Her black boots made little noise as she covered the dead ground of the Mall. Stealth was her objective, and with ease she slipped into the long evening shadows of the broken buildings. But, she was certainly no weakling; being stealthy was her way to reserve her dwindling stamina. Her sore arms from wielding a sledge hammer against a super-mutant was proof enough. But then again, a sledge hammer was an amazing stealth weapon; and she relied on it multiple times when undertaking silent killings or particularly violent ones. Had she not been suffering from critical radiation poisoning, multiple bullet wounds, and a raging hunger and thirst she would've walked right into the open, readily attacking anything that came her way. The Lone Wanderer stumbled away from the super-mutant trenches and evenly found some sort of life…well, un-life was more appropriate. Of course, she'd seen many ghouls before and had even 'helped' a few Tennpenny residents change their minds about allowing them residence.

Well, 'help' was a subjective term; it helped her that their cortexes were currently displayed on the wall as high class artwork.

Up ahead near the Museum of Natural History, a female ghoul watched her intently, before Harley put away her rifle and walked up to her stiffly. "Willow! It's been so long I didn't even recognize you." Harley rasped out appreciatively.

"What's the matter smoothskin? You sound as bad as us," The older ghoul asked before eyeing her over, and noting the multiple bullet wounds in Harley's combat armor. Harley remained silent as Willow looked her over before finally side-stepping, "You know where the doc is, tourist. Just try not to drop dead."

The 19-year-old practically dragged herself to The Chop Shop, and had barely scrapped enough caps off of some Wastelanders and Raiders to buy two packs of RadAway. Doctor Barrows looked her over as she settled down on one of the cots before uneasily dipping the needle underneath her skin. She had only a little bit of medical training, and mainly used it when it came to administering Stimpacks in the field.

"That won't be enough you know. Did you plan on becoming a ghoul? Is that why you waited so long before coming to a doctor or do you plan on taking up residence here?" he chastised her lightly, face curled in a mixture of concern and censure.

Harley looked up at him as the RadAway seeped into her system, the clicks of the declining Geiger counter giving her a migraine, "Well Doc, when you've been shot at by multiple Super Mutants with miniguns, forced to drink out of irradiated streams, no toilet water for that matter, and have had no food, some things take a back seat,"

He grimaced at her before her crossness abated and she continued, "Do you know Moira Brown by any chance? Over in Megaton... real irritating woman,"

Doctor Barrows nodded slowly, "I have heard of her, but no I haven't met her. Why?"

Harley smiled shakily, the RadAway starting to work, "Well, let's just say she fucked up my DNA. Made it so that whenever I have advanced radiation sickness, my crippled body heals immediately. Quite a sight actually,"

The ghoul raised the muscle where his eyebrow should've been, and as Harley retracted the needle from the first pack, she administered the second one, "So being on the edge of death from one to too many rads isn't very frightening," Barrows rolled his deep sunken gray eyes and let her finish up.

After a good 20 minutes she got up, shaking gently on jellied legs, and hastily moved past Nurse Graves and another girl unconscious on a semi-concealed cot. As she reached the door she paused, "I'll probably be back Doc, my last skirmish with the Muties ridded me of my Stimpack supply, but I need more caps before I can buy any." Barrows grunted at her and she slipped past the doors to the Concourse.

She milled about Underworld and briefly talked to a few of the residents about where she could get a bed for the night. Patchwork, in his drunken slur, informed her about Carol's Place. He also told her to watch out for any of his dismembered body parts; he was looking for them.

Harley walked up the grand stairs and began to take in her surroundings again; it'd been a long time since she had visited D.C. One of the things that did bother her though about the ghouls was the smell. Sure, they were nice enough, but they smelled of death and sometimes decay (especially some of them hit hard by the bombs). She soon learned to ignore the smell though, and enjoyed the company of them.

Gob had been an initial shocking sight to her, but she immediately took a shine to him once Moriarty proved to be an asshole to her and he wasn't. She repaid his kindness by shooting Moriarty at point-blank range and waltzing out of Megaton. While she did kill a lot, it was rarely in communities anymore, and Underworld knew her as no threat.

This created a veil of safety as Three Dog whined about her tyrannical outbursts and sadism. No one knew her as a Vaultie, and she kept that past hidden deeply; even if that meant killing people as a way to prove herself in the Wasteland. A force not to be tampered with. The very evil boogeyman, the Capital crime lord, or her favorite: the Capital Cannibal. The thoughts racked about her head as she pulled open the doors to Carol's Place.

Two women looked at her unenthusiastically, "Can I help you smoothskin?" Carol finally asked.

"Yeah, I'd like a bed for the night, "she paused before remembering something, "Oh, and Gob sends his regards."

The old ghoul's eyes sparked with surprise, "You… you've seen him?" Harley nodded, still bedraggled. "Well send my regards back to him! I remember you now…it's been a long time since you've skulked around D.C."

Again she nodded silently and shuffled through her bag for a fistful of caps, "Yes, well the Wasteland is a large place you know. I've been busy out there," Harley had a tone of distant reminiscence. Carol took the caps from her and pointed to an empty space with a bed, "It's not great, but it's better than most things out here. It's yours for the night smoothskin."

Harley settled on the bed and looked at her Pip-Boy before turning on the radio to GNR and setting the volume to low. The Ink Spots had finished their famous song and Three Dog came on then, "Time again, my children, for chills and thrills, fears and scares. Do you know what that creepy Vault Boogeyman has been up to? Listen to this." Harley was intent as he recounted her tales with a hint of disgust, and a voice piped up from the corner of the living space, "Creepy stuff indeed, hmm?"

