was holding a dissipating flame.

“I'm only trying to help you.” I said.

He stepped forward, getting in my face and leering down like I'd challenged him to a brawl. I think he was trying to frighten me. But I wasn't about to give a man that satisfaction, even if that man did look a little something like a monster.

“You wanna help me? Let me point my gun and leave it be. Quit trying to slap a bandage over things.”

just like your father

“Too much talk.” He said finally, “Keep moving. We should be close.”

The rest of the walk was quiet and tense. I wanted to be angry with him for giving up on himself long ago, and he wanted to be angry about.... well, everything probably. Obstinate and stubborn. A man after my own heart—which meant this partnership was going to be even tougher than I previously thought.

I decided to be the bigger person. Or maybe I was still just being plain selfish—looking for the quickest line to forgiveness. Either way, I took a deep breath, “I'm sorry, Charon. I was just hoping... I never wanted to force--”

“I told you to talk to Ahzrukhal.”

I took that as his way of saying he'd made some sort of choice in the matter, and we pressed on.

We spotted the motorcycle near the exit to Falls Church. I'd seen them before—in pictures, in pieces on the road. But this one was peculiar in that it seemed to be in working condition. Moreso, recently used.

Our guns raised at the sight of it initially (as an unidentified shape in the dim light was apt to do), but I just couldn't contain myself when I realized what the clunky piece of machinery was.

“This is amazing!” My voice rose and bounced off the dead, silent tunnel in a bright, airy echo, “Have you ever seen anything like this?”

Charon rattled off another “be cautious” before catching up to me. Despite his grumpy disposition, he appeared just as surprised, rubbing his eyesockets and gaping slightly.

“It's true. He wasn't lying.”

I raised my eyebrows, gently picking up a strange fashion of helmet I'd never seen prior. It looked as clear and smooth as glass, but knocking on the surface revealed it was not so. A slender, almost comically tiny antennae sat top and center—like a little beacon upon a globe. I lifted the strange helmet slow and steady over my own head. A makeshift coronation in a lonely, impending doom. In the faded glow I could spot a slow, wide grin overtaking my ghoul companion's face. As soon as I returned his gesture, it vanished.

“What? Do you wanna try it on?” I asked.

Grimly, “No.”

I took the thing off with significantly less grace, “...Crap... Jesus, how does anyone expect to breathe in this thing?”

Charon knelt on the other side, inspecting the vehicle's weathered and dirt-ridden frame. He stood, lifting one of the makeshift tire-bags' lids and cricking his neck at its contents.

“Lookit. It's even got a sidecart. There's a garden gnome inside.” I laughed.

“Sniper ammo. No use to us. A box of... tissues? Yeah. Gotta be his.”

“Whose?”

“Remington. That crooner back in Megaton. This is... this is unique. He's got some kind of luck on his side.”

“What a strange one. Can you imagine if we all named ourselves after our guns?”

“Terrible shotgun.” Charon allowed himself another grin.

“A3-21 Plasma.” I joked, displaying my trusty rifle proudly.

“Where'd you get that thing, anyhow?”

“It's a … long story. One that's not for telling right now.”

He cast me a confused glance, “As you wish.”

Mei Wong

The smug little doctor looked as though he was about to be sick. I hardly knew why. Well, I knew. I didn't exactly understand. All I wanted was a drink, a little information. An itsy bitsy answer to a very small question.

It didn't phase me. I wanted it, I'd find the answer eventually. I always found and took what was mine. And 'mine' was whatever the hell I wanted.

I flicked a lighter lid in my hand on and off, staring at my unfinished drink. The woman cleaning up the blood on the wall behind the bar gave me an even more queer look than before, but no matter. The clicking sound was mostly out of boredom, partly to the unnerve the pair in the room. Just a little.

I liked ghouls. I'd ran with a handful, gotten intimate with a few, called a couple family. They were gallows-humored and mean, full of cold knowledge. Boarded up wells with upper east coast accents.

I didn't like the plainness of this city. It was too tied to the old ways. Doom and gloom despite the warmth of still functioning lamps. But I knew The Cowboy was not here, so this was exactly where I needed to be.

“You wouldn't happen to have any beds free, would you?”

“Well uh... with Quinn back in town Carol's place is full up. If you don't mind the macabre, though, there's Ahzrukhal's bed just in that back room there.”

“Course not,” My temperamental gaze surveyed the blooded mess once more, “Did Ahzrukhal do that?”

“No, ma'am. I'm afraid Ahzrukhal was that.”

Interesting. I didn't ask anything more. I needed sleep, and they were afraid of me. I was liable to get kicked out if I tested this short fellow's patience any longer.

Wilde

Falls Church was mangled up in a distant firefight, with The Brotherhood fending off Mutants trying to regain the foothold they'd lost in The Mall. We stayed low, weaving our way through the remnants of a school. I wondered about many other structures. The strangely idol-like carvings of eyeless male faces staring forever out of walls, old office buildings—just windows stacked upon steel upon windows, strength and fragility clashing all the way up to the heavens. A small fenced in plot of blackened earth with a spinning circular platform and some strange manner of hollowed out rocket threw me off at one point. A playground? It had to be.

“Look sharp.” Charon alerted, “We've got Muties.”

A pair of Mutants lumbered on the torn bits of the blown out classroom floor above us. Even in the dead of the night, their gargantuan forms were easy to pick out. No one seemed to know what these creatures origins were, just that they were out for blood. They were hulking, hairless and without gender--green masses that shot and swung at anything that got too close. What they had in muscle mass they lacked in strategy, but their sheer numbers kept the bloodbath going.

What was the saying? The phrase slipped through my mind as I crouched behind an old schooldesk for cover: War never changes.

“BREAK THEM.” Our newfound enemies shouted. They jumped down from their wrecked perches, screaming with a heavy, roided kind of rage that was unique to their own. I could hear Charon moving back from me, drawing the Mutant with a makeshit sledgehammer out. He sounded intent on taunting it with coarse language and rusty laughter. The other monstrosity concentrated his fire on me. I held fast to that little desk like it was my shield, wincing against a sudden barrage of minigun fire.

Splinters of wood whistled over my head, the smell of lead singed my nostrils. I grit my teeth, biding my time. The rain of bullets paused, only for a second. But that was all I needed. I rose and took my shot. The glowing bolt whizzed true, plasma round ate through skin. The creature yowled in alarm. Two more shots and it was over--his head a mess of goo.

Charon whistled lowly, almost laughing, “You melted that sucker.”

“If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were having fun.”

“Hard work is happy work.” He shrugged. That was a phrase ripped right from a Vault-Tec poster. I made no mention of it, however. I had the feeling it would startle him, perhaps cause him harm.

“Just a couple stretches of tunnel. This way.” He pointed with his whole hand.

Under, over, through. Even with all the mapping on my Pipboy I knew I'd find myself getting lost easily. Charon was proving invaluable as a guide--the unyeilding purpose to my easily misdirected drive. For the first time since I'd crawled and screamed my way out of 101, I thought now I might see the finish line clearly.

We came up for air at Arlington--a small valley and a graveyard in the literal sense. I'd never seen one proper. Vault 101 cremated their dead simply for the sake of saving space. In the deep navy light, the small white crosses and leaning tombstones seemed to stand out against the hillsides even more. The winding road was largely intact and morosely silent. Not even the wind stirred.

A 'Life Preservation Station' stood just outside the railyard. I'd found the Wilkes boy crouching in another of its kind in Grayditch. The upright structures were thin-walled and silver, cylindrical in shape. The friendly coin slot near the sliding door was the cherry atop the irony.

“People back then thought these would keep them safe? They're essentially tin cans.”

“People were afraid. Fear does anything for a comfort.”

“You know, for someone who seems so averse to the intellectual, you're a pretty smart guy.”

Charon grumbled unintelligibly.

We barely exchanged another word in the damp, decrepit tunnels known as The White Line. I thought Marigold's labyrinth was bad enough. This place was something else entirely. A steady, constant sound of water droplets plinking and leaking throughout the chasm sent chilly echoes across my skin. Swears and obscene drawings covered the walls. Trash, money and ancient propaganda posters were once again fossilized into the surface of the floor. Something about the structure seemed to sag and lean uncomfortably despite its sturdiness. Maybe it was the air here—suffocating even with the wind, wet and cold, welcoming to no life.

“Lead on, I've never been here.” I never wanted to be. I avoided the subway whenever possible. The crushing, inhospitable spaces reminded me too much of what was, of 'home'.

“Certainly.”

He puffed up like he was full of purpose and pride all of a sudden. Here was the world's most earnest workaholic. A small, amused grin occupied my face in spite of the grit in my eyes, the chill of the tunnels, and the horrors that lay ahead.

Mei Wong

I didn't open the safe because I needed to, only because I knew I could. Whoever this Ahzrukhal was, he'd made quite an effort hiding it behind several wooden crates of empty Nuka Cola bottles. But empty bottles were exactly what I'd been looking for in that moment. Joke was on the dead man, as usual.

The lock was surprisingly easy for a safe in such good condition. Guess he wasn't counting on protecting his stash from a gal armed with a bobby pin. Too bad. Was hoping for something good and rare—holotapes--music or old films. Weird sex shit. Literature, pressed flowers, good photographs. But this guy must've been as clinically uptight and boring as his room. I only found a shitload caps and near enough drugs to send the cardsharks of Gomorrah into a feeding frenzy. A couple of pistols. I grabbed every tin of Mentats I could envision myself carrying without trouble, swept the caps onto the marbled floor to count them out. Nothing to write Grandma about.

The few sad, slips of paper hiding in the very back caught my eye shortly after getting through counting up the caps. If I were anywhere else I'd dismiss them as trash scraps, but this room was so neat, that conclusion was damned.

Typewritten. List. Most of it crossed out. Did this fella really need to remember what groceries he had to buy in 2051? A cackling laugh turned somber when the realization struck. These were names. Crossed out names, a handful of them still legible beneath thin, red ink. Atkins, Todd. Barrowman, Phillip. Hart, Richard. Krinkle, Henry.

What a boring sausage fest. I was curious about what warranted its hiding spot. A list of lost loves? Vengeance tally? Seemed far too lengthy, even for that. Gazing down further sent strange spears of fear down my spine, as though every name had now entered the small room to stare lifelessly at my neck. I turned round reflexively. No one there. Of course, of course. In these quiet moments of not plotting and taking and slicing, the fear was always getting the best of me.

My eyes widened and subsquently landed on a name—the only name--that was not marred by anemic ink strings.

“Charles McCarron. What made you so damn exceptional, huh?” The subsequent name on the list was crossed out so violently there was no hope of deciphering it. The pen had gone so far as to leave a gash in the paper. Scar tissue. Another exception. Just... different.

That sick, icy stare was practically breathing against me now. Shallow, yet burning like fading chips in a wood fire.

“I read somewhere... I think it was Life or Time or some shit... that sometimes, in the womb, one twin'll just... soak up the other. Like a goddamned parasite.”

I could sense the barrel of the pistol at my back just as acutely as I could feel my mentat rush slipping away like the sands of an hourglass. I brought my hands up, not as a signal of surrender, but to press down upon my temples. I dare not turn around. You didn't give a vision oxygen, otherwise you might spiral out, lose your shit. Shell shock was all but uncommon in a climate like this, but my little memory boxes were often not mine at all.

Grandma always said it was venom in me. 'A snake will shed its own skin away, from time to time.' A lot of what my grandmother told me as a child was utter loon talk, but in moments like these, on nights where I could hear the bombs falling and smell the fear from someone hiding out in a hollowed out shelter, I found the theory as sound as the nasty scar trailing down my right calf—courtesy of a rattlesnake on the outskirts of New Reno when I was just a young girl.

That gun was still behind me. That nameless ghost. I wanted to tell it to get lost, that I didn't have time for its Shakespearian brahmin shit.

BANG. My limbs locked up momentarily. All that ugly energy seemed to dissipate with it, bad dust swept beneath a smelly rug.

bang bang. Softer. It wasn't until I heard the voice on the other side of the door that the true source of that sound hit me. Just knocking.

Underworld's doctor, “You alright, ma'am? Lotta noise… Er, Carol's got extra pillows, if you need 'em. But you gotta get them yourself.”

“I'm fine!” I called back, “Just ...looking through my supplies.” Nosy prick. His footfalls away from the door sounded slow and timid. I didn't understand why he feared me. I'd given him no reason to. Not a real one, not yet. I'd have to skip town in the morning. Denizens of 'civilized' settlements were too uneasy—looking at everything while sharpening knives. At least with raiders, you knew where you stood right away.

I gently plucked that strange list up from the middle of the floor. Reached for my lighter and lit it with a twitching yet decisive hand. There was no particular motive—only that it seemed the thing to do. I watched paper get eaten away into ash; the singular, hungry flame dancing quietly in the surface of my eyes. One last glance at anything legible. I'd remember all the names.

Wilde

Further into the darkness, the smell seemed even worse than outside. I stole sparing breaths against a cool, musty draft and followed the sounds of Charon's boots. I'd turned off my pip boy light, at his suggestion. “The Crazies'll flock to that green light”. I was skeptical. It seemed superstitious.

The causalities of the world outside had melded with the corpses of feral ghouls and foul, seeping water—twisted piles, pale and cold. Lost souls neglected by all except mirelurks; the creatures seemed to be using the unfortunate dead as nests. Maybe it was for the best I could barely eye what I was walking upon--who I might be walking upon. One could still see the gaping outlines of sunken eyes and radroach ridden mouths.

The network of the tunnel was a long, snaking thing. The deeper we went, the morose and dim it seemed to grow. Small mirelurk nests gave way to networks, the lined up corpses into visceral, unidentifiable piles.

Water and wreckage had overtaken much of our course. Two crashed subway cars, lit by a small barrel fire. Charon mumbled something about there being no sign of raiders, glaring suspiciously at the dying blaze and a number of disarmed traps.

My gaze was determined on taking in as much as possible through the shadows and filth. Empty husks of new-world gear, brittle scrap, a few briefcases all splayed open. An unsettling baby doll with blinking eyes lopsided and tufts of its blonde hair missing. Seated bones. A bobblehead? I couldn't help but pause. No, not Vault-Tec. A smiling girl with a green skirt and a necklace of flowers. Long black hair, brown skin. Her eyes were warm and her hands were raised and gentle, as though dancing. I pocketed the tiny silver lining, thankful Charon was a little too far ahead now to object.

“Best not linger.” He called over his shoulder, “Kinda rocky here. Watch out.”

I pressed on (quite literally) through the miniscule space between cement and metal. My footing was usually more sure than most, even in unexplored parts of the capital, but the jagged concrete gave me no mercy. I stumbled a few times, got stuck more. Charon was nearly out, making it look easy and quick. Like Jonas' grandmother, Old Lady Palmer, trying to teach me how to thread a needle.

(seems like just yesterday your Daddy arrived—OH! listen to me talk...)

She knew. Everyone knew I was born Outside and no one bothered to tell. Not even my father. The resentment rose like the soreness in my muscles and the lingering dryness in my throat. I'd ignored until it all until now. I'd need rest and a stimpak soon.

Hungry, high pitched squeaks resounded not far away. Shotgun fire. Silence.

“Just a rat.” Charon sighed down at the huge, freshly killed creature laying against the tracks. I stretched my limbs, shook the pains away.

There was a long, distant sneering sound, a pause, an eruption. A cymbal crash chorus of hissing, screaming from the darkness ahead. The sounds were uncomfortably human and not-so all at the same time. I flipped my pip boy's light back on. They'd see me sooner than never regardless. Now was the time to bury all dread and fascination. Death was ushering in droves at the end of the tracks.

“They hear us.” Charon blinked down at the felled rat as though this had been his fault. I wanted to tell him it wasn't so—but there wasn't even time for a breath.

Three ferals launched forth from the abyss of another wide, empty tunnel, snarling and slicing the air with outstretched, enraged hands. Naked, husk-like, all bent and contorted like dead branches. The first of the group caught me by surprise, grabbing for my neck. In an instant I felt the violent kick of adrenaline, pushing the creature back with my rifle, kicked it down, shot it once in the chest. Quieted. I dispatched the other two in the same manner, feeling enveloped by an energy that was both sharpened and numb. Separate from the self I usually was.

Charon kept pace beside me, stoic against the carnage and sweltering noise. Maybe it was the echoes of the subway itself, but where one terrible hitching cry fell, more climbed upwards from the soft, rotten ground. Gunshots, silhouettes, It all became a blur. Bloodened skin, ripped nails, lidless eyes and gaping teeth. Each moment of headway was multiplied by more chaos. A law of the universe: One second you were there and you were winning, as a hunk of scrap dangled over your head, primed like the blade of a guillotine.

Charon and I wound up practically back against back, a cacophony of plasma shots slicing through flesh while shotgun shells boomed and carnage sprayed across walls on the opposite side.

“There's too many!” I shouted as soon as I could find the air to.

“Follow me! Keep going!” Charon cleared a path, fighting like a meathammer the entire way to a crumbling platform on the right side of the tracks. I cleared a few on our tail that got too close—not with the same combination of ease and gruel, but definitely with the same sense of grit. Charon climbed up the low landing as though he'd done so countless times, hand outstretched to me. I took it, welcoming the pull upwards; steadying as soon as I stepped over the thick, yellow warning line faded into the concrete.

A gap in the wall revealed a slender, tall metal door that seemed fortified by moving parts. “FERALS” was painted in crooked red across it, below a tiny pre-war sign that read: STAFF ONLY in smaller lettering. Charon slammed a switch nearby while I covered him, sending the few ferals trying to climb up the platform our way down into the tracks, where the rest of them were still clawing, distracted, throwing the dead rat and ripping it to pieces. A Glowing One, lithe and pulsing with a menacingly effervescent green light, was standing on the platform opposite ours. His skin was translucent, his emaciated frame revealing pale outlines of bone. He did not move, in spite of his cigarette-burn eyes staring across at us.

“Charon. Charon, look.” But he did not. He couldn't hear me—instead, he ushered me into blinding light, through a small passage as soon as the door hissed open. Its parts moved, spidery and clinking. I watched, dazed as several stragglers gurgled onto the platform and gave chase, only a few feet away. The door locked into place like a clenching fist. There were several thuds as the group tried and failed to break through from the other side.

I remained on guard, listening for the next inevitable wave.

“There's nothin' here but time.” Charon remarked, “The sign's to keep raiders out. You alright?”

“Alright as I can be in a place like this.” Harsh, white emergency lights were working, generators buzzing low. “Where are we?”

“Old maintenance tunnel I'm guessin',” He shrugged, “Found it the last time I came through here. Was hoping to get you here quiet, but the best laid plans of mice...”

We both sighed, slinking down to sitting positions in the empty passage. Killing raiders and mutants felt somewhat satisfying after seeing what they'd done to people, something triumphant. This firefight was thankless and tragic.

Charon shook my pack from his shoulders, having insisted on carrying it since leaving Grayditch.

“Grab a stim, clear your head. Gonna need it for fetching that whats-it dish.”

“Satellite relay.” I corrected him as I searched through a pouch on my belt, finding the sight of the small red vial atop a needle a welcome relief.

“Why not just talk to Three Dog directly?” Charon had taken the box of Fancy Lads from my pack, dumping them in his lap.

“Because it'll help him. It will aid The Good Fight.”

“What's that even mean. He's been preaching it for years and all I've seen is more body piles, more Brotherhood of Steel bullshit.”

“That's not a good enough reason for me to stop trying.” I snapped, “Besides, something tells me you've been looking in the wrong places... Jesus, are you gonna eat that whole damn box?”

“Sorry.” He mumbled, “Got a sweet tooth from hell.” He threw one in my direction. I caught it, turned on the radio, low volume. Tried to forget most of what I'd just seen, tried to resist mentioning how pointless popping a rad-x was to Charon as he did so, tried to push away the threat of time chipping away. The miles between my father and I were likely growing immeasurable. On the radio, Three-Dog was finishing up talking about the boy I'd helped escape from Grayditch, moved on to reminiscing about the time he'd seen a tree--”a real tree”. Then, a Billie Holiday song, ethereal and moving like a sunset.

“Three Dog's calling you a peacekeeper now. What's next?” Charon's tone was mocking as he cracked open a water bottle, “Avenger? God?”

“I'm aiming for 'Sellout'.” I smarted back. He snorted.

“There was a glowing one back there,” I mentioned finally, “it didn't even make a run for us.”

Charon passed the bottle to my outstretched hand, “Hmph.”

“Don't you wonder why?” I took a large sip, passed it back.

“No. The answer to that question is usually a big fucking disappointment.” He paused, “Maybe he was waiting for his train.”

“Did you... I'm sorry... did you just make a joke?”

He smiled in that slow, reserved way again. I shook my head in disbelief, laughing.

Mei Wong

One crashing, blackout kind of sleep and three mentats later and I was ready, raring, my mind crackling and fresh lit. I returned the room back to its original state with a high, quiet energy—everything undesired back into the safe, crates stacked upright, (a few bottles missing, not enough to be noticed), ashes swept under the tiny, soiled mattress.

The Ninth Circle was cleaned up too, abandoned with the exception of one person: Patches. Passed out, torso splayed on the counter, limp fingers around the neck of a tall, near empty bottle of scotch. I took it from him, setting it back down on the bar after taking a swig. Bitter, irradiated. Patchwork's eyes fluttered for a second, closing as soon as I shushed him back to sleep. My interest in Ahzrukhal's end had waned, otherwise I might've asked him. The gray-haired lush possessed a willingness to kiss and tell, even if it was burp-y and muddled.

What I was interested in, however, was the duffel behind the counter.

Guns and caps. A whole heapload. I swept up the bag, saluting at the sleeping shape on my way out.

Underworld was exceptionally quiet, the Doctor was presumably back in his little corner, as was the sharp little lady working by his side. This was no bother, I was used to leaving while people slept, anyhow.

There were tense voices outside. I could hear them all the way from the huge, round desk at the entrance. Opening the grime-caked glass doors revealed it was still night, the sky displaying the same color as when I'd arrived.

“Fly away. You're not welcome.”

Five males, laughing, arms crossed over their chests. I recognized the white, claw emblems on their combat armor in an instant: Talon Company. Nasty group of mercs. No better than the scum beneath my fingernails.

The guard out front pointed her rifle defensively. Her posture was defiant, but her voice had a traceable tremble.

“It's five against one, shuffler.” A talon challenged.

She spit, “I'm the fastest shot this city's got. Try me.”

What a miracle, I thought, they can count.

I couldn't resist laughing at my own stupid joke. The taunting group noticed my presence then, nodding at me, “Who're you?”

“I'm just a happy tourist, like yourselves.” I blinked cooly, thankful I'd thought to put my sunglasses on. The eyes, I couldn't stand their eyes. In the sweltering dark, they looked like little gleaming stones.

“What's eating you?” I asked.

The leader of the group, an average sized, ugly sonofagun with a face like a pimple: “We're looking for that Vault Kid. We know she's stopped here. You know 'em?”

“Blondie.” Anyone and everyone with a radio and working ears knew. Her and her father. Though D.C.'s favorite voice was much quieter about him. I guessed Three Dog must've been paid off. I'd actually seen the frightened girl, though, before the disc jockey's airwaves picked her up. At an old junkyard, fighting off raiders with nothing but a bat and choked, angry sobs. Looked like the first time she'd really committed violence on anything in her life. She left a little less scared, with a dog. She hadn't seen me, of course. No one did, unless I willed it. She'd come close a few times. A little too close, recently. With a new friend.

“Yeah, I might know.” I answered finally.

I wasn't sure what to make of her. I left surprises all over on my travels—mostly clues for misleading The Cowboy, or leading him, whatever whim I followed. Some caches were just for 'leveling the playing field'. A fun game. I'd watch many travelers raid them, but she'd found the most, and always left something behind—a pack of bobby pins, a book, a trinket. Even caches I'd rigged up with land mines were treated with reverence. A strange little custom from a girl at the center of something that seemed stranger, bigger. My first impressions found her insufferably sunny-side-up and too self-righteous. Still, she refused to keep idle. That earned at least a dollop of my... something.

“There's a price on her head, big one.” The pimplehead Talon cawed, “Maybe you'd like to help? We split caps equal.”

Their faces lied. I took a moment to regard the ghoul beside me, then turned back to the boys:

“Sure. Let's make a deal.”

Willow (was that her name? I was never very good with names) voiced an objection. I snapped loudly, deliberate, “Last I saw, she was headed south a ways, for Andale. I can show you the way.” Willow's mouth thinned, she shook her head in slow, mock horror. Playing along and playing well. Good.

The band of scum grinned collectively. The leader clapped his hands and rubbed them together. They were eager and greedy and I was only one woman. But by the end, they'd know I was something that trampled and devoured.

“Easy-peasy,” I winked back at the lone ghoul guarding the museum entrance. And it would be easy. A tooth for an eye. “If you'll follow me boys, I only need to find my Ghost.”

The foremost priority in my mind was leading them away from The Mall. No moral reason or rhyme, simply because I could. Beyond that, my thoughts were on kidneys.

Wilde

The subways' maintenance tunnel path where we'd found sanctuary ended at a colossal mezzanine overlooking a grand, square room with four stilled escalators grouped in twos, facing each other. Giant, faded billboards dominated the walls—"Night of the Living Dead II" playing at Paradise Falls, Nuka-Cola, a museum exhibition for rocket science, GNR Radio. The mental image of hustling pre-war crowds from the past felt almost palatable. It made the structure's emptiness even more eerie.

Charon appeared to be on edge (more so, anyway) the closer we moved toward the escalators. Before we exited the tunnel he'd warned me of raiders camping out near the old info kiosk. Although there was evidence of bedding, beer bottles and spent chems littering the western corner of the Metro's center, there were no signs of threatening life.

Voices chimed down from the bottom of the steps. Thin and stretched. Charon moved for cover, silently motioning to me from a section of cracked ledge. I peeked down into the darkened first floor to find three figures front and center, facing off in a triangle, pistols pointed. Not a soul without a bullet aimed at their heart.

“I found it.” One voice argued.

“Yeah, well I lugged it around! The whole damn way.”

“Fellas, if we just think about this for a se--”

Shots ripped through the air before the third voice could finish, carrying bursts of angry light. They stilled just as abruptly.

Charon grabbed a nearby bottle, launched it down as far as he could muster. “They're dead,” he announced finally.

I switched my pip boy light back on. We made our way down the steep, ebony teeth set in solid chrome railings.

The bottom was just a cavernous heap of more refuse and more rubble. Small telephone booths dotted the walls, turnstiles faced corresponding sets of double doors to the east.

“Mall's just out there. But... something ain't right.”

Those part of the shootout were sprawled out near the turnstiles. Three bodies arranged like the cornerstones, shot down where they stood. Fresh blood pooled behind each lonely, holed head—two males, one female. The plain manner in which they dressed suggested they were just wastelanders. Centered between them was a sad, rusted red wagon, filled with water bottles.

“They could've shared... Why didn't they just...”

“No sense spilling sympathy where there was only a pissing contest. Look alive. I saw four of 'em.”

He was right. I could hear footsteps nearby—indecisive and frightened. Charon raised his gun, looked as though he was going to fire. I told him to hold it.

“Who are you? Why are you hiding?” I called out.

“Wilde, there's no time to--”

A voice that was not familiar stuttered from behind an old kiosk, “M-My name is Rory. Rory Maclaren. Please! I didn't want to shoot anyone. I just need the water. I'll trade you. I'm a trader. Please, Little Lamp needs--”

“Slow down, Rory.” I said gently. His silhouette was lanky and strung, like someone who'd been hung out to dry. He drew a craggy sort of breath before continuing,

“I don't have many caps, but I have a couple stealth boys... a-and a pistol.”

Initially, it settled in my mind to let him take the water with nothing in exchange. I'd simply soothe his unease and walk onward. But the stealth boys would prove invaluable in the museum. I knew there were mutants there, the question was how many. With how little ammo I had left after this trek, staying hidden sounded more like salvation.

“Keep your gun. The stealth boys will do.”

Nervous rummaging sounds. Charon still had his weapon raised, his jaw tense and his mouth twisted in mild annoyance. Rory reached out in the darkness. He passed the stealth boys to me, flinching as soon as I moved to deposit them into my pack.

“Take care!” I called as I moved towards the exit.

“And grow a fucking backbone.” Charon added finally. Our sentiments were genuine, even if my partner's words were harsh. Rory simply fell back into the darkness and dragged his feet.

Charon

“Could've shot him and walked out with the water and the stealthboys.”

“That's not my way.”

There it was. That blasted, nonsensical kindness again.

“But he's walking mole rat chow.” I didn't understand. She had the guts and the skill necessary to know the demanding dangers of this place. The trek here made that clear. Why help the damned? Eventually, she'd have to put a bullet in someone asking for mercy.

“He gets another day. Sometimes, that's all anyone needs.”

The way she said it, I almost felt it directed at me. A cold slap across the face. And for a second, I almost felt myself believe it.

“Fair enough.” It was painful to admit, but that queer kindness was nudging at me, too. Ever since Megaton and that silly bible passage. A week ago, I wouldn't have given her so much as a glare. Yet here I was. Breaking bread and cracking jokes. Hell, even daring to console her when she tried testing the contract business.

Normally I was not a 'believer' of any sort. As far as I was concerned, there was nothing in the clouds but a bucket and a mop. But if there was one thing I knew, it was this: Fate had a funny way of tangling up all the strings and turning all the tables when you pushed your way out of limbo.

We hiked up another long escalator upon exiting the metro. Dawn was rising up through smoke and ash—record time, we'd cut the journey in half. Underworld was closer than a shadow now, right behind us. Willow nodded to us briefly as Wilde pulled an envelope from her pack.

“For Carol, from Gob.” Willow tucked it away beneath her belt. She glanced at me like the big scary, elephant-in-the-room I was so used to being and switched her tired expression back to Wilde. Her face turned stern and worried.

“I'm sure I don't have to tell the two of you twice: Stay out of Andale.” She warned finally.

“What's in Andale?” Wilde had that dangerous curiosity on her face again.

“There's some nasty smoothskins after you. Black armor. A sightseer threw them off your trail. I guess it pays to be a saint, huh?”

“Who--”

“Wilde.” I interrupted, “I suggest we focus on the task at hand.”

Wilde nodded and thanked her.

The farther away we stepped from Underworld, the better I felt. Now it was just a straight shot across The Mall. The Capitol Building lay like a hazy mirage to our left, with the Washington monument towering close at our right. The boss marched ahead through trees that looked more like blown out candles. A too-happy tune played from the Pip Boy on her wrist. I watched her strap one of the stealth boys on the same arm. She handed me the extra just as we reached the grand, dirty entrance of our destination.

“I hope you're decent at moving quiet.” She said, turning off her radio. Thank god. How anyone stood listening to the same handful of songs for that long I'd never know.

I clipped the hideous little gizmo to my belt. It was a slim rectangle with a tiny dish-like apparatus that folded out and up, along with a bunch of small buttons. You couldn't trust anything with that many damn buttons... but if it meant less conversation, then I was for it.

“I hope you've got a better plan than just hide-and-seek.” I murmured.

“Have a little faith.” Wilde grinned that warm golden smile and slipped inside the Tech Museum. That smile shook me up a little—made me feel like she could see right into all my thoughts. Still, I followed, readying myself for the smell of fresh death and the shadows of Mutants waiting to greet us within.

Chapter Text

Mei Wong

Pimplehead was off finding kindling to keep dawn's bite away, whispering to three of his crew. The slimey fuck.

The key to any good bit of fun was disruption. There were several simple ways to do that, of course. Dwindling down supplies. Bribery, poison. Seeding resentment.

Once in a little while, disruption found its way to you.

“They like your funny brahmin. They want it.”

The last of Talon company had spoken. He was struggling with starting a fire. The gangling little freak was the short straw of the group—constantly being hazed and stuck with doing the shit work, most likely. I didn't know his real name and I didn't care. To me, he was a Grasshopper—all limbs and no spine.

“That's no a brahmin.” I said, pulling out my lighter and offering the flame to him, “That's a mare.”

Pimplehead vying for my horse was no surprise. Men with the illusion of power always wanted what was good and rare and could never be theirs.

Ghost'd reunited with me once we hit the outskirts of the city. She avoided D.C. Ruins almost entirely—she was fine with noise and even drawn to fire, but people made her skittish. Fortunately, most kept their distance from her terrible form. Mutants and ferals didn't touch ghouls without provocation, and wastelanders were either too nonobservant or frightened to approach.

And she was a frightful thing, my Ghost. Her ash colored coat, flecked with bone white spots, only made the blackened scars spread throughout more jarring. Her muzzle was reduced to skeletal frame and her ivory mane nothing but tendon-like strands. But it was her neighs that caused even the most stony challengers to wince. Shrill and awful. Despite all that she was gentle and friendly to me. By and by, her appearance was all the better for us both. A potent repellent for the weak and ill driven.

“Where'd you find her?” Grasshopper asked, avoiding my gaze as he snapped a nearby twig and threw it into the budding flames. His left pinky finger was gone. A popular wasteland punishment for recaptured slaves.

“Two Sun. Arizona.” With the fire now burning in the chill, Ghost was slinking nearer.

“She's one of a kind. Like you.”

I smiled. Grasshopper was still looking anywhere but my eyes.

“I know who you are, Sally Hatchet. I've heard the stories.”

I snapped, “I'd choose your next words very carefully, Grasshopper.” I already knew the boy meant me no harm. But there was a part to play. You couldn't get anywhere without people thinking you were either more dangerous or more harmless than what you really were. Show your true colors, the length and breadth of your limitations, and your guts were primed to spill out on the ground.

Grasshopper looked behind us for just a second, then whispered, “I was offered freedom for ...this. But--”

He wanted what we all wanted, needed, every so often—a way out.

And I wanted disruption.

I smiled coyly, “I think we could help each other out.”

Charon

Stealth boys were a disorienting mess. A body could get through just fine (more or less) with the right route and enough ammo. But this—this near invisibility was damn excessive. It was strange to feel so solid, but see nothing more than a shimmering outline of yourself. Vulnerable. Like being naked in a dream or getting startled by your own shadow, only a hell of a lot worse.

The interior of the museum was no comfort, either. Between the piecemeal displays of old world planes and broken columns, the leftovers of a squad of Brotherhood goons were splayed and scattered. If the over-armored geeks couldn't even make it past the entrance...

“I don't like the looks of this.” I muttered.

“Really? I was thinking this would be a nice place for a sit down.” Wilde smarted back.

“No time.”

“Oh, I'm only joking. Would it kill you to laugh?”

Yes.

She tapped sharply away at a monitor housed in the nearest column. A trio of mutants could be heard from a robotics exhibit nearby. Arguing. Their words were labored and blunt. Vein-popping effort with no hope of creating a whole sentence.

I suggested (as quietly as I was able) that we move. Wilde raised a shimmering palm and I could hear the words she wanted to say even in shrouded silence: kindly, hush.

“WE NEED... TO MAKE... MORE.” Mutants were getting closer. Footfalls lumbering with tired ire, voices still back and forth with disagreement. I'd never heard one of the freaks hold a conversation before. And honestly, I didn't care.

A mutant cursed as something crashed to the floor. They were practically down our necks now.

“Wilde...” I whispered in warning. Still tapping away. What was the terminal holding that was so important, anyhow? The only ones I'd ever peeked at held nothing more than computerized journals... maintenance records, customer complaints, innocuous memos and office gossip. More evidence that pre-war people were insane. Same as always.

“Aaand... Got it!” Wilde hissed excitedly.

Then came another kind of tapping. Ruthless and sudden. I ducked instinctively, thinking it was the freaks catching our scent. Wilde's shape merely stooped slightly.

“Turrets.” I heard her smile.

Somehow, she'd rerouted the whole security system. I scratched at my head in dumbfounded awe.

“This way,” She whispered the moment the firing stopped, “We've got to move before the others investigate.”

We stepped carefully over the scraps of ancient aviators and machines, only pausing to search through ammo boxes propped up against sandbags and overturned tables. Silent and quick, like lizards darting in and out of rocks. Nearly joined at the hip out of fear of getting left behind. Anything for a comfort.

Wilde hissed an exhale as soon as the next exhibit in our path came into view. A scaled down vault entrance with its large gear-shaped door marked with an arbitrary two-digit number. Tattered velvet ropes lay overturned on all sides, with a small intact sign to our right that read: TOUR STARTS HERE.

Wilde's voice rang cautiously among the sudden shift from marble to metal walls, “There could be another way around. There has to be...”

“The only way out is through.” I replied, just as softly. I wasn't sure if it was the stealth-boy affecting my tone or if it was the strange, cold air emanating from beyond the false vault entrance. Didn't know why all Wilde's confidence was draining, either. The reasons were of little consequence. We had a satellite to find.

Wilde pulled the lever housed on an important looking console with slight hesitance. A tiny rumble, and the door collapsed inward, rolling away smoothly. The level of noise was enough to put us both on the defensive. But the mutants were probably still behind, dealing with the turrets. The “tour” was a cramped, singular hallway of weathered steel that displayed tiny rooms behind huge, curved windows every few paces. A soft, friendly voice boasted the details of each showcase from programmed speakers. “Spacious kitchen's mom will love!” “Clean, recycled air!” “Bored? The entertainment room will suit your needs!” Behind that one, a lonely projector displayed a single, gray slide reading: PLEASE STAND BY in large, cold letters.

I made the mistake of lingering there for a second, and that's when I saw him: a no-name figure twisted and crouching in the darkness, pressing a bloodied hand against the glass.

The voice was familiar, like I'd heard it faraway and in a dream. Rasping and struggling. A dying man.:

“...everything...I'm so... hungry... everything burns.... Listen. You get out of here, Charlie. Shut the door and don't let that bastard get any of it. Not even a damned paperclip.” As his words went on, strange rabid sounds began to come with them. At one point he paused to abruptly scream, slamming a fist into the window. He then caught his breath,“Go see the mammoth for me... go back to Boston... home...You hear me? Forget about us. You're going to get out of here. Forget ev--” The figure grasped his head with both hands, shrieking once more before disappearing from view.

The figure returned frightfully, nothing but fits, slamming his entire body into the barrier between us, like his lifeforce had been leaked and replaced with nothing but violence. Chunks of skin, clumps of hair clung to the glass with each hammering throe. A name entered my mind just as violently.

“Phillip.... Philly!” The sudden shift in my voice was punctuated with a fist. The window became more like a mirror, the air increasingly like a trap.

A gentle hand on my bad shoulder. I moved away, unaccustomed with the whisper of contact. It was something I barely remembered and didn't need. Just like this goddamned exhibit, just like the image of Philly behind the glass.

“What is it? What did you see?” Wilde asked softly.

“Nothing.” Truthfully, there had been nothing there all along. The cell I'd been staring into was as empty and dead now as the rest. Even the slide "PLEASE STAND BY" had disappeared quietly.

But nothing was quiet on our side, no. You could hear a mutant catching onto our trail, maybe more.

“I know this is difficult...” Wilde urged gently, “But we have to keep moving.”

Such was the way. We made it through the rest of the tour unharmed and without words. I kept my eyes on the path ahead, the tired pear-shaped silhouette in front of me. Wilde's gaze seemed surprisingly narrow, too. I was only partly aware of sharpened pain in my shoulder and the irregularity of my breathing. I'd never experienced such an attack on my senses before. But I would do what I'd always done to the strange and unknown: keep it denied and walled away.

The gear shaped opening at the end of our passage was a welcome sight. The sooner we made ourselves scarce of this place, the better.

There was a collection of pamphlets on the ground as soon as we exited—all advertising vault-tec's ill fated “program”. A dusty bobblehead. Wilde paused to pick that up and stepped onward.

A lonesome, ugly creature well known to guard Mutant territory dragged itself on piecemeal limbs into view. Blubbering and slimy, twisted tongues flailing from its thin mouth. It was something humanoid--but too like a ruddy, crumpled caricature to call it even that. Wilde took a shot at it with her pistol, now equipped with a silencer.

“I hate centaurs. Creepy.” She sighed as its body went limp.

“Is that what you smooths call 'em?”

“What do ghouls call them?” Wilde asked bemusedly.

I spat at one of its wriggling, bloated feet as we passed, “Politicians.”

Something labeled PLANETARIUM was next. I couldn't recall what that meant, but I was sure I wasn't going to like it.

If my jaw wasn't still attached, it would've clattered to the floor. We opened the set of double doors, and found ourselves in a peaceful oasis of a relic. A circular room with sloping rows of soot dark chairs on all sides, closing in around one small island of a platform. A strange projector, round and likened to a giant compound eye, stood in the center. The room was entirely empty otherwise and eerily silent. We carefully made our way down a near-pristine staircase. Little flecks of dust hung in the air like fireflies.

We made it to the center. Wilde was staring into the dimly lit dome above, “What was this place? What did they do here?”

“They” were all dead. What they “did” was build monuments to the very things that destroyed them. This woman's curiosity with the past—however well meaning—was a cumbersome thing. Even Three Dog shared disdain for what was, and that guy was the sunniest personality left on earth.

“Pagan rituals.” I shrugged finally. “Who cares.”

As though the damned room were watching, all lights cut out at once with a hollow noise. I could still see her, of course. My own senses sharpened and adjusted quickly while she stood frozen in place, no doubt blinking away the sudden shift. Her hand primed over her pistol like it was second nature. I mimicked the move, scanning the room for anything that might have caused the short.

The moment was over just as quickly. The projector ignited noiselessly. It splayed color and light all across the dome above. Tiny stars like spattered freckles across colors I couldn't fathom seeing in the real sky. Searingly bright yet oddly cold. It shunted Wilde and I closer together, unknowing, inch by inch. Our hands limp at our sides. The image swirled and rotated slowly, flickered in and out several times, but that didn't stop us from marveling breathlessly.

“Have you ever seen anything like this?”

I was no longer staring upwards. I found my gaze more focused on her. The stealth boy wearing off, her shape in and out of camouflage erratically. One instant a shuddering shape made up of stars, then something solid and smiling. All one in the same. I was euphoric. I was afraid.

“No, I haven't.” My voice was stupid, dry, and tongue heavy. Wilde beamed at me with radium in her eyes and the universe framing her head.

“Well... How about that sit down?”

I did laugh at that. A booming voice lashed out between us like lightning.

“SINCE THE DAWN OF TIME, MAN HAS ALWAYS DREAMED OF—OF—LIFE AMONG--ALWAYS DREAMED... TIME... LEGACY”

It looped, locked in its mistakes. The voice was so familiar, almost comforting. Home. House. Robert House.

The Mutant screams came soon after, the double doors at the top of the aisles bursting.

Wilde and I cursed at the same time.

"Shit."

Remington

“So you see, there's nothing that proves we are not experiencing anything more than a simulation. You've had to have noticed the signs? An impossible shot hitting the target, the inconsistencies in the way our tech works. People walking around with nothin' to say, or just repeating themselves. The physics! The way creatures sometimes twitch after death. Hell, I knew a guy on the road to D.C. that just got himself stuck in the middle of a damn boulder. Not underneath, the middle. No reason or rhyme. It's bugged, man. We're all bugged.”

I puffed. The dog sitting beside me panted patiently.

“You're a good listener.” I thanked her. Australian Cattle, as scrawny as she was clever. We could all learn something from such creatures. They were simple and unafraid to show emotion. I would've been glad to have her on my travels, but something in her alert posture told me she was waiting on someone else.

I was parked right outside of Megaton's heavy walls, sitting cross-legged against a small grouping of rocks and watching the landscape intently. The dog by will, myself by force. Finally scared enough settlers with all my truths. Lucas Simms gave me the boot. My warning about The Enclave was the last straw.

(have you been harrassing nathan

yessir he's a damned enclave worshippin' ass and he's bound to get you all killed! he should be put down. trickery and treason!

...the man is 65 years old

and? i'm liable to knee him in the gut again, if necessary
and his little robot too)

Lucas was kind enough to lower down some food, but I was now declared undesirable in every major settlement in our nation's capital. Such was the lot of a treasure hunter. You go looking for lost legends and you could count on disbelief. But like hell if I was gonna attempt Underworld. Of all the doorsteps to get turned away from, the ghoul cities hurt most. So I'd roam the outskirts, the dead suburbs and shanty shacks and small trading stops. It was closer in appearance to home, anyways. The remnants of something big and important were there, just buried under sand and mostly lost.... Los.

I took a moment to pull at a small chain around my neck, pulling it out from under my shirt. I scrutinized it like I had so many times before—the weathered and dented Sunset Sarsaparilla bottlecap with the familiar spot of rust against a burnt orange logo. I turned it over, just to be sure. The bright cyan five point star on the underside was a comfort. There were more, part of a legend far older than The Wastes. But this one was special, because it was mine. It was the only thing I had on me when the ghouls I'd call kin found me, along with my trusty sniper rifle. “Remington--the Luckiest, Unluckiest Son-of-a-Gun Alive.” I would grow to have little interest in the parents who thought to dump me, only the story behind the “star bottlecaps” and their immortal mascot, Festus. The legends claimed only the pure of heart could hope to find all fifty of the damned things, and only then would Festus bestow his gifts.

I had sixteen so far.

Well, technically... currently... just the one. A very old friend had taken the rest.

Mei Wong

A small, flexible plan was drawn out between little Grasshopper and myself. Pimplehead and his other absentee lackeys returned. I offered to chop up the wood for the fire. Unfortunately, only Pimplehead had the information I desired. It would complicate things. He seemed the strongest of the group. But life was stale without its challenges.

THWACK. THWACK. THWACK. A woman's work is never done. Personally, I preferred the bloody bits over this chore. How did my grandmother keep even a piece of her sanity, doing nothing but ranching?

Ghost was inching a little closer to my side of the fire as it grew, gently gnawing at some brush in the cracked soil. I smiled at her. I could feel the Talons at my back, peeling away with their pupils from the other side of the flames. Only Grasshopper kept his gaze down. I wondered what stories he'd heard. My skin itched strangely as I halfway listened to the others swap unsettling rumors. Vampires in Arefu, a Glowing One that could talk in Springvale. Strange Eyebots in Grayditch that seemed to watch your every move while humming old patriotic jingles. Tiny towns, idle tales. It made me miss the Mojave, in a way.

THWACK. But I had business here.

I hope Linda has a spare cooler I could borrow, I thought. I wonder if she still remembers me.

“What about you, miss?” One Talon cawed.

THWACK. “What about me?” Hiding the terseness in my voice was getting more difficult. The twists in my stomach were coiling all the more. We needed to reach Andale before my impatience and The Fear crept in.

“Have you got any stories?”

“Oh, loads.” I paused to wipe the sweat from my brow, “I heard this one from a trader in Khan territory:

Once upon a time, a girl was picking up firewood. She came upon a poisonous snake frozen in the snow. She took the snake home and nursed it back to health. One day the snake bit her on the cheek. As she lay dying, she asked the snake, "Why have you done this to me?" And the snake answered, "Look, bitch, you knew I was a snake.”

“Ha. That's it? No monsters or nuthin'?”

I grinned, snapping the final piece of wood like a bone, “That's it.” They'd see a monster in Andale.

James

This was it. I was going die here. In a dilapidated, suburban house in the middle of nowhere, with a crazy old man who would not permit me to leave.

I looked down at the Pipboy resting in my lap. The screen was cracked and the display distorted. I didn't know how. I vaguely knew I'd been bludgeoned by a small group of people under the guise of traders, just a few miles from a vault I needed to explore. Everything was bleary after that. A voice proclaiming “no more” they “would not have any more guests”.

I woke up here... tired, hungry, wounded. How long...? Exhaustion stifled the urgency.

The same voice—the old man--was muttering now, pacing across the living room with a rifle clutched tightly. He dragged feet with such a fervor, it kicked up clouds of dirt from the filth in the rugs. “People wander in here.... they wander in and they don't come out! ...Has to end, have to believe me. Gladys, oh Gladys--”

I racked my brain for his name for awhile, staring over at a clock on the opposite wall. It took the form of a black cat, working mysteriously. Its teasing, too large eyes paced back and forth just as the other occupant in the house did so. I frowned at the tacky little thing, wishing I could tear it off the peeling floral wallpaper.

“Harris...” I called dizzily, until my patience was stretched, “Harris!”

He stopped. I felt pity mixed with a strange form of hatred in my antagonized, delusional pain. Hatred for his haircut being so similar to mine. The lines in his face creased in patterns I knew would befall me too soon. Hatred for the incessant chanting to his deceased wife, even moreso for the bouts of sanity where we could carry conversations, form escape routes that would never see action. He was desperately clinging to a doomed path for his dead wife.

He was what I was becoming.

(but did he abandon his child
the alpha and omega)

I leaned my head back, gaze dizzily meeting a ceiling fan caked with grime as I gnarled my fingers and pulled at my silver, unkempt hair. I hissed in musty air, drew it out shakily like it was a poison. Finally I asked the old man, “Do you have any scotch?”

“Yes... yes...” Harris mumbled. He creaked over to a mint colored refrigerator. He talked again of escape. I'd heard it too many times to care or hope. Even the desire to try and send a message was thrown out. I was too weak and he was too gone.

Harris handed me a glass and I grabbed the entire bottle with a quaking hand. Harris kept repeating, “We only need. We only need.”

I drank from the bottle, messing with the dials on my ruined wrist computer.

“Divine providence. A miracle.” I finished.

Charon

The green meanies poured in like liquid—all at once, unstoppable, spreading rapidly anywhere there was free space. Wilde unzipped her pack in a flurry, nudging me towards an exit sign glowing dim to the left.

“Run. Get to the exit.” She urged, “Don't come back for me, that's an order.”

There was a tense moment of panicked lockup where I wanted to refuse. Like screaming and being smothered simultaneously. But the contract won out. Same as always. My lungs burned all the way down a long, narrow passageway towards the doors marked with a red sign. Sandbags and a long metal table marked the halfway point. I hurdled over without thinking. Landed and turned around. No time to wonder how.

