The salty sea air came rolling over the deck, blown down river by the wind, carrying with it the ever so subtle hint suggesting, despite the water's halfway clean appearance, harmful radiation had polluted every drop. In the sky overhead a radgull screamed as it wheeled, searching for something Charles couldn't see and didn't much care too. The strange creature served as just one more reminder he was leaving his home far behind, for a place he wasn't sure anyone could follow, or that he even wanted them too if they could.

Reaching into the front pocket of the patched and battered black vest making up one part of his usual ensemble, Charles withdrew the glass bottle of whiskey, looking down sadly at the distinct lack of actual whiskey found inside that bottle. Yanking the cork free with a tired resignation suggesting a degree of exhaustion not normally found in one so young, the Lone Wanderer tipped the bottle to his lips and emptied its contents down his throat. Feeling the warm burn, accompanied by the slight haze brought the ghost of a smile to his lips.

"Look at me now dad," he muttered, throwing the bottle into the river. The glass object splashed with less drama than he'd hoped before sinking beneath the water. For a fraction of a second, he could hear the ghost of his father's voice and see the pained expression it bore at his casual disregard for an already damaged nature. "Go away, again," Charles muttered in response to his father's ghost and the spectral James seemed to honor his wishes, vanishing back into the ether.

The sky above him continued to grow greener, the trees along the shore becoming gnarled, twisting, alien things he'd never seen in the Capital Wasteland. A sudden spike of pained nostalgia struck him, a vision of Megaton invading his consciousness accompanied by a sinking feeling in his gut at how he'd put a month's distance between himself and DC. Not even his journey to the Pitt had taken him so far away from home, and then people had known he was leaving, now…

But wasn't that what he wanted? What had the Capital Wasteland ever done for him but take, take and take again?

Charles shook his head defiantly, "No," he murmured to himself, desperately wishing he'd brought more alcohol with him on the journey, hating the sickening feeling of regret that invaded his stomach at the thought of his cowardice, brought on by sobriety. He was running away, and he was probably never going back. Not for anyone, not Li, not Simms or Riley…

"No," he growled again, shaking away the image of the spunky mercenary, he was Point Lookout bound, and that was all there was.

"A good omen!" A jubilant voice announced bombastically from behind him. The tone Charles recognized as belonging to the only other living soul aboard the Duchess Gambit, ferryman Tobar's broad smiling face and bold mustache appearing in the younger man's field of vision. Despite Charles' sullen instance on attempting a degree of solitude during the trip, the gregarious sailor continued to try and make conversation.

Realizing his host wouldn't leave him alone until he'd answered, Charles did his best to humor the other man, "What is?" There was a degree of forced levity he didn't feel, but knew Tobar needed to hear.

"The gulls," he gestured upward with a stubby finger, pointing out the irradiated fowls happily. "They can sense the storms long before us poor humans do. If we were in for it, they'd be long gone. Not that a little rain would stop us, eh?" He chuckled boldly, slapping a broad hand across Charles' back. For all his flaws, the ferryman was right about that truth, Charles was getting to Point Lookout, one way or another.

He'd heard the radio signal on his Pipboy long ago, the repeated advertisement for an exotic local full of danger the last thing on his mind then. He had a father to find, a Vault to return too, and, with an increasing amount of obsession, a book to co-author. But then…. No! It wouldn't do to dwell.

"You know," Tobar probed cautiously, fishing for some information on his Vault-dwelling client before returning to the wheel at the forefront of his fine steamboat. "We've been traveling together for almost a month now and I don't think I have two sentences from you to rub together," he stroked his stubbly chin thoughtfully, looking outward towards the alien shores of the rapidly approaching Point Lookout, as if mere eyes could pierce the swirling mists moving about the swamps.

Charles looked at his host with something resembling admonishment, as if the ferryman expected to pierce the veil the Lone Wanderer had erected around himself. In truth, he'd have better luck seeing through the physical fog. "And you expect that to change?" He'd learned a degree of sarcasm from Charon, his Ghoul bodyguard having a particularly sardonic style of humor when the mood struck him. He missed Charon, and Dogmeat too, but knew this was something he had to do on his own….especially if things went as he expected and he died in the swamps. He may have been slowly descending from a paragon of virtue into an alcoholic, chem-addicted wreck, but he wasn't going to get his friends killed in the process of chasing his own death.

