Now I'm Learning to Love the Wasteland

Wilde

“I had another dream about that prophet.” I walked backwards so I could face Charon as he paced behind me. “What do you think? Do you think he was really mad, or...?”

“You keep sayin that like the answer matters.” Charon's response was gravely agitated, his jaw clenching as he pointedly looked anywhere but me.

We took our time getting to The Mall. Clearing out of downtown was more of a challenge without Reilly and her crewmates, but there were few Mutants left to bother us on the journey. It was hard to tell what, exactly was bothering Charon once our feet hit the slimy waterfront. But he was distant and barricading himself up again the instant Rivet City was less a goal, and more a reality.

How silly, I thought. For some of the journey, one could almost swear we were friends. The nights we had to rest, under the stars or in a burned out building, were warm and comfortable. The most content I'd been since leaving The Vault.

Despite his current rudeness, I enjoyed the company of my partner. The extra puff in his chest and kick in his step everytime 'Mighty Man' played on the pipboy. The light in his eyes when he'd find a full pack of gum or a box of sugar bombs. How rare and beautiful his rough, unbridled laughter was.

Suprisingly (but not disappointingly), he had an interest in helping with the crossword in the Grognak comic I'd found in an old bookstore.

“Two across. Starts with an 'A'. Six letters--”

“Athena.” He said without looking up from scraping beneath his nails with his combat knife.

“I didn't even give you the clue!” I exclaimed, twisting round in my bedroll. “You flipped to the answers last turn, didn't you?”

Charon looked stuck in place for a moment, staring down at the dirt illuminated by the tiny campfire we'd scraped together. He looked up slowly with his keen, sleep-deprived eyes, “Why'd you talk to Ahzrukhal?”

The question felt so big in the empty outdoors. The answer was so small, “You asked.”

“Guess the real question is: 'Why did I ask?'” He laughed until Dogmeat howled along. Then he laughed so hard he had a coughing fit, wiping tears from his eyes, and gesturing to our shared water bottle with mangled fingers. I didn't even find it all that funny, but I laughed with him. The way the cold full moon hung above and the glow of the fire flickering before him as he drank had me mesmerized. I wouldn't realize it until hindsight hit me, but I was falling in love with him right then.

Here was my tiny heaven, in the way he'd lose the furrow in his brow everytime Dogmeat sighed or I smiled, or how I'd often wake up to find him tossing a bone along the cracked roads for her. But those roads became beaten sidewalks, and those sidewalks became the muddy banks of the flooded banks of a Naval Yard. And as we neared the most developed settlement in what was left of Washington D.C., Charon was now as caustically walled-off as when we'd met (if not more so). He dreaded the place for some reason. It was as senseless as war to ask him why.

It was dusk by the time we reached the manmade stairs up to the pier. My heart was twisting over the thought my Father possibly being across the rusty, salt-smelling bay. Rivet City was awe-defying: an ancient, (mostly) intact aircraft carrier that had been the center of the region's scientific community since the New World could remember. The colossal vessel creaked chillingly even as the rows of windows and holes in the metal carrier beamed with vibrant embers of orange light. I looked to my partner, who'd just dragged himself to stand at my side and lit a cigarette.

He was puffed up like a peacock, leering hatefully out at the giant statues that dotted the landscape. There wasn't a chill in the air this evening, but he was trembling a little.

“These smoothskin cities.” He grumbled, “Don't like 'em.”

“I'm glad you're here with me.” I said earnestly.

His face became softer. He grumbled at his shoes, “Let's find your Dad and get out.”

I nodded, pressing the huge red button centered above a loudspeaker. I recognized the voice on the other end with an immediate smile.

Charon

“Rivet City Security. State your business.”

I'd never been in this trash heap before. Only ever conducted business outside it, near the broken mirelurk-infested bow. That fact didn't make hiding my terror and guilt any easier. No, it only sharpened that dagger.

Wilde pushed that red button again. “Hello, Harkness.” Sunny as ever. She'd given the last of our water to another waster.

“If you were pre-war, you'd get looked at for bein' a communist.” I dared to joke.

She laughed. Worth it, even with all the other shit bogging my mind down.

“Ah. Hello, Wilde.” The loudspeaker answered, making me jump slightly.

