Gob looked up from his cleaning as the door swung open forcefully and a woman marched into the room.
"Sammy!" He cried. "Take a seat, you look like shit."
"I feel like shit," she grumped, dumping herself on a stool and slumping over the counter.
Gob watched her out of the corner of his eye while he made her favorite drink. Samantha Cooper, or "Sammy" as he liked to call her, was a regular visitor to his bar ever since she had left the vault she grew up in and stumbled across Megaton. Gob normally didn't like smoothskins, but Sammy was an exception among exceptions. She was smart, beautiful, funny, she killed his boss and gave the bar to him, and she always paid her tab. Really, what's not to like?
He set the drink in front of her and leaned back. "Bad day?"
"Kind of... Things didn't go bad, at least." She chugged her drink and stared at the bottom of the cup. Gob let her stew.
"It's the fucking slavers!" She burst out, pounding the table in frustration. "They're worse than radroaches! Kill one group and five more pop up from out of nowhere! At least the radroaches have fucking incubation periods, but the slavers? I just cleared out Paradise Falls, and there was already another group settling in. And I'm fairly fucking sure that there was another group on the other side of hill just waiting for me to clean out the current inhabitants! I'm seriously beginning to wonder why I don't just blow the entire place up and be done with it."
"Because it lines them up like a ten pin bowling alley?" Gob suggested as he poured her another cup. He took her grunt as confirmation that he was right.
They sat in companionable silence while Samantha nursed her drink. Eventually she looked at him. "Tell me a story?"
Gob chuckled. That was another thing he liked about her; she listened to his stories. "I don't know, Sammy. You've practically wrung me dry of those. Let me think."
Samantha swirled the liquid in her cup while she waited. She perked up when Gob spoke.
"Wait... Yeah, I think I got one. I got it from a Brotherhood scribe who was passing through, back when I first started. You'll like this one."
Samantha scooted forward as much as her stool allowed. "Well? Come on, man! Don't leave me hanging!"
Gob stood up a bit straighter, pleased. She always knew what to say. "Well, alright then. It starts like this:
Deep in the wastelands of the Columbia Commonwealth there exists a town, and its name is Duport. Duport is a small town, barely more than thirty people to its name, but it is a successful one. Part of this success is due to the presence of a man named Jeremy Green, the local sheriff. His hair is brown, but greying. His eyes are more grey than blue, but they are also bright and sharp. He is middle aged, and getting older each day. But for all that, all the citizens of that town, past and future, would agree that he is the best sheriff they will ever have; Jeremy Green is kind, fair, and just. He strives to interact with every citizen under his protection on a daily basis, to connect with them on a personal level. It is this desire that brings him in contact with one particular shop owner.
The Girl.
The Girl is the owner of The Shop. The Shop is located near the outskirts of the town, away from unnecessary traffic and noise. Her hair is black, but untamed and feathery. Her eyes are green, though not to any noticeable degree. No one knows the name of The Girl, despite her having lived in the town since its founding, before Jeremy was sheriff. She simply wandered in with a brahmin-pulled wagon and set up shop. The expedition leader at the time did not try to make her leave because she kept a clean shop, sold quality goods and, most importantly in his eyes, caused no trouble for the blooming town.
Having visited her once already, Jeremy is not surprised that no one knows her name. The simple reason is that The Girl does not speak. Not voluntarily, at least. Should someone buy an item from her shop, she will quote the price in a quiet, yet firm voice. Should they ask her for a description of the item, she will provide it, but after that she will refuse to answer any questions and stare at the customer with a dull and slightly unfocused gaze.
Jeremy does not believe her to be simple, though; The very first day that he walked through her door with the intent of making a new friend and belted out a cheerful "Mornin'!", The Girl looked up at him with the accusing glare of someone who knew exactly what Jeremy was trying to do, and would not be swayed. Jeremy Green, of course, took that as a challenge. So, for the entire year, the sheriff made it a point to walk into her shop in the early morning hours, greet her with a cheerful smile and greeting, and buy some food or a random knick knack from her store.
Well into the second year of this routine, The Girl finally broke. When he walked in and gave his customary "Mornin'!", she heaved a great sigh and quietly replied "Good morning."
Not even fending off a slaver raid that evening could wipe the smile off of Jeremy Green's face.
Things continued as they were for a number of years. Jeremy never bothered to try and penetrate The Girl's aura of mystery, even though there were a few strange things that quickly became apparent once he started paying attention. For example, no one in the town knew where The Girl got her food from, as she did not buy from the local farmers. Nor did they know what she did in her free time; Once she closed up shop for the night, she vanished into her rooms above the shop, and no amount of knocking on the door or windows could make her appear. They also were not quite sure where she found all of her wares, as the volume of her stock always seemed larger than what the traders that occasionally visited the town could bring with them.