I could hear her herding the uglies. Breaking bottles and shattering glass. It wasn't right. This wasn't her risk to take. I was expendable, only trained to keep her alive. If she were to perish, what then? What were the rules? What was the point?

I recalled Philly behind the glass and flinched, turning my head as though it would help.

I noticed the janitor's closet then, marked by a broken broom and a bucket. The wooden door was rotted off its hinges. Opportunity piqued when I spied the dormant landmine. A human skeleton was curled nearby. A bone hand still rested on a grenade box and a gun. Poor bastard.

The gun was useless but the mines in the box were still worthy. Just a few shotgun hits and I could draw a number of them here, set off the explosives. Maybe give her time to escape. Good. I could stay out of harm's way, but not without at least doing some harm.

“I thought I told you to get out of here.” Wilde rounded the just as I returned.

“You told me to get to the exit.” I argued quickly. A secret clash of relief and tension at the sight of her alive.

I pulled the pin on a mine, tossing it into the distance, repeated as many times as I could. A few set off, making the rest of our attackers wary, buying time.

“Light.” Wilde hissed at my side, “I need a light.”

I lit a match as quickly as I could. She held one of the glowing nuka colas in her grip, a hasty strip of cloth trailed out of its neck. I lit it. Her eyes fixated on the flame eating at the darkness and cloth, then flickered determinedly to meet mine.

“DUCK AND COVER!” Wilde launched the cocktail with a sudden and tremendous might. It sailed clear towards the center where our opponents had fallen back. Where it fell, the ground became an otherworldly blaze of blue-violet. The fire caused a thick panic. Dominoed to the surrounding mines. Bursts of yellow and metal.

“We need to move. C'mon!” Wilde pulled at my arm, rushing us to the exit for good. Admist the burning in my lungs I felt a strange sense of regret that the planetarium was likely ruined. At the very least, we were a pair coming out alive against a platoon of horrors. Alright as it could be.

We caught coughing breaths as soon as the doors behind us were barricaded. The last exhibit was small and oddly quaint. For a room being full of rockets, anyway.

“The Lunar Lander.” Wilde pointed. The small, one-man craft's replica was still lit by moody lights despite its weathered appearance. A tiny placard with the words “Valiant 11” was still legible, the little American flag planted nearby still upright, but torn and dirty. It paled in comparison to the posters advertising it all over the damned capital, but that was no shocker.

The satellite dish dangled down the front like bait. Wilde gained height by climbing some of the artificial “moon rocks”. Untangling it with care.

Wilde used another terminal near a fire door, thankfully offering us a quick departure. I sneered. The sun was at its peak in a rare clear sky. The Washington Monument was an ugly and grim sight even in the light.

I groaned when I realized it was the last stop on this little expedition.

The Botherhood geeks in their silver power armor were posted on either side of a solid gate entrance. More intact than the structure it guarded. Color of rust and dried blood, identical to the blotchy scarring across my skin. The connecting fence wrapped around in a tight circle of slanted car doors, barbed wire and broken slabs of concrete. The brotherhood's emblem—a winged sword centered through a circle enclosing gears--was emblazoned proudly on a flag hanging nearby. I rolled my eyes and resolved to keep my mouth shut.

“Halt!” One of the knights cried as we approached them, “No civilians past this point.”

Our pace did not change. The two guards turned helmets to one another. One of them shrugged, “State your business, citizen.”

Wilde held up our prize from the museum triumphantly as though it were a severed head, “I'm here to fix your radio signal.”

“I know you. You can go on up," One of the knights responded, "But the corpse has to wait down here.”

(don't say nothin
keep your mouth shut
don't ...get ...attached)

“Excuse you?” Wilde cocked her head.

“You heard me. No undead permitted. No matter how tame.”

Tame? Fuck it. Something felt like it bit me. I raised a fist and marched for him.

“What did you just say about me, Smoothskin trash? I'll snap that helmet off and use it like a fuckin chowder bowl youslimeysonuva---”

“ENOUGH.” Wilde cut through the air between me and the geek. I turned lax in an instant. Though beneath that, my teeth were still gritted. My would-be opponent stumbled back in surprise, like a child being scolded by someone he didn't expect a chiding from. I was more surprised she wasn't scolding me for the outburst, but damn if I'd show it.

Wilde squared her shoulders, “My ghoulfriend goes where I go. If there's an issue with that, you'll have to make due with your shitty signal.”

The pair of guards regarded the pair of us in silence. Considering it.

The sarcasm in Wilde's voice was thick with exasperation, “Or perhaps someone else will come along to fix it for free?”

“Alright. You've made your point.” The other clunked. The helmets they wore distorted their voices. Like the static on the radio had forever infected their throats. Buzzing locusts echoing from within a rotted out tunnel.

Clumsy codewords were exchanged through a nearby speaker. The gate parted like a sea from an ancient story.

The voices beneath the helmets were unsmiling, “Clearance granted.”

The inside of the Washington Monument housed nothing but a golden elevator with red rope stanchions on either side. Two more guards upheld the symmetry of the small, dirty white room. They were silent, though brimming with suspicion.

“Some hospitality for you doing 'em a favor.” I remarked as the doors of the elevator rattled apart. They squealed and inched closed.

“I don't understand it.” Wilde shook her head, “They've been friendly before. They've helped me take down mutants.”

“Enemy of your enemy is your friend. Until that enemy is gone.”

“But the enemy isn't gone.”

“All I'm saying's don't trust them, alright? They've taken more pot shots at my kind than I can count. ….Which reminds me, don't call me 'ghoulfriend'.”

“Sorry. Why not?”

Always with the asking why. I rubbed at my neck as my voice trailed off into a grumble, “It means we're... nevermind.”

The rest of the ride up was shaky and seemed far too long. I hoped the damn thing wouldn't get stuck. A tacky patriotic song played over us. Wilde was half-humming half-bobbing along to the melody while I stared cross-armed at the dirt on my boots and a small hole in the floor.

A cheerful sounding bell dinged and the elevator let us off. Wilde tripped a little and had to pause to reassert herself.

“S'matter? Rads?” I asked. There were no guards posted up here for now. Fortunate.

“No, I—We're just so high up, you know?” In spite of the fear, to spite the fear, she donned an expression of stony resolve and moved towards the broken edge of wall that overlooked The Mall and crouched to examine a collection of blinking machines and whirring tech.

“I can fix this. Simple.” I heard her mutter confidently. I spent the time she took hooking up the whos-a-whats-it dish looking for anything that might aid us. The top floor of this structure held room for very little. All the windows and the roof (if there ever was one) were long gone. Aside from a mini-nuke (which I snatched quickly), the only thing noteworthy was a filthy bedroll and a few boxes of 10mm rounds. Beneath the boxes rested a thin wrinkled comic book.

“Grognak the Barbarian.” I read the title aloud. Issue 7. For one reason or another, I folded it in half and slipped it into my back pocket.

“Lucky there's a toolbox up here!” Wilde was carrying on a conversation even now, when I was pacing the opposite side. “Wasters leave behind everything, don't they?”

“Hm.” I answered noncommittally. I could see Three Dog's plaza—the old world's radio station headquarters, now his--in the distance, deep with the network of alleyways, transit stops and apartments. A thick gray cloud swirled and loomed in that section of the city like a burial shroud. A dust storm was brewing. We weren't likely to be able to breath, let alone travel through that mess.

I rounded the corner of the exposed elevator shaft to find Wilde just finishing up.

“There's a duster blowing towards Tenleytown. Ain't wise to head there yet.”

She frowned as though ready to argue. But our armor was in a poor state and our ammo was near nonexistent. Adrenaline was giving way to exhaustion. She knew as well as I.

The boss stood tall, dusting grit from her vault suit and cringing at the blood concentrated on her boots.

“Just swell!" Wilde griped, "It's one step forward and two steps back.”

“It's Washington.” I replied.

She laughed even though I was not joking. Flipped the dial on her Pipboy radio. “Anything Goes” was playing. Clear as the bell that was her voice. The sound of the renewed signal seemed to instantly refill any brightness that had been chipped away.

“Hear that? It's back! We did it!” She jumped, raising a gloved palm up as though to quiet me, but smiling infectiously.

I squinted. She was still doing it.

“Well, come on! Hi-five!”

With reluctance I lifted my own palm and softly met hers.

She blinked, then laughed spiritedly, “That was, by far, the worst hi-five I've ever gotten.”

“Gimmee a break.” I half chortled and lit a cigarette. We stood in place for some time, looking out and down into the deadened green water in the Memorial Pool and the monuments that lay beyond it, stretched out sadly underneath the bright sky.

“It's all so broken. But still beautiful. Like stained glass.”

"It's just garbage."

"Good garbage." Wilde insisted.

I raised an eyebrow, “You are a very strange smoothskin.”

“Thanks, you're not so bad yourself.” She smarted genially. Then she sighed, “Let's go home, shall we?”

The word rang like the ghost of an old song. Like the banshee cry at the Super Duper Mart. Home. I reached for the comic I'd found absentmindedly. A comfort and a warning.

Chapter Text

James

“Harris... Harris are you seeing this?”

The old man tripped over to the window I was parked beneath. He swept a decaying lace curtain with the back of his feeble hand, eyes widening as he did so.

“More guests.” He twitched under his breath.

So I wasn't completely delusional. Not yet. By my count there were five men, all decked in black armor. At the forefront was a figure glinting in grays and silver--like a knight. Too add to the strange pageantry of it all, they were perched atop a creature I'd never seen out here before.

“A horse... is that really a horse?”

“Of course, of course.” Harris nodded. Very slowly, I could feel the life in me returning. This was a chance. This was hope. This was a miracle.

Charon

“Order up, honey.” Nova set the bowl of dismal mush down in front of me. Wilde had shooed me out so she could take a bath, but not before insisting I eat some “real food”. That was an order, she said.

“You don't got anything else, do you?”

Gob paused from whistling along to the newly tuned radio, “Sorry, pal. Mirelurk soup's it for today.”

The uncomfortably beige slop seemed to gurgle on its own. Looked like it had a damn sock in it. Smelled like it had a damn sock in it.

How was this “real” food? Sweets would do me just fine. They were real. They existed.

“Gob?”

“Huh.”

“You got any candy in this dump? Cake?”

Dogmeat perked up her ears at the sound of Gob banging around his kitchen. I set the bowl of unidentified goop on the floor for her. Waste not, want not and all that. At least she seemed happy with it. Dogmeat had been waiting outside the gates to greet us; her leg like new. Along with Remington, who'd been lazily giggling, shooting at ant antennas and watching them “duel”. He'd asked about Mei Wong again. His goofy face crestfallen when we told him the truth. We hadn't seen her.

We made good time coming back. Knowing exactly where the feral ghouls were congregating this go around allowed me to find a different route. Safer.

Gob was still slamming around cabinets behind his bar, “What about.... liquorice?”

“No.”

“Mints?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Uhhh.... Swedish fish?”

“What do I look like, some kinda monster?”

“I ain't gonna answer that... I got... ah!”

He disappeared to a back room. The saloon was quiet today. Empty save Nova and an ex-raider I recognized, named Jericho. He looked like he wanted to say something to me. I shot him the meanest look I could muster, and he looked away. Good.

Gob returned with a mound of sour gummies in a relatively clean bowl. He even brought a fork.

“You could've just thrown me the bag.” I told him.

“Hey, fuck you! I'm runnin' a proper establishment, here! Eat it or weep.”

We both laughed. Jericho was back to staring at me from behind a glass.

Mei Wong

“I expect you gentlemen to be on your best behavior. You're guests here, after all.”

Pimplehead spat. So much for manners. “Where's the Lone Wanderer?”

“Hold your horse, big guy. We greet the neighbors first.”

The town was just as I left it fifteen years ago. Sleepy and unassuming, inhabited by two families. The town that taught me how to distrust, how to want revenge. The final mold to crush all the light and replace it with something bigger, brighter.

Linda did not seem to remember me, and neither did the others. She shook the men's hands with the same sugary kindness as long before, a smile sheathing something else.

I was hoping she'd remember my face.

Oh well. It'd still be fun.

James

Harris wanted to go out, to “rescue” them. I managed to hold him at bay somehow. We watched like children—aware that something we didn't fully understand was happening, but incapable of looking away.

The woman decked in chrome and light clothing was planning something, that much was clear. I saw it in the way she whispered into one of the village children's ear. Pleasantries were passed around with showiness, while the armored crew seemed lost. A loose-limbed man slipped away, crawling under the foundation of the house when out of view. The largest of the men was led away from the house into a small shed across the street while the rest, along with everyone in the neighborhood save the children, disappeared into the home. The big fellow did not return. The scrawny one did, however, before he could be missed.

“What's happening? They went inside?” Harris dragged himself away from the window and into another room, cursing under his breath about finding his glasses. I stayed, eyes screwed to that grimy glass like every heartbeat depended on it, like I could siphon strength from the figure who rode in on the horse.

The neighborhood's kids were playing catch, inching closer and closer to Harris' domain at the end of the street. I cracked the window slightly, unsure of why I needed to stay stealthy but obliging to do so regardless.

The noise of the glass shrieking open got their attention. The girl brought her chin up to rest on the sill with the boy following her gesture. They simply stared at me with an unnerving kind of numbness resting in the pools of their eyes.

I cleared my throat, “I-I uh... Could you tell me who those men out there are, please?”

“They're guests.” The girl answered flatly.

“Yes... but, they're a little different, aren't they?”

The boy, “You mean they're ready for dinner? Not like you, being rude with Harris.”

The girl flicked her playmate's skull with a frown bunching up her face.

This wasn't proving helpful. Still, I persisted, “The.... guest... on the horse, what did she tell you?” I asked.

“The princess? She said to get faaaar away from the house. On account of the See Four.”

“We don't have to get married anymore!” The girl looked to the boy and nodded with pride.

Mei Wong

“Where's Tony?” I heard a no-name Talon ask. Pimplehead was Tony. Who cared.

Grasshopper slipped through the door soundlessly. “Taking a dump.”

The rest of the Talons accepted this answer. I nodded to myself. Of course. I couldn't let the Fear take complete hold now. I was helping Lydia wash scuffed dishes, while her husband ranted about 'commies' in the corner and some mess about 'precious bodily fluids'. There was one other couple with us, the whole adult population circled around a plastic table covered in a sun-faded, yellow polka dot cloth. The radio coughed a dusty rendition of an old patriot song with fifes and happy snares. Everyone took pause when the signal seemed to magically reestablish itself. Not a whisper of static.

“My!” Lydia brought an arthritis twisted fist to her breast and smiled wistfully to her ugly curtains, “It's never sounded so nice! We'll get to hear the President so much better now, dear!”

Her husband ignored her completely, having returned to his previous ravings. Lydia was utterly unphased, acting in her own one-man show like she no doubt did a thousand times before. She lifted a lid from the bubbling ceramic pot on the stove. “Try the roast, Sally! Please!”

She held a spoon to my lips with a motherly hand. Just five years my senior and her hands were so veined, so cracked and twisted. Poor creature. For her sake only, I would make it quick.

“It's divine.” I told her. She bit her lip as little tears welled up in her eyes. I added, “I think it could use a kick, don't you? I have some spices. From the Super Duper Mart.”

She exclaimed jovially, following me out across her rotting porch with melodrama etched permanently into her face. I noticed one Talon tapping his knee under the table impatiently, frowning.

“...I think there's something sour with these people, Jeb. And I don't see The Lone Wanderer anywhere.” He whispered to his friend. His companion waved him away distractedly, eyeing the hissing stove with gluttonous greed. Grasshopper took the hint, slinking out and twisting behind the house in a sprint.

Ghost was tied carefully to a broken fence post near the tiny shed. She backed up nervously at the sight of Lydia. I calmed her with a word in her uneven ears and a pat on the neck.

I had to tell her. She needed to remember me. “Do you recall about 15 years ago, Lydia, the wretched thing from Two Sun you took in for a few days?”

“Two Sun. Two Sun.” She breathed loftily. I continued (not so much for her anymore as it was for me) as I searched through one off the large cloth saddlebags Ghost easily carried:

“Do you remember trading her back to slavers for two injured men?”

“Too skinny for any decent meal, too young. Even a stew would be bones and nothing else!”

I found the particular detonator I needed and clutched it stealthily in my hand. One of these days I'll have to get organ-ni-zized. The Cowboy's niave drooly voice rang within my mind. I calmly unhitched my horse and climbed into her simply made saddle. Lydia was wincing in my direction as she knotted her hands deeper into her pastel apron. “You do remember!” I said, “Fun!”

Lydia was backing into her porch slowly as I bore into her eyes before donning my sunglasses, “You don't have to pretend anymore.” She nodded in return, clinging to a rotting beam for support.

“KNOCK KNOCK.” I called.

Grasshopper's nasally tone bounced from a distance like a happy prewar jingle, “Who's there?!”

I smiled softly. The punchline was for me and only me, “Orange.”

James

The boom was mercilessly loud against the still afternoon light. Red-yellow rose from the pitch black gaps under the home's foundation. Decrepit siding buckled and burst outward, took the roof, collapsed it, leaving flame to gnaw the rest. The air around the place distorted with smoke and heat, as though reality itself was bending to the intruder's will. The figure in chrome only reined her steed back from the blast slightly, staring into it with teeth, chin upturned in quiet pride.

Harris perplexedly opened the door of his own domain. And for the first time since waking up, I felt a seizable moment.

“W-Where are you going? Come back!”

I was jelly-kneed and tunnel-visioned. I cut across Harris' barren lawn without stopping to even grab a weapon. I could only clutch my shattered Pipboy to my chest like it was my last thread of life. Just as I had cradled my newborn child on the road to Megaton, twenty-odd years ago.

The woman got off her horse and paused to chew two red pills from within a rectangular yellow tin. Then, she darted into the tiny shack.

My hobbling steps stopped when I reached her rare creature. I couldn't help but circle it out of burgeoning curiosity.

“Amazing. Simply amazing.” My hand stretched to graze its ghoulish coat lightly, but not before the tiny shack door behind me burst open. The hand that grabbed my ankle was digging and desperate, yanking me down and dragging until I tumbled back down a long, dark set of wooden stairs too narrow for the both of us.... three of us. I cringed painfully and scraped myself into a sitting position at the bottom to find the mysterious woman had tumbled down with me. The meaty ankle-biter was now at the top of the stairs, in the doorway, running clumsy into sunlight.

She hissed in a language I did not quite comprehend. Ta-maude! Whatever the meaning, it sounded like something I would scold my own daughter for.

The stranger leapt up quickly, knocking a chair with fresh cut ropes over and climbing the steps in twos after her presumed target. At first the thought to follow was dormant—my screaming muscles only wanted the cold floor and my reeling mind focused solely on the fire glow of light fixtures above. My ribs felt cracked and my ankle twisted.

I would've stayed, at least until the screaming outside the shack stopped. But I made the mistake of turning my head. My eyes found two long tables, covered with blood and smeared in viscera. Strange metal cages lined the walls, interjected by a few refrigerators. Rusted metal hooks hung from the dark ceiling. Some of them swung slowly without reason.

It was the sight of a huge side of meat dangling from one of those hooks that prompted me to move. A lightbulb above flickered. The shape hanging from the hook was distinctly human. A sick kind of realization hit the back of my throat like bile. I forced myself up from the floor and made my way up the stairs with catches in my breath that hurt from every side.

I went unnoticed in the background when my feet found the outdoors again, dizzy with stars in my eyes. I could only fall to my knees and watch the two quicker fighters struggle. The male was obviously losing. He seemed to be hanging on solely by mass. Blood trailed down the side of his face in a river, the flesh of his cheek appeared to have been ripped away by teeth.

He was swinging blindly with an old street sign. The woman in chrome was sweeping past his blows with ease. Just as solid, but lighter. Faster. She laughed coldly when he finally went down panting. Blood in her mouth. She took his weapon from him and tossed it just out of reach. As soon as he began a desperate scramble towards it, she revealed a wrought hatchet at her hip and swung down upon an unfortunate ankle. The dreadful crack of bone did not bother me, neither did the sight of blood, what was troublesome was the fact that she seemed to find it funny.

“You answer my questions and I make this fast, Pimplehead.” Her voice was loud and easygoing over her opponent's howls. He twisted on his back and made the mistake of croaking out “why”.

“I'm ASKING.” Suddenly her tone was shakier and more like a snarl. She brought the hatchet down again. It was a heavy thing, but she made it seem like a butterknife. The man she called 'Pimple head' screamed down at a stump where his foot once connected.

“Who put out the bounty on the Blondie?”

“I... what?” He pushed the words out through twisted, pained breaths.

“The Vault Gal! Lone Wanderer! Who wants her head?” The woman rose her hatchet in punctuation. Pimplehead screamed in objection, raising a hand for her to stop. She paused mid-air. Expectantly.

“...It was.. It was Burke. Mr. Burke. He works for Tenpenny.”

“And? Where'd you last see him?”

“Weeks ago. Rivet City. That's all I know. Pl... please..”

The woman rolled her eyes, “Boring.” She brought the hatchet down into the center of his his skull with gruesome finality. The urge to move hit me again and smarted like a whip. I got up, too dizzy, fell once more.

She noticed. “You there. You look like something the cat puked up.”

I shielded my face instinctively. I didn't dare run now. She stepped closer, glowered at me from the other side of her horse.

“Hey, I know you! You're that Dad!” She exclaimed this brightly as she procured a large number of sharp tools from one of her saddlebags. “I can see the resemblance. Apple doesn't fall too far, does it?”

I looked away as she went to work on the man she'd quite literally axed. “You... you know my daughter? Is she safe?”

“Safe's pretty subjective out here, huh? She's alive, if that's what you mean.”

“She can't know where I am. Please...”

“Relax. Your little family drama is none of my business. Hm... You're in a bad way, aren't you, Dad. You aimed to please where you should've aimed to kill?”

“Yes.” I admitted, feeling as though I were in a dream, “My Pipboy is broken.”

She paused from slicing at Pimplehead and leered down at me for awhile. Went back to searching through another bag. And for a second I thought it was all over, she was going to kill me, to pull me from my misery. Instead, she threw something at my feet.

A flare.

“You fire that when the sun starts to set. I have a friend that can fix that Pip-thing for you. He's a fool and a flirt, but he's.... an honorable sort. You understand?”

“I'm afraid I don't have--”

She threw something else. A tiny threaded coinpurse. I opened it with trembling fingers.

“There's only nine caps here.” I said.

“You can count, too!” She laughed at the joke I wasn't in on, “Cool.”

I stammered nothing words while she finished... whatever she was doing to the unfortunate soul in the middle of the town. Every look she gave me was full of judgement, and I wasn't sure I was worthy. She sighed and rolled me a can of beans.

“Don't just stare at it, eat it.”

I cracked open the pop-top tin quickly. Her accomplice—the skinny youngster in black armor—joined us with a tiny square icebox. I watched the woman pack various organs of Pimplehead's inside with gloved hands. Years of research and doctoring had taught me to withstand being squeamish. But as I stared into my beans, and suddenly didn't feel quite as hungry.

“OLD MAN.” The woman shouted. I looked up, as did Harris from his frozen stance across the way. “You take care of those little ones. Vice-a Versa.”

She mounted her horse a final time after packing away the cooler. She nodded at the scrawny figure in black and told him how to get to someplace called 'The Temple'.

It took all the courage I had left, but I finally asked, “Who are you?”

“I'm just leaving.” She smiled at me with the sunlight bouncing off her armor at all angles, “And you don't know where I'm headed. Understand?”

I bowed my head. She clicked her tongue, bringing her twisted mare to trot through smoke.

“Don't get dead, Dad!” She laughed. I couldn't tell if she was sincere in her good wishes or not. I could only remain kneeling tiredly, waiting for the sun to set.

Charon

“I remember you. What are you doing out here?”

Jericho pulled up a seat directly across from me. His voice growled, grinning low with the scent of whiskey. Dogmeat emitted a low growl from the floor.

“Listen, I'm outta the game but I got a buddy in Evergreen, lookin' for a runner.”

I said nothing. Chewed another worm. Part of me wished he would just go away. Just like all things dealing with the past.

“It's good caps. Hey, are you listening to me? How about it?”

He laid a hand on the table. I picked up the fork and jammed it right between the thin space of wood between his middle and pointer fingers. He scooted his chair back in surprise, eyes frozen on the utensil frozen upright between us.

“How about this: you never speak to me again, or I'll kick your teeth so far down, you'll be able to chew your own shit for two weeks.”

Jericho got the message. Stood. Rubbed nervously at his chin with the hand I'd almost maimed. Left. I finished my meal and did the same. Except I paused to give Gob his kitchenware back.

“Remind me never to give you silverware again.” Gob muttered.

“Still got hands.”

He cackled. Bobbed his head towards the entrance. “There's a basket of laundry for Wilde by the door, courtesy of Nova. Some clean clothes for you in there, too. Guessed on your size, but wasters can't be choosers, yeah? Grab 'em on your way out.”

“Er, thanks.”

I paid him with money Wilde had insisted on sharing since The Monument and thanked Nova. All of this accompanied a hyperaware clumsiness that came with suddenly having to deal with people. The sun was sinking low when I stepped outside. The air was crisp and cool. I popped a Rad-X and briefly heard two guards posted on Megaton's wall laughing about how “The Cowboy left in a hurry”.

I felt better heading back to Wilde's pieced-together shelter with its lopsided metal door. Back to purpose.

She was messing around with a chemistry set, it looked like. She stopped without taking off her comically large goggles to take the basket of clothing from my hands and coo over Dogmeat.

“Did you eat?” She asked finally.

“...Yes.” It was the truth, wasn't it?

I ignored her robot's friendly greeting and navigated over piles of crap to the workbench by her bobblehead stand. I set to work cleaning and reloading all our weapons.

“I cleared out the spare bedroom for you upstairs. It was Wadsworth's, but I think he can deal.”

The robot clicked in the corner. Christ. Another reason for it to want to kill me.

“No need for that.” I told her plainly.

“Why?”

“I don't sleep.”

“That's impossible. How?”

“I just don't.”

“You could try counting Brahmin, that's what my father always suggested.” She joked, but there was concern in her words.

“Vault Dweller wouldn't know a Brahmin from a foot.”

“I wasn't born under that rock, you know. ”

“Then where're you from?”

“I... haven't got a clue.” Sad words. I felt odd for probing at the subject, so I uncharacteristically searched for a new one. I found it in my back pocket.

“I.... uh... found this at The Monument.”

Wilde made a strange, excited noise as I handed her the comic book. She flipped through the pages, all the bold, dusty ink reflecting in her eyes.

“Grognak seven? I don't have this one! Do you think it still has the crosswords in the back? Amata and I used to do those together.” Hinted melancholy again. I really had to stop opening my damn jaw so much.

We worked in silence for the rest of the night. Her with the stimpaks and I with the weapons. The need for sleep took hold eventually. She yawned, dropping her tools haphazardly around her work table. She laid the newfound comic over on the dresser housing the little framed stitching of the Bible quote, and took one final pause to set a novelty bobblehead on the radio near it.

“The spare room's still yours if you need it. I'm a heavy sleeper, so feel free to... do whatever. Just make sure Dogmeat doesn't chew the legs off the furniture again, if you'd be so kind?”

“As you wish.” I answered. I was caught in a weird sort of dread at the prospect of being alone with my thoughts. When I had somewhere to go, I could focus on the road. And the Ninth Circle had rarely been empty.

I could feel Wilde's eyes, worried and sad, on the back of my head as she tread lightly upstairs. “Goodnight.”

“Hrmph.” Her bedroom door shut softly. Dogmeat was asleep; twitching and dreaming near my feet. Probably thinking about chasing raiders, I snorted to myself.

Wilde

My bedroom was the smallest room in the house. There was only enough room for an old office desk, a lonely bed and a filing cabinet. Strung up lights warmed the always present draft in the room—coming from a lopsided window centered over my wire framed cot. Vault 101 had been far more spacious and sterile. But this place lived. It creaked and breathed and welcomed. It made me feel less alone.

I was inspecting Charon's contract again. I'd taken my Pipboy off and set it on the desk, propped atop a thick book titled “Lying: Congressional Style”. I clicked the light on 'low'; just as I'd done in Underworld. Barrows said I needed to prod him with questions. But that was starting to feel wrong.

The light didn't reveal anything new. The same logo revealed itself under words too faded to read. And I had tried to read them; not even a magnifying glass was useful. There was a raised seal at the bottom of the page near my newly added signature. But it'd been torn away. The pattern of the wound showed that it'd been done away with on purpose.

Only more questions. I sighed and shut my Pipboy down. I wanted to understand. To be there. And not just because I liked answers, or because he was someone who needed help. But because he was becoming a friend. Somewhere to belong.

Charon

For a while I could only think to work in the quiet. Loading, repairing, cleaning. The guns and the armor. Not the house. I wouldn't dare try to sort that mess. I bathed, desperately avoiding my reflection in the bathroom mirror.

But even all that didn't eat up enough time. I clicked on the radio for some quiet noise and sat in an uneven, prewar chair centered in the room. Grounded myself in the here, the now. Among the weapons and holotapes, she had gathered everything useless and arbitrary Stuffed them into little corners and cramped shelves. A collection of this and thats--obviously never used; but most certainly studied like they were precious jewels: Piles of pre-war pajamas with clashing, horrid patterns. A shaving kit. Packs of gum. Dinnerware, cake molds, a pressure cooker. A leather jacket emblazoned with “Tunnel Snakes” on the back. Garland (?) and gardening equipment. Cow skulls. Coffee-stained lingere catalogues. Those made me blush. Pencils and hotel soaps.

Junk, upon junk, upon junk.

”I've lost all ambition, for worldly acclaim...” The radio sirened and glowed warmly, drawing my eye. I found myself staring at the dancing little hula figurine in its gentle wave. The music grew louder and clouded the room.

I remembered.

Charlie

...I just want to be the one you love...

The radio and the hula dancer taped to the dashboard was an offensive contrast to the world outside. The bus shook and rattled with the noise of protests below. The driver—a man who looked as lifeless and squishy as bread dough—hummed as though this route was a quaint little routine.

Everyone had lost their goddamned minds. I rested my head against the window, glaring at a single tear in the vinyl seats ahead and nothing else. Said no words. Frank couldn't seem to shut up in the seat beside me, pointing:

“That new Power Armor looks good on our guys, don't it?”

I turned my gaze on the scene outside. An ebbing swarm of civilians were protesting, rioting in the streets below. Power armored soldiers formed a wall along the road, giving the bus a clear path to wherever the hell we were going. There were screams of rage, screams of fear as the soldiers spewed gas into the throngs of people. Not a single townsperson without a white doctor's mask or some manner of thin cloth to cover their faces. The masses poured and jerked like an open wound. There was a plume of thick, white smoke rising from the nearest building. A pet store. A bizzare amount of iguanas were darting out from the smashed in windows.

The jeers and the painted signs all declared the things everyone on the bus already knew: the price of gas was too high, disease was spreading, monstrosities by the people up top were being swept under the rug without the slightest hint of remorse.

TOO LATE. The simplest banner I could read. And the most true.

“Old Oney.” Phillip had told us the name of the small town. He had family from out here, in Germantown. What a welcome back. It was tame, compared to others. The concrete wasn't running red yet.

Philly was in the seat ahead of us, hunched in a permanent way with his hands cupped around his ears like he wanted to tear them out.

“Close the window.” He said, “We'll catch what they got.”

Frank pretended not to hear him, laughing instead at the innocents being drenched below. My brother could be a disgusting person. I was learning it more and more.

“Close the damn window!” Philly yelled again, near to tears. I blinked out of my own little bubble and stood, sliding the metal at the top of the glass and dragging it up. Secured it closed. A glass bottle hit the reinforced glass and shattered into splinters of brown. I could barely react. Not when the world around us was blowing up with a hundred times more noise.

A big hat three seats down barked at me to sit down. For once, I did what I was told.

“What, you think the fuckin window's gonna protect you?” Frank mocked our wilted friend, “Get outta here. Catching the plague's the least of our worries.”

He was right. A shithead, but right. Where we were going, there were things worse than the end of the world.

“It's your damned fault.” Frank was talking at me now, clamping his hand down on my shoulder and shaking me in sarcastic brotherly love, “Couldn't follow fucking orders like the rest of us.”

Frank was my twin. Fraternal. I “lucked out with all the good”, he always said. Whether that was looks or character, I wasn't sure. Ha ha. A funny joke.

Nothing felt like a joke anymore. Everything was...

”Burning. Ugly...” Philly was rocking slower, but tearing at his ears more. I kneed his seat gently and he stopped. Still blithering, but at least he wasn't digging into himself so much.

“Ain't gonna say nothing?” Frank smiled at me in a threatening way I knew too well. White teeth and bleeding gums. Blue eyes and sloppy black hair.

No.

“Never changes.”

The bus sputtered as we neared the vault. We were far beyond any civilization, now, however chaotic. End of the line. Time to say goOOOOD MORNING CAPITAL WASTELAND--

Charon

I started awake in the chair at the sound of Three Dog's loud, merciless cheering for the sun's rays. Without him, I doubted anyone would rise and shine again.

The pain in my shoulder was back, and it was digging in with fangs. The legs of the ugly chair hobbled like it was going to throw me out of balance, but I clawed into the tattered arms and steadied myself.

Wilde was leaning bleary-eyed and messy against the railing above. She was dressed in shabby blue pajamas that were too big. It was odd, seeing her out of the armor. I always wore mine.

“You okay? I thought you didn't sleep.” Her voice sounded groggy and cracked, a little like a ghoul's.

“Tried counting Brahmin.” I replied as I stretched back in the chair for a moment. The damn thing threatened to overturn once more; I fumbled and cursed with it before regaining balance again. That made the boss laugh, and I felt mildly better.

I would recover, I always did. I was just thankful she didn't ask me anything more about the way I was holding my bad shoulder. About the how or the why. Or the was.

Penny

Sammy lowered his binoculars and itched at his scout's uniform. “Still nothing.” The kids that started lamplight used to wear those little uniforms, I was told. Why anyone would wanna keep wearing that, I didn't know.

“Rory will be here.” I said.

Squirrel clicked his teeth, “Why do we have to walk all the way out here? He should just meet us at the Cave.”

“Idiot.” Sammy snapped, “Do you want him telling other Mungos where we live?”

Rory wouldn't do that. But this was the way it'd always been—journey out into the empty valley once a month to swap supplies with the adults. Exactly at sunset. Sammy had his eagle eyes and I had the gun. Squirrel was no use here, he only knew computers. But he was a new arrival and needed to know the routine.

I was the eldest of the small group at age twelve. I'd lived at Lamplight for about six years. I vaguely remembered living in a blown out town years before. Until the night my father left. A young woman named Sydney had found me and my brother Joseph, barely surviving. She took us to Lamplight and that was that.

The caverns were nice, but Joseph would have to leave soon. No one over fifteen was allowed to stay. It hurt to remember my mirror image—black and tall and resourceful—would be separated from me, after all we had to go through to be there in the first place. The other kids wouldn't understand. Most of them had arrived alone.

“Someone's coming.” Sammy grinned and struggled to perch upon a rock. I boosted him to reach the top.

His excitement turned sour in an instant. “Oh no.” He said.

“What? What is it? What do you see?” Squirrel wiped at some snot beneath his nose.

Sammy jumped down and crouched with us, “Not Rory. Four Mungos, spiky armor. Three rifles, one ripper.”

Without a doubt, raiders. Or worse.

“Did they see us?” I put a hand on my scoped magnum. If they did, we were doomed. There was no running back to Lamplight, for they would follow. And that would doom everyone else.

“I.... I don't know. But they have dogs, too.”

Shit.

“Everybody, lay low.” I hissed. If we could make it till nightfall without being found, we had a fighting chance. If not, we'd be forced to fight.

James

Harris had invited me back inside, but I'd declined. I could only watch and stare as the daylight shimmered orange again and then shifted to cool blues. I'd fired the flare, but here I was, a broken man still stranded in the aftermath of somebody else's rage.

The sound of a motor stirred my aching head. I rubbed at my eyelids upon seeing it: A motorcycle. I real, working motorcycle. It eeeeked to a slow halt in the sand right in front of the ruined house I'd been viewing all day. The figure it carried was chubby and hardy just the same. Bearded and baby-faced. Confused and shrewd. Like most people in the world, two sides of their own battered coin.

The Biker unsecured his a strange helmet and finally noticed me. He paused to take a stick of gum from his breastpocket and chewed it thoughtfully, glancing back once at the blown up house with raised eyebrows.

His voice was very peculiar. Hard 'r's that plonked through a swampy drawl: “Are you the one that set off that flare, sir?”

“...Yes?” I did not feel at risk with this man. In fact, there was more puzzlement than anything else. He was surprisingly warm, for being so obviously roughspun by these elements. He got off his bike and approached me.

“Alright. What's she want?”

“I'm sorry, what?” What did who want?

He groaned, clearly at his wit's end, “Mei Wong! The smoke was one thing, but those red colored flares are hers. I'd know 'em.”

In truth, my rescuer(?) never did give me her name, but I could jump to a conclusion with the best of them.

“Ah!” I snapped my fingers, revealing the tiny pouch I'd received from this Mei Wong hours ago. His deep brown eyes were sparking up. Obviously the meager amount of caps were important to him, in some respect. I spoke quickly as he took it from my fingers: “I need my Pipboy fixed. And I was told you could do that.”

The man chewed thoughtfully. He was so oddly dressed—with a sniper rifle and a guitar case secured to his back. By my inference, he'd caught too many old westerns on leftover holotapes. And read far too many comic books. “I'm something of a tinkerer, that's true. What about you, silver fox? Why'd Sally leave you to your lonesome?”

“Er... my name is James.” I stood up with his help, “I'm just a doctor. Looking for... something.” And running from something, all the same.

“Oh! Pleased to meet you. I'm Remington. Remy to my pals.” He shook my hand without warning. The tired bones in my arms shouted in protest, but I tried to hide my wince behind a smile. Remington motioned over to his vehicle and cleared out a space in the sidecart.

“I'll get you a helmet back near Springvale. You're gonna need these goggles, though.” He ripped the riding glasses from a cracked garden gnome statuette previously occupying the seat. “And if you wouldn't mind holding onto Marlon Brando, I'd 'preciate it.”

Marlon... who? Ok, I took it that was the little gnome's name. I squinted at the heavy decoration as I secured myself painfully in the cramped pod. It squinted back at me with a cracked smile and chipped nose.

“Well, jeez,” Remington chirped as he donned his helmet again. It looked like... something not of this world. He handed me his other hat, “Hold onto that, too, will you? These folks have a lot of cleaning up to do. And... have we met? I swear I've seen your face somewhere before.”

“You know my daughter?” I asked him. “The... girl from Vault 101.”

My little girl. With immediate threats dashed and hope brimming from the man in the ridiculous cowboy gear, sadness crept in.

“She cannot know where I am.” I insisted. I would not put my child in more danger.

“Alright, James, if that's what you want.” Remington putted and revved up his remarkable machine with a giggly sort of grin, and we were off.

Charon

It took another full day before the dust storm finally passed over GNR. Wilde and I were arguing over whether or not salisbury steaks were actually technically edible when Three Dog announced it over the airwaves as though clean water had just magically begun flowing through all the rivers and basins. He even addressed Wilde directly. “Come by the studio, kid. You and I need to have a chat.”

She leapt (literally) at the chance. The aforementioned frozen meal was thrown to the ground as she rushed out of the minuscule kitchen. She was a lit up like fury--grabbing stims, gathering the guns, raising her emptied pack into the prewar chair.

“We have to gear up! We have to go!” Wilde was not commanding, but cheering. Dogmeat barked by the door and wagged her tail. “Pack cola! Pack food! And something other than snack cakes, please.” She disappeared into the bathroom. Out of sight. I could smile.

We would finally meet Three Dog. She had a chance at locating her old man now. And for the first time since I could remember, I wholeheartedly wanted to follow.

(fool. don't)

Too late.

Chapter Text

Wilde

We were somewhere along the edge of the inner city when the loudspeakers started going off.

“In fourteen hundred and ninety-two your mother and my mother were hanging clothes around the mulberry bush...”

The alleyway wasn't nearly as obstacled as the tunnels, but it was still narrow. Charon and I pressed side-by-side at the same pace with Dogmeat zigging up ahead. Her ears and nose were pointed and primed, ready to alert us of any impending enemies.

“Dog!” Charon called, “Don't go sniffing at any of the mines!”

Dogmeat wagged her tail and carried on through rusted out playground equipment.

“She understand that? I hope she understood that.” Charon whispered under his breath.

“More than you or I could ever comprehend, I think.”

We stepped around the deactivated landmines and grenades with care. It was somehow safer than traipsing headlong into a gang of mutants. Charon said there was “some loon” here who was watching from high above in the old apartments.

Apparently, this man was the very same one who'd set up the loudspeakers. His voice gushed forth from every angle with shifting emotions, on the verge of tears both ecstatic and grieving:

“Back! Back, you lousy wyrms! We trapped the light in a glass and then we let it fall to the ground!”

“Ah, shaddup!” Charon shook his fist at a window in the brick building towering above to our left. “Don't listen to him, he does this everytime.”

“Has he ever set these charges off?”

“--WYRMS--” Speakers arranged around the walls whined and hissed like water hitting a hot pan.

“Go piss up a rope! No, he just gets up at the crack of dawn and screams at the sun. Talking the same old mess--”

“I see you, scorpio! Dueling with madness! Arise, align, to carry aquarius' burden! Gemini is a hungry ghost, year of the snake! Taurus fixed to follow!”

Charon made a full stop. His boots crunched in the debris.

“...That's..” My companion got that trance-like look on his face again, then tugged gently on my elbow to quicken our steps, “C'mon. We gotta get out of here. Now.”

“Hermes' net is set”

“Zeus' die is cast”

“THE WYRM IS HUNGRY”

The feverish figure was fully visible now, perched out on a balcony Charon was eyeballing nervously. The farther the man upstairs went in his speech, the more urgently we moved. Dogmeat was already out, barking from the clearing of a wide main street.

I froze where the alleyway ended and looked back. The man stopped barking into an old square megaphone to lock eyes with me. He waved like a toy soldier from atop an anthill. I swore there was a malaise grin plastered into his face as he dropped something to the ground below. A grenade?

“And I shall abide!”

I could feel Charon pulling me into an old 'Life Preservation Station' on the immediate corner. My partner slammed the locking door of the vessel into place while he held me to his chest. We toppled and spun with the boom, but I held fast to his shielding embrace. When the door of the old shelter broke, we separated and rolled out onto dust and broken concrete.

“Wilde! You alright?” I heard my companion call. I could hear Dogmeat, too, still barking alarms in the distance.

I coughed and sputtered. The sound of Charon's steady footfalls were fast approaching. My head felt dizzy, like it was leaking sand. My arms were springing with dull pain from trying to catch my fall.

“Everything's fine!” I yelled back. It was a half-truth, but sometimes those were needed to keep going.

He stood over me while I struggled to lift myself up. Jagged and tall and dark against the mean sun. The shadow of death, and the shield against it.

He offered his hand slowly, “Come on. There's still a ways to go.”

I took it, but not before struggling to get up myself.

“There's no shame in taking my help, Boss.”

“It's Wilde.” I coughed again in the rubble and smoke, “And thank you.”

There was no going back through the alleyway now. Not when it was riddled to dust.

“That man." I had to ask, "How did you know he was going to--”

“Unlucky guess. Let's go.” We matched each other's pace again—slowed as we passed a small prewar cafe. Its brick red porch littered with tattered husks of blue umbrellas. I mentioned never feeling rain before.

“Hmph.” Charon grunted. He was visibly shaken underneath his usual solidity, staring up at every speaker that was left crookedly rigged on the boulevard with winding unease. His hands were gripping tighter to his gun, thumb running across the carved end. “Unlucky guess” Load of bull. He was assuredly battered by another memory.

I wanted to stop him. There was no shame asking for my help, either. I was here. I was patient, I could listen.

But the wasteland would take that moment away like the deadly spinning wheel it was.

It started with Dogmeat's barks, getting more and more frenzied as we drew closer to the concrete cutout of an office building. The sound sent Charon and me into a full sprint through the smoke. Dogmeat had rushed for a mutant. Charon was the first to get close enough to engage, cackling as he did so. I may have been behind, but I waited just until Dogmeat distracted the beast enough to turn its back. I blasted the mutant to neon against gray walls before it could even see me.

Charon frowned, reloading, “I had 'em. You stole my kill.”

I snorted a laugh, “What, like there's points?”

“Never know.” I smiled. It was good to hear him talking again.

“Alright, Cher. Next time, you get the killshot.”

A triumphant howl interjected. Human. I recognized the voice, one of Reilly's Rangers.

“Aaay! Where there's a will, there's a Wilde!”

“Hello, Brick!” I called. The clover and sword emblem on her chest was a welcome sight in the too-bright morning.

I took pause to tell Charon to lower his weapon before waving up at the green armored female wielding a unique minigun. She jumped down from the atomic car she'd been balanced atop, other companions ducking out from behind the cover: Butcher, their no-nonsense medic; Donovan, their tiny but formidable tech guy; and Reilly, the fire haired leader that I'd woken up at Underworld in what felt like a lifetime ago.

“Good to see you. Eugene was getting mighty lonely.” Brick patted her gun ceremoniously.

Reilly scolded Brick and 'Eugene' neglecting cover. She then nodded to me in greeting, “Now that the dust storm's passed, we're geomapping the last little of this corner of the city, thanks to you.”

Brick now, “What's with the ghoul?”

“This is Charon. My guide.” I uttered to him beneath my breath, “Be kind. Please.”

Charon made a struggling, distrustful sound that was something between a groan and a greeting.

“A fellow fightin' irish. Alright.” Reilly smiled. The soot on her nose scrunched, “We're headed back to base, but we'd be happy to lend you some firepower. Where are you headed?”

“GNR.” Charon squinted.

Brick shouted a “Hell yeah! Heavy mutant ass down there!” She was as blood-starved as the creatures she fought, that one.

I looked to my partner, “What do you think?”

“What do I....” He sighed, “What the hell. Come on.”

The six of us (with Dogmeat in tow) made our way through the cracked out alleys and dirt swept streets. We worked efficiently together, dropping centaurs and Mutant patrols like they were nothing more than bloatflies.

“You're a pretty good shot. I've never met one of your kind, old ghoul.” Brick attempted conversation with Charon, “Why ya out here?”

“Don't ask me nothing about nothing.” He sniffed simply.

“Sorry!” I called, “My partner doesn't like questions.”

All halted when we stumbled upon a small group of Brotherhood knights cornered near a station in Chevy Chase by a group of Uglies we'd picked off. The new group looked as though they were about to duck inside, but our noise gave them pause.

“Great.” Charon grunted, “More of these geeks. Get another raving prophet and we can start a fucking band.”

“We could grab the one from Megaton.” I suggested. Charon rattled a laugh.

“Halt.” The supposed leader of Steels squared their shoulders shakily, “Civilians are not allowed access beyond this point.”

Charon rolled his eyes.

“What the fuck? We just saved your asses!” Brick shouted.

“Eat it, pal!” Another knight spat.

Reilly had to physically hold her associate back as she spat more crassness than my companion could ever hope to achieve.

“Initiate Reddin! Show some damn professionalism.” The foremost figure hissed loudly beneath their helmet. Then added softly, “Besides. They're right.”

Charon whispered an aside to me, “And the light dawns on marblehead.” I had no idea what that meant, but I liked it.

The exasperated leader took their helmet off and stepped forward. A woman, blonde and tan with her hair piled into a messy bun. She and the rest of her squad wore the power armor typical of a Brotherhood member, with one noticeable difference: The symbols emblazoned on their chestplates included a lion in the design—reminiscent of the ones used as heraldry long before the Great War.

“I am Sentinel Sarah Lyons, of the Lyons' Pride. My squad and I were sent to thin out the ranks here and assist those stationed at GNR Plaza. But... as you may have noticed.... we're just... surviving.”

“You're doin' a bangup job.” Charon said dryly. “You know that station you were about to run into is chock-full of ferals, right?”

Sarah glowered at him, face reddening. She couldn't have been more than a year older than me.

“It's Reddin. It's all her fault.” Another of her squad piped up stealthily.

“Lyons, shape up and cut it out.” She directed her gaze back at me, “Look, I don't trust wasters, ghouls, and mercs. And you don't trust us. I get it. But if you want to go any deeper, we can bring the heavier guns.” She nodded towards Reddin, who held up a Fatman—a bulky launcher.

Brick tsked at the inadvertent attack on her ego.

“We're headed for the Galaxy News right now.” I smiled icily, “If you'd like our help, I suggest you follow.”

“Heh.” Charon finished.

Brick added to the stewing pot of tension, “Hope ya'll can keep up.... Clunky shits...”

Charon smiled at me for just a moment. No doubt revelling in the unusual, newfound fuzzy feeling of being united in cynicism with people he'd normally hate. I couldn't help but return the gesture.

We walked further into the uniquely hollowed hell. The Lyons followed, muttering, but throwing no more stones at the command of their Sentinel. The alleys seemed to get slimmer and dustier, but with Brick and her Eugene bent on leading the charge, it was easier to choke the groups of mutants down to the last--at least enough to get through to our destination. Sarah and her own proved formidable at taking down stragglers, if a little disorganized. The Initiate seemed restless, complaining about too little action.

Just when it seemed like there'd be no more room to get through the veined networks of broken walls, the path opened up as soon as we passed beneath a wilted billboard advertising a shiny red atomic car. I wiped the sweat from my brow and took a deep breath. Another light at the end of another tunnel.

Galaxy News Radio's plaza was massive, perhaps the largest rubble-cleared space in the entire network beyond the Mall. The slate and ash headquarters of the old radio station stood defiantly unbroken against the foggy sky. At least, it seemed intact from the entrance's side—in reality we'd find the headquarters had been sliced cleanly down the middle. Brown sandbags bolstered the threshold of the impressive wraparound steps to the entrance. Brotherhood troops paced along quietly. Sarah'd notified via her walkie talkie that we were “granted clearance”.