Metal screamed and scraped in the fading heat of sunlight. Purple and blue hues stood out on the water like a bruise. I mirrored Wilde in lowering my weapon as soon as the long bridge stopped. Every clanging step towards the ship deck resounded in my ears. I wondered what part of the boat this was. I hoped Sister had been stupid enough to get himself caught. Better, killed. The tinge of self-preservation felt foreign. A lot like shame, but cold and curdled.

The head of Rivet City security was Harkness. He didn't know me, but I knew him, because not too long ago it was my job to know how Rivet's security roster went. He was taller than me. Perfect skin. Polished armor. Thick, dark hair. A dull voice and a smugly flat expression. Polite. Nose.

For me, it was hate at first sight.

Most assured, Wilde was pals with him. They hugged, and Wilde introduced me while I whirled at the surrounding doors and catwalks, looking for all options of escape. Harkness tried a handshake with me, but by the time I noticed the attempt, he was already stiffly retreating, embarrassed. He ushered us into the entryway of the 'Marketplace', hastily gesturing around at the different stalls in the hangar like an obnoxious guide. He finally left us when a female guard called for his aid.

The halls of the boat reeked with a swampy, corroded musk. And that was heaven sent compared to the attitude. Discretion wasn't the only thing that kept a ghoul gunrunner away from this side of the River Styx.

I slouched in an attempt to shrink away from all the sideways looks and leering whispers, as others ducked into their rooms. Wilde seemed confused as to why folks weren't as friendly talking to her. Confusion bled to outrage when we reached the 'Weatherly Hotel' in the upper decks.

The smoothskin behind the desk cooed in a voice just loud enough so I could hear while she grabbed for the dusty glass bowl of candies, “I can't let your friend in, I don't know what kind of bugs, or, or--”

Wilde didn't have the patience to let her finish, “Are you serious? I found your nephew, and you... you know what? Nevermind.” Wilde raised her hands in exasperation and marched. She spouted a series of numbers and letters on the way out, as if they were curse words. I would've thought my employer had finally lost her mind, if it weren't for the Vera Waverly's Mr. Handy robot shutting down in a heap on the floor behind us.

We passed a makeshift museum (which I laughed at), church (which I laughed at and Wilde scolded me for), medbay, and residential rooms before stopping at the marketplace and grabbing mirelurk cakes. Disgusting. I ate it at Wilde's request, but not before feeding half of it to Dogmeat. The owner of the small concession offered up his room for Wilde's remaining Radaway. I thought it was a foolhardy trade.

The fisherman's abode was cramped, but extremely clean. The cold informality of bleach-white bunks under blue light made me nervous. Almost like I was gonna have another flashback. Thankfully, I didn't. We dropped our gear and let Dogmeat rest. Cleaned up some. And by that, I mean we wiped the sweat from our brow and shed a layer. No time for showers with a stray Dad on the lose. I laid my leather jacket on the bottom bunk, taking care to grab my Rad-X from my chest pocket. Wilde unzipped her jumpsuit down halfway and tied the sleeves around her waist.

I felt oddly vulnerable around her in these moments—campfires, cover, places of rest. When things were quiet and I could really look at her, it was the fear of God striking me; The Planetarium all over again. Athena. Good luck picking up my jaw off the damn floor.

Wilde broke the curious silence as she pulled her hair back into a ponytail, “I've got a gray undershirt, you've got beige. What a colorful pair we are, huh?”

If this was a flirt, it was terrible. “Very amusing.” I deadpanned. She smiled anyways. It made the room a little lighter and reality a little less sharp.

There was an excitement charged in the air around us as we exited, making our way towards the Science Lab. The rush of seeing the finish line, it seemed. The rip of the tape as I charged through, stinging heat in my face as I raised my arms. Tingly, fizzing headache again. I was remembering more. I didn't know if that was good or bad.

The hopeful atmosphere dampened quickly. You could still smell the fear on near every smoothskin we passed.

“The only way out is through.” I told Wilde, who looked drained and irritable before we even reached the nearest ladder down to the middle decks. “Focus.”

I hadn't seen my old contact, Sister. At least there was that for a silver lining.

Two guards stood outside a thick door at the end of a long passage. 'Laboratory' was stenciled fatly above it in black spraypaint.

