Musical Inspiration provided by:
Chord Left - Agnes Obel
Solitude - Layla Frost
Every End Has A New Beginning - Joep Beving
She screams as knives of hot sunlight lance through delicate optical tissues with the brightness of the bombs falling all over again. Her brains are surely melting and will leak out of her ears at any moment. Like a slow leaf in autumn, she sinks to her knees, the shock and pain of it all heavy enough to crush.
Sneaking was all but impossible; the Vault hallways too cramped and narrow to maneuver and still remain undetected. She tried, fuck, did she try, but none of her good intentions were worth a thing. They kept coming, breaking against her like waves against the shore, and no amount of begging or threats made them back down.
Each successive one was easier than the last: Officer Kendall, Officer Park, Officer Wolfe, Officer Richards, Officer Mack, even Paul's dad, Officer Hannon; all bludgeoned to death with a baseball bat like she was slugging for a homerun.
She's disgusted with herself.
After she brained Officer Kendall, the first one, she had leaned against the wall and retched, losing the dinner Dad had made for her. Officer Kendall's wide, blank eyes stared, disapproving and full of accusation, the blood leaking from his ears a scarlet testament to her own ruthlessness.
Why would he leave her there? Couldn't Dad see how wrong the vault was?
Adaptable and intelligent, she is more than capable of critical thinking and higher tier problem solving, but goddamn if she isn't the stupidest creature on the face of the earth.
"I forgot the fucking SUN!" she wails, pitching forward from her knees into the dirt, curling up on herself. The clear riot visor of the security helmet is meant to stop thrown objects, not the harsh solar rays tearing at the thin skin of her eyelids.
Eyes squeezed tight, she blinks rapidly in the dark safety of the cave made of her arms and panics when there is only a searing white.
While the logic and reasoning centers of her brain know that this is a simple case of intense photosensitivity, the fight or flight mechanism has kicked into high gear: neurotransmitters latching onto receptors at a shocking rate of speed - shoving all reason out a figurative six-story window.
Anatomically correct visions of being eaten alive by wild animals as she sits in a helpless, unseeing heap sucker-punches her psyche and kicks it in the teeth for good measure. Brain overloaded and synapses misfiring, she passes out cold.
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
The dusty wasteland breeze whistles and teases along her ears and cheeks. Mercifully, it is sundown as her consciousness crawls up out of the sludge of its forced reset. Gingerly sitting up, she automatically checks for injuries. Just like dear old Dad, she muses, and while her eyes are gritty and her head still hurts, it isn't nearly as bad as that first awful meeting with the sun. Then she sees something that is a stern reminder that she has stumbled into a whole other world.
The sky appears to be on fire.
Clamoring up to the top of the rocky outcropping, she looks out to the west and what she sees takes her breath away. The sun's rays are no longer harsh, but soft and diffused as it sets. Pinks, purples, oranges, and reds paint the sky and she can only stare in awe. The sheer expanse of sky overhead is terrifying, but for now, the brilliant colors of sunset hold just enough novelty to push away the agoraphobic fear. Legs tucked up underneath and hands in her lap, she gazes out at the sunset and thinks about absolutely nothing but the colors until it finally sinks below the horizon.
Hot day turns to chilly night and she shivers. While staying here is tempting, it would likely spell death.
Pack shouldered and Pip-Boy map consulted, she carefully heads toward Megaton, baseball bat in hand and 10mm pistol strapped to one hip. The little handgun is not her favorite. It fits awkwardly in her hands and she isn't sure at all how to shoot it. At least the BB gun had been straightforward - eye lined right up along the sight, cheek resting on the smooth wood stock. Breathe in, find the target, breathe out, squeeze don't pull, be surprised by the shot. Dad had taught her everything, even how to take it apart and put it back together again. Guns, however, are not in her thoughts at the moment. Her surroundings command more attention.
The whole world is obviously ruined, not that she had known what it looked like before the bombs dropped, but she's pretty sure it isn't supposed to look like this. There's almost nothing left. Black spires of atomically petrified trees, burned out cars, broken highway; it looks like everything had been blown sky high and left to fall wherever gravity might deign to put it.
Heading down the hill, a town - or what is left of one anyway - looms out of the growing dark, complete with crumbling buildings, some with mailboxes out front. Unsure if the buildings are inhabited, she drops into a crouch. A soft chime from the Pip-Boy announces her arrival in 'Springvale,' but its Foe-Finder feature also shows a friendly green dot, indicating that she is not alone.