The radio tower atop GNR's building and its original logo were both shiny gold, the cause for preservation as mysterious as the man housed inside.

“It's like reaching the Emerald City.” I breathed, reaching out to touch the large globe sculpture centered in the square.

“'Cept it ain't exactly green.” Charon added as he lowered his gun and relaxed his stance.

“What the hell's an 'Emerald City'?” Reilly was spinning on her heels to take every bit of the square in.

Donovan heckled, “We must be one of the few 'dirty wasters' to step foot out here, huh?”

“Damn quiet.” Brick huffed, “Eugene doesn't like it.”

There was a thundery sound rolling in from behind us, northwest of the building.

Maybe it'll rain, I thought excitedly. I turned towards the sound and watched the sky.
Thunder again. Again.

Now, it was far too rhythmic. Dogmeat began to growl, then bolted off.

I called for her, but it was to no avail.

“Wilde...” Charon stepped closer and warned softly. His scarred face was struck with worry. I felt the back of his hand brush against mine. I recalled the planetarium and his fingers in my hair within the Life Preservation capsule—the same rushing sigh of closeness just as danger cut in. I felt the hairs on my arm rise.

That awful, rumbling sound drew nearer from behind the cluster of buildings. Dust from the aftermath of the storm began to jump with the impact of... of..

Sarah shouted fiercely to her crew. Reilly mirrored her, “Rangers, cover! Now. That means you, Brick!”

I was the one to grasp at my shocked partner, now. I took the collar of his brown leather jacket and yanked towards the nearest sound structure—the reinforced concrete surrounding a subway entrance. We wound up sandwiched next to Sentinel Lyons, her Initiate, and Brick.

“Dios mio....” Brick sweat while readying Eugene. Electric eagerness and fear danced in her features, “Do you see that? It's as big as a fuckin' house!”

She was right. The largest mutant any of us had ever laid eyes on. Twenty feet tall, its flesh the orange-green scab color of the rotten, irradiated mud that lined the Potomac River. Car parts decked it for armor and a collection of rusty shopping carts were fixed to its back. A collection of human heads dangled from a necklace comprised of thick cables. They swung dully, mouths open forever.

“A Behemoth.” Even Charon's voice was shaking.

The beast roared as though acidic pain was compressed within its heaving chest and swung blindly with a strangely too-large fire hydrant attached to a long steel pole. Several brave knights stationed outside met it in force, but were swiftly flicked away by the Behemoth's wrath. We were nothing more than ants to this creature.

Sarah spoke fast into her radio. “Loudmouth HQ. This is Pride Six, right outside. For godssakes how do we fight this thing?”

A voice from the other side buzzed, “Throw everything you've got, Six. And get the Wanderer out of there, stat. Three Dog needs her alive.”

Sarah looked to me, at my jumpsuit, a realization suddenly hitting her.

I shook my head, eyes still carefully glued to the monster while still trying to remain hidden, “I'm not going. Not until this thing is dead.”

Sarah screamed, “I have orders--”

“To hell with your orders!” I shouted over Brick's desperate barrage of gunfire. I would not leave my friends here alone to fend and die for themselves.

Charon, “Wilde, you have to find your father. Focus on the task--”

The Behemoth screeched and flailed closer to our position. The ground shuddered, more pieces of stone and dust raining from above. Charon and I both reflexively pulled the other down to duck lower.

Sentinel Sarah began to shout and argue, but it was then that Initiate Reddin got up and charged. The Sentinel screamed at her troop to retreat, but Reddin was already out in the middle of the firefight, brandishing her Fatman with a reckless cry. She fired a missile on her knees, missed. It was in that same sweep of a second that the Behemoth swung its massive fire-hydrant weapon closer, sending the heavy globe sculpture jumping from its pedestal with a sickening crack. I watched with blood rushing panic in my ears as it swooped upon Reddin--knocking her down and rolling over her body like it was nothing.

Sarah made a weak, sick kind of sound with the shock. Reddin lay before us, closest to Charon. She was bent all wrong. Blood poured from the breaks in her armor, sunk out into the cracks of the ground. She was still trying to move towards the Fatman in the middle of the plaza. A mangled metal hand was twitching and pointing.

“Please ...Take... t-take it...”

She wilted—silenced, over. The beast raged on. Its attention was dangerously close, only held back by the engaging troops. Without warning, Charon darted out from cover.

“No, don't--” I hissed. But he was already gone, making a beeline for Reddin's weapon. Sarah held me back. “You've gotta stay alive.”

The ugly hammer fell again. Charon zipped from it by what seemed like inches. All the relentless noise, the tremble in the ground, the hectic movement of other soldiers—they all seemed blocked out. I reached out for him as soon as he was within distance. He passed the Fatman into my open arms and dove back down at my side.

“I told you not to--”

“You want that thing dead?” Charon gasped a catching breath, “Then we'll get it dead.”

He rose his voice against another Behemoth scream, “You! Brick! You're strong enough to fire this thing.”

Brick went from looking hopelessly doomed to happy as a child in the pre-war movies. She motioned towards the heavy launcher in my hands now. I passed it to her, Sarah helping me with the weight.

“Hell yeah...” Brick chewed her bottom lip and cursed in panic suddenly, “This doesn't have any ammo, old man!”

Charon reached into his jacket and passed along a mininuke. Sarah radioed inside and the stout, silver shapes began to fall back as though choreographed.

“Holy shit. Where'd you find—nevermind...” Brick shouted as loud as she could, “ALRIGHT. Soon as the Fatman sings, shut your eyes!”

She waited for the tired Behemoth to take a wheezing breath. What looked like a thousand tiny punctures bled out from its skin. I almost pitied it. It was in mindless pain, even before it'd been weakened.

"Rock and roll, bitch!" Brick balanced the launcher on her shoulder with a grin as fat as the mammoth weapon's name. The nuke catapulted, hitting its target beyond the ear shattering boom. Ugly yellow-white light invaded my shut eyelids with it. I hummed the old 'Duck and Cover' song I'd learned as a child to combat the assault of noise in my ears, and I could feel Charon and Sarah both shielding me on either side. Brick was laughing a cheer even through the furious sound.

Reilly was the first to call out from her own hiding place as the carnage settled, “It's over! It's down!”

“It's dust, more like!” Another of her Rangers clapped. Half the buildings that made up the plaza were dust now, as well. A dense ring of charred gray scarred the now wide open wound in the plaza. Brick, Sarah, and I got to our feet shakily. Charon took a Rad-X, offered one to the rest of us. To my overwhelming relief, Dogmeat appeared behind the last of Riley's men.

Brick got up and rattled herself into good spirits again. She slapped Charon's back breathlessly, “Not bad, ghoul. Not bad.”

“Helluva kill shot.” Charon stepped away slightly and nodded. There was a note of pride in his voice.

The rest of Sarah's team came crawling from the stonework, too, along with other surviving Brotherhood members.

“Sergeant Vargas. You made it.” The Sentinel sighed. The quietest of her team mirrored her movement in taking off their helmet again.

“Are you holding up okay?”

“Barely.” Sarah trembled, grimacing, “We... lost Reddin. I should've held her back at base. I knew I should've...”

An unknown knight, not of Sarah's crew, interrupted:

“Lone Wanderer? Three Dog's waiting inside for you.”

Charon

The lobby was dim. Stuffed full of the silver geeks and sandbags. The golden voice behind five years of static—Three Dog--called from the top of a narrow staircase. Gleaming a smile and howling against a backdrop of bright fluorescent lights:

“There she is! Woman of the hour! Peacekeeper of the Wastes!” The short, black smoothskin figure waved his hands excitedly in a beckoning manner, “Well, come on up! Don't be shy! No need for name exchanges. You know me, and ol' Three Dog knows everyone.”

Wilde looked mystified, grinning wide as she climbed the steps to greet him. Three Dog shook her hand warmly, did the same to me before reaching down to pat Dogmeat's head. The self proclaimed 'disc jockey' (whatever a disc was) wore a sliced up leather vest over a white tshirt; torn jeans. A gray scarf covered his head and tinted glasses covered his sparking, alert eyes. He addressed Riley's crew and Sarah's team shuffling inside below:

“The rest of you, welcome! Take a load off, grab all the ammo and stimpaks you need!” He clapped his hands together and turned heel towards a doorless room, “This way. Let me show you where the magic happens.”

He rivaled Wilde in his positive energy. ...And her collecting habit. The large tiled floor of his studio was clear and travesable, but the walls were stuffed with hanging “treasures”--framed photographs of people smiling before the war, sports equipment, posters for old concerts. I recognized one. “Dean Domino”. Couldn't remember a lick of what he sang, just that he was kind of an asshole.

The rest of the space held heavy, ancient recording tech, blipping monitors, desks filled with typewriters and enough pencils, ashtrays and half-empty mugs to improvise a weapon with. There was only one other person in the room with us, who simply waved and quietly greeted us as “Margaret”.

"Maggie helps me write the reports." He explained, "She's not much of a talker, though." Three Dog had swiped up a rolling chair and zipped down in front of the biggest desk, armed with more recording dingies and a single, hanging silver microphone. Wilde stopped to marvel at a row of pressed leaves nearby.

“I hope the Brotherhood didn't give you too much trouble.” Three Dog paused to stir something into a mug and sip, “We have a... little agreement. They get an outpost in the center of the city, I get protection, supplies ...and coffee rations! Sweet, sweet, symbiosis.”

Wilde laughed, then motioned at the walls, “Where did you get all this?” Her mouth was practically watering. God, I thought, I hope he doesn't offer any of it to take home.

He kicked his boots up on the table, crossing them and leaning back in his chair, “Three Dog's been around the country, kid. I've seen it all. My folks were a traveling theatre group, and now... here we are. The big time.” He cackled a laugh as he waved his hands. “The good fight. But you don't need me to explain that, do you? You've been fighting it all along.”

“I--” Wilde blushed. The rest of her face matched the small sunburn on her nose. I smiled from my silence in the corner.

“No need to be modest. I'm not handing out medals. Keys to caches are my thing.” Three Dog laughed, then shifted to serious, “...I got paid to keep quiet for the old man, but you're helping me and the children of this hellhole more than anyone. So I've got something more to help you.”

Three Dog flicked through a stack of papers near his mic, “The most valuable thing in this world. Information.”

Wilde leaned against the closest table for balance, swallowing and gripping the edges intensely.

“Hm... here... Your Dad came by about a month ago. Asking about a “Doctor Li”. And something called “Project Purity”. Any of that ring a bell?”

“He used to talk about it when I was little. Never more than in passing, though.” Wilde rubbed at the space between her eyebrows.

Three Dog went further on down his notes, “It's some plan to provide clean water to all the Wastes.”

I snorted instinctively, “Ain't possible.” I cleared my throat and shuffled my boots at the crestfallen look on Wilde's face, “Sorry.”

“James said that with Doctor Li, it was.” Three Dog shrugged, “I don't make the stories, I just yell them. He was trying to find her.”

Wilde looked a little resentful, and more than a little hurt. She twitched a blink. Determination clouded over it all just as quickly:

“Where is this Doctor Li?”

His next words whooshed down like heavy stone in my ears. The Behemoth smashing his fire hydrant into the ground next to me all over again:

“Rivet City.”

A gray cloud seemed to hang in the room, and it was not Three Dog's newly lit cigarette that was the source.

“Right.” Wilde perked up and hopped down from her perch at the table, “Rivet City. It's good to finally meet you, Three Dog. More than you could ever know.”

“Oh, I know.” He winked as they shook hands once more, “And good to meet you, too, kid. Keep your head up and your gun clean.”

Three Dog was true to his word and handed her a small key with coordinates. Wilde whistled for Dogmeat and nodded to me. I lingered behind, shutting the door softly as soon as she turned down the steps.

Three Dog didn't seem surprised in the least, just went on rifling through papers and writing things down. I didn't want to waste his time, so I got what I needed to out right away:

“You can't expect her to keep doing this without making her a target.” I said simply.

“I never report anything in the moment. In fact, I go out of my way to get it out of sequence, most days. I never use her name, I never say where she is.”

“That still doesn't make things easy.”

“The right thing--The Good Fight--isn't easy. She picked up the torch, and she sure doesn't object to carrying it. She's strong enough. The people need that, Red Guy.”

Red Guy. My insides twisted. Three Dog stood up from his chair and approached me. Suddenly the friendly little gleam in his eye was gone and his voice was lower than a whisper.

“That's right, I've heard of you. I know what you've run from. Who you've run for. Raiders, Slavers, the scum of the earth. What's your angle here, Red? Is that why you're nervous about her stories being on display? Or did your heart change for a shot at repentance? What do you want?”

More old nonsense words I couldn't quite pin pinched the sides of my stomach and my head. Words like respect, words like affection. Words like faith and peace. Hope and love.

“Nothing. I want nothing.” I said finally.

Three Dog eyed me, shadowed and grim. He nodded to himself as he inhaled a sharp, deep breath from the end of his cigarette.

“Alright. I'll be even more careful.”

“And don't ever--”

“Mention you as the cheery sidekick? Haha! Of course not. Nobody out here wants to hear about a Nice Group tidying the world. They just want a Lone Wanderer.”

Three Dog turned back to his equipment and said his farewells, adding, “Sooner or later you're gonna have to confront it, Red. The past may hide, but it never dies.”

Wilde

I ran into Sarah slumped over near a Nuka Cola machine. She sat on her helmet, hair fraying from the ends of her bun and eyes swollen with tears.

She spoke out to me, almost acerbic, “How do you carry all of it? The death. How do you do it with a damned thumbs up and a smile?”

“I... I don't know.” I sat down beside her. Most days I felt something beyond my control was guiding me through. Separating the pieces of me like oil and water, just so I could get something done without breaking. I was above and below, looking through my own eyes and somewhere else all in the same seconds. But I couldn't give Sarah all those details. Surely, she'd think I was crazy.

The Sentinel hid her face in her hands, “I told Reddin... I told her to watch herself with those damn Frankensteins and she didn't listen... but she was still under my command. It's my fault.”

“You can't take it back.” I said, “But you can honor her in what you do. Every day.”

“This was our team's first real mission, you know?” Sarah sniffled, “I'm just... so tired.”

“But you cannot, will not, give up.” I replied quietly.

Sarah shook a sigh out. It was just us and the cracked buzz of the Nuka Cola machine, until one of her men called her name. We both stood.

She put her helmet back on, “When I first saw you and your ...friends, I didn't realize... I worried you were a bunch of dirty, needy wasters.” She paused to scratch behind Dogmeat's ears, “I'm glad I was wrong.”

Charon

“There you are!” Wilde waved from the bottom of the stairs. She was burning blue even in the damned dark--the sun and stars. “What took you?”

I stomped down the stairs, “Telling Three Dog he needs to find some new music. Aren't you tired of listening to that fucking sunnin' song yet?”

She chortled while gathering up her pack. “Reilly offered a place to stay on the way to Rivet City in exchange for more map data. You ready to head out?”

“Yes.” For once the diversion (hell, the very idea of being surrounded by people) sounded like relief.

Rivet City was going to be tricky—not because of ferals or mutants or raiders. But because Three Dog was right. My sins were not going to stay buried with Ahzrukhal.

Not unless I could smash them into the ground myself first.

Chapter Text

James

Springvale was a breath away from Vault 101, less than a day's walk from Megaton. Memories came flooding in from when I made the trek all the way from Rivet City with my baby and a young Brotherhood knight at my side. A then sprightly Old Lady Palmer had been sent outside to see if it was “safe” yet.

It wasn't, it still wasn't, and it never would be.

I was in Moriarty's Saloon. Wilde crying in my arms. She'd been crying ever since her mother went into cardiac arrest, it seemed. Like she knew all the world's sins and what had been lost. What had been taken. When Palmer approached me, whispering that her Vault was in dire need of someone with my experience, Wilde quieted. That's how I knew to follow.

“Er, Remington...” I said now, shivering exhausted against the wind, “I can't be this close to town... If my daughter were to return...”

The young man comforted me as he picked up a tattered rug behind a dusted counter inside what used to be a local Diner. He draped the rug over his motorbike, “We ain't gonna be long, sir. Not so much as a merchant bothers with Springvale. And besides--”

Remington took down a framed dollar from the aged wall. He pressed a bright red button decidedly with his fist. His half-heartedly manicured beard twitched with a bashful smile,

“--I learned from the very best how to find the good hiding spots.”

The metal flooring behind the counter shifted to reveal a long, wide staircase. Remington winked with a snaggle-tooth grin at me as he carefully centered the framed dollar back over the wall and clomped his way into the depths. I followed.

“Now, by my accountin'...” Remington brayed as he slammed another switch below to shut the shelter doors, “Your daughter's probably headed towards Galaxy News in the heart of the city, or she's already there. So it's my professional opinion: we steer far out from the city and the Mall. ...Also, due to some ...personal conflicts... I am no longer allowed in any major cities in the D.C. Area.”

“Are you a violent person, Remington?” I frowned. Did this 'Mei Wong' deceive me, did I decieve myself? I understood killing was necessary for survival just as much as anyone, but had I saddled up with a bloody-handed fiend behind the friendly mask? If that was so, we in more trouble than I thought.

“No, sir. I am an honest person. And that's more offensive to Washington than anything else.”

I breathed and took a seat on an old, overstuffed couch. The handstitched poncho covering the back was newer--dusty with orange-reds and lavender.

“Ol' Leadeye and Blindbelly Jones made me that to remind me of the desert sunsets. I miss Los.”

Remington offered me a bottle of clean water and a stimpak from a miniature fridge. I took them shakily.

Remington draped the poncho over my shoulders, “Hey. It's going to be alright. And if you need to cry, you go on ahead and do that.” He said oddly while he hung his hat on a crooked nail over my head, “All the best heroes cry.”

I thought of my daughter again. Bundled up in pale blue, her tiny hand clutching at my armored labcoat. Wailing in the cold gray light. And I did feel the need to cry, but I found I could not. Instead, I nodded in thanks with a weary smile. I lost my grief by further observing the underground shelter. Weapons and supplies unlike any I'd seen hung on a handmade rack directly across from me. A life-size cardboard cutout of a lanky looking cowboy propped up nearby startled me.

“Sunset Sarsparilla. The most popular beverage in the West! E-S-T 1918.” Remington sang as he cleared off a cluttered workbench at the east end of the cramped space, “Don't mind Festus, he's never done any harm.”

Remington motioned at my wrist. “Alright, let's take a look-see at that Pipboy.”

I unsnapped my once trustworthy device from my right hand and gave it to the man with the strange habit of naming ambient objects. Remington inspected it, whistling. He turned back to his workbench.

“Left-handed, huh? This is a bulky old model. Things are really rare.” Remington muttered to himself, “Damn shame.”

I was distracted by a large, hollowed out gumball machine in the corner near the workbench. He was growing plants in it, with a homemade heat lamp and a strangely rigged up filter with little plastic tubes running all through the rusted out base.

“Remington, where did you get that filtration system? It's ingenious.” I asked.

“I found a tiny one in a vault somewheres, rigged it right up.”

I trembled with the realization. This man was more than a ride and a gun. This man was a savant. My excitement was quickly interjected, however. I jumped and exclaimed at the sound of a ball peen hammer getting smashed nonchalantly through my Pipboy's old screen.

“We'll keep the frame.” Remington said, still laidback, “But the innards are lost. Sorry.”

“I need it... I-I can't possibly go on without...” My notes. My wife and child's voices on the small holotapes I kept on my person at all times. I realized I might never hear them again.

“I ripped a list of every vault location in this damnable place from their regional headquarters. We might can find one if we follow that trail.”

“Yes.” I said immediately, “Yes, that sounds promising.” I couldn't tell Remington until I fully trusted him, but I understood now. I understood why Mei Wong left me in Andale with nothing more than a flare and a tentative promise. If Project Purity was to be revived from its ashes, I'd have to search the Vaults. I needed this funny little man.

“Alright, let's go, then.” I started to get up.

“Now, hold on a Bloatfly pickin' minute. You're gonna need a rest and at least a few stimpaks before we step out. You're a wreck. No offense.”

I fell back into the sofa, my body shouting with electric currents. He was right.

“But.... I can't stop here. I have to keep going.” I felt like crying. I felt like dying. And all the same, I was terrified of both. There was so much left to do, I could not afford the luxury of 'rest'.

“You're gonna have to catch a break somewheres. I may as well start.” Remington coughed, grabbing up his guitar, “One time I was ridin' my motorbike. I was going down a mountain road. I was doing 150 miles an hour, I reckon. On one side of the mountain road there was a mountain. And on the other side, there was nothing--there was just a cliff in the air. But I wasn’t payin’ attention, you know.. I was just driving down the road...”

Charon

“Hey... uh, Charon, right?” A ranger called from the corner of a large, round table, “We're dealing for a game of Caravan. You in?”

“I don't play.” I said simply, not so much as looking up from cleaning Wilde's rifle. I worked.

“Shit, Ghoul doesn't catch a breather anywhere, does he?” Brick snickered as she threw some caps down.

Reilly laughed from her seat, Wilde's Pipboy in her hand, “I can't believe it! The smartypants spelled my name wrong in all her entries.”

“You really shouldn't be going through that stuff, Rye.” Another ranger quipped.

“Hey, she went looking through my terminal without asking. This is fair payback.”

“What's in there? Do those contraptions have games?” Brick asked.

Reilly shook her head, “Just journals after journals, it looks like. A lot about...” The leader of the gang eyed me furtively, smiled. Faded before a minute could pass. She shut the Pipboy off. Electric green glow left her now hardened features. Brick made a grab for it; stopping when Reilly told her sternly to back off.

The leader excused herself. I had a faint idea why. It stung, but I focused on Wilde's rifle instead. The serial numbers across it were strange, next to a symbol I'd never seen out here, but could weakly remember.

boston, Philly was gasping shredded meat, splintered glass in my head. I worked harder, until it was the only thing I could focus on.

Wilde

Reilly was waiting for me outside the entrance of the showers.

“Hey! Did you get that mapping data you needed?” My smile faltered when I noticed the concern—grim lines now deepened the shadows in her usually warm face.

“Sure did.” She said. Her voice sounded short.

“Be careful with the subway lines, there's ferals everywhere.” I said, trying to keep things light.

“Yeah. Speaking of Ferals.”

Oh, here we go. “You looked through my personal things, I take it?”

“Are you sure this is wise? I know you're tough, but he shot his last employer in the head. And the contract thing...”

“I've thought about that. And been warned about it. Multiple times, actually. Thanks, but would you kindly step out of the doorway?”

Reilly sighed gently as she moved out of the small doorframe, “You know, your stubborness isn't going to protect you like armor does.”

“Well, gee. It's a good thing I have armor, then!” I bustled past her in the tiny hallway.

“I'm serious, Wanderer. This is may be too heavy. Even for you. Don't let that kind streak keep getting you into trouble.”

“Kindness is the only thing that separates us from monsters.” And I refused to let this world turn me into one. Besides, I was capable of far more than niceties, just as I knew Charon was capable of more than violence. The key was choice. He just had to realize that.

“I'm telling you as a friend. That attitude's gonna bite you in the ass. ”

“Well, it's fortunate I've got ammo, too.”

"Ammo's fuck all when you've caught feelings, Wilde!"

I didn't have a comeback. Just a wiry, hot lump in my throat at the realization that the Ranger was right.

Charon

“You've returned.” I said quietly, more to myself than for her. I felt an alien kind of joy that she was still smiling, unflinching confidence in my presence as she settled down in the bunk bed across from mine, snapping her Pipboy back into place on her left wrist. Dogmeat left my side for hers momentarily.

Wilde patted the mutt's head gently. “Of course.”

“Last chance for newcomers.” Brick called. “Wilde?”

The boss was sifting through her pack, attempting to take stock of its contents, “No, thanks! Maybe later.”

Reilly rejoined her crew at the table. She seemed hardened with resolve by something. Once she had her cards in order and her caps thrown out, I knew:

“So, Fightin’ Irish… what do you miss most from before the war?”

All casual conversation and smiles drained from the room. Wilde looked up from her Pipboy in the Ranger's direction, stricken and livid. Reilly was grinning like a cat who'd just drug a giant rat from the bag.

She wanted me to crack. I recalled Ahzrukhal, hell even Barrows, doing similar things. Like there was a kind of ugly Secret, a code they needed hidden behind my teeth. So they'd throw up nonsense words when the bar was quiet and the doors were shut. I'd always forget them. The dreams, they stuck. There was nothing I could do about that. But now the When didn't hurt as much as I thought it would--not as bad as thoughts that leaked in with shoulder pains.

No, it'd take a lot more than some smoothskin's probing to break me. Especially when there was good work to do.

“I miss... funnel cake.” I said finally, plainly.

Wilde smiled from behind chewing at a fingernail. Brick was the first to let out a laugh, cackling, with the rest of the team joining in.

“Well, alright. Smartass.” Reilly said. I winked at Wilde. It was nice to see the bunker get a little brighter, with Roy Brown playing crystal clear in the background. No one hopped out on chems or miserably drunk. The war in my head could keep cold another day.

Laughter turned to fractured conversation, and then quiet. Three Dog could be heard talking about the Boss' father, questioning why he left. Three Dog was trying to say very little and instead make light of it all, as was his way, “What went on down there? Vacation? Revolution? Somebody fart?”

I could practically feel the sinking pit in Wilde's soft stomach despite the space in between us. As everyone else began to retire for the night, she still seemed shaken.

“You're going to find him.” I spoke up, after a long internal debate on whether or not my words could offer any sort of comfort.

“I know.” She replied in a hushed tone, “It mostly hurts that he left for Project Purity... he could've told me. Why didn't he let me help him?”

She took a deep breath. I didn't have any answer to that. I barely had the answers for myself as it was.

“Maybe my father was right. ...Before I met you, I told a fellow something about himself. I told him the truth. Because I thought it was the right thing to do. He gave me that rifle you're cleaning in thanks, but I can still see the pain on his face. And I can never take that back. Maybe I'm too implusive. Maybe… maybe I’m not good enough.”

“No use getting tangled up in old hurt.” I replied, “You're trying. Let the rest go.”

“I-- Thank you.” She said, “What about you? Riley's outburst was... unacceptable.” She shook her head.

“It's nothin', Barrows and Ahz were hinting at it for years.”

“It is far from nothing. Why didn't they tell you?”

“They were... frightened of me, I think. Seems everyone is.”

“I'm not.” She said quietly, “I just didn't want to hurt you.”

I recalled the way she smiled when we met. How every time I was struggling, she looked ready to reach out. Ahzrukhal had taken chunks of me away to dig at later. Barrows, however friendly he was, treated me like a test subject stuck in a tube. Something you could only help when the gloves were on.

The irony that the first soul to treat me like an equal also held my contract didn't escape me. But it was clearer now: Wilde was the best hope. Not to fix my mind, nobody could do that. She was the one willing to standby. And that meant more than I could ever allow myself to express. Instead, I could only tell her what she wanted to hear, and what I was starting to believe:

“You're not good enough. You're better.”

It sounded clumsy coming out of my mouth, but it brought a hint of glow to her face and got her back to something close to normalcy. That was all that mattered. As she hummed along with the radio, I couldn't help but wiggle a foot along. Her presence was growing on me. Hopeless and stupid. It was like standing near a barrel of radiation—unnerving how much comfort I found in it.

Ahzrukhal's watery wheezing behind my ears, “Don't you remember, boy? Everything you care for will be ripped away, and it'll be your fault. I'm trying to help you.”

No. He would not win. Not today, not ever. Not even from beyond his damnable grave. I tried reigniting hatred, anger. Distance through disdain. Complete failure. Dogmeat'd curled up near me and Wilde was yawning that it was time to turn in.

With the click of the Pipboy light came silence. With silence came the threat of memories. I wasn't about to let myself dream again. I left the compound quietly. The Contract yelled within to stay, that I was Breaking the Rules, but I wormed my way out of it. Reilly's compound was secure, a whole crew of friendlies rested in other bunks, I would be back as soon as the sunlight hit.

It wasn't until the night air hit my wartorn face that I realized this was the first time I'd been totally, utterly alone by my own volition. Awkward and anxious at first. Like a shut down escalator in the middle of an antsy crowd. I lit a cigarette shakily, marched. Found some molerats in the nearby alley to devote my attention. But what did I do when they were all dead and gone, when all I was left with was silence?

Enemy of my enemy.

I found the nearest subway entrance and descended. I wasn't there to kill the ferals, no. They'd leave me alone. Their forms still scared me, even when they were innocuously scratching and laying about. It was probably an insane thought, but somehow powering through the fear in places like this (I was not them, I would never let myself be them) helped.

For a time, anyways. A bothersome blip of a memory ushered in with the flicker of an emergency light on the track nearby: hands are clean but the iron smell of blood is raw and close in its assault. hair on my fingers in clumps. these monsters are all lined up on either side of the long passage to kill me, they're going to kill me. but they do nothing. i'm coughing out breaths in like a broken exhaust and i'm ripping at a silver chain around my neck. my shoulder is all red. the skin peels from under the dried crusty brown of a shirt i'm pulling away. my voice is scared and crying and cracked like the thoughts in my head. i'm crying for philly and yelling for frank but there's no sound. why isn't it healing. why are they staring

how long? 23rd october. thats the last day i remember cause its when the bombs fell. we felt them. all the way down here. they really did it. they ended the world. on my fucking birthday jesus christ

i'm changing the password. trying to ignore my hands, shaking. bleeding now, skinless. 76 subjects, 13 researchers. i was going to die here. frank's gravelly voice 'no, you're already dead.' this is doctor alexander khaulman, boys. not even a goddamned paperclip. the vault door is sealing with a scream. i look back once. there's no numbers on it at all--

Two soft tones from above. “Your attention, please: Report any suspicious activity to the nearest security personnel. Thank you for choosing D.C. Transit.” If I could find the source of the recording, I might've shot it. Some of the ferals nearby howled, sniffing deliriously before going back to mindless gnawing and flinging through rubble.

I took a deep breath. Too long in this sick chamber. Had to go up for air.

The same tones from before, “Help keep The Capital clean. Throw all trash into the nearest receptacle.”

“Yeah, yeah, I hear ya.” I waved a dismissive hand towards the ceiling and turned heel for the entrance.

---

It was still dead night by the time I returned. I was surprised to find Wilde awake, sitting up in the dark and turning knobs on her Pipboy, her face scrunched up with intent.

I dared to ask, “What are you doing?” I would've taken a seat at my bunk, but Dogmeat had claimed it. Snoring fierce.

“Playing Red Menace. Sh, shhhh... shit.” Wilde scooted to the right, inviting me to sit with a half-aware nod. I did so, but not unlike a battered mongrel might reach for a gentle hand.

I could feel myself trying to become as small as possible, my hands curled upon my knees with my back hunched in way that was borderline cartoonish. Wilde looked comfortable, cross-legged. One glance at the freshly bleeding nail on her left thumb, though, made it clear she was not.

“Bad dream.” It was less a question, more an acknowledgement we were in the same sinking boat. Armed with two buckets with holes at the bottom. Rotted oars.

She turned off the Pipboy and rubbed at her forehead with a soft hand.

“I woke up seeing Reddin. The way she just threw herself...” Wilde shook her head and trailed off, then twisted around to blink at me. Her gaze was so sharp and so bright, even in the depths of darkness. When the boat was broken, she'd be the one showing everyone how to swim. This thought was a scoffable weakness any other day, but now it brought warmth.

“What about you?” She asked.

“Went for a walk.” I answered quickly. I didn't intend to say anything more. But I backtracked, slowed, and found myself asking, “Wilde ....Is there such thing as a Vault with no number?”

The shocked blink passed quicker than I thought it might. Then came the knit eyebrows and the disappearing bottom lip in concentration.

“No? As far as I'm aware, Vault-Tec always numbered their experiments and kept records.”

“Experiments?”

A little nervously, “Not exactly a comforting thought, I'm sure you're aware.”

“What'd they do to you?” I asked. It was more welcoming than I could say. I hadn't been able to confirm if anything I could recall was real.

“I think... they wanted to see how long they could keep the door closed. Not everyone had it so easy. But from what I've learned, the Overseer failed at that before I could even walk.”

“Whole damn world failed the day they decided treating people like lab rats was a good idea.” I grumbled.

“That's no reason to quit fighting.”

“I didn't say nothin' about that.” I was the one to smile at her now, laughing quietly. If there was one thing I knew how to do when everything else went to hell, it was fight. She glowed right back.

A rare kind of peace was with us. Safety. For once, I was content to share it with her.

“I'm going to fire you one day, you know.” Wilde yawned. Then, in the highest confidence, “You’ll be alone. You’ll go where you want. And you're going to be okay.”

The statement terrified me—but which part? The prospect of freedom, of change? Or the thought of losing purpose?

Losing this, the thought slipped through the wall I’d worked so hard to build. Unease and comfort blended together underneath my stony skin. Even now, as Wilde settled down and fell asleep, my inner dogs were fighting. War.

I held on to consciousness as long as I could, there in the gripping, sweet dark. But much like death, sleep took us all, one way or another.

James

“And it was at that very moment that I looked down at my hands and saw the pickle was bein’ beamed up alongside me. That I knew for sure that, that I didn't want a pickle--”

I raised my hand to the Cowboy in the middle of his off-key little story. His gentle strumming stopped.

“It was only a fistful of caps.” That nagging detail still perplexed me. “I don't mean to insult your intelligence, but you realize that's... nothing?”

“You don't get to the grand prize by counting coins. Am surprised I gotta tell a feller in a labcoat that. Then again, maybe I shouldn't be.”

“I'm sorry?” I laughed. So cryptic for someone so simple, “What?”

Remington returned to his melody, humming low. In a matter of minutes, to my own shock, I was singing along. I felt more comfortable than I could remember.

The right path. All over again. It would change, as things often did. But here was where I needed to be now.

“Don't you worry, Dad. There's gold at the end of alla this.”

I already knew. I thanked him, regardless.

Penny

Rory never abandoned us. Fretful kind of fool he was, he might’ve been late, but he showed up. He fought harder and meaner than I’d ever seen him that day. I don’t know what possessed him, but it had bite. I didn’t think he’d have it in his guts. That was partly why I blew my cover to help him.

Not that it did much. He’d dropped his gun as soon as a dog nipped at his heels, and the water he brought us religiously for years went flying. For all his mustered might, Rory ended up collared and fallen in line with the rest of us kids.

Sometimes we fought, and sometimes we lost. It was an ugly and unfair thought, but it was the truth. I had known nothing about the world claiming otherwise.

Ahead of me as we marched, (well, it was more of a shuffle, we were so tired) the new kid was sniveling, shaking. (His name? what was his name? one of the slavers hit me with some kind of flashing light and zapping noise I’d forgotten) One slaver screamed at him to hush. It must’ve been the same one to zap me in the struggle, I thought. He wore something like an eyebot on his fist, whirring funny.

“Ssh, sh.” I dared nudge the new boy, silent and gentle. The booger, half my height, pulled himself together. That was relief. We needed to stick together as long as possible. We needed to watch our heads and steps to fight.

I just prayed I had strength to keep fighting. I was trying, looking for a crack in their ranks or my gun anywhere. But just knowing where we were all going—lined up single file with the dirty men and their open fanged dogs bearing down on either side, with the funny little plastic collar around my sweaty neck--the odds of me having fight left by the time we reached Paradise Falls were getting slimmer than none.

Charon

Slimey on the face. Licking. I groaned, my eyes screwing tighter in disgust.

“Offa me, dog.” I grunted. I scratched behind the mutt’s ears despite my tone. My mind still refused to function damn near enough to want to open my eyes yet. Above all, it was Wilde’s laughter that pushed me to join the living once more. I sat up, wincing as my head lightly bonked the top bunk and cracking the bones in my neck.

“Come on, Mr. ‘I don’t sleep’,” The Boss teased as she secured a strap of armor to her chest, “I’d like to head out for Rivet City before noon, at least.”

I shook myself upright and blinked awake, wiping at my marred face as Dogmeat panted happily off the bunk and over to the poker table to hunt for scraps.

“Ya’ll be wary, now.” Brick paused between forkfuls of scrambled eggs, “Wilde flirts with death.”
Wilde winked at me as she countered, “Oh, you’re one to talk, Brick.”

The way her hips moved along to the radio was oddly captivating, I had to struggle to forget about it. I stood and lit a cigarette while she and Brick swatted playfully at each other with words. Thanked whatever God my face was already red. Cracked my knuckles. To work.

There was something warmer in the air while we gathered our pack, weapons, and headed for the narrow staircase leading out of the cold bunker. A harmony. Even Reilly was a little less leery at me before we left. Not that it would affect me, of course.

Only one thought could, now.

i’m going to fire you one day

I winced. The thick metal door of the bunker and out to the Wastes veered open. Dogmeat slipped out first, excitedly rolling in the dusty alley for just a moment. I popped a Rad-X. Overcast and, yup, still ugly. Wilde’s radio clicked on and played soft. The voices of Reilly’s rangers calling their goodbyes from below were faraway and veiled in a fizzy static I’d learned to cope with for years. Even my limbs, my self, felt unfamiliar. The only thing that felt real was the weight of my shotgun. Ran my thumb across the carved end again.

you’ll go where you want. and you’re going to be okay.

But I was finding the desire to stay. What then?

I shook it away like those hell-awful dreams, forcing myself to tunnel vision on the present. For her sake, I hoped we could find Wilde’s father in Rivet City smoothly.

We wouldn’t, the longer we walked I was aware, but I hoped.

And hope makes a man stupid.

Chapter Text

Wilde

“I had another dream about that prophet.” I walked backwards so I could face Charon as he paced behind me. “What do you think? Do you think he was really mad, or...?”

“You keep sayin that like the answer matters.” Charon's response was gravely agitated, his jaw clenching as he pointedly looked anywhere but me.

We took our time getting to The Mall. Clearing out of downtown was more of a challenge without Reilly and her crewmates, but there were few Mutants left to bother us on the journey. It was hard to tell what, exactly was bothering Charon once our feet hit the slimy waterfront. But he was distant and barricading himself up again the instant Rivet City was less a goal, and more a reality.

How silly, I thought. For some of the journey, one could almost swear we were friends. The nights we had to rest, under the stars or in a burned out building, were warm and comfortable. The most content I'd been since leaving The Vault.

Despite his current rudeness, I enjoyed the company of my partner. The extra puff in his chest and kick in his step everytime 'Mighty Man' played on the pipboy. The light in his eyes when he'd find a full pack of gum or a box of sugar bombs. How rare and beautiful his rough, unbridled laughter was.

Suprisingly (but not disappointingly), he had an interest in helping with the crossword in the Grognak comic I'd found in an old bookstore.

“Two across. Starts with an 'A'. Six letters--”

“Athena.” He said without looking up from scraping beneath his nails with his combat knife.

“I didn't even give you the clue!” I exclaimed, twisting round in my bedroll. “You flipped to the answers last turn, didn't you?”

Charon looked stuck in place for a moment, staring down at the dirt illuminated by the tiny campfire we'd scraped together. He looked up slowly with his keen, sleep-deprived eyes, “Why'd you talk to Ahzrukhal?”

The question felt so big in the empty outdoors. The answer was so small, “You asked.”

“Guess the real question is: 'Why did I ask?'” He laughed until Dogmeat howled along. Then he laughed so hard he had a coughing fit, wiping tears from his eyes, and gesturing to our shared water bottle with mangled fingers. I didn't even find it all that funny, but I laughed with him. The way the cold full moon hung above and the glow of the fire flickering before him as he drank had me mesmerized. I wouldn't realize it until hindsight hit me, but I was falling in love with him right then.

Here was my tiny heaven, in the way he'd lose the furrow in his brow everytime Dogmeat sighed or I smiled, or how I'd often wake up to find him tossing a bone along the cracked roads for her. But those roads became beaten sidewalks, and those sidewalks became the muddy banks of the flooded banks of a Naval Yard. And as we neared the most developed settlement in what was left of Washington D.C., Charon was now as caustically walled-off as when we'd met (if not more so). He dreaded the place for some reason. It was as senseless as war to ask him why.

It was dusk by the time we reached the manmade stairs up to the pier. My heart was twisting over the thought my Father possibly being across the rusty, salt-smelling bay. Rivet City was awe-defying: an ancient, (mostly) intact aircraft carrier that had been the center of the region's scientific community since the New World could remember. The colossal vessel creaked chillingly even as the rows of windows and holes in the metal carrier beamed with vibrant embers of orange light. I looked to my partner, who'd just dragged himself to stand at my side and lit a cigarette.

He was puffed up like a peacock, leering hatefully out at the giant statues that dotted the landscape. There wasn't a chill in the air this evening, but he was trembling a little.

“These smoothskin cities.” He grumbled, “Don't like 'em.”

“I'm glad you're here with me.” I said earnestly.

His face became softer. He grumbled at his shoes, “Let's find your Dad and get out.”

I nodded, pressing the huge red button centered above a loudspeaker. I recognized the voice on the other end with an immediate smile.

Charon

“Rivet City Security. State your business.”

I'd never been in this trash heap before. Only ever conducted business outside it, near the broken mirelurk-infested bow. That fact didn't make hiding my terror and guilt any easier. No, it only sharpened that dagger.

Wilde pushed that red button again. “Hello, Harkness.” Sunny as ever. She'd given the last of our water to another waster.

“If you were pre-war, you'd get looked at for bein' a communist.” I dared to joke.

She laughed. Worth it, even with all the other shit bogging my mind down.

“Ah. Hello, Wilde.” The loudspeaker answered, making me jump slightly.

Metal screamed and scraped in the fading heat of sunlight. Purple and blue hues stood out on the water like a bruise. I mirrored Wilde in lowering my weapon as soon as the long bridge stopped. Every clanging step towards the ship deck resounded in my ears. I wondered what part of the boat this was. I hoped Sister had been stupid enough to get himself caught. Better, killed. The tinge of self-preservation felt foreign. A lot like shame, but cold and curdled.

The head of Rivet City security was Harkness. He didn't know me, but I knew him, because not too long ago it was my job to know how Rivet's security roster went. He was taller than me. Perfect skin. Polished armor. Thick, dark hair. A dull voice and a smugly flat expression. Polite. Nose.

For me, it was hate at first sight.

Most assured, Wilde was pals with him. They hugged, and Wilde introduced me while I whirled at the surrounding doors and catwalks, looking for all options of escape. Harkness tried a handshake with me, but by the time I noticed the attempt, he was already stiffly retreating, embarrassed. He ushered us into the entryway of the 'Marketplace', hastily gesturing around at the different stalls in the hangar like an obnoxious guide. He finally left us when a female guard called for his aid.

The halls of the boat reeked with a swampy, corroded musk. And that was heaven sent compared to the attitude. Discretion wasn't the only thing that kept a ghoul gunrunner away from this side of the River Styx.

I slouched in an attempt to shrink away from all the sideways looks and leering whispers, as others ducked into their rooms. Wilde seemed confused as to why folks weren't as friendly talking to her. Confusion bled to outrage when we reached the 'Weatherly Hotel' in the upper decks.

The smoothskin behind the desk cooed in a voice just loud enough so I could hear while she grabbed for the dusty glass bowl of candies, “I can't let your friend in, I don't know what kind of bugs, or, or--”

Wilde didn't have the patience to let her finish, “Are you serious? I found your nephew, and you... you know what? Nevermind.” Wilde raised her hands in exasperation and marched. She spouted a series of numbers and letters on the way out, as if they were curse words. I would've thought my employer had finally lost her mind, if it weren't for the Vera Waverly's Mr. Handy robot shutting down in a heap on the floor behind us.

We passed a makeshift museum (which I laughed at), church (which I laughed at and Wilde scolded me for), medbay, and residential rooms before stopping at the marketplace and grabbing mirelurk cakes. Disgusting. I ate it at Wilde's request, but not before feeding half of it to Dogmeat. The owner of the small concession offered up his room for Wilde's remaining Radaway. I thought it was a foolhardy trade.

The fisherman's abode was cramped, but extremely clean. The cold informality of bleach-white bunks under blue light made me nervous. Almost like I was gonna have another flashback. Thankfully, I didn't. We dropped our gear and let Dogmeat rest. Cleaned up some. And by that, I mean we wiped the sweat from our brow and shed a layer. No time for showers with a stray Dad on the lose. I laid my leather jacket on the bottom bunk, taking care to grab my Rad-X from my chest pocket. Wilde unzipped her jumpsuit down halfway and tied the sleeves around her waist.

I felt oddly vulnerable around her in these moments—campfires, cover, places of rest. When things were quiet and I could really look at her, it was the fear of God striking me; The Planetarium all over again. Athena. Good luck picking up my jaw off the damn floor.

Wilde broke the curious silence as she pulled her hair back into a ponytail, “I've got a gray undershirt, you've got beige. What a colorful pair we are, huh?”

If this was a flirt, it was terrible. “Very amusing.” I deadpanned. She smiled anyways. It made the room a little lighter and reality a little less sharp.

There was an excitement charged in the air around us as we exited, making our way towards the Science Lab. The rush of seeing the finish line, it seemed. The rip of the tape as I charged through, stinging heat in my face as I raised my arms. Tingly, fizzing headache again. I was remembering more. I didn't know if that was good or bad.

The hopeful atmosphere dampened quickly. You could still smell the fear on near every smoothskin we passed.

“The only way out is through.” I told Wilde, who looked drained and irritable before we even reached the nearest ladder down to the middle decks. “Focus.”

I hadn't seen my old contact, Sister. At least there was that for a silver lining.

Two guards stood outside a thick door at the end of a long passage. 'Laboratory' was stenciled fatly above it in black spraypaint.

Wilde's voice was tired and antsy now, but as syrup-nice as she could possibly make it. She hesitated beneath the burning white lights, “I'm The Lone Wanderer. I'm looking for my Father, James, or Doctor Li.”

The two bulkheads were squinting beyond her, directly at me. I squinted right back.

“Doctor Li is busy.” One spoke disinterestedly. Wilde squared her shoulders.

“I'm certain she'd speak with me. Kindly, let me in.”

“Sorry, sweets, you're gonna have to wait 'till tomorrow.”

Wilde's breath was louder now, almost like some dragon's. Me, I was tired. I knew why there was no room here for us. And I was worried about my connections to this place. I suggested we lay low in a bar somewhere, relax a bit. If James was here, he was probably not going to leave in the dead of night.

Wilde looked on the verge of screaming. Surprisingly, she agreed finally and turned around so we could leave. At that exact moment, a guard mumbled an insult at me. I would've heard it, but the world got all hazy for a second under the lights. In a flash, his eye was smashed and sunken by a single, lightening rod of a punch.

The man balked on the floor, clutching his face. I could only stand, awed that I was not the source of the punch, and entranced by how quickly Wilde rubbed her knuckles on her undershirt and composed her voice,

“I'm going to have a drink and cool off. When I come back, you're going to let me and my friend in.”

“Harkness is going to hear about this!” The other guard warned as Wilde stormed down the hall. I had to widen my steps to keep up. Residents who had peeked out at the noise dove back into their rooms. Except one. A dark haired woman with the same 'smite-thee' gleam in her eyes as Wilde.

“I'll tell him myself!” Wilde shouted over her shoulder. The mysterious woman was still staring at us as we passed, following us with her head. I could feel it.

“You could've asked me to punch him.” I muttered to my boss, then got brazen, “Month or so's ago, you scolded me for busting a nose.”

“Excuse me? In a smelly ship full of bigots? You bet I'm punching.” This satisfied both questions.

At the very depths of the ship, we found the Muddy Rudder. I was curious how this bar stacked up to The Ninth Circle. It was bigger, uglier. But bustling to the brim with people.

“Too many.” I griped to myself. But it was poorly lit and easy to get lost in. If I was going to lay low from Sister and his goons, it was best done here.

I followed Wilde into the maw of sweaty, yelling smoothskins. Wilde seemed unusually zigzagged and tired, so I rested a hand on her shoulder to keep track. To my disbelief, she reached up to hold it.

We broke the bond and traded it for another. (Geezum, her touch was turning me into a weepy poet) The woman behind the bar was brusque, but didn't flinch at me. Wilde downed a whiskey, then another. I sipped at warm beer. When the boss pulled out a cigarello with a wavering hand, I lit the match for it.

“You're shaken up. S'Matter?”

“The people here are disgusting. Except Harkness. Then again, he's not... ah..” Wilde shook her head. I was too busy darting my eyes over my shoulder every few seconds to read into that statement.

“There's something else.” I grumbled, half-crazy to myself. Paranoia turned to sour panic. A familiar scar glinted in the light of the opposite wall. The owner of that scar was a scrawny, slimy bastard who was as weaselly and devious as a smooth could get: Sister. Ahzrukhal's man on the outside.

“You're right.” Wilde sighed and exhaled, “Charon... I don't know if I'm ready to face my Father.”

She stamped her cigar out, crossed her arms, then lay her head down.

“You don't have to. Not right now.”

“I killed my mother.” She said it so sudden it caught me off guard for just a minute, like she dropped something fragile and crystal at my feet. “Not directly, but I know he blames my birth on her death.”

(charlie dont
you dont want this

i'm so sorry)

Sister was staring at me. Then, in a flash, he ducked out. For a second there, he looked like my brother. Wilde excused herself. I darted to follow the latter.

Until. I was stopped by the dark-haired woman. Even in the half-dim light, I could recognize her, with that ratty scarf. She seemed to appear from nowhere at all, grasping my arm and leading me over to her corner with casual, unnerving grace:

“Angel Eyes. Sister's noticed you.”

“Who are you? What's it to you?”

“You're awful nosy for someone who doesn't have a septum. I'm a friend.”

“Don't have friends.” I growled.

“Nonsense. Friends are like assholes or gaurdian spirits; you must have one. Mind you, some of our friends are assholes... some of our gaurdians, too...”

She went on rambling in her peculiar way, half in english and chinese. We wound up leaning in a corner with a broken Jukebox playing classical music, near the exit Sister'd used.