These things and more were unknown about the Girl, but as there were no reports of thievery, Jeremy did not believe it was his right to pry, and was happy to let her go about her business in peace.
This belief changed in the space of twenty four hours.
It happened when he was in the back room of The Shop. Shouting from the front counter reached his ears, making him sigh and start toward the door. Every so often, someone who was not used to The Girl's silence got irritated by it, usually because they were used to haggling and she simply didn't. Often times, the customer stormed off and didn't come back, but sometimes Jeremy had to intervene and de-escalate the situation. Judging by the increasing noise, this was looking to be one of those times.
He walked into the room just in time to see the customer put a bullet in her skull.
Time stood still for him in that moment, like his brain couldn't quite comprehend what had just happened in front of his eyes. Then his brain remembered the land in which he lived and his gun was drawn and he was returning the favor thrice over. He was at The Girl's side before her killer hit the floor, rolling her over and hoping, praying...
But no. The customer's aim had been true.
The Girl was dead.
Jeremy didn't really remember the rest of that day. His body operated on autopilot while he went about his duties, his brain refusing to move from the fact that he had just buried the solitary girl that he had dedicated his mornings to for five entire years. He didn't want to accept it, but he was too old, had seen too many people die, to deny it. He slept fitfully that night.
Morning came too soon, leaving him standing in front of The Shop and staring at the plain wooden door. Stock had to be distributed, the building repossessed, personal belongings sold or packed away. Jeremy spent a moment to grieve, and prepared himself to enact his morning routine one final time, in memory of the silent shopkeeper. He pushed open the door and spoke in a subdued tone, "Mornin'."
"Good Morning," replied the dead woman at the counter.
Samantha snorted into her drink, spraying liquid everywhere. "Ok," she muttered, grabbing a spare rag to clean off her face, "that one threw me."
Gob grinned as he wiped up the mess on the counter. "Doesn't it? I thought it was your regular ghost story when I heard it, but apparently not. But wait, it gets better: "'Til the day he died, Jeremy Green would swear up and down that he did not scream like a little girl."
Samantha cackled. Gob felt a surge of longing at the happy sight. If it weren't for this damned mutation... He buried it under a well practiced smile and topped off her drink, hoping she didn't notice his turmoil (she was tipsy, so it was a fair bet despite how observant she normally was), and continued on.
However, he would swear that had never drawn his gun so fast in his life. It would have done him little good if he had to fire it; his hands were shaking so badly he would have hit just about anything other than what he was aiming at. The Girl seemed unconcerned at his reaction. She did not even look up from the ledger she was forever writing in.
"You're dead!" the sheriff shouted hoarsely. "You're dead! I saw you die! I buried you with my own hands!"
A cruel prankster might have laughed and run. A ghost might have made an ominous statement and disappeared. The Girl merely looked at him, raised a single eyebrow, and asked in her usual monotone,
"Did you really?"
The good sheriff had no answer to that. He turned tail and ran.
Half an hour later, after thoroughly questioning the townsfolk, he discovered a disturbing fact: Jeremy had never actually told anyone The Girl had died. Gunshots were a regular enough occurrence that nobody paid much attention to the noise, and the only person who knew anything about the situation was the town doctor who had to deal with Jeremy dumping the murderer's body in his office for disposal (not something he was happy about, let him tell you) and leaving without a word. No one had seen him bury The Girl, and everyone had been too busy to ask about his gloomy mood. Jeremy even visited the grave he buried her in; It was undisturbed, and the coffin empty.
In short, it was quite possible Jeremy Green was going insane. Fortunately, his sanity was reaffirmed only a few months later.
While unwilling to discontinue his morning routine, Jeremy was distinctly more wary of the silent shopkeeper, and only stayed long enough to buy a snack before going about his day instead of his previous dawdling in the stockroom. Because of that, he wasn't around for the second incident.
The sheriff was chatting with the morning lookout when a flustered woman ran up to him. A new immigrant had fled The Shop covered in blood and holding a knife. Multiple people saw him before he made it to the front gate and disappeared into the wasteland, hopefully never to be seen again. One man, braver than the others, entered The Shop to determine the situation. He came out shaking his head.
Jeremy, having a distinct feeling of déjà vu, ordered the news to be spread to the rest of the townsfolk and for some volunteers to set up a funeral service. It was slightly unusual, but it had the intended effect: By the end of the day, the entire town knew that The Girl had died.
So, when she appeared in her shop the next day without a mark on her, Jeremy felt rather vindicated by the ensuing hysteria.
