Hello, once again, readers. Sorry that this is going very slowly, but I assure you that this is necessary. Woot69, we're all romanta-pervs at heart. Haha. I kinda wish I can see into your imagination; it sounds like an awesome place. I'd probably never leave. Thank you for your kind words and encouragement.

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Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoy this chapter. Feedback and comments are much appreciated.

Trouble
Chapter 26

Finally, after hours of Harkness following Butch aimlessly wondering where the hell they were going, Butch finally told him. Just like that. Why the hell would he withhold information like that? What the hell was the point? Would answering 'Bigtown' the first time make him stop following? Would it trigger some disaster? Was it so difficult to give a straight answer?

Then again, Butch rarely gave straight answers.

"It's all dust over there. And Johnny thinks he can save the town."

"Save it from what?"

"Y'know. Shit." Insightful. "He wants you to help him with stuff." Very insightful. Butch wiped his face with the back of his hand and winced, didn't like what he saw on it. Might be dirt. Blood. Or more sweat. He cringed like he was disgusted with himself. It was only a matter of time before he would use up another bottle of purified water. When Butch was this uncomfortable, the smallest things set him off. He kicked a baby molerat that was squeaking a bit more high-pitched than normal. Then had this look of surprise on his face like he hadn't meant to kick it, and when he saw that it was still alive, he proceeded to call it names. He saw a smudge of dirt on the side of his jacket and he shouted insults to the sky, blaming it for lack of hygiene. The yelling attracted a group of nearby raiders who single-mindedly ran into battle only to be picked off. At some unpredictable sense of reason, Butch let the last three raiders wobble off. Butch preferred the fight to the kill, anyway. After he had unleashed whatever pent-up bloodlust he had, he usually just knocked enemies out with his Tunnel Snake dance. He won every fight so far, seeming to catch on his opponents' flaws easily. But his own moves weren't completely flawless. Once, he slipped on the dirt and fell flat on his ass, the bat rolling away. When the raider was about to land a hit, the Tunnel Snake cheated. He threw sand in the raider's face and kicked his groin. He looked proud of himself too.

Harkness' system gladly filed all these 'new' data under Post-Ghost Butch.

It was ridiculous. Even after continuously gathering the data of one violently reckless, fiercely imperfect Tunnel Snake, his system couldn't update itself. It had tentative separate folders for Butch – Pre-Ghost Butch to Ghost-Butch to Post-Ghost Butch. Just tentatively. There weren't exactly folders and every bit of info was lost within the mess that was his system nowadays. It couldn't even equate Butch to Butch to Butch. It didn't make sense that it was his wired side that wasn't making sense. His human side seemed to agree with his wired side. Illogical. Impractical. Ridiculous. He had been forcing his system to acknowledge that this was indeed, Butch, just Butch, undoubtedly, undeniably Butch, but his system couldn't take it. His wired side refused to believe it; His human side needed constant confirmation. They both predicted that this Butch was going to disappear soon. For the 208th time. For 6 months 29 days 23 hours 5 minutes 37 seconds, he had been chasing ghosts and now he couldn't fall out of routine easily. It was slowly driving him rogue. If that wasn't already so difficult, there was this turmoil of emotions he couldn't classify. What was he supposed to do with it? He couldn't deal with this. He wasn't programmed to deal with this.

Only snippets of sensation pushed him to trust now. Touch. Smell. Sound. When his eyes sought out Butch's presence on the edge of his vision and held. When he was bumped into. Shoved. Brushed against. When he caught a hint of musk and sweat. They caused a flare of heat which spread through his chest, warm enough that his system slowed just to process how it felt. These were the moments when he could believe that hell, it was Butch and he wasn't disappearing any time soon. In those moments, the strange urge to do something would appear and instead of shoving or pushing or pulling or grabbing back, he would take out a cigarette and light it. Inhaled and exhaled and watched the smoke obscure his vision. Just so the sensation wouldn't overwhelm him so much. That was all he knew how to do, how to control. He was down to 4 sticks in his first packet. It used to be a packet of 20.

They had stopped twice so far in 3 days, 12 hours 23 minutes 8 seconds. It was a quiet agreement that Butch would sleep and Harkness would keep watch. He ended up watching Butch more than looking out for any possible dangers. The first time they stopped, Butch slept for 5 hours 4 minutes 58 seconds. The second time, he slept for 3 hours 34 minutes 15 seconds before he awoke with a start. He only calmed when he saw Harkness. Smiled an almost serene smile. Like he was happy to see him. Then sat beside him on the doorstep of the abandoned camper. Butch fell asleep on his shoulder for another 27 minutes. The solid weight on him. The way he smelled. He was warm. Alive. And breathing.