"I do," Tobar responded casually, slipping a hand into the front pocked of his bulky jacket, it's dull red near identical in shade to the long-sleeved shirt that Charles wore beneath the pocketed vest.

"Why?" It was a fair question; he'd been mostly silent thus far after all.

"Because I've seen you smoking," the Ferryman responded coyly, withdrawing a sealed packet of cigarettes from the pocket, holding them tantalizingly before Charles, "And I know you've run out."

Smoking, Charles' one vice, at least it had been, before everything in his life went to crap. As he felt the shivers along his body, a tantalizing whisper for another hit of Med-x, he found himself longing for the days when all he did was smoke. "I'm not an idiot," Charles answered bluntly, slowly nodding his head in the affirmative.

Tossing the packet across the deck, which Charles gracefully caught one-handed, Tobar asked his first question, "What did you do? I've got a guess, seeing as you're willing to dive headfirst into the mysteries of the Point, looking for treasure and whatnot without hesitation. Also, the armory gave it away," nodding his head in the direction of the cabin, Tobar made clear reference to the two duffle bags of guns, ammunition and supplies Charles had brought along with him, which, admittedly, did seem enough for an entire squad of Talon Company Mercs.

Charles shrugged, fiddling with the seal on the packet until it opened, "I like to be prepared," he responded glibly, popping one of the cigarettes into his mouth with shaking hands. As he rummaged about his various pouches for a lighter, the Lone Wanderer stated, "I went around from place to place and helped people." Withdrawing a square, steel lighter and flicking it on, the Vault Dweller light his cigarette, "I was looking for my dad, and figured he'd want me to help people along the way." He glanced back out over the water sorrowfully, taking in the darkness of the approaching shore, "I guess I just wanted to make him proud…" The last bit was whispered so softly that if Tobar heard it, the ferryman made no mention.

"Did you find him?"

"Yes."

"How'd it end?"

"Badly."

"My apologies," the mustachioed sailor responded sheepishly, a degree of sadness in his voice. "Is that why you came with me?" He was awfully perceptive for a simple trading ferryman, and the modest phrasing of the question disarmed much of Charles' hostility.

"In part," he took a long puff on the cigarette, letting the smoke drift lazily from his mouth. "In part it's something else…"

"Which is?" The boater probed, hoping beyond all hope that his mysterious fare would let something slip that suggested anything about his true intentions.

Gazing out at the alien shoreline, so very different from DC and anything he'd ever seen in his life, Charles simply stated, "I'm running away, and if I'm lucky enough I won't come back."

The abandoned boardwalk stared gloomily back at him. Color long faded from all the signs, litter of all kinds scattered about haphazardly, mostly Styrofoam containers blowing with the breeze. The entire area held a menacing stillness, while the whole island remained unnaturally quiet as Tobar brought the Duchess Gambit in alongside the rickety old dock jutting out from a crumbling concrete guard wall.

The soggy wood groaned beneath his weight as Charles left the steamboat, both duffle bags slung across his shoulders. In his hands he held his faithful Chinese assault rifle, but judging by the complete lack of life anywhere in his field of vision he seemed unlikely to need it.

"I'll be here for a couple of days, friend," Tobar announced, taking an empty steamer trunk from his ship and depositing it on the moss-encrusted dock, maintaining his perpetual cheer despite the enveloping gloom of the island. "I have a shipment of punga fruit to pick up from one of the local tribes and want to find out if any of the treasure hunters from my previous trips want a ride back to the capital. So…" he paused, glancing about the abandoned boardwalk that made up the landing point, "If you change your mind about Point Lookout within a couple of days, come back here and I'll take you back home with me, as long as you've got the caps, of course." Tobar maintained his relentlessly chipper tone throughout the whole sentence, but Charles couldn't miss the hushed over reference to previous treasure hunters, who may not have survived…

"Thanks," Charles half muttered around the cigarette hanging limply from his mouth, glancing about the dreary local. The weather-beaten sign reading "Pilgrim's Landing," seemed so forlorn the Lone Wanderer couldn't help but feel a strange sense of sorrow at the area forgotten by time. Looming over the crumbling buildings and tattered flags was a rusty old Farris Wheel, cutting an ominous figure against the murky darkness of the falling sun.

