A/N: Hello again! Here, have some more Cait and Daye trash! Merry Halloween, Happy Canada Day!

Also, FYI, there are a few homophobic slurs in this chapter, one of which is 'dyke'. If it really offends anyone, I'll remove it - however, I myself am a dyke, and I do not find it offensive. Again, though, I will take it down if anyone objects.

Also mentions of Nazis and hardcore Dr. Pepper hate. This is a wild chapter, I tell you.

Enjoy!


Chapter Ten

Part One: In Which Cait Deliberates the Borders of Her World and Also the Borders of Her Sanity – In Other Words, She's Starting to Question Just How Fucked Up Daye is But Doesn't Really Expect to Find an Answer, Like, Ever

"Daye… wait."

Cait squinted in the sun that was breaking over the harbour to the east, its slanted rays washing out the city in a hazy, orange glow, sparkling across the great Charles River like a billion little glittering shards of glass.

The wide river snaked out to her left, weaving like a needle and thread through the broken flesh of the city, and then out to her right, the wide, shallow mouth, congested with the bones of ships, yawning to finally greet the ocean. The river, the Great Divider, the separator of the north and south of her world, of the treacherous, skeletal downtown skyscrapers and the quiet northern farmlands, slicing Boston in half like a rusty blade.

The bridge before her – the Leonard Zakim Memorial Bridge, Daye had said – loomed tall and ominous, its length stretching across the smelly, trash-filled river, ancient cables suspended, creaking and groaning, spanning like spindly fingers hoisting up the dramatic piece of Old World architecture, the far end nearly obscured through the morning fog.

Daye twisted round, not ten feet onto the bridge.

"What?" he said, with more bite than necessary.

Cait hesitated, breath misty in the brisk morning air.

"It's… I…"

"What, you afraid of heights?"

"…no, it ain't that."

"Water?"

"No –"

"Oh, I see," he leered. "It's that vertigo you got from the vertibird, same as Danse."

"I ain't got fuckin' vertimbo, ya smarmy shite."

"Can't cross a bridge without getting dizzy and jumping, I get it. Huh. Got a lot in common with my old man."

"Yeah, and I don't blame him, raisin' a fuckhead like you."

"Well, you're not wrong there."

Cait swallowed, looking down at the metal wedge in the pavement at her feet, the threshold of where the highway ended and the bridge began.

Daye sighed heavily, adjusting the medical tape looped round his hands.

"Look, Red. We gotta be at Bunker Hill before the noontime rush. Just – close your eyes or something, think happy thoughts. Pretend you're bashing some poor raider's brains out on the floor. I know how much you like throttling people to death."

Cait growled, grinding her teeth. "I ain't afraid of it, dipshit – I ain't afraid of anythin', I'll have ya 's just…"

"What?"

"I mean, well… I ain't ever been across the river, see. And if I… if I take one more step, it'll be the furthest away I've ever been."

"Oh."

There was always something… ethereal about this bridge, Cait thought, something profound, something sublime. Something she couldn't quite pin down, like a sandy dream slipping through her fingers. The south was meant for people like her, and always would be: raiders and hustlers and greasy mercs and murderers – people like Daye, like Marowski and Chuckles and Trish. The absolute dregs of post-apocalyptia slummed it here, the trash and the junkies and the filth – they all belonged here, here in the rotting rubble of downtown, forever in the shadows of decaying buildings, indistinguishable from the loping packs of feral dogs that haunted the ghostly streets.

But across the bridge, across the river… well. It was different up there, wasn't it? Cait had heard stories of settlements and towns there, of trade routes and farmers, of the Minutemen standing watch like old statues on broken street corners. There were forests up there, she heard, the further north you went, forests of almost-living trees, nearly as tall as skyscrapers themselves – and animals, wild animals roaming the plains in an echo of the past. Good people lived there, people who had families and friends and homes, people who deserved those things.

But not Cait.

No.

She didn't deserve any of it.

And to cross this bridge, to cross the river, it seemed as if… well, as if she was stealing something that didn't belong to her. Partaking in a life and a place she wasn't allowed to see or have – as if she was getting a glimpse at the heavens themselves. It was a crime against nature – surely she would spoil it.

That part of the world was not meant to be known, and should always stay that way – the same, she supposed, as the other side of the ocean. Destined to stand upon the shores and wonder, for she would never see the other end, and she didn't deserve to.

