There was that sound again, teasing, irritating – what was it? Somewhere beyond that lonely buzz, tickling the base of the eardrum, kissing the crux of the neck then back up again; senses were still unmanageable. There were more sounds too though, more distant, behind the buzz and faint whispers of blood quickly flowing through possibly strangled veins, the sound of pupils dilating. Did they make a sound? They had to have, in order to be heard, right? Of course, everything made sense. A hum reverberated from somewhere – the base of someone's throat – his own throat perhaps – though he couldn't tell anymore. It was another noise, from somewhere, be it himself or otherwise. Noises were relative, just not then – nothing was relative then, as nothing needed to be. Everything could stay calm for a little while – if only that sound would . . .
It was dusk, the sun still seemed to blind, the hazel colored eyes hidden behind biker goggles, red hair layered over the protective glass, only barely obscuring vision. The temperature was steadily dropping, and soon, perhaps, it would be time for them to continue back to Megaton, where they were headed in the first place, but were sidetracked. Too much had happened in that day for the young wanderer to consider travelling, at least for a while – but that noise; he couldn't help but stop, he felt that they had too. Despite travelling this road before, he hadn't the slightest idea where he was, and was only vaguely sure on how he had gotten there. He had been complaining about a buzzing since they left from the Citadel, out loud, as if he didn't notice that he was speaking rather than thinking. Charon noticed the size of his pupils, but made no comment, at first. Dogmeat whimpered almost every time the young adult mentioned it, but couldn't do much for him but nestle his nose against the back of his lanky thigh.
"Dorrien . . ." Charon spoke up, watching the seemingly paralyzed boy, leaning his back up against a rock, panting softly.
They would likely get attacked by something if they stayed there like that. They were so close to Megaton too. Charon was almost tempted to pick him up and carry him the rest of the way, but that had been attempted before – one of the times when the younger male crippled his leg, and the boy insisted on walking himself. But, with the current situation, the ghoul honestly didn't know if Dorrien would even notice if he had been lifted.
"What?" Was his hoarse reply, eyes darting to the ghoul, his chapped lips slightly parted with something no less than confusion. He couldn't catch his breath either.
He lowered his eyes down to his Pip-boy, deciding finally that it was the source of the noise (either that, or he lifted it to check his stats). He frowned, and Charon watched silently as the boy started twisting knobs, eyes as intent as they could be with his current state. He was about to question what he was doing, but found soon after that he didn't need to. Dogmeat sat, panting softly; the dog seemed tired, but didn't protest with Dorrien's sudden behavior. He had been with Dorrien longer, and either this was normal at some point and time, or Dogmeat knew not to question or pester.
"This is an automated message from Vault-Tec: Vault 101."
Dorrien was startled for a moment. Jumping back, and catching himself against the rock behind him. His eyes closed for a moment, his brows knitting with frustration as he let the entirety of the message play, repeating over and over, his head hanging after the fifth time his Pip-boy said "Vault 101". There was a sniffle, and the boy slumped to a seated position, back resting against the cold of the rock, burying his hands in hair, feeling too hot in his leather armor despite the low temperature.
The memories flooded back too easily, and the buzzing subsided for a moment – he realized briefly that he might have fainted. Dorrien had never been one for drugs. He remembered the conversation he had with Doc Hoff when he was leaving Canterbury Commons, asking around for Stimpaks. The man laughed at his "foolishness", and gave him a few free Med-X and a bottle of Buffout, just in case he ever needed it. Dorrien humored the man to ask of its effects and was told that it was a "helper" and made "life easier" when ever it needed to be. Then his father died in front of him—the glass separating, fists banging hard against unbreakable glass, but nothing resounding from his tenuous efforts. He remembered pondering on the strength of the glass before hand, but at the time it seemed irrelevant. The tears, the anger, the shots fired just to for the sake of it – they were all noises too, from what he could remember; different noises that meant completely different things—things that he had briefly forgotten until that very moment. He never fully got a chance to react to the situation, everything happened too fast – and half way through the tunnels toward the Citadel he had injected himself with three Med-X syringes without anyone noticing. At first, he didn't fully feel the affects, and now, he wasn't sure of anything but his own quickly moving thoughts. Everything was too acute, and he felt as though a Nuka-cola truck could run him over and everything would be alright, because nothing more could go wrong, not now, and not for a while. Not until the buzzing stopped.
It was almost comforting, the buzzing; it blocked out everything else, letting him think to himself, letting his thoughts collect and reorganize. He couldn't feel anything; his body was practically numb with a hint of a tingle here and there – and he liked the sound of his blood flowing (if that was what that sound really was, he wasn't sure). The sound of his blood reminded him that he was still living – or existing as he usually called it – wandering the wastes wasn't exactly living much, especially then. His head rolled back until the back of his skull hit the rock behind him, but it didn't hurt – he didn't even really feel it, just the pressure from the collision. It was nice.
Vault 101 started his problems, he was convinced. The Overseer, Amata—he never quite liked her, and then Butch. Absently, Dorrien's teeth gritted in remembrance of that name – his fuzzy senses now acute with a hint of anger; suffice to say he hated him, for a multitude of reasons.
The wanderer never allowed himself to be bothered with Butch's bullying while he lived in the Vault – Dorrien was a smooth talker, and even as a child easily got himself out of harmful situations that Butch more that likely got him into – however, as he got older, things became more difficult. Being a teen in a vault meant that eventually, he'd have to learn about keeping the vault populated as they couldn't leave, as well as for other reasons, and then there were the rumors about himself and Amata. Dorrien's eyes were always somewhere else though, despite what his fellow vault dwellers said – and at a certain point, he didn't mind being teased by Butch because at least he was communicating with him. Then the nose bleed—the door was usually locked, he was told to tutor him in working the terminals; he was changing when Dorrien walked in – he didn't bother to knock like he normally did because the knob didn't usually turn. There was blood, and then—the floor was cold.
Butch had been calling him nosebleed long before that incident, but at the point, the nickname just stuck, almost as good as the needle did.
"Shit," Dorrien glanced up after that long moment; Charon was hovering above him with what seemed like a frown adorning his skinless features, Dogmeat had his muzzle against the ginger's throat. His senses slowly came back to normal and he frowned, hanging his head in defeat.
"Are you alright?" Charon asked, a bit surprised with himself for asking.
"I think so. I just . . . can't get up yet. My head is spinning." He coughed after he spoke, wrapping his arms around the dog against him, sharing heat. It was still steadily getting colder.
"I just hope you're still alive to hear this . . ."
Charon felt that he owed it to Dorrien to at least attempt to help him – he had bought his contract after all, but he wasn't exactly sure what to do for him. He had just lost his father hours prior, and in the amount of time he had known the young male, he knew enough about his time in the vault and the situation that caused him to leave. He placed a hand to the somber boy's hair, smoothing it down, and the red head looked up with a withering smile, his eyes glossy with something that he wouldn't admit to be tears.
"Tomorrow, we're going to Vault 101. Hopefully we get paid for helping," his voice cracked a bit, and he cleared his voice before daring to continue, "because I'm sure as hell not leaving empty handed."
And he wasn't.