With night fast approaching over his strange new home, Charles tried to glean anything useful from his guide. "What should a first timer know?" He inquired, attempting to keep his tone light.

As he was bringing a second trunk off the Duchess Gambit the ferryman gave a slight smile, his mustache seeming to twitch with the gesture, "Don't drink swamp water," when his fare's expression suggested he was in the mood for mockery, Tobar changed his tune, "You're standing in Pilgrim's Landing, home to one person and one Protectron. If you head down the central pathway a few feet you'll find The House of Wares, run by my friend Panada, who gives me a few caps for referrals so be sure to mention me!" He chuckled, depositing the second empty trunk next to the first. "She should be able to answer any questions you've got left, I've not been back in a few months, and though the world left Point Lookout behind, there's a mini world of change among the trees and marsh." He paused cryptically, adjusting the trader's hat he wore over his mop of light brown hair, staring past the boardwalk into the marshes barely visible in the gathering darkness. "Watch out of the swampfolk and you'll be fine."

That perked the younger man's curiosity. "Swampfolk?" He asked slowly, following Tobar's gaze with his own. The marshes held an almost demonic appearance, the trees twisting about like grasping fingers, as if determined to gasp hold of the drifting former Vault Dweller and swallow him whole. For his purposes, the ominous swamp would do just fine.

"Didn't I mention something about monsters when I sold you a ticket?" The ferryman responded, far too glibly for Charles' comfort. When he expressed that displeasure to Tobar with a glance, the sailor clarified, "You've got your beasties, you've got a few tribes that don't like visitors but in between you've got the swamp folk. Lots of inbreeding, chems, radiation, moonshine and time resulted in something halfway animal, halfway man. They're cunning bastards, tough too, but that assault rifle there," he nodded at Charles' well maintained weapon approvingly, "Should show the buggers off if they bother you. Just stay out of the deepest swamps and you'll be fine."

Realizing that Tobar wasn't going to shed any more light on the subject of the swampfolk, or the rest of the island in general, Charles adjusted the straps on his duffle bags, spat out his dying cigarette and began walking forward. The caps in his pouch jingled together, and a drop of sweat worked its way from beneath the peak of his Vault-Tech baseball cap down his bearded face, plopping against the rotting wooden planks below. The air was stagnant and the humidity nearly unbearable. Resisting the urge to withdraw one of his water bottles and a dose of Rad-x with the greatest effort, the Lone Wander moved through the empty carnival streets, kicking discarded paper cups and tin cans aside as he did. He held the assault rifle ready, scanning shattered windows and boarded doors for any kind of threat, though after a few moments it seemed obvious no one was around, matching the ferryman's description.

Finding the House of Wares proved easy enough, as the general stillness surrounding Pilgrim's Landing increased the range of his ears exponentially, leading him towards the clanking sounds of the walking Protectron in excellent time. The robot moved back and forth in a patrol pattern around the area, though somewhat rusted by the marshy air it appeared to be regularly maintained and lovingly cared for.

The area had clearly once been a shooting gallery, judging by the faded bull's-eye above the stand, across which the crudely painted letters reading, "Madam Panada's House of Wares" had been written attested. A long wooden plank, buffed and clean and thus looking bizarrely out of place among the general filth of the ancient boardwalk, ran the length of the open space, behind which, rusty target ducks sat patiently for the BB gun to be fired, seeming unaware the world had abandoned them. The counter bent beneath the weight of assorted goods piled haphazardly upon it.

Behind that counter stood a surprisingly young, slight, woman was deeply tanned skin. Her hair was a black as Charles' own, cut short in a sidesweep style. What appeared to be homemade leather armor covered her petite frame and piercing blue eyes, far older than the surrounding face suggested, peered out sagely into the area beyond. The sight of this woman, sitting behind her counter, alone aside for her robot, in the ghost town was beyond surreal. She glanced towards him, seeming completely unsurprised by his arrival. "Hello Wanderer, I'm Madam Panada, and I knew you'd come."