Daye sighed again, but he loped back to her, shotgun slung loosely on his shoulder.

"Look, Red," he said, almost softly, and it nearly caught her off-guard. "I get it. It's… kinda scary, going someplace new. Trust me. But there isn't anything over that bridge except brahmins and corn and Mr. Handy's – and maybe the occasional farmer, but hey, I'll protect you. Marcy Long is a right old cunt, she'd definitely want to speak to your manager," he smirked. "And I guess I have to prepare you for all the squirrel stew they're going to force on you. That shit will rot your guts if you aren't careful. Take the mild bowl if you're offered – the spicy stuff will burn you a spanking-new asshole. Gotta work your way up to that madness, trust me."

"Huh. Sounds dangerous."

"Downright diabolical."

"Spare me the details."

"If you say so."

"It's just… I don't know. I don't know, ya know?"

And just like the Castle, Cait didn't want The Other Side to be… normal. She didn't want to engage in idle talk with settlers, trade fairly with the caravans, eat this fucking squirrel stew or whatever – didn't want to see the Minutemen standing guard, the quiet towns and farms they built from the ashes of nothing and fought so hard to protect.

Cait wanted to stay here, on the south side of the river, in the shadowy streets where she knew everyone was out to kill her – she could expect that, prepare for it, know it was coming, just like all her days under the collar, the days in Tommy's ring. It's what kept her alive so long, kept her from being gutted or raped or slavered – kept her head on her shoulders, which is more than she can say for Chuckles or Trish or half the assholes they were unfortunate enough to stumble across.

Up there, the foundations of buildings were built on trust – and Cait trusted no one.

But out here… well. How do you know?

Daye sighed and leaned back against the railing on the bridge, lighting up a Lucky Strike for himself.

"Let's… take a break. Dart?"

"Fuck yeah."

He handed Cait a cigarette and she popped it in her mouth. At the beckoning gesture of his hand, she leaned over near him – so near their foreheads were well-nigh touching – and let him light it. He cupped a hand around the little gold lighter, stopping the slight breeze from blowing it out.

It was… oddly intimate, this gesture, something he'd never done before. Cait wondered if it was his way of acknowledging what had transpired between them yesterday, a soundless thanks without him actually saying anything. Not that he ever would, but still, it was nice to be… appreciated for it. She wondered how many people were allowed to be this close to him, how many he permitted in his space.

He smelled like old leather and old sweat and something distinctly Daye – something older, something she didn't have a name for. She stole a glimpse of his eyes, this close, of his wild green eyes, bloodshot and darting, the right one nearly scarred shut. He caught her eye and smiled.

He was an ugly man, burned and scarred and filthy beyond anything sanitary or right – and yet, his monstrous marring was intriguing, in a way, an old story lost to time and hardened by sun and the fallout of the world. She was gonna ask him about it one of these days.

When the cig had caught, Cait leaned against the railing beside him, watching the sun rise over the ocean out east, the watery orb just barely cresting the horizon. A mangy crow cawed atop a mouldy billboard by the entrance to the bridge, the ancient advertisement of a vault now sun-faded and peeling away. Somewhere behind them, in the belly of the dusky city, a skyscraper groaned under its own unfathomable weight.

She watched a mudcrab out by the mouth of the river dig into the soft bank, velvet mud sliding slick down the embankment, the animal throwing bits of trash and waste into the brackish water as it sifted the silt for its breakfast.

"Hm."

"What?"

"We must be pretty damn close to the Irish Gate here."

"Huh. Yeah, we kind of are. South a ways, now, behind the bend at Langone Park."

Cait flicked the ashes from her cigarette onto the dusty pavement. "I'd like to check it out sometime."

"Yeah? Yeah, sure. I mean, after we blow a hole in Marowski's head and deal with the tsunami wave of absolute non copos mentis shit that follows after – sure. We can check it out."

"Hm. Where is the minge, anyways? What Jet-induced psychosis sent ya divine information about Marowski's hidey-hole?"

"I told you, the Jet had nothing to do with it. I just – remembered something he told me once."

"Mhm."

"He's up north a ways, north and east, near the satellites in the marsh, past the Northgate mall."

"You sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure. He mentioned passing by a brewery and heading through the marsh. That must be it."

"Alright. If ya say so."

"I fucking do."