Wilde's voice was tired and antsy now, but as syrup-nice as she could possibly make it. She hesitated beneath the burning white lights, “I'm The Lone Wanderer. I'm looking for my Father, James, or Doctor Li.”

The two bulkheads were squinting beyond her, directly at me. I squinted right back.

“Doctor Li is busy.” One spoke disinterestedly. Wilde squared her shoulders.

“I'm certain she'd speak with me. Kindly, let me in.”

“Sorry, sweets, you're gonna have to wait 'till tomorrow.”

Wilde's breath was louder now, almost like some dragon's. Me, I was tired. I knew why there was no room here for us. And I was worried about my connections to this place. I suggested we lay low in a bar somewhere, relax a bit. If James was here, he was probably not going to leave in the dead of night.

Wilde looked on the verge of screaming. Surprisingly, she agreed finally and turned around so we could leave. At that exact moment, a guard mumbled an insult at me. I would've heard it, but the world got all hazy for a second under the lights. In a flash, his eye was smashed and sunken by a single, lightening rod of a punch.

The man balked on the floor, clutching his face. I could only stand, awed that I was not the source of the punch, and entranced by how quickly Wilde rubbed her knuckles on her undershirt and composed her voice,

“I'm going to have a drink and cool off. When I come back, you're going to let me and my friend in.”

“Harkness is going to hear about this!” The other guard warned as Wilde stormed down the hall. I had to widen my steps to keep up. Residents who had peeked out at the noise dove back into their rooms. Except one. A dark haired woman with the same 'smite-thee' gleam in her eyes as Wilde.

“I'll tell him myself!” Wilde shouted over her shoulder. The mysterious woman was still staring at us as we passed, following us with her head. I could feel it.

“You could've asked me to punch him.” I muttered to my boss, then got brazen, “Month or so's ago, you scolded me for busting a nose.”

“Excuse me? In a smelly ship full of bigots? You bet I'm punching.” This satisfied both questions.

At the very depths of the ship, we found the Muddy Rudder. I was curious how this bar stacked up to The Ninth Circle. It was bigger, uglier. But bustling to the brim with people.

“Too many.” I griped to myself. But it was poorly lit and easy to get lost in. If I was going to lay low from Sister and his goons, it was best done here.

I followed Wilde into the maw of sweaty, yelling smoothskins. Wilde seemed unusually zigzagged and tired, so I rested a hand on her shoulder to keep track. To my disbelief, she reached up to hold it.

We broke the bond and traded it for another. (Geezum, her touch was turning me into a weepy poet) The woman behind the bar was brusque, but didn't flinch at me. Wilde downed a whiskey, then another. I sipped at warm beer. When the boss pulled out a cigarello with a wavering hand, I lit the match for it.

“You're shaken up. S'Matter?”

“The people here are disgusting. Except Harkness. Then again, he's not... ah..” Wilde shook her head. I was too busy darting my eyes over my shoulder every few seconds to read into that statement.

“There's something else.” I grumbled, half-crazy to myself. Paranoia turned to sour panic. A familiar scar glinted in the light of the opposite wall. The owner of that scar was a scrawny, slimy bastard who was as weaselly and devious as a smooth could get: Sister. Ahzrukhal's man on the outside.

“You're right.” Wilde sighed and exhaled, “Charon... I don't know if I'm ready to face my Father.”

She stamped her cigar out, crossed her arms, then lay her head down.

“You don't have to. Not right now.”

“I killed my mother.” She said it so sudden it caught me off guard for just a minute, like she dropped something fragile and crystal at my feet. “Not directly, but I know he blames my birth on her death.”

(charlie dont
you dont want this

i'm so sorry)

Sister was staring at me. Then, in a flash, he ducked out. For a second there, he looked like my brother. Wilde excused herself. I darted to follow the latter.

Until. I was stopped by the dark-haired woman. Even in the half-dim light, I could recognize her, with that ratty scarf. She seemed to appear from nowhere at all, grasping my arm and leading me over to her corner with casual, unnerving grace:

“Angel Eyes. Sister's noticed you.”

“Who are you? What's it to you?”

“You're awful nosy for someone who doesn't have a septum. I'm a friend.”

“Don't have friends.” I growled.

“Nonsense. Friends are like assholes or gaurdian spirits; you must have one. Mind you, some of our friends are assholes... some of our gaurdians, too...”

