The sun had risen, but its light quickly relinquished into a second blanket of thick fog. The morning was still young, only half lit through the dense air. Ian pulled his new jacket closed and held his rifle ready. It was difficult to see more than a few feet in any direction. He was always aware of Mel's silhouette trailing close behind. The man hadn't said much yet, hadn't said anything since the fog fell to obscure everything. The overeager air of him had faded away soon after the landscape was covered over.

The blind walk was claustrophobic and sinister. Their crunching footsteps drifted off into the mist and disappeared after some moments. Ian felt that he must be ready in case of an attack. It seemed that there would be an attack in every moment. It was somehow impossible that the fog be empty. There must be something stalking through it. Ian tried to move quietly, but kept that pace brisk. At first he had been uncertain whether to creep through or to hurry toward the far side. He never consciously resolved that problem, but found himself rushing along anyway. Mel scampered behind him and occasionally stumbled on hidden rocks and dead plants hung with dew.

A sudden, stinging crack rang through the whole world, shrunken cold as it was. Ian knew that a gunshot and held the rifle tighter. He ducked and Mel followed him down. The man seemed to be shaking, but Ian couldn't tell if it was from cold or fear. Either was plausible. Ian searched around in the mist for any hint of an intruder. The sound of the gunshot reverberated inside the blank expanse and still whistled in Ian's ear long after the initial incident. He ignored that, as he ignored the frightened man following close behind him. At any moment there could be something out of the mist.

Another explosion threw ripples into the air. Ian thought he smelled some kind of smoke but he couldn't be sure. Mel flinched away from the bullet, though it could have come from any direction. Mel flinched away from every direction and pulled his hands up to his head for a moment. The empty revolver was still clutched there, useless. Mel flinched back into place after a few moments of continued stillness. There was no change in the long cascade of pale air. It rolled into everything and disappeared uncertain.

There was one further shot and Mel reacted with the same animal terror. Ian didn't say anything, just kept his gun steady and watched around in the rapid advance. Whatever was out there, Ian hoped to escape the fog before encountering it. He tried to remain as quiet as possible, but still found his boots skidding on the occasional stone or tearing through a tangled dead scrub of brush. Small, frustrating noises scraped out into the air, but none of this was as bad as Mel. The man travelled with the grace of mindless fear. He dragged at every plant and kicked every stone and drove the dirt into an instrument of malice. It began to seem impossible that he would not give them away. Ian raised his weapon and prepared for that eventuality. He watched more closely for Mel's ineptitude, knowing the man's mere presence might bring about greater danger.

Ian noticed the sound ahead and stopped dead immediately. Mel followed in stillness and glanced past him. It was soft, chopping whir like the huge Enclave mechanism. This was much smaller, but the machine was all Ian could think of. There was no variation to the noise. It beat at a constant speed and tone, fluttering through the dense air with an eerie, alien presence.

"What is that?" Mel said.

"I don't know. Don't move. Don't talk."

Mel obeyed and Ian focused his attention on the sound. It had grown slightly nearer, which was ominous, but Ian still tried to discern its texture. At a certain point, he knew it was too close and that it was no longer sufficient to listen. Ian stared into the mist and drew the point of his gun along with the gaze. Each spot of the air looked the same as any other, but Ian searched for a minute difference anywhere. The longer he observed it, the more the mist was constantly different, shifting and billowing out in vaporous tendrils. There was nothing familiar and nothing to help him in that uncertain eternity of soft grey. Ian turned his gun back and forth, took a step to change his vantage slightly. His skin felt clammy and uncomfortable against the thick, damp air.

Ian's boot shifted slightly across the rolling backs of a few stones and that sent up a clacking sound of movement. Inside, through a peal of shock, he reprimanded himself for the carelessness of that advance. Ian twisted his gun around in earnest, to be sure that clamor hadn't summoned the enemy. There was only the faint glimmer of a smudge, the dark blur of motion before Ian felt something stab into the meat of his arm. He stifled a gasp at the sensation and half turned that way. Mel said something but it was lost beneath the thunderous roar of bullets fired near blind.

He stopped after a few rounds, quickly crouched and looked in the direction of his assailant. His arm throbbed painfully, but he did not inspect it, not yet. There was no sound but the ringing in his ears. The enemy could be moving or could already have moved or could be waiting for him to make a move. Ian stayed still and watched, hardly dared to shut his eyes for even a moment. Eventually he began to creep forward with gun stuck ahead. He fought to stay silent in the advance, and even Mel managed to sense the gravity of this situation. He was slow and quiet, staying several feet directly behind Ian the whole time. It was all silent ahead, but that didn't mean anything.