"Sure. Marshy beery satellite whatever. Then the Irish Gate. And then Jamaica Plain after that."

"Jamaica Plain? Why?"

"Because it's still there, and you didn't blow it up, and I ain't gonna believe a goddamned fuckin' thing you say."

Daye laughed – an actual, real, non-maniacal laugh, and it… did things to Cait. Weird things. Squirmy things. Things that made her cheeks heat up and her lower belly roil –

Fuck sakes. She was still attracted to this goddamned motherfucker. After he'd already said no, after she pretty much assaulted him – after he just about throttled her yesterday, and then cried on her shoulder – she still wanted to bone him. Although, she probably wanted to murder the git slightly more than that, but still.

Eugh. Again, why couldn't she be a dyke?

Daye flicked his ash onto the pavement, cracking open a tin of Mentats and shaking out a few. He offered some to Cait, his scratchy medical tape grazing the palm of her hand.

"Ever hear the story of the boy who yelled at the lion?" he said, chewing slowly, gazing out at the ocean. "He was sitting on the wall when a lion walks by the village. He said some pretty awful shit to the poor dude, calling him all sorts of names – pussy, probably, and 'can't hold your liquor for shit' – stuff like that – but the lion just looks up to him and says fight me. The kid looks down and says fuck no, you'll eat me. And of course he will, cause he's a fucking lion. Anyways. Moral of the story is, it's easy to be brave from a distance."

"Hm. And up close?"

Daye smirked to himself.

"Well. That's just stupidity, I guess."

Cait chewed the last of her Mentats and swallowed, frowning.

"Daye."

"Hm."

"Are you high? The fuck's a lion?"

"Ha, I wish. A lion, it's… a big cat. Like the small ones, I guess, but huge. Huge. Old World animal, lived in Africa. Could eat a person. Big as a yao guai."

Cait's eyebrows creased.

"Again – how the fuck do you know that shit?"

"What shit?"

"What shit? You know – shit about lions and A-frick-a and dumbass stories about lions and Afr– whatever the fuck you called it – and the Irish Gate and Old World Boston and coffee – that kinda shit."

"Because I crack open a book every once in a while. Maybe you should try it. We'll swing by the library after Jamaica Plain."

"I can't read, dipshit."

That gave Daye pause.

"Oh. I'm sorry."

Cait instantly bristled.

"Sorry? Why the fuck you sorry for?"

"Because you can't read."

She hated pity.

"Who gives a fuck? I certainly don't."

Daye worked his jaw, ruminating.

"So… you never learned to read, or…?"

"Who the fuck's gonna teach me? Not my dumbass parents, that's fer fuckin' sure. Shitstains didn't give two fucks sideways about me. Barely fed me enough ta keep me alive, you think for a hot second they were gonna invest in my future like that? No siree bub, no goddamned way."

"Still. Kinda sucks, don't you think?"

"Not really. Saves me from burnin' my eyes readin' the drivel that reporter writes about. Paper's better for wipin' yer ass more'n learnin' about the news or whatever, in my honest opinion. Can't miss what ya never had."

Daye deliberated a few moments more, silent.

Then a wicked smile played at his lips.

"Huh," he said, lighting himself a second Lucky Strike. "Guess you never read your contract, then."

Cait's eyes narrowed.

"I know what it says."

"But have you read it? What am I saying, of course you haven't, you can't read. Well, shit, Red. Lucky you got me and not… someone else."

"Fuck's that mean?"

Daye reached into his ratty infinity-jacket and pulled out the yellow-stained paper that was her contract, unfolded it, smoothed it across his arm.

"Says here that the holder of this contact is liable for the safety and well-being of the signer, of course, but in doing so are entitled to certain… benefits."

Cait's stomach flopped.

"Like what?"

"Like dipping out of all the cooking and cleaning and night-watches and – oh, my," he said, a shitty attempt at feigning surprise. "Says here that oral gratification is expected and encouraged, even, whensoever the holder of this contract wishes or demands."

Cait scowled and snatched the paper from his fingers, giving it a long, hard look – but it was all gibberish, just squiggly lines across the sheet. How the fuck could this be legible?

"Fuck you," she growled, tossing the paper back to him. "Fuckin' does not."

"Well, I won't even tell you what it says beyond that, then. You'd be downright appalled."

