Now I'm Learning to Love the Wasteland

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, 2252-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.