There was a shape ahead, dark on the ground. It was the only darkness visible in the mist, a fallen silhouette. Ian spotted it immediately and approached without wasting time. With every step, Ian watched for movement from the body. It was totally still, but produced an absurd revelation as Ian came to stand over it. The creeping enemy had been a mutated insect, grotesque but probably not deadly. Ian finally looked down at his arm and saw a long, black stinger hanging from amongst a few dripping rivulets of blood. Ian pulled it out and dropped it onto the body which had been torn apart by two or three of Ian's wild bullets.

With the menace dissipated, they quickly walked on. Ian checked the compass in his Pip-Boy and noticed Mel eyeing it. He didn't say anything to answer the obvious, unspoken question or even acknowledge it. The fog began to clear after less than a half hour of walking. First, thin beams of light began to fall through the distorting mist and soon those rays melted the mass away. They were placed back in the dead, brown waste with less of interest than the fog's blind stomach.

Outside the fog it was a sunny morning. None of the horror persisted beneath such a dawn, and Ian noticed Mel unwinding in the slightly less tense atmosphere. Ian focused his attention on the distance, searching for any town or landmark that might help in the search.

"That sure was some switch up, huh? I mean, I thought it was some gunman and I thought you'd been shot but it just turned out to be a bug, a bloatfly!"

Ian didn't look at the man, respond, or encourage the conversation in any way.

Mel continued on despite Ian's apathy and began to tell a few jokes and anecdotes. Ian didn't pay attention to the words, just listened to the man's voice droning on. It was like playing the tape but with a whole new commentary for every few minutes. Still, even as Mel chattered through the midmorning air, Ian ignored him for whatever might lie ahead.

After a few minutes of trying to force a conversation, Mel seemed to realize he had failed. Ian remained silent and impassive through every barrage of unnecessary words. Mel finally understood this reluctance and joined with an uncomfortable void of his own. In this way they walked on across the desert for several hours in total silence. Ruined environs rolled past through silence and faded into the land behind. There was nothing to do but walk and occasionally think.

After some time of silence, Ian looked out and noticed a small town ahead. It took a few seconds for him to realize he had already seen it, and that they had been moving toward it specifically for probably more than an hour. In the midst of this realization, Ian looked over at Mel, who stared back after a moment. Ian couldn't tell how long the man had been following him. It couldn't have been more than a couple days, probably just one, but Ian had lost the habit of counting hours as he wandered the waste. There was day and there was night and, between both states, Ian walked on.

Mel stared back at him and said, "What?"

Ian just shook his head and returned his thoughts to the town ahead. It wasn't long before they had crossed the distance and were entering the town. Ian couldn't help wondering if there had been another lapse or if the time had passed naturally, just repetitive and lost into a void of blank time. Ian shook his head again, and moved on because someone was approaching. He couldn't retreat to thinking. Not now, he needed help.

"Good afternoon," the dusky figure called out from several meters off. "You're welcome to enter, but I'd appreciate it if you will lower your weapon."

Ian nodded slowly and pointed the barrel toward the ground.

"That's better. Now, is there anything I can help you with? We have an inn here and there is some trade available. The merchants will be through soon if you would prefer to wait for them."

"No, all we need is directions. Do you know of a place called Smith Casey's Garage? As far as I know it isn't inhabited, just a building in the area."

"Yes I've seen it. Never been in, so I don't know if whatever you're looking for is there." The man pointed a thumb over his shoulder. It was the left, Ian noticed, as the right was holding a revolver. "Head southwest and over the ridges. You should find it near there."

Ian nodded and thanked the man before continuing along southwest. That direction brought Ian and Mel straight through the town, and Ian saw the man gazing around at it all with wonder. Ian hardly saw the people or buildings. His only objective lay beyond its border, and the whole town was just another landmark to pass. Mel watched the inn disappear and seemed more than merely hesitant to allow that. He was silent on the subject, though, at least until they were just out of the town.

"Aren't we going to stay at the inn, or get some supplies, or just rest a minute?"

Ian looked back at him with a halfcocked head and said, "No."

He turned around at that and continued on his way. There was no need to explain anything to Mel. He had decided to follow and was free to stay. He didn't need to know about the Vault or about Ian's father. They were not friends or partners. Ian had a gun and Mel did not, and that was all.