Her accent was very thick, adding a degree of mystery to her words that shouldn't have otherwise existed. As he drew nearer to the woman he noted she herself was quite clean. "I'm sorry?" He asked, lowering the Chinese assault rifle and slinging it across his back, crisscrossing the two duffles he still wore.

"I foresaw your coming," she repeated cryptically, looking through him with her unflinching gaze. "The signs were right."

"Un-huh," Charles responded without much faith, moving towards the counter and leaning heavily against it, "Tobar told me you'd set up shop here, and that you'd answer my questions, so, will you?" He might have been a mess, no doubt about it, but this Panada seemed insane, so at least he had one up on her.

Even as he fiddled around in one of his pouches for his little sack of caps, the woman continued speaking, "It's not supplies you need, not really, but answers to questions I cannot give you." He stopped instantly, the packet of caps still in his hand.

"What?" He didn't like this, not at all. The idea this strange woman had managed a peak into his psyche was an unwelcome one. Had there been any other trader remotely close he knew about, he'd take his caps there. Yet this was a strange place to him, and he couldn't pass up the opportunity to gather the food, drink, med-x and ammunition he needed. Packing ones entire life into a few bags wasn't as easy as the stories made it seem and the month long trip had done a number on his supplies. So, he grudgingly began picking through the pile, trying to find what he needed.

"You're running away," she told him, something he figured she could gleam by the overstuffed duffle bags on his back. "You've been hurt so badly by the people you called family that you went to the farthest point you could find." She didn't bother commenting on her inventory, as a small pile of intended purchases piled up before her.

For his part, Charles wanted to get out of the conversation as quickly as possible; this strange woman with her bizarre intonation was getting far too close for comfort. He'd come to the island to avoid people, not have them crack through the wall he was trying to construct and peel away his soul like meat from a mirelark's shell. "Yeah, yeah," he muttered, gathering every dose of med-X he could find in the woman's inventory and adding it to the stack of bullets and food. Cram, instamash or that local fruit Tobar called punga, if it was available, he wanted it, since the longer he could avoid a dependence on scavenging the happier he'd be.

"You don't believe me." It was no question, but rather a statement, strangely free of emotion, as if Panada really couldn't care less about his feelings. "You don't believe my visions."

"I don't," he growled, pulling over two large jugs of what a hearty sniff suggested was absolutely moonshine, and a filthy glass to drink it out of. His mental calculations suggested if he purchased the lot, affording another ticket back to the Capital Wasteland would prove impossible, unless he made some caps on the island. Suited him fine, the Lookout would be his home for the foreseeable future. If the desire to return to DC ever struck him, he was sure he'd manage to return.

"You will," Panada responded cryptically, slowly counting the objects in the pile of goods, her lips moving soundlessly as she determined total price.

As the store owner, and apparent fortune teller, continued her addition, Charles looked throughout the stock behind her absently, finding the task far more rewarding than listening to this woman drone on. Yet, for all the idleness he'd intended with the gesture, his eyes feel upon something that instantly caught his interest.

Sitting on one of the metal target ducks, covered in a healthy coating of dust, was a dull grey cap. Charles had excelled in his history classes back when he still lived in Vault 101 and recognized the design instantly, the crossed brass muskets giving it away beyond all doubt. The hat had clearly once adorned the head of a Confederate soldier back in the days of America's long ago Civil War and, for some strange reason, he found himself drawn to it. His Vault-Tech baseball cap was a reminder of who he was, what he'd been, who'd promised him something and abandoned him….

"Throw that Confederate hat in the pile too," he told Panada without further delay, he felt a connection to the object, a strange sense of loneliness he couldn't explain but emphasized with. Without objection, Panada took the grey cap down, dusted it off and added it to the rest of the man's purchases. Taking off his own cap, and storing it gingerly in one of his duffles, Charles took up the Confederate one and placed it on his head. It fit snugly, but otherwise seemed a fine addition to his apparel.

