Author's note: First serious try at crossover fanfiction! I adore both these worlds so very much, and here's my attempt at uniting them. There will be an actual plot, and spoilers regarding Fallout 3's main quest, so watch out for that if you've not finished the game. Unless you don't care. As this is highly experimental, I would LOVE feedback. Thanks for reading! :D

The seventeen year old girl left the theatre into the bright lights, the cameras and their attached persons curious and waiting. Protesters, reporters, wide-eyed and waiting, waiting; overwhelmed at the attention, the teenager froze. Hesitance held her boots motionless, and the familiar driver reassured her. The crowds did not matter. He opened the door. Behind her, the past, dead and worthless. The lights began to explode into an array of colorful fireworks. Questions came forth, shouted, and she couldn't answer them. She stepped into the dark limo and the driver shut the door. Nestling deep into the soft leather upholstery, she felt that she was slipping into the middle distance. Outside, the world grew dark as the limo left the crowds, the city lights. She'd thought they were headed home. Now she wasn't so sure.

"Uh, Mister Driver," she said awkwardly, finding it hard to unstick her blood-dirtied back from the leather. "Where are we going?"

She caught his eye briefly in the rearview mirror. He did not, however, answer her.

They overtook the city. The girl felt fear trickle in through the shock, that smog the opera had cast on her. He wasn't taking her home. She had no sense of direction, and all the streets looked bleak and unfamiliar to her. She got up on her knees and looked out the back. Darkness, and a sort of distant figure, the size of her hand. It was a struggle to focus on it, given how she'd drifted off a few times during the long drive. The limo stopped at a red light. Graverobber! She pressed her hands to the glass.

"Graverobber," she murmured, and heard a grunt from her driver. She looked over her shoulder. "Hey, slow down! I know him! That's my friend!"

He hit the accelerator.

The girl's heart was pounding very hard and very fast. 'Hostage situation' were the words that came to mind. She could jump out and try to roll—no. She immediately talked herself out of it out of fear. Graverobber was jogging, legs pumping the ground like he was giving it a work out, catching up, and he looked thrillingly determined. He caught up to the car as it slowed for a turn, grabbed for the driver side door, and threw it open. The driver stared at him in shock. Graverobber grinned.

"Bye-bye now," he said, grabbing the mustachioed chauffeur by the collar and chucking him out of the car. He took over and shut the door. Shilo darted forward and hugged him around the neck, laughing in relief.

The words 'my hero' came to mind.

Of course, she'd forgotten that he was a fast person. He hit the gas hard, took the curve sharply, sending her flying back against the seat.

"Buckle in, kid," he told her. He took his bag from around his neck and chucked it behind him, onto her lap. She held onto it.

"Where are we going?"

"Out of the city. That's what they expect." He looked one side to the other. "What they won't expect is for you and me to ditch the car and disappear."

"Out of the city?" she asked.

"Out of the city," he confirmed. "Yes, there is an out. Oh, there's much for you to learn, kid, and I… I gotta keep you safe."

"Wait, why can't I go home?"

She had half a mind to get into the front seat until she spied their ultimate destination: an abandoned bridge, high up, that broke off halfway through into stilted pieces. The concrete bridge, anyway. The bodies were stacked high, a mass of bodies creating the rest of the bridge out of the city. She crouched down, unnerved and terrified that they would crash and burn. It couldn't be possible to drive on a path of corpses.

"Your house is being watched. You go home, and you're taken. Kid, trust me on this, that is the last thing you want."

"How do you know—?" she wondered.

"I was in on it. Be mad at me later. Short story: Rotti wanted me to lead you. It's all been a set-up." He glanced in the mirror. "The driver was taking you into enemy hands. I couldn't let that happen."

She shuddered back into the seat, hands to her mouth. "Why not?"

"I plead the Fifth," he told her. She turned her head, confused. "Bill of Rights. It's an anachronistic reference. I'll explain later. You, stop talking!" He sternly shook his finger in the mirror.

They were barreling onward, approaching a rusted-over, iron gate with chains across it. The road bumped and rattled beneath them. She launched backwards, sinking her fingers under the seat and anchoring herself with a belt across her lap. "Graverobber! Stop!" When he didn't listen to her, either, and they were closer, she screamed, and repeated, "Graverobber!" Exasperated, "You can't be serious! Stop the car! Graverobber, no!"

"Sorry, kid, there's only one way out, and that's straight on and full speed ahead!"