"Fuck off, ya skeevin' wanker. Only oral I'll give ya is my fist to yer fuckin' mouth."

"Good thing I'm a pretty stand-up guy, Red. Anyone else might've taken you up on that clause."

"Yeah, fuckin' try it once and I'll rip yer dick off and toss it in the river."

Daye laughed again, and Cait's anger softened.

"Alright, alright, I'm just fucking with you" he said, slipping the contract back in his jacket. "Even if it did say shit like that, my dick is kinked, remember? Wouldn't fit sideways in your mouth."

"Oh, right. How could I forget."

He sighed, inspecting his medical tape again. "Let's get going, then. Day's not getting any younger. You ready?"

Cait adjusted her travelling pack, eyeing the bridge warily.

"Yeah, I…"

"Red, I gotta get there before noon – Rusty stops selling his fried brahmin skewers after that – and I'll be damned if you keep me from Rusty's fried brahmin skewers, got it? Man needs his breakfast. So if you don't move your ass now, I'm carrying you across. Over my shoulders, like a dead deer. I could drag you, if you liked."

Cait huffed, hiding her own little smile. "Hm. Thought I was too heavy for ya."

"Might be. I have no reservations about tossing you over the side if you are."

"So chivalrous."

"I'm a gallant fucking knight. Come on, lets go," he said, holding out his hand.

Cait hesitated.

She looked out across the bridge, to the other side of the river, and, turning round, she took one last glance at the downtown, at the towering skyscrapers and the monsters they held, the monsters she knew. She sighed.

"Alright."

Cait took his hand.

And she stepped onto the bridge.

Part Two: Well Actually This Part Happens Like 10 Seconds After, But Anyways: In Which Cait Meets Another of Daye's… Friends? Enemies? Frenemies? And Unwillingly Falls Deeper Into His Shitty, Dangerous Rabbit Hole

"Open Fire!"

A whiplash crack split the morning air and a spray of bullets tore across the pavement, and before Cait could even register what the actual titty-fuck had happened, Daye yanked her down behind a rusty old bluish Corvega so sharply she was pretty fucking sure she was gonna have a stroke now.

"What in bloody fuck?" she screeched, cowering behind the old car, bullet fire ripping into the pavement and metal around them, ricocheting off the thick suspension cables above. "Where in Sweet Atom's clunge did they come from?"

"Don't know," Daye growled, a couple of shotgun shells prepped in his teeth. "Ah… raiders, by the sounds of their shitty pipe-bolts. I'm guessing they set up camp here," he said, gesturing with his two fingers, "cutting off access to the north there, ambushing caravans or something. Fucking assholes, this is a dumbass spot, too close to the Beacon Street gang."

Well, shit.

They hadn't even shoved Rusty's meat-skewers or whatever down their gullets yet – the fucking sun hadn't even shown its cooch – and Daye had already led them into another fucking raider ambush. Another one.

Well, she was the dumbshit for continuing to follow him, she supposed.

"Fuck sakes," she hissed, cowering from a particularly sprightly round of pistol fire much too near her feet. "Fuck this noise. I'm gettin' high."

Cait rummaged around her travelling pack, pulling a tube of that sweet, sweet Psycho from deep within. She flipped the needle up and flicked the tip, an action so automatic it was almost entrenched in who she was, now.

"Want some candy?" she asked, straining to hear over the absolute roar of bullets on asphalt and rusty old cars.

"Psycho? Nah, I'm good. Still coming off that Jet, don't wanna blow chunks again – that was not a good time. Pass me some Buffout, though. Front pocket. Fuck, hurry up."

"Shut the fuck up or I'll hand ya laxatives instead," she hissed, tossing him a jar of the tabulated drug. He unscrewed the cap, shook a couple out onto his palm, and tossed them back whole.

And Cait jabbed the needle in her arm.

Fuuuuuuck yes…

Like a cloak had been pulled out from her eyes, the world itself burned away, leaving a raw, red, angry glow to it all. The colours dulled, the light seared her eyes, and she could smell nothing but the cloying metallic stench that burned in her nose and would stick until she came off her high. It was familiar and comforting, and she smiled as she felt her heart began to hammer, her eyes widen and pin, the hair on her arms raise. A surge of pure energy, of mad havoc ripped through her veins, pumping through her body by the heart thrashing erratically against her ribs like a pissed-off deathclaw in a cage.

Cait is back, baby!

