It was a blustery day in the Capital Wasteland as the vault dweller from 101 made her way up a winding serpent of walkways and rooftops. Dressed in the brown garb common among the wasteland's many wanderers, she held a bandana to her face as cold gusts of wind careened into her. The other hand clutched a simple knapsack, holding it tight against her body. Dust and sand buffeted the sheet metal of Megaton's walls and businesses, creating a terrible din. She lifted her chin, squinting against the windstorm's assault. The sign up ahead signaled she was headed in the right direction.
Keeping her pace slow so as not to be blown off the precarious balcony, she ducked her head and ploughed forward. Upon reaching the door, the building's façade providing a bit of shelter from the wind, she stuffed the bandana into her bag and double-checked that her 10mm was securely concealed in her waistband.
Pushing the door open, she found the saloon to be quite muted. Aside from a few hanging light bulbs, the bar was mostly dark. The walls and roof shivered as the storm continued to whip the rusty town, the sound like that of a thousand tiny fists hitting the building, a crowd howling in woeful agony.
She examined the main room – the tables scattered about her, the old bar directly ahead, the stairs leading up to a balcony with a handful of closed doors. Besides her, there didn't appear to be anyone about. It was ten in the morning, and with the storm outside, she figured most people would sooner hunker down in their own homes than venture here. She, however, was on a mission. The local sheriff's warning still rang around her ears, but she desperately needed information.
The girl ran a hand across her forehead and down behind her ear, but found the effort fruitless as her cropped light brown hair refused to be tucked, and instead fell back over her cheek. She was about to call out, but a slight stirring of movement grabbed her attention. A man stood behind the bar facing some shelves, his form almost indistinguishable from the building's patchwork interior in the dim lighting.
She crept forward, listening to the sounds of the wind as it battered the building. Looking up, she saw a few pieces of canvas stretched over sizable holes in the roof. Though they shook violently against the storm, she figured they would otherwise let in a pleasant amount of light during the day, giving the saloon a much warmer feel.
He still had his back to her as she approached, her most polite, "Excuse me," all cocked and ready to go. At the exact moment she began to reach out, the figure went to turn around, bumping her hand with his shoulder. Both parties jumped back at the sight of each other, the vault girl letting out a short shriek of terror while the man stumbled back into the shelves, knocking a few handfuls of bottles and various dishes onto the floor.
The man, or what she had believed was a man, had an appearance unlike any she'd ever seen. Missing skin showcased the raw muscles in his neck and over his jaw, and a jagged depression sat where his nose should've been. The skin on his exposed arms, she now noticed, was similarly scarce, revealing his inner anatomy complete with pulsating veins and stretching sinew. It looked as if he'd been put through a grinder. Her hand flew to cover her mouth, still reeling from the horrific sight before her, while the other thought of her pistol.
Recovering from his fall against the shelves, the person leaned away from her with one hand over his heart, gasping down breath. Each inhale was terribly ragged, as if breathing was a painful chore.
They stayed this way for a few moments, allowing the sudden fright to slowly ebb. Since the stranger had not lunged at her, and everyone else in Megaton had so far been marginally friendly, she convinced herself that he was not a threat to her. If anything, he appeared equally shaken up by the encounter.
Forcing her gaze up to his shoulder, she approached again, hand stretched out in a nonthreatening gesture. "I'm sorry," she said, mindful of the puddle of broken glass and ceramic he now stood in. "I didn't mean to startle you."
"I'll say," he replied, his voice rough and grating like gravel. "You only snuck up on me like a soundless phantom." His hand dropped from his chest and he stood upright.
The girl chewed her lower lip, avoiding his clouded stare.
"What's the matter? You never see a ghoul before?" he demanded, his tone still tight with adrenalin.
She tried to force herself to look, but couldn't.
The ghoul dropped his stare and swore under his breath, looking at the broken glass. He crouched to clean up the mess, gingerly placing the broken pieces in a torn-up palm.
"I'm sorry," she began, stooping to help him, but flinched back when he jerked away from her. "W-what's wrong?" she stammered. "I was just going to help you clean," she said, her voice fading away.
"You mean, you're not gonna hit me?" he said, the tension in his shoulders slowly dropping.
"Of course not," she exclaimed, slightly hurt by his insinuation. "Why would I do such a thing?"
His face twisted up in a bewildered smile, ragged lips held together tightly. "Jeez kid, you must not be from around here. Most everyone gives me a rough time for looking like a corpse."
This time she held his stare, regrettably agreeing with the comparison. He returned to cleaning up the mess, smile dissolving into a frown of shame.
"Not like I can blame 'em," he added.
They cleared the broken glass together, the girl on her knees an arm's length away, much to his curious surprise. She dusted herself off, standing to her feet.
"Can I get you anything, smoothskin? Something to eat? A drink?" he asked, moving to the front of the bar.
"No thanks." She followed along the bar's outer edge, contemplating the name he gave her. "You were right though," she admitted, standing somewhat in front of him. "I'm not from around here. Just got to town yesterday."
