The former Vault Dweller was a simple gal with few requests of life, and of those wishes, life seldom delivered. It didn't matter what she wanted. Someone else's happiness always had to come first. A while ago, sometime between fishing a BB out of her arm with a scalpel and watching the man she loved most fall to his knees, she'd learned to suck it up, stop whimpering over what couldn't be changed, and move on.
She woke up late, strange for her, with dull waves of pain rippling from her noggin. That was what she got for drinking to excess. Moderation, moderation, why did you forget about stopping when your tolerance did, she berated herself. When she sat up, something fell off her face that had been obscuring her vision, making it dark: a… scarf? The fire of the night before that had roared and breathed out heat onto the jubilant campers was dead, white ash the last remnants. She blearily touched it with two fingers and let the tongues of wind take it off of her fingertips; to blow about in grey eddies, to join the rest of dust in the air, to leave.
There wasn't hide nor hair of the fellows she'd fallen asleep by. Noting a distinct lack of signs of struggle, she looked about slowly and stood up. An afternoon sun roasted her eyes; she raised a hand in salute, to guard her peepers from the glare. A bustle and hustle came from behind her, so she whirled, drawing a penknife. The man called Graverobber laughed at her. While she was sleeping, the trio had broken back into the barn and retrieved Graverobber and Shilo's belongings. He had a bag at his side, and a pack on his back, along with his shotgun. Stooping by her, he picked up the scarf and replaced it 'round his neck.
What a strange man. It was far too long, even with his stature. He was wearing more cosmetics on his face than she ever had, and it wasn't smeared or blurred at all. She thought about him carefully applying eyeliner in a ladies' bathroom, and asking a girl if he could borrow a tampon. It took all her concentration to only smirk and not laugh.
"What were you trying to do, smother me?" she asked, putting her hands on her hips and stretching her back.
"I figured you wouldn't want to sunburn. Was I wrong?"
"Just because I'm dark, I toast like… toast." As proof, she held her hand up to her stomach, to show the different shades of honey-brown. Her hands were very dark, and had odd tan lines from the fingerless motorcycle gloves she sometimes liked to wear.
She was a fan of leather.
"You're welcome," he said dryly.
"Where's Butch?" she asked, although a part of her suspected.
Graverobber grimaced. "Helping the kid with the rest of our crap. They didn't seem too happy to have me there as chaperone."
She nodded, looking at the barn, imagining what the two could be up to. She didn't see what they could have to talk about, since they'd only met half a day ago. They couldn't have anything in common. "Why do you call her that?"
"Because that's what she is." From one of the many pockets in his long coat, he found sunglasses, and twirled them by the frame. "These aren't mine," he mused.
"Pick them off a raider, did you?"
"No. They're hers."
While her eyes kept snapping to the barn, he focused on the glasses, an odd half-smile under his nose.
Butch had hay on his jacket, dirt in his hair, and sweaty palms. He noticed all this but didn't care. She'd gone up to the loft to change her clothes, and as reward for not peeking, God or fate or whatever had decided to have her wear a slip, a black silk slip and that's it. She climbed down to where he stood slack-jawed and finished packing up, bending instead of getting on her knees. Complaining about there not being room enough for everything, she gave up and knelt like a normal person. He assisted her in putting the sniper rifle on her back, securing it. In her canvas bag, she put plenty of ammo, what was left of the food after breakfast, and her teddy bear, its adorable, fuzzy head poking out. He took her hand and pulled her to her feet.
"Thank you," she said.
"Don't mention it." He did not know what to say to her. "So what's the story with you and that goon, huh?"
"Who, Graverobber?"
"Yeah, that's the one. He your hired guy or something?" Butch wanted to know. It was weird, a cute little lady like her being trailed around by a mime. Except, mimes didn't talk, and that guy never shut up. He sure liked to hear his own voice. And what was with the makeup? Was it tribal? Men did not wear makeup. Period.
"He's my best friend. Saved my life more times than I'm willing to admit," she said sheepishly. "And no, I don't know his name. It's possible he doesn't have one."
"Nuh-uh, everyone's got a name. Everyone's been born, and no mom would put 'Graverobber' on a kid's birth certificate."
"Okay." After that, she found her boots interesting to look at, and it was palpably awkward. Talking was never this hard with—but he didn't like her that way. This girl was new, and incredible, and smoking hot.