Wilde was out of the restroom by that point, wiping at her eyes with the backs of her hands. I wanted to turn around, swim across the dead sea crowd, and join her. Be there for her. Carry all her sins and forget mine for a time.

But the contract forgot all my wants in the next second, as the woman lit a cigarette:

“Sister's noticed your pal Blondie, too. He's probably running off to his room at the Weatherly or Waverly or whatever. Bound to radio all his little networks. I suggest you ditch this city before he gets his cronies, hm?”

I nodded, spun to get back to where I needed to be. No time to distrust, no time to question this short gal's motives. The dark-haired woman locked me in place with her stony eyes once more,

“Don't face Sister alone and don't be stupid. I'm warning you. Zai jhain.”

“Goodbye.” I said, half-aware I was speaking at all. She swept away, disappearing with a riddling smile. My limbs felt heavy by the time I made it back to the other side of the room. Wilde was chatting with none other than Harkness.

“A-231 treating you alright?” I caught the tail end of their conversation. Wilde's eyes were still misty and red, but no longer crying, “Yes. Thank you.”

“Good.” Harkness smiled mechanically when he noticed me, clearing his throat:

“Ahem. Charon, I apologize for the behav--”

“Can it, string bean. Wilde. We need to talk.”

“There's no need to be rude.” Wilde rolled her eyes.

I backtracked, “I wish to speak with you.”

When she saw my expression unchanged; she huffed until we reached the entryway. I stopped just outside the bar. She leaned against the doorframe, crossing her arms. The way the red light from the caged sconce hit her curves in stripes, I felt older and younger all at once. The deathray glare in her eyes made me wanna curl up with a cigarette and die.

I stood there, dumbly silent for a while, trying to decide if I should lie to her or pray forgiveness. While the devil and the angel on my shoulders duked it out, Wilde tapped her foot impatiently.

“Why are you being so cold to Harkness? He's been nothing but nice.”

Oh, this again. “Niceness doesn't grow my ears back. There are two things I gotta do; One is eat, so I can smoke and live. The other is make sure you're safe. Got it?”

“Don't patronize me.” She said simply, and that was all it took to shed my impatience with her.

A shadow moved in the lonesome hallway. My flighty mind screamed. Sister. Frank. Ahzrukhal. Every demon I ever knew was on the damned boat now, lurking in all the shadowed corners.

I couldn't drag Wilde into this. I had to fix this. I had to leave.

A good partnership stuck together, but a better one knew when to split up. Wilde would ask why. I needed to make this fast. I needed...

“Is this because I was talking to Harkness?”

I needed her to hate me.

I cocked my head at her, half laughing, “You think I'm jealous.”

She licked her lips. Why did she have to make everything so hard. Step any closer, and we were bound to kiss. Kiss, and it was curtains for us.

“Well? Are you jealous?”

That fizzy, unreal feeling in my vision again. I fought off old memories of pulpy films about private eyes and smoky rooms. I lifted her chin with my thumb, “You're a fool if you think I'd get jealous of a mall cop and some spoiled vault princess with Daddy issues.”

She didn't hit me, though I'd prepared myself for it. What she did stung worse. Gentle as a lover, she bunched up the front of my shirt collar. She stood taller, on her toes, until our foreheads touched. My heart felt upinned, full to burst.

The words came soft as cream, and they dug in like a knife: “You're fired.”

It took tremendous control to stay still while she unlatched herself and retreated back into the bar. I made myself look at her for the pure pain of it—fists clenched and gaze fixed downwards as the crowd slovenly parted for her. She didn't look back. It was the least I deserved.

I sharpened all the screaming need beneath my skin and moved in a different direction than I wanted--quickly and too monster-like--down the darkened, quiet halls.

James

Remington was very lazy and very, very strange. A frustrating individual, he insisted I rest beyond the time I needed to recuperate. He, too, slept long into the sunlight and what's more, set aside a couple more hours to “wake up”--which consisted of grumbling and grooming his beard, four glasses of dirty water, stretches, hacking coughs, and absentminded fiddling with his toolbench. He strummed and sang loudly to anything that resembled a tune, but I never knew the songs. I could only half sing along and appreciate it.

He was oddly private and open in the same breath—he had no qualms bringing up his past or explaining his oddball inventions and habits, but I always felt I was only getting pieces of his story. Almost all his adventures sounded like they were fish tales. The shadows beneath his bright eyes said otherwise.

On the trip out to the first vault we'd explore, he explained that he was once a bounty hunter in the Mojave. But he left, partly because he found his boss was a “ghoul-hater”, mostly because Mei Wong, his long time friend and accomplice, had taken the keys to his “destiny”, and led him on a chase.

“She thinks it's a game. She even warned me when we started working together. 'Don't rely on me, Cowboy. I'm a hungry ghost'.” He shrugged, “And in some ways, she's right—it is a game! I know all that. But I need those star caps. They're the only thing, 'side from my gun, I had from before I was born.”

He got teary-eyed, then laughed. This cycle of moodiness was an unyeilding pattern. As we set up in an old church tower overlooking vastly abandoned earth, he ruminated to the pearly clouds that he felt like a glitch. I could only shrug and nod halfway. It was bewildering to be around a man who bore his feelings so openly.

I questioned his sanity as he set up his bedroll, his rifle, several rations of food and smoked a piney smelling cigar. He placed that garden gnome and his guitar within in reach, as though they were especially necessary.

What Remington lacked in sense and energy, he made up for in inspiring strokes of brilliance. Just as I was about to question the merit in climbing to the top of an old belltower, he said,

“I think it's awful funny that old car lot 'cross the street ain't being used by any mutants or raiders. It's good scrap. Defensible.” He stopped humming, lay on his belly, and gazed down his scope.

Three minutes later, in the silent lavender of dusk, Remington fired his first bullet. It hit the glass window of an old atomic car. A shape flung itself from a vehicle nearby and sped erratically towards the source of the noise. Then another. Three more. Five more. Howls crawled down my spine like mud and ice.

Ferals. Remington shot one in the head.

“We don't have enough ammo...” I whispered, “And by my calculations...”

Like a yoa guai who'd been prodded with a stick, Remington emitted a grumbling cough that shut me up.

“Calculations are good, but I get more luck with trustin' my gut...”

I watched a drop of sweat bead down from my newfound guide's hairline. His brown eye whirled down the scope.

“...And bullshittin'.”

Remington pulled the trigger. My wondering eyes finally landed upon the small, dirty red propane tank propped against a half-rusted bumper. The boom that resulted was a fraction of the impact Mei Wong had created. Its cleverness was in the resulting chain reaction: two more junk cars ended up igniting, popping and combusting in short, but effective, bursts. Thick, black smoke billowed up from what was left of the lot. I looked over and Remington was smiling like a child, chin resting on his propped up fists.

“Now. Where's uh... what direction were we goin' in again?”

Charon

I was lost in more ways than one by the time I reached the Weatherly Hotel. The air had become even more stifling and stale upon returning to the upper levels. But I could barely notice. Outside I moved with silent purpose as I searched for Sister in the hall, but inside I felt pulled apart. That pins and needles feeling covered me again as I tried to rationalize why I'd whirled thrice at the sounds of doors opening, when they remained shut.

you're gonna be okay,

I wasn't okay. Not one bit. Every thought was an ugly turning pinwheel that kaleidoscoped into fists and fleeing.

By the time I noticed his ugly figure in the dim, Sister'd already rounded the corner. I had to suppress my instinct to run and grab him by his filthy coveralls. I didn't want to alert the sleepy guardsmen. And what use would I be if I were stopped by that lot? The tricky bastard slowed down his pace on purpose, even having the gall to smile back at me as he entered the marketplace.

It wasn't the icy blast of the wind outside that made me shiver. The ghostly clangs of our footsteps carefully at war didn't make me wince, or the dramatic way the nearby prewar statues looked more cursed under the moonless night.

No. The full sense of loss and fear of the unknown only came the moment we hit the dirt and I grabbed him and lifted him up by his greasy straps. Sister smiled that creased, queasy sort of grin. He sputtered a tweaking laugh:

“H-hey Red Guy. Been missing your shipments for a while now. That's three loads a guns, gone. I-I'm hearing complaints from Evergreen, too. Where's your leash, huh?”

“Ahzrukhal lost his head.” I grit my teeth, “You're next.”

Sister was looking beyond me, behind me. Green teeth still bared. My mind was no longer cool and controlled. Every word from my old bosses' mouth reflected in the weasel's yellowed, bloodshot eyes. Was Ahzrukhal behind me? Had he cheated death? I turned around.

There was a charred outline of a silhouette holding an eyebot

(no, dear boy. it's a mez-muh-tron, we're going to use it to help... soldiers like you)

and a blinding sensation of light attacking my eyes. The stars above whirled and blurred in my vision as my knees hit the dirt. My last thoughts before blacking out were the the globe at GNR plaza rolling off its pedestal, the ebony-haired stranger in the bar, and the question to the only answer that seemed to matter:

two across. first letter. six letters.

Wilde

The angelic looking bartender had long since cut me off, and Harkness eventually had to leave. I was truly, utterly alone now. I crossed my arms and lay my forehead on the cool, solid bartop. Duck and cover.

I only picked my head up slightly when I heard someone shifting to climb into the stool next to mine. When her eyes collided with my face, she hissed,

“Don't look at me!”

I obliged, but not before looking sideways at her. Her dress was ragged and worn, her face sweating, but still managed to carry an air that seemed beyond regal. She tightened again in her seat, lifting the gray scarf around her neck to her mouth.

Muffled, “Seriously. You're giving me The Fear!”

I was staring again. I shook my head at myself, apologized. I let the lights and colors swim in my view, dread mingled with guilt at indulging in my father's one vice.

“I've made a huge mistake.” I said, gaping stupidly into the rows of bottles on the wall.

An odd question from the woman: “Are you one of them?”

“Who's 'them'?” I asked sincerely.

“Oh well, whatever. Nevermind.” She was quaking along to the music on the jukebox as she lit and then proceeded to stamp out a cigarette. She proceeded to turn so she was practically talking to the metal wall, “There's a man here named Sister. He's a slaver, and he's after me. ...Dammit!” She tapped the countertop abruptly, seething, “I told him not to go alone.”

Her leg tapped on the stool in rapidly. A drunk in the back of the Muddy Rudder coughed, and I swore the ship lurched. Whatever 'the fear' was, I was starting to feel it, too.

“50 caps. That's all a pistol costs. Think you could help a girl out?”

Nonsense. The cheapest gun at the market was twice that, Charon had complained about it earlier. The thought of his name made my face hot and my insides turn in an unusual way. What had I done? I needed him back. I could no longer confront my Father alone. I needed a drink. Space. Perhaps a long nap.

“Are you listening to me? Your man knows Chinese. You know that? Where'd he learn it?”

I hid my head in my arms again.

“I didn't mean to dig a knife in you! You east coasters are so sensitive to questions. Stay cool, Blondie.”

I didn't have anymore caps, shamefully. I half recall drunkenly telling my new acquaintance a set of coordinates. Then, slipping Three Dog's key into her hand. I wished her luck. She frowned, as though expecting a trick. When there wasn't any, she looked guilt ridden and bit her thumb.

The stranger insistently led (okay, carried) me back to the fishmonger's room with anxious protectiveness, flinching at every single mannequin we passed.

“A Quick Fix is closed by now.” She whispered to herself. “I'm bound to be a mess tomorrow.”

“We're all a mess.” I said bitterly.

The woman patted at her forehead with that scarf, “Yeah, well. At least we're hot.”

I laughed and it repelled the darkness in me, at least until we neared the hangar dedicated to the marketplace.

At the end of our walk, she gave me Three Dog's key back.

“My name is Mei Wong. I really hope I never see you again.”

The shock of her name was dulled by a full night of booze, and she was nothing but shadow before you could say “farewell”. I could only close myself off in that broomcloset of a room and tsk at the sight of Charon's leather jacket left sloppily across “my” bunk.

A tidal of emotions came through, and I ended up pathetically buried in it, crying and digging at myself until I could shudder off into sleep with the stubborn thought that tomorrow would be better. The sun would rise, my partner would surely be back, and I would apologize.

I could fix this. Dogmeat kicked and snarled in her dreams, as though she knew it wasn't so.

Light would reveal the truth, as it so often did.

Chapter Text

Charlie

The sun was beaming down mean and hot through the jeep window like it was out to zap me.

My brother Frank was chipper and mean as ever, meanwhile.

“Nine across.... oh, wait, that's not right. Two across, starts with 'A', six letters.” He paused to sip from his canteen, “Goddess of justice and warfare, born from Zeus' head.”

“Persephone?” Phillip guessed aloud from his seat next to me.

“Shut the fuck up, Barrowman. For Chrissakes it starts with an 'A'.” My brother snarled. I don't know why he hated him so much. Then again, Frank hated anyone I had affection for.

"Just riling you up, Mac." Phillip murmured.

“That one's easy." I interrupted. I only answered on a count of it'd been a long drive, and I didn't feel like sitting through their bullshit any longer, "Athena.”

Frankie hounded me for getting it right on the first try, “Egghead trash.”

Philly piped up, breathless with nerves but trying to mask it, “Our destination's coming up, huh?"

“Uh-Yuh.” Frank mocked.

“Did you all take your Rad-X?” I asked. When no one answered, I asked again, shouting. The ute roared, but the panic in my head was louder. The orange landscape around us zipped by.

“For the last time, yes. Why are you always on about that?"

Philly nervously interrupted Frank's jabbing at me as we passed a run down gas station. "Oh, oh! I see civilization. "

“I joined the war effort cause I thought I was going to help people.” Philly'd complained in training. “...Dad was right.”

Frank had laughed in his sadistic way, “What kind of idiot joins the military to help people, huh? You join up to shoot commies.”

“And if you kill an innocent or two, they give you a medal.” Philly said bitterly.

I remember laughing at that. I hadn't adjusted well to the life either, but at that moment I'd resigned to know my place.

Frank had complaints, but opposite reasoning.

“Nevada? What the hell do they need in Nevada? We won't get to shoot nothin' there. Send us to Anchorage.”

"You ain't shooting anything." I snapped, "We just interpret."

"Spies. We're spies."

I rolled my eyes.

“I heard there are many classified operations in Nevada.”

“Like what?” Frank had snorted temperamentally at Phillip's interjection, “Digging holes?”

We had no idea.

The three of us went on operating with our usual dysfunction--Phillip biting his nails and Frank so insistent on doing the damn crossword even with talk of the world ending. We glanced over the brief again. There were some nuclear testing grounds nearby and the Big Hats wanted a small farming village nearby to be evacuated.

"Are we negotiating? Escorting? What?" Philly wondered aloud.

Frank made an ugly joke. Hatred whistled like a screaming kettle from underneath my skin.

But something was all wrong. The thought trickled in the moment we pulled onto dirt roads, growing as we slowed, and I felt I knew the second my eyes spied a mean little bark scorpion crawling near my booted feet as we stepped out of the jeep.

The scene was unlike what we'd seen before. People lined up all up outside on a main street. A few more troops and trucks, too.

The mood in the jeep shifted as we parked and Philly looked as though he were going to vomit, he was so anxious. My brother was leering all-wheres and nowhere with an expressionless face; chewing his inner cheeks slow.

"This is.... off." He said to me. I didn't respond. I felt like I wasn't all there, drifting and fading in the background. As we joined the other soldiers, the picture became clearer.

The Big Hats had dragged out the townspeople. Even the elderly—one woman so frail I swore a wind could sweep her up and carry her off. I watched her struggle to climb down the steps of a feed store, her adult daughter helping her down; a baby cradled in the crook of an arm, wrapped in a thin blanket.

The baby began to wail, like the nearby testing sirens would in days time. I watched the Sargent's face wrinkle up with impatience as he pulled out a clipboard.

We formed up quiet and mild, though the air seemed to snap around us. Skies were clear, but a storm was building.

Then, we heard the words straight from the Sarge's mouth: 'Little Yangtze'.

We'd never been stationed out there. But I'd heard stories.

A low murmur from a few grunts. Philly was hissing nervously at my side, "I thought we only sent prisoners there."

The Big Hat barked an order to be silent.

Phillip protested again, louder.

"Sir, that's against--"

The Sargent corrected him. He shrank back into line. Something ignited and died cold in me all the same. My fists clenched. The tensions on both sides of the authority were strong now. It swelled as the baby screamed louder. The more it swelled, the more belligerent things became.

"Somebody shut that baby up!" Frankie hollered. The antagonizer to the end.

Phillip's voice was high and cracking with anger, "They can't go to Big Mountain! We can't be--"

Frustration and disorder mounted. When the Sargent snarled and grabbed the old lady, that's when all hell broke out of me.

If you asked why, I didn't have an answer. I was a strong personality guided by bad temperament. And when my emotions screamed too loud, my body sought to respond in kind.

Like the numerous, bridge-burning brawls I'd gotten myself into prior, I Had to Do It. That's what I told my folks, anyways. And they'd laugh. From the first time I overturned little Timmy's lemonade stand to the 'unsportsmanlike conduct' that cost me a full ride at CIT; my violence was always excusable, situational. As far as my elders were concerned, it was the other guy's fault for standing in the way of my fist.

“You should consider joining the Service, Junior. Your brother's meeting with the recruiter tomorrow. It'll be good for you. Builds character.”

Such a casual tone, while The War ravaged all it touched. The military itself was rife with corruption and infighting by now. But no one told us to stop pretending. And nobody told me that being a soldier would only sharpen the things that made me ugly.

I remember grabbing the offending Sergeant by the arms, digging so he'd release his grip. I pulled him back from the townsfolk as the other soldiers broke rank to form a horseshoe shape around us, and what started out as a simple impulse to snap the Sargent's clipboard in half quickly accelerated into what would later be referred to as 'The McCarron Incident'.

We wrestled in the sand like beasts, cursing and spitting. Commie rat! Bastard. Dead meat. I can't even recall his name, but I remember the springing pain as he cracked my nose, the blood wooshing in my ears as I jammed my knee into his dipping stomach.

That baby's crying was still crystal solid over everything else.

I was too busy watching the Sargent's sand-stained hands frantically reaching to grab his pistol. Such a trivial thought in that frozen millisecond: pissed off at the wrong place in the wrong time. again.

I thought I was dead. I was the opposite. I recalled my college days and the sound of a runner's gun, my feet bounding off the track. The little yellow bark scorpion flashed in my mind. I'd always been faster, stronger. I dropped my opponent. Jolted my weight and fists forth like a supernova exploding to eat the dark. And there, in broad daylight, I became someone no one could recognize.

I saw red. Purple, yellow, blue. And when I finally realized that my bloodied hands were capable of stopping, when my brother finally seized my shoulders and dragged me away from what could only be called a bloody mess--that's when I realized for certain: this world was going to end, but I was going to Hell regardless.

“He killed him!” I heard a civilian cry.

“Jesus, Charlie! Jesus!” Was all Frank could muster out. You knew it was bad when my brother sounded lost and wavery.

I stumbled like a towering drunk to face terrified innocents and squadmates huddled together in clusters--frozen in place despite the heat. No one wanted within ten feet of me. No one would so much as peer in my line of sight, save that family with the infant.

Phillip was the one to start directing the civilians back into our trucks.

His tone was heavy, dreadful despite its command, “Get his keys. This can't be for nothing.”

My unprecedented outburst turned driven and focused. I was splattered with blood and still trembling with adrenaline as I searched the deceased superior's uniform. I brought the large keyring to the only real friend I had. Phillip took them gently. The elderly woman didn't so much as blink at Philly when tried and failed to hand them over, however. She and her kin did finally follow when they saw me grabbing the canisters of gasoline out of our own ute, but not without staring at us like we were insane.

Frank was in the background, screaming at us the whole way. I could only half hear him.

“You're giving them our gas, too? Fuck. Jesus. We are so fucked. Bickle, somebody get a jacket or a towel or... or.. somethin'. Cover that... face.... ”

Philly did not leave me despite the chaos. He always held onto his kindness and morals like it could stop the bombs. It wouldn't.

Arguments about who to call in and what to do with me circulated in panicked outrage.

There were gunshots in the air. Frank demanded quiet. "Nobody touches my deadmeat brother, or I start making this worse."

He looked at me. The darkness and vitriol in his eyes was what kept the rest of the soldiers silent.

How quickly we dissolved, when a single atom split the wrong way.

Philly kept half sobbing while he worked. I couldn't think, couldn't breath. Somehow I was still moving.

The townsfolk followed the old woman like it was an unspoken rule. She followed me to the largest of the vehicles on the outskirts of the desert, helped round up everyone and what little belongings they had without speaking to us.

I opened the door to the driver's seat and Philly tried, once more, to give the keys to the old woman.

“Home,” He kept clumsily repeating with watery eyes, “Just.... go home.”

The old woman squinted down at me after climbing into the driver's seat. Finally snatched up the keys from my outstretched hand:

“I speak English, you damned fools. You greenhorns have any idea where home is after this mess?” She cursed as she adjusted the driver's seat. She was right. Mean old women usually were.

"You could hide out in the old testing grounds a while." Phillip suggested, nervously taking a step back as soon as the woman looked him in the eye, "They don't start construction for another month. It's a risk, but..."

His voice trailed off. He hid behind me slightly.

"We will survive." She said plainly, "But you? You're all dead."

I'll never forget that steely grim line that twitched in her brow as she started the ignition and drove off. We watched tire tracks in the sand stretch and stretch until the truck looked like a mirage, then, no more.

When dusk came, Phillip was the only one who dared to sit next to me.

"They're gonna do worse than kill us, you know." His eyes were teary, sea green. He sobbed quietly. I just clasped my hands and stared into them.

"I'm sorry, Charlie."

We rarely used first names. But coming from Phillip, it felt warm.

"I.... did the wrong thing. Did I do the wrong thing?" His voice shook. He looked like he was going to rip at his hair again.

The feed store sign above us swung in the desert wind. I offered him my hand. He took it furtively. The sun had lowered, but not by much.

By nightfall, we could hear the sirens and helicopters. It was all a bonebreaking fall from here. I couldn't feel sorry. I couldn't feel very much at all.

Penny

They brought the big ghoul in a little while after noon. I'd been in the fits of a nasty fever or some such. The new arrival fell into the Mungo pen like a giant tree, straight and face down in the dirt. So dense that clouds of dust had to settle around him.

Squirrel and the others scuttled to the opposite side of our small pen.

“Penny, get over here before he eats ya!”

“All day you've been mocking me and now you want me to come sit over there? Buzz off.” They'd been on my case about crying when the slavers sent Rory to The Box. I couldn't help it. I'd known Rory for two years, and to a lamplight kid, that was practically forever.

My tears tapered into sniffles. I'd never seen a ghoul this close before. I wondered if all ghouls were Mungos. MacCready said he saw a ghoulified kid once, but MacCready was as much a false talker as he was foulmouthed.

“Does he stink?” Squirrel wiped his snotty nose on his crusted shirt, “If you touch his skin will it fall off?”

"Shut up." I ignored their stupid chatter and did what was always habit: watched and listened. The guards were too preoccupied and all abuzz about a brahmin or something. Clueless.

The ghoul looked mean, but not in the way the raiders were. His leather pants were filthy and his shirt untucked and torn. They'd come a long way, and I had a clue as to how they kept him half-asleep the whole way. Those funny mezzers must've zapped him. Obviously Eulogy thought he was important—fetching one guy from a long distance just wasn't smart, even for a stupid Slaver.

I backed away when the Mungo's hand suddenly twitched to life, and he gasped a wheezing breath. It wasn't the noise or the movement that startled me. It was his eyes; flying open like his own ghost was back in his head again. They were clouded over, almost like he was really dead.

“Wild.” He coughed. He said it a couple more times. His voice cracked and parched like it meant “water”.

He dragged himself into a sitting position against the brick wall we shared. I continued to eye him carefully through the bent up chainlink that separated our respective pens. The ghoul started breathing funnier and curled up in a ball for a minute. I looked away then, gave him what little privacy we could afford.

I broke out into a gagging cough, doubling over with a burn in my stomach.

My eyes were watery and pained. My skin felt slimy from the inside. My gut broiled. I heard the Mungo's voice rasp,

“Kid. You have radiation poisoning.”

The cave mushrooms would fix that. But I wasn't anywhere near Little Lamplight. I was in the dread Paradise Falls with a collar around my neck and no hope of escape. I retched a breath, lacking the energy to explain.

A small bottle rolled to a stop at my scabbed up elbow. RAD-X. I picked it up furtively. There were only two pills left. It took me a second to realize what it was. We Lamplighters never bought any--we didn't have that problem in the caves--but I knew Rory always kept it in supply.

“Please. Take it.” His chest rose and fell hard. He blinked upwards, swallowing hard at the sky.

I hoped he wasn't gonna die. I'd seen too much of that today.

“Tell me your name.” I said.

“...Sharon.” He answered quietly. There was a struggle in his face, like he was grasping to remember. How someone forgot their own name unless they were a fiend, I didn't know yet.

“I'm Penny.” A cool breeze swept through, hitting some windchimes strung up near the pens' shabby entrance. You could almost forget the stench of rotting carcasses and rusted cars that walled us in for a moment. “If you see anything we could use to get out of here, tell me.”

“It's too late.” Squirrel bemoaned, “Soon as we hit that gate running, our heads'll just pop from the collars.”

"Squirrely," I swallowed the Rad-X as soon as I saw the coast was clear. “I'm not dying here just because you gave up. Watch the guards.”

Wilde

I awoke to a headache and a rotten worry still buzzing in my bones. I cursed my way to the showers and sat beneath the water. Wondered about the rain. Dogmeat was whining and scritching at the door by the time I emerged clean and sober enough to carry onward. I found my underthings and zipped up my vault suit in a hurry.

I was sifting through a sloppy mix of emotions while I hastily poked at a cold breakfast. I dragged my feet and chewed at myself about the decision to see Dr. Li. Truthfully, I didn't want to do it without my guide. The young girl at the diner refilled my water glass with a concerned smile. I needed to apologize, and perhaps a little selfishly, receive an apology in kind. Dammit! Why did I bring Harkness up? Why had Charon spoken to me like that? The night before had been... unlike us.

He's just a salty, harsh fellow. And misery loves company. I rationalized. But my gut said something else.

Something was wrong. I could see it in the way Dogmeat panted and refused to make herself comfortable. I could practically taste it in my eggs.

When Charon didn't return by nightfall, I went looking for Harkness for help. Busy, of course. I chewed at another nail.

It was the infamous Mei Wong who found me pacing just outside of Rivet City. It seemed like a twist of fate. I remember I'd been staring distractedly at the moon, debating whether I should seek help in Underworld.

"The moon's a lovely thing." A cooing voice said next to me in the shadows, "So far removed from all this pain. I wanna be just like him, don't you?"

Mei's gesture slapped me back into reality.

"Typically, the moon is referred to as a female." I replied with a smile, welcoming the conversation. Part of me wondered if I was weak, finding so much comfort in strangers. I was very aware of the irony--being a Lone Wanderer who couldn't stand to be without a friend.

"Typical is boring." She leaned on the rusted railing. She was sweating.

"What's typical, huh?" I winked.

Her eyes snapped to meet mine. Her demeanor changed as swift as lightning:

“I'll cut to it, Blondie. Your problems are now my problems.” I couldn't tell if her tone was now annoyed with me or in earnest. Mei began moving down the bridge and waved for me to come along. I followed, partly because I was curious, but mostly because she had that kind of command. We were wordless all the way across and down the stairs. She stopped us at a dark patch outside the muddy banks of the Broken Bow.

She threw up her hands like the moment called for fanfare:

“And? See the problem?”

I shielded my brow as though it might help me see clearly in the dark. “What are you talking about? I don't see anything.” Only the dirty sheen of the moon reflected off the water in the cold night.

“Exactly!” Mei framed the empty landscape with her hands, “My horse was waiting here, do you understand? I don't know how, but they stole my Ghost.”

“I'm sorry. Who?”

She glowered while she tugged at her scarf, “Angel Eyes really thought he could handle it, I'm guessing? What a mess. I think your man was wrapped up in some trouble. Unless he stole Ghost?”

I assumed she meant Charon. I'd never been so threatened by a stare. "He wouldn't."

"Oh yeah?"

I stood my ground, "Absolutely not. How do you know my partner?"

"Shh. Not outside. They might have ears." She glared.

I could only squint. I disliked the ominous vagueness, but I would soon find it was crucial to Mei's operations.

I quieted. When Mei seemed satisfied, she glanced around shiftily once more in the silence of the night, as though she felt the statues themselves were watching. She wore the same restless frown that she'd introduced herself with the night before at the Muddy Rudder. Then she softened, her voice steadied,

"Follow me."

My heart jumped into my ears from the moment she said that, all the way back to Rivet City and up to her room. The bitterness and the confusion in my soul was still clawing away, but it could always be set aside for other people. I immersed myself in her and my surroundings. Her space was cozy, clearly temporary. It smelled of sex and smoke. Pages from old magazines speckled the walls. The subjects were oddly clashing: home décor and women in sleek, polished clothing were the primary focus.

“I think it's pretty janky how we used to dress.” Mei became less chilling after lighting a cigarette, motioning to some of the magazine covers.

I blushed. I was caught red-handed, nosing through people's things again. Mei didn't seem to care. “Did you know we used to shave? Isn't that just the craziest?”

She seemed surprisingly relaxed with me now, even as she hurriedly dragged a familiar looking duffel bag out of a corner. Where had I seen it? My hungover brain–shorted and snappy--simply didn't want to register.

I found myself drawn to an icebox in the corner. I couldn't believe it was in such good condition.

"It's locked for a reason." Mei's tone was darkly serious again, flicking her cig in a dusty red ashtray at her bedside. I blushed and apologized. She'd already continued on,

“I came here to find Mr. Burke a few days ago. That trail's gone cold, unfortunately, but things started looking more fun when you arrived.”

I could only stare blankly as she opened that duffel bag, full of guns and small explosives.

"Fun?" I composed myself upright, "I'm trying to find my friend and my father, I'm not here for entertainment."

Mei's puzzling, dramatic brand of wit cut as deeply as her eyes, "Says the gal with the bright blue leather jumpsuit and a dog at her heels." She smiled. It was curiously alluring, disturbing. It carried its own weight: a laughter at companionship, the knowledge that she worked better alone in ways the rest of the world did not.

"Listen, I'm a liar and I'm a thief. I think you caught onto to that last night at the bar. But if my premonition is right--and you bet The Cowboy it is--you have no chance of reaching your ghoulfriend without me."

"If you're a liar, how can I trust you?"

"Do you think I'd just tell you that if I planned to axe you? Come on."

"Alright." I nodded, "What's your stake in this?"

"I give you the name of the man who might've seen him last. Do some digging. In return, I tag along and you help me find my horse. They must've stolen her when they ambushed your companion."

"Are you saying... Charon's been taken? Who? How?"

"How should I know? I just know a vulture was looking for him. A gal's gotta keep tabs on a vulture--especially one that dabbles in the slave trade."

A sour taste reached my throat. Every cell in my body seemed to grip and vibrate with an indignant, quiet rage that I felt was from another person, another time.

(we have to do something)

Mei Wong smiled. Big and bright. She saw the answer on my face already. Venom and warmth in her hand as she offered it to me, "Let's make a deal."

Charon

(can't all be for nothing)

It was painful getting up, all the mind I had left swerving in my head like I had no business telling it what to do. The contract was gone, after all. I scrambled for my senses as I grasped for the shoddy support of the chain-link fence. I gripped feverishly for the bobby pin in my pants pocket. The nearest guard, Forty, barely noticed me with the bottle of liquor hanging limply in his hand. He jolted, spilled some of the amber liquid on the lifeless earth. I twitched as it hit my toes, holding my breath as Forty stilled, and muttered himself back to sleep.

The lock slipped out and through easy enough. With the threat of the explosive collar around my neck, the pens were really more of an effort to dehumanize than anything else. The windchimes started up again. I made my move. When the gate screeched a little I winced, relieved by the mystery confusion that had driven all the guards away to the front gates.

Every slaver other than Forty was circled shoulder-to-shoulder around what looked like a mutated animal. I didn't really care what was distracting them; but I was thrilled to find they were inattentive. And why shouldn't they be? Any captured slave with sense would try to run, and the collars would surely take care of that. They had little reason to look up.

But I had even less self preservation after losing my damn contract, coupled with a rabid force in my body that only wanted to rip and punch and tear. Was it the lack of a leash or the backwash of remembering all my mistakes? Either way, I only wanted to lash out. Just like before, and there was plenty to stand in the way of my fists.

Even in the haze, I had my sights set on the man in charge.

Eulogy Jones took no effort to spot. His red coattails flapped in the wind, revealing a shining purple liner. Looked like a split tongue. And it was appropriate. As cold as he was self-absorbed, Eulogy was only missing his devil's prongs.

Before my fingers could even reach the trim of his collar, the cursed technology at my own neck began to emit jarring beeps.

Eulogy whipped around to reveal a cattle prod, buzzing ugly and catching me in my hamstring before I could even find surprise.

Ymir and Jotun were hurtling me towards the ground in an instant. I clawed and cursed as they dragged me back to the Slave Pens. From there, it was a beating I didn't know I could take that afternoon--their boots in my already storming gut and throws battering my long scrambled head.

Scrambled. Eggs. Sunlight overhead stabbed my eyes as Eulogy barked out, "Control yourselves! That's merchandise, dammit!"

I groaned. I was certain I lost a molar. I coughed a fit, till it felt like the skin and muscles in my chest were ripping, tearing apart all over again. I spit blood and enamel. Yep. There went the molar.

I laughed weakly, turning my head to meet Eulogy's boots. Spotless in the cracked, gray earth.

"Where's my guns, Red?" Eulogy tapped his foot with a snobbish air. "Hm?"

I dragged myself upright again. Stumbled. Again. I wondered, briefly, why I kept doing it.

Eulogy continued with confidence. A guy like that loved to hear his own voice. "You know, I was in talks to get your contract and everything. But looking at you now, you're pretty weak."

I spit out more blood. Not daring to give the satisfaction of attention.

"It's alright. Take your time. I'll get my cap's worth out of you eventually." Eulogy brought out a shining case of cigars from his breast pocket. They were thin and smelled like cherries, the kind Wilde liked best. I rubbed at my torn lips with the back of my hand. I couldn't even feel fear, despite my head head being a jam. I was the lowest I'd ever been since... my name'd changed I suppose.

But I was breathing and not under Eulogy's employ. That was something.

"You've gotta give me coordinates, Red." He traced a section of the chain fence with elegant fingers, "Or maybe point me to more of those Mezzers Ahzrukhal enticed me with when we met. Can you?"

"Only thing you're getting from me is a fight." I said finally.

Eulogy extinguished his cigar real slow onto one of his obnoxious cuff links. He slowly smiled despite the slow burning rage in his black eyes,

"Then you will suffer until I find a buyer."

Same as it ever was, I thought.

He announced loudly that I was to be given no food or water for the next two days. Then he zapped Forty into a drooling mess of tears, "Don't let me catch you drinking on shift again."

He smiled at me coldly before leaving, "You'll crack. The bird always eats the worm."

I slid against the brick walls behind the pens and crumpled in a heap again as soon as he disappeared into a nearby building. Penny spoke up after a while,

"If you keep pretending to be brave like that, you'll wind up in The Box." Her voice trembled, "...Where they put my friend Rory."

"Mind your business." I exhaled a shaky breath. My halfway mind recognized the small barrel of radiation nearby. I winced away from it just slightly.

"Cold way to treat someone after offering 'em rad-x." Penny spit.

I sighed, staring up at the unusually clear sky, losing myself and the passing of time while Penny paced incessantly on her side of the chainlink.

I hoped Wilde was alright. I could feel myself slipping away into a world I did not want all over again.

"Why, Charlie?"

I shrugged, "Just had to."

"That's no decent answer."

"This ain't a decent world."

"....What do we do now?" Frank's and Penny's voice in my head at once.

I blinked into the yellow sun. We'd wait and see if justice would be kind. That rusty old wind chime sounded again near the now hazy, falling vision of 'The Box'.

Nodding off.

"Hey. Hey, Mungo." One of the boys skittered nervously up to the fence as Penny sobbed, "Hey! Don't fall asleep. Don't leave us here."

Whimpering. I heard a familiar sound. (hooves ? no)

"Izzat a bird?"

"That's definitely not a bird." Penny sniffed. "Look alive."

Too late for that. I would've laughed, had I been able. Instead, I just tasted the blood in my mouth and the grit against my face as I sunk face down, losing consciousness again.

Remington

"Are you quite sure you know where we're going?"

What in the steamed hell gave him that kind of an idea? I'd asked him first. I squinted.

"I don't, sir." I affirmed aloud.

"You... haven't got a map... or?"

"I got a sweet compass. Err... no object permanence, though." I joked.

James did not take it as such, and was visibly frustrated. He smoothed away at his silver hair, the creases in his eyelids bunching up at my unappreciated cleverness still lingering to the silence in the night air. The fire played with his features in a soothing rhythm. I brought out my guitar and hummed.

Most times, I just went along with where the weirdness took me. Maybe I didn't wind up where I wanted some days, but I was always going somewhere.

James rattled on, "Perhaps we should go north? A merchant in Megaton mentioned a Vault without a number..." He muttered as though some of the pathways in his head were clogged, "An anomaly...but if... hm..."

James tugged at his hair some more. I coughed. When he looked up, I smiled conversationally, "Have you ever seen a Gary?"

Wilde

Sister was indignant and vocal in his outrage when Harkness took him into custody. It didn't matter to me in the least.

"Getting angry won't solve anything." I told him cooly. Harkness nodded emotionlessly. I matched his pace as he pried open a rusty door to the railing on the upper decks. Seeing the greasy informant squirm wasn't pretty, but this was my lead and I needed information fast.

I didn't know I could twist at a man's arm so hard or claw into the flesh so deep. I was the hawk with a mouse in that moment, like in my old nature magazines.

All I could think about was my friend.

"Where is Charon?" I lurched forward and stamped on his toes. It sent Sister's quivery frame gripping for the railing behind with fear; a fear I found far too much joy causing.

"H-hey I don't know what you're talking about." Sister stammered. I could see in his eyes a panic brewing. The blooming awareness that he'd fucked with the wrong forces of nature.

Harkness calmed the rage I felt overtaking me with his patient, monotonously clear voice: "We can hold you here all night, Sister. Take some of your own advice, Wilde. Anger isn't going to solve this."

My hawk's grip on the man loosened.

(can not will not)

"You're afraid." Sister licked his lips from beneath the curtain of his greasy hair. "You should be. Red's gone to Paradise Falls."

My eyes turned to shimmering slits. I could feel my bones shake as I finally, fully released my hold on the greaseball. I pushed him before moving on entirely, just enough to make him squeal and flail to catch his balance on the vessel.

I nodded my thanks to Harkness in silence while I rechecked the ammo in my belt.

“You’re not truly going there, are you?” Harkness glanced back to me. Sister was quivering on the floor, not acting tough anymore. The light dawns on marblehead.

“I have to.” I told Harkness. "I have to fix this."

"He worked with slavers..."

"Under orders for a very evil, very sick man. Isn't that what you did, before you stopped being a course--"

“Sh, sh. Keep your voice low. It's just... you’d better come back.” My friend remarked worriedly, “And you can tell Sally I’ll keep her room safe. The Railroad owes her.”

Harkness and I said our farewells. I heard Sister trying to bribe Harkness to let him go.

Cold and swift, “I’m sorry, Sister. I can’t let you do that.”

—

I stopped by my room to retrieve Charon's leather jacket. The weight of it on my shoulders felt heavy with a mix of hurt, screaming nerves, and longing. I rechecked supplies. Scarce.

Dogmeat whined near the door. I found myself saying, "Guess I really am a mess on my own, huh girl?" I wanted to break down and scream. Cry under the shower again. I didn't have time.

When I made it back to Mei's quarters, I was in full disbelief over how quickly she’d gotten packed. The woman was a flurry, a blizzard of productivity. She’d laid out a change of clothing on her lushly covered bed—black leathers paired with red, silken pinstriped fabric. The ensemble had been sewn together into a cutout, raider reminiscent mess, but it looked sturdy.

“Got in touch with a friend from The Outcasts for help, but they rarely extend more than a greeting for outsiders. That means we need a Plan B.” She insisted between drags of a cigarette.

I had no sensible response. Each time I opened my mouth, it seemed she had a new and interesting thought to share. I could only watch as she gathered more things from a chem station--bottles of luminescent purple going straight into a dusty canvas bag. I saw the spent cans of black spray paint in the corner near a dimly lit lamp, then heard the proverbial light click.

I interjected, "It's you! You've been leaving me the caches!"

“They're for anyone with the mind to take them." Mei explained, "Yep. Sally Hatchet, as she's known out west. I've been helping humans and non-alike make like Houdini from their masters for years. ...And ...cutting down the ones who piss me off.”

"Harkness mentioned the rail--"

"I've been working alone since long before you stepped out of your Vault. I help the occasional traveler or gun club; if they align with my whims."

“And that's why you want into Paradise Falls with me?” I said as conversationally as I could. I'd wondered why a perfect stranger might volunteer for such a thing. Something in her dark eyes still made me tremble, but they were brave. Undeniably brave.

“It'll be fun!” Mei said brightly. Her hands shook with excitement and something else as she deposited several tins of mentats into a smaller rucksack.

Remington

"How about a tune instead? OH, the big rock candy mountain--"

"Remington, please."

"Yessir." I muttered, scritching under the brim of my hat.

Dusk was on us. We'd paused at a Red Rocket so I could siphon some fuel and search through other junk. James wasn’t having any more of my stories, and now my songs were off the table, too. Some people didn't know how to have fun.

"I must admit that I find you trustworthy, Remington, but.... we've been collecting trash for an entire day now." James finally made his distaste known. I never understood people in a hurry. We all got to the end of it, one way or the other. If he wasn’t so damned attractive, I’d have dumped him long past Falls Church.

And you need those bottlecaps, my hand reached for the trusty pendant around my neck without thought. I struggled to find that tattered list of Vaults hiding in my duster. With a lazy grudge, I swept the horizon with my night scope. Felt my stomach on the ground and let the sounds of D.C.’s Capital shell filter in and out of my ears with its creeping sounds. I stilled and stayed and listened to my heart, listened to my gut.

There were many different ways to survive out here in the asshole of America, but those who excelled knew the fundamental; we were all at the world’s messy mercy now, and if you weren’t patient, you were going to have be ready to carry a hell of a lot of firepower and mistakes. James knew this too (a fella that old had to), but he was letting the sight of his end goal crowd him.

Smith. Casey. West. A voice that had no body gently prodded way, way back in my head. With it, the smell of gasoline. Marlon Brando was right. He always was. Except when he wasn’t.

James paced behind me nervously. To an outsider, it would seem clever--a genius simply consulting himself. Really, I knew better than most, it was a quelling stress. More fundamentally, the chatter was messing with my quiet.

“I have also found several terminals in Vault 101 that mention a Dr. Braun….? If that helps. The Garden of Eden Creation Kit…. A device capable of removing irradiated particles from its surrounding radius. Such a device could filter the Potomac in a near instant. Salvation exists, Remington. If we could only find the answer..."

I coughed loud, snorting impertinently when James' steps finally slowed.

"First order of business: you need to set down." I finally sat up straight and stowed my gun to the side.

James paused to itch at the back of his head, his face budding red like the gas tanks behind him. Despite his flustered reaction (I'd gander very few had dared to tell him to stop moving), he mirrored my movement and sat. I instructed him to feel his seat on the hard earth, and take a deep breath.

After he'd done so a few times, I sighed,

"Does the name 'Smith Casey' mean somethin' to you?"

"Is this another story? I do not wish--"

I raised a palm and shook my head slow, "Keep an eye out for it. That's all I'm saying. For now, we're heading west a-ways."

James no longer questioned me, and I could tell I'd earned his trust from here on out. Satisfied, I dug again into my duster to find a packet of dried macaroni cheese. I ripped it open, sneakily watching the murky sky for any plumes of colorful smoke. I knew there wouldn't be any, but boy, was it a habit that made me.

Penny

"Is... is it dead?"

"Sharon's asleep." I corrected Squirrel.

"Looks dead t'me."

"What are you, a doctor? Shut up." I snapped. We were all quiet, reserving energy, till the sun went down. I spoke up after a hard, short nap in the dirt.

"Sammy, did they take your binoculars?" My stomach was no longer screaming at me from the inside. I stared intently at the slumbering ghoul, like I was trying to garner some of the inhuman bravery I'd seen earlier that afternoon. I needed to investigate further and find a way out. Help Rory. My mind was settled. I would stop at nothing.

"Psst. Penny."

Sammy looked first to see that the other guards were still distracted in the dark. When they were, he furtively brought them out from under his scarf. I motioned, quietly stacking some old milk crates atop each other. One way or another, I was going to get to that fire escape and reach the roof.

I waited for a rotation and ignored the other boys' cowardly rejections. I moved up and along the red bricks with silence and shadow. Even when the rust scraped against my fingers, even as my knees threatened to give, I lost myself in the climb. I would only go mad, sitting still. Stillness meant death.

When my small hand found the boarded up rooftop (thankfully neglected and dark) I threw my tired bones onto it. I shook, still dealing with exhaustion and the heavy blow from radiation sickness. I tried to sit up, but checkered stars interrupted my eyes. Splotches of black and white. The moon and the stars were cool, crisp blue. Dusted across the sky in endless clusters, like the little glowing cave mushrooms back home.

I remember thinking how funny it was, finding beauty in such a high, awful place. Freedom felt far off, either way. I blinked away tears. The time to cry certainly wasn't now.

I lifted myself into a sitting position and raised the binoculars. Adjusting to the grainy green landscape was too much, and I considered then and there to drop this plan--but when I caught sight of the unusual aircraft landing on the outskirts of Paradise, I felt stilled. I watched for a while with dumb clarity. Hope, curiousity, and fear swam around in my chest. It was a big machine, whirring. It whipped up a cloud of dust as it landed.

Eulogy's guys on the outskirts were already scrambling. Soon, they'd be up and alert out here.

I panicked. The climb back down was a rushing blur. I prayed as I worked to find my footing quickly in the dark, and didn't dare breathe. Sammy was there to help me down from the fire escape, making grabbing motions with his grubby hands. Probably just wanted his binoculars. I couldn't care less.

"You're a clever little punk, aren't you?" The voice when I finally hit the ground was a nightmare.

When I turned and blinked to realize Eulogy had been standing there with a searing white flashlight and a shit-filled grin the whole time, that's when I cared.

"I've no time for clever things."

All the wind came up out of me as I stood icy cold near the felled milk crates. And when Eulogy personally grabbed hold of my arm and had me marching towards The Box, that's when I cried.

Wilde

The hangar door to the Science Lab was half open when Mei and I finally slinked out of her abode. Her plain manner of dress was now covered in pieces of chromed recon armor, shaped in a way that made her look light on her feet.

Any other day I might've been caught staring again, but I was distracted by the Lab and the silver-haired figure I swore I could recognize. Doctor Li exited then, clearly not interested in visitors. She was arguing cooly with another colleague. Her authority was made clear by the way the guards stood at alert and surrounded her suddenly.

I would've approached, but the air was tense and I felt distracted. Torn up and inside out was more accurate, though I wouldn't let an outsider see it. The man I'd punched was back on duty. His eye was a delightful shade of eggplant. At least I didn't feel torn about that.

I turned my attention to the inside of the lab. That silver-haired figure within turned his head to reveal a profile that looked too much like my own. The heavy door was halfway through its weighted course to slam shut. A horrifying thought: I was watching fate slip through my fingers like sands in the glass, and if I missed it, I would miss my father. But I wasn't ready, was I? The weight of the leather jacket on my shoulders. I felt sickened and chilled. What had I done, speaking to Charon that way? What had we done?

"Blondie." My confused and tearful eyes spun around. Mei cleared her throat. She gave a rare, soft smile and let Dogmeat sniff her hand. My new friend hardened again when her eyes met mine.

It was strange. As if she could sense exactly what I was wrestling with, "You going to stick to the plan? Or follow me?"

There was little time to hesitate, was there? My partner was in trouble.

"I'm with you." I nodded.

A chesire's grin, "Cool."

Charon

Even after being further addled by sleep and memory, my adaptive eyes could spot them easily. Eulogy was marching angrily past the pens, that kid Penny in tow. She was crying, worse than ever.

The crying's what I remember most.

A siren of pain from my shoulder crunched down on my bones. Made my neck lock uncomfortably.

The shift from stillness to aggression was sudden. It was so easy to slip into, time and time again. I reached for the barrel of rads nearby with blind and spiteful grace. A heap of sludge was in my hand before I could inhale and I lashed out, fast and forced. Eulogy was screaming in heated panic before I could flinch from touching the damn radioactive waste myself.

He clawed at the side of his face, desperately trying to wipe nothing long after removing the offense. "The Box!" He foamed, "You bitch! To the Box!"

I couldn't be bothered when Clover grabbed at my collar and yanked me out into the open. I only turned my gaze once. To confirm Penny was, at the very least, led back into the pen in all the rush.

Eulogy was screaming babbling threats. He didn't need me; he was going to sell my shotgun to the Evergreen fucks. "Your corpse would make a fine scarecrow, Guy! One way or another, I'm breaking even!"

I wouldn't dignify him with a response. And I couldn't besides. Before I could get a handle on my bearings, Clover'd already shoved my broken body into the modified Life Preservation Center.

The cold metal door slammed and locked. I had nowhere to go and nothing left to lose. You'd think a fellow would grow used to the feeling by now. I hadn't. A sick weight occupied my core as the silence settled in around me. I settled in with it.

I heard a body move close to me in the darkness.

Light flickered weakly from above. I thought of Wilde's stealthboy phasing in and out back at the science museum. My lungs struggled and my temples pounded. I half wept. Turn it on or turn it off. Don't leave me in between.

"I remember you." Rory managed to croak out between the ugly flicker.

He continued, despite the dismissive wave I gave him, "You and that Vault Dweller? In museum station."