"127 caps," Panada announced, as if she'd pulled a completely random number out of nowhere rather than do proper mathematics. Still, it was her store and she had the right. Slamming down the required caps and realizing just how low that left him on potential funds, Charles swept his newly acquired goods into one of the bags. "Head up the road towards the Homestead Motel, there you will find sanctuary," the fortune-teller stated matter-of-factly, even as the Vault Dweller was turning around.

"Excuse me?" He said again, torn between his desire to be rid of Panada and her incessant murmurings, and to gleam useful information. Practicality stayed his feet and the Lone Wanderer remained to hear her next words.

"You seek shelter for this night, and many to come, yet you will wish to remain close to the shore, as you hope, deep down, someone will come for you." She pointed an unwavering finger past the moldy Farris wheel, towards a building on the outskirts of town, its form just barely visible in the sinking sun. "None remain within its walls but the dead, the roof is sturdy and doors thick. The motel will serve you well, I think."

"Uh, thank you?" Charles muttered by way of response. Taking up his Chinese assault rifle again, the Lone Wanderer began his trek towards the motel, eyes peel for unwanted wildlife.

He was just barely out of Panada's field of vision, but he swore her voice floated up after him, "No, thank you. What you must do will not come easy but, for all our sakes, must be done."

The Homestead motel seemed roughly in the same shape as the rest of Point Lookout's buildings, save Panada's well maintained House of Wares. It was a generally unremarkable building, moss having grown wherever it would cling, pools of stagnate water forming around the grounds. The shattered remains of a picket fence crumbled about the exterior walls, and a battered sign still managed to proudly claim "vacancies," something Charles imagined was far truer now than ever.

A pack of rabid dogs had stalked around the property upon his arrival, their lean, angry forms hardened by the inhospitable terrain of the island. The lone man may have appeared easy prey for the vicious predators, but after about half a clip and two dead dogs, the pack changed its mind and scattered, fleeing deeper into the swamp. After salvaging what meat he could from the fallen canines, Charles found himself free to explore the grounds.

The vast majority of rooms had been boarded up. Despite his best attempts to dislodge the various planks and rusted nails keeping them shut up, Charles couldn't make his way into any of them. Breaking the windows, even if they had not also been sealed with similar vigor, would have been pointless, as such damage would render the rooms indefensible.

With most rooms not an option, Charles moved cautiously about the property, examining each door in turn. To his delight, three of them were still unsealed, though each was locked. He could have taken his shotgun to the locks, which would have, again, rendered them impractical for defense, while confident he could jimmy them open with bobby pins, that would render a quick entrance or exit difficult. Besides, the Homestead's office was still open, and appearing relatively undamaged.

He'd rummaged through the office and managed to turn up not only three keys, for rooms 1D, 1G and 1K respectively, but an interesting variety of loot. The Nuka-cola vending machine still greedily held onto two bottles of the drink, which he happily took, a few caps were scavenged from the wastebasket and the first-aid kit was plundered for extra bandages, stimpacks and Rad-x. Perhaps, most interestingly, next to the registration desk, he'd found a well-maintained rifle. The weapon reminded him of Lincoln's Repeater, though far simpler in design, the weapon which sadly remained in Megaton. His desire to avoid depriving the Capital Wasteland of its history if he failed to return, which seemed likely, prompted the Vault Dweller to leave it behind, so he happily added the lever-action rifle found within the office to his already sizable arsenal.

Room 1G had been his first stop and already his instincts suggested it'd be the best place to set up camp. Aside from the lone skeleton, it was still clean and dry, with several counters and tables leaving him more than enough space to store supplies. As a happy addition, the terminal left behind was still functional. Though the account it contained of a pre-war Chinese spy seemed an interesting jaunt for another day, even a potentially lucrative one, the fact he'd be able to record some kind of journal please him.

Leaving the two duffle bags behind in the relative safety of 1G, he tried the other two rooms. 1D contained twice as many corpses, but, aside from a functional double-barrel shotgun and plenty of pre-war money, held little worth desiring. Slinging the shotgun over his shoulder and stuffing his pockets with bills knowing that, if nothing else, perhaps Panada would barter for them, Charles went to check on 1K.

What he'd found inside made him wish he'd remained ignorant.