He took his flask from off his leg and offered it to her with a smile that felt strained no matter how he tried to control it. It was impossible to act natural. "Hair of the dog?" To his relief, she took it and swallowed. Alcohol: the great social lubricant.
"Thank you," she said. She passed it back, and they promptly fell back into the terrible, never-ending silence. Alcohol was not living up to its reputation.
"Where are you guys headed?"
"I… I don't know. We were thinking of going to… Megaton, I think is what it's called. That's west of here," she said, concentrating hard to remember old information. "Isn't it?"
"That's right, doll, it's west, and you'll get into a lot of trouble without guides," he said.
"We've been okay so far. We take care of each other."
"No, listen." Lifting his eyebrows, he reiterated, "You could use experienced guides to help you get there. Catch my meaning?"
"Oh!" She smiled. "Yeah. I think so. Um, it's just, uh…"
"What?"
"Won't she mind? Don't you have somewhere to be?" she asked, then hinted, "Someone to be with?"
"Nope. The Butch-Man don't got plans." He did his best to make his light eyes smolder, and to make his twanging voice more suave. She stared at him, cowed. Cow eyes, her mouth open. Then she giggled, and he grinned. "You want to travel with me?"
"I… think I'd like that," she said slowly. "You do know we'll have to talk our companions into being okay with this."
Part of him wanted to say forget about those two, that they could make the trek alone. Butch, however, was not a moron, and he didn't like this girl enough to go get killed for her. They needed the heavies with them, because in a fight, the two of them? It wouldn't be a pretty sight. He patted her back lightly and told her not to sweat it, that he had it in the bag. Truth was, as he left that bag, he was nervous, and sweating; more so when he saw how pissed the Lone Wanderer looked.
"Done flirting?" she asked. He took her aside, slinging an arm across her shoulders so they could buddy up.
"I think it's time to expand the Snakes. What do you say we recruit those guys?" he suggested.
She rolled her eyes. "Butch, you're in a gang of one. Spit out the real reason or we walk. You know I'm the brains of this operation."
"Yeesh, you can be a bitch of a broad." He dropped his voice. "The girl—"
"Shilo."
"Shilo wants to get to Megaton. They don't know the way like we do. They're clueless. That is, they could really use some help."
"What's that got to do with me?" she said, but he could tell by the way she sighed that the matter was pretty much resolved. Yeah, he was the best.
"You're such a goodie two shoes. You won't let them end up carrion," he said. She tilted her head to push on his shoulder as she bumped their hips. They laughed; he hugged her shoulder as thanks.
Once he'd left the Vault, he thought dating was over. He'd been too busy fighting for his life to slow down and go city by city to look for non-nutjob dames. Now, he had a chance, and a pretty decent one, with a girl who seemed sane. Saner, at least, than the one currently teasing him, calling him five letter words.
Meanwhile, Shilo was wheedling Graverobber to give her a break and please, please, please could they join their groups together.
"I don't know," he said. "Two's safer than four. Kid, you know I have your best interests at heart." Solemnly, hand to his chest, as if taking an oath.
She took that hand and removed her sunglasses, placing them over her eyes and obscuring the emotions playing out on her face as they spoke. "I know you do. I trust you," she said, making sure to emphasize 'trust.' Her hand curled on his arm. "They know this place better than we do. It's been a few weeks, and that's it."
"Five weeks," he corrected her. "I'm well aware. Did you see how they charged at their opponents? We go in shadows. We calculate."
"Yes, and we almost got killed yesterday. If they hadn't come along," she reminded him. "And I like him. You've said so yourself, that my life hasn't been normal."
"Oh, kid, believe me, if you're looking for the picture of normalcy, you'd best keep lookin', because that ain't it," he sneered.
"Graverobber." She stood on tiptoe, to place her head on his chest. "A normal life involves boys. I'm not a little girl and can make my own choices in this arena. You don't have to agree with me, okay?"
"Good. I don't." He smiled, picked up her hand and removed it, setting her down to normal. "If it makes you happy, I guess we can give it a shot."