Something else was muttered from behind, but Mel quickly trotted up alongside Ian. He looked frustrated, but he wasn't going to do or say anything about it. Ian led them back into the wasteland where they walked without rest or reason beneath the beating red sun.

XxXxXxX

Amata had expected an outburst or some argument, but all Dylan said was, "Why?"

"I can't tell you. Something important is happening and I can't stay."

She thought that she could trust Dylan, but she didn't know. Amata had been hesitant to tell Bryan and he was, on a smaller scale, involved with the ordeal. Dylan might be anyone. She had only known him for a few days and, while he seemed friendly, that was not enough time.

Dylan didn't become angry, but the focused, frustrated composure was almost more assaultive. He stared at her and pressed for details, argued in a flat voice that she could trust him or else that she shouldn't leave.

In the end, Amata simply reiterated herself. She couldn't stay in Rivet City any longer, and she couldn't tell him why. Amata allowed one hint as a way to end the conversation.

"There are people who need my help. They helped me and I'm not going to stay here and let this happen."

Part of her was sorry she had said it. That must have been an enticing drop of information, but it was true and it did make clear her determination. Dylan stopped at that and stared at her for a long second.

"Fine," he said, and walked away.

Amata felt guilty watching him return around the corner. He had done so much for her since she arrived, even though she was a stranger. This abrupt departure hardly seemed a worthy response, but there was no other way to go about it. She had tried to find something, but it was impossible.

It didn't take long to get her things together. She didn't have many possessions to begin with and most had never been taken out of her backpack. Amata hoisted that onto her back and looked around the room that had housed her for the last few days. It looked exactly the same as it had when she entered and probably the same as it would after every current citizen had died and hundreds of years later. It was all just metal, just a shell with air inside.

Beneath every thought and movement there was a single worry repeating infinite.

Could she really make it back to Underworld alone? There was no name for what she felt other than hopelessly afraid. It had been a taxing and treacherous journey with a party of three and even then they had been heavily assisted by luck. Amata didn't know if she could count on that same luck again.

She thought that she should be shaking for the way she felt inside, but the surface was oddly calm. Amata pulled her things together and matter-of-factly left the room, but underneath there was a pressure building of shuddering dismay. She had never been left alone, hardly ever in the Vault and certainly not in the murderous wasteland.

Amata knew she was going to die if she tried to go alone, but there was nothing else to be done.

She left the bare room and headed into the hotel's main area. Vera was there, and Bryan standing nearby. Amata said goodbye and thanked Vera for everything she had done. There wasn't anything else to wait for, so Amata headed off to leave immediately. The path was no less labyrinthine than ever and Amata was forced to depend upon the posted signs and asking the guards she found. The ship retained its sterile, metallic quality the whole way through. Amata felt sure that, if she knocked her hand against the wall, there would be a huge, empty echo which reverberated through the air and everything. The place was unsettling and, even if it coincided with her death sentence, Amata was on some level glad to leave.

Amata didn't hear the footsteps approaching, but was somehow able to keep herself from flinching once Dylan appeared suddenly into her vision. For a few meters they just walked in silence. Amata was confused but couldn't think of a single thing to say, and Dylan seemed content to let the empty air remain. Only when she noticed the bag slung over his shoulder was Amata able to make a noise on the matter.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm going with you."

She felt her face wrinkle with the confusion but tried not to let it become apparent in her voice. She didn't get a chance to speak, though, because Dylan continued his explanation.

"I don't know what your plan is, but I know the ruins are dangerous alone. I'm not going to let you die out there. I'll make sure you get wherever you are going."

"But what about your job here? You can't just abandon that because of me."

"Don't worry about that. I talked to Harkness already and it will be fine. My shifts will be covered until I get back. No wasting time, though. We need to get you there and then I need to get back."

Amata still didn't know what to say so she didn't say anything. They walked out of the city, past a guard who bid them goodbye and good luck. Within a minute they had left Rivet City entirely. Dylan pulled a long rifle out of his bag, slung it loose over his shoulder, and then gripped the pistol from his belt. It was a weapon she had not seen before, apparently made more from technology than basic metal. Amata followed suit and armed herself with the sawed off shotgun she had bought. She checked that her pistol was available too.

They walked north along the edge of the river. Amata observed the desolation she had almost forgotten while inside the city. The ruined skyline was a distant representation of the same crumbling buildings nearby.

"Since I'm going with you," Dylan said, "You might as well tell me where we're going."

"The History Museum up north. We need to get there quickly."