She went on rambling in her peculiar way, half in english and chinese. We wound up leaning in a corner with a broken Jukebox playing classical music, near the exit Sister'd used.

Wilde was out of the restroom by that point, wiping at her eyes with the backs of her hands. I wanted to turn around, swim across the dead sea crowd, and join her. Be there for her. Carry all her sins and forget mine for a time.

But the contract forgot all my wants in the next second, as the woman lit a cigarette:

“Sister's noticed your pal Blondie, too. He's probably running off to his room at the Weatherly or Waverly or whatever. Bound to radio all his little networks. I suggest you ditch this city before he gets his cronies, hm?”

I nodded, spun to get back to where I needed to be. No time to distrust, no time to question this short gal's motives. The dark-haired woman locked me in place with her stony eyes once more,

“Don't face Sister alone and don't be stupid. I'm warning you. Zai jhain.”

“Goodbye.” I said, half-aware I was speaking at all. She swept away, disappearing with a riddling smile. My limbs felt heavy by the time I made it back to the other side of the room. Wilde was chatting with none other than Harkness.

“A-231 treating you alright?” I caught the tail end of their conversation. Wilde's eyes were still misty and red, but no longer crying, “Yes. Thank you.”

“Good.” Harkness smiled mechanically when he noticed me, clearing his throat:

“Ahem. Charon, I apologize for the behav--”

“Can it, string bean. Wilde. We need to talk.”

“There's no need to be rude.” Wilde rolled her eyes.

I backtracked, “I wish to speak with you.”

When she saw my expression unchanged; she huffed until we reached the entryway. I stopped just outside the bar. She leaned against the doorframe, crossing her arms. The way the red light from the caged sconce hit her curves in stripes, I felt older and younger all at once. The deathray glare in her eyes made me wanna curl up with a cigarette and die.

I stood there, dumbly silent for a while, trying to decide if I should lie to her or pray forgiveness. While the devil and the angel on my shoulders duked it out, Wilde tapped her foot impatiently.

“Why are you being so cold to Harkness? He's been nothing but nice.”

Oh, this again. “Niceness doesn't grow my ears back. There are two things I gotta do; One is eat, so I can smoke and live. The other is make sure you're safe. Got it?”

“Don't patronize me.” She said simply, and that was all it took to shed my impatience with her.

A shadow moved in the lonesome hallway. My flighty mind screamed. Sister. Frank. Ahzrukhal. Every demon I ever knew was on the damned boat now, lurking in all the shadowed corners.

I couldn't drag Wilde into this. I had to fix this. I had to leave.

A good partnership stuck together, but a better one knew when to split up. Wilde would ask why. I needed to make this fast. I needed...

“Is this because I was talking to Harkness?”

I needed her to hate me.

I cocked my head at her, half laughing, “You think I'm jealous.”

She licked her lips. Why did she have to make everything so hard. Step any closer, and we were bound to kiss. Kiss, and it was curtains for us.

“Well? Are you jealous?”

That fizzy, unreal feeling in my vision again. I fought off old memories of pulpy films about private eyes and smoky rooms. I lifted her chin with my thumb, “You're a fool if you think I'd get jealous of a mall cop and some spoiled vault princess with Daddy issues.”

She didn't hit me, though I'd prepared myself for it. What she did stung worse. Gentle as a lover, she bunched up the front of my shirt collar. She stood taller, on her toes, until our foreheads touched. My heart felt upinned, full to burst.

The words came soft as cream, and they dug in like a knife: “You're fired.”

It took tremendous control to stay still while she unlatched herself and retreated back into the bar. I made myself look at her for the pure pain of it—fists clenched and gaze fixed downwards as the crowd slovenly parted for her. She didn't look back. It was the least I deserved.

I sharpened all the screaming need beneath my skin and moved in a different direction than I wanted--quickly and too monster-like--down the darkened, quiet halls.

James

Remington was very lazy and very, very strange. A frustrating individual, he insisted I rest beyond the time I needed to recuperate. He, too, slept long into the sunlight and what's more, set aside a couple more hours to “wake up”--which consisted of grumbling and grooming his beard, four glasses of dirty water, stretches, hacking coughs, and absentminded fiddling with his toolbench. He strummed and sang loudly to anything that resembled a tune, but I never knew the songs. I could only half sing along and appreciate it.