"Passing through?" the bartender asked, wiping a shot glass with a brown cloth.
She wondered if the cloth had once been white. "Not sure," she said honestly. "I'm looking for someone – a friend. I was told, maybe you've seen him? Middle-aged guy, gray-brown hair?"
"Sorry," he said, wiping another tumbler, "haven't seen anyone like that recently."
"But, I thought," she said, images speeding around behind her eyes. "Aren't you Moriarty?"
"Moriarty?" he echoed, chuckling lightly at the lost look on her face. "Heck no. Moriarty's my boss. I think he said he was gonna go yak it up with that old raider, Jericho."
The saloon shook as the wind rattled it in its tin frame. The girl tossed her gaze over her shoulder to stare at the door, her business obviously with Moriarty and not his lackey. He expected her to leave, but the wind, or the idea of walking into an ex-raider's house, or something else caused her to turn around, still unsuccessful at maintaining eye contact.
"Who are you then," she asked, "if you're not Moriarty?"
"Me?" he returned, his hands falling motionless to the bar's surface. "You want to know my name?"
A tiny smile tugged at her lips as she went to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. "Yes, I'd like to know your name," she insisted lightly.
"It's," he stuttered, inexplicably drawing a blank. The smoothskin watched with innocence in her eyes as he fumbled around the recesses of his rotting brain for his name. After what seemed like an eternity, although it couldn't have taken more than a few moments, he came up for air. "It's Gob," he said. "Gob. My, my name's Gob."
"Mine's Cassie," she replied, looking down at her fingers and wishing she were brave enough to offer him a handshake.
Gob swallowed a lump in his throat, upset with himself, but he shook it off. "So, you said you're not from around here," he said, resuming wiping the glass in his hands. "Where're you from?" As a bartender, small talk came naturally, even if most people wouldn't give him the time of day.
She opened her mouth to answer, but suddenly appeared unsure. Her hand went to rub at her wrist, but he couldn't see anything wrong with it besides a little sand chafing. "Some place very far away," she stated with confidence. "How about you? Have you lived in Megaton your whole life?"
She didn't want to talk about her home – no big deal. At least she seemed willing to hold a conversation with him.
"Nah, I used to live in a place called Underworld. It's a city for ghouls like me, but I've been here the last fifteen years."
"Does everyone there," Cassie began, pausing to find a way to politely phrase her next words, "look like you?"
"More or less," he replied. "You must've been pretty out of it if you haven't heard of ghouls before. It's what happens when you're exposed to a lot of radiation. I like the way Three Dog puts it – too much radiation without the good fortune of dying. Though, I guess it's better than going feral."
"Feral?" she asked.
"Yeah, not all ghouls can talk and do regular stuff. The radiation rotted their brains, turned 'em into little more than screaming animals." He paused, picking up another glass to wipe and dropped his voice. "They'll hurt you, kid, so you best watch yourself out there."
"I apologize. I didn't mean to make you upset."
"Really?" he asked, relieved at her fresh decency. "Sorry if I sound surprised, it's just real rare to find anyone that doesn't treat ghouls with contempt."
"I can't begin to understand why," she replied, tipping her head in his direction. "There's no difference between you and me."
Gob opened his mouth, intending to tell this kid exactly how wrong she was, when the door to the saloon flew open. In strode Moriarty, who proceeded to berate him with his pompous, Irish accent. Cassie flinched when he smacked his bartender on the back of the head as if she received the blow herself, mindful of Simms's warning regarding the bar owner. Despite her distress, which broke Gob's heart to know it was on his behalf, she mustered the words to ask Moriarty about her missing acquaintance. Although he eyed her like a juicy piece of brahmin steak, she marched after him into his private quarters.
Alone once again, Gob wiped down the bar, unable to hear their private conversation over the moaning wind. This smoothskin intrigued him, and he could only hope her innocent ignorance wouldn't get her killed one day.
She reappeared a few minutes later, only sparing him a short, apprehensive glance before pushing through the front door into the storm.
"Ah yes," Moriarty sighed behind him, watching her retreat. "A terrible tragedy. Young lass like that, lost'er father."
Gob gave no indication of hearing him, but supposed the recent loss of a parent was the cause behind her current search for her friend. Any betrayal of interest would end badly for the ghoul, and possibly the smoothskin as well. Besides, Moriarty's stance already screamed "predator;" he didn't need any encouragement.
"Din't help none, she walks in'ere lookin' for a frien'ly face, an' the first ting she runs into is 'yer ugly mug," Moriarty continued, cuffing him again for good measure. "I do suspect we'll be seein' more o'her though."
As Moriarty's boots clomped back into his private room, Gob tossed a glance over his shoulder, grateful the girl distracted Moriarty from noticing the broken dishes. Part of him hoped this smoothskin would stay away – the look in his boss's eye spelled danger for the inexperienced young wanderer – while another part, he thought as he smirked, hoped she'd come back. What with Silver skipping town last week, he no longer had anyone willing to treat him halfway decent. That judgment-free smile, he decided, was worth whatever punishment Moriarty might send his way.