The interior was blood-stained, numerous skeletons, some hacked to pieces, others crucified against the walls, scattered about, clearly having died in agony. A general aura of wrongness hung over the room, a sensation of evil so strong it was almost physical.

Determining the risk offset any potential harm, Charles wrapped one of the bandages around his mouth and went in. He wanted nothing from the cursed room, yet he couldn't leave it alone, not if he would call the complex home. Withdrawing one of the lighters held in a vest pouch, Charles began pouring the fluid freely about the area. After draining the small steel object, he dropped it to the floor and withdrew a second. Spilling most of its contents in the same way he had the first, Charles lit it and stepped out of the room.

He watched the fire blaze from outside for an hour, confident the general dampness of the surrounding region, and sturdy construction of the motel, would prevent the fire spreading to surrounding rooms. The unholy room went up in smoke and a satisfaction he hadn't felt in some time touched him. In the shadow of his minds eye, his father stood nearby, proud he'd put the souls of the victims to rest. Charles shook the image away and returned to 1G, the fire slowly dying out behind him.

So that's where he found himself, spreading his earthly possessions about a motel room on a far away island. He took the skeleton outside and buried it across the road from the dilapidated building, freeing up the bed for personal use. A quick whiff of the sheets proved they were rancid but remarkably free of mold and considering how he himself must smell, Charles determined he could use them.

Placing an overturned table upright, he spread his weapons across it, all loaded, for ease of access. It was a remarkable little armory, a Chinese assault rifle, combat shotgun, sniper rifle, the lever-action rifle he'd recovered from the motel office, a sidearm he'd taken from Wild Bill's corpse back at The Pitt, the baseball bat he'd carried since childhood and his trench knife, along with several grenades. Medical supplies, food and knick-knacks filled the motel room's bookshelf, his Vault-Tech ball cap, the vault suit he'd been given by her among those objects….

Ignoring the pains staring at that suit brought, Charles went about his business shoring up the room, preparing for whatever may come. Taking the double barrel shotgun he'd acquired from room 1D, Charles set it up on a nightstand, barrels pointing directly towards the entrance. Using a line of fishing wire from one of his bags, the Vault Dweller made a crude pulley, connecting the doorknob to the weapon's trigger. If someone burst in unexpectedly during the night they'd meet an unpleasant surprise.

Confident in his work, the Lone Wanderer went back towards his gathered supplies. His arm was itching furiously, as if the skin were burning, his entire body now sweating and shaking. Withdrawing one of his precious doses of Med-x, Charles greedily took the chem, feeling its numbing power wash over his body in a haze of glorious relief. Breathing a sigh of deep comfort, the man took up a bottle of moonshine, determined to see exactly what the local brewers were capable of. His first real whiff proved unpleasant, an almost faintly sulfuric scent seemed to emanate from the liquid, a deep muddy brown in color reminding him in shade of the local punga fruit.

Still, anything was better than nothing at this stage of withdrawal, so Charles held the bottle to his lips and drank deeply. As he'd expected, the moonshine's taste was potent, and somehow acidic. Fruity undertones sang throughout the brew, mixed with a bready aftertaste; however, he was sure he could grow to tolerate the drink.

His body properly numbed to the world, Charles determined the time for sleep had come, it had been a busy day. Pulling off his vest and shirt, depositing them on the floor next to his new bed and hanging his hat on a bedpost, he took one last possession out of his now nearly empty duffle bags. The tattered old teddy bear had been a constant companion, and no amount of ridicule would ever make him give up little Theodore. The sight of the little bear was overwhelming comforting, despite everything stewing about in his heart.

Pulling the stinking comforter up to his chin, and holding Theodore tight against his chest, the man drifted off to a light sleep, mind assaulted by dreams, the outdoor noises of Point Lookout seeming to increase as darkness fell over the island.

It wasn't home, but maybe, just maybe, it could become one.

AN: So I'm trying something longer than a oneshot but far shorter than MOTM, I'm hoping it'll prove an interesting journey as Charles, faces inner and outer demons and someone tries to track him down. I hope I intrigued you enough in this first chapter that you'll stick around for more.