He slammed down, and there was a squeal. The girl ducked down and covered her head and neck with her arms, mentally preparing herself for noise. Her expectations were not disappointed. It was loud as a rock concert when they tore through the gate, resulting in the destruction of the windshield. Glass sprinkled her back, and, looking up, she saw that they had passed onto the stomach-twisting bridge of bodies laid out for them. The wheels rolled through like mud and caused the limousine to rise and fall over the crooks and crannies of their cadaverous path.

"You're insane!" she told him.

He responded quietly and thoughtfully, "Yeah, that's likely. Aren't you?"

They made eye contact in the mirror. Their speed, at least, had dropped, and she almost wished it hadn't. Driving slowly over hundreds of the dead made her insides turn, and through the broken windshield, she could see and smell them clearly. It no longer looked like the city she'd seen all her life. There was water under the bodies, and she heard it squish far beneath them, a far off irritation like a single pea down the hundred mattresses the fairy tale woman slept on. No lights ahead whatsoever, only the insufferable darkness. She could not even discern the silhouettes of buildings.

Even the look of night was off, somehow. It was grey.

"Why do I get the sense you're doing me a huge favor?" she wondered.

"Because I am. Duhh. Kid, no offense or nothin', but I've not driven since I was but a young lad. Would you mind allowing me room to, ya know, concentrate?"

She fell silent. He'd saved her life, she was pretty sure, and it was the least she could do. They navigated slowly, sickeningly through the dead sea, rolling over flesh and crunching on the bones. She unbuckled her seatbelt and turned around to watch the city lights dim and disappear into the fog. After the first progression, a mile or so at a speed of fifteen miles per hour, Shilo curled up on her side across the backseat and closed her eyes. The darkness, along with her exhaustion, whisked her to sleep.

She woke up with the sun in her eyes, shining through the windshield. A man was sitting in the front seat, head tipped back, mouth gaping. The teenager took a while to come to her senses and resist the urge to panic at the realization that she was not in her room, in her bed, in her home. She was somewhere brand new, and shakily she got out of the car and stood up. The ground was cracked dirt under her feet. The car was parked at the edge of the bridge, and beyond—an ocean of nothing. Dead earth, yellowed grass, a sky that was not really blue. There was a chill to the air, reminding her that she wore only a tight slip and boots.

Turning. A circle. There was nothing, nothing at all, and Shilo felt she was about to scream as she looked more wildly about her surroundings. Nothing! Nothing! A hand tapped her; she gasped.

"Hey! Take it easy." Graverobber, standing before her, smiled. She promptly burst into tears. He put a hand above the small of her back and patted. She crumpled toward his chest, had the sensation of his long coat wrapping around her. Really, it was his arms. "What's the matter? It's a desert. You know what those are, don't you?"

"There's nothing, nothing," she sniveled. To hell with it, it's not like she could ruin her makeup any more than she had the night before.

"Oh, you aren't looking right is all. According to my map—," Paper rustled behind her back, his hand smacked it for emphasis. "—There's a hotel nearby. Touristy sort of place. Should be civilized out here, I reckon."

"You think?" She looked up at him hopefully. "I didn't know this was here, all the space."

"Nor did I, truth be told. Funny. Why would everyone choose to be crammed in that city when there's whatever this is?"

He hacked. "How do you people BREATHE out here?"

"We manage," she said dryly, restlessly swinging her nailboard from hand to hand. She wasn't gonna do anything, of course. The security guards still glared at her, watchful and ready with their big bad cop sticks.

"Why don't we rustle up some eats?" he suggested.

"Uh-huh." Distracted. 'Course she was distracted. The woman slung the weapon behind her back and approached the food counter, with its pile of currently unused menus. She took one and scanned the items and prices, waving over the waitress, Angela. The teenager flitted toward them and smiled cheerily, as always.

"Welcome back to Gary's Galley! It's been a while since we've seen your, er, smiling faces! What can I get you folks today?"

"Nuka-," they both said at once, and stopped. She let her companion go first. He grinned. "Nuka-Cola, and a steak with everything on it."

"Even the Eazy Cheezy Spray?" she confirmed, scrawling out his order. He nodded, and threw her a wink. She hmphed, turning up her nose; the swell in her abdomen, caused by her two month marriage to Diego, made her pretty much confirmed unavailable. That didn't stop boys from teasing. "And you?"

"Nuka-Cola, no ice, and the mac and cheese."

