Note: I'm apparently channeling General Hospital or something. I dunno. Angst! This story follows Tony Sellers after the event of Everybody Dies (which comes after It's Not Forever). It will be updated with more descriptive text; this is the bare bones of the storyline, and it isn't finished yet. (Breaking my own rules.) Enjoy my little soap opera as it unfolds.

Update: The story is complete but I may come back to it. At the moment I want nothing to do with this monster I created.

Maybe I should just wear a mask.

Tony stared at himself in the mirror at his father's house, letting the water run until it almost overflowed the sink. He sighed to himself, not for the first time that morning, and washed his face carefully, feeling the raised scar along his cheek and trying to keep his right eye closed. Once he was done, he replaced the eye patch and looked at himself in the mirror again, and nodded.

The scar was atrocious but it only lent to his image, and that was something he honestly had needed help with. It wasn't just his family that treated him carefully, now, but the whole of Gladstone, and certain parts of Spalding. Every time he came across an objective that joked about Crying Tony... Tony clenched his fists. They could say it all they wanted behind his back. But not―not to his face.

He'd not been over the water in two years. No reason to, anymore. He didn't think about that, didn't want the image in his head, anymore. No more Josephine.

He grabbed the sides of the sink and held onto it, willing himself not to beat his head into the mirror. Again! He'd had more than enough glass in his face, to do something like that, but he desperately wanted to beat his brains out every time her shining eyes and brown face came to mind.

It had been two years and he still couldn't get that out of his head, no matter how often he'd tried to replace it with other thoughts. Even trying to picture Helen Eifler in his head was not enough. Josephine was firmly lodged in there and he was starting to think he'd die with her name on his goddamn lips like a fairy-tale fucking ending.

"Anthony, are you in there?" his sister called, banging on the door. "I have to pee."

"I'm almost done, May." He breathed out carefully, pulled the stopper from the sink and wiped the residual water away from his face and chest. He grabbed the leather jacket and t-shirt he'd removed, and opened the door. "It's all yours," he told her.

May Sellers, who always managed to look frumpled, opened her eyes wide at his appearance and then frowned. "Hey, you got a new scar," she said, jabbing him in the stomach. "You didn't tell dad, did you?"

"Scars are caused by injury," he said, evenly. "I report injury. Go on and leave me alone, May." He brushed past her and plunked himself down on the couch, and proceeded to pull on his t-shirt.

"Hey, boy," his father said, breezing through the house. He was gone in twenty seconds, out the door and down the walk, and Tony saw him jump the fence rather than unlock the gate. He swiveled his head to see his mother come storming into the room, and flinched at her gaze.

She was pissed. He knew why; Sue Sellers was not particularly happy with the events that had led up to Tony's being mangled, and now Amory was in the same position. Stuck on a hospital bed in the clinic in Gladstone, puking his guts out from the radiation and violent injury that he'd sustained trying to track down some putrescent ghoul in St. James. Tony could not go there, so it was up to the others at ARC. Tony felt some remorse for that but his mother had put her foot down on his father's neck like she wanted to break it, over the matter.

"Mom," he called. "Mom!"

She furrowed her brows at him, one arm through his shirt and the other holding it in a frozen motion. "Good God, Anthony, did you get another scar?" she asked, and he sighed.

"Scars are part of the wasteland, Mom," he said, pulling his shirt through the other arm. He grimaced. "And I know Dad's got plenty."

"Jesse's scars are earned through ridiculous stupidity," she snarled, but her face softened. "You're my baby, Anthony." She smiled gently at him. "I don't like seeing you get hurt."

He shook his head at the maternal display. "I'm going to ARC," he said. "Going to see if Uncle Amos has anything new."

"You just got home a few hours ago, Anthony!"

"I know," he said. He stood, and rubbed his neck. He needed to try to get more sleep, but he was awake now, and he didn't see why he should laze about.

"...If you catch your father, please smack him upside the head for me," she said, knowing she couldn't argue. "And if you happen to visit Amory..." A pained look came across her face. "Just be careful, Anthony."

"I am always careful," he told his mother, and gave her a peck on the forehead.

He slung a rifle over his shoulder, and stepped out into Gladstone.

Gladstone, being a city that primarily produced wool, smelled like shit. All the time. The place smelled of the large amount of Delaines rumbling through the hills, followed by a few wary shepherds packing rifles and pistols and watching the hills and lakefront for trouble. Amos, when he was younger, had been a shepherd, and now his son was one, and he hoped that Kim wouldn't be tempted by the fast-paced and violent life that the ARC mercenaries led. Amos had gotten to his old age through prudence alone. It didn't seem like Kim was at all inclined. He held his breath on that judgement, though. He'd been wrong too many times to count, when it came to young people.

Like his younger "brother" Jesse Sellers, and his brood―Amos had expected Jesse to learn a lesson and ask his children not to follow in his footsteps. But that hadn't happened. The Sellers family was too volatile to break.

And he certainly didn't expect to see Tony for at least a day or two, since he'd reported in earlier that morning upon completion of a job. So, when his nephew breezed in through the door after Jesse claimed sanctuary in the five-room Pre-War-police-station-turned-ARC-HQ, he only squinted at the man and jerked a thumb to the back room where Jesse had holed himself up.

