Now I'm Learning to Love the Wasteland

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.