The kid looks like shit. She was scrawny to begin with, but there's tension making lines on her jaw, and dark circles under her eyes. But even with fading yellow-purple bruises on her face, her pale eyes are broken-bottle sharp.
Fucking creepy, those eyes. Look like they'd damn well glow in the dark.
"Well? Will you do it?" she repeats, crossing her arms in front of her and tapping her foot against the ground. He doesn't think it's nerves; kid's talking fast and twittery, like a sped-up record, but her eyes got that little twitch about the edge that looks like she's starting to get into Mentats.
Jericho takes another deep drag of his cigarette and exhales slowly, blowing it at her face. The grey smoke curls over her cheeks, ashy against her dark skin. She wrinkles her nose, shaking her head in irritation. It sends that ragged mop of neon-red hair flopping all over her scalp. He doesn't know where the kid got the idea to shave half her head and make like a raider, but he wishes he could feed a mouthful of knuckles to whoever gave it to her. The kid's got too little in the way of tits and ass to be worth leering at, and she's not even pretty. At least her hair had been nice, before she went and hacked it off on her second day in Megaton.
"I dunno, kid. What's in it for me?"
She grins, hugging herself tightly like holding in a secret. "Bottle of whiskey."
"Two bottles," the ex-raider challenges. "For today."
Her grin widens. "Two bottles. One for today, another for the next time. When do you want to start?"
"Do I get my payment now?"
"After I get my lessons, Jericho."
He snorts, stubbing his cigarette into the ashtray on the flimsy outdoor table between their two homes. "Might as well do it now, then. Show me your defense." He cracks his knuckles, rolling his shoulders back. Doesn't let on to the kid how much he's actually looking forward to this, but… living the soft life in Megaton's nice, but there's still times he wishes he could be out there shooting shit up with the gangs. But he's gotten too damn old for that sort of crap, and he reckons he's hit the end of the road as a raider. If he tried to make it out there now, he'd just be meat.
Just like this kid, skinny but soft in the head. Too damn sappy and emotional about everything. She's just meat the first time she runs into a real raider gang, instead of those pissy fucks over at the Super-Duper Mart. Hell, she nearly was just meat when she hauled her bleeding ass back to Megaton a couple days ago. Jericho had heard Doc Church cussing her out all the way from Moriarty's.
She squares off with him, holding her fists up with her elbows sticking out. Jericho just chuckles, giving a lazy, back-handed swat with his left. The vault kid swallows the bait, twisting to block and leaving her torso wide open for a low, vicious punch to the gut. She releases a gargled cry, but does not completely fold. Good. Since she's still standing, that means he gets to hook one leg behind her ankle and knock her flat.
Sprawling on the ground and blinking like a baby molerat, the kid mumbles, "And what am I learning from this?"
"Not to bite down on a feint. And that the best defense is a good offense," Jericho snickers, waiting for her to regain her feet.
The next few hours end up with the girl being pushed, shoved, punched, elbowed, and otherwise thoroughly humiliated. Blood leaks from a shallow gash on the corner of her lip, and she's going to have more bruises to add to her collection. Kid might've been able to get off some lucky punches with whatever other soft little vaulties she tussled with back home, but even an aging raider is tougher, stronger, and just plain fights dirtier than anyone she's dealt with before.
To her credit, she keeps trying. Keeps pushing herself up from the ground, spitting pink foam and growling, "'Nother round."
So he keeps knocking her down, and she keeps getting up while he gives her shit about all the many ways she fucked up. She's starting to learn, to figure out when to keep her distance and when to strike close. She finally manages to land a punch on his jaw and the shock of it leaves him laughing like a loon. The kid stops, goofy-faced and smiling like the sun. So he grabs her shoulder and throws her into the ground, twisting her arm behind her and digging his knee into her back.
"Getting smarter, kid. But not smart enough," he snorts. "Had enough yet?"
"'Nuff for today, maybe. Not enough for heading out again yet," she mumbles, voice muffled by her cheek digging into the metal walkway.
He lets her up, dusting his hands off and watching her rise. She's shaky, but he figures a couple days and she'll be good as new. Jericho was just teaching her, after all. Not like he was about to use the hard stuff on a kid.
Not when she still owes him a bottle of whiskey, and another for the next time.
"So where's my whiskey?" he demands, reaching for the now-cold cigarette sitting in the tray. He restores the end to glowing life with a practiced flick of his lighter.
"In the house. I'll be right back." She's just as quick as promised, the amber bottle sloshing sweetly to Jericho's ears as he greedily accepts. The kid just watches him for a little while, pale eyes almost glowing in the gathering dusk. The stars shine in her eyes, reflecting like galaxies in the depths.
Jericho tries not to shudder, instead focusing on his cigarette. Girl's got creepy eyes.
"You know, that stuff's bad for you," she says conversationally, like she wasn't just getting her ass handed to her on a platter.
"Yeah, well, bullets'll kill me faster'n this shit."
She smiles, and that's gotta be opening up that split on her lip again, but she acts like it's nothing. "Smogs up your lungs too. Could slow you down, old man."
"Well, kid, I'm still fast enough to beat you to a pulp," he growls, but it's not real hostility. Not really. It'd be one thing if it was some mouthy little raider bitch, because those types gotta be put in their place right away or you risk them thinking that you are the next soft target to hit, but this is a pampered little vaultie. Crazy as it sounds, the girl had detonated a bomb and told Simms it just felt like the right thing to do. Didn't even try to dig any extra caps out of the deal. He figures the little vault girl is trying—albeit in a stupid, aggravating kind of way—to be nice.
"Yeah, you are," she freely admits, shrugging. She winces as her shoulders rise just a fraction too high, triggering some nasty kind of ache. He could have broken her arms or dislocated her shoulders real easy, but he only banged her up a bit. "But I'd kinda like if you kicked around a bit longer." She smiles again, a shy little curl that shows gleaming teeth.
Fucking kid. She'd probably get attached to a junkyard dog if it started following her. Wouldn't even know that its slavering jaws were for her. "We're not friends, kid."
"We're not hostile either," she points out.
"Call it friendly hostility," he grunts. He doesn't have time for this shit, or some little girl who's got daddy issues written all over her.
"Fine. Friendly hostility," she says amicably, too quickly and easily. Like this is all just playing along to some master plan. He gives her a shifty look. She pretends to ignore it. "Any advice for next time?"
"If there's gonna be a next time, kid. Honestly, you're a shit fighter," he says bluntly. "You might get good enough to fight someone off who ain't too big or pissed at you, but you're better off using a gun. You're just too scrawny."
"Guns jam." There is a flicker of something… something dark in those blue eyes, like her normal sunshine-smile self is a mask that she just let slip. Jericho's pretty good with his gut feelings, and listening to his gut has let him haul ass out of ambushes and know where to look to find the best loot. That same feeling is twisting through him, knotting him up and spitting sour bile up the back of his throat. Sheltered vaultie has monsters crawling in her skin.
He doesn't let it show. That's another thing you learn when running with a gang. Show that something just freaked the shit out of you, and you're likely to get even more shit kicked out of you. "Yeah, they do. But bones break, and you're like a fucking baby bird, kid."
She tilts her head to the side, and he immediately thinks 'fuck, just like a bird' right before she asks, "Why do you keep calling me 'kid'? My name is—"
"Unimportant," he grunts. "Tell you what. You make it another week out here without dying, then I'll learn your name."
The kid practically howls at that one, silver-edged laughter slicing through the night. "Fine, Jericho. Then we'll be friends?"
"Don't get your hopes up, kid," he mutters, walking into his home.
He still hears her laughing as the door shuts.