Stray
Chapter 1
The .32 pistol grazes his chin. Flak tries not to twitch. The pistol in his own grip doesn't waver but his legs are shaking. He feels every single step he's run from Paradise Falls to here, wherever here is.
He lifts his gaze to the other person holding the pistol.
The man.
Raider.
His light armour is constructed of miscellaneous junk. A metal plate in the middle of his chest is strapped in place with thin leather bands and buckles that stretch around his torso. Everything is suspended there by a metal ring around his neck. There's a brace or pad that covers his right shoulder, decorated with spikes. The raider's pants are ripped off at the knees, and his boots are high on his calves. This armour barely protects anything. Not his skin that's caked with dirt; brown where it had cooked under the sun, golden and bronze where the light falls on it. It doesn't hide the wound he has. It's a mess on the left side of his torso, trailing red down his flesh. Behind the bleached hair that covers only one side of his scalp, the man stares at Flak like he's already slicing him open. His harsh breaths disturb the hair that tapers down to his lips.
"Your gun's empty," Flak says, his voice punctuated by the sound of battle outside.
"What d'you know?" the raider snarls, jerking the pistol forward, almost catching Flak on his chin. Flak tries not to flinch.
"Any smart man's gonna shoot the Deathclaws chasing him." And any raider would have already shot him instead of trying to compromise – if they had bullets in their gun. The raider makes a sharp sound in his throat. His scowl deepens. "You saying you're not smart?"
"Fuck you," he growls, promising every bit of violence with his tone. His eyes dart fast from left to right. Wild. Is he searching for a weapon? Typical raider. Flak knows better than to get into a fight with an injured animal.
"I'm empty too," Flak confesses before the raider decides to jump him. The raider stops scanning the room and peers at him from the corner of his eyes. Distrust and suspicion are easy to read. It looks the same on every face. "Listen," Flak starts. The raider continues staring at him. "Seeing as we're stuck here until those monsters go away..." Outside, the screams and howls and roars have died down... sort of. "Think we can have a truce?" Flak proposes. The raider narrows his eyes. He glances at the door, now blocked by the fridge they had both jammed there. His gaze returns to Flak. Flak can recognise the look of submission – no, acquiescence. Slowly, he pulls the gun away from where it's been pressed to the raider's jaw. The raider does the same. He winces as he takes his pistol away from Flak; the action must have pulled at his injury. On his side, the wound spills a new trickle of red.
All of a sudden, the raider sways forward. He glares at Flak straight in the eye. They're a dark, dark green.
"Truce," he rasps. "But I ain't sharin' the scotch."