The problem wasn't found in the fact that there were other people along on their expedition. Graverobber was a people person in the sense that it was helpful when there were folk around whom he could steal from and scam. Rarely were they worth becoming more closely acquainted with. And that, right there, was the problem. Shilo hadn't taken her sad eyes off of Butch since they'd started on the road, and what's more, she had made Graverobber her confidante in trivial, girlish matters. She sometimes tugged on his sleeve. He would stoop for her, and she'd cup her hands around the shell of his ear and say Butch had looked back at her, and wasn't that neat?
Her furnace breath tickled.
He didn't take issue with her dating, per se. Shilo didn't belong to him, and he certainly didn't feel some compelling need to plant a flag on her ass in the name of Graverobber. The intention had never been for a codependency between them to form. After all, socialization was important, and the pup had little to none before he'd come along and stolen her away. And yet, that Shilo looked to be heading in a romantical direction with this boy… well, it irked him. Butch was a little twit. Nothing more than a punk know-it-all from an underground cooler.
The Lone Wanderer was arm in arm with Butch, had been for the last half a mile; then, however, she grabbed him around the neck, giving him a thorough noogie and messing up his pompadour. With a disgusted shout, he pushed, and they snapped apart. A punch or three was thrown at her shoulder, and she defended herself by stepping back. They settled down and resumed the stroll with their hands and arms at their sides.
Butch combed his hair and, as he did so, he turned and walked backwards a few paces to see if Shilo had seen the scuffle. She giggled and hugged Graverobber's sleeve the moment the prettyboy turned back 'round to avoid stumbling on a rock.
"Why don't you walk with him?" he asked, removing her by the back of her dress. "You're eager enough."
"Oh, I wouldn't know what to say to him. He's cool," she said, like it meant something. It meant something to her, and she was aching for advice, pining for the smarmy greaser in his tacky leather jacket.
He explained to her that cool guys were like any other person, and Butch was undoubtedly more scared of her than she was of him. This astonished Shilo. For the next two leveled blocks, she was dumbfounded and could say only "Really? Really? Really?" and an occasional "I don't believe you!"
Ushering her forward by shoving her right between her shoulder blades, he propelled them up to the main attraction. Shilo tried to dig in her heels and protest. She went silent and scowled. That was the thanks he got for trying to help her out, even though he didn't really want to. Well, never in all his life! He strolled ahead, to scope out the scenery. An ant the size of his foot crawled along the path. Behind him was the sound of youngsters talking, and the breeze roaring gently as a crying lamb. The ant would find no pardon, and he squashed it. The blood was a bug spray, and the insides, the sticky pieces of shell were scraped off on the sidewalk.
Two radscorpions later, the group stopped at a diner with the windows all blown out by the ancient blasts, the tiles all scuffed, counters blackened. Call of nature made the girls head to the bathroom in the back, while the menfolk awkwardly stood around, holding the gals' oversized bags.
In the filthy bathroom, Shilo tried to talk herself into using the disgusting half-toilet. Most of it had been reduced to rubble, but it looked to be in working order. But, oh, it was so gross. In the next stall over, the Lone Wanderer was humming something from the radio. Giving a whimper, she went ahead and did it, and scrubbed hard at her hands with soap over the sink. The Lone Wanderer snickered at her.
"You'd think you were new in town, sister," she said. Hands still dripping, the blonde patted her hair more or less into place and wetted her lips with sink water.
"Why don't they fix it?" Shilo asked.
The Lone Wanderer picked up the trash can and shook out its contents; Shilo scrambled to get away from the refuse. There were bottle caps scattered in the paper muck, and used syringes. While picking through it, the lady tossed the unwanted things in Shilo's direction. Shilo backed up against a stall to escape the pelting of filth.
"Who's going to do that? It's anarchy out there, and guns make the rules, not wrenches."
"You don't use a gun," Shilo muttered.
"Could if I wanted to," the Lone Wanderer snapped. "The point is, who cares about a damn leaky toilet? We're all just trying to survive. What's the sense of whining?"
"I'm not…" A big sigh was heaved. This lady had Shilo awestruck, and at the same time gave off the unwelcoming air that she didn't want anything to do with Shilo. "Did I, uh, do something?"
The Lone Wanderer fixed her pigtails without a mirror's aid and said she was good in a fight, she'd give her that much credit. Beyond that, she concluded, they didn't have anything to talk about. Shilo, unaccustomed to the cruel realm of social rejection, felt her face grow hot, and to avoid scrutiny she stormed out. She was a teenager and had to go the dramatic route. Her body felt out of control. She'd done nothing wrong!