She warily looked over at a finely dressed ghoul, leaning lazily against the wall. "I suppose…"

"Mister Crowley," he looked her over and she shifted uncomfortably.

"Now, I can tell, you're an opportunist," he walked up to her, and she noticed that he was more decayed than the other ghouls, not to mention he had green hair. He had an evil aura about him and Harley shifted her spot on the bed to get a quick grip the stock of her assault rifle, should she need it.

He stopped a way off from her, "Perhaps you'd help me, Miss…?"

"Harley, that's all." He nodded at her threatening posture, arms poised to strike to grab the rifle.

"Yes, Miss Harley. You see, what I need requires some dirty work. Coincidently, do you have a problem with using that rifle over there?"

A sly smile graced her tanned skin; she was always willing to make a few caps by busting some, "No, no I don't Mister Crowley. Of course, the rifle comes with a price," her voice became hushed, "Cut straight to the point shuffler, who's the victim and what's the pay?"

His face faltered aggressively at her snide insult before he recomposed himself, "Well smoothskin, since you asked, there's a few people. All ghoul bigot assholes; I'll give you a list."

He pulled a tattered piece of paper from his lapel, "There's one specific things though, all of them need to be shot in the head, just like the old horror movie zombies. I'll pay 100 caps for each one shot in the head, 25 for anywhere else." Her eyebrows furled at the steep decline, but she nodded regardless.

Hell, she'd already sold a good chunk of people to get money, killing wasn't above her; 100 for a good head shot was pay enough. He held out the list to her, and she took it before looking over the names.

"Dukov is dead already." She grunted.

Crowley began fishing for his caps, eyes radiant with contentment, "By a shot to the head?"

Harley shook her head abruptly, "How the hell am I supposed to remember? I don't think so though." He tossed 25 caps her way and she began looking over the list. She was getting more irate from fatigue the more the conversation went on, and she mentally kicked herself for not lying as she counted the meager amount of caps.

"Come back when they're dead," with that, Crowley turned around and returned to the shadows, leaving the young woman were she was.

Six AM

Harley woke up after a fitful sleep and groggily rubbed her hazel eyes before looking around in surprise. She remembered where she was and quieted a bit, before pulling out a chunk of raw mirelurk meat. Eating it thoughtfully she remembered Crowley's offering from the night before.

One of the hits was in Rivet City, and she knew for a fact one of Grouse's VIP slaves were there. A grimace crossed her face as she wondered how to kill him and slip out of the boat with a slave in tow.

She cleared her head and thought about the task at hand for now. Her stomach ached at her radiation poisoning, but she ignored it and silently got up to don her fresher recon armor.

In her bag she had a good store of ultrajet from Murphy's lab to sell to Azhrukhal. Part of her monthly trips included going deep into D. C's ruins., after roaming the Wastelands for supplies. Of course, anything she 'scavenged' from other Wastelander, Raiders, and any other creature could be sold anywhere.

But not utrajet. Sugar Bombs were a bitch to hunt down, let alone to not eat her own supplies when she was starving.

Murphy would convert the cereal for her, and then gave her some of the end product. As much as she enjoyed jet, ultrajet left her with too wicked of a hangover and it was worth enough caps to keep her happily situated for the field. She chose the latter of the two options.

The only issue was that every person she attempted to sell the super drug to shooed her out of the store immediately. Except Azhrukhal.

He bought it readily and she actually enjoyed conversing with the greasy ghoul about… uncouth topics. Throwing her bag over her shoulder, she moved out of Carol's Place and past the others who were asleep.

Out in Underworld's Concourse, she past the lone Mister Gutsy model and walked to back door of The Ninth Circle. She entered through the room with a few tables and beds, strung out jet junkies sleeping restlessly. Azhrukhal was up though, polishing a few pitchers and she watched him from the side room.

She coughed lightly and he snapped his head up at her in shock. "Char-"

"Relax, Azhrukhal. It's been awhile, I do hope you haven't forgotten about me?" Harley said calmly as she strolled into the main room.

Charon had rushed to stand at the entryway, hulking presence overshadowing the girl. "Ah, Harley… Don't you look absolutely... miserable. Pull up a stool and lay down a few caps, and tell Uncle Ahzrukhal all about it."

Harley sidestepped the bouncer and sat down, hands and fingers splayed gently on the sticky countertop. "What brings you in here so early, hmm?"

The girl sneered, "You damn well know, the shipment has come in."

A thin smile crossed his decayed face, "Murphy doesn't disappoint, does he? How much did he give you?"

Harley's face faltered and her voice quieted, "Enough… about 25 inhalers. I want 50 caps for each."

"Outrageous!" Azhrukhal snarled loudly. Charon dared to look up from the corner and a few of the junkies stirred slightly in their sleep. He was fuming from behind the counter and Harley briefly wondered if he would call his thug. "That's inflated Harley, and you know it," his voice went level again.

"Yeah yeah, I know. But who's been running all over the fuckin' Wasteland to find the secret ingredient? Who else is going to get this ultrajet to the poor ghouls who need a fix?"

Azhrukhal gritted his teeth in annoyance and, in a stalemate, he finally relented, "True, true smoothskin," he paused and a thought crossed his mind, "How about a trade instead?"

Her hazel eyes narrowed, "What do you have in mind?"

This is a partial re-vamp of my older story, "Running With Guns Drawn"; except for the fact this will eventually time-jump to the era of Fallout 4 ("Running With Guns Drawn" may stem from this refreshed chapter and be partially reworked and continued). I figured it would be a good place to start with the Lone Wanderer, and then the Sole Survivor, meeting up since Fallout 4 takes place 10 years after Fallout 3... so the two are about the same age.

R&R