Now I'm Learning to Love the Wasteland

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.