He was oddly private and open in the same breath—he had no qualms bringing up his past or explaining his oddball inventions and habits, but I always felt I was only getting pieces of his story. Almost all his adventures sounded like they were fish tales. The shadows beneath his bright eyes said otherwise.

On the trip out to the first vault we'd explore, he explained that he was once a bounty hunter in the Mojave. But he left, partly because he found his boss was a “ghoul-hater”, mostly because Mei Wong, his long time friend and accomplice, had taken the keys to his “destiny”, and led him on a chase.

“She thinks it's a game. She even warned me when we started working together. 'Don't rely on me, Cowboy. I'm a hungry ghost'.” He shrugged, “And in some ways, she's right—it is a game! I know all that. But I need those star caps. They're the only thing, 'side from my gun, I had from before I was born.”

He got teary-eyed, then laughed. This cycle of moodiness was an unyeilding pattern. As we set up in an old church tower overlooking vastly abandoned earth, he ruminated to the pearly clouds that he felt like a glitch. I could only shrug and nod halfway. It was bewildering to be around a man who bore his feelings so openly.

I questioned his sanity as he set up his bedroll, his rifle, several rations of food and smoked a piney smelling cigar. He placed that garden gnome and his guitar within in reach, as though they were especially necessary.

What Remington lacked in sense and energy, he made up for in inspiring strokes of brilliance. Just as I was about to question the merit in climbing to the top of an old belltower, he said,

“I think it's awful funny that old car lot 'cross the street ain't being used by any mutants or raiders. It's good scrap. Defensible.” He stopped humming, lay on his belly, and gazed down his scope.

Three minutes later, in the silent lavender of dusk, Remington fired his first bullet. It hit the glass window of an old atomic car. A shape flung itself from a vehicle nearby and sped erratically towards the source of the noise. Then another. Three more. Five more. Howls crawled down my spine like mud and ice.

Ferals. Remington shot one in the head.

“We don't have enough ammo...” I whispered, “And by my calculations...”

Like a yoa guai who'd been prodded with a stick, Remington emitted a grumbling cough that shut me up.

“Calculations are good, but I get more luck with trustin' my gut...”

I watched a drop of sweat bead down from my newfound guide's hairline. His brown eye whirled down the scope.

“...And bullshittin'.”

Remington pulled the trigger. My wondering eyes finally landed upon the small, dirty red propane tank propped against a half-rusted bumper. The boom that resulted was a fraction of the impact Mei Wong had created. Its cleverness was in the resulting chain reaction: two more junk cars ended up igniting, popping and combusting in short, but effective, bursts. Thick, black smoke billowed up from what was left of the lot. I looked over and Remington was smiling like a child, chin resting on his propped up fists.

“Now. Where's uh... what direction were we goin' in again?”

Charon

I was lost in more ways than one by the time I reached the Weatherly Hotel. The air had become even more stifling and stale upon returning to the upper levels. But I could barely notice. Outside I moved with silent purpose as I searched for Sister in the hall, but inside I felt pulled apart. That pins and needles feeling covered me again as I tried to rationalize why I'd whirled thrice at the sounds of doors opening, when they remained shut.

you're gonna be okay,

I wasn't okay. Not one bit. Every thought was an ugly turning pinwheel that kaleidoscoped into fists and fleeing.

By the time I noticed his ugly figure in the dim, Sister'd already rounded the corner. I had to suppress my instinct to run and grab him by his filthy coveralls. I didn't want to alert the sleepy guardsmen. And what use would I be if I were stopped by that lot? The tricky bastard slowed down his pace on purpose, even having the gall to smile back at me as he entered the marketplace.

It wasn't the icy blast of the wind outside that made me shiver. The ghostly clangs of our footsteps carefully at war didn't make me wince, or the dramatic way the nearby prewar statues looked more cursed under the moonless night.

No. The full sense of loss and fear of the unknown only came the moment we hit the dirt and I grabbed him and lifted him up by his greasy straps. Sister smiled that creased, queasy sort of grin. He sputtered a tweaking laugh:

“H-hey Red Guy. Been missing your shipments for a while now. That's three loads a guns, gone. I-I'm hearing complaints from Evergreen, too. Where's your leash, huh?”