I groaned, hugging at myself and dreading the fact that so many people were recalling my face. So far, my being "memorable" had only led to more loss.

Rory went on, "I did what you said and grew a spine. Some fun it's been."

"Yeah, well. If you were smart, you wouldn't take my advice." I snapped.

The little redhead laughed, "I can't say I regret it. I took some of them down, that's more than I ever did before." Rory nodded while wiping at his blooded chin. I softened some, grunted in agreement. Rare that I could find a sense of friendship in others so quickly, especially smoothskins. Rarer still in Paradise.

"So this is it, huh?" Rory kept talking to plug the silence, "Two rats in a trap, stuck in this... this uh... what was this place?"

"A strip mall." I answered him, despite it flying over his head. Few weeks ago I wouldn't have an answer, but now, the row of dilapidated shops and the giant Big Boy in the center of all the little shopfronts... just made sense. The answers were there all along. And now, a bit of the pre-war me was sticking around, for good or ill.

The lights flickered again. I remembered more, blurrier things. The swelling emptiness I felt as we were being sentenced. Not to death. But something secret, something underground.

I could hear the screaming metal. That big, beastly cog of a door. Being... trapped.

A very familiar voice. A hated voice. Slimey, slinky. One that made me feel vulnerable and violent in one move. Doctor Khaulman:

Specialist McCarron. Though I suppose it's just "Charlie McCarron," considering recent events. What can you tell me about yourself?

"Nothing." I wheezed aloud to no one, leaning my head against the thin metal. Wincing with another flicker of the lights.

how long has it been
three weeks? can't remember
i haven't eaten. i think my hair is falling out. in my hands. it's definitely falling out. the lights.... the lights why do they keep flashing that damn light
how am i alive
my name is.... charlie mccarron... oh my god. i remember it today
is my brain falling out?
me i'm... it's slipping again. i'm
nobody.


Rory began to weep, startling me out the memories. He reached between the already cramped space between us. A mixture of pity and unease when I cautiously held him to my chest. It may've seemed unexpected, but I strangely felt bound to ease the dying man.

I thought of Philly. Something deep panged. Tears in my eyes.

"I don't want to rot in here." Rory whispered. "Not in Paradise Falls."

I sighed, "This is bad. But it ain't necessarily over." I told him.

He wiped his eyes on his filthy flannel as he scoffed, "How do you know?"

Because, surprisingly, a sliver of me had a hope that whatever path had led me to this horror would also allow me the chance to get out. That despite coming to the realization I was a wrathful monster, I was still worth saving.

That it wasn't all for nothing, I was more than a nobody.

I couldn't say that all out loud. Too vulnerable. So I answered Rory with fact,

"I've been through worse. And I'm still here."

I watched the night turn to sunlight in the small cracks of our prison, focused on the sharp smell of roasting brahmin outside our prison just to stay awake. Rory was slumbering with shallow breaths. I still held him, but there was no peace in my own quiet. Flickering light continued to mock what little left of me was sane.

Whatever came next--death or salvation--I dared it to come fast.

Chapter Text

Wilde

Mei and I set out for the coordinates given to me by Three Dog immediately. That's where we were to meet up with her contact. We made excellent time. Her pace matched the quickness of her wit--she almost had me out of breath with laughter on more than one occasion.

"It's bizzaro traveling strictly on foot." She declared halfway through our trek, "I hate it."

"It certainly hasn't seemed to slow you down." I smiled.

"I would love to see anything try."

For someone who identified as a liar, a thief, and an expert in blowing things to hell, she was hardly what I expected. Mei was warm and pleasant with conversation as we walked. Poor Dogmeat, on the other hand, was lagging behind with restless digging. I whistled to her when she got too far. I noticed her tail drooped as she caught up, the whites of her eyes were showing. Stress.

"You miss Char, girl?"

My faithful pup's ears twitched. A soft whine. My heart ached--for her and with her.

Our destination was a small ridge directly south of Paradise Falls. It was a relief to see such a sight in the quiet dawn. We walked along that ridge until we found a rickety looking old gate to a dark sliver of an entrance hidden in the rocks. My bitten up fingers shook. The key from our friend Three Dog fit perfectly. Mei followed me as I slipped inside.

The hideaway was no larger than a broom closet, but it held copious amounts of ammo and supplies. I grabbed as much as I could carry and find useful.

"Mini nukes. Perfect. Are those....? Those are fireworks...!" Mei's brown eyes sparked. After gathering everything valuable, we zipped up our packs and wormed our way out of the crevice. Dogmeat (waiting patiently outside) had begun barking before my eyes would adjust to the bright morning light.

A figure in weathered black and red power armor with his hands on a gatling laser was waiting outside. I made a move for my rifle.

"Relax, Blondie." Mei called behind me and coaxed me to lower my gun with a wavery hand, "It's the Outcast."

The figure across from us removed its helmet. A serious and pale looking man with cropped auburn hair and dark eyes blinked and nodded me.

"Op, sorry! Didn't mean to startle you. Sally Hatchet! Long time no see."

"You're looking well, Rococo."

"I am? Oh.... I am. Thanks. Come on, the jeep's this way."

The Outcast began to trudge up the hill.

I followed him, but couldn't keep my curiosity hidden for long, "I'm sorry, "Jeep"?"

Mei smiled, "I hate traveling on foot. Rocko, this is Blondie. Blondie, Rocko."

"It's Rococo Rockwell." He turned his head to correct her gently, "Sally does love her nicknames."

"They're necessary, when you're with the Railroad." Mei winked. I caught on to her playful suggestion and smiled.

"That's an interesting name, Rococo." I spoke conversationally.

The Outcast did not seem interested in talking, "My Dad got it from an encyclopedia. Let's make this quick. I'm not supposed to be helping civilians."

I looked to Mei and she nodded to follow. If her visibly paranoid soul trusted him, then it was good enough for me.

"Hey, Rocko."

"Yes, Sally?"

"What gun goes 'chk-chk'?" Mei pantomimed. Rockwell looked back at her quizzically. There was something threatening in the way she set her hands on her hips. It made the Outcast stumble in his words,

"What? Oh...er.. a shotgun?"

Mei threw her head back and cackled, "I'm driving."

"Sally, you know I can't allow civilians--"

"You called it!" My newest companion shouted beyond him, running straight towards the ugly moss-colored vehicle parked on the other side of the ridge, "You can't hardly drive, anyways."

Charlie

"I want you to visualize the rage you felt when you attacked Thorne. Picture it, and hang on to it. ...When the light flashes, I want you to let go."

Except I couldn't. My rage only became more vivid. It only got worse.

Of the countless days in the vault, I remembered the day the bombs fell the most vividly. It sounded like some eldritch creature from down below the sea--a ruthless god waking to devour the crusted layers above. I kept getting the image of something slimey, slithering with a low rumble against the walls that enclosed us. A bloated, scaled belly right against the compacted steel. Groaning, suffering, dragging the whole world down into an unending punishment.

Our Vault, and I suspected the others, too, were no exception.

Philly had been seated next to me in the entertainment room as we were forcefed some Vault-Tec propaganda. My companion was shrinking and grabbing his ears. My brother Frank was on the other side of me, eyes down to the ground. I sat stark still between the two. Mouth a sealed, tired line. Other men in the room were sobbing--some even crumpling to the floor while the head researcher made the announcement: On October 23rd, 2077, the Great War had started and ended.

It was my birthday. Well, Frank’s too. My twin seemed to read my mind, snarling, “Blow out the candles. Some day this is, huh?”

"We must remain strong, gentleman. Our work continues." Dr. Khaulman was the first and only among the Vault's residents to speak above a whisper. I watched him with narrowed eyes from my seat while he murmured to the other labcoats surrounding him.

No one moved, his "hopeful" tone fell on deaf ears. The labcoats still treated this operation like it was legitimately out to help us--a 'psych' ward of sorts, but we all knew the real reason we were trapped down here in the vault with no name. We were the soldiers who’d fucked up so royally bad, they felt the need to study it. Glorified labrats.

Between the strict regimes and schedules designed to keep us " in top form" and the mysterious authority figures, I didn't find the vault suits much of a change from my old military uniform. The vault itself? All wrong. Nothing natural, not even the air. The schedules, the identical bunks, the rows of propaganda that lined each and every endless corridor all made it far too easy to become empty, to forget myself.

And that's just what the researchers wanted, looking back. A clean slate. No strings.

"Kinda curious.... What exactly are you hoping to accomplish here?" Was one of the few, early questions I remember asking Dr. Khaulman before things really started going to shit.

"The answer to that, dear boy, lies in my question for you: What spurred you to murder Sergeant Thorne in broad daylight?"

I remember squirming in the too-small chair seated before his large, metal desk. I scrutinized his stupid desk decor in silence. He kept talking without me giving him an answer. Labcoats always did:

"...You see, the driving force that makes a man lose his self preservation to carry out violent impulse... is something my team is very much inclined to find. Can you imagine the power one could have with that answer? If you could give the violent flares of your brain discipline and direction? What it could do for artificial intelligence... or for you?"

I scoffed. Dr. Khaulman ignored my attitude as though I didn’t exist. I suppose I never really did, to him. All he wanted was what data he could glean from me and the others.

"Harmful behaviours, erased. Things like addiction, mood swings... Aggression." He stressed the last word, "All these things could be controlled!"

He smiled. It was deliberate and errie. It took over his whole damn face, creating pocketed shadows in the hollows under his eyes and cheeks. In the beginning, Frank had been hopeful that the vault might turn out alright. “We’ll be enhanced soldiers” a labcoat told him, “highly trained bodyguards. Rubbing elbows and protecting government hot shots after the apocalypse’. But I knew by one glance at Khaulman’s sleazy smile right then: There was no hope for any of us left.

Where my heart had me giving in and giving up, Philly's hardened. After each group session he'd linger in the halls, walking alongside me to our quarters.

"What are they doing to you? How are you feeling?"

"Fine, they're just... talking."

I blinked up at the white lights, scowling.

"They've got me hooked up to wires, man. Electroshock. Everytime it hits..."

I studied his pallid, nervous face. His eyes were purple-hued and sagging with exhaustion. I felt an alien kind of concern. There was a new energy in the way his eyes zipped and zagged to any shadowed corner in the vicinity. I wanted to protect him. Being near him made me feel a little closer to my old self--even as this place did everything it could to kill what little "self" was left.

Phillip waited until the aides walking in front of us disappeared into a nearby elevator. He grabbed my arm, "We've got to do something. Come on. I've seen where they keep their equipment."

I don't know where Philly'd gotten the keycard and I didn't care to. I knew that I wanted to help him.

We took another lift down, down. How many levels did this literal hellhole have?

"Just follow my lead, Charlie." Phillip breathed shakily. Of course. Ever since the incident in Nevada, all I'd known how to do was follow whatever shit current took me. Doctor Khaulman had already begun encouraging that weakness.

Everything about the restricted lower level packed with strange machinery and terminals should've evoked reaction--shock, anger, fear--but I found I could feel very little. As if all the emotion left in me was being twisted out like a rag.

Phillip's voice was shaking as he went through terminals and searched alien looking parts, "...This is what they've been researching.. .Every single one of these machines... I will find a way to destroy them."

I mostly kept watch. I found it near impossible to do much else, anyhow. Every session with Dr. Khaulman was leaving me exhausted and confused. Towards doomsday, near catatonic.

I didn't know how to tell my lover that I was forgetting time. Hours, days. There were moments when my own name escaped me.

"Charlie? Charlie are you listening to me?"

Phillip’s anxious voice from above my bunk. Frank’s down below.

"He's fucking braindead. Don’t you see? Every single day he comes back more braindead."

Frank slapped at my face. I wanted to react. Spit on him. Couldn’t.

I could hear Phillip's voice, horrified and weak, "We have to do something, Frank."

"I'm going to." Frank snapped back shortly, “I’ll find a way. Hey. Hey Charlie. Let’s say we do the crossword, huh? We always do the crossword. Charlie? ….Jesus. What are they doing to him?”

"What's that, Doc?"

"A mezz-me-tron. We're going use it to help…

The strange high pitched whining with the sudden flash of bright, searing light. I tried to recall my mother’s face, tried to forget Dr. Khaulman’s. I found I couldn’t do either.

….soldiers like you."

Despite my inability to vocalize much, I would follow Phillip whenever he asked. Late at night, we’d find a way to avoid staff. We became each other’s refuge. Just my being there with him seemed to give him the will to carry out his goals--sabotaging whatever mezzers he could reach and whichever terminals he could access.

He got good, too. He managed to find a way to make them faulty with little visible tampering. But winning doesn’t last forever. You can imagine how quickly consequences came when the labcoats discovered what we were doing. I was put in solitary confinement for weeks. They moved Phillip to another level. I felt a creeping worry under my skin at that news, brought to me by Khaulman’s sleazy smile, no less.

Towards the end of my own grueling punishment, I felt desperate and mad. I could do nothing but pace, and peruse a single copy of Grognak the Barbarian. I always found myself lost in the crosswords. Every sound from the outside in solitary confinement--footsteps, pipes echoing, keys rattling--they all had me on edge. I remembered feeling sad when I drove round my old neighborhood and saw dogs chained out in the yard all day--now I felt I knew exactly why.

We were all treated more like prisoners after Phillip’s and mine’s “misconduct”. Our own safety, they said. To top everything off, my brother... they'd done something to him.

He was a paranoid, scatter-driven mess. They were hopping him up on chems. He kept on chattering at mealtime about his doctor giving him whatever he wanted, how the therapy was “really working”. Said they’d stuck an implant in him to make him stronger, more “levelheaded”. It sure wasn’t working in the way I’d call effective. When we were in our cell together he’d rant and rave with mood swings. One minute I was a traitorous scumbag he refused to speak to, the next moment he needed me, pleading to help him escape; “this place is killing us” he’d pace. I stayed glued to my cot during any free time, feeling dizzy and ill from the mezzers most of the time. Every moment of reality now seemed like a bad carousel ride. Words couldn’t explain. Useless, heavy weights in my stomach. Losing my name. Chad? Chip? Everytime I tried to remember, I only saw light. That horrible, empty little light accompanied by Dr. Khaulman’s crooning voice.

Frank’s rage at my mental “absence” grew, and his temper soon became much larger than him. He punched his fists to a pulp one morning (evening?) when I couldn’t recall the exact date to him. Thing was, he didn’t know either.

Frank was hauled off to solitary confinement in fits of laughter. I sat upright and unblinking while he was gone, staring at the sad stain he’d made on the wall. When he was ushered into our cell once more, Frank was more disheveled, but quiet and docile. He mostly sat in his bunk. Hands tented gently. Smiling wickedly. Somehow his once bright blue eyes were dimmed.

I worried for Philly even more as each day ran into another. Where was he? What had the egghead fucks done to him? Had they taken his soul, too?

Constant screaming beneath my skin. I can feel it on my brother, even across the room. How long were the three of us suffering down there? On the night my brother decides he’s had enough, Khaulman does his mezzer ritual, the last one I can remember. I’m given a contract to sign. All the labcoats are in his spacious office, clapping.

Another assault of light.

“We consider you the first success in our program. Congratulations.”

I grunted, wiping at my eyes from the camera flash.

“Aren’t you the least bit curious who your contract holder will be?”

“No.” I didn’t care. I found it hard to care about anything, except the contract itself. The emptiness now came with a strong drive to honor that little piece of paper’s terms. “Who” didn’t really matter.

The aides didn’t announce lights out anymore. We knew the routine. When the fluorescent bulbs on our floor went out with a clunking shudder that night, I wasn’t surprised.

When my brother rose from his bunk and stood in the middle of our quarters--that did surprise me. It looked like some other force had dragged him up. His posture was all wrong. I remember thinking the way he turned his head towards me in the dark would haunt my dreams, if I ever dreamed again.

“Heard you got your assignment today.” His voice was oddly friendly from his dark corner of the room. It possessed an underlying malice.

“Who told you that?” I asked without making a move to get up. I can’t remember the last time I’d been compelled to respond to my brother, but I guess a whole lot of things were slated to change that night.

“Doctor Khaulman announced it to us.”

“Hm.”

“Says you’re a major achievement.”

“Mm.”

“That’s it? You don’t feel… accomplished?”

“Why should I? I don’t even feel human anymore.”

Frank sighed. He rubbed his face in his shaky, sweating palms. “Neither do I, brother.”

He laughed. It was unusual. I saw him reach under his mattress. I froze when I saw the distinct shape of a pistol in his hands.

“You know, I read somewhere... I think it was Life or Time or some shit... that sometimes, in the womb, one twin'll just... soak up the other. Like a goddamn parasite.”

The air in the room dropped forty degrees. I remained stony and frozen as I stared at him. Frankie pointed the barrel lazily at my chest. He was still shaking. “I used to think that was terrible. So sad, you know? But now I feel like it’s just... a law of nature.”

I don’t know how to describe someone who is both manic and in tears, but that was my brother. Bizzare, frightening, and hysterical.

“We’re all miserable. Have you looked around? You’re a shell. Your boyfriend Barrowman’s probably dead, every single other patient on record is either dead, insane, or addicted to psycho... and I guess now that includes me!”

My unhinged brother laughed again. Shifted gears to deadly serious. His eyes were the size of saucers, whirling mad. His voice peaked in volume:

“There’s nothing but evil down here… and I found out about more outside… So I’m doing the hard thing. What you and Philly neverhad the balls to do. Laws of nature. I’m destroying this place and making sure nobody gets out alive.”

I wanted to tell my twin to put the gun down, I wanted to tell him to sit, to talk, to try and remember where we came from. It was not a plea for my life so much as it was a plea for his dignity. I'd lost my voice again. Same as it ever was, I couldn’t speak.

Frank raised his gun, “Starting with the biggest abomination here…”

Even with a clear moment to react, to knock the weapon from his trembling hand, I could not.

“...You.”

My brother pulled the trigger. A red, fiery pain unlike any other bloomed in my shoulder. I’d never be truly rid of it.

Wilde

Dogmeat had half of her whole body hanging out of the backseat. “Girl, please be careful!” I halfway scolded her. She seemed to be enjoying the wind whipping around the jeep. I, on the other hand, was curled up in the opposite corner of our shared seat. My arms crossed and my face buried in Charon’s jacket. I was trying very, very hard not to puke. My efforts had proven successful. So far.

“Are you alright back there, Blondie? You get carsick?” Despite the concern in her voice, Mei sped up.

“I’ve never ridden in a vehicle before!” I poked my head from my hiding spot. Rococo joked that I looked like a sad turtle.

Mei laughed, “We’re not much farther now! Then the real fun starts.” She gripped the steering wheel with white-knuckled fury. I wasn’t sure what “fun” was to her. I guessed it involved fire. The vehicle jerked violently as we rolled over something. I groaned.

“I think we hit a body.” Mei said spiritedly as she twisted in the driver’s seat, “Did we hit a body?”

She screeched to a stop. Dogmeat was sniffing the air intently. I rose in my seat. The scene outside was smoky, a plume of it on the horizon was ominously black.

“Ro, go out there and check.”

“What?! I don’t take orders from civilians.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be recon? Blondie and I gotta lay low. Go out there and check.”

Rococo hesitantly opened the passenger door, “If you leave me again…”

She hissed, “Go!”

The Outcast obeyed, but not without looking over his shoulder every two seconds. I watched with Dogmeat from the window, ducking only when Mei hissed an order to “stay down”. I saw a wrecked heap of black metal, surrounded by equipment advanced beyond anything I’d seen.

“Lots of bodies.” Rococo called back, “Looks like we got a wrecked vertibird. Hell of a firefight.”

“What sort of bodies?” Mei yelled. She was donning her huge aviators, covering her face with her scarf.

“Slavers and…” Ro’s voice trailed off. I followed Mei’s thought to exit the vehicle. We caught up with Rococo just as his voice lowered to a tepid whisper, “Oh no.”

The bodies scattered around the crash were all covered in curious power armor and strange uniforms. Each weapon was shockingly high grade--plasma and lasers. I helped myself to as much ammo as I could stow. It didn’t ease the concern in the air.

“Enclave.” Mei Wong announced sternly.

“Enclave?” I’d heard of them, but up until now they seemed like a rumor.

“They’re the remnants of the pre-war government,” Rococo explained, “The Brotherhood and the NCR have been trying to wipe them out for years. I’d never dream of seeing them this far east.”

“Well, it looks like some dreams really do come true. Cowboy’s gonna be pissed...” Mei said, “Ro, you’d better go tell your guys.”

The power armored figure next to us sighed, “Yeah. God knows Lyons and his little charity squad isn’t going to do anything about this.”

I didn’t fully comprehend the tensions between The Brotherhood and its “Outcasts” who’d defected from the organization. Apparently Rococo’s kind had enough of fighting D.C.’s mutant presence, and wished to focus its efforts on studying and hoarding of pre-war weapons, the group's “true goal”. This was done, Rococo explained on the drive, to ultimately minimize risk of another Great War. “Man should never have had all that reliance on dangerous technology. The real Brotherhood ensures it won’t fall into the wrong hands again.”

I saw his point, but the Mutant threat seemed more immediate to the Capital, so I sided with Lyons’ position more. And at least Lyons was doing something. Before meeting Mei, I’d never even seen an outcast. Ro would argue these points and many more, but now we were all silent in our dread as we stared down a new threat.

“Hey! Let’s keep moving.” Mei announced finally after we picked the wreck clean, “It’s gonna take something seismic to stop these guys and Eulogy’s probably gonna send a scouting team out soon. I don’t wanna hang around to meet either.”

We parked and parted ways nearby at an ancient billboard advertising the exit to “Paradise Falls”. Dogmeat and I followed Mei off the highway and into a gutted suburb.

“The Fear lives here. Not a peep.” She didn’t have to warn us twice. The darkening of her mood accompanied the creeping dark of the cul-de-sac I found myself in. The ice in the air made my head a mess of nerves. After stopping to listen carefully in the silence, my accomplice waved Dogmeat and I over to a house with a red door.

“Leave Dogmeat and the explosives outside. Follow my lead.”

We stepped carefully through the gnarled remnants of a picket-fenced garden. The smell of must was dank when we entered. Three dirty looking men were set up around a dim campfire in what might’ve been a living room. They looked just as surprised, but twice as dangerous. I was holding in my breath, panicking inwardly as Mei raised her hands beside me.

“Which one of you wants to deliver Sally Hatchet to Eulogy Jones?”

Charlie

“...so far no signs of any significant nerve damage, though there’s been a large amount of blood loss. Regardless I expect he’ll make a full recovery.”

“Good. As soon as he’s stable, I want him in solitary and on lockdown until this.... situation is resolved.”

“Are you sure? Seems a little extreme, we should probably run--”

“Fool! I am the lead of this project, not you. Give me that stimpak. Gah! Where did the other McCarron go.”

“Security can’t find him, sir. The outside’s too heavily irradiated to continue a search--Sir that’s my keycard. Sir?!”

Agitated voices. A struggle. Screams.

I woke up in an old nightmare; the lab coats had put me in solitary after all. The days in that hole just melded and held. I didn’t feel hungry. I didn’t sleep. My body ceased to function normally. I felt crushed by an invisible weight within my chest. There was only me. There was only the dark.
I held onto the crossword. I couldn't see it, but I could recite all the clues. It became the one thread I had tied to sanity. I whispered the numbers till I could no longer speak. When I could no longer find the will to speak, I spelled out the answers in my head.

(one ac ro s s... )

"...Charlie.... Charlie..."

The sound of a human voice, as weak and muffled as it was. My eyes snapped open. Had I been sleeping? Was I finally dead?

By now, my ears were trained to any noise in this hole. When I heard footsteps nearing the door to my cell, my body lurched up off the floor like some kind of switch. The lights in the long tunnel that opened up before me were low. I still made the move to shield myself.

The figure in the doorway was sheathed in shadow. It gasped,

"Charlie!" Arms fling around my torso. I recognized the figure now.

"... Phil." It's all I can manage and it is weak and watery, even with all the emotions tugging and bursting inside. My love was inspecting the old, dirty bandage that covered my shoulder--pulling it back. I felt a wave of shaking panic as I realized: my wound hasn't healed. It no longer bleeds, but it doesn't look right. The skin. What was happening to my skin?

"We need to get you out of here." Phillip drew me close. Even though his presence was warming, I could not stop my shakes. The hallway blurred and swiveled into vision. Phillip steadied me by gripping tighter around my arm. I turned to look at him.

His face was marred and bleeding. His eyes were no longer green, but the grays of a corpse. My face blares the question: what happened?

"After Frank ran off..." What's left of his jaw was set and hardened, his expression shifted to take in the hall around us. The metal walls were smeared with blood. The bodies of some aides are slumped along the walkway. I clutched at Philly's waist with the shock, (especially the smell) trying to drag myself up. His eyes twitched at me from above, before he also swayed, collapsed.

He struggled with words as he pulls me up with him, "Come on, Charlie... this place is flooded with rads. Frank opened the door and they couldn't shut it. We... have to get up, we have to go..."

I realize I am in tears as he takes my hand. He led me up. His fingers covered in the same ugliness as my chest. I try hard not to look at the bodies around us, the shock of it all after so long in isolation is too much to bear. I focused on the back of Phillip's head. He is no longer shaking, but steadied in his steps. Once in a while he twitched and vocalized, violently.

"What's--"

"Shsh, in here." He ushered me into the nearest elevator.

He handed me a pistol with shaking hands. "It's real bad out there. Worse than anything you could imagine in here. Hang on to it."

It feels so strange, having been without any personal posessions for so long. But I heed him.

He saw the anxiety behind my dead eyes, "Don't worry, I'll grab one off an aide before we..."

The elevator dings open. A feral claws an arm through the slim opening between the two metal doors. I watched, stunned, as Phillip grabbed the offending appendage and twisted, slamming the 'close button' until the unfortunate bastard let out a screech and retreated.

He was never violent. But I didn't know what they'd done to him, did I?

Phil was ripping at his hair in tufts by the time we could spot the Vault's entrance. My hand was still gripping for life to the bones of his undead fingers. I found it alarming how he got limper and limper as we headed down the grisly hall.

I cried out in protest when I felt Phillip's hand slip away from my pinching grasp. In too quick a moment, he'd ducked into the 'entertainment' room. He closed the door.

In my panicked move to try (and fail) and opening the door, I barely had time to process Phillip's hurried voice through the speaker outside. I managed to cling to every word somehow.

"I need you to listen to me, Charlie. I know it's..." He labors with the effort of speaking. I barely register how he's changed in all my own horror. Hell, I could barely recognize my own first name.

Phillip continued, "Oh god, everything burns.... I... I slipped my keycard into your back pocket. You need to slide that once you close the vault door, and change the password."

He twitched in fits. Screaming. Unhuman screaming. "Philly? Phil!" I slammed my fist on the window but I can see that my voice is faraway, silent to him.

"It ...It's too late for me. You have to get out. Forget about me, about all of this. Go see the mammoth. Go back home, to Boston, like you always wanted. Just... we can't let Khaulman have any of this. ...Not even a goddamn paperclip..."

Another violent jerk. A stronger and more harrowing cry. I went from frozen in place to a furious blur of flesh, fists pounding desperately on the glass.

A hand of mine absently reached for the bandages on my injured shoulder. I tore at the silver chain around my neck. My breathing got panicked and wild at the sight of my injury again... so raw. Why was the skin peeling off? I found myself yelling for Frank. My hair, my hair is falling into my palms in clumps. I cry one last time for Philly. The only piece of my hopes left is gone. I leave it all there, shambling deliriously towards that ugly, giant gear. The walls are still lined with bodies; evidence of aides trying to quell dangerous, irradiated patients. The monsters left standing do nothing but stare. Why? I knew, but I didn't want to believe.

I remember a small cave that shows light at the end of the tunnel. I stared into the light at the end. Red.

I did as Philly instructed once I passed through the threshold of my old prison. Looking back, it was probably the last time I would "obey" an order other than Azrukhal's for over a century. I punched in a password. Three numbers.

(first letter)

This is a bad dream, I thought. When the door opens, I'll be sleeping in my cot and feeling like myself. Everything'll be alright again.

I didn't bother watching the Vault door ceremoniously turn and close. I had to move forward and forget, like Phillip told me to.

I took a deep breath, shaking after reaching the end of a snaking, rocky passage. I squeezed through a crack in the collapsed tunnel. I trembled as I felt my marred hands reach air, Outside air.

Filthy, sweltering, sick.

You can imagine an old painting of hell, and it still wouldn't be enough to describe the horror. I coughed and broke. Wept loudly when I see the scene before me. The world had turned to a lonely ball of red and ash, and most of it was still burning. The air was now sordid in what was left of my nose. All the noise, the screams, the death settling into every pore...

Panicked breaths again. My hands. I still have the pistol but what is happening to my hands? Flesh just drips right off. Am I going... Am I going to be... I found myself falling back, slumping into the concrete debris behind me.

A numbness pulls at my exhausted body. The word "i" is too big, one thinks. Charlieeeee Who was he, anyways?

Looking up at the sky, the sun was nowhere to be found. Dark smoke blotted out the sky. Blinking tears away, I collapse and lie down in a sprawl upon the dead earth.

Some kind of slumber came. I was awoken by sharp, nagging kicks to the gut.

Dr. Khaulman's voice gurgled and ground, "C'mon! Stupid useless sack of--"

Once my eyes blinked open he changed gears and sputtered frantically, "Fool! Help me move this rubble."

I began without question. I took only a moment to pause from my work when the Doctor turned and spat over his shoulder, "You too."

My brother is behind him. Frank. A numbing chill washes over me like a creeping wave. Khaulman orders me sternly to get back to work. He threatens what is left of my brother,

"Do you want another bullet in your leg? Get over here and help." His ugly, patronizing tone grates me even then, though I can't think to stop working. Frank shambles over and busies himself nearby. I can only look upon him with that strange numbness. This man was not my brother. He was something shriveled and haunted and wrong. He was visibly weak and malnourished. His cheeks hollowing and his eyes sunken, one of them welling black with blood. The ash staining the creases in his face made him look years older, although we were the same age.

"Wow, Charlie." Were his first spitting words to me upon reuniting, "You look like shit."

"Shut up and work." Dr. Khaulman was frothing at the mouth. He was bent and shaking with rage, clawing at concrete he could manage to roll away from the entrance with bloodied fingers.
I shoved at a crack in the barrier that kept us outside. The three of us leapt back. A dusty cascade of more debris came down. Instead of making the door more accessible, the wall of rubble became impossible to pass.

The scream that bellowed from Dr. Khaulman did not sound human. He tore at his shallow features. My brother and I watched in a frozen and ill fascination as he dug out chunks of flesh with clawed, acrid fingers.

"Kill him." Frank hissed panic at my side, "Waste him like you did Thorne."

Before I could even question the suggestion, Frank grabbed for the pistol in my waistband. I reacted. It was the last thing I had of Philly's. We struggled, forgetting all about the weapon once my brother and I hit the ground. Our hands lashed out and we fought like children.

"You commie shit!" Frank ripped at was was left of my hair while I slammed my knee into his back. We rolled, hitting more rubble and cascading through more dust. When we separated, coughing dizzily, Dr. Khaulman had joined us.

He stood in between our tired, enraged bodies like a sickly referee. I saw Philly's gun in his hand and felt panic.... confusion as the Doctor calmly approached me with the weapon. I felt the gun slip into my own grip and I stood, wiping at blood in my mouth.

Frankie was still stooped over in a heap, coughing out blood. He looked at me with glazed, orange eyes.

Hell broiled around us. Doctor Khaulman's voice rose above every dying scream, every feral cry:

"This man has threatened my life. Shoot."

"Charlie, no."

I could feel myself weeping, despite my drive to obey. Mean tears stung what was left of my raw skin. My brother begged for his life then, weakly,

"Charlie, don't do it. Don't listen to him? Please."

The name had lost meaning. My arm raised and aimed of its own accord. My torn lips shivered. My eyes were so tight, tears blocked any hope of clarity. The toxic air stung a nose that dangled. Rotting flesh and open sores on my hands. And I remember.... I didn't even care. All I can think about in that moment... is light.

"Shoot!" The doctor shouts again, anger in his voice.

"...I'm sorry, Charlie. So sorry." Those were Frank's final words.

I couldn't say anything, even if I wanted to. A single shot ripped through the air. The bullet found my brother's skull. As he collapsed, I felt myself and Philly's gun hit the ground, too.

"..like a goddamn parasite..."

Charon

"This pistol.... Listen, are you listening? This pistol belongs to Penny. I need you to bring it back to her."

I could feel myself batting Rory away like a drunk. His shaking hands still forced the scoped pistol into my hand.

"Hide it. Hide it and bring it back to Penny. If anyone can get these kids out..."

I was still too delirous to grasp the damned thing. He hesitated, sighed, and settled on awkwardly hiding the weapon in my right boot. Memories were still attacking me in short bursts--Phillip's awful scream in the end, Dr. Khaulman telling me I was to go by Charon, and he Ahzrukhal. If anyone asked me a question, I was to stay deathly silent. The burning... oh, how my skin burned for years...
And my heart.... broken.

"Now, come on. One way or another, I'm going to find a way to get this door open." Rory and Ahzrukhal's voice overlapped in what was left of my ears.

I watched Rory rise and use all the force left in his tiny body to bang on the opening to The Box. I curled up tighter. We all become what's on the other side of the glass, eventually. Something Frank said, during one of his fits. A vision of Phillip haunted my head. I rocked on my heels.
Rory groaned exhaustedly. I half-watched as he gathered all his remaining strength and pushed the door open. Well, he made an attempt, anyways.

"You gonna help me with this?" He pauses, no breath left. I want to help. But I feel as though my brain has completely been replaced with dust and concrete. All I can hear is Phillip, slamming himself against glass...

PLEASE STAND BY

The door to the box slides open just as Rory made his final push. White light seared my eyes again.

Wilde

Mei did not waste a single second. Her playful smile twisted into something manic and hungry as her hand found her hip. With a smooth and decided motion, she sent her hatchet on a course across the ancient living room. Her weapon sailed and expertly landed square into one of the slaver's faces.

There was no time to react. The remaining slaver aimed his pistol. Mei dove down behind a tattered sofa as she shouted, "Blondie, shoot!"

I aimed before he could even manage to hit a cushion. Three zaps to the chest. They ate through his flesh like cigarette burns to paper. I watched him fall calmly.

Mei grunted as she hopped over to where her own kill lay. She looted his corpse, tossing some plasma rounds my way. I half-followed her, taking care to peek around the old house. The drooping, faded florals rotting away on the wallpaper and the declaritave creaks of the floorboards were fascinating.

"Do you want to be afraid?" Mei's voice was shifting with the shadows in the corners, it seemed.

"...No?" I turned about, confused.

"Then don't get distracted."

She barely made any sense. I still heeded her. I watched her stand straight from crouching over one of the Raider's faces. Her jaw clenched as she kicked a communication device in my direction.

"If I know Forty--and I know everyone--he's passed out drunk or passed out from not being drunk enough." Mei said, "You've got a shot at communicating with your man, if you want to."
My heart and my hands both leapt at the opportunity. Fingers shook as I inspected the dials. Mei dug a clawlike grip into my shoulder before drawing up that blood-stained scarf over her lips, "Make it quick. And cryptic. Or else."

The intensity of her gaze near the fire demanded hasty inspiration. The low battery on the walkie talkie blinked in warning. I rasped the first thing that came to mind in a voice that sounded unlike my own:

"Dante and Virgil in Hell."

Charon

I realized that it wasn't even mid-afternoon when they dragged me out onto the dirt. Eulogy's patience was as thin as my sanity. Should that've made me nervous? Did I even care to be alive at this point? So much of myself seemed.... gone. I could only drool at the sight of Rory getting shoved back into that horrible metal prison. They must've thought me too pathetic to beat that day; leading me into the pen once more as though I was a docile lamb. Eulogy stooped to my level to ask about my old Vault once again and more visions flashed: Phillip pulling me into an embrace; Frank ripping at his bedclothes in fits while I lied motionless on my bunk. Ahzrukhal. Khaulman. Screaming into my face about the password, how important it was.

But I wouldn't tell a soul. Not even a goddamn paperclip.

I remained stony-faced then, and I would remain so now. Eulogy's pestering could hardly bother me, but I indulged him with a response after realizing some quiet might do me good.

"If Ahzrukhal couldn't get a password out of me for decades, what makes you think you will in an afternoon?"

I watched an indignant rage shudder across his usually cool face. He squinted after considering his response,

"Then what use are you? You have until tomorrow afternoon to jog that memory, Red." He gestured with a red sleeve towards the Brahmin corpse being stripped near the camp's fire, "Then, I'll roast you like the beast you are."

I'd go down fighting first. We both knew that. I didn't even glance in his direction as I listened to him slowly rise and saunter off.

I was too tired to even think of running at this point, but there was one last thing kicking at me like a mule. I moved towards Penny, hiding her head near our shared bit of fence. I moved carefully so that I could pass off Rory's request.

Forty snored nearby. As soon as the rest of the moment was clear, I reached into my boot.

A quick grumble got the kid's attention. She blinked blearly up at me.

"Don't talk to me now. Not when they're gonna kill you tomorrow."

"If I die, it's my choosing... or my stupidity." I passed the pistol through the warped gap. She stared as though she couldn't believe anyone could've found it.

"Hide it fast." I snapped at her. She listened, though not without giving me a sharpened glare. "Rory passed that on to me. Don't waste his risk, understand?"

"If I die it's my stupidity, ain't it?" She smarted back.

"Mind your business." I grumbled.

She started to argue. Why didn't I fight? How could I give up now? I didn't know how to tell her. All I could say to myself was, after all I'd been through, it seemed so simple.
That was, until Forty's belt made a sound. A sound that instantly made me dizzier, even in its attempted disguise:

"Dante and Virgil in Hell." I shook my head with some kind of shock. By some miracle I remembered the painting. Only she knew the name of that painting. I felt clawed at, straight through the heart. I could feel only dread and terror. She was coming. For me. But she couldn't fight through all this. This place would kill her. The thought of my charge sacrificing themself for.... and when the contract... Oh no. Too much. My breathing pitched a fit again.

By the time I got a handle on myself, I was too tired to explain to Penny what'd warranted such a reaction. I told her to keep her gun close and her head safe, and fell into uneasy sleep. I could not gauge, even in my own heart, whether I was hopeful about Wilde's attempt at rescue or filled with dread.

Time would tell. That didn't make the pain and the nerves any easier, but there it was.

Wilde

We made camp there for the rest of the night. Mei insisted we climb to the top floor, where the roof had been completely blown off. "Can't feel as loud in the open air." She said it shakily as we made our way up the narrow stairs. Dogmeat followed, ever-faithful at my heels.

"Your dog make a lot of noise? I need to scope out the stitch in Paradise Falls and I can't have distractions."

"Dogmeat's as quiet as a field mouse." I countered. That was enough for Mei. The air was crisp and dewy up top. It smelled of rotten wood and dying embers. Mei rolled out a scarf and settled onto it, digging into one of many hand-sewn pockets and pulling out a set of binoculars with her signature shaky-quick speed.

She muttered to herself in whispers while scanning the horizon. I watched Dogmeat settle near her. I eyed every dark crevice and corner for loot or old artifacts, but alas. The top floor was clear. I took a deep, sighing breath and rolled out my cot, giving Mei plenty of space.

There was quiet for some time before she spoke. I felt strange as the silence crept in. All worries and fear bundled up and hurtling towards me---about my father, my partner, the state of the world.
Who were the enclave? What did they want? Was my father still back at Rivet City? I hated backtracking. But oh, this detour was much too important. I was white-knuckled and ripping into my nails again by the time Mei caught my attention.

"The Slaver fucks are scattered." She hissed, "Trying to pick out weapons from that vertiberd crash. We'll enter head on in the morning."

"They still outnumber us in Paradise, don't they?" I chimed as I scanned the outline of Paradise Falls in the valley beyond. Not an attempt to discourage, but to plan.

"I have a plan." She insisted as though she could read my mind, "Follow my lead. And get some rest. You'll need it."

I was worried by her vagueness, but at this point I would do anything to find my friend and get him to safety. Sleep didn't come easy, even in Mei's bubble of pure silence. I prayed I wouldn't have to see Reddin's disfigured body in my dreams again.

Charon

Morning was another nightmare haze and sunlight a burden. One would think by now, I'd be used to the sensation. I growled as soon as I reached consciousness. I only turned my face in the dirt when I felt the wind stir slowly, then pick up speed. The ethereal chimes above the chainlink gate surrounding me rung with the strange cruelty of hope. I blinked the residue of my past nightmares away and became alert when I heard the slavers suddenly bustling with activity.

I caught blips of conversation in the commotion. Penny was the only one awake among the kids next door, watching the minigunner pacing the top of Paradise's fortifications with a shrewd eye.

"A buyer!" I heard one of my captors exclaim. "We've got ourselves a buyer! And.... is that.... ?!" I grit my teeth as commotion stirred and security gates scraped open outside the encampment. The wind picked up as I struggled to stand. The chimes were getting louder in the wavery space between my ears now--a frenzied tune in the mean sunlight.

And then.... her.

I almost didn't recognize her. She was a vision in red and black leather, with the dark-haired woman from the bar by her side. It was their mannerisms that gave them away most: The gal from the bar was identifiable by the restless hands tugging at that unmistakable bloodied headwrap. The confident optimism in Wilde's posture is what gave her away. My heart raced at a queasy pace. The jolt of pain... of missing her... was unexpected as the pair marched further into the encampment. Closer to my unfortunate form.

She hadn't seen me yet. How did they look so certain? My insides jolted with concern as the plot between the pair became clearer. If Mei was a high profile escapee, she must've been playing bait. What then? Strong women, but they were still only two against a camp full of slavers. I did not have the strength to fight at my fullest, and I didn't have the strength to watch her perish. Not so soon after reopening the wounds of Philly's death. I dreaded another good soul lost. I couldn't bear
another love taken from me.

My eyes locked with Wilde's once she reached the bonfire, Sally close by.

Wilde

Mei was outwardly calm from the moment we reached sight of Paradise's doorman. I played the part of a lone raider who'd heard of the price on her head and had fought "legs and nails" (her own strange phrasing) to get her to the nearest trading post for the reward.

I myself didn't want to participate in such an undignified role, but my accomplice insisted it was the only way to free "my man".

"If you play this off and do as I say, Blondie, ...well... just you wait."

Her cheeky wink made me feel a little more at ease.

"It'll be fun!" I was nervous once more. I knew by now from her stories that our philosphies on "fun" differed greatly.

I took a deep breath when we were able to gain entry to Paradise. For the safety of my friend, I would topple mountains. But all the oxygen strength I could muster wouldn't prepare me for the horrors inside. I nearly retched at the sight of heads on spikes along the compound. My resolve felt even more shaken by the time I smelled the sour char of Bhramin meat cooking. Through the haze of the smoke rising from the central pit, I could spy a secured fence, and behind that fence... the shapes of children.

I felt disoriented with the rage. I looked upwards a moment. My usual tactic of grounding myself in immediate surroundings only seemed to worsen the panic. The amount of slavers all gathered and stinking so closeby, the bricks and heads on all sides, the too-clear sky.... my vision felt like it was swimming and spinning. I pinched at my brow and clamped my eyes shut, inhaling until I felt solid again.

When I cleared my gaze, I saw him. Charon. All penned up. My truest friend was badly bloodied and had been half-dragged to hell. My heart ached painfully. He was still standing somehow, with that prideful and fixed meanness. His gaze locked onto mine as though he could sense it, and when he took a step towards me I found the lock in his limbs alarmingly mechanical.

His eyes were frightened and vibrating in his skull. He'd been weeping. Now it was I who felt robotic as I stepped close-as-I-could to the chainlink that seperated my parner and I. My palm found itself resting on the barrier between us. A flicker of light returned to Charon's gaze. Slowy, he lumbered forth, until his laboring chest was inches away from my brow. Our eyes never broke from the other's as he planted his hand to mirror mine on the chainlink.

I recalled that moment atop the monument. I felt a strange tension between my fear we wouldn't get out of this one alive, and the renewed strength.

Regardless, I would do everything in my power to get him out. I tried to relay it in my gaze.
Mei cleared her throat beside me. A reminder to play my part correctly. I took a step back from the fence and put on my best raider face when I noticed Eulogy in the corner of my view. The six foot tall devil was guarded by two women in collars. He was drunk on his ego, judging by the fineness of his clothes.

He clapped and strutted towards me slowly. Groups of slavers parted for him. All ears primed expectantly for his word. I dared not flinch.

"So! You brought the illustrous Sally Hatchet back to me. I never thought this day would come."

His smile was nauseating. I played it off by remaining cooly silent.

"She doesn't talk much." Mei smiled boldly as she shook her bound hands.

"What is your name, friend?" Eulogy held out his hand. I stared at it, chewing the inside of my cheek. His gremlins were all agape and aghast and I almost took a funny kind of laugh out of it all. Eulogy withdrew the gesture with a curt smoothness, adjusting his coattails with a sharp and final motion.

"You want something then, is that it?" He grinned greedily, then pulled a thin cigar from his lapel, "Everyone wants a good trade. Lucky for you, I'm the bird who gets the worm. What'll it be?"
I squinted, waving smoke from my face. Just as Mei had instructed me: "Strong and silent, Blondie. The less you say and the more you stare and wait for that bloated airbag to talk, the better."

Assuredly, he carried on: "Sally is a runaway. All the way from Legion territory, you see. She will likely slit your throat the moment you're alone again. Only I have the proper security for such a... challenging individual. Not a good fit for a lone raider, no. I'll do you one much better..."

Mei's nostrils flared. She shook threateningly in her shackles. It was I who was nearly agape when Eulogy gestured to the pen:

"Here is one who isn't a liar and a thief and a murderer--just a silent, brutish dog."

Charon hung his head. Had it been feasible in that moment, I would've shot down Eulogy right then and there. As though she could sense my thoughts getting off track, Mei elbowed me gently. I saw that Eulogy was still waiting for a response, hands still frozen in their grandstanding.

I cleared my throat and spat, "Let me talk to the ghoul in private."

"What?"

"You heard me." He had to comply. He knew that. Sally was invaluable.

Eulogy tugged at his coattails sharply again. His eyes burned like coal and sliced like daggers, but he nodded in my direction with a cold smile nonetheless. He barked at one of his minions to open the gate and let me inside. Other captives in the pen slinked back against the walls. Charon refused to budge a muscle, staring me down and breathing heavily.

Eulogy gestured to the low brick building in the back corner of the pen. "You will be permitted seclusion in the quarters. Six minutes."

Jotun was the man to lead us there, probably because he was the only raider who could hope to match Charon in size and strength. Charon followed placidly, with me trailing behind and Mei staying close.

The slaves' "quarters" were in a low brick building just a few feet into the pen. It only took Jotun a few seconds to grant us clearance, though it felt like a lifetime.

"Six minutes." Jotun warned again before locking us within the dilapidated quarters.

Charon began pacing restlessly along the thin aisle of empty bunks as soon as Mei gave the clear that the three of us were alone. Questions uncharacteristically poured out of my friend:

"What are you doing here? Are you crazy? There's twenty-some men out there!"

"And? I've got a bag full of explosives and a tiny psychopath."

"I'm... medicated." Mei's voice rose pointedly.

"You and I both know this is suicide." Charon glowered, "You should be looking for your father, not dinking around here! This doesn't matter!! I don't matter!"

He was shaking. I held fast.

"You matter to me." I matched him in graveness and intensity.

"Will you two geckos wrap it up?" Mei was rustling in my pack for a bottle of wine I did not recall bringing. She raised it up triumphantly from her corner before glaring at Charon and me: "Jotun's headed back this way."

The tension and stubborness between Charon and I were palpable. Still, it was good to be near my friend again. I felt I could do anything when he was near. And I would. Comfort and alarm settled in my soul. I found it impossible to tear myself from my companion's gaze. Watching him in my mind's eye was starting to make me wonder.... how he felt when he saw me.

We stepped closer to one another.

There was a violent knocking on the door. Charon and I both jumped, startled.
"Relax! This'll be fun!" Mei shoved that bottle of wine into my arms, looking into my eyes with extra bite, "Like I said.... I'm medicated."

Penny

The mungo women were planning something, I knew that from the moment they were announced. I got a hint of what when the dark-haired woman, positioning herself closest to my side of the fence, bent to tie a boot.

She whispered imperceptibly to anyone but me, "Nice gun you got there. Good little scope. Do you want to help?"

Anything was better than waiting for death. I frowned determinedly and nodded to her.

"Good. I want you to take out one man. The minigunner on the gate tower, see?"

I nodded. I breathed nervously, hoping no one could see her twitching at me. I started to wonder if she was mad.

"On my signal. Watch for the sun."

Her instructions weren't straightforward, and it was beyond me how shooting just one of these slavers out the lot of twenty was going to be of help.

But as I would find out in New Vegas years later, it only takes one person to upset the cogs in a machine.

I bit my lip nervously. I remember glancing to Charon for some kind of hint or sense of his apparent friends' plan, but his defensive scowl was transfixed on the other mungo woman. I wondered if he even noticed the tears building up in the corners of his eyes.

I shifted my focus ahead. Paradise Falls and its rotten denizens lay before me like a great, impossible monster. The sour stench of burnt brahmin and rotting heads filled my nostrils as the wind shifted, sounding the oddly beautiful windchimes again. I felt ill with my nerves.

Eulogy was sizing them all up with a grin. The dark-haired woman looked even more chipper, wearing a smile that was almost... hungry. Mungos were insane, as usual.

In less than 48 hours, the slaver hub would be ash.

Chapter Text

Mei Wong

We didn't have much time. But that didn't worry me too much, because time didn't matter. Only the fun. Only the fire. I'd told Blondie what to do in hurried spurts on the trek from the old suburbs to Paradise's gates. She didn’t like to waste time. The lady caught on quick, which I appreciated.