"Not here for Dad," he said, after raising his eyebrow at his uncle.

"Oh." Amos snorted. "Thought you were sent by Sue to come scrape him out of the cell and face matrimonial justice."

"Nah," Tony said. "Got any work?"

Amos turned himself to fully face his nephew and narrowed his eyes further. "You've only been home for six hours, Tony." Tony shrugged. Amos sighed and ran a hand over the desk, looking through the paperwork. "You'll wear yourself out," was all Amos said to him. The words contained volumes of unspoken advice.

"I am aware," Tony said, and his words told Amos that he was trying very hard to run away from memories that Amos knew full well would break him, if he didn't face them. Amos picked up a piece of paper and thrust it at the man, and sat back to watch his expression.

"Retrieval?" Tony's brow creased, and his eye patch moved with the motion. Amos watched the look in his remaining eye and saw confusion. "What is this?"

"Courier sent it in this morning. High priority, pays extremely well." Amos played a pencil across his knuckles and through his fingers. "There will be competition, to find the objective."

"It's not listed," Tony said, scanning the paper. "What is this―First Iron, stuff?"

"The First Iron is the boss up at Three-Mountain," Amos said, scratching the pencil on his temple. "I haven't been up there in ages, but they aren't particularly known for their friendly attitude. First Iron Falconbridge and his group..." Amos sighed. "I was going to toss it out. The courier said he'd delivered fifteen other missives with the same information."

"Why so many?"

Amos set his jaw and stared at his nephew. "Because the objective is a girl, and she's the First Iron's only daughter."

"That would explain the high price," Tony said, turning the paper over. "What's her name?"

"Phoebe Falconbridge." Amos looked up at him. "You can't be seriously thinking about this job."

"You told me once that we don't pick jobs because we like them." Tony shot his uncle a look, and Amos smiled at that. His words always came back to bite him on the ass, but rightly so.

"I did," Amos said. "I also said that the job picks us."

"Well, I am an exemplar member of ARC," Tony replied. "And I don't see why I shouldn't take on a job that could let you finally retire and get out of this madhouse."

Amos laughed loudly, and the pencil bounced out of his hands and onto the desk. "Young man, if you think I'm retiring and letting that jackass father of yours run this place into the ground―"

"I can hear you!" Jesse yelled, through the wall.

"I didn't say you were deaf," Amos called back. "Just a jackass!"

Jesse apparently felt it didn't deserve a response. Tony smiled a little, but Amos saw his cheek twitch in remorse. The scar was terrible; Amos knew Tony had been very upset with it, after that mess in St. James. He hardly smiled anymore, anyway, since Josephine had gone off with that ghoul Marcelo. Amos sighed to himself and wished Tony had not been so in love, or so... young. That was it, the youth that damned them.

"Look, if you want to take this one, I'll let you," Amos told him, "but you can't go alone."

"I don't work with partners," Tony said, and gave him a sharp glance.

"I know, but Three-Mountain is too dangerous for you to go alone." Amos looked back through the building. "I'd tell you to take your father, but Sue will rightly thread me with a larding needle, so..."

"You think I'm trying to get killed?" Tony asked him.

Amos turned swiftly and frowned. "No, I know you're always careful. I just want someone out there to watch your back."

"I watch my back." Tony crumpled the paper, slightly. His temper was rising. Amos put his tongue between his teeth and bit back the remark he was going to make, and let the man calm down before pursuing the matter.

"I'm not taking Haynes," Tony said, when he finally managed to get his temper under control. "He has no respect, whatsoever, for anyone other than himself."

"Haynes is the only one we have, right now," Amos said, and he knew that Tony would be gone the minute he stepped outside. There was no stopping him, when he wanted to do something―much like another Sellers man, he jumped right into a fray without thinking. At least they were able to wiggle out... usually.

"Let me do it," Tony said. His voice was firm but easy, and not what Amos expected. "Not to prove anything, not to get myself killed, or whatever you think I'm doing when I go out."

Amos protested. "I don't think you're trying to―"

"Just―let me try, and if I find out the girl has been collected or I can't find her in two weeks, I'll come home." The look on his face was one Amos knew all too well.

"You have to get over her, Tony," Amos said, abruptly.

Tony crushed the paper in his hand, and closed his eye. "I'm already over her."

"You haven't moved on," Amos said. "That friendly nurse down at the clinic, she was interested in you, and you blew her off like wind on the wastes."

Tony laughed, low and bitter. "No, Uncle Amos," he said, ruefully. "No, she was the one who didn't want to carry around a useless lump of a man."

Amos drew a sharp breath and exhaled. "I'm going to assume those are your words, since I know that Helen wouldn't act like that."

Tony shoved the paper in his jacket and adjusted his weapon. "I'll see you in a few weeks," he said, and strode out of the building.

Amos ran a hand through his beard and knocked on the wall, and told Jesse that he needed to get his skinny behind back home to beg Sue for lenience. "Your son is going after that Three-Mountain bounty," he told him. "And I don't know if we'll ever see him again."

