He looked at the both of them as he tried to start a damn flame between those dry sticks, but the sucker just wouldn't light up. The night was as cold as all the nights in the Wasteland were, and they didn't find a four-wall refugee to spend it safely in this time, since there was only plain rock and ruins in a hundred, maybe thousand miles radius. His companions didn't pay any mind to him as he failed miserably at making the campfire, inexpertly rubbing abruptly two sticks against each other, not even getting a single 'spark'.

Assholes…

He thought, seeing the old ex raider cleaning his assault rifle with a dirty towel, sitting in front of him, while the large ghoul bodyguard minded his own goddamned business, standing some feet away, looking at absolutely nothing.

"Hurry up, will ya. I need a puff."

The kid turned to the old man taking a cigarette out of his pocket, tapping his foot on the soil impatiently. Raising an eyebrow, he tried to ignore him, focusing again on the sticks on his hands.

"Can I suggest using a lighter?"

The ghoul approached them, looking at the kid that lamely tried to create fire. 'Cave men do it, why wouldn't I?'. Right, he came from a Vault, where fire comes out of a nice robot butler that cooks all your meals and do your homeworks if you feeling like a fucking lazy ass. This wasn't his life, and surely they weren't his favorite people.

"What a great idea! Let's see if I can pull it outta my ass magically."

The ghoul didn't answer, as he detected the hint of sarcasm and annoyance of his new employer, throwing the sticks on the ground and raising his hands in defeat. He wasn't always like this, in fact, he was a quiet guy back in the Vault, but they pulled his nerves to the limits, like no one ever bothered to do before. But that's how people in the Wasteland are, ain't they?

Maybe having companions wasn't a good idea, at least not for chatting or anything at all except, well, shoot stuff.

"Hey, you both have like… hundreds of years ahead of me and lived out here in the Wasteland all your lives, and you don't know shit about camping?"

"Fire's for pussies."

The raider was quick in responding, though the kid didn't take the hint of the insult. It didn't really make sense at all, but his temper was more than limited, and an old Raider wouldn't take an insult without replying back somehow. And let's face it, Raiders are no brainies.

"I doubt you can resist another winter, you wrinkled jerk. And you have no skin! Shit, ain't you at least a little cold?"

He turned to the ghoul who simply stood standing in front of him. He heard him grumble something, probably cursing on him.

"Is something bothering you, master?"

He said, with an obvious tune of anger in his voice, the kid could almost hear his teeth clenching. The kid simply leaned his back on the rock, crossing his arms on his chest.

"You know what… forget it."

No one said anything after that, no one even cared to. Closing his eyes, he remembered the life in the Vault, but not a single smiled crossed his face. He wasn't exactly happy about that life, but it was damn better than being in the outside. The ex-raider and the ghoul crossed sights, as the kid began to snore. They didn't like each other, but what was there to do? The old man wanted the thrill to drag out his weapon and kill whatever shit was outside, for old times sake, and traveling in groups was a 'must', just like Riders did. And the ghoul was hired by this child as his bodyguard, bounded by contract he had to serve him until it is no longer valid, that being his employer's death.

They were there by different reasons, but 'retreating' was not an option for any of them.

It was the beginning of an awful friendship.