"What, do you not like me either?" she demanded of Graverobber. It came out louder than she'd meant.
The men were baffled.
"What?"
"You heard me. You're here to shepherd me, right? And now this group is here, and they don't even want me around," she said angrily. He tried to pacify her, reassure that he wasn't there solely as a protective service.
"Yeah, you're wanted," Butch added.
"Shut it," Graverobber warned him. "This is the last thing she needs."
"What?" Shilo exploded. "Who are you to decide that? My life's in my hands, understand?" To drive her point home, the girl clapped her hands together soundly once. "I'm no wilting specimen. Not an exotic bird that needs caging and protecting."
Butch had backed up, seeing that it was a sort of couple's fight, and if fists didn't fly, spit was, from both their mouths from the fury of their projected words. He stuck his hands in his pockets and wanted badly to be out of there.
"No, you're a human teenager, and a rude one, at that. If you can't take a little criticism, since I'll hazard a guess and say that's what has you in this tizzy, then you can't handle the complication of sex. Yes," he went on, exasperated by her embarrassment, how she looked at Butch and then at the ground, "That is what these things tend to lead to in the real world. Get over this virgin mindset."
"Asshole," she hissed, the first time she'd ever cursed at him, but he didn't let it alter his grimace a whit. She did not take back her things. He did not bother her to do so and take a weight off his shoulders because, by the way, she went to the door and leaned on it, staring out on the endless wastes with a furrowed, troubled brow, he'd added some weight to hers.
The Lone Wanderer emerged with tidier hair and twenty-one caps. Graverobber said he'd hold onto those, scooping them up from her hand, ignoring her protests with a smirk. She should've been faster in stopping him.
It amazed him, that there were these endless stretches of empty road, with no one around. On the island, it was impossible for him to go one step without being swarmed by addicts craving the glow. He'd taken to hiding in dumpsters just to get a moments peace. Now here he was, surrounded by the peace he'd long craved. They went on as if nothing had happened, the only change that Shilo was in the definite lead, up ahead. She came upon a metal gate, tall and unbending. She clasped the lock and bypassed the common notion that all things had to be broken into with lockpicking; it was a simple matter for her to hold the gate open and slip through. She waited on the broken asphalt for them to follow. An idyllic street sprawled before them, two lines of two-story homes with a wide aisle in the middle and a playground at the end. Confident, she walked on ahead, down the road. The others lingered by the gate; the Lone Wanderer looked at the sign on the gate.
"Someone get her back here," she said, serious and even a tad frightened. "Now."
The sign in question read "WARNING: EXPLOSIVES!"
The world became slow motion then, or perhaps it became very, very fast. Shilo's foot stepped. She heard a mild tick, and she was confused and then alarmed. All at once, Graverobber dropped what was on his back, what was affixed to his side, and raced forward, shouting "GRENAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAADES!" He scooped up Shilo as the mine went off, and she screamed and held tight around his neck. He navigated through the minefield she'd unwittingly tiptoed into and laid her down on the brittle grass.
She was crying and squirming, and she wrapped her hands around the burned section of leg. It took considerable coaxing for her to remove them so he could check the damage. Chips of debris had fixed in her thigh, and one had improbably caught her shoulder. He stuck his tongue between his teeth and pulled out the shoulder triangle, the only bit that stuck out and was shallow.
"Lucky girl," he told her. "These are superficial injuries. At worst, you'll limp a day." Butch and the Lone Wanderer hurried over. "Med-X?" he asked.
"I want Zydrate," Shilo sobbed.
"Nope. All out, kid, remember? I sold some for food." He uncapped the syringe with his teeth and stuck her with it, forcing himself to feel detached, maybe a bit prideful that he was good, and practiced. Oh, yes. There was talent in his hands, when it came to the removal of pain from pretty young things. "Miss Bitch here is going to disarm those grenades, like I know she can, and then we'll settle you in some dead man's cold sheets. How's that sound?" The Lone Wanderer sighed and headed off to follow the suggested orders. Before doing so, she gave him a scalpel, tweezers, and a dingy cloth.
"What can I do?" Butch asked, dropping to his knees.