Eulogy invited us with empty, smiling eyes to sit by his fire. With a flourish of his noxious red coat he turned. Just as we'd hastily rehearsed, Wilde and I followed. Blondie was aware of the custom to bring some form of alcohol to any raider-centric negotiations. She cradled the bottle I'd given to her carefully. Eulogy eyed it, that ever-present greed spiking in his brow.

Angel Eyes--Charon, that was the name Wilde called him--we had to leave him behind in the pen to keep up our Act. I saw the shadow of nerves and doubt fill Wilde's too-honest face when Jotun locked up the gate with a decided rattle. I gave her gut a gentle, furtive jab with my elbow when no one was looking. She was smart, she was brave, she was quick. But she was dangerously, pathetically attached.

Attachment was the root of all suffering. I knew that better than anyone. You let people in, you get grief.

Wilde and I took our seats on some dusty tires, arranged in a circle around Eulogy's brahmin pit. I sat closest to the fence, so I could hear the captives in the pens. The rotten slavers' voices were faraway to me, whirring. I got lost in my memories as a young teen in this place. Got lost in The Fear. I had to do my best not to scream. I breathed deliberately over the erratic rhythm of my heart. Clenched my fingerbones until the coarse skin on my knuckles cracked. Licked the edges of my teeth.

Wilde handled the conversation between Eulogy and his present goons in the meantime, with a natural and shifting charisma I admired--saying very little, staying very coarse and curt. The gal was good and solid in all respects, raider theatrics included. I, however, focused outward and beyond. A certain.... despondency... at the moment was expected for a woman in my position, so I would work it to my advantage.

I stared at the sun on its journey into late afternoon. It moved too fast and too slow. Ugh. The world was so boring in binary. After Eulogy was satisfied with grilling Wilde on her raider activities, I heard the wine bottle I'd planted into the scene pop open. The timing was just right. My timing was always right. The mixture I'd concocted was passed around the camp with the blind, grabby kind of ceremony slavers typically engaged in. Wilde was offered a bit of the bottle and took it, but not before giving me a questioning look. I blinked positively. A pack of feral fools, the lot of them. The hairs on the back of my neck itched with sweat when the bottle reached Forty. My eyes narrowed.

Bastard better not hog the damn thing, I thought, a burst of rage rippling through my veins. Eulogy had been watching, however, and barked at his lackey to pass the bottle on. Relief. Everyone had a bit of the bottle, a piece of the pie. All was as it should've been.
Until. The sun dipped orange and low to touch the tops of the head-topped spikes dotting Paradise's walls.

One of the littles in the pen reached out to me, barely above a whisper:

"Mungo. Even if we make it out of here before the raiders can shoot us, the collars around our necks will kill us."

It was the one with the gun hidden in her too-big cowboy boots. A smart one. I blinked the sweat that dropped onto my eyelash away with a twitch. The Fear gripped me like barbed wire. I felt like a little girl again, restless and spiteful. As furtively as possible, I stepped on Wilde's foot.

She scowled through the pain, then raised her eyebrows. Scooted closer. I waited for a moment where Eulogy announced he had to use the restroom, just as the gaurds and his posse began to yawn and shuffle their feet.

It was then that I leaned into Blondie's ear, "We have to disable the collars."

She turned to face the pens, lingered on Charon.

"What do we need to do?"

Charon

What was she looking at me again for? She was going to give the whole operation--whatever that entailed--away. With a ragged sigh, I scolded my own lashing anger. I worried for her. So many worries gripping every muscle in my body I felt bound by them, down from the pained heels of my feet to the choking sensation in my throat. I paced around the pen slow, trying to be careful not to draw eyes. The day inched toward night. Every chuckle from a raider around the fire made me want to smash something. Penny stayed stony and sitting upright, alert.

The energy seemed to shift a few hours into night. The raiders were somehow becoming more pleasant, laughing louder, some of them whooping and dancing. A few of the heavier drinkers were now seated and bobbing their chins towards their chests.

Eulogy did not seem to notice the change in moods. He was captivated by Sally. The whole camp was under the heady spell of an increasingly loud personality. She'd been telling stories of her travels for hours, stringing the core gang of raiders into a net of laughter and morbid fascination. The quiet, detached woman who'd entered Paradise Falls with my boss was now in a completely different gear.

Eulogy had begun inspecting Wilde's other "offering"--a duffel bag full of fireworks and weaponry--one, I realized with a pang of panic, that I'd used for years to transport weapons to this very spot. The Slaver's hazy, glazing eyes flashed to mine for a moment. Even with the distance and fence between us, I still felt his stinging scrutiny.

"This bag is familiar." He commented.

"Yeah, funny thing." Wilde surprised even Mei. She cleared her throat to settle her voice back into something more gruff. "I found that whole duffel of guns while passing Evergreen Mills, next to a slaughtered ghoul in a suit."

"Heh." Eulogy looked beyond her, straight at me. I was paralyzed with a cocktail mixture of delirium, fear, and respect for Wilde's quick thinking. It was a good thing I couldn't move, because otherwise Eulogy might find us suspect in that moment.

"That reminds me of something I once saw in New Vegas..."

Mei took the reins back on the conversation quickly, spinning something really outlandish. A Radroach and a Deathclaw traveling as companions, she said. One of them carried a briefcase, the other a stuffed bear. Guess which one?

There was a slinking figure in the darkness behind her. In my unsettled state, I jolted and jumped back uncharacteristically, thinking it was a giant silverfish. Took me half a breath to realize it was just that goulified horse. It swished its tail near Wilde and Mei, shrinking away from the light of the fire just as swift as it appeared.

It didn't take long before Mei got bolder. The mad conductor of what was--to me (the last person to admit they were smart and the first person to claim skepticism)-- a haze-brained scheme stood and marched over to Eulogy's side. Impetuous being she was, Mei began flirting with the monster in the red coat the moment he gave her an inch.

It wasn't long before Eulogy rose and whispered something to the women he'd forced to sit on either side of his noxious presence. They filed into the old movie theatre without looking back for him. Shortly after he made a move to command a few of his lackeys. The ones who weren't passed out, anyways. I was surprised to observe that he did not seem to care, or even notice. Hell, he escorted his very captive into his quarters, laughing at her jokes as he traipsed into the old movie theatre.

The ghoulified horse circled the fire once. Twice. I caught Wilde’s eyes following it carefully. On the third round she turned to look at me again, her blue eyes vibrating strangely in her skull. She was a chilling beauty in the sharp orange light. I sighed and it came out as a short, labored “huff”.

When Wilde moved to stand from her seat near the dying fire, she wobbled. Alarms blared in my core, down to the bone. I watched dumbly as I studied all the bobbing heads and lolling tongues around the fire: My experience in watching over the Ninth Circle led me to draw the conclusion quickly: Mei Wong had most definitely laced that wine with some kind of heavy sedative. I watched as Wilde shakily crouched into to shadow, stepping carefully over each sleepy body, presumbly to follow Mei into the old theatre. My heart pined and hurried as I remained unmoving on the outside. Whatever the pair of them were planning, I found myself hoping they kept it swift and safe.

The emergency exit Wilde used to slip inside clicked open and shut with care. As I watched her slip into the darkness, I hoped. Against everything, I hoped.

Wilde

I stayed low and crouched in the darkness of the large open room. I was grateful for the large ruby chairs in the low light and how they’d been stacked into a makeshift wall. After taking a moment to steady my breathing, I peered through a space between the scattered seating.

There were a few overturned chairs and corpses littering the open space. A giant ugly bed was placed in the center. A large projector played macabre war propaganda in broken black-and-white scenes on the back wall. A body hanging from the ceiling swayed in the projector’s patch, but it was Mei’s laughter that chilled me the most.

The bright, flickering lights from the projector began to swim and the colors of the world ran. I fought the drowsiness that threatened to overwhelm with all my strength and followed the barrier of chairs to the northeastern corner of the room, where Mei relayed to me there’d be a terminal.

As I crawled nearer, my body temperature rose. The room gave me the sensation of sliding, spinning out. I reached for the dim glow of the terminal and pushed myself through the nightmarish carousel that was… whatever this was. Mei had warned me about the wine, and I’d drank it without much worry. I shared my father’s cool temperament and “bottomless” nature when it came to drinking. I was confident. But this, this was something else entirely. Colors moved through my vision in fractals. My tongue felt heavy, too big for my mouth. My motor skills, useless. I wanted to scream and sleep at once.

The coding on the screen appeared nothing close to decipherable. My jaw tightened. I could hear Mei and the other women giggling beyond the chairs hiding my strange, sweating form. Moisture from my face dripped onto the keyboard. Every inhale felt like a knife. The rage and disorientation felt alien. I felt possessed, desperately aware of how important getting this Right was, but unable to do anything.

My eyes fluttered before the blinking green of the terminal. The blackness seemed warm, welcome. I saw a flash of Charon’s face, remembered the reactor room in Vault 101. I felt that way now. Something cold and lifeless and wanting to be left alone. Generating nothing but heat. I had one attempt left on the terminal before it locked me out. The fever seemed so enrapturing. I chewed the inside of my cheek and yawned. My body felt separate from itself. My mind, slow syrup.

Oh, the darkness. I felt it smothering, sweltering like a blanket. I could slip…. I could slip….

There was a sudden, piercing scream. I jolted right back from the edge of losing consciousness. Sounds of a struggle kicked my adrenaline and fear into overdrive. I harnessed every inch of cognitive function I could muster, threw it back into the keyboard before me. The room whirred. The stench of blood. A muffled, begging male voice. Mei’s laughter was above it all, cackling and too loud. I could not see what she’d done, but I could decipher that, despite all our odds, she’d won her battle. I chewed the inner flesh of my cheek once more and winced through the salt in my eyes. Prayed to my mother, prayed I could win mine.

My pinky hovered over the “ENTER” key. I thought blearily of Charon, of getting him out alive. I was losing my connection to reality, but hope was not gone.

I pressed. A positive beep. I’d disabled the collars.

“Fixed it.” The short, breathless statement to myself was like a trigger. My head spun and I saw lights at the edge of my vision. I collapsed into a soft heap on the smoke-soaked carpet. I remember hoping the children would make it out okay. The thought echoed in my mind Reverberated when my head hit the floor. Surprised how much it hurt. I finally lost consciousness there in the gloom, the last clear sentence I could hear…

I knew it somehow. My mother’s voice…I knew it, felt it in the way she said my father’s name.

“james....she looks just like you...”

I muttered my own partner’s name in the fadeout, in my dark corner. Mei Wong shrieked laughter from the center of the room, upsetting the projector’s light with her silhouette. The last thing I remember seeing was an eruption of blood on the back wall.

Mei

I always remember the last words. And the first ones. And the ones in between those.

It is a terrible thing, being hounded by memory. I find it’s best to run.

Eulogy no longer looked human to me as I held his head between my thighs. He smiled devilishly. Just me and this bag of flesh, now. His other girls were passed out in the afterglow of our distractive “celebration”.

“I know you and that blonde bitch are up to something. Don’t think I’ll figure it out.”

I could only laugh, obnoxious and loud, as I raised the heavy, heavy cuffs about my wrists and aimed for the space right between his eyebrows,

“That’s too funny! I was just deciding which jar to put your eyes in!”

And just like that, the Fear took hold.

James

Remington put his hands on his hips. He was saying nothing, shaking his head over a dead body.

“Huh. Well, I can’t believe it…!” He exclaimed halfway to himself, “I was just telling this story the other night…”

“What is it?” I asked from my position in the sidecar. My cowboy friend stopped his motorcycle to check on a wastelander who’d collapsed suddenly on our route.

“Come and see for yourself.” Remington called, waving me over with frantic hands. I’d already started scrambling up from out of my rickety seat. Remington took his hat in his hands and wrung it in his hands nervously as he blinked around in all directions.

“Look at that, Dad.” Once I was within talking range, Remington pointed at the emblem on the man’s filthy jumpsuit, “Vault 108.”

The light was still low and dim, for dawn was just on the horizon. I squinted and stared at the newly deceased man at our feet.

Strange. He had no outwardly discernible cause of death. I’d never seen such a thing in all my years of dealing with patients. It felt odd to admit to the doe-eyed giant next to me.

“Look here.” The Cowboy bent, lifting the corpse’s wrist. I gasped. A pip boy.

“Blast! It’s no longer functioning.” I cried, patting the holotapes in my pocket absentmindedly.

“He ain’t far from where he came from.” The cowboy calmly pointed out, “Shoes ain’t too worn. Look, he ain’t even got a weapon.”

I blinked at the man beside me. I was envious of him, how aloof and flippant he could seem, when this world was so excruciating, so terrifying. He handled everything with an ease that was far removed from my woes.

“You thinking what I’m thinking?” He grinned that crooked toothed smile. Most assuredly, I was not.

“A quick detour. Let’s head to Vault 108.” With a few coughing breaths into his elbow, he turned and shuffled back towards his motorcycle. I followed, looking once towards the rising sun.

Penny

I smeared my tired, itching eyes. The light was just beginning to creep through thin, sickly looking clouds over the distant horizon. The mungos hadn’t appeared from Eulogy’s “theatre”--that’s what Charon had called it when I muttered lowly to him about their status. He was too restless to be of much conversation since, but he was more alert and grounded now, and I was grateful to have him there. Two very done, frightened watchers behind chain link in the hesitant dawn.

“The collars are shut off….” Charon grumbled mostly to himself, “She would be out by now…. What’s taking them so long?”

I frowned in agreement. I didn’t know what signal the raven-haired Mungo’d wanted me to follow, but it was late. Too late, I’d decided. It was time to do what I’d been doing since I had memories to count on:

Take things into my own hands.

Eulogy’s men were still lulling under the spell of sleep, but I knew it wouldn’t be for long. Some of them had already begun to bob their heads from unconsciousness. The bastard mungos had thought to get rid of the mikcrates, so I dragged the irradiated barrel to center it beneath the fire escape. I climbed the junk speedy-quick, despite Charon’s grumbling protests.

The fire-escape was familiar. I found my way up with ease, excitement even.

The chilling morning fog had begun to fade. There wasn’t much time. Once I was atop the roof again, I whipped out my gun, eager to look through the scope. The figure in the distance was just pausing to drink from his canteen bottle. The bastard turned to look through his own set of binoculars about his neck, just in my direction. I ducked down as swift as time would allow. Couldn’t afford to get caught up here again.

I took a deep, deep breath. I only had one attempt at this. I steadied my hands. When I was certain the minigunner had turned to face the wastes beyond once more, I made my move.

My aim was right, I was certain. I hadn’t missed a single shot since I could remember holding my trusty scoped weapon. In that millisecond of silence between my finger pulling the trigger, an eruption of interruption. It started with the “theatre’s” back door slamming open. I cursed reflexively and far too loudly. For the first time ever, I’d missed my shot.

Mei

“Shit!”

I was blurry and half-blinded when I woke up. I thought the Mentats would combat the potent sleeping meds I’d slipped into the wine. Alas. As with all things in the wastes, my mixture had been made with haphazard supplies. I was also Very Aware that my tolerance had gone up.

All the mentats in the world couldn’t muffle the curdling rage that still vibrated in my skull; the jagged memories prodding and slicing at me with every grinding turn of my jaw. I kept my body moving to escape its screaming.

I’d only partly noticed the blood covering my clothing, my teeth. I stayed in the aftermath of my frightening rampage for only a few seconds. I needed to grab a gun from the stash Wilde and I had hauled in. I chose one that reminded me of the Cowboy. I also remembered to grab Eulogy’s keyring. Charged through the door. I visibly hissed when the light from outside hit my eyes.

“Shit…. Shit… shit…” I cursed in english and my grandmother’s tongue. How long had the crash lasted? How long had I been sleeping? I shook with a worried chill and brought my hand to my hatchet. No, no. Couldn’t let the Fear grip me now, again. That minigunner started shooting with wild abandon. The Raiders were waking up.

No time. Panic threatened to rear its ugly head.

Time didn’t matter, I repeated to myself. Only the fun.

Firmly pulling my psyche together was difficult (and all the more difficult to retain), but I made it look easy. I made my way through the thicket of incapacitated raiders around the remnants of last night’s campfire. I did so stealthily, as stealthily as possible for a jittering junkie covered in someone else’s viscera.

Angel Eyes barely moved his mouth beyond a scowl when he saw me approach him alone.

“Where’s Wilde?” He hissed.

“Asleep. Probably.” I located the key to the lock that seperated Angel Eyes from unleashing all that tense, tightened fury onto the raiders. He was pacing oddly while keeping his gaze on the black doors I’d just exited. I whistled sharply. Partly to gain the odd fool’s attention, mostly to call Ghost closer to my side.

Charon stopped and gazed through me, lost and distanced and clearly in his own head. He stared dumbly at me when the gate opened with swing of my arm. I sighed impatiently and handed Angel Eyes the keys.

“Kid’s lock is…. The one with red wax on it.” I shakily gestured towards the children’s quarters, “There’s a bathroom in there with a shelter dug underneath. There’s a tunnel from there that leads outside the fence.” I knew because I’d started the project with the other kids, long and faraway ago. Angel Eyes wouldn’t stop looking toward the doors beyond the Brahmin Pit. I whistled again. The collars had been shut off. Blondie’d stayed sober enough to do her bit of the Fun. Didn’t know why he was so worried.

“We’ll survive. Don’t get dead.” I shrugged in an attempt to assure the battered ghoul. It only appeared to make him more trance-like. There was no time to wonder why.

Ghost was waiting for me furtively by the black doors now, as though to reassure us. I could feel Charon’s angel eyes on the back of my head as I silently climbed over drugged out raiders below me to reach my faithful mare, licking my lips and readying the gun I’d borrowed from Wilde’s stash.

Charon

I led the kids through their dismal shelter, just as Wilde’s compatriot instructed. I blinked through the fuzzy collection of memories clouding my conscious. I managed to make it to the tunnel Mei Wong had revealed. One by one, the kids dropped down the narrow passage. It was only when Penny tugged on my pants that I could shake out of my stupor:

“Hey, listen. You gotta get Rory out of here, ok? You just have to.”

“I will, kid. I promise.” I meant it.

The girl nodded and jumped, disappeared along with the other kids. I hoped for their safety and rushed to make it outside, keys gripped tightly in my fist. Whatever the hell came next, I was eager to bring a fight somewhere.

Mei

My hands trembled. The scope in my grasp jolted. Sweat poured down the strands of my raven hair and into my dark eyes.

“Shit.” I hissed and cursed, pausing to frantically search my bra for my emergency stash of mentats. I found the tiny flat, square tin had shifted beneath my armpit. I dosed two of the little red pills for myself, and chewed them quickly. The relief was quick and near-overwhelming. I rationalized the sensation away. We all needed something and we all had problems. Ribbit.

I frowned as I lifted the rifle once more. The scope was smooth and steady in my hands this time. I stayed my breath and took my shot. The minigunner went down. Finally. The least I could do, since I’d missed the cue for my little helper.

Raiders in half-asleep clusters were shaking their bewildered heads and rubbing their eyes open. My alchemy was wearing thin. The endless woman’s adage replayed in my head: there was still work to be done. I dug into Ghost’s sides gently, readying my axe.

Charon

The dark-haired woman was a force of nature. She raced through the bulking throng of sleeping raiders, slicing through heads and encouraging her horse along to pick up the pace even faster. She zipped behind the theatre, screaming laughter was the only thing to indicate her whereabouts. The lone devil was out of sight before I could swing open the gate and face freedom.

I took one sharp inhale, then I lost it. My body became a weapon guided by the hard ends of my fists. Where there were heads moving that the wicked, laughing rider on the storm had missed, my blunt and violent anger found them. Visions of that humble rancher town in Nevada clouded all judgement and presence. I relived that slip into madness times twenty. I’m unsure how many slavers and raiders I killed in my fluid rage. I found hair, teeth, viscera in my fingers. My shoulder burned with a mighty need to crush any and all in my path. I took down Jotun by slamming a shard of broken glass into his neck with the kind of ease one might use for a mundane action--unbuckling a seatbelt or lighting a cigarette. No raider that crossed my path that early afternoon had last words beyond grunting. I wouldn’t allow it. Any onlooker would swear I was on psycho and jet in tandem.

The world around me cleared up only when there was no one left to lash out and destroy. The smell of charred Brahmin hit me hard. I blinked, spinning and bewildered as the cloud from my rampage lifted. The minute I recovered a sliver of my lucidity, I stumbled over to The Box. Penny’d wanted me to get Rory out. It was her final request before we’d parted. I owed it to the kid. She didn’t know, but she’d kept me living, there in that pen. I would honor my oath.

I opened the door. The sight of Rory’s body sliding limp out of the structure should not have shocked me, he was near death when we were co-captives. But it did. I wept. I wept loudly. For Rory, for Penny, for my love Phillip. For my brother Frank and myself.

I kicked at the dirt, knocked over The Box. Clawed at it with my raw, bloodied limbs. It wasn’t until I heard hooves that I could stop. They were gentle, slow sounds now. I looked tiredly up at the figure in rags on the ghoulified horse.

“Hey, Angel Eyes. You uh... got a light?”

We both stared at each other. Red down the front of our chins, our chests. She beamed,

“The Fear got you, too, huh?”

I didn’t know what that meant. I frowned. I did not have any words. I only had watery eyes and wavering fragments of breath. Sally, that was her name. Mei. She adjusted the scarf around her neck in a fidgeting manner. Her jaw was tight. We stared each other down for what felt like two eternities. She seemed to be deciding what to do with me there, among the smoke and the carnage. I didn’t have the energy to fight anymore, regardless.

“He’s dead.” Sally nodded at Rory’s corpse on the ground next to me.

Behind us, the emergency exit of the old theatre opened. Wilde fell out, catching herself on her hands and vomiting on the ground. She tried to get up, faltered. I took wobbling steps in her direction.

“Your girl is a lightweight.” Sally laughed from atop her horse. I did not know what that meant or how Sally’s tone could be so flippant. In the thread-thin clarity of that moment, my one goal was to get Wilde to safety.

“You two aren’t gonna make it out there on foot.” I paused and snarled. But I could feel it in my own body and I could see it in Wilde’s. The elusive Sally was right. I watched her dismount her horse and reenter the old theatre. She exited, holding two large black duffel bags--full of explosives and weapons. I recognized one. The memory was surprisingly stinging. It was the weapons shipment from Ahzrukhal that I’d never delivered. She didn’t give me time to ask how it ended up in her hands. She shoved a pistol in my grasp, instead.

“A gun for you and….. Explosives for me.” She muttered to herself while she dug through the second bag.

Minutes passed. I winced, avoided looking at the mutilated corpses around me. I didn’t want to know what I was capable of, what the absence of the contract could do. For once, I wished for the distracting hum of Wilde’s Pipboy radio.

Sally piped up impatiently, “Well, aren’t you gonna get going? Unless… you wanna be part of the Fireworks?”

I turned again, grunting. I was starting to feel like a record. Go where?

(home)

The madwoman’s horse snorted, as if to punctuate. Wilde had made her way over to us. She didn’t even have the strength to smile or speak, though she leaned on my shoulder tiredly.

“Go on. Take the horse and go before I get nasty again.” Sally snipped, flipping a coin into the air. A penny landed at my bloodied boots. I picked it up, confused. A single red dot blotted out Lincoln's face on the “heads” side.

Sally sighed. Her voice was shaking, “You’ll need that to get to the Temple of the Union. It’s west a ways... OR... was it south? Whatever. Ghost will take you. Look for the strung up lights.”

Wilde began to mount the horse, wordlessly swaying like a drunk as she did so. I worried, grasping at her hand for a moment to steady her on the mare. “Easy. Easy…” The horse had a surprisingly calm temperament, despite its frightful appearance. I felt a kinship with it instantly. I took hold of the reins and walked, letting it lead me. Tried to leave the memories behind in the sweltering smoke and crowded smell of death, but not before draping Rory’s dead body over my shoulder.

Miles to go. Promises to keep.

“So long, good soldier!” I could hear Mei shouting a farewell. It was funny how she could say things that mirrored your own thoughts. “Don’t get dead!”

That laugh of hers haunted me late into the evening, long after Wilde and I were past the gates of Paradise. A whole lot of nothing out here in the late ugly setting sun. I had one lingering hope Penny and the rest of the children were okay. Somehow, I knew we'd see them again. The Temple of the Union was the only place to go.

Chapter Text

Remington

I spotted the entrance to the Vault near the deceased man. That Dad followed close behind. He stepped in a diligent shimmy behind my boots’ clunking. Grime and cool, recycled air hit my lungs the deeper we journeyed. I sniffed. A few hundred years old, no doubt. The nose knew.

“Vault Dad?” I called. My voice echoed, twanging in the dim.

“It’s James.” He sniffled impatiently while inspecting the dead body of a raider behind us with clinical interest.

“Uh… I’ll say again…. hope you’ve got a weapon.”

I did not turn to watch James pick a pistol from the limp Raider. I kept my shiny gaze centered on the end of the long, dark hallway with the flickering amber light ahead. On the silhouette brandishing a rusty pipe, the breath in my lungs getting tighter as I reached for my holster.

The legends were true. The songs I learned in Los never failed. I couldn’t help but grin with a manic excitement as I drew my alien plasma gun–the one for special occasions.

“Ha! Ha! Gary!” The figure raised his arm, his battle cry unmistakable. I vaporized him just as he started into a sprint down the corridor towards me.

“Crap.” I shrugged at the pile of ash before me. Too hasty once again. There wasn’t so much as a stitch of the Gary left, let alone a pip boy for the old man. That was alright. There’d be more, to be sure. I was near-whistling down the musty passageway, now. Dad stepping half-assuredly at my heels. The treasure always got better the further you went in, anyway. It was stone silent other than the drips of a failing pipe system above. In the distance, senseless, hive-minded footsteps were thundering down the mazelike hall. My arm stayed relaxed, gun ready. Had to protect the old man.

Charon

I buried Rory far and away from paradise falls in silence, thinking on his courage all the while. Wilde was unusually silent and I was uncharacteristically autonomous in the grim, misty morning light as we made our way to The Temple of the Union. With my (boss? Friend?

Stop hoping ...hope makes a man...)

I shook my head. You’d think I’d had a sip, hell of a number losing the contract did on me. Wilde was still recovering from whatever was in that wine. My head was as empty and shellshocked as the landscape around us, all seemed hopeless and oddly serene all at once. A crash from a bad drug--hers chemical, mine in memory. I followed the gentle, subtle piloting of the ghoul horse Mei Wong’d lent me in her odd brand of generosity. I was in awe of her, Wilde, of the rescue, of what my own bloodied hands and head could do.

Dogmeat appeared out of nowhere, solidifying the dreaminess of the journey.

Was it a bad dream? A good dream? I was learning things could hold a bit of both, beyond, all at once… all at once.

“What’ve you been into, troublemaker?” I jokingly admonished the scrappy canine. Finally, out of my trance. This was why I liked dogs, I decided. I was so relieved to see the pup. I was overjoyed at the sight of Wilde, too. I couldn’t tell her. There was still the question if we were even partners anymore. I anticipated that she would hire me back on. My mind replayed bits of my breakdown in Paradise Falls, our fight back at Rivet City. I shuddered and tightened my hands around the bits of Ghost’s stringy mane I’d been gripping lightly in the late-afternoon radstorm. Followed her slow moving hooves more closely, now. Couldn’t look back. Had to follow. Couldn’t lose myself in violence again, I resolved.

I turned for a moment to check Wilde’s status. Slowly, with caution. As if I feared she would disappear. She was breathing even. Sleeping sitting up. I still didn’t have the slightest notion how she did that, let alone on a horse. I prayedd the contract was still with her. I chewed myself up with the anxiety of it in silence. Dogmeat whined softly at my side as she followed my steps. I was comforted by the small sound. It was good to know she was there. That my friend was there. That we’d made it out alive. I tried not to let the jolt of emotion that tremored through my body take over for too long. I had to focus on the task. We had to get to the Temple of the Union. Yes. To steady myself from shaking, I kept my earholes locked to the sounds of the mare for the remainder of the journey, glancing to check on my partner everytime Ghost reached an obstacle she wanted to pause and think about. Sometimes it was a radscorpion or a dilapidated diner full of the remnants of moved-on raiders--useful at a time when I didn’t have my gun or the strength to fight. I considered Ghosts’ slowness a small blessing.

Also, it gave me an excuse to speak to Wilde.

“Are you alright?” I called over my shoulder when she appeared awake enough.

“...As I can be.” She mumbled back, finally. She sounded so tired. I nodded back. We smiled weakly at each other. I understood. Such was the way of this world. Trying to be as okay as you could be. When we happen on murky puddles along the rad-blasted dunes, Ghost insisted on drinking from each. I took the pause and told Wilde of my past. She listened with intent, watery-eyed and supportive each time. As the afternoon moved into late evening, she talked a little more. About working with Sally/Mei. About the heavy effects of Mei’s wine concoction, about her bewilderment of surviving it at all–let alone her ability to disable the collars. It softened me and made me respect her all the more. I told her of Penny, how she helped us, how I hoped all the kids were okay. We found ourselves confiding every bit of our own solo journeys--all the fears and faces, follys and doubts, memories and loss, until we laughed a little harder than our old selves. It felt good to not only be with her, but to let my guard down around her.

“Charon?” She said after some more silence. My name like water on her tongue again, that softness in her voice. I felt strange, old chills.

“Mm.” Was all I could manage to get out in response.

“Your brother... it wasn't your fault. And I’m sorry you lost Phillip. He would’ve been proud of you.” Deeper, older chills.

“... Thank you.” The moment caught me so off guard I stopped Ghost by gently pulling on her mane. The mare obliged. For a few solid minutes, I could only stare into my partner’s face. I felt a nerve-reckoning joy that she held my gaze without flinching everytime. I felt the ghost of blush in my cheeks again.

It was Dogmeat who had to finally prod us to keep us moving.

“She missed you.” Wilde joked, “Whined the whole time on our journey to Paradise. And she’s not the only one.”

Her blue eyes had that comforting twinkle growing back in force... Thank whatever damn god.

It was the dawn of a dusty, half-clouded day when I saw the twinkling lights from atop a sandy slope of rubble and dirt. Ghost snorted at my side, urging me to move forward after I’d paused too long to take the sight in. It was spectral even by Wasteland standards. Beige and brick, the gleam too clean for its level of dilapidation. Roofless, pierced together with networks of chainlink fencing and hanging lights. Looked like the structure had three stories at one point, I squinted a guess. Now the temple was just a torn husk. The nearer we came to our destination, the more dense the traps. Ghost made easy work of navigating around the threats, as though she’d done so a thousand times. The lights glowed warmer. The cloudline grew a little brighter.

An ancient, blinking sign stubbornly clinging near the sturdy fenced entrance read in giant, black letters: LABOR UNION TEMPLE. Ghost halted right at the secure latch of the chain link fence. Ghost whinnied--a shrill, hoarse cry that just about knocked me over. A dog’s barking erupted from the roofless second floor. Dogmeat growled in a low, cautious timbre.

An armed lookout moved into view, gun readied out of caution. Ghost snorted beside me. My hand went for my own shotgun, only to find it wasn’t there.

Evergreen Mills.

Dammit. I let panic ripple through me, clinging tight to keep my stoic demeanor intact.

“Four Score! Four Score... simmer down!” The dog above quieted. A guard with a shaved head waved down at me while I leered and Dogmeat continued to growl low. Could these people really be trusted? Why anyone with hair would get willfully rid of all of it was beyond my understanding.

“Sorry, she’s just skittish today. We know that neigh anywhere, don’t we girl…” The guard holstered her weapon, kneeling to pet her pup. Dogmeat’s shoulders and mine relaxed in near-perfect sync. The temple’s sentry scratched her head, eyes searching for another member in our party, “Oh… Where’s Sally Hatchet?”

The girl drew her weapon again faster than I could blink. “Easy, easy.” I raised my scarred hands, glancing back at Wilde to find her sleeping again. We were both weak and exhausted. Ghost had not allowed us the luxury of long rest. A fool’s mercy this lady didn’t have an itchy trigger finger, I thought.

“Sally told me to let the horse lead. To find you.” I said. Turrets stuttered above, pounding my ears, sending my heart to my stomach. Scolded myself for being so weak.

The girl at the Temple entrance put her gun away once more. After a moment’s glare and consideration, she gave me a curt nod, “Never known Ghost to stick around a stranger. ” She moved quick, out of view behind the crumbling walls on the second floor, and reappeared to open the heavy, ancient doors of the structure.

“I’m Simone.” She smiled genuinely now as she unlocked the barbed fence, “Who’re you?”

“Charon. That’s my partner. Wilde.” The words felt like they were coming from another place in my throat. A softer place. My face felt softer, too, when I turned to look at her. She was awake now, climbing down off the horse.

She smiled, eyes tired. Her voice was a friendly, half-croak. “Hello.”

Ghost would not follow us, backing away from the entrance to the temple and snorting defiance. Wilde gathered up her pack and we thanked the mare, patting her mane and feeding her a handful of oats from Wilde’s pack before we parted ways. Simone waved us into the Labor Temple with an authoritative swiftness. Ghost was a blur of dirt, wind, and hooves before the double doors to the ancient office building shut.

“Friends of Sally or not, you try anything with Hannibal, I’ll hunt you down and feed you your own livers.” Simone said with the upbeat chime of someone handing out a pamphlet, “Now, Welcome to the Temple of the Union. There’s cots on the second level and a washbasin down here for bathing. You’re lucky we’ve got a little water left from drawing it up the well this morning.... uhm... Hannibal!” She called up the crumbling set of wide stairs we climbed.

Wilde brought a voice to my growing wariness to the ease of Simone’s welcoming us, “I don’t want to incite suspicion, but… isn’t it unwise for the railroad to accept strangers so quickly?”

“You two from the Capital? Nobody trusts nobody at the Capital.” She shook her head, “Not even their damned selves. Out here, raiders and slavers don’t give their names. Just shoot first. I aim better. Ain’t afraid. And like I said…” Simone looked back at us and winked, “Sally Hatchet’s horse wouldn’t lead just anyone here. Everyone in the railroad knows Sally.”

The temple’s oddball guardian led us to a tired looking black man propped up pensively against the broken edges of brick wall on the second floor, his stare fixated in the direction we’d traveled from. He toyed with a full beard at his chin:

“In all my years of working with Sally Hatchet, I’ve never seen that gal without her trusty horse. Where is she?”

“Paradise Falls.” Wilde answered, “The slavers are all dead. It was Sally’s planning that got us out alive.”

The man against the wall laughed, a soft titter from his lanky-tall frame, “And I’ll bet it was a wild plan, at that. I’m Hannibal. Hannibal Hamlin.”

Wilde introduced us. I no longer felt strangely defensive when she referred to me as “partner”. The word felt warm. I didn’t grumble when Hannibal Hamlin reached to shake my hand. I took it in mine, nodding, taken aback by my sense of security here. Treasuring the sight of Wilde’s smile so close. The wag of Dogmeat’s tail against my leg. To think days ago I’d been sure I’d never see them again.

“Welcome.” Hannibal smiled after clamping my hand with a tight grip. “The Abolishonists’ home is your home. Your past is your own affair, so long as you serve our common good.” I got the feeling Hannibal might’ve known I’d been running guns for the local scum. I wish I could tell him it’d been against my will, that I was only beginning to feel the mental shackles lift. There was no time. He waved Wilde and I along to follow. “This way. I’ll show you where ya’ll can put your gear and lay your heads for the night.” Hannibal gestured towards a narrow, weathered concrete staircase on the far end of the roofless structure. We followed Hamlin up and around some well-armed ex-slaves who were watching a man crouched, working intently at restoring the carved head of Abraham Lincoln.

“The Lincoln Memorial is overrun by raiders… we here at the Temple are gearing up to change that.” Hannibal nodded at my awed expression.

Up another set of stairs. The top floor was clean and swept, filled with bedding and small footlockers. In the center, a seating space with straw pillows and a tiny fire, put out for the daylight. “Alright. Pick a bedroll or two. The cots are spoken for.”

Wilde set her pack next to a sleeping bag nearest a missing portion of the west wall. I chose one adjacent to her own.

“There’s a small washroom down the stairs below. I’m sure Simone told you.” Hamlin called as he walked backwards towards the staircase. “Alejandra can look at your weapons downstairs and wounds alike… judging by the looks of you two, it’s needed. Dinner’s out back near sundown. Bill’s serving Brahmin stew.”

“Thank you, Hannibal.” Wilde began taking off her boots, eyes eager the moment she heard mention of a bath.

I sat along the wall, letting my legs dangle over the edge. Hannibal eyed me sharply once, and disappeared downstairs with a muttered, “Mind yourselves.”

“A little stony, but hospitable nonetheless.” Wilde mused while she peeled off the leather layer of her disguise. I did everything to keep from gazing her way, concentrated on the sun behind the horizon, the deepening pink hues in the sky, deepening my breath after the long journey.

“He’s on his guard.” I told her, “He knows I ran guns for Ahzrukhal. They’re... afraid of me.”

“He said your past was your own affair. Who’s afraid of you? I’m not afraid of you.”

“Well.. you’re fearless.”

I didn’t have to look to feel her smiling. A long moment. I had to speak to fill the tenderness building between us:

“Er...I …Thank you. You, Mei, that kid I told you about–Penny. Philly. You all saved my life.” I said, blinking, after several moments of soaking in the golden sky, shook by the mist in my eyes. I hoped Wilde heard me before making her happy dash to the bath. I did not turn to see, but basked in the alive feeling we’d left.

----

When Wilde returned, I followed suit in cleaning up with a bath and dressing my wounds. The Temple’s resident doctor was stern but kind. She told me to stop smoking. I laughed, coughed. Hamlin saw it in his heart to give me some clean rags to wear. I couldn’t complain seeing as I’d been traveling in nothing but filthy leather pants for days. The cook called everyone for the meal with a bell, singing an old world song as he served, “Heroes” I think it was called.

Wilde and I met up on the exposed wall after we received our dinner, grime wiped away, warming our hands as the sun dipped closer behind a gathering cloudline, chilling the air. The small crowd of Abolishonists below talked and joked, admiring some of the Lincoln artifacts Wilde had dug out of her things as a peace offering.

“Swear you carry one of every little piece of junk you find out here.”

“Pays to be prepared.” Wilde countered, “Speaking of…” She reached in a side pocket of her pack and nudged a rib of mine in soft friendship, presenting me with some Fancy Lad cakes. My stomach and heart panged in kind.

“Essential.” She placed them at my side.

Once more I had to fill the space between my desire to kiss her and our silence with words:

“Wilde… You didn’t have to put yourself in harm’s way for me.” My backwards mind still couldn’t reach the conclusion: Why?

“Yes, I did.” Her tone: Isn’t it obvious? “You’re important to me.”

I grumbled, resistant, “I’m just a brainwashed old ghoul.”

“You are more than what you say. And you’re the best friend I’ve ever had.”

I didn’t know how to respond to all that, to the blunt end of honesty that felt like home. I found myself grumbling more. The sky darkened finally. Still clear with stars. Below us, bellies filled and drinks emptied. A great hush settled over the temple. I was safe. I let down my shoulders a bit. Even more rare, content. Wilde rested her head on my shoulder. I welcomed it. Someday, I resolved, I would find the words. Someday.

James

Remington did more than protect me. The cowboy brought down every enemy that rushed into our path. I barely got a shot in.

“Remington…” I shuddered a breath after chasing him down yet another rusted, mazelike corridor, “We need their pip-boys!”

I blinked down at the eleventh corpse he’d vaporized. The sweating hulk of naivety winced at me apologetically, “Oh. Right.”

“Where did you get that gun?” There were a number of things that defied logic about this place, about the man before me.

“I didn’t tell you? I was abducted! By aliens!” And he skipped ahead of me with a whooping, manic laugh. I followed, wrestling whether to laugh along or cry, for everything this man said sounded equal parts terrifying and inappropriate joke.

Another vault dweller–the men he called “Garys”-- crawled out from the metalworks, jumping down at me from a hole in the ceiling.

“Impossible.” I muttered. The deranged Vault Dweller knocked me to the debris-strewn floor, struggled to grasp my neck with rabid hands. I held my own, unable to keep the gears from my head turning:

The same face. I thought. All of these dwellers have the same face.

“G--... “Guh…” The clone struggled with me, sputtering the hard G sound between labored, fighting breaths. The abomination spat between unbrushed teeth, clawing at my face, scratched an eye. I managed to turn my head as it watered uncontrollably. I heard footsteps sliding, rushing towards me and thought that was that, another twisted Vault creation had come and would end me. I could not see the butt of Remington’s rifle delivering a quick blow to my attacker, though I was able to hear his lazy grunt as he dragged the deadweight off me. I breathed finally, coughing away dust with relief.

Remington stood over me and smiled, offering a hand to help me up. “Gary?” He laughed loudly, then cleared his throat, “Sorry. Bad joke.”

But they were, indeed, “Garys”. After a moment’s fidgety hesitation, The Cowboy hurried to separate the last good PipBoy in Vault 108 from its previous owner. My good eye swiveled up to meet Remington’s blockheaded smile. I didn’t know whether I should be attracted to him or fearful. He gingerly held the PipBoy out to me. I took it with a sigh, fingers working for the holotapes in my filthy labcoat pocket with a hurried want, mouth finally aware of the lack of drink.

Mei Wong

A nap was needed first--After any breakdown or drug binge I needed pure and long motionlessness, a cocoon to resurrect. The place wasn’t so important as the act itself--and this place was a lot nicer than other spaces I’d crashed. Laced with a revenge that felt so satisfactory, so overdue, I nearly stayed in Eulogy’s satin bed all day and missed my self-constructed cue.

I spurred and sobered myself enough to carry on with my plan a little before sundown. I stepped over Eulogy’s body with a weak, unhealthy smile and a tongue heavy in my dry mouth. I drank the water from a questionable bucket outside, surveying the piles of dead slavers on all sides of the encampment. Visions came back from childhood, too sharp. I pushed aside those memories, and the more recent ones of my time in Reno, by dumping the rest of the water in the ugly bucket onto my head.

I nodded to myself alone, resolved to finish the fun.

My arms were uncoordinated, passing judgement on the junk I’d allowed into my system the night before. An ancient, persistent anger dotted all the synapses in my brain.There was a lot of fumbling, more cursing as I dragged the duffle bag full of weapons and explosives out near the Brahmin pit. I ripped it open, irrational and irritated. The sight of guns and explosives eased my dizziness some. The guns were bottlecaps in my eyes already, cumbersome and heavy things to sell. Irrelevant. The explosives, the Fat Man, were what I really needed.

I set to laboring, hacking around with my trusty axe to make certain the piles of dead around me stayed that way.

I grazed and searched every corner of my past prison, the involuntary grounds of Sally-Mei’s teenagedom. I collected the small things I could carry in a cloth bag: Nuka Colas, ammo, stims. Placing the explosives would be hard job for anyone but me. For me it came as naturally as the planting my grandmother would spend her days laboring over in my early childhood. Bend, squat, move onto the next square foot of destruction. I piled the heaviest bombs at the center--The coveted Brahmin Pit, continuing the fun there. I laced the grounds of Paradise Falls with mines of fire, grenades. The theatre won the honor of another great pile of blow-em-ups. Eulogy’s final resting place, both living and final. Last, I traced the now-empty slaves’ pens with quiet reverence. Time to place the sparklers, the showy stuff. Probably too ancient to ignite. Ah, well. The sentiment would be there. A sweaty contemplation settled over me as I finished my good work.

The sky settled towards sunset just as I finished my Johnny Appleseeding. I exited Paradise Falls without a glance back, dragging a loaded Fat Man at my side. I squinted towards the setting sun. My own old resting place, too, would be dust.

I could feel how far away was far enough. When I finally reached a spot atop a barren ridge that wouldn’t melt my skin off or send debris flying my way, I turned from the sun, now sinking below the sad horizon line.

I hoisted the Fat Man launcher up, let it rest upon my shoulder. I took a breath, laced with excitement, exhaustion. Wonder. I hit the trigger.

The fireworks were working. I remembered, for an instant, my grandmother in New Reno, tending to the rattlesnake bite on my small ankle.

“You lucky girl. Don’t let the venom make you evil.”

Luck. Evil. Words that meant nothing and everything in this world. Another floated in my mind, just as the colors of the fireworks launched over my head: Choice. Ha. “Cool.”

What was this feeling? Closure? No, no. I wasn’t done. I would not rest until every slaver on this Godless continent lay in a pile of ash. A feeling like my insides were the vaulted ceilings of a cathedral. No, no. It was… felling, falling. The dirt below hit my face. Sand settled about me in an itchy mist. I collapsed, waiting in the cool dusk for Ghost.

Charon

On the far horizon, towards Paradise Falls, several blooms of light and color whizzed high into the sky. Some of the people below gasped, most were stunned.

“I’ve never seen anything like this.” Wilde looked amazed, concerned.

“Fireworks.” I shivered a little, there was a strange effort to recalling their memory. Mei Wong’s work, no doubt. A few moments later, a searing, bright marigold ball of fire rose from the ground in the same spot. Gone. All gone.

past

Dogmeat barked. My eyes welled up, wet. No more helicopters on the boundless dirt of the wastes. Just colors I never thought I’d see again dotting the new-old stars.

Thoughts of the long quest still ahead hit us, shared with a longing look. Everything we’d seen, everything we’d gone through to find ourselves in relative safety after that last nightmare, passed through that look in a moment. I knew I was forgiven. A string between us, not the piece of aged paper with its signatures, its faded seal. A knowing. I knew she was sorry, that I was, too. I knew we were friends. Against all odds, that I pined for something deeper. The Contract forbade me saying so. After everything, now nothing. After Alpha and Omega, Wilde and I could only slip a hand into the other’s and laugh.

Remington

I recognized the Wanderer’s voice, could feel Charon’s punch in the cartilage of my still tender-crooked nose. I decided against telling James I’d seen her. Least not now. He was shaking with tears there in the dank-dark. I didn’t know where she was now. A reveal would do nothing but send his emotions spiralling.

The holotape was tinny in its feedback. The gear would need a deep cleaning, it was an older model. Lot of older models had that problem. The fact that it had survived down in these conditions this long was a promising sign, though.

Wilde’s voice sounded a little younger somehow:

“Hey, Dad. I’m out playing softball with Amata. There’s mac and cheese in the icebox for you. Bea came by your office while I was covering for you today. I wish you’d tell me what Jonas and you are up to down there... Anyways, Bea was acting strange as ever, she left a weird poem on your desk, so, have fun with that.” A short laugh, “I’ll be back late. We’re supposed to meet up with her friends at the cafeteria. I’ll stay as long as it’s polite. It’ll be a bore, I’m sure. Ok! Love you! Bye.”

James was blushing when he silenced the recording. “This is the… last ...This was left on my desk the night before I left the Vault.” He sighed, exhausted, “It’s the little things.”

Oh boy, didn’t I know it. “Yeah.” I said softly avoiding his gaze so’s not to stare at his busted eye, “So, anyway… We got the Pip boy. We should move west. ”

Charon

I awoke before Wilde, facing her. She was grim-faced in dreaming. Nothing good to see there, I knew. Only pain. Dogmeat snuffed in my lobeless right ear. Sneezed.

“Nothing good in that ear, either.” I whispered. Laughing for no one but myself.

Wilde sighed, I hushed. Except for the empty winds and the rhythmic chiseling of Caleb the sculptor down below, all was quiet. I hovered my fingers above a tender spot on my partner’s head, stopping short of sweeping the silken, stray hairs from her face. I dropped my hand in the hard valley between our cots. Concentrated on the chiseling, wondered how she could sleep through it.

She snored. I laughed. She blinked. A circuit shorted in my brain, jolted me with nerves. I cleared my gravelly throat. Wanting to tell her how much she meant to me, that every day without her was my worst one. It came out all wrong:

“Contract? Do you have it?” A twitch that disgusted me, terrified me. My brain was not my own, again. Wilde reached out for my face. Touched it. I closed my eyes, wishing I could say the words. My jaw locked. We held our gaze for a tiny slice of eternity. She smiled, voice low and sleep-dry.

“I have it.” She pointed to her breast, “Always.”

---

I left The Temple with a fuller belly and the fullest heart I could remember having in years. Hannibal laughing wide at Wilde’s promise to bring him back some Lincoln artifacts for his assistance. I felt lighter as we made our way across sparse sand. Wilde beside me, Dogmeat trotting in lockstep ahead. There had been no nightmares the evening before. Memories… just memories.

The sun was setting once again. I’d just built up fire. Wilde stared for a time into flame, deep in the gears of her mind. Inhaled, shut her eyes, looked to me after a huff of an inhale, “Okay. Let’s get that gun of yours.”

I frowned, “Your Dad is more important than my gun, don’t you think?”

It was too late to argue. The Saint of Everyone’s problems was already set and we both knew it. Come morning we’d set off for Evergreen Mills, where I’d last heard my gun was sold to a gang of raiders.

A nagging thought as she drew a fearless plan in the sand with a warped stick: Was it my old carved up weapon she wanted back so desperately, or was she afraid of facing down her father?

If there was anything I’d learned during the time in Paradise Falls, the answers were not so cut and dry. Sometimes the answers melded together, like the spectrum in a sunrise or the notes in a song.

Onward, then. No matter where she went, I wanted to follow.

Chapter Text

Charon

Evergreen Mills was in the southeast quadrant of the Capital Wastes–an old steel factory nestled in a large valley, only accessible via the old train tracks. I knew the way. I had made the journey countless times. Running guns in exchange for caps from Paradise and Underworld to the Mill and back again, all under Ahzrukhal’s command. 

The walk felt wrong in spite of the nature of my employment now. The budding warmth in the net of safety turned to something icy cold there in the darkness of my gut, even as the sun beamed brightly with the breaking of morning. Something bad is going to happen. Well, yes, I tried telling myself, bad things happen all the time, to the end of time. 

This, however, was a special bad feeling. Uglier bad. 

“Wilde…” I began. 

My partner looked back at me with a smile. A smile, once weak, now in full force like the sun. My worries felt irrelevant, dashed. She was so excited to find my damn gun.