An eyeball-shaped robot floats serenely down what used to be a street. It is apparently a flying radio. Someone named 'John Henry Eden' insists that he is the president and tells her that the 'Enclave' would 'restore every school', 'reinstate every youth program', and offer 'financial assistance to those in need'.
She calls so much bullshit, a whole herd of cows couldn't make enough to keep up. There can't possibly be anyone in charge of this hellhole, and if there is, they're doing a pretty crap job.
Fearing retaliation if she swats it out of the sky with the baseball bat, she decides to let bygones be bygones and scram. Keeping off the street and combing the ruined buildings for anything useful proves surprisingly easy. The structures have walls like swiss cheese, and there are no doors to knock on.
The ruined homes provide a few goodies for those with sharp eyes and quick fingers. A few trade magazines in ruined mailboxes, random junk, and an intriguing safe that she jimmies open with a bobby pin, a little coaxing, and a far flung prayer. Lock picking isn't her forte, but surprisingly, Amata, of all people, had a knack for it that was almost preternatural, and had thankfully shared some knowledge.
The little safe holds a few boxes of food, a crappy-looking pistol, a type of ammunition that looks too big for the 10mm, and some chems. Dandy Boy Apples, (apples, while not in this strange, dried form, are her favorite) are reverently packed away, and three more green dots pop up on the Pip-Boy screen, moving steadily down the street.
If the dots threw her for a loop, the people and creature belonging to said dots toss her completely.
Out of the evening gloom walks a scary looking man in dark armor with a wicked looking rifle. The second man is wearing slacks, suit jacket, and tie, dressed like he's going to meet his swell girl for a picnic in the park, like in the entertainment tapes.
The giant cow moos out of one of its two heads.
"What. The. Actual. Fuck," she tries to say, but no sound is coming out.
"Hello, Miss!" the man in the suit calls out, waving in a decidedly friendly way, but he is also armed with a decidedly oily smile.
Gripping the bat a little tighter, her glance darts between the oil-slick grin and the guard's gun. The rifle is still stowed away behind his back, but that could change in less than a moment if he chose. Getting twitchy will be unwise, but just standing there like a dope may also be a bad idea.
"Hello," she croaks out.
"I am Doctor Hoff, physician and healer. This is my security consultant, Mr. Tango," the man in black snaps off a lazy salute that belies his watchfulness, "and this fine beast of burden is Atlas." The cow, using all four eyes, fixes her with a disinterested stare, chewing its cud (cuds?) with both mouths.
"Can I interest you in some of my merchandise, dear girl?" His smile is positively greasy now.
The act of buying things is a somewhat foreign concept. There were no stores in the Vault. Food came from the extruder, water from the purifier. Everything was provided for free, so there was nothing to buy in the first place. Trading is only slightly more familiar, but that was comic books for rubber band guns, snack cakes for bubblegum, and marbles for bobby pins.
What she really wants to talk about was how a cow can have two heads and still be alive, but decides it would be prudent to save that conversation for another time.
"Um, sure? What are you selling?"
"I am a purveyor of fine medicinals! I offer quality pick-you-ups, put-you-downs, and some that turn you all around!"
Chems.
Those little miracles of modern molecular science could get you hooked quick and didn't really do much for you, except Rad-Away and stimpaks. Ellen DeLoria was a shining example of substance abuse, something not to be emulated. Butch's mom had been so toasted, she pretty much just let the radroaches nibble on her.
"I would not be interested in your more, ah, recreational supplies, but I would like to see your medical selection, if you would be so kind." Manners may be of use here; he seems fairly intelligent and well spoken. He is a merchant, after all.
His smile grows bigger, and happily, a little kinder. "It is so nice to meet a polite individual here in this wild, untamed Wasteland! I understand your hesitation completely, Miss. Rest assured, I have a lovely stock of stimpaks, among other life-giving concoctions."
A good rummage through his inventory reveals five stimpaks and three Rad-Away bags. The unfamiliar bags are filled with a syrupy-looking liquid in a sickly amber color that makes her think of bile.
"I'll take these, please. What will the total be?" She confidently pulls out the stacks of green bills nicked from a dresser, like people did in the tapes when they went to a store. He dissolves into a gale of high-pitched giggles.
Someone has obviously been sampling the merchandise.
"Oh, my dear! Oh my dear girl!" he snorts as he manfully tries to get his giggles under control. "I'm not sure where you're from, but that money is only fit for starting fires out here! Do you have caps? Something to trade, perhaps?"
"Caps? Like this hat?" The baseball hat on her head is worn and the red fabric has faded a little, but judging by the state of the world, it's probably prime.