The surrounding buildings were vacated in less than an hour. Fearful whispers breezed through the homes and gathering places. In another time and place, talk of witchcraft and devilry might have dominated the rumor mill, but this was post-apocalyptic America; The Wasteland and its mysteries were an all too real explanation.
No one would go near The Shop. Traders were heavily discouraged from visiting, though it did not stop some. The only citizen who dared enter was the sheriff himself, and even then only briefly. And yet, The Girl showed no fear at the loss of trade, nor any concern due to her plummeting reputation. Like every day before this, she showed absolutely no reaction at all to what was going on around her. Unsurprisingly, this only increased the fear toward her.
A town meeting was held to discuss the topic. Suggestions flew thick and fast, but no consensus was reached. Jeremy himself firmly shot down the idea of any vigilantism, stating that, aside from not dying when she was supposed to, she had done nothing wrong yet.
"Yet!" spat one man. "Mighty cold comfort, that! She's unnatural already, what happens when she mutates? I got a wife, I got family, I ain't risking them! We should kill her now, before that happens!"
"Thought we already established that doesn't work?" Jeremy said tartly. "Besides, by that logic I should arrest you here and now."
"He hasn't done anything!" The man's wife defended fiercely.
"No, he hasn't done anything," Jeremy agreed. "Yet."
Months passed. The fear and apprehension plateaued when it was clear that The Girl wasn't going to budge from her shop, and eventually the buildings next to The Shop became inhabited again. Life returned to normal, mostly.
Then the raiders came.
The problem with a successful town, as the people of Duport were about to find out, is that word spreads. When that word spreads far enough, it finds certain people who are more inclined to make an effort to stop that town from being successful. In a twist of irony and delusional grandeur, these particular raiders weren't here to raid; They were here to conquer.
The first warning the town had was the dust cloud on the horizon. By the time the sheriff was up on the walls, the town received the second warning: great, guttural noises that were all too easy to recognize, even when they hadn't been heard in decades.
"Cars," Jeremy muttered, lowering his binoculars. "Pre-war without a doubt. Must've been an armory hidden somewhere. Lord knows where they found the gas though."
"Could be nuclear powered," said the lookout. "Military was up to some crazy shit back then, weren't they?"
Jeremy nodded. "And the raiders would certainly be crazy enough to use it." He turned to his deputy. "Open the gates. No point in getting them rammed down." The deputy scowled, but was smart enough to realize that the pitiful wooden gates Duport had wouldn't be enough to withstand a car hitting it at cruising speed, much less an armored one at full.
"Good! Good!" bellowed the leader of the raiders as his skull encrusted car rolled to a stop in the town square. He pointed at Jeremy. "You da smart ones, I like smart! The Reavers, we need smart men! You come wid us, you live like a king, yes?"
"I'm afraid I'll have to decline, Sir," he replied carefully. Refusal was always a risk with men like this. "I'm in charge of these people, I can't just up and leave them."
Luckily, this particular raider was either sane, or too high on drugs to care. "Dat's fair, dat's fair. Gotta take care of yor crew. But I gotta take care of my crew, too, yes? Which means I gotta make da message sink in!"
Beady eyes glared feverishly at the assembled crowd. "You been good, you been smart. You pay da money! But it's not enough, no! One man dies tonight! We kill him and take his dings! So! Whosit gonna be?"
There were no fingers pointed. No one spoke up. But slowly, inexorably, every head turned to face The Shop.
"Oooh," the leader crooned, "you gotta outcast, do ya? Better dem dan you, yes?" He cackled madly. "One in every group! Gettum, boys!"
In short order The Shop was looted and The Girl was kneeling in front of the leader's car, showing no fear as a shotgun was held to her temple.
"Dis is how it be! Dis is how it happen e'ry time you defy me! She die for you! She die, 'cuz of you! Dis is what happens when you go against da Reavers!"
Some looked away in shame while others watched, but the violent crack of a shotgun shell made everyone flinch. The wet sound of a body hitting the ground in pieces was extremely audible in the silence, tipping more than one person over the point of sickness and making them vomit.
Even after the raiders drove off, no one spoke. There was simply nothing to say. The townsfolk drew up another funeral, fixed the damage to The Shop, and went about their day. They went to sleep, hoping that they were right, praying that they were wrong...
They found her sitting at her counter, writing in her ledger, acting for all the world as if she had not just been collectively condemned to death the previous day.
Samantha stared at Gob.
"Wow," was all she said.
"Yeah," was all he said.
"Wow."
"Yeah."
Samantha drunkenly got to her feet. "I'm just gonna... I'm gonna go to bed and try not to get nightmares, ok? Ok."
Gob watched her wobble precariously up the stairs and decided not to remind her she hadn't paid for a room.