Phoebe chopped down into the creature on the floor of the Metro station, crinkling her nose at the smell. Her instincts told her the thing was edible, but she could also tell that it was slightly irradiated. She smelled it. It was strange because she didn't know how or why she knew, but she did. It looked like a pink mass of wrinkles and whiskers, and she found that somewhat disgusting, but she'd never been outside of T-Division before and she was hungry as hell, and it was edible.

She sliced a bit of the hindquarters off and looked at it, dubiously, letting the knife dip to the floor as she crouched over the creature. It smelled... okay, she guessed, like meat that she'd had back home, in T-Division. She would definitely try to cook it. Eating raw meat was not something she would ever consider. Disgusting.

She carried the knife and the dripping meat to the tiny bathroom she'd converted into a temporary bedroom and kitchen. That was also disgusting, but she didn't have much other option, and she sure wasn't going out of the Metro. Things out there might eat her.

She wasn't going back. Not after―

Phoebe put a hand to her head and closed her eyes, feeling a headache take a blinding place in her face. Why couldn't she remember? She remembered waking up in the operating room at T-Division, seeing the needles poised over her. She remembered running, and hitting the chain link fencing outside the compound, and―

She woke up wearing a hospital gown and not much else, in the darkness outside.

"Ungh," she said, and the pain got even more intense.

Nevermind. She wouldn't think about it, she would just stay away and make new memories. Even if those memories were just her eating―whatever that pink thing was―and moping about a Metro tunnel for the rest of her life.

Her father had often told her about there being life outside of the compound, and about the heathens that lived in the Wilder Wastes. Phoebe didn't know that she believed as much as he'd told her, but she had no other information and she certainly couldn't afford to believe anything else, unless proven wrong. "Out there, ignorance is the difference between living and dying." Her head hurt a little, remembering that. She didn't know why.

She heated the pan on the small hot plate, and tossed in the meat. It smelled almost too good to be true, and she jealously watched the pan as the meat lay in it. This would be the first thing she had to eat in two days, not that she hadn't tried. The Metro had food dispensers, but she couldn't pry them open, and she'd made too much noise yesterday to try again, today.

And that was a shame, because she'd seen Dandy Boy Apples in there and if that wasn't her favorite food, she would eat her hat. Phoebe laughed to herself, then paused. Was that a noise?

A banging noise, a dull sound, seemingly coming closer. Rhythmic. Probably a person.

Shit! She stood, switched off the hot plate, and grabbed out the meat, tearing into it even though it was only half cooked. She needed the energy, and who knew what was out there. She'd already came across some nasty people―

Her head seared with pain again. She knew it was danger, regardless of her inability to remember what she did when she had to be violent.

Phoebe opened the door an inch and held a wrench in one hand, the knife in the other. She was ready, no matter what came, or what she might not remember.

Shell had been hiding for two days, trying to keep Bitch and her fucking Dog off her ass. She was worn the hell out from running back and forth from her hiding spots, so she decided to just get out of the Metro entirely.

Did that goddamn Dog never sleep? Shell's legs were too tired to continue on, her brain was filled with fuzz, and she could feel her stomach trying to get her attention with ever-increasing pangs of hunger.

But if Bitch found her, she would die. She'd been promised that, by the screams of her fellow raiders as Dog had splattered them one by one. She was last in line to be executed―maybe because she was female, hah, weren't they stupid to think she was less dangerous for being a girl―and her bindings were looser, so she'd taken the chance.

Now she felt like her head was going to explode with panic, instead of with a bullet. Like she'd promised herself. She didn't intend to let anyone else get the pleasure of killing her, but herself.

A hint of food smell in the air drew her attention to an outlet in the Metro, and she followed the smell until she saw a dead mole rat laid out on the floor. Someone had cut a piece off and left the rest. Lucky! Shell looked around but didn't see or hear anyone around. She grabbed the mole rat and eyed a doorway. Should get to cover, anyway.

She dragged the mole rat by one leg, holding her shotgun by the other, and kept her eyes peeled as she moved it toward the door. Double Lucky! No one was here, no one at all.

The room smelled like food, and her stomach did a flop as she realized that someone must have been cooking here, and recently―she dropped the mole rat and aimed her shotgun at the movement in the corner, and pulled the trigger.

Some skinny little girl in a baggy dress of some kind had been about to attack her with a wrench and a knife, of all things. When the girl dropped, her weapons clattered to the floor and Shell put the shotgun to the back of her head. She laughed, viciously. "You're damn stupid," she said, and squeezed the trigger. "Stupidity gets you killed out here."

The girl's blood was almost black in the Metro light, and Shell noticed it had a weird oily sheen to it, rainbow colors. She was distracted enough to not notice the girl putting a hand out to her ankle and pull her leg out from underneath her.

She screamed, when she saw the flash of the shotgun reflected in the girl's eyes. Black claws began to render her face. The world crashed and Shell felt herself being destroyed, and she gurgled a laugh because at least that stupid marauder and his Bitch hadn't caught up to her.