Angela wrote it down and said she'd be right back with their drinks. Butch turned up the radio on his Pip-Boy and pulled out his switchblade, checking his hair in the reflective metal. "Damn, I look gorgeous," he marveled.

The woman leaned on her elbow and watched him stare at his reflection. Yeah, he was gorgeous, alright. Dark skin, black hair slicked into a stylin' pompadour, and his profile was nothing short of heroic. Chiseled jaw, gorgeous cheekbones. Perfect bone structure. Since leaving the vault, he'd really bulked up and gained muscles in his arms and chest, really all over. Nineteen years old, and her former nemesis was looking tasty. Soon as they got out of here, she'd take him out to an abandoned farmhouse a passing merchant had told her about, and slip into the sexiest red nightdress she'd ever seen—loot from a recent trek into the subways. His eyes would pop out of his skull.

Angela brought two bottles, and set out plates, forks and knives. As they were the first arrivals, she hadn't had time to set up the place. "My daddy's grilling up your food," she told them. "Should be right out. You're in for a treat!"

She waited, smiling, a hand on her belly and the other limp at her side. Butch was elbowed. "Pay the lady," his friend said.

"Oh, yeah. Sorry." Confused as to why he was paying, he dug around in the pocket of his leather jacket for caps.

Angela accepted the payment with a chipper "Thanks!"

Three Dog made an old announcement regarding the Lone Wanderer and how she'd helped Bryan Wilks find a home after Grayditch was destroyed by giant fire-breathing ants. She happened to be listening, sitting right there, and grinned in spite of herself. Being famous never got old. "Butch, turn off the radio. No one needs to hear that." Not for the tenth time. It was early in the morning, eight thirty, and they were the only ones at the counter. Her complaints that the radio would bother someone were erroneous, but Butch shrugged and shut it off anyway.

The Lone Wanderer picked up her plate and looked hard at the lady staring back with dead eyes. Surrounded by dark shadows from lack of sleep, her amber eyes were studded with sparse light lashes, and her caramel colored skin was chalky from the dust swirling through the Wasteland. Her thick, brassy hair had been forced into short pigtails high up on either side of her head, and bangs messily covered her forehead, nearly to the bridge of her nose, flat with broad nostrils. The full mouth was chapped and she licked it with a dark tongue. Her ears stuck out under the hair, and her chin was stubbornly pointed. Other than that, her head was reasonably heart-shaped, and she had a slender, graceful neck and nice collarbones. Butch would see that she was attractive if she showed him.

She feigned checking her teeth as a means to hide her thoughts before setting the plate down. The Lone Wanderer was pretty hopelessly in love with Butch, and he either hid his knowledge and possible reciprocation of said feelings really well… or was the stupidest boy she'd ever met.

He licked his switchblade and yelped.

Gee. Maybe he was that stupid.

They were served. They ate.

"After this," she began.

He interrupted with a groan. "Can't we ever eat without talking? What is it with you women?"

"I was thinking we could swing by that farmhouse. See if there's a Brahmin," she hinted. "Where there's a cow, there's steak."

"Color me sold!" he crowed, his mouth full. She said 'mm' and speared some noodles on her fork, popping it into his open mouth. He bit down, chewed. His blue, blue eyes lit up. "Mm-MM!" he concurred.

A full day's hike to the farmhouse, and they strolled with the sun blazing above and the radscorpions skittering about below. They evaded predators out of a developed practicality. Neither of them favored guns, and medical attention was hard to come by in the wastes. All wanderers were on their own, so if they squandered their blood away with a needless show of bravery and violence, the fault was all theirs.

Sunset when they came in sight. She put a hand on Butch's arm, stopping him. "Shh." Even at a distance, it was obvious there was a firefight going on. Raiders were making a run at the barn, and within the loft were the defenders. Gunshots made their irrational popcorn explosions, and shouts of pain and aggression were the accompaniment to the tumult.

"Aw, come on, let's not be good Samaritans," Butch pled, exasperated. "Their own damn fault if they get creamed."

"Yeah? You don't believe in helping people who can help themselves?" she said, prodding him in the chest hard enough for him to stumble and raise his hands defensively.

"Yeah, yeah that's right. I do!"

She sneered. "I have one word for you, Butch DeLoria: Radroaches."

His face fell. He took his switchblade from his pocket and mumbled that he hated it when she was right. At this point, she was running the callused pad of her thumb over and over the nails sticking out of the wood board in her left hand. She brandished it high, let out a vicious roar, and charged at the raiders. The closest one, a male with a green mohawk, was taken by surprise; she smashed him into the ground and drove the points into his skull until his face was red paste. For good measure, she jumped up and down on his chest, stomping on his throat with the spikes on her ankles.