It surprised Graverobber that the boy was offering. Hell, could be he'd misjudged him. So what if he looked and acted like a twit. He was showing concern and care in all the right places. Butch was a scared kid, and his general, obnoxious attitude did not make his crush a farce. Graverobber would have to ignore his ego and step back to give Butch room in Shilo's life.
Not that he'd be thrilled about making such concessions.
Shilo held out her hand, and Butch took it, hesitantly. Little birds needed coaxing before settling in a stranger's palm. She, however, trusted him, and Graverobber had to trust her. Trust her judgment. It had served her well so far. The only slip in judgment she'd ever had had been when she'd left the safety of her house to chase fireflies and fiends in trenchcoats, and even that misstep had set her free.
He began to remove the shrapnel from the tender, burned flesh. He used expert and delicate touches, but could not entirely avoid slicing into her and forcing winces and creative curses into her vocabulary. She squeezed Butch's hand hard enough for it to pop off. They got her into one of the pastel houses, on a couch in the no-longer-living room, under a blanket from upstairs, since she fell asleep before they could negotiate how to get her into a bed.
"I'm gonna hit the hay," Graverobber yawned.
"It's eight," the Lone Wanderer said flatly after checking her Pip-Boy for the time.
"Yeah. I need my winks before staying awake during the moon hours. Sweet dreams, adventurers," he said, and headed up the stairs with a fancy sweep of his coat. A door to one of the bedrooms slammed.
Butch stood, watching the unconscious Shilo, and the Lone Wanderer stood, watching Butch. Butch became aware of the awake eyes watching him and gave a self-conscious start. "I need a smoke," he said, and headed outside with a cigarette in his teeth.
Which left her alone with Shilo.
The kid—and, the Lone Wanderer had to admit, the Graverobber's nickname was apt—had a shit life. A troubled past, one might say. Without giving up too many details, Graverobber had given her the gist of it: orphaned at a young age, psychologically and physically abused by her guardian, and all of her role models had been murdered right before her eyes in the span of an hour.
So why was she giving her such a hard time?
She didn't have to be this petty person. They had suffering and dark secrets in common. Did it matter that they both liked the same guy? Moreover, did it matter enough for Shilo to deserve mistreatment? The answer, for both, was no. "Okay, I get the picture," she said out loud to her conscience and the sleeping girl.
She took the unoccupied bedroom, which had been intended for kids. As a result, her feet hung off the edge of the bed, and she had a hard time resting, imagining a youngster's last night in this bed. It was the morbid time of night. Rest was important, to rejuvenate the mind and body, and therefore it was next to impossible to get. She found a fragment of bone and gave up on the idea of sleep.
Shilo went out on the porch and gazed at the stars. They were the clearest she'd seen them since leaving home. She raised her thumb to the North Star, closing one eye to make the brightness pop out all the more in the blue-black setting. She didn't see Butch, leaning against the house in shadows, in half-thought.
"You know," he said, smirking at the astonished 'oh!' she made when he made his presence known, "When I was a kid, my friends and I came up with the idea that there were dragons out here."
"Were you disappointed?" she asked.
"You ever seen a dragon?"
She shook her head. "I saw a guy breathe fire. That was a circus trick. No, not an actual dragon."
"Me neither. Doesn't stop me from hoping."
"When I was a kid, I wanted to go outside. My wish came true. Yours could, too," she said with a shy smile.
He noticed her shivering and took off his jacket, placing it over her white shoulders. "Say, how would you like to be an honorary Tunnel Snake?"
Shilo slid her arms into the sleeves, liking the soft leather on her skin. "Tunnel Snakes?"
"Yeah. It's the gang I started. It's the toughest, baddest gang this Wasteland's ever seen!" he crowed. "You're a Tunnel Snake now. What do you think of that?"
She grinned. "Badass," she said. "Do you kick ass and take names?"
"You bet, girl! We fight with the fangs. You know what it's about, what it's really about?" he asked her, eager to talk now that he had drawn her into it, made her laugh, made her open up and be interested in an obvious way.
"Raising hell?" she guessed.
"That, too. Not what I had in mind. Well, my fellow Tunnel Snake, I'll tell you. Freedom. That's the good life. You make your own life, no rules, no order, no boss."
"But there is a uniform."
"Yeah, but a very cool one," he assured her.
Of that, Shilo had no doubt. She felt like the coolest gal in the Wasteland.