"Come on out, ya assholes!" a raider yelled from somewhere, hiding behind a road block or the overturned bus blocking half the bridge, maybe. "Promise ta kill ya real quick-like!"

"Yeah!" another one added, voice much reedier and higher pitched than his buddy's. "Only a little torture, if you're lucky!"

"Sorry," Daye called back – Cait would never understand why he insisted on engaging with the pricks – and loaded his ugly modded shotgun deftly. "I'm all booked up for torture today. I'm free next Tuesday, though – sound good? You two fruitcakes definitely know a thing or two about torture, I can tell. I'll pen you in, then. Tuesday – behind the dumpster – Ass Bandit and Cock Jockey –"

The raiders did not fucking like that joke – they screamed and hissed and threw bits of broken asphalt at their shitty blue car.

"Hehe," Daye chuckled to himself, lighting up a third cigarette while he waited for their temper tantrum to die down a bit.

No fucking joke.

He tucked his lighter back inside his jacket, peeked round the headlights, and fired off blindly down the stretch of bridge. Over the roaring hail of bullet fire and groaning metal and barking orders, Cait could discern someone screaming embarrassingly loud, like a couple of virgins on Jet, shrieking unintelligible gurgles of death above the din that split the morning air like a wicked grin.

"Fuck, that was lucky, my guy."

Daye frowned down at Cait.

"Well?"

"Well what?" she hissed. She didn't like being still. She shook out her hands, shuffled in place, shivered in anticipation. Blinked way too much. Spit out the excess saliva in her mouth.

"You gonna just sit there and diddle yourself, or are you going to help me?"

Cait frowned, tapping her fingers excessively on the burnt-out light of the Corvega. "Fuck you, ya fuckin' horn-bottle bint –"

A particularly close round of bolt-action bullets cut into the rust bucket far too near her skull, edging her to shut her fucking mouth and pull the double-barrel from her back.

"Argh! Fuck sakes. See, this is why I need Mac here."

"Fuck's that mean?" Cait snapped, stealing the shells from Daye's hand and slipping them into her gun.

"Look at our fucking weapons, Red," he growled. "Two shotguns won't do much here. Too open, not enough corners. Useless as tits on a nun – like, beautiful tits, big old hooters. Got anything longer-ranged?"

"No."

"What about that little pistol you had?"

"What, Tommy's little toy? Ran outta bullets the night we offed Trish."

"Are you fucking kidding me?!" he hissed, ducking as a 10mm round almost clipped his ear. "We were just at the Castle, Cait! What the fuck were you doing for three whole days?"

"Not buyin' bullets, that's fer bloody sure."

"Just – ugh. If we make it out of here alive, you and I are going to have a serious talk about priorities."

"Yes, mum," she hissed, reaching her shotgun over the hood of the car and firing without even looking.

"And if we don't, I'll meet you in Hell. By the water cooler at the entrance, next to Hitler and the guy who invented Dr. Pepper. Don't think you're getting off this easy."

Fuckin' asshole.

"Alright," he growled, cig dangling from his mouth. "So here's the plan: first we go round –"

"Wait, hold on."

"What? This isn't preschool, Red, no time for fucking questions."

"Yeah, but, yer plans are… kinda shite, Daye, I ain't gonna lie here."

Daye blinked. "What the fuck are you on about? My plans are stellar. Tell me one time my plan didn't work. One."

"Kay, fer one – the fishpackin' plant."

"Well, that was –"

"All the ferals and Gunners and muties? Remember that fuckin' horrid orgy from Hell?"

"Yeah –"

"And the drug bust on the docks that night? Just about fuckin' died there, Daye."

"No we didn't –"

"Hey, I was there too, dipshit. Yeah we did."

"See, what you're failing to comprehend is the fact that we made it out alive – every. Single. Fucking. Time. We're still here, Red, alive and kicking. My plans are great – no, fuck that, my plans are perfect. Fucking shining specimens of prime critical thinking, right here."

"Yer a fuckin' dunce."

"Hey, if you think you can do a better job here, by all means, go ahead," he snapped, gesturing out to the strip of bridge where their attackers lay. "Well? I'm all ears."

Cait narrowed her eyes at the asshole.

"Fine. Alright, this is what I got –"

And Daye, entirely ignoring her, ripped the pin out of three grenades at once and lobbed them over the Corvega out into the bridge.