“I can find a new gun.” I started bargaining once more, halfway trying to convince myself, “Hell, Sally Hatchet had the whole bag of 'em from my last run. Why…” I decided against bringing up the fact that we were, once again, delaying finding her father: “Why go out of your way for just one?”

“You carved letters into the butt, Cher. Don’t pretend like it wasn’t important just because it’s gone.” 

I couldn’t help but grin, private and small, at hearing her nickname for me again. But after all we'd been through in Paradise Falls, the newfound habit of not keeping my mouth shut persisted:

“Wilde.” I said it firm and she turned, surprised as I was by the firmness in my voice. There was no other explanation than the memory of my brother and my first love pushing me, the regret at not being able to save them: “If we do this, we’ve gotta focus on finding your father next. For real this time.”

She coughed, looked to the horizon, sighed: “We will. I promise.”

“Don’t promise me nothing. Promise yourself.” Wilde looked at me with new eyes, blinking at the grit beneath our feet. The sun hiked higher as we got closer to our destination and there were no more words, except to pass a canteen from one another. Once the sand started to give way to rail tracks the cold feeling in me came back, and the farther we went on the stronger it got.

it’s just one more job, I thought, why this? why now?

Tracks on a flat terrain shifted into rises, the rises into the closest thing to “hills” you could find in the D.C. Wastes–tangles of old cars, metal, trash. And there it was. Evergreen Mills was familiar in the ugly way the rush of blood to my head before a fight was familiar, the trigger of a gun, a man on his knees saying,

charlie. please.

I didn’t have the energy to choke away memory anymore. I would have to use them to do better, otherwise they’d destroy me.

how? how? you killed…

I killed. I got me and my loved ones locked in hell. I watched my brother descend into madness. I watched my first love die. I shot my brother. I ran guns for the same man who ordered me to do it. How to forgive myself? Where to begin?

“Cher…?”

Wilde’s voice brought me back to now. I looked at her, standing before the wall of old mill parts that separated our party from certain doom. The ever onward position of her legs, the shaky breath she exhaled despite holding her plasma rifle steady. Her vault suit had been cleaned–an insisted-on courtesy of the folks at the temple. She looked better than new, the angel in blue. Dogmeat dug into the hard dirt nearby, studious and sniffing. And I supposed the “how” was there, in that shortest-longest place nestled between past and future.

“You know more about this place than I do.” Wilde squinted away from the sun gleaming off the scrap in the wall, “I know it's hard but... Help me plan? Please.”

Dogmeat appeared at her side with a long stick, wagging her tail. All the bad in me dissipated with the rare breeze and the “please” from the woman who could order me to my knees.

(and i would kneel, gladly)

I smiled, the rare things in life becoming more; grabbing at Dogmeat’s stick and set to drawing in the sand. Outlining my worry into the real, hard world: drawing the behemoth super mutant caged up behind electricity inside Evergreen’s makeshift walls.

"Avoid this thing at all costs," I tapped at the near-comical sketch.

James

Calibrating the new Pipboy took shockingly little time, as did the rest of our journey west. In fact, there was a strange sensation of time speeding forward, as though every action was encoded–pushing my destiny along with something else. The feeling settled deep into my core when I found myself dazed, blinking from the sidecar of Remington’s motorcycle, wondering where all the distance and errands had leaked out. The horizon sped into blurred smudges beside me, as if to hammer the point. 

By the time we reached our destination, I was so disoriented I couldn’t muster speech. “Smith and Casey’s Garage”--the large sign and the rinky establishment it stood for jutted out in garish, rusted colors; like the carousel rides of the old world against the flat, red-beige landscape. 

Remington found us a way inside using his usual method–jury-rigging, stubborn strength, and luck. A strange deja vu cascaded through my bones when hit by the smell of the interior: flat dust and oily machinery; open and long-drained vodka bottles littered about. If this was shelter to someone, it had been abandoned some time ago. The reminder of my days as a scientist on “Project Purity” made way for frustration, once i realized this was all it was: a small room. Not even the radroaches wanted anything to do with it. I sighed.

The cowboy was shuffling every which way, feeling his hands with the walls. He addressed me without looking in my direction, “What’s up, Doc?”

“Remington..” I rubbed the lined space between my eyebrows, “why on earth did we come here? It’s just….”

An abandoned garage. 

The man said nothing, hummed. His fingers greedily traced a small framed photo of a dollar behind what would’ve been the sales counter of the garage in its heyday. 

Remington whisper-sang words I couldn’t make out, forehead dressed with sweat and concentration. I could only watch, quizzical, as his heavy movements and swaying armless duster kicked up the settled debris around the place. 

I wondered why the humble, framed dollar took so much effort to remove, wondered again why my companion insisted it be gone.

The frame released its placeholder in what seemed like eternities later, all those eternities speeding up my heart rate when I saw what was hidden--so simple yet so blaring--underneath. 

A button. A bright, red button with a square of yellow and black caution tape all around the humble perimeter.

Remington’s hands framed it, a wild and sweaty grin to accessorize his triumph. 

I stepped forward. Again the deja vu feeling embraced me.

“You should do the honors, Dad.” The cowboy moved aside, fanning his face with the costume-y hat he wore. 

Pressing the button was easy–I had done it a thousand times, a thousand other lifetimes: where my daughter was a son; where they were younger, older, different skin colors. Where I’d never gone to Andale, never seen a Gary, where I’d never drank a drop. 

Futures where I passed this point and was never found.

The red circle caved beneath my palm. I turned to face the space behind the garage’s countertop before the mechanism even made its connection. The bolted metal flooring shifted back behind the counter with a rusty growl. The ground before Remington and I opened up, revealing too-bright light and a set of cleaner, tunneling stairs. 

The cowboy’s face looked alien, more beautiful in the light from below than I could ever express. His soft brown eyes smiled ruefully as he said:

“I can’t go past this point, boss. Got other adventures to chase.”

I exhaled, knowing. Remington grabbed me up, unexpectedly, into a spine-crushing hug. I patted at his back, welcoming the intrusion. 

When the cowboy finally let me go, he held me at arm’s length, patting my shoulder lightly. “Go on, Doc.”

Something in his countenance told me he’d make sure someone would find me this time. I moved slowly down the lit stairway as he watched, thankful he could only see the back of my head rather than the tears building in my eyes. My shaking hand reached into the labcoat that held the last memories of my wife and child. I popped a tape into my strange new Pipboy.

“Hi Dad…”

The journey down the steps was practically nothing, but it felt almost too slow to bear. I took it step by step, feeling as if I was about to drop off the face of existence every moment. In a way, I suppose I was.

My daughter’s voice crackled out as the tape ended. The bright light grew brighter, my lungs taking in as much air as they could to stave off panic all the while. I did not turn to see that the Cowboy had already gone. I blinked and wet my lips, ready to face this mysterious destiny. The culmination of my research. The path to the G.E.C.K.

A Robobrain was waiting for me at the bottom of the steps, Vault uniform in hand:

“You’re late.” The robotically feminine voice chirped. 

 Wilde

We snuck into Evergreen Mills with practiced ease. The Mill had no watchtowers, no guard patrol. Only buyers and sellers of devious design knew its location. Only Charon knew the “secret entrance” in the wall. This low guard gave us an advantage. I would take the high path overlooking the valley of the old train yard, pick raiders off with my scoped plasma rifle while Charon made his way through the “Market”--a slapdash network of once-Mill-now-caves that led to where he knew, without a doubt, his Terrible Shotgun waited. 

There was little risk, other than the behemoth. Fewer enemies than Paradise Falls. Easy.

It was supposed to be easy.

The first couple of Raiders went down without a hitch. Dogmeat had been dutifully quiet at my side.  A few more raiders came, crawling out of the traincars in a rage. Dogmeat looked restless and began growling. I couldn’t keep up with all the Raiders–more than Charon had estimated, more than one quiet gun could handle. 

A primal terror swept through my body as Dogmeat began to charge down our hiding spot. I had no other recourse but to follow. 

Things became very loud and very dangerous. Very fast.

Charon 

My part of the plan was smooth as butter. I handled the silenced 10mm Wilde had loaned to me with a nervous stance, but my shots were true. Every raider in the bazaar fell before they even had time to falter. I only paused in what was known as the “strip club”. After I’d eliminated every face I could remember delivering a gun to, I heard the voices from beyond a cell:

“Red Guy. Help us.”

I recognized them from a previous run. They were dancers, emaciated and clad in almost nothing. Staring at them, I could only see a reflection in the hollows under their eyes: myself under Azrukhal’s employ. 

I went and found a key to their confinement. Silent as a grave, I unlocked the women’s cage. 

“Jesus. The stories were true. You’re one big ugly son’bitch.” 

I held the key out until one of them snatched it. I could smell the fear on them.

“Go home.” The voice that came outta me sounded far off.

“...Uh, ok. Fuckin’ weirdo.” The harshness in the hand that took the key didn’t bother me none. There were more important matters to tend to. Get my rifle; get to back Wilde. The goals beat in my eardrums so loud I hardly heard Dogmeat’s barking outside as the women left the cave.

Mei Wong

The small dark figure on the horizon had no shelter and no weapon. They sat cross-legged and eyes-covered like an island in a lonesome, dusty sea. The afternoon sun was beating and glaring into my view. It took a stop atop my horse and a moment of squinting beneath my scarf for recognition of the shape to assert itself in my hungover reality.

The girl. The little smart one from Paradise Falls. I clicked my tongue to spur Ghost in her direction. 

Charon

There was no doubt I looked something like a madman when I snaked around the corner to Smiling Jack’s makeshift stall. The man himself was already in a state of surrender: hands raised and framing his head, sweat beading down the temple, queasy smile playing at his q-tip-ass-head. 

“Red Guy….” I could hear in his breath the amount of strength he had to stir up to even get out the words, “You here to do business… I-I hope?”

“My gun.” I growled. “It’s mine.”

Jack did not turn his back on me, didn’t move his hands. He just slid back real slow. “Sure. Sure. You don’t gotta say it again.” Like I was an irradiated bear huffing at him. Except I didn’t have to say a word. I’d even put my 10mm down. I only rose it again once–a reflex from Jack ducking down under his counter.

“Easy, there. Easy.” he coaxed gruffly. Again with the animal talk. I halfway wanted to just shoot him. But I knew he was rooting around in the lockbox only he could open (he’d bragged about it so many times). And besides. It wasn’t the ‘Wilde’ thing to do.

The speed at which I grabbed up my Terrible Shotgun shocked even me, though my face wouldn’t betray the emotion. Smiling Jack was shaking, eyes rolling to follow my every micromove. I ignored him. The strange clarity of running my finger over the carved ‘W’ on the butt of my gun was near-intoxicating. The urge to take the deepest breath I’d taken in years overcame, followed by a sweeping exhale. Every muscle fiber filled and hardened with resolve. I didn’t know how to thank Wilde for helping me find this again…. For inspiring this growing sense of self. 

I steeled myself, brow lowered like a bull, and walked back through the cave towards the open air of Evergreen Mills. Determined to do so. All that resolve turned to something itchy and grave when I saw Dogmeat rushing up to meet me in the network. Her eyes were white with stress and her teeth gnarled in aggression. She pulled at the hem of my new shirt. I took the hint and broke into a run.

Penny

 The long, calm and cool shadow above me stopped my sniffling. I squinted up. The craziest Mungo from Paradise Falls, balanced on whatever she would call horse (but unlike any kind of horse I’d ever seen in books). 

“What are you doing out here?” I frowned in speculation. 

“Could ask you the same thing, young one.” She looked out at the flat expanse and sucked her teeth, “How long have you been crying out here?”

I couldn’t answer. I was too ashamed. The whole truth was I’d been sobbing since the other kids and I had escaped through Paradise Falls’ irradiated tunnels. Part of it was the relief of finding out the collars weren’t going to go off after all, part of it was the weight still hanging on my neck, but mostly it was missing. Missing Rory–I knew he was dead, I could just feel it. Missing Charon and my brother, who was due for leaving my home at Camp Lamplight any day now. Would they die too? Would everyone I bonded with leave?

The tears came again, and this time it made me red with anger. I clawed at the collar around my neck. And when it was fruitless, I tore at the dirt around me. 

“Hey. Hey.” The Mungo tsked and shifted around awkwardly to reach into some stuffed bags atop the…

“Ghost! Quit moving about so much, girl.” It was the Mungo who was moving erratically. I didn’t see the point in contradicting her.

The Mungo came up with a screwdriver, hopping down off the Ghost. 

“Can I?” She gestured to the contraption around my neck. I nodded.

The Mungo worked with shaking hands. Her lack of stability spoke to me, matched how I was feeling inside. I finally found the courage to let everything escape:

“I missed my shot. My brother's gonna leave home before I can say goodbye... The other kids told me when the fireworks started.”

“We all miss our shots sometimes, darlin’...” A screw came loose, flying out onto the ground with a cold and tiny sound, “Where’s home?”

“I don’t…. I don’t know anymore.” This trust in a Mungo was unlike me, but she’d helped us all escape, hadn’t she? I just couldn’t help but hope the trust wouldn’t bite me later,” I don’t even wanna go back, knowing my brother is gone.”

“Well, you can’t just sit out here, Courier.” The Mungo led me up by the arm. Her way was gentle. She muttered to herself as she led me over to Ghost, “God, I hate the Capital. Got me looking like a fuckin’.... good samaritan out here. Whatever you call it.”

“Ok.” She huffed, “Up we go, up we go…” The Mungo hoisted my strengthless body onto the creature with stringy, muscled arms. Seeing the creature up close, I could see that it was a ghoul. 

“Where did Charon go?” I had the mind to ask her.

“I lent him my horse. He made it to safety, otherwise Ghost would’ve taken longer.”

I didn’t understand how she put so much faith in this animal, but I nodded just the same.

“Whether they stayed in safety…? Well, that’s another matter entirely.” 

Wilde

By the time Dogmeat went bounding down the steep hill that was my cover, there were already too many raiders gathering and alert in the valley of Evergreen Mills. I cursed my trusty rifle jamming at the worst time, looked up to see the makeshift door to the caves opening. Two women–not Charon–exiting. Dogmeat darted through the opening. The Behemoth super mutant in his makeshift cage cried to cover my own panicked yell. If Charon hadn’t made it, Dogmeat would die in there. 

And if they were both mortally wounded… the thought was too much to bear. It made me illogical. So I did the illogical thing.

I ran. Out of cover, gun malfunctioning, to rescue them. Not a hope or a plan in the world.

Charon

Dogmeat burst from the cave first, growling headfirst into the fray. It scraped up time to adjust to the change in light. But the rage would blind me just as swiftly when my eyes found Wilde, panicked and fireless. She’d been using her rifle as a shield. Raiders surrounded her in a nasty swarm, with the two women I’d loosed battering them with anything they could find. It would only be enough to buy me one maneuver.

My head twitched in the direction of the Behemoth Mutant’s pen. I moved with precision and purpose–before anyone in the swarm surrounding Wilde could see me.

Mei Wong

Three miles in and that kid was still sniffling and sobbing. I did not begrudge her for the tears, not after what she’d gone through. I whistled low while we walked, feeling the wind hit the tiny networks of sweat soaking my temples. 

“Can I tell you a story?” I took a moment to fiddle with a compass in my pack, aiming to find the direction to Camp Lamplight. 

“...Sure.” The kid stopped sniffling and took a shaky breath. 

“My Granny loved to tell this one. We had a ranch back in New Reno, yeah.”

“Where’s New Reno?”

“It’s in a desert, a place more desert than here but somehow brighter. Saturated. Listen, now.. You listening? This ranch had been in the Wong family for generations. And my grandma had just welcomed a new grandchild when they all decided to go to the feed store… The way it’s told, all these Army geeks showed up one day…”

Charon

A break in Wilde’s fight appeared just as I reached the giant Mutant in his fucked up pen. The two women I’d loosed had found an opening and were beating back the mass of raiders with nothing but pipes in their hands. Despite this, Wilde was still being ripped asunder. I watched for half a second as the contract flew out from under her jumpsuit. Her panicked, tearful eyes looking across at me for a small forever.

The freakout in her voice rose to a boom, “Charon! Don’t! Charon! I order you not to–”

It was too late. She couldn’t win and I could not stop. I could hear the Behemoth breathing–weak but readied with rage. Smell the ozone on the electrified door. I could waste no time trying to shut it off. I grounded my feet with everything I had, and grabbed for the handle.

The connection would last three seconds–voltage vibrating through my bones and my teeth with an ugly vigor. I gritted and fought, twisting the heavy handled latch up, Up. Voltage ripped through me. A human body couldn’t handle such a literal shock. But I wasn’t a human. I was Charlie McCaron–a creature that had come from hell and back and hell again. 

Everything was a loud quiet, blood pumping through my ears masked background shouting and adrenaline. For that one moment, I could feel it all together–the haggard women helping Wilde beat her assailants, the Dog companion ripping a leg into shreds, my boss clawing for the contract blowing in the errant wind matched the desperate-futile grip of my stubborn feet clawing into the ground. The Behemoth’s cry, too, was my own. 

One look up from my struggle before the final, wrenching push: I saw Wilde breaking out of the fray to chase the contract with blood-stranded hair and desperate breaths. And I felt, in that moment. The full and loud scope of all my feelings for her–elation, peace, repressed passion, restless pining. 

And something funny--I didn't care about dropping my gun at all.

I gave the door an inch’s opening, and the green devil kicked me a mile. The behemoth threw a train car into the crowd of raiders to finish them off before howling away from his torture, his old life. I only maintained consciousness long enough to affirm Wilde and Dogmeat were safe. My body took the cue and fully collapsed into the earth. The electricity left me so wiped out I could hardly feel. All that remained was the light in my brain flooding into fading, and somewhere, some time, just before I lost consciousness–I could swear I heard a baby crying.

Remington

Sure was a fortune that Dad’s quest ended up at a garage. I siphoned off what gas I could from the dormant vehicles in the lot and pulled back the well-loved tarp on my motorcycle, heading for the next direction my gut assigned. 

Faster. Or you won’t make it in time.

My foot bore down on the gas pedal without hesitation.

Penny

“And so Granny looked down at the Good Soldier as he told them to take their trucks and ‘go home.’ ‘Go home.’, he said in clumsy Chinese…”

“You’re being way too confusing.” I told the Mungo bluntly. “What happened to Angel Eyes?”

“Oh, he’s not that important. He just beat the literal living out of the man in charge and grabbed the keys. The Wong matriarch took them and said, We! We will survive.” The sweaty Mungo stopped for what was either comedic or drama effect (honestly I couldn’t tell–the weird smile on her nervous face was tough to read). 

“But You!” Mei Wong pointed at me with glassy, childlike eyes: “You’re all dead.”

“So?” I blinked at her, my grief from Rory’s death persisting in the back of my mind, “Those guys died?”

“Who cares about those guys? Ugh.” Mei Wong ran alongside her horse’s trot again, “The Wongs lived! Came out of that shelter completely changed–granny, especially. She ghoulified. Traveled the Mojave ‘till she settled in New Reno and staked out her claim by going back to the old ranch. Guided generations until I was born. And then… And then…”

Mei shook, and it was down to her core. She stopped without objection from her horse–who she patted quietly for a moment before digging around in a canvas saddlebag to extract some tin.

“Look, the point I’m trying to make is…” She scraped at the bottom of the metal for some scrap of a mint and licked the dust from her fingers, “You live out here, and you may die–the ones you love, too. But once in a while people come along and help you perform a miracle. But you’ll never see it if you give up and stop moving.”

I sorta got what she was saying. But I was arrested by the way she rubbed her teeth now and tightened the gray scarf around her head with a shiver. Her eyes looked glossier, ghostly voids even in the sun.

“What is that stuff?” I wrinkled my nose.

“Nothing you ever wanna fuck with.” Mei Wong snapped, “Now hush. We’re getting you home.”

The dead quiet of the wastes settled over us for a moment, until a strange sound came ripping through the dust; the likes of which I never heard. A louder than loud rumble. Mei Wong and I whipped our heads about at the same time to see another Mungo ripping his way through the flat dirt on what looked like a big, shiny silver bullet. I could barely make out his round shape before he was over the horizon.

Mei Wong sucked her teeth, “Cowboy’s got somewhere else to be. Didn’t even see me.”

“You know that guy?” I was still gaping out at the dust he’d spurred up on his hellpath–a miracle. “You know what he was riding?”

Mei laughed, “He calls it a ‘motorcycle’. And yeah. I know everyone, Courier.”

I was getting tired of my own questions. Not knowing. But I pressed Mei anyhow, “Why do you keep calling me that? My name is Penny.”

Mei looked back at me once to flash a rare, genuine smile, “Everyone in the railroad gets a nickname, Penny. This one’s yours.”

I wouldn’t tell the Mungo I was fond of it. As time went on the terrain got familiar, and I knew we were close to Little Lamplight. I let out a mile’s long exhale when I saw the ancient schoolbus sticking out of the sand like some dead seamonster. I blinked the last of my tears up at the wide too-blue sky, hoping Rory was at rest, hoping Charon and his friend were alive to see the next big thing. Knowing I had press on, through any and all grief, to see more myself.

Remington

I didn’t know when to stop, until two hardly-clad women came running and waving into my path.

“Oop!” I slammed the stopper, spinning wildly for a good many feet. I wrenched my body weight to counteract and bring the damn thing to a full state of motionlessness. I coughed in the sandy cloud I’d created. I was gonna feel this little excursion in the morning, that was certain.

The women were blinking at me wildly, unawares of the danger they’d been in, “Mister? You gotta help.”

“Yes…. er, hello.” I sputtered, wiping the dirt from my face with a scrap of my overcoat. The women weren’t interested in chatting. They gave me no time to cover my vehicle, just beelined straight into a valley obscured mostly by metal walls and traincar parts. I gave the ol’ girl a nervous, apologetic glance and kept on, hovering a hand over my blaster in case this was some raider’s trap.

The women gave me a moment to catch up and pass through a small hole in the wall’s integrity. I entered thicker smoke and grew warier. I had my blaster out and my lucky hat on my head before they could call out to me again. 

“Over here!” 

A nuclear breeze swept through and cleared the remnants soundlessly. I’d walked in on a trap, alright. A trap that had already been sprung. Hastily, by the looks of it. Raiders’ bodies were everywhere in the gleaming sunlight, smashed into the earth by a snail trail of destruction. The culprit at the end of a set of y-shaped train tracks: A dead behemoth. No gun wounds. Likely died of exposure somehow. My guess was he’d gotten his revenge on the raiders and keeled over before even clearing the Mill.

A dog’s barking brought my attention to the other side of the compound, solving the rest of the mystery. A huge haphazard cage told me the Mutant had been trapped there a long time. A sputtering short around the enclosure revealed the fence had been volted, untouchable by human standards. The mutant must’ve gotten out… but how? He was weak. There was no way…

My eyes scanned the ground in front of the broken prison, and there they were.

The blonde was doubled over her ghoul man, rocking and crying. Her Vault suit was torn and bloodied. The dog nearby barked frantic at me now, spinning in stressed circles.

“Help! You ass!” One of the women who’d led me into the compound hissed. 

“Well, shucks.” I brought my hat down from my head and skidded down alongside Wilde as soon as I stirred from my spaceout. 

The Vault Gal’s voice was hoarse with tears. “Remington?!” For a moment, I thought she might hug me.

“Funny runnin’ into you.” I nodded in greeting and holstered my weapon. I coaxed Charon’s hand from her grip and reached for her ghoulfriend’s wrist, feeling a faint pulse.

“He’s hanging on…” Wilde affirmed shakily as she picked up the shotgun laying at his side, “But we’re…”

“In the middle of nowhere, yeah.” I finished her sentence after surveying the carnage around us once more, staring into her face. There was pain in Wilde’s eyes, regret that was unmatched. Dirt and blood grimed to her face. Charon’s breaths were shallow. He coughed miserably.

“No, no.” Wilde murmured to no one more than herself, took up Charon’s hand and ran his fingers across her lips, “It’s not over. It can’t be over.” My next quest came as clear as the women’s voices as they stalked around us: “You have to get them to a doc. They helped us escape.”

I nodded. “C’mon up.” I batted Wilde’s shoulder gently, “We gotta get him into my sidecar. You can ride with me. I don’t know about your dog.”

“Dogmeat.” The pooch’s ears stood at attention at the sound of her voice, “You’ve gotta wait for me at Vault 101. Alright?” 

The smart pup whined, sniffed. Trotted off. She reminded me of Mei’s horse. Something almost supernatural about her intuition. 

It took all of us to get an unconscious Charon secured into my motorcycle’s sidecar. I strapped my spare pair of goggles to his head to keep the dust out. The helmet was too small for him, so it went to Wilde.

“Red’s gonna be okay.” One of the girls tried to will the shoddy fact into reality. 

I smiled, grateful to the pair of women who’d gone through the risk to lead me here, “You two gonna be alright?”

They’d already started back towards the remnants of all the excitement–no doubt to pick at the pulpy mass of raider armor for supplies, bullets. All wild hair, meatless bones and broken teeth, “You gotta go, mister. We’re here. We’re… home.”

Satisfied, I instructed Wilde to hop into the seat behind me and hang on. She clasped her hands around my wide core and screwed her eyes shut in anticipation.

She could feel the short laugh rise in my belly. “Wheels make me nauseous.” She explained as though I were about to rip off a band-aid. I could never relate. There was so much freedom in being so much faster than anything trying to kill you.

“Well, hold onto your booty. And best keep your eyes shut…” I drawled, “I only got one extra pair of goggles.”

I revved the engine, and gunned it like a daredevil to the only ghoul doctor in the Wastes I knew could help a case like Charon. To Underworld. 

Chapter Text

Wilde

I took Remington’s advice and kept my eyes closed for the ride. In a tragic way, Charon and I were both connected there–two darkened states of mind with nothing but the pure thunder of The Cowboy’s engine to cocoon us. A connection, I feared, that would be there for the last time. 

I could only wait. Regret and pray–clumsy, nonsensical strings of thought that unraveled against what felt like the speed of light. Jesus, Why hadn’t I listened to my dearest friend? I should’ve just moved on, chased the leads on my father. I shouldn’t have pushed him. 

You shouldn’t have hired him. An ugly, dark thought in my heart rose: If you weren’t so damn scared to be alone, he’d be safe in that smelly bar.

And trapped. 

You think that matters? After all the shit you’ve dragged him through?

Yes! Absolutely anything would be better than rotting against four unbending, unchanging walls for all time–I would know. But the ugly thought lingered. By the time Remington sped into The Mall and towards D.C.’s history museum, I couldn’t tell if the tears caking my face were from self-admonishment or strain. Remington’s speed defied wind and sound. I felt I was in a long, dark tunnel, even before we hit the Metro. Light was fading into another burst of sunset when we reached our destination, down into tunnels, for real this time. My stomach was grateful for the easy, slow stop in front of the long escalators leading up and out of Museum Station’s entrance. 

Remington killed the engine. A shot rang out, missing us by a mile. An alarm. A figure coughed atop the platform as I adjusted my eyes in the purple light of dusk:

“Oh. Tourist?”

“Willow.” I exhaled, relieved I didn’t have to bluff with my broken plasma rifle or adjust to Charon’s beast of a gun once my eyes adjusted to sight.

“Sorry I fired that warning shot. Reflex. Is that…?”

“Help us get him to Barrows, would you?” I found the strength to call up just as my fingers found Char’s pulse–he was stable, but still unresponsive. 

“Shit… Yeah.” Willow rushed down, readied her hands as Remington stooped to release my partner’s safety belts in silent concentration. The three of us made it to the old Mammoth outside Underworld’s entrance before our arms gave out from the effort. 

Remington–naively, inappropriately–lit a joint before Willow cursed and spat at him to snuff it out. 

“You can smoke in here.” He pointedly objected, shaking his head. 

As if a shy actress on cue, Carol came slipping through the double-doors that divided the Ghoul City from the Museum of History’s vestibule. She lit a cigarette and nodded, her reaction delayed.

“See?” Remington gesticulated in her direction, though he did not try again. Willow looked out for murder, engulfed in the same fight-or-flight process I was.

Carol looked up when she heard Remy’s whining. She looked dazed, pulled her cardigan tighter around herself by the flickering light of a barrel while she processed the four of us, then rushed forward.

“Oh, Christ! What happened?” Carol’s low heels clacked against the marbled, newly swept floor. 

Remington spoke when I could not, “Get the doc, Ma’am.” 

Carol disappeared, swift and purposeful, through the doors to Underworld.

It would’ve been a comfort if Charon moved at all. He was still breathing, but there was no indication he would wake or respond to stimuli. I stroked his burnt temples, sweeping the sparse strands of fiery hair back from his ruined ears. 

“Tourist…” Willow met my eyes with a sistering gaze, “It’ll be alright. Charon’s a strong one.”

People kept saying that to me, but did they know? How could they know?

Have a little faith

Barrows appeared in haste–stimpak in one hand and stethoscope in the other. He commanded us to stand back and dropped carefully down before my companion. Checked Charon’s heart, his lungs. He pierced the meat of Char’s thigh with the Stim, right through his ruined pants and looked to me, words near accusing:

“And? What brought him down?”

Carol

Barrows brought his arms under Charon’s midsection before lifting him up and turning for the steps to the Underworld concourse. Barrows was small, but mightier even than the average ghoul–sending the smoothskins in the room scratching their heads before he even reached the first step. 

“He gonna be alright, Doc?” The one with the weird southern accent called.

Barrows grunted for me to open the door, but I was already holding it for my old friend.

“Dunno. You kids stick around for the night, I might have an answer. I might not. That’s life.” He sounded sharp. Protective.

And he was off, Underworld’s entrance shunting closed, a gossip-train of murmuring ghoul commotion no doubt waiting for him and his patient on the other side.

Charlie

I’m sitting in the driver’s seat of a too-shiny, too-expensive car. A going away present for my first semester of college. The way up my parent’s driveway is pitch dark, not even the streetlamp shining above me could pierce its sense of oblivion. I don’t want to leave the car. I’m angry and I refuse to go inside to greet my parents after the long year away, where my father will lecture me for smoking when I’m going to school on a track star’s scholarship. 

I take one peek into the rearview with a restless, blue eye. 

“Things between the U.S. and Chinese forces are ramping up, as American Forces unveil improved models of their ‘Power Armor’ prototypes with the hopes of retaking Alaska from–”

I turn the dial.

“CDC says many people can take a break from mask–”

The hell? Nope.

“--will you be? Talk to your local Vault-Tec representative to get started.” The friendly voice on the airwaves speeds up, near imperceptible: “ Spaces limited. Individuals must apply. Spots not guaranteed. ” 

Click. Dead. Exhale through the nose. I’m sick of hearing about the goddamn War. 

It’s just me and the neighborhood noises now–the lulling song of crickets in the lawn, the rustle of manicured hedges shaking off the day’s drizzling rain. Laughter from inside another house. My ears pick another sound, one that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

It’s a dog barking, and I know this dog. The neighbors chain him up from inside their rusted-link fence all day and all night. It’d been that way since Frank and I were children. I hated them for it. 

The barking was as clear and incessant as ever, even as the years had aged us all. The pricks on my neck got unbearable, the hurricane in my eye built. The hate became too strong. I drew myself up out of my seat and set off into the night like a phantom, following the sound. The night air was cool and crispy with autumn’s quiet. My feet were crossing the street, into the neighbor’s yard–identical to everyone else’s. There is a single window casting enough light onto the grass for me to clear the fence. The dog doesn’t stop its snarling by the time I approach. His white face looks nervous when he sees me, as if his interactions with humans hasn’t formed enough for him to pass judgment. 

It doesn’t take more than a swift movement to loose him from his leash and open the chainlink fence’s gate, letting him off into the night.

“Why did you do it?”

( 2 across, first of the alphabet, six lett

Sorry charlie so sorry)

“I…. just had to.”

My brother was standing before the hood of my car,  slamming his hand down on the newly washed hull. The playful smile on his face swept away the cold darkness:

“Where the fuck did you go?” My meaner, louder counterpart greeted, “C’mon, Mom made pineapple upside down cake.”

The memory fades, fractures. Tiny pieces rush through before joining the military. Men and women I’d been intimate with, the long bright halls I’d walk through at CIT. A fight after track practice. The ugly word “expulsion” stands black and white and mean on a piece of paper. Bleeding into the light Ahzrukhal would zap me within that unknown vault. 

My brother’s face, tired and wrecked. My own soul, empty. Standing in a corner for a hundred some odd years.

I see the halo of light surrounding the back of the Lone Wanderer’s head, the first day she entered the Ninth Circle. That yellow bark scorpion from New Reno once more. The gold in his exoskeleton beats out the white light in my head, eating it away. And all the pieces of me are in that all-encompassing brightness: An ever-expanding orange sun.

I don’t know where I am. But I’m warm. And I can feel me again.

Wilde

Carol regarded our party with a shrewd eye now, “You all can head in, if you like. I’ve got some soup on…. Just let me finish my smoke.”

Remington waved his hat in thanks and nodded, “Ma’am.” He looked at me with his kind, deep-brown eyes, “You can go on ahead. I gotta tune up the bike and tuck ‘er in for the night.”

“May I… May I go with you?” 

“Oh.” The cowboy blinked, “Uhh, sure.” 

Willow trailed us, mumbling about getting back to her shift. We weren’t even halfway through the reception hall before Remington bemoaned leaving his guitar back in Springvale: “Some tunes would really lighten the mood right about now.”

“That guitar shit doesn’t do it for me…” Willow yawned and shook herself upright, “You know what I miss? Jazz. And not that big band crap Three Dog plays on the radio, either. The stuff you’d hear underground.”

“Oh yeah. Jazz is good.” Remington agreed. “It’s too bad you can’t find a decent horn around these parts. There’s places in New Vegas…”

The two continued to plod on through odd, incongruous small talk while I stewed in that strange numbness known all too well as grief. I was hungry and tired and sick from the long driving, but the thought of taking care of my own needs left me even more exhausted. My hand never left the thick railing of the escalator on the climb down into Museum Station–where Remington’s motorcycle stood hidden and waiting for its tune-up. Nothing came into focus more than the feeling of Charon’s deadweight on my forearms, carrying him up and out of the River Styx. By the time Remington felt it was acceptable to relight his pine-astringent cigar, it was hard to deny it wasn’t the smoke making my vision watery. 

“Awright…” Remington’s voice boomed in the derelict and echoing subway tunnels. He tugged the tarp that hid his motor vehicle in plain sight with a magician’s pride, circling the machine with his hands on hips and his cigar dangling between smiling lips. Willow said her goodbyes before heading back out to her post, bootsteps clanking off the dead metal maw of the once vibrant D.C. metro stop. The sound was too much like Charon’s own footfalls, and I gave in, collapsing to the musty ground in a sad heap.

Remington had been digging out a myriad of tools from his stylish saddlebags before he paused, “Hey…. hey.” His voice cooed gently as the cowboy came over to me, kneeling and gently wrapping his arms around my shaking shoulders:

“It’s okay, Vault girl. Let it ride.” And I sobbed, grateful for the comfort in his large arms and odd smelling duster in my shattered state.

“Shouldn’t have gone there…” I blubbered near the end of that strange deluge of tears, wiping my nose shamefully on my wrist. What I wouldn’t give for a drink, I thought.

“Evergreen Mills?” Remington asked, voice low and soft.

“No…” I cried, “Underworld. We never should’ve met… I wish I’d never dragged him through–”

“Aw, c’mon now, you know that ain’t it.”

My breathing smoothed a little, but the thought did not leave. I sat in silent disagreement.

“The past is done and gone, girl. You gotta focus on what’s right here.” 

The cowboy inspected his motorcycle with a caring eye all the while. Tinkering, adjusting with his kit of tools. He cleaned each part with a rag, humming deep and warm to pass the time. It was just what I needed to breathe at that moment. When Remington was satisfied and nodding at his machine, an hour had passed. 

“Wanderer? Help me with the tarp, would you kindly?”

I took up a corner of the hefty and unassuming fabric. Remington and I shook it out and over the now-cleanest piece of hardware in the wastes for miles. The Cowboy inspected his work with an airy, red-eyed smile tinting his cheeks. He looked to me and cast his gaze to the ground, bashful. 

“I don’t know what happened out there to ya’ll, but I’m sorry it did. If you need anything, I’ve got your back.”

His pledge was both childlike and wise beyond years. It warmed the spot in my heart that was hurting, if only for a moment. I met it with a broken smile: “Thank you…. Remy. You’re a true friend.”

The Cowboy adjusted the hat on his head and kicked at some of the subway rubble beneath his boots, “Aw, shucks….” I managed a laugh, pushing out the remnants of tears. Remington scritched at the back of his neck, “So. How ‘bout that soup upstairs, huh? Some food’ll do us good. We should check in with Barrows first, of course.”

I followed Remington up the dead escalator once more, eyes on his tattered duster all the while. Nothing but the clunk of our gear against the empty walls until we hit open air. I still felt that relentless anxiety for Charon, but I was glad to have Remington to keep my spirits from spiraling entirely. I looked back on my time with Mei Wong and found myself feeling the same gratitude. Even Dogmeat was my guide. Nothing would replace my best friend, but it was good to have this strange village to lean on.

Carol

“Took your sweet time getting here.” I called in greeting to the Wanderer and her weird friend playing dress-up when I heard the door ding open. The Cowboy had a syrupy smile on his face and a drooping, flushed gleam in his eye. Wilde looked a mess, but that was to be expected. Nurse Graves had rushed over with an update, and took her cue now to leave. My heart hurt for the girl. But I was taken aback, I had to admit. I thought Charon would be the one to sit down at my bar one day, with Wilde on the operating table. I’d give him a lecture about apocalyptic jet-setting with pretty smoothskins and he’d growl in his scary way and move on. From what I’d heard from Nurse Graves’ quick whispers, Charon had sacrificed himself for the girl. That was… beyond what anyone would expect from the shadowy figure in Underworld’s corners. 

The story had struck us all. Underworld was quiet, would be for days. I wiped down the marbled countertop for the pair of adventurers and motioned from them to sit. 

“Greta made a big pot of our specialty today–Cram and pea soup.” I wiped the dust from a couple of bowls for them. Thinner layers today. ‘Carol’s Place’ had a lot more business now that the Ninth Circle was empty. The drunks and junkies moaned and complained, but the rest of us were relieved and grateful for Charon’s outburst. Another thing no one in this town would dare say aloud. 

I called for Greta and she snarked back, tapping a ladle to signal the soup was ready to go. I disappeared for a moment into the little sideroom that served as our kitchen in my Inn, giving Greta a quick kiss on the cheek as I left. When I returned with the soup bowls near-overflowing, Wilde was sobbing again–head a hard knot in her pale-splotchy arms. The Cowboy patted her shoulder quietly. 

“You two need to eat.” I set the hot bowls down on the countertop with a satisfying sound, rummaging around for the biggest spoons I could find. 

Remington sniffed up the steam and sighed, as a happy little one might. Wilde poked at her portion with a spoon till she caught a glare from me, then sipped at the cram-and-pea filled broth.

“How’s Gob?” I asked, deciding not to linger on the cause for Wilde and Charon’s other weird friend for being here.

“He’s alright..” The flatness in Wilde’s voice made me regret asking, but I worried for my own son and just couldn’t help myself.

“Still running that Saloon?” I asked. And the girl nodded, despondent gaze getting lost on the rim of the chipped bowl I’d given her. 

I sighed, something in my heart breaking for her. “It’ll be alright, hon. Finish your soup.”

Greta came in and looked first to me, then to our clientele.

“Suppose you two’ll be staying the night?”

The cowboy spoke now, “Oh, that would be fine, ma’am. I can give you caps up front or…”

“Half now, half later’s fine.” Greta grunted, “...Carol. We’d better find some clean sheets.”

I helped Greta search through the shelves behind us for some bedding. When the door to our little establishment clicked open quietly, it was hard not to whirl around in expectation.

Only Barrows appeared–short frame stooped with the weight of endless work. 

“Wilde… A word, please?” 

The wanderer shook a little in her eyes before turning in her seat and nodding. She left to speak with Underworld’s doctor, but not without thanking Greta and me for the meal first. 

Barrows gave me a small and grim nod before he swung the door shut.

Greta broke the long, awkward silence between us and the Cowboy in the brash way she was known for:

“And? She and Charon going steady or some such?”

Remington chewed a bite of ham product thoughtfully before answering, “I reckon so.”

“Greta…” I scolded, but the moment passed quick, overtaken by collective nosiness. Shadows moved outside my Inn’s door. 

We all turned to look out, through the frosted glass on impulse. Even though visibility was low, we could unmistakably make out Wilde’s profile pointed to the marbled floor in consternation outside.

Wilde

“Wanderer? Wanderer, are you listening?”

I blinked up from the hypnotic shine of the marbled floors. I wondered for a moment why so many people seemed incapable of using my name. 

“Honestly, I’m not. I’m a mess, Doctor. I apologize.”

Barrows cleared his throat and reluctantly reached up to set a hand on my shoulder. 

“It’s good news, I promise.” I felt all I could do was nod, pull myself together, listen. I recalled walking the long hallways of Vault 101 on my tenth birthday–Beatrice handing me that unsettling poem. Someone giving me a message and acting as though I should make sense of it. Instead, it only inspired a sinking feeling in my stomach.

Still, I would stand at attention.

“Charon’s stable, but he’s still unconscious. I’ll have him on fluids and stims for the night, and I suspect he’ll recover in a few days.”

Yes, good news. I could feel all the muscles in body tighten still. Bracing. I could see it on Barrows’ face. There was a caveat. Always, always a catch. 

“I think it’s time I take over Charon’s treatment. From what you’ve told me, the Contract seems to be loosening its hold on him, and I need to be there for whatever consequences that entails.”

I nodded. Hearing, understanding. Separate from my body. My heart screamed but my head smiled. I was going to lose my dearest friend, after all. 

Barrows lifted his hand from my shoulder, sensing the change in the air.

“Listen. I gave you a job, you did it well. We’ve gotten a real breakthrough, here.” I was too shocked to be angry, too sad to fight. Barrows continued, 

“We need to focus on his recovery, now. And he needs to do that here. At home.”

A long silence. He drew an exhale, almost impatient.

“May I have the contract?”

It was selfish to hang on, I knew. Did I really want to be like Ahzrukhal? Dragging him along on my misadventures until the next Evergreen Mills? Paradise Falls? And could I really live with myself if those adventures proved to be deadlier than the last?

So many questions, and the answer was so succinct and simple: I could not.

I dug into my Vault uniform with a shaking hand.

“Okay.” 

Barrows grasped it gently. The paper felt the most fragile it’d ever been as it left my fingers. And with that, I handed over the tether between mine and Charon’s life. 

“Thank you. Now, as for your payment.”

I could hear my voice breaking as I turned away, “I don’t want your caps. Just make sure he’s alright.”

When I entered Carol’s Place again, all the eyes on me felt like a sniper’s lazer. I breathed through it, my skin getting hot.

“Ya alright?” Thank god for Remington’s awkward care. I don’t think I could’ve stayed sane without it.

“I’m not.” I said it so so soft, but it was still the loudest sound in the room. I reclaimed my seat, intent on eating–soup now cold. I wasn’t alright. Carol looked to me in sympathy, her dark eyes mirroring my thoughts: But still, the world would turn. And my father needed to be found. In the morning, it would be time to move. 

Carol

The Cowboy and the Wanderer finished their meals in silence–the latter reluctant, the former eager. If the girl was going to get a good night’s rest there was no place quieter in the Wastes, and I was content with that, at least. Our rare guests went right to their assigned beds and stayed there. I was just through with drying the dishes when Greta asked if I wanted dessert. 

“Later.” I squeezed her hand, “I gotta make sure Barrows ain’t up all night. You know how he gets.” Greta tiffed at this, jealous as ever of anyone who got my spare attention. Easy to brush off after decades together. I stowed away my weathered apron and set out into the shining marble halls of town. No one out tonight, except that damn robot and Winthrop, shining the banisters again. Even Patches was off somewhere else, thank Christ. Any goading about my own nosiness tonight, and I was liable to become as violent as Charon did before he left. 

I savored the peace as I walked down the stairs and stayed on the first floor to get to Barrows’ office. The short, familiar silhouette of the city’s father figure was slumped over a terminal monitor in an otherwise dark room. His patient lay on a stretcher closeby–dormant, not dead.

The doctor didn’t bother to turn when I entered. “Isn’t it bedtime for you, kiddo?” 

“Speak for yourself.” I crossed my arms and shivered against the chill in the room, wondering why it ran so damn cold down here. “Where’s Nurse Graves?”

“She gets a day off, once in a while, you know.” Barrows regarded his creepy window into the room where he kept feral Glowing Ghouls in isolation, absent of any perceptible emotion and full on exhaustion. He sighed, taking up the stethoscope hanging from his neck to check Charon’s status. I couldn’t see his face screw up in frustration as he listened, but I could sense it.

“Safe up there yet, mister?” This had been an inside joke between us across forever. They were my first words to him when he found me down in my makeshift shelter near the Museum station, to which he’d laughed and offered me a hand. 

He did not laugh this time around. “Charon’ll be alright, it’s the girl I’m worried for.”

“She’s sweet on him, Bear.” I sat down in the nearest chair, looking away as he readied the needle on a stimpak. 

“Puppy stuff.” The doctor muttered, “But did I tell you? The contract’s wearing off. He disobeyed her twice .”

To this, I laughed. It was warm and dry in the chilly room, crackling like fresh fire. When I looked up from brushing some lint from my dress, Barrows was staring at me to elaborate, quizzical. 

“Well, you might wanna be outta the way of his temper when Mr. Rebel wakes up.” I said.

“Pfft. Why?”

“If he feels even half of what Wilde did for him, he’s  gonna be real mad at you.” And there was no need to recount what happened when Charon lost his temper.

“I highly doubt that!” Barrows called this out a little too loud as I turned to go, causing his patient to twitch in his sleep. I didn’t bother telling the stubborn old fool he’d be wrong, we would all find that out soon enough.

Wilde

I woke reaching for a leather jacket I didn’t have and a stony, hollow feeling in my heart. I forced myself through the motions of bathing when Carol offered her tub. I found myself dressing slow and labored, like I’d aged ten years. I checked my gear and recalibrated my Pipboy, settling on picking up Dogmeat from outside my first home as the next objective. I was lucky that Remington offered to drive me out there, a little more rest from walking would do me good. 

It was clear Greta’d worked hard on the little pastries Carol set out for us at breakfast, but the effort to eat was still a bit much to bear. I wrapped it up in thanks and stowed it away in my pack for later. 

Remington jetted me out to Vault 101’s entrance in no time, where Dogmeat waited. I was relieved to find her lounging under an ancient picnic table. She panted quiet after sniffing at me.

My cowboy friend asked me to stop with him in the empty ruins of Springvale, where he revealed his makeshift home. Remington spent the whole day with a gentle heart, soothing me somehow. We talked shop while we cleaned our guns, inviting me to try something he’d brought from out west: “Sunset Sarsaparilla”; Nuka Cola with a wholly new flavor. He brought out his guitar towards the end of our visit, playing sounds and words I’d never heard anywhere–not from my childhood in the Vault, not on Three Dog’s Galaxy Radio. 

People, if i ever get up off this old hard killin’ floor

Lord, i’ll never get down this low no more

When you hear me singing this old lonesome song

People, you know these hard times can last us so long

“The loveliest thing I’ve ever heard.” My eyes were still traveling around the cellar, mystified. 

“Thank you. Learned that one in Texas, standing in line for soup.” Remington fanned himself and rested his instrument against a wall before asking me: “Are you feeling a little better?”

I nodded, still unsure. Remington’s eyes were wide with sympathy. He rubbed his hands with nervous grace and grabbed a sip of cola. He swallowed, hard and grim. Clapped his hands together again. I could tell he was working out how to tell me something, but before I could even guess he blurted it out:

“Well, uh, I’ve been waiting to tell you, but I think I better tell you now: I know where your father is.”

Penny

“Where you gonna go next, Sally?” I asked Mei as we parted ways at the mouth of my cave.

“Tennypenny tower. Stay away.” Ghost’s tail twitched in punctuation.

She wouldn’t have to tell me twice. The mungo coaxed her horse in the opposite direction of the opening to Lamplight. As a final gesture, she threw something towards me. If it’d been anyone else, they would’ve missed it on account of the sun being in their eyes. But me, I was always the better shot. Failure or not. 

I caught it, an innocent necklace of bottlecaps, all strung together on the chain of a pre-war military dog tag. The addition of the caps looked recent, and after a careful glance: unique. Each underside was marked with a deep blue star.

“Keep that safe, will you? Family heirloom. See ya around, Courier!”

Her mare broke into an impossible speed before I could even wave goodbye. I tucked the necklace into a hidden pocket before heading inside, crying in private relief when I felt the cool blast of subterranean air hit my face. Lucky Penny, future Courier, was safe for now.

Barrows

Two days passed before the mighty Quinn came back from his trading routes with more stimpaks. Patches yelled out his arrival and I only left Charon’s side for a moment to leave the office. Quinn, broad and covered from head to toe in pockets, headed straight for me. He reached into his coat to hand off eight Stimpaks. 

“There you go, Doc.” Quinn nodded. “Uh… Charon doing okay?”

“Yes. Yes.” I waved the millionth question asker away. “He’s just been sleeping. Catching up on all the nights he didn’t, I guess.”

“You sure about that, man?” Quinn nodded to look behind me, a small amused grin playing at his green face. I turned to face a near heart attack. 

“Ho– Jesus!” 

Charon would’ve looked like the same grim-faced and imposing figure to any passing acquaintance, standing there in my office doorway, fully dressed. But I’d known the man for years, and already I could sense something different in him. 

“Water.” Were his first words out of hibernation. “Any of youse got water?”

Quinn took his pack off hurriedly. “Yeah, man. Sure.” 

“Clean. No rads.” Charon’s once-dead eyes were bright with energy, his hand subtly trembled with thirst. 