“Ahzrukhal lost his head.” I grit my teeth, “You're next.”

Sister was looking beyond me, behind me. Green teeth still bared. My mind was no longer cool and controlled. Every word from my old bosses' mouth reflected in the weasel's yellowed, bloodshot eyes. Was Ahzrukhal behind me? Had he cheated death? I turned around.

There was a charred outline of a silhouette holding an eyebot

(no, dear boy. it's a mez-muh-tron, we're going to use it to help... soldiers like you)

and a blinding sensation of light attacking my eyes. The stars above whirled and blurred in my vision as my knees hit the dirt. My last thoughts before blacking out were the the globe at GNR plaza rolling off its pedestal, the ebony-haired stranger in the bar, and the question to the only answer that seemed to matter:

two across. first letter. six letters.

Wilde

The angelic looking bartender had long since cut me off, and Harkness eventually had to leave. I was truly, utterly alone now. I crossed my arms and lay my forehead on the cool, solid bartop. Duck and cover.

I only picked my head up slightly when I heard someone shifting to climb into the stool next to mine. When her eyes collided with my face, she hissed,

“Don't look at me!”

I obliged, but not before looking sideways at her. Her dress was ragged and worn, her face sweating, but still managed to carry an air that seemed beyond regal. She tightened again in her seat, lifting the gray scarf around her neck to her mouth.

Muffled, “Seriously. You're giving me The Fear!”

I was staring again. I shook my head at myself, apologized. I let the lights and colors swim in my view, dread mingled with guilt at indulging in my father's one vice.

“I've made a huge mistake.” I said, gaping stupidly into the rows of bottles on the wall.

An odd question from the woman: “Are you one of them?”

“Who's 'them'?” I asked sincerely.

“Oh well, whatever. Nevermind.” She was quaking along to the music on the jukebox as she lit and then proceeded to stamp out a cigarette. She proceeded to turn so she was practically talking to the metal wall, “There's a man here named Sister. He's a slaver, and he's after me. ...Dammit!” She tapped the countertop abruptly, seething, “I told him not to go alone.”

Her leg tapped on the stool in rapidly. A drunk in the back of the Muddy Rudder coughed, and I swore the ship lurched. Whatever 'the fear' was, I was starting to feel it, too.

“50 caps. That's all a pistol costs. Think you could help a girl out?”

Nonsense. The cheapest gun at the market was twice that, Charon had complained about it earlier. The thought of his name made my face hot and my insides turn in an unusual way. What had I done? I needed him back. I could no longer confront my Father alone. I needed a drink. Space. Perhaps a long nap.

“Are you listening to me? Your man knows Chinese. You know that? Where'd he learn it?”

I hid my head in my arms again.

“I didn't mean to dig a knife in you! You east coasters are so sensitive to questions. Stay cool, Blondie.”

I didn't have anymore caps, shamefully. I half recall drunkenly telling my new acquaintance a set of coordinates. Then, slipping Three Dog's key into her hand. I wished her luck. She frowned, as though expecting a trick. When there wasn't any, she looked guilt ridden and bit her thumb.

The stranger insistently led (okay, carried) me back to the fishmonger's room with anxious protectiveness, flinching at every single mannequin we passed.

“A Quick Fix is closed by now.” She whispered to herself. “I'm bound to be a mess tomorrow.”

“We're all a mess.” I said bitterly.

The woman patted at her forehead with that scarf, “Yeah, well. At least we're hot.”

I laughed and it repelled the darkness in me, at least until we neared the hangar dedicated to the marketplace.

At the end of our walk, she gave me Three Dog's key back.

“My name is Mei Wong. I really hope I never see you again.”

The shock of her name was dulled by a full night of booze, and she was nothing but shadow before you could say “farewell”. I could only close myself off in that broomcloset of a room and tsk at the sight of Charon's leather jacket left sloppily across “my” bunk.

A tidal of emotions came through, and I ended up pathetically buried in it, crying and digging at myself until I could shudder off into sleep with the stubborn thought that tomorrow would be better. The sun would rise, my partner would surely be back, and I would apologize.

I could fix this. Dogmeat kicked and snarled in her dreams, as though she knew it wasn't so.

Light would reveal the truth, as it so often did.