He met her eyes and did a fantastic job of at least looking like he hadn't meant to do that.

"Oops," he shrugged, and the bridge fucking exploded.

An ugly, violent tearing ripped the side right out of the bridge, dust and concrete and shards of rusty metal blooming out into the sky like some hideous irradiated wildflower. It rained a kaleidoscope of rotten debris down upon them like searing precipitation from Hell, like some fucked-up Fourth of July show, chunks of cement pinging off Cait's leather armour, the crumbs sprinkling into her hair. Fat lumps slammed into the hood of the Corvega, around their feet, into the roiling water below, hissing like a snake in the steam.

"WOOO! Yes! Yes! Haha! Fucking beautiful!"

It was Daye, howling with glee, wild and reckless, pure unaltered delight etched into the lines of his face, the folds of his jacket, the dust on his skin. He ran a sooty hand through his greasy hair, laughing madly.

Cait could not help but smile. He really was one mad sonofabitch. And this was gonna kill him someday.

"Woah woah woah, hold up, hold up hold up!"

The raider fire, already dim in response to Daye's fantastical stupid performance, slowed at first, the pops and snags dying out here and there, then stalled utterly, the bridge creaking eerily in the sudden pause, one so quiet it almost hurt Cait's ears.

"Daye?" the voice called out. "Daye, is that you?"

Daye's wild face twisted in confusion.

"Daye! Nathaniel Daye! You there?"

The man rolled his eyes. "Ugh, for fuck sakes – it's just Daye!" he howled back.

Oops.

Cait facepalmed. Hard.

"Uh. I mean, maybe. Depends. Who's asking?"

"Oh my god – Boomer, you slippery motherfucker!" the raider bayed. "I thought for sure you'da gotten yourself killed by now!"

Daye blinked again before the dawning cut across his face, like light between tall buildings.

"Blinkey? Blinkey Gorbachev?"

"Hey, look, if we're gettin' all technical with names and shit, it's Mason, not Blinkey, you dogfucker!"

Daye cracked a smile, and then – honest to fuckness – he stood up.

Uhwhat?

"Blinkey!" he laughed, arms stretched wide, striding out into the rubble-swamped bridge like this guy was his long-lost brother or something. "Holy shit, man, you thought I was dead? I thought for sure that last explosion blew you to the fucking moon!"

The raider – Blinkey – was young, maybe as old as Daye, but the dirt in the creases of his skin made him look a decade more than that. His head was shaved, nearly bald, with the exception of a strip of inch-long hair running through the top of it, like he'd accidentally shaved the mohawk too close to his head. Half a car tire rested on each shoulder, adorned with spikes and sharpened bolts, an imposing piece of armour that clearly showed his prowess and domination over this grisly band of ambush raiders. He walked with an erratic, jagged gate, and leaned heavily on a makeshift cane, simply an old piece of two-by-four with curse words graffitied all over it. One of his eyes was puffed and nearly swollen shut, scar tissue whorling the skin round it in weird shapes and patterns. A scarf covered his mouth, but he lowered it upon greeting Daye, smiling wide, teeth yellowed and rotten right out his fucking head.

Dude looked like he'd been tossed in a washing machine with bricks and nails and a horny deathclaw – and won.

In all: an asshole.

A dangerous asshole, maybe. Cait kept her cover.

"Nah, ain't nothin' that can kill old Blinkey, you know that! Not even one of your fuckin' bombs! Come here, you ugly sonofabitch!"

The raider dropped his crude cane with a dull clang and opened his arms wide and embraced Daye, laughing, clapping him on the back like he was trying to dislodge something stuck in Daye's throat. Daye hugged him back, smiling wide, and it was fucking weird, seeing him smile in a friendly way, and not a way that suggested he was gonna tear your fucking face off with his too-straight teeth.

Cait actually, honestly, no-fucking-shit, pinched herself.

Ouch. Nope, not a dream.

Fuck, these drugs were good.

Blinkey's raider cronies crawled out of their hidey-holes, just as ugly and filthy and confused as she was.

"How?" Daye grinned, holding the man at arm's length. "I mean, I fucking demolished the building – I saw a fucking skyscraper fall on you, dude! How in the fuck did you crawl away from that?"

"Well, I kinda didn't," the raider said, his reedy voice daunting and asperous from one too many cigarettes in his time, nodding down to his legs – what was left of them.