"YOU WANT TO DIE?" she yelled, swinging her board from one shoulder to the other.

The raider screamed back, comprehension taken from her by too much drugs. These morons hyped themselves up with it. As a result, they were practically inhuman, beasts driven by bloodlust and greed. The bloodlust, she could understand. The rest of it, not so much. While the raider was distracted by her screaming, Butch snuck up on her and stabbed his Toothpick into the back of her neck. He twisted it, and a well-timed shot from above took the bitch's head clean off. Meanwhile, she was bludgeoning another savage, and with each blow a little more blood sprayed onto her exposed skin. A lacrosse player of death, the Lone Wanderer charged recklessly across the field, smacking down anyone who got in her way. They were dazed or dead, she didn't care which. The important thing was to get to the people in the loft, with their guns. Butch charged with her.

"You're nuts, you know that?" he shouted.

She grinned at him in response. Her face was wet with blood.

They shut the door. She looked around for something to brace it, and spied a wheelbarrow full of concrete. Quickly, she dragged it over, grunting at the weight. She kicked up equal heapings of hay and dust with her shuffling. Butch shifted impatiently and gestured for her to hurry up the ladder, even gave her the last boost she needed to lift herself into the loft.

Her eyes widened. A tiny girl laying on her stomach was looking through the scope of a sniper rifle stuck through the open window, lining up shots below. She fired off quickly, too fast to count, and the bodies cried out and dropped.

"Graverobber, I'm running low!" she said, and the odd-looking man with the huge gun beside her obediently drew back and went to the ammo canisters against the wall.

The Lone Wanderer got up and gave Butch a hand before standing up. The man became aware of them and, mindful of the return gunfire, turned and fixed them with a bewildered stare.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"We're here to save your asses," the Lone Wanderer said, not too sure they really needed any assistance. She'd had her heart set on being alone in this barn with Butch, damn it, and this mayhem, while a fun release of energy, wasn't what she'd been hoping for when it came to an evening's activities.

"Graverobber! Hurry!" the girl insisted. She turned around and cupped her hands; he tossed her a box of .308 rounds. With expert care, she reloaded her weapon. Shots went off. "Okay. That's the last of them, I think."

Butch let out a low whistle.

Oh, God, no, the Lone Wanderer thought to herself. Don't let her be pretty.

"That was incredible," Butch said.

The girl brushed hay off her dress and accepted her comrade's assistance in straightening up to greet them. She was petite, a little over five foot even with her big girl boots. Her black hair was long, straight and strangely clean. It hung to her waist, and her skin was perfectly pale and clear of battle scars. She wore a green dress tied with a blue ribbon. She was pretty and young, and she was shy, standing close to the man for security.

He was her father or something, except he looked a bit too young. Not that he was young. He had rainbow-colored hair and a face painted white. His coat was too long, as was his scarf. Everything about him was huge, and he had to turn his head down in order not to bump the low ceiling. For the life of him, he couldn't seem to stop smirking. They did not look like ordinary wastelanders.

"We're not here to rob you," she said, putting her weapon behind her back. She flicked blood off her cheek.

"Good. I'd hate to have to shoot you," the man said casually.

"You're a Graverobber?" she asked him.

"Did the name give it away?"

She shrugged. "I guess so. This is Butch-," she indicated him with a jerk of her head. "—and I'm the Lone Wanderer."

"Yeah," Butch said, sounding a bit dazed. He cleared his throat and stepped forward, sidled up to the quiet girl. His comb had replaced his knife; he ran it through his hair, twirling the end of his pompadour. "You got a name, little lady?"

"Shilo. My name's Shilo."

That was all the words they needed, apparently. The Lone Wanderer saw that they took to each other right away; sure, her hesitance was still there, but it was clear the little sniper warmed up to Butch nonetheless because she smiled at him and turned from the graverobber to him. He played suave, fooling everyone in the vicinity who hadn't grown up with him. In an effort to distract herself from her bitterly sinking heart, the Lone Wanderer looked around the loft and saw evidence of habitation: two bags against the wall, a teddy bear, boxed food, and spare weapons in solid wood cases with accompanying ammunition.

"You've been staying here?" she asked them not too long later, when they'd jumped one by one out the window onto the ground.

"A few days," Shilo piped up.