The sound of his breaths changed when he awoke. He sniffed himself and remarked that he stank like the Wastes. He picked up the opened bottle of water and poured it over his hands to wash them. Poured it over his face. Plunged his fingers into his dark hair and messed up the Tunnel Snake cut only to rework it. There had been a nearby lake. Why didn't he just take a swim? Butch replied that he didn't want to be irradiated. And not because he didn't know how to swim.

Real. All real.

Harkness inhaled. Exhaled.

At least half of each bottled water was used to clean Butch's hands, face, bat or jacket. Harkness had stopped drinking just so Butch could do whatever he wanted with the water. He was an android; he was less likely to be dehydrated. He pulled his eyes away from Butch to rest on the bat lying next to him in the dirt. He picked it up and trailed his fingers over the weapon, tracing the grain of the wood, dusting off any dirt. He found the snake by touch; the paint was smooth against the rough wood where the layer of varnish had been stripped off. A snake had been drawn into the wood. Black lines on brown stained red. Very detailed. Very fine. From a very steady hand.

Startlingly similar to the snake behind the leather jacket.

"You made your own jacket," he stated. He wondered why the thought had never crossed his mind. When he looked up, Butch was staring at him. Intensely. Like he had said something amazing.

"Maybe." There was a flash of emotion on Butch's face before he settled for a smirk. Challenging. And slightly awkward. Like he didn't know how to react. "Got a problem with it?" So, he did make the jacket.

"It's…" interesting, nice, special "…Badass." He watched the way Butch stiffened. Chin slightly raised. Like the way he was when defensive. Then the smirk became sincere. Resembled a smile. A flicker of emotion in his eyes. He took the bat from his hands.

"Y'know," Butch started. "I used to play little league. Was a batter." He slid the palm of his hand along the bat, digging his fingers into that black snake in the wood. "Got kicked out the team cause I was hitting more than balls – well not all the time. Suckers." He snorted. "I mean, I can pretty much do anythin'." Then the smirk was back, playful and serious at the same time as he stared intently from behind the stray serpentine curl of his hair. "I bat." Let his tongue run over his lower lip. "I can pitch. I can catch. What's your pleasure?" Butch was looking at him expectantly.

"What the hell's little league?" he asked.

In front of him, the eyes widened. Butch snorted. Then chuckled. Then laughed. A low, deep, rumble from his throat that made him sound like he was choking. It continued for 26 seconds before the smirk-smile was back, the corners of it tipped up in amuse. His gaze was soft. Less pointed. Less piercing. He tapped the bat against his left ankle, indicating that they should move.

"Come on, machine man. Let's get outta here."

The sky was a shade of sunrise, R193 G186 B158, when they reached the outskirts of a town, Bigtown, according to his companion. And Butch was right; the place was full of dust which got disturbed as they trekked through the path. There were approximately thirty houses, judging from the broken rooftops. There were many footprints in the sand. Among those were much larger boot prints. Muties' steps. There were drops of blood along the tracks. Blood trails. Bloody footprints. Stale brown, not fresh red. A few empty shells. A broken assault rifle, beyond repair. Some twisted scrap metal. It was evident that battles had happened here. Through broken windows at the edge of the town, he saw into a kitchen; half eaten meals on a broken table. They were barely past the fourth house. And already, they were so many differences to Rivet City.

It was quiet, really. It wasn't apparent that there could be a town hidden within these ruins. But he had seen the map on the pip-boy to know that they were in the right place. Butch was whistling something that sounded inappropriately up tempo ahead of him as they walked through the carcass of a town. Another new tune he couldn't whistle. The debris of battle continued all the way to the center of the town.

"Watch your step. These kids are psychos," Butch said as he slowed his steps, sifting through the sand with the toes of his boots. "Damn fuckers always leavin' shit lyin' around." Harkness scanned the ground for something that could resemble the 'shit' Butch was talking about. All he saw was more dust. And more shrapnel. And more empty shells. There was a dirty teddy bear sitting by the side of the road. Next to it was a sign which read 'Welcome to Bigtown. We're ripe for picking.' Optimistic. How fucked up was this town?