"Oh, shit," Daye huffed, squinting down at the twisted metal where his legs should have been.

They were now only rusty steel beams and cables twisted crudely together in the vague semblance of a leg. Both of them were gone, blown off or crushed, one below the knee, and one above. Rudimentary hydraulics pumped through the leg that was attached to his skin above the knee – skin that was puckered and scarred and burned, much like Daye's scar itself. An old hubcap, bent and hammered and dented from bullets, formed the rough outline of a kneecap. The prosthetics had been fused to his stumps with old nails and soldering, the flesh hammered and melted and beaten in a gruesome, painful attempt to prevent them from ever coming off again. Dried blood crusted to his skin, and fresh blood pinpricked from where the nails bit into his flesh, raw and red and scabbed.

"And this," the raider added, tapping a gloved finger on the opposite rusty metal arm, attached somewhere above his elbow.

"Fuck, Blinkey. You're more like a synth than anything. Holy shit."

"Yeah," he chuckled, "just about."

"I'm so sorry, man. I had no idea. If I'd have known –"

"Nah, nah, don't even go there," the man brushed off. "Everyone else thought I was dead, too. Me included."

"How –?"

"Don't rightly know that," the raider said, leaning heavily against the bridge railing, clearly uncomfortable and in pain, his legs looking much too heavy for him. "Woke up under a fuck-tonne of concrete and dirt – couldn't see anythin', hear anythin', couldn't even yell for help, my whole fuckin' ribcage was smashed to bits."

"Jesus."

"That ain't the worst part. Didn't even realise my legs were gone 'til I tried to stand up, it was so fucked, you have no idea. Somehow managed to crawl away. With one arm. Then it started going rancid and green, the fucking crows were takin' bits off me, that's how gutted I was," he shrugged, spitting a wad onto the cracked pavement. Cait almost blew chunks.

"Was picked up by a caravan at some point, few days later maybe. Cleaned me up. One of them was good with robotics, made me this get-up," he said, flexing his rusty hand for effect. "Mr. Handy parts for mobility, and a bit of Robobrain for neural connection or fuckin' whatever. Lets me control my bits, somewhat. I'd be dead now if it weren't for them. Almost felt bad, really, when I had to kill 'em."

"Fuck," Daye hissed, running a hand over his face. "Fuck, Blinkey, you're one tough bastard."

"I told ya, ain't nothin' gonna kill me, ya fucker."

"Well, next time I'll have to try harder."

The raider punched Daye in the shoulder. "Nah, I'll just come back with the rest o' me wired out."

Daye laughed. "Shit, am I glad to see you."

"Same."

"Uh… sorry about your guy there," he added, nodding over to the raider slumped against the railing whose chest was a pulpy, smoking, meaty string of entrails.

"What, him? Nah, I was probably gonna kill him myself soon anyways. Ran his mouth too often. Saved me the trouble, is all."

"Uh… you're welcome?"

"Don't mention it. Hey, I think that was Ass Bandit, as you called him," the raider laughed. "And that there's Cock Jockey," he said, pointing over to another raider who looked severely displeased at the way the conversation was going. "You know him, don'tcha? Ha! Cock Jockey. Guess what I'm callin' you from now on, Flick?"

This Flick guy just growled.

"Ha. Cock Jockey."

"Well, I aim to please."

"Hey, stop and chat for a while, yeah? Got a camp set up the other side of the bridge," the raider boss said, thumbing behind him. "Me and the boys just rolled in this morning, not half hour ago. You're our first catch."

"Oh wow, lucky me, popping your cherry. Yeah, of course. We've got some time."

"Oi, Daye," Cait said, piping up for the first time since almost adorning the Corvega with wonderful brain matter art nouveau. Daye and his raider buddy pivoted to look at her, as if they'd forgotten she was even there. "Aren't we supposed ta be gettin' to Bunker Hill before lunch or somethin'?"

"Red. I just found out Blinkey is alive after I dropped an entire fucking city block on him – I'm going to sit and catch up, alright?"

Blinkey elbowed Daye conspiratorially. "Who's the broad?" he leered, predatory gaze sending a chill up Cait's spine.

"Oh. This is Red. Picked her up in the Combat Zone."