"What's in the history museum?"

XxXxX

The desolate wasteland backdrop rolled past while they marched on. There was nothing else in sight except the rolling hills ahead, dead grey and touched with the twisted, black bodies of debris. Ian paid greater attention to the dirt and hills than the man walking beside him. That didn't stop Ian from noticing the strange looks Mel cast his way. Ian didn't think much of them, though. His father was nearby, with only a few miles between. Ian looked at the dusty realm ahead and tried to imagine his father walking through the wasteland. He wondered if the man would still be wearing his Vault 101 jumpsuit. Would he have a weapon, or would he have been wandering defenseless? Placing his father in this world was like constructing an alternate existence for the man.

Ian tried to imagine his father interacting with Lucas Simms or that identical man from the last town, or trapped in a shootout with raiders. It was absolutely alien to see him in such situations, but Ian could not help pursue the images. Ian wondered what state his father would be in when he found him in the vault ahead. Maybe he would be digging through files in the science lab, and Ian would stumble upon him in that posture. What would the exact moment of discovery be like? What would his father's face be? What would he say?

It occurred that, as strange as it was to imagine his father in the waste, it would be equally bizarre to see Ian enter as he was. Ian looked down at himself. His entire garb was covered with dirt and a little bit of what could only be recognized as blood. Rugged boots, ill-fitting pants and a faded shirt under a military green jacket that was much too large but warm. He was still wearing the sunglasses Moira had given him. Ian was sure that those hid massive dark trenches beneath his eyes. He hadn't slept since leaving Rivet City. All of him was dirty and abraded, by combat or the environment.

Ian looked over at Mel. Their gazes met for a moment but the other man looked away. Ian looked back at himself and laughed. It would be a shock to meet his father. Ian never realized how much he had changed. He could hardly remember how long he had been in the waste. While walking, Ian did his best to calculate that number in his head. In the end it came to almost four weeks. That was the best guess he could manage.

The waste had changed him quickly. Ian supposed that the options were to change or die. With an assault rifle in his arms and an acidic, waning morality, Ian supposed that we would survive, whatever curse that might mean.

"Hey, uh," Mel said, drawing Ian suddenly from the reverie, "aren't we going to stop for the night?"

Ian looked around and saw that the sun was setting. It had almost entirely disappeared over the distant ridges and this painted the whole waste with dull reds and blackness. They were among the hills and Ian had not quite noticed, not all the way through.

"We should, we need to. I can't keep going all night, not every night."

Ian looked at him and wondered what it was that kept him awake. He hadn't slept for almost a week. Ian remembered a head injury of some effect, but that didn't seem right. He couldn't think where that injury had come from, and he didn't know how it might cause the insomnia he experienced. He didn't feel tired. He just felt thin.

Ian nodded, and they began to make camp on the side of a hill. Mel laid out his sleeping bag and gave Ian some more strange looks when he didn't. They both put together some wood to start a fire and soon were sitting near that. They each ate some, though very little for either. It was the same bland, packaged food as ever. Ian sat against a stone and watched the fire burn. It flickered violent in the darkness and brought Ian back to the night Markus had been burned. Watching fires always brought him back to that fire, when he watched it grow and consume and, even as the man disappeared, he was uncertain of his own fate. Here Ian watched the flames and felt nothing.

The night was silent and massive, whirling around like dark clouds in a strong wind. Mel spoke sometimes, but Ian didn't hear the words. When the man paused, Ian would respond with something to appease him. That always attracted strange looks but sent the man back into his familiar jabbering. It flowed into the silence and darkness, buzzing like insects. Everything was moving and Ian felt strange to stay still in the middle.

As the fire died, Mel settled away into sleep. Ian saw it in the corner of his eye, and soon the man was gone. There were no more words in the night. The fire faded out by the minute and hour until its red become more like seething black. A dull glow seeped between the rustling coals, but nothing strong enough to break the darkness. Smoke slipped out in thin fingers and dissipated. The moon was the only source of light, but even that was thin and ineffectual.

Ian mind slipped back into a disjointed continuity of thoughts, the night narration. He watched everything and faded into the night as the fire had. He never fell asleep or let his consciousness slip, but it all became something smooth and nebulous.

Something caused Ian to look out into the dark. He stared at the universal silhouette of hills for a long moment before it caught him again. Out among that, something moved, slow and distorted. Ian watched it and could not be sure if the shape was something real. It stepped toward him calm and Ian heard a familiar voice, though he struggled to place it.