He finally caught sight of a weak light up ahead. It was the light from a lantern, flickering at the end of a short rickety bridge suspended over a ditch. The bridge was hidden behind huge mounds of automobile parts and sandbags. At the other end of the bridge, was a clearing. Bigtown, he assumed. It appeared empty. Quiet. Probably the inhabitants were still asleep. Just like their guard who was sitting on a foldable chair, his head lolling forward. His helmet covered his face but from the way his shoulders rose and fell, it was easy to tell that he was sleeping. Deeply, too. There were sounds of snoring. His hands, though, were wound tightly around an assault rifle but it didn't look like he was going to use it anytime soon.

Butch didn't cross the bridge into Bigtown. Instead, he turned to the house standing just opposite the road, checking to see that Harkness was following. He simply pushed the door open and it yielded. Harkness followed him into the house.

It smelled like smoke. And burning meat. There was a slight haziness of smoke within the house. But it was quite airy. Some the windows were open, or rather, the window panes were broken off, letting streams of smoke escape through the holes. The house was dim. Soft bluish light lit up patches of darkness. The interior was an odd fusion of rusted sheet metal and sleek bluish metal. Fake vents in the wall. Huge computers. It looked like a Vault. And a little like the Commonwealth. Three mattresses were pushed together in the left corner of the room. There was a ladder leading to some sort of hatch in the ceiling on the right. A table stood in the middle of the room. On it was a map of the Wastes, spread open. He noticed that several bottle caps were strewn over the map. There was a combat knife on the table. A lawnmower blade. A basket of 6 mutfruts. Two boxes of Fancy Lads Snack Cakes. Three bottles of purified water. And an opened box of Sugar Bombs.

"Butchie? That you?" a raspy voice called out from one of the rooms further in the house. Butch replied by whistling the Tunnel Snake anthem. He gestured that Harkness should drop the sack and follow him. Butch rounded into an open doorway. It was then that Harkness noticed that there were no doors in the house. Every doorway was gaping open, hinges left behind along the edge. What the hell happened to the doors? "I kinda forgot you were gone, Butchie. Then again, it had been kinda quiet..." the raspy voice called out again, punctuated by a cough.

"Liar. It ain't quiet. You got Sticky," Butch replied. Harkness turned into the doorway and was greeted by a very bright room. Like the entrance, the windows were open and broken, letting light spill into the room. There was a long table where beakers and gadgets were placed onto. Something was indeed burning at the corner of the room; he couldn't tell what.

Johnny Saint was standing on the other side of the table, concentrating on an experiment, it seemed. He had on a pair of goggles that hid his eyes and he was stirring something powdery in a dish. The flame from the candle on the table was reflected in the plastic lens. Saint had obviously been working for long hours in that candlelight; the wick had burned down till it was an inch high. He wasn't wearing a shirt, just a pair of pants stained with different shades of dust and grime. Around Saint's neck was a chain; he had several tags hanging from that chain. He even had a rusty lighter on there, decorated with a skull and a 'J' scratched into the metal. His exposed skin though, was marked with many scars, old wounds, stitch marks, burn marks and so on. Some of those marks – the wounds that caused those marks would have been fatal. But Saint was still here standing. Still recklessly standing half-naked while playing with chemicals. Saint nodded to both his visitors, a small lopsided smile on his face.

"Gimme a sec," he said. With his un-gloved left hand, he pinched up some powdery substance and transferred it into a clear glass beaker. Then he flicked open the lighter, set fire to a torn scrap of paper and threw the flame into the beaker.

It happened so fast, but as soon as the flame touched the powder, there was a mini explosion in that beaker. The glass shattered and shook but did not break. Greenish, turquoise flames rose from the powder in a split second then continued burning into greenish white flames. He had never seen fire take on that colour before. Nothing in the Wastes resembled that R46 G144 B88. Saint was watching the flames, mesmerised. It almost seemed like a solemn ritual of some sort, a little like Father Clifford's prayer sessions in Rivet City. Saint pulled off his goggles.

"Welcome to Bigtown," he said as he placed the goggles onto the table. He ruffled his hair and his fringe flopped over his forehead, the rest of the hair sticking out at odd angles. He grinned, an easy smile that was all teeth and no lip. "Good thing you're here, Chief Hark. The town's waiting to go to hell."