“I gotcha, I gotcha.” Quinn withdrew a bottle, and both of us watched as the giant downed it in less than a minute.

“Thanks.” He breathed to Quinn, who was holding back a peal of laughter. 

“I gotta go, Barrows.” And Underworld’s trader moved on. Charon looked as though something had just dawned on him, padding at his newly donned leather jacket.

“I should give him caps. I have caps.” 

“Slow down.” I scolded him, shooing him back into my office. “I need to check your vitals.” Charon allowed me that, at least. Gone was the tired acceptance in the boy; he was antsy, itching to get somewhere. His vitals were fine. Better than fine, actually. Ghoul physiology continued to astound–how a man who survived the volts of electricity he had could just guzzle water after an extended nap and get on their feet was beyond me. I scratched my head when my patient leapt from the exam table, zipping his leather armor up and tugging at it in an authoritative manner. 

“Now, hang on there.” I reached for his contract and held it up where he could see it. 

Charon blinked. Then, he did something so wildly out of character I couldn’t even move to stop it. He yanked the ancient document right from my outstretched hand, stowing it away before I could open my mouth in shock. 

“Where’s my gun?” He spun on booted heels, honing in on his gear in the corner, speaking to himself. “There.” 

The need to coax him back was strong now, too strong to not react blind. I trailed after him like Midas trying hard to cling to his gold.

“Hey. Hey! ” I had to rush to keep within earshot of the guy, bolting straight out into the hall and past the center statue like his life depended on it. We argued–well, *I* argued–while we moved.

“You have to stay here, Charon. Make sure your faculties are in order…”

“...You’re clearly not stable yet, bud…” I scolded again, hoping to meet aggression with aggression. The ritually shined marble of the Museum moved past us so fast I thought of being on the Metro for a moment, traveling to my vet clinic in Germantown, from a lifetime ago.

Charon ignored me, slamming the door leading out into the vestibule. Some things would never change, after all.

“You’re going out there? What’s out there, huh?” I couldn’t hide the impatience in my voice now, my own greed, “Codependent smoothskins and more trouble? Gonna go make friends with some Brotherhood geeks? Eh?! You belong here! You belong with US!”

We were just outside the Mammoth in the entryway when my patient stopped, echoing bootfalls abrupt in their silence. I sighed, relieved. Certainly he could see reason. Certainly, he’d realized that I knew what was best for him.

Charon’s voice was soft, as quiet as the barrel fire dying nearby. “I belong to nobody.”

“What?” I sniffed, anger and shock shifting to indignation. His own blood on my scrubs, hours and hours of keeping him alive, the whisper of my own son’s name on his lips,

(barrowman, phillip

Linguistics division

This’ll be my last letter, Pop. i’m sure you heard what happened in Nevada…) 

and here was the culmination: Charon, too, was leaving me. Here, alone. Such was the way of all fathers, I supposed: Wounds that wouldn’t heal and affection that would never die. 

“I belong to me !” Charon gave me a final look, fire in his eyes high with conviction. He didn’t raise his voice like I had, but the words were so unexpected it may as well have been a roar. His hands curled into fists and I raised my own arms reflexively, a worry darting in my head that I would suffer Ahzrukhal’s fate. 

Charon did not raise his hands, or his gun. He looked to the Mammoth with a soft reverence, touched its trunk gently one time. 

Then, without so much of a glance back or a word, Underworld’s ex-guard dog ran out into the darkness.

Charon

Determined never to bound–by leash, by basement, paper or in any corner of darkness ever again.

Barrows

I kicked at the rubble of the old dino bones on the floor–one thing Winthrop was too superstitious to clean. Something so grand and awe-inspiring to the Old World now went clattering into the fire barrel with a lonely rattle. I could feel Carol stepping into the room like always. Break time.I huffed, played at the few green strands of hair left on my ugly head. I was downright defeated when I shuffled over to take the cigarette my confidant offered.

“Well? Say it.” I groaned.

“Mmm… I told you so.”

Nodded, still angsty. She lit her own drag, “I’m surprised he didn’t punch you, at least.”

“Something’s different, alright.” I inhaled, “I just wanted to talk with him, Carol. …He said my son’s name three times in his sleep. Plain as day. Can you believe that? I don’t know how, but he knew–”

“Hush.” Urgency still stabbed at me. I tapped my foot.

“But he’s the last link, the one clue I have…”

“I know, Barrows. But Charon’s not yours to own. He lived through enough of that. He needs his own way. Find peace with it.”

Carol, my stalwart shore in a sea of bullshit, grabbed me up into a familial hug. It was downright comical how much taller than me she’d become, in my weakness. And it felt like she was holding everyone in that moment: Me and Charon and Wilde and all that was lost–gone forever, or bound to be found. Always, always a bit of both.

Chapter Text

Wilde

Remington’s news hit my heart with a hammer’s wallop, and shocked me so that I stopped midair with my bottle of Sunset Sarsaparilla and couldn’t take another sip. I set the bottle down on the exposed concrete floor with a slow hand, resolute to stop quaking and crying so. 

“I know it’s a lot to hear after… everything.” Remington stroked at his beard in concentration, “But I figured it was better than not knowing at all.”

“I really appreciate it.” The far off sound of my voice surprised me, but I kept on, “Where was my father last?”

“Smith Casey’s Garage. It’s a pre-war car shop, a ways west of Evergreen Mills.”

“Okay… Okay.” I sighed to cool my nerves, unable to stop myself from moving too fast to get up. Dogmeat pulled at my jumpsuit to counteract my failing balance. 

Remington offered one more song before I left, which I took just to work up my willpower. And another. And another. Dogmeat sat on my feet and slept until we all lost the passing of time. It was better than succumbing to binge drinking, I supposed. HIs last song was a punchy tune, more energetic and without words. Just what I needed. When he offered again, it was apparent the poor man just wanted to play for an audience. I assured him I’d taken enough of his time while gathering up my rifle and pack. 

“Well, alright. But before you head there, I’d advise you on gettin’ that jumpsuit of yours fixed up. Been through enough fights to know it never pays to go out there unrepaired.”

I paused atop the steps leading up and out of the cellar. Something told me he had more to say, and it seemed I was correct.

“Oh, and Wilde?”

“Yes, Remington?” The man was blushing now as he looked at my face.

“I’d ‘precciate if you and your Dad checked in when you reunite…. Er, just for my peace of mind, that is. Make sure ya’ll are alright. I’ll be here. Sorry I kept you a couple days… Time goes faster when I’m sitting.”

“Of course.” I promised. One had to laugh at his funny way of phrasing. The Cowboy followed Dogmeat and me out into the day’s sun. I thanked him again as Dogmeat sniffed his hand goodbye. I had the strangest feeling as I walked towards Megaton nearby. Like the distrust I’d felt upon meeting him, inversed: Remington was not of this world. However he’d found his way to the D.C. Wastes, I was certain of one thing now: I was glad we’d met. 

The Cowboy looked as though he wanted to say more–begging for encores till the very end–opening and closing his mouth as he fussed with his hat. He stopped himself and settled on a nod and a tip of the hat as he withdrew down into his hideaway.

I shrugged and carried on, whistling to Dogmeat so she kept pace. I felt more clear headed now than I had in days, though I doubted I would ever truly be rid of my heartache. My hand still reached for the empty place under my jumpsuit, where Charon’s contract once rested. I could only harden myself to a cutting’s edge. Megaton was less than a mile away, and there were many miles to go before my quest was finished.

Charon

I didn’t stop running. There was a strange new symphony in my heart pushing me to fly down the stairs into the tunnels of Museum Station. It swelled and I sprinted (as best as a guy in ripped leather pants could, anyway) until I came to a sudden stop halfway into a pack of pacing ghouls. They were agitated, growling at me, but not attacking. Something had stirred them. One look down into the dirt and the trash revealed the answer: A motorcycle had come through the tunnels, not long ago. 

The irony that Sally Hatchet, and now that Cowboy both had a hand in saving me was not beyond me. I laughed–at the fact that I was trying to run all the home on a sprinter’s endurance; at the fact that the last people I’d expected to save me did. That I had my memories intact, that I'd lived to tell them without going feral. It was a full, conquering sort of laugh. A crazy, loud thing. It agitated the other ghouls in the tunnels even further. So much so they hissed. I could only shout another laugh back, swelled on adrenaline before I wondered if, in fact, I was going crazy. 

I had to stop and catch my breath following the tracks to Marigold station. Lightheaded and wheezing. This was the moment my late father’s advice reached me: I had to stop smoking. And I’ll tell you the secret to quitting anything: Settle it in your mind that it’s already been done. I wasn’t quitting, I had quit. I hadn’t smoked in, what? Three days? More? However long I was out didn’t matter now, it was all in the past. 

I paced myself the rest of the way forward. The motorcycle tracks in the dirt and refuse gave way to the hard tile of Marigold’s subway station. Grayditch was just outside. Megaton. She’d probably gone to Megaton. And if she was gone, I could at least get word of where she went next. When I rattled the gate to the outside world open, the sky was covered in a blanket of thick clouds, so gray you couldn’t tell what time it was. I sniffed the air with what was left of my nostrils. A rarer than rare thing hung in the air surrounding D.C.’s Capital Wastes: rain.

There was a sour looking, tall old trader passing through Grayditch’s deadened streets, and he spoke up to greet me, echoing my thoughts:

“These parts haven’t seen rain in thirty-some years, I s’pose.” I nodded in response, asking him what he had for sale. I traded the last pack of cigarettes in my leather jacket for a new pair of pants, grateful we were similar in stature. The cigarettes were practically ruined from my dance with electrocution, but the trader assured me he could salvage anything. I went to change in an abandoned shack. And, as a thank you, offered the old man my ruined pants. 

“They’ll make good strips of armor.” The trader nodded. “You wanna offload that old jacket? That ancient gun, too?” He pointed, “Just got back from Rivet City. Got lots of caps to burn.”

It took me a good moment to recognize that he was still talking to me. I’d grown too used to people ending conversation with me out of fear. I growled a no, a little embarrassed. Those things were far too important. The gun was mine. Always would be. And Wilde had borrowed the jacket so many times that I couldn’t bear to part with it–the jacket was now a piece of her, and thereby even more a part of me.

The old trader and I exchanged our goodbyes, him already ripping into the guts of my cigs to pack away what tobacco was left into a sturdy pipe. I couldn’t help but strut off into the direction of the Super-Duper Mart. Quivering like a freed marionette and rubbing the butt of my shotgun in anticipation with the clouds.

Wilde

Megaton’s gates scraped open with the same bite, but the town felt different. Emptier. And it wasn’t just my state of emotions influencing that feeling. There was a smell I’d never encountered before hanging in the darkening sky, and the sloping entrance into town was quiet. Only a few denizens lingered at the noodle bar, frowning and looking up. The only activity seemed to come from Gob’s Saloon up the catwalks. I knew I’d have to tell Gob I’d seen his adopted mother Carol, but I wasn’t ready to face any crowds just yet. 

My first stop was Moira. My gear and my head were in worsening shape and it seemed the natural place to go. Her demeanor, however grating to some, always cheered me. I already knew she was hiding out in Megaton’s only storefront, Craterside Supply. 

Dogmeat didn’t want to go in. She never liked the smell of the place. I let her linger outside on the ramparts. When I opened the shop’s door I thought my Pipboy’s clock must be off and the town’s secret genius must be asleep. Her security guard gave me a curt nod, shouting for her. We’d done this dance before.

Moira came coughing out of a backroom of her workshop, smoke dissipating behind her in little wisps. She pulled a large pair of protective goggles down from her face and left them dandling around her neck. She smoothed back her auburn hair and squinted her green eyes at me before exclaiming in recognition.

“Wilde! Oh! My just-so-super assistant!” Moira Brown swept some of the grime from her handyman’s jumpsuit in a manic fashion before hustling to formally greet me behind the shop’s counter. In the one spot with good lighting, I could see now she’d been tinkering with intensity.

“I hope I didn’t drag you away from some pressing work.” I bowed my head a little and searched around with my eyes, hopeful I hadn’t distracted her from anything especially flammable, either.

“Oh, don’t worry!” Moira assured me in her trademark too-saccharine tone, “All the gunpowders and caustic liquids are tucked in for the night!” But even her eyes looked speckled with worry for a moment, “What can I do for you?”

“You’re sure it’s alright that I pull you away from your experiment?” I wanted to confirm. As a fellow researcher and a longwhile friend of Ms. Brown, I knew it was for the better if I made sure she was really, really done.

“Sure as a can of peaches!” Moira wiped her hands against each other aggressively to punctuate, “Seriously, co-author, what’s up?”

I took a seat on a stool in front of her, giggling for a moment at the soot rimmed around her softened eyes. “It’s a long story…” I sighed. But Moira insisted I tell it all over a glass of water, anyway. 

Charon

It was stupid to come here. Was it stupid to come here? No, no. It was where I wanted to go. Where I figured she’d be. The strangest sensation gnawed at me by the time I made it to Megaton, stranger even than the driving desire and rollercoaster of emotions. It was odd and empty. Just like the town. Lightheaded and uniquely angry with it. Something I hadn’t felt since…. Since… before my Vault, even. 

My stomach groaned audibly in the musicless, personless silence of the evening. The cause… Was it nerves, withdrawal, exercise (?)–was impossible to pin down. But I recognized the effect now. 

I was hungry. 

I growled, annoyed by the budding physical demands of my body, but obliged to follow the call of being more human. It was my first instinct to head to the noodle stand right at the bottom of the hill, but there was no one there. Only a lone, bone white sheet of paper hanging above the openair stand indicated what had everybody running off:

CLOSED. ON ACCOUNT OF THE SKY. sorry. :(

I let out a short snort of a laugh. Nothing helping these folks. I wouldn’t eat the last Fancylad in my leather jacket unless the world really was about to end again. And it wasn’t, popular opinion be damned. I’d have to ditch the grubstand and head on over to the Saloon. 

Halfway up the ramparts, in the light leaking out of Gob’s Saloon I spied a familiar profile sniffing around.

“Dogmeat.” I offered my hand to sniff. The pup wagged her tail and buried the side of her face into my leg, pawing at me out of excitement. I beamed even through the exhaustion of hunger pangs. It was joyous seeing her, it was even more comforting to know Wilde must’ve been nearby. 

“Charon! Charon you impossible beast! Get in here!” My head snapped up to hone in on the bar. A tiny, bearable disappointment. It wasn’t Wilde. It was Gob, calling me inside. The desire to see the only other Ghoul who’d really gotten out of Underworld was stronger than my distaste for the crowd. I gave Dogmeat a goodbye pat on the head and pushed through to the interior of the Saloon, easy when you were large and leering. Still, the whole ordeal made me sweat. Everyone who wasn’t in their house was here. I couldn’t help but stare around, hoping I could spot that familiar halo of light on wavy blonde hair. 

Gob wouldn’t give me more than a moment, however. He made a grand show of dispersing some patrons so I had a spot to sit, right in front of him. 

“C’mere, c’mere. Business has been booming since you knocked that Cowboy out in here. I really owe you, man. What can I get you? HEY! DO YOU GUYS WANNA MEET–”

“Don’t.” I raised a palm to stop him, hoping an added dose of manners would ease his fear that I would choose violence here again. “ Please . I don’t do that. Anymore.”

 If I was capable of blushing, I would have. I smiled a quick, embarrassed smile. Most of all with shame for that old mistake. 

A pause. It was still hard to ask for anything in this newfound soul I was wading through, but I forced it out. “You got food? I’ll buy anything. I’m starving.”

“It’s on the house.” Gob was jumping up and down with excitement, feeding off the energy of his customers hiding me, as he grabbed a cold Nuka Cola from a vending machine. He opened the bottle with a satisfying pop. “This is the only working machine in town. Maybe even this side of the Potomac. Wilde donated it.”

“She in here?” I had to lean in to hear him, much less talk to him.

“I dunno.” Gob shrugged. “Her dog’s outside, I assume she’s around.” He confirmed my knowledge. “You still working with her?”

That was a good question. The contract sat in my breast pocket now, but how long could I sustain sanity that way? I’d never tried. Like the cigarette smoke floating thick over my head from the sardine-packed smooths around me, this was new territory, a fresh fight. I realized the process would have its pitfalls. The need to be controlled by habit would remain. Like the light of the mezzers or the squeeze of death; terrifying and absolute. 

Gob set a plate of food before me. I shoved my worries to the side. Today’s special was some ancient dough with slices of cram and punga fruit baked into the crust. My predisposition for sweet things found its sickening sugar flavor pleasing. I savored that feeling, deciding the pains of becoming more of my own person would be paid off by moments like these. 

“You know, your cooking’s gotten a lot better.” I had to yell louder to Gob against the raucous laughter from the group behind me.

“Oh, fuck off.” Gob  shouted, smiled and shook his green head. “You been to Underworld at all lately? Be nice to know how my Mom’s doing.”

I remembered seeing Carol in my second (and hopefully last) rage-walk out of the Ghoul City’s doors. I still didn’t regret any of the leaving. Why anyone would wanna keep me down there after so many years of rotting away there like a doll on a shelf was beyond the pale. I tore off another piece of my meal, hoping Gob didn’t see the anger twitching in my jaw as I chewed.

Trying to be kind. Trying. I cleared my throat, taking care to finish chewing, “She’s well, as far as I know.”

“That’s good.” Gob stiffened. I think he could tell something had gone down, back in his hometown.. What a pain. Wilde made it seem so easy.

I would attempt to clear it up, “Look, G, if you’re worried I hurt anyone…”

I don’t do that. Anymore. For now.

“I’m not! I’m not.” Gob swiped some crumbs and ash off the counter around me, “I know you didn’t have it good there. I shouldn’t press you. I’ll ask Wilde if she comes ‘round. And I can see the look on your face, okay? She really hasn’t come by yet.”

I nodded at him. My throat getting dry and thick with nerves, a cathedral in my chest. My brain just a small and fragile moth bumbling through it.

The woman Gob was sweet on made her way behind the counter at that moment. She lifted a tray of dirtied dishes over him with a practiced hand. The way his head craned to watch her as she disappeared into an adjoining room inspired me to ask for advice.

Clearing my throat a second time felt like it took a century, “How’s uh… how’s Norah?”

“ Nova.” Gob’s eyes flickered with annoyance, still lingering on the place she disappeared into.

“Yeah. How’s that?” Christ. Could I be any worse at this?

Gob shouted out two beer orders before leveling his own scarred face with mine, “What do you mean, “ How’s that?” You feeling okay, guy?”

I wasn’t. Everytime Wilde came to mind I felt sick and jolted awake in a way I never thought possible. I pushed my plate away, rubbed at my ruined temples and took a long sigh,

“Let’s just say… I’ve got my own Nova.” That was the only way I could express the feeling to him. The rush of looking at Wilde’s face full of stars, the closeness holding onto her in that Life Preservation pod, all the desperate and dangerous twists of our adventures. And I dreaded seeing her again. Because I needed to tell her. And I didn’t even know where to start.

“Well, I dunno why you’re talking to the likes of me…”

Because I looked at him and saw myself. The intensity in my eyes pressed him to go on. A bashful, wide smile crossed his green face. He shook it away and lowered his tone as much as possible,

“We’ve talked, but Nova just wants time to herself, yeah? I’m respecting that.” 

I, on the other hand, expected utter rejection. Gob popped the top of another bottle of Nuka to replace my first one. I watched the smoky fizz rise into the air for a moment, “...I’m too old and too ugly. I just need to tell her.”

“Wilde’s a grown woman. Don’t be so damn shallow with yourself. After you tell her, what then?”

“Hang on… I didn’t say..”

“I could see it since the day both of you walked in here together. C’mon.”

I rolled my eyes before taking a slow sip of my drink. No matter. The jig was up, “Well… if she doesn’t want me to help her find her Dad, I suppose I’ll go looking for the old Vault I came from. Make some peace with it.”

“If you need a hand with that, don’t come bothering me.” 

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Gob toasted the emptied Nuka-Cola bottle with my second before tossing it into the trash.

Wilde

I found Dogmeat restless and sniffing outside of Gob’s Saloon. The faithful pup barked and pranced on her feet, spinning in a circle the closer I stepped.

“You ready to take a break, girl?” She stood her ground when I passed the packed doorway of the Saloon. She sniffed the air and whined a response. I huffed, exhausted.

“C’mon, girl. We need a rest.” She followed after the third whistle, but not without sulking. Moira had insisted I head to my Megaton home and draw a hot bath after our visit. And golly, did I need one. There would be time to visit the Saloon while I was getting my Vault suit repaired.

“Just hoping to get some of those jerky bits Gob likes to sneak you, huh?” I gave my dog a consolatory pat on the head. On the way down a ramp I swore I could hear Charon laughing in the distance. I really am delirious , I thought. 

Charon

When I finally managed to cut through the swath of people to exit Gob’s place, the air was damp and crackling with the threat of something long dormant, long forgotten.

(rain. It’s finally here)

I blinked up at the sky: darkened with slate colored clouds and heavy in every direction. I climbed down the slight dip in the ramp to the little square building in the corner facing the saloon on catwalk. A warm glow of light shown in the one tiny square in the door and the sliver of bedroom window: Wilde was, miraculously, home.

My heart beat like a drum in the heat of a groove, my lungs drew in all the air they could muster. I was even too nervous to scowl at Gob’s final bit of useless advice– ”just talk. I don’t know” –the adrenaline confounding me into just a determined nod and a gulping throat. I looked to the sky. A small break in the clouds, a window of stars. I remembered the Museum of Technology and felt breathless again. Megaton seemed even quieter now that I’d left the bar. The only noise down the dusty steep hill through the center of town were the pair of lonely brahmin chewing bits of dry grass near the local Doc’s. Even the local mad prophet of Atom was tucked away into bed. 

The throng in the bar was waking up, stepping out onto the ramparts like a curious ameoba. “Oohing” and “Awwing” and singing drunkenly at the little raindrops that began decorating them.

Ringa-round the rosies

Break his nose an’ mosey

A tissue, a tissue

We all fall–

Peals of thunder in the distance echoed through the Wasteland. Small beads of darkness plinked on the steel beneath my steps and against the leather of my jacket. The whole city seemed to creak with tension and sigh in release at once.

The downpour opened up just as I raised my hand to knock on the Lone Wanderer’s door. The Ink Spots were playing airy and warm from the jukebox inside. Ugly grey gave way to golden, soft light bathing me and there she was: eyes tired and red suddenly alight, scrubbed face glowing even in the gloom of the fresh storm. Misty clouds of her breath floating into Megaton’s cold open air.

I was more of a wretch by comparison, no doubt: frightful eyes staring with that bleak intensity under the curtain of water pouring down my traveled face. Looking at her, I froze. I’d lost all words. Such a small time away from her had felt like weeks. Millenia, even. The urge to simply sweep her up into an embrace was strong, eaten by fear. Of what? Reaction. Repulsion. Irrational, to be sure. Wilde and I had shared canteens and tubwater. Snack cakes and sleeping space. 

And now… Now I was a schoolboy dumb in the downpour. What a fool I was, coming here like this. Barrows, the bastard. He was right. I was too unstable.

Wilde’s shocked gaze lingered on my hand—clenching and unclenching with want. Then her eyes traveled back up to my own. Not afraid. She’d never been afraid of me. 

I broke the silence, my voice soft and nervous:

“I’m still here. Waiting for you.”

 Wilde searched me with a smile and raised her hand out to me in disbelief. All the questions in her face: Why I’d come back, Why I damn near killed myself at Evergreen Mills, Why the contract wasn’t the thing keeping me here, Why I’d told her to talk to Ahzrukhal at all; didn’t need answering. The answer was as simple as the crossword puzzle I remembered, from all those years ago.

(2- 1- 6)

 The light in her face, the silent language we shared when our eyes met made all the nerves and shame in me wash away, and I found the courage to press my palm flat against her own. Wilde took her time threading her fingers through mine and stroking my thumb in the rain. She closed the small gap we shared, and the laugh that bubbled up between us melded into a kiss. A strong, all-encompassing thing that we didn’t break there in the downpour and held onto even as Wilde pulled me inside.

Chapter Text

Charon

I stayed awake in Wilde’s bed long after the beating rain formed as small droplets, long after the blush left her cheeks and the heat between my thighs calmed into a low, contented buzz. I watched her chest rise and fall in her sleep and I felt a strange new wonder with the world–a world I no longer wanted to hide from or give up on. Rather, a world I wanted to pay attention to. When I placed my mouth on the unnamed shape of her it felt like some kind of resuscitation. And I could’ve stayed there, genuflecting forever, but there were things to tend to and I couldn’t find sleep even if I’d wanted it now.

I felt jittery, almost lost going down the stairs of the Lone Wanderer’s home. I had a long road to truly feeling out a sense of peace with it all–past and present–I realized. Loving wasn’t going to be a bandaid or a cure-all. It would have to be me, fixing me. And maybe I would never find peace, but dammit, I wanted to try. I accepted finally that I wouldn’t sleep that night, found my pants, stopped to pet Dogmeat curled up by the chair downstairs, and settled on cleaning our guns. The ritual calmed me, solidified me. I was focused and quiet as a deathclaw there in the last bits of night, and I worked without stopping through the early morning. I stole secret smiles when I recalled Wilde’s skin against mine, and jolts of defensive paranoia when I heard her Mister Handy jetting about in the tiny kitchen. I chewed a Rad-X when Three Dog’s voice broke quiet on the jukebox with the dawn.

A knock at the door. I stopped humming, surprising myself that I had been doing so. I set my shotgun down with a practiced hand and peered out of the small square of glass. Grumbled. Too damn dirty to see. Maybe I should clean the door next , I thought. 

Another knock. A little more persistent this time. I took a deep breath, still unwilling to disturb Wilde’s slumber. If there was some trouble, I would handle it. I opened the door, blocking the entrance with my form, stooping a little in the frame so I could see the solicitor: A woman in a dirtied repair jumpsuit who looked vaguely familiar. 

I hadn’t cared to remember her name. I stared at her, expectant and judging, till she spit it out:

“Uhm. Hi… I’m Moira Brown over at Craterside Supply… And …oh! You’re… Well, I think I know you.”

Huh. Did she? Did I ?

 “...Wilde’s asleep.” Was all I could manage out. She kept smiling. What did wastelanders have going on that kept them smiling so much? Delirium, maybe.

“Oh. Darn. Well, I’m set on reinforcing her armor for her before she sets out to get her Dad….” The woman fidgeted with her hands and messed with a few auburn strands of her own hair, “I guess I could just come back later? In the afternoon or…”

“Wait.” This development piqued me. If Wilde was gearing up to find her Dad… really find her Dad… then it was my duty to keep that goal moving along. “Hold a moment. I can get you the armor.”

Moira nodded, that funny smile still playing at her face. I could feel myself growing hot again while I retraced the night’s events to outside the tub, where Wilde’s Vault Suit lay in a heap. Looking up at the shower made what was left of my cheekbones flush, and by the time I made it back to the front door I was fully flustered. I handed the suit to the scrutinizing woman, clearing my throat. 

Moira after a thought filled pause: “Is Wilde alright? I figured she’d, erm, give this to me herself.”

“Yeah. I… We were just… I mean…” My eyes squinted as I snapped back to my old self, “I already told you. Wilde’s asleep.”

She giggled, actually winked. The audacity. “Alright, then. What about the leather jacket over there?” She nosed around the gaps in my arms and torso. I twisted around, considered my jacket draped on the old armchair for half a second. Nevermind the sentimentality. The contract was tucked away in there. No one but myself or Wilde could handle it. That was a superstition that would plant itself away in my head for a long, long time.

“No.” I said to Moira when I turned back around. How many times was I going to have to tell people?

She raised her eyebrows, “...Alright. I’ll have her suit fixed up in about three hours, then, Big guy. Enjoy your morning!”

 “You need to leave.” And with that, I shut the door. I sighed, sinking down against the door and onto the ancient rug on the floor, crumpled by embarrassment. Hours ago I was comfortable with the heartbeat of the woman I loved against me, but I still couldn’t talk to people. I found the urge to have a cigarette so overwhelming at that point, that I left to go run Megaton’s perimeter. There wasn’t a soul out yet except for Lucas Simms, who laughed at me while I caught my breath waiting for him to open the town gates. 

“What’s so funny?” I couldn’t hide the anger in my shout.

Lucas tipped his hat, reminding me of the Cowboy in that instant; hollered back, “Well… It’s just… I’ve never seen anybody run that fast unless they were getting chased, that’s all.”

“Hmph.” I snorted. Everyone sure seemed to find me amusing all of a sudden. Explaining myself felt useless, what with Megaton’s gates roaring open and drowning out even the chipper little robot out front. What was I supposed to say, anyway? 

“ I’ve just been made for the first time in a hundred-some-odd years and I’m practically levitating! Sorry !” 

I laughed at that thought. The sun’s fresh light hitting the metal surfaces of the town were odd and breathtaking. Shimmering copper, still dewy. I was getting more and more comfortable with the inherent silliness of being a person; the sights and sounds of the world as music, not just noise. The morning air felt cool and sweet against my hard skin. I huffed down Megaton’s sloping-steep entrance with relief; my heart slowing and my head cleared for the time being. 

Dogmeat greeted me when I entered the house again, sniffing my hand without a sound. Rustling came from the kitchen, frustrated and clanging. Not the Mister Handy.

“Hey!” Wilde revealed herself in the narrow opening of the kitchen, glowing even with the sleep in her eyes. She’d cleared up the floors–once full of stacks of books and dusty wasteland curios–no doubt stuffed into the lockers she kept along the walls. “I wanted to surprise you with some breakfast, but I’m afraid all I’ve got is dog food.” She set a bowl of canned meat down for Dogmeat to punctuate, who gobbled it up with enthusiasm.

“Gob’s serve breakfast?”

Wilde regarded the old robe she’d dug up off the floor. Wiped at a stain with a flippance that masked nerves. Picked at a bit of skin around her thumb. “No. Nova’s got the morning shift and she can’t cook.” Wilde shrugged sympathetically. “We could go to the noodle stand! Pass the time while Moira finishes doctoring up my ‘suit.”

“That’s fine. I’m not really hungry, though.” 

“I am.” More clanging. She was cleaning. The night we shared had us both manic, it seemed.

I moved towards the bathroom to freshen up. “How’d you know Moira got your gear?”

“She came by to “check on me.” Never thought I’d meet anyone nosier than me…” I didn’t even need to see Wilde to know she was biting her nail again, “Said you were very rude.”

“Huh.” I shrugged and patted at my face with a towel soaked in cold water. That wasn’t anything I hadn’t heard before. Hell, I could confirm worse about myself. 

“The nerve… Her boyfriend’s a lot worse, you know.”

I smiled, bashful and helpless at that word, shuffling my feet towards Wilde’s voice. She whirled in the kitchen when she sensed my presence leaned in the doorway. Wrung her hands and mussed with strands of her hair.

“What I mean is… Well, I know you’re not my… Not that I don’t… Look, I ought to apologize. I rushed into things when you came back. It was irresponsible and I don’t want to disrespect your–”

Wilde’s voice was running away from her. I approached her, calm and steady, setting my scarred hands gentle on her shoulders:

“Listen. I know we got carried away last night, but I don’t want you thinking for a second that it was a fluke or a fault, alright? I’m not sure what living without shackles on my brain is gonna look like in the coming days. But I am sure about this: I care for you. I choose to be with you. And if it’s gonna be touch and go, I want it to be by your side. Got it?”

Little tears sprung in her eyes again. I took a deep breath to compose myself:

“That is… If you’ll have me. I ain’t assuming.”

Wilde reached up to grasp my hand upon her frame, stroking the fingers again. Her face was honest and sincere: “Of course.” I stooped to let a whisper of a kiss touch her forehead, pulling back.

She sighed, “I thought I lost you.”

“Not if I get a say.” I lifted a hand to thumb Wilde’s chin, stroked my partner’s arm with the other. Cleared my throat before we could get lost in the moment again, “C’mon. We should get a move on.”

The irony that I’d failed my own goals–to get to Megaton on the pretense that I’d tell Wilde I loved her, get rejected, and move on to listlessly trying to find my own Vault didn’t escape me. Nor the fact that I was pushing her to find her Dad in an effort to delay my own sense of closure. But there I was, happy for it, too. I decided the time to tell her would unfurl itself just as we had; that it was a process, like piecing my own past together. The unfurling was more fun, anyhow. I was learning spontaneity again. Faith. No longer hiding from the light, and wasn’t that enough?

God, I hoped so.

Mei Wong

Tenpenny Tower was surrounded by a wall, to keep people like me out. Unfortunately for people like Alistair Tenpenny, they thought people like me weren’t very bright. The hole in the wall I’d used to escape servitude as a young thing was no longer there. They’d plastered over it. A twitching smile moved across my face at the memory of my escape, and the renewed challenge that I would have gaining access to the eyesore of a building. 

Fear! Fun!

The tower was a monument to everything I hated–built on the foundations of a plantation, a pre-war resort for the rich and powerful. Alistair Tennypenny’d long since revived and renamed the Hell Place by the time I found myself under his “employment”. What a scared wretch I’d been back then… barely able to imagine leaving the hovel of a room on the penthouse floor… let alone staging an escape. 

But now was not the time to stand on dull memories. Now, I needed action. A way in. I listened to the hollow wind breathing through the fresh, wet-ugly terrain, half annoyed at the fact that my own clothes hadn’t dried yet. In the quiet of the last death throes of dawn, I heard a voice. Gravelly and distinct; argumentative. A Ghoul. Coming from… Oh yes! The front gates of The Tower. I stomped my way around the building. 

A real ranter: “Tenpenny can kiss my ass! We’ve got plenty of bottlecaps! Let me in, dammit!” I liked him already. 

I whistled. The ghoul scowled in my direction as I stepped toward him, not bothering to respond to Tennypenny’s security rats’ rejection on the intercom. He groaned and spit in frustration. By the look of him, he’d been arguing back and forth with the Tenpenny’s Finest all night.

“What do you want, Smooth?”

He shook some water from a near-broken plasma rifle.I chewed the inside of my cheek, curling my lips into a devilish little grin. Ghost slumped nearby, picking up morsels from the puddles that lingered around. My mare was the only one in the Wastes that seemed to enjoy last night’s little weather event, it seemed. 

“You look like you know how to party.” I sized him up quickly.

“The fuck you mean?”

By that I meant, he looked like he wanted to kill Alistair Tennpenny’s dusty ass as much as I did.

“You wanna get in there. Well… I do, too.”

The Ghoul looked down at me, suspicion unmasked and scary in the sweltering day’s heat. It was not enough to make me sweat, and neither was the heat. I smiled my icy, teeth-grinding grimness right back at him. 

Radio silence. Well, I had a way about getting through obstinance. 

“Look, Growler. You can stand there all day, all night, yelling at that little pipsqueak of a guard sitting in that ivory tower. Or you can trust me: a crazy bitch starved for vengeance. And get in there on your terms. What’re you gonna pick?”

“My name is Roy.” The Ghoul spat, offended, “And just what bone you got to pick in there, anyway? Don’t look like you belong in there.”

I took his closing statement as a compliment, and decided to indulge him in the truth: “Pardon. In my line of work, it pays to use codenames. And… if you really must know: a long time ago, I was Alistair Tenpenny’s slave.”

This piqued the Ghoul’s interest. The enemy of his enemy. “Uh-huh. What line of work, exactly?”

“Getting into fortresses like this, and chopping that old geezer’s head off.” I smiled again. This revealed a row of laughing, too-large teeth in the Ghoul’s own skull. And just like that, we struck up one of my famous plans.

Charon

“Smith Casey’s Garage? Are you sure?” I dropped a noodle on Wilde’s freshly cleaned Vault Suit and cursed. “Er… sorry.”

She laughed, brushing it off to Dogmeat below, who wagged her tail at the intrusion. 

“That’s what Remington said.”

“Hmmm…” I wanted to question how reliable his information was. But, considering he’d just saved my life, I stopped myself. Wilde could pierce through my armor in spite of myself:

“You don’t believe him?”

“It’s not….” I put my spoon down, alarming the lady behind the noodle stand. With how relaxed I felt now, it was easy to forget I was still physically intimidating to strangers. I sighed, collecting myself, “It’s just…. I used to pass by there all the time on my… you know.” 

My days working for Ahzrukhal.

Wilde nodded in sympathetic understanding, urging me to go on.

I cleared my throat, flustered. “Not even pass by, I used to camp out there. And there’s just… nothing. No raiders, no mutants, nothing but a few molerats.”

Wilde sighed, blowing air through her lips to make a funny sound; though her eyebrows stayed serious in their conviction. 

“That may be so…” She nodded down at the reflective bar of Megaton’s noodle stand, “But what choice do we have? We’ve got to try.”

There were no other leads. This was our best shot. Into the blue again. We finished our bowls, tipped generously and whistled to Dogmeat it was time to head out. There was no anger in my heart and no doubt in my head. In spite of the pain in my shoulder, I was smiling. Ready for the next Wilde thing. Hell and highwater.

Mei Wong

Absolutely vile, this plan. I snuck down into the tunnels in a speed-driven haze, running my sweaty hands over cold-dead walls till I found Roy’s little hideout down in the nearby metro. A ghoul woman sat in a rusted folding chair framed by the blinding rays of emergency lights and concrete barriers: all crag-edged and sparse-haired. She weaned a cigar, her voice hostile:

“What’re you doing down here, smooth? ”

“Roy hired me. What’s with the ‘ttude?”

“My Roy wouldn’t hire a smoothskin!”

“Your Roy knows I’m not just any old smooth. It would behoove you to know the same.”

Still, she gave instructions to the next bit of my fun with an attitude. I had the mind to axe her; and her little Roy, too. But Wilde and Angel Eyes had softened me. Made me miss who I was in New Vegas. But the time for dwelling was not now, not ever. I had to keep moving through the tunnels. 

Before I hurried off in a huff, Roy’s partner stopped me. “Wait. If you get that door open, you’re gonna need this.”

“Cool.” When the woman handed me the mask, I shriveled. The thing was offensive–all stitched together from the hard, petrified skin of dead ghouls. I did my best to mask my emotions as I took the article, but the shaking in my pupils would always betray me:

“Yeah, it’s pretty sick.” Roy’s girlfriend explained with a nonchalance that made me sicker, “But it’ll keep you good with the ferals deeper in. ‘Less you’d rather die?”

Not before I killed every last major slave trader in the Wastes, that much was certain. I shrugged and put the thing on. 

“Wouldn’t it be easier if you went down there?” I asked.

“You think we haven’t tried? None of us can get that damn door to the generator open! Now, get on.”

The way Roy’s girl was ordering me around, she was very, very, supremely lucky that I’d changed since New Vegas.

I moved on before my trigger hand got itchy and my hatchet too easy to grab. The real party was deeper in the tunnels, anyway. I pierced the darkness–my eyes two steely points beneath my death mask. Followed the sound and stench of Ghouls that no longer lived for anything other than violence and satiation. Thinking, “Are we really so different? Pff…. what a pretentious prick I can be, sometimes…” Laughing. Laughing loud until the Ferals all started hissing. Reaching for a grenade deep in my loose, piecemeal pants before realizing it would be a waste; the Ferals had calmed.

Exhaling, shaking–all natural physical responses. But it didn’t feel natural, just how suffocating that darkness was; the cold stillness in the air. I’d lost track of time by the time I saw a small room blinking its backup lighting in the distance. And there it was: the emergency generator, humming like a large beast in a half-flooded room behind bars. The stench of stagnant water and my own breath in the ghoulmask could’ve taken down an irradiated bear. But there was a door to open and stuff to get on with. I rattled the barred door to see how weak it was. Several ghouls in their hiding spots howled and slumped back to sleep. One slinked behind the humming generator, all contorted, jerking limbs. I brushed the chills away and tried logging into the terminal next to the gate. I felt a deep sadness for the ghouls down here, and didn’t want to disturb them any more than I had to. Maybe we could play this Blondie’s way. 

I seethed and cursed and made a plethora of odd noises before conceding to fact: I was shit with computers. To top that, the bars of the security door were too narrow to chuck a grenade in there. No fun. 

“Shit. Shit.” I whirled on my feet in my mentat-haze. Time was wasting and I needed a way in. If one of Tenpenny’s guards made it down here because of all the ghoul screaming… Well, shudder the thought. My eyes fell on the gas tank behind the generator. Now, why anyone would design a maintenance tunnel in this way was a ranchwife’s guess. I need a lazer… or an energy weapon…

Speak of the devil. There was a plasma pistol on top of the security terminal for the door. I wouldn’t have even noticed it, if not for the plasma charges nearby displaying a tiny green glow. I picked them up, racing through a short existential crisis: First Paradise Falls, now this? What in the Wastes was looking out for me? 

The energy weapon was grimy, but seemed to be in working order. No time to fire a test shot. I aimed through the bars, compensating for my own shaking aiming a little off and on the exhale. I listened to some water droplets for a fraction of a second, pulled the trigger on the plasma and leapt out of the way of the door before I could even see the plasma hit its target.

I landed in water, spitting and coughing and grateful for the reinforced steel that framed the stupid door for shielding me from the heat and the blast. Someone got that right, at least. I shuffled up and sloshed over to the bars, able to drag it open with grit and muscle now that the generator lay in smolders. Metal screamed and ghouls from every direction howled, rushing out and into the tunnels, going nowhere. I slipped past them, fingering the mask on my face absentmindedly. There was a manhole in this room that led up to Tenpenny Towers’ basement. I remembered venturing down to it as a teen planning my escape–too scrawny to lift the cover myself and too frightened by the noises coming from below. Climbing up the ladder and lifting the opening now, I reflected on how much stronger I’d become. 

I looked back once and smirked at the contorted Ghoul charging up to follow. Giggled as he screamed and all the other startled cries rose up after. Fist curled around my hatchet, mask held firmly against my head as though I feared it getting blown away in some nonexistent wind. I didn’t give a shit about checking in with Roy or the others. “Fun. Fun. Fun.” Chanted under my breath while I made my way out into the doomed austerity of the Towers. Mind on one track, one single vision I would accomplish: Find Tennpenny and Mr. Burke and lodge their heads from their bony shoulders, preferably in a bloody mess. 

Charon

Wilde was breathing erratically. If her hands weren’t frantically messing with her Pipboy’s dials, they’d be tearing out her own hair. We all stopped walking. I looked to Dogmeat and she looked to me, whining slightly. 

“I don’t understand. The map says it’s here.”

“Maybe it needs an update.” Wilde stared at me, eyes shaking. I looked down at my boots and cleared my throat, shifting my shotgun to shake the awkwardness off.

“Sorry. Little joke.”

She did laugh, but it wasn’t enough to kill the panic. Jokes aside, I grumbled in place of voicing my own anxiety. I wouldn’t feed into what Wilde was already going through: We were exactly where Remington said the carshop was, where I thought it was. Yet, here we were, in the middle of nowhere. Not even a dead molerat in the sandy dirt. 

The strangest feeling there, in that midday Waste: However close Wilde would get to finding her father, he didn’t want her to find him. It would keep eluding her. 

Wilde put the thought into weepy, wits-end words: “I just… No matter what I know… I’ll never find him. I’ll never know him. He doesn’t want me. He never did!”

She rushed toward me, choking out one more sentiment, “He just wants his damn work.” I said nothing, just held her. Close and true. With my arms around her I could see it, clear and in reach–Smith Casey’s Garage. Work . An uneasy, unpleasant feeling. Bad memories. I persisted anyway; I etched every detail in my mind, amazed by the boundless nature of my imagination now that my mental blockers were gone. The silence of the Wastes slinked into blackness. I held onto Wilde like we were in the Life Preservation can all over again; to the image: The busted up truck nearby with its front fender missing, piles of scrap, the dead neon sign embellished above. Inside: dust thicker than spring’s peak pollen, the cot I’d slept on many a weapons run, some shell casings to take care of the ever-present pest problems. Sleepless nights spent staring, staring. At that humble dollar hanging on the wall across the way. 

I shut my eyes tighter reflexively as it all came through to something different, something new: a button was pressed, a panel near my old cot opened. That blinding white light from long ago filled my head like a rush of freezing water. When I blinked myself open again I feared I would forget my own name again, lose my newfound autonomy, lash out. But I didn’t. I felt stronger. Wilde and I separated from our embrace, slow and dazed. As if finally waking.

She was the first to notice what was behind me, being the one facing the west. She squeezed my bicep with a mix of affection and surprise. Crying breaths turned to gasping wonder. I was delayed in any movement, still asserting that the horizon out there wasn’t going to disappear before me.

“Cher… Charon, look!”

I turned around slow and stiff. Dogmeat’s barking covered up my exclaimed whisper: 

“Where? …. How?”

The two of us were both left bewildered and staring. Where there had been nothing but us walking around in circles, there was now a broken down, unassuming garage. A garage I’d been to countless times. Exactly where it should be, right where we were. 

I took two, three, more glances around to ensure that everything–from the tattered brush at our feet to the patterns in the dirt–looked the same. It didn’t take long to affirm something terrifying: it was.

Wilde was looking at me like I was God. Her eyes narrowed to study me, mouth forming words that were incomprehensible. I raised my hand to quiet her. Please don’t ask. I don’t know. I pleaded with my eyes. Reasoning through this kind of miracle would only drive us both mad. 

Her moment-long silence was eternal. The wind battered her freshly cleaned jumpsuit with dirt, whipped her uneven ends of hair across her face. I remembered Frank, staring down the barrel of my gun, realizing I had the power to command his fate. Not remembering how I’d wound up at The Ninth Circle. No. Not *not* remembering. Remembering that Ahzrukhal and I had, in reality, just shown up there at Underworld one day. All this time, I thought Barrows had just been joking. He’d been genuinely asking.

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Stubborn as ever, Wilde brought me back to present,  “Charon, what the hell did you do?”

“I… I held you.” I let my gun slink down on its strap to look at my own hands. 

“Yes, but you–”

“I don’t know, okay?” I shook my hands out to her, as if to show her I didn’t have some promethean secret up my sleeve. “We’d better get in there, alright? Who knows how long the garage'll stick around.”

Wilde nodded, satisfied at the very least by my admitting Something Fucking Weird Had Happened. We crouched to duck underneath the auto shop’s door. I couldn’t keep the chills from traveling down my spine as we passed through the forced-open threshold. Wilde was shaken, too. She paused to hold out her hand until my fingers caressed them. An anchor of sorts, but we didn’t discuss the phenomena further.  The “how” of my newfound ability was overpowered by our self-imposed urgency.

Wilde and I knew before even seeing the strange white light glowing on the wall behind Smith Casey’s abandoned sales counter: Her father was here.

Chapter Text

Wilde

The air inside the garage was crackling and watery, somehow hard to breathe. The staircase behind the bar was obvious, anachronistic. Sterile and clean. There was chilling nostalgia that accompanied it–I remembered going down the same set of stairs to greet Jonas in the reactor room. My tenth birthday. More grime caked the walls, my first gun. 

There were no radroaches down here. The further I descended, the cleaner it got. The hum of machines around the corner was warm. Womb-like. I rushed through like I was ready to come home. My heart sped up to match my steps–my father was here. I could feel it.

Here in this… this Vault. A secret Vault. More hidden than the one I stumbled out of, by far. Beneath the dusty old car shop lie clean horrors. 

A thud behind me. I stopped and leapt. “Charon?”

He’d collapsed on his knees in the Vault Door’s threshold. When I rushed to his side, he leaned into my touch. The sharp angles of his face were hot and his breathing rapid. 

“I’m fine.” He insisted. I managed to help him up to his feet before he swayed, gripping onto my shoulders, his face meeting mine. The newfound softness in his too-big eyes was gone, replaced with desperate scrambling. Out of focus. 

He’s panicked, I thought. I remember the same thing clouding me as I left Vault 101.

“Breathe.” I pulled him closer. The dark clouds shifted in his head. I had little explanation, but I could feel them. I hung onto the tender moment where his marred fingers found my hair.  After a few more deep breaths, my partner calmed and straightened.

“This place… It’s all wrong.” I’m surprised by the weakness in his voice. His grip on me softened and we separated, with my partner shutting his eyes and taking full, full breaths. I looked up and about the Vault’s underground main chamber, harsh-bright and humming with machines. It is wrong. Nothing like the mazed walls every Vault Dweller grew up in. There were no labeled residential doorways, no tongue-in-cheek propaganda. 

I waited for Charon’s panic attack to pass with no sense of impatience. Wherever my Dad was down there, I got the sense he wasn’t going anywhere. The absentee father could wait just a bit longer. I watched Charon puff himself up from swaying towards the floor and shake his limbs out, as if waking them from sleep. My admiration for him welled, accompanied by a fluttering in my chest. Even here, outside of the romance, I could learn from him and fall for him all over again. In spite of the ever-present grim, a smile pulled at me. 

“What?” He stopped and frowned, asserting himself. “I’m ready, okay?”

“You don’t have to do this with me.” I began to tell him. I knew his Vault was worse. A prison, not a home. I wanted to give him space, if he needed it.

“I want to do this.” My partner insisted. Charon sighed, the tension in his shoulders still hanging on, “...We should take a look around. I would leave those… Pods… for last.” His tall body shivered as he shook his head, leading the way with the intent of searching the round room. 

Robobrains roamed in silence, with the exception of chirping at us for “being late”. Charon suggested we split up once we found a network of small offices branching off from the central chamber. 

I’m distracted by some old refuse in an otherwise too-clean locker. A spare Vault Suit; numbers emblazoned in fabric so vivid it looks like gold leaf: 112. Bobby pins in a sealed box. The most pristine can of Cram I’ve ever seen. A music box that played a simple, childlike tune. I debated taking them, knowing I already had too many mementos at home. 

“Wilde! Hey! Over here!” Charon’s voice snapped me out of my hoarder’s haze. I clasped the music box shut and returned it to its metal shelf. I followed the sound of Charon’s call to find him slouched over a terminal in a larger, adjacent office. His scarred fingers moved quick across the keyboard, hairless brow knit in harsh judgement.