"Well, while I would be more than pleased to buy such a fine article of clothing, the caps I speak of are bottlecaps."
She can only stare in what she hopes is not, but probably is, an expression of complete bewilderment.
"From the tops of Nuka-Cola, the sweet and fizzy refreshment?" He cocks his head and looks at her strangely.
"Oh, of course." This world seems to hold an infinite amount of ridiculous. "Well, I don't seem to have any caps on me, but I would love to trade." Pulling all the random junk out of her pack, the odds and ends form a small mountain between them.
"That will do admirably, especially if all of your items are in as good condition as this lovely hat. While I myself specialize in pharmaceuticals, many of my colleagues, like the venerable Crazy Wolfgang, prefer a more, ah," he points to a coffee mug, "varied inventory. I would be unkind not to keep an eye out for certain treasures he may find appealing."
'Crazy Wolfgang,' now that's a name that sounds like it belongs in this godforsaken pile of dust.
After a few snickers from the guard at her motley inventory and Doc Hoff's exclamations of surprise at the sheer number of spare Vault security armor sets, she walks away with the stimpaks and Rad-Away, along with a little over 100 'caps'. Not completely sure where to store them, she stuffs them in a spare sock and ties the end to her belt. Its cheery jangle is oddly comforting.
The good doctor waves a friendly goodbye, and she waves back and shakes out her hair. She can't believe of all the junk she nicked from the Vault, she didn't remember a single hair tie. Jamming it all in her helmet, she sets off for Megaton, determined to get there before morning. She is not eager to see what her eyes will have to say about the sunrise.
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
Stockholm slowly thumbs off the safety, watching intently through the old four-power scope, muttering a curse as he notices yet another scratch in the lens.
This gun is irritating, a shitty .32 hunting rifle, but he supposes he's good enough to snipe with anything they give him. He just wishes they would have sprung for something with a little more stopping power. Or maybe something not held together with wire, duct tape, and a prayer.
That would be nice.
While she doesn't look like a raider, she also looks like no one he's ever seen before.
She's dressed in a dark blue jumpsuit with some sort of light armor over top. The ensemble manages to look both utilitarian and sexy; utilitarian due to the armor, and sexy with the way it's hugging all the curves of its distinctly female wearer.
Also, Stockholm hasn't come down from his perch in a while, so maybe anything containing purely X chromosomes and all its skin is starting to look sexy.
The strange round helmet is too big, wobbling all over her head like a nut in a too-loose shell, but it's stubbornly strapped under her chin. She's holding a baseball bat with a death grip in one hand, while the other rests lightly on a little handgun strapped to her left hip.
Stockholm isn't sure whether to shoot her or ask her out for a drink.
While she looks too small to be dangerous, he is concerned with her movements. She creeps along, staying in the deepest shadow the night will provide, but her furtive glances, darting here, there, and everywhere, speak of fear and caution rather than nefarious intentions. He doesn't understand why she would be so fearful here. Most people visibly relax the closer to the gate they get. He figures she must be lost.
He exhales and thumbs the safety back on.
"Hi there, chickadee!" he calls out as she slips around the stupid hunk-of-junk robot that insists on constantly walking into his shots. Someday, one of Stockholm's rounds would go wide, and nail Deputy Weld right in his bucket-of-bolts brain basket with a glorious explosion of motor oil and sparking electronics. Boss man Simms would be pissed, but Stockholm would just blame it on the crap rifle they gave him.
Her head snaps up to his perch and he loses his breath. The moonlight glints off her eyes through the visor and for a moment, they look like they're made of crystal. Not that he's ever seen a real crystal, but he's heard about them. Somehow, he finds his voice again. "Usually, when someone says hi to you, you say something back, like, 'Hello,' or 'Good evening', or 'Greetings and salutations, Mr. Stockholm, lovely weather we're having'."
She squints up at him, crinkling her brows together in a thinking frown, and the illusion is lost.
"Hi," she says over her shoulder, pushing the gate open and slinking away.
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
Pushing open the door of Moriarty's Saloon, she is greeted by the combined scents of sweat, piss, and desperation. The first thing she sees nearly makes her turn and run to the Vault and pound on the door to get back in.
There is a man-shaped creature behind the bar, calmly wiping glasses, like it's a normal, everyday thing to be missing half its skin. The nose and ears are gone and startlingly red muscle peeks out between the tattered skin like a clinical anatomy model. It looks at her expectantly with opaque, milky eyes.
"Welcome to Moriarty's."