Graverobber, since that was apparently his actual name and not just what he did, was picking through the raiders' pockets for loose valuables.

"We slept in the barn," she went on.

The Lone Wanderer had a mental picture of the big guy cradling her while she clutched at a teddy bear. Nights were cold, and he looked, well, cuddly.

Giving voice to her thoughts, Butch asked uncertainly, "You two, uh, together?"

"No, of course not!" She laughed. "Get your mind out of the gutter."

"Okay, but only since you asked nicely." He winked and she blushed.

The Lone Wanderer felt like vomiting all over their adorable flirtfest. Graverobber grinned and showed off his findings: Jet, whiskey, a pack of cigarettes, and thirty caps. Eagerly, seemingly following some routine, Shilo fetched dry wood and worked on crafting a small fire for them to sit around. She cheated with the use of a silver lighter, took it right out of Graverobber's pocket. He didn't seem to mind, and soon the fire was going, small but intensely warm. They sat around, and he divided up the goods.

"Tonight, we live like kings!" he said, his artificially pale face made even more crazily theatrical by the firelight.

The Lone Wanderer doubted, with her wild, untamed hair and blood-spattered face, that she looked much better. The two of them were the painted freaks, and Butch and Shilo were, by comparison, clean. They were innocent-looking, especially Shilo, flying in the face of the chilling precision by which she'd taken out those raiders.

"And tomorrow, we'll have headaches," Butch deadpanned.

Shilo laughed.

The Lone Wanderer held up her hands, and Graverobber tossed her the bottle. She swirled it and took the first swallow, and the second, and the start of tipsiness settled right around her eyes and warmed her throat. "You don't look old enough to drink," she said, handing it over to Shilo. The teenager took a beat to use the inhaler and pass it on to Butch. He depressed the inhaler, sucking in the fumes, and promptly stood up, beating his chest. Shilo tipped her head back and drank.

"I'm seventeen!" she declared, cheeks glowing from the rush. Jet: euphoria, energy, crash, in that order, and highly addictive if caution wasn't exercised. So it went.

"She's seventeen. In case you didn't hear her the first time, she'll be repeating herself periodically throughout the evening," Graverobber told them.

"Hey!" she pouted, launching herself at him to smack his shoulder with her fists.

"Kid, kid, cut it out! Ouch, mole rat bite," he complained. She stopped right away, contrite. He patted her head. The Lone Wanderer had to be drunker than she thought; she could've sworn the girl's hair moved.

They passed around the bottle until it was empty. Graverobber divvied the cigarettes. He did not offer any to Shilo, and when Butch tried to correct this, the girl shook her head. "I don't smoke," she said quietly.

"Hold up. You'll drink, huff Jet—why not smoke?" the Lone Wanderer asked.

"Yeah, it's just tobacco. It's harmless!" Butch said.

"Um, there's a lot of organ failures where we come from," she said. "I don't want to risk it."

Butch looked at the Lone Wanderer. They pulled serious faces and cracked up. Imagine, tobacco being considered unhealthy! They smoked happily, and were happily drunk, and chatted together about how crazy the week had been, and where they could go in the morning. She was gunning to go on a Quantum run, while he wanted to catch a Yao-Guai and lop off the hand required for a badass gauntlet.

It did not occur to them that they'd be staying with the odd pairing sitting around the fire with them. Things just didn't work that way. People did not stay together, and bigger groups were dangerous, inviting internal conflict and external attention. It was just asking for trouble.

Shilo had passed out with her head on Graverobber's shoulder.

He gazed at the fire and watched it die down. If what he was doing wasn't brooding, she didn't know what was.

"I'm still pretty drunk," she slurred to Butch, saying it close to his face. He jerked back.

"Yeah, drunkie, smells that way to me," he told her with a stupid smile.

"Point is, I gotta pee. Make sure I don't get killed?" She stood up, stumbled, and laid a hand on his shoulder. He groaned and said he didn't want to watch; he wasn't that wasted. "No, come on, please. I'll give you, uh, I'll give you a kiss. Or something."

He laughed at her. "Quit threatening me, girl. Let's go." He walked her behind the barn, she leaning heavily on him. She undid her zipper, lowered the tight pants, and peed behind a crate, sighing in relief.

When they got back to the fire, really little more than embers by now, Graverobber had collapsed on his back. Shilo had cuddled up to him like he was her teddy bear. He shrugged at them helplessly, his expression clearly saying What can I do?

The Lone Wanderer laid down with her arms under her head and stared up at the sky.