"Combat Zone, eh?" he said. "Yeah, think I saw ya there before. Killed a buddy of mine, fuck, what was his name… Chickenshit, Chicken –"

"Chickenboy," Cait said. "Yeah. I remember him. Scrawny kid, barely fifteen. Shoved a metal rod in his gut."

"Fuck. Well, at least he went quick."

"No he didn't. Tommy dragged him out back. Died two days later. Cried the whole time."

This Blinkey frowned, almost like he regretted it. "Ah. Well, a reason we called him Chickenboy. Kid wasn't worth a shit."

Now it was Cait's turn to frown.

"Well. Come on then, Boomer," Blinkey smiled, looping his good arm around Daye's shoulder, the pair making their way across the bridge. "Beer ain't getting' any colder."

"I told you, it's Daye, not Boomer. I hate that fucking name."

"What? You blow shit up. Fan-fucking-tastically, I might add. You don't see me bitching about Blinkey Gorbachev, do ya?"

"Your eye's all fucked up though."

"So's yours, ya dumbass."

"Touché."

Cait had no choice, then, but to follow Daye and another of his seedy fucking raider friends across the bridge, Blinkey's henchmen in tow. The bridge creaked angrily as they crossed it, ancient and weathered with time, littered with roadblocks and upended buses and cars – the site of more than a few standoffs between raider gangs or caravans or mutants.

Oh, and also the giant fucking hole Daye punched through the side of it, baking and smoking and brittle.

Despite being in the midst of raiders she didn't know or trust, Cait managed to take note of when she finally set foot on the northern highway across the bridge – the ending of one road, dark and dangerous, and the start of another.

Funny, then, that the first moments across were exactly the same as before.

What was it Daye had said?

It's easy to be brave from a distance.

"Welcome, welcome, take a seat," Blinkey said, bowing dramatically, a little stiffly for his legs.

The raider camp was just like every other semi-nomadic raider outpost: ratty tents thrown up hastily, guns and bedrolls and trash littered about, a fire burning sooty in a barrel. A big yellow crate with a red fish stamped on the side – like the ones they pulled from Trish's deal, and later Marowski's lab before blowing it up – took the part of a coffee table that held an array of shit, cans of food and cartons of cigarettes and tools Cait had never seen before, probably ones that Blinkey used to fiddle around his robot parts with. A mean-looking mangy dog growled at Cait as she passed, and she barely supressed the urge to kick it.

Blinkey collapsed heavily onto a dusty old couch pulled up from god-fucking-knows-where, stained with god-fucking-knows-what and missing a cushion, sighing heavily, leaning his makeshift cane against it. Daye took a seat on the crusty floral sofa across from him, and Blinkey's cronies relaxed, leaning onto crates and sitting up on the bridge railing – one even straight-up crawled into a bedroll, no doubt just tucking in for the night, probably coming down off some wicked high. Cait hesitated, then sat down next to Daye, squeezing in beside him. The dog growled at her again.

"Welcome to my humble abode," he smiled, his fucked-up eye turning the thing into a dangerous buttery sneer. He heaved his metal legs onto the yellow crate with more than a bit of effort, one by one, fresh drops of blood spattering onto the pavement and running down his legs. "Can I get you anythin'? Jet? Daddy-O? What's your poison?"

"A drink's good."

"Alright. Hey – hey, Lefty," Blinkey barked, snapping his fingers at one of his men, a scrawny guy with half his face smeared in soot. "Go grab us a beer out the fridge, yeah? One each. You like Gwinnet still, right, Boomer?"

"It's Daye. And yeah, still drinking Old Boy."

"You, Red?"

"Uh… sure."

"Right. Three. Go. Go," he stressed.

Lefty sauntered over to the fridge by the burning barrel, opening it up lazily.

"Jesus – today, today, ya fuckin' slug," Blinkey growled. "My god, you're an idiot, boy. Did you not just hear me say I was about to off Ass Bandit back there for talkin' too much?"

"So?"

"So? So, I like laziness less than I like jabbering. If you had half a fuckin' brain cell in your fat head, you'd maybe light a firecracker up your ass a bit, yeah?"

Lefty just rolled his eyes, handing them each a Gwinnet stout in turn, caps already cracked off. The bottle was so cold in Cait's hand, the condensation rolling down the curve and onto her skin – fuck, she'd almost forgot what that was like.

"Nice setup you got here," Daye mused. "For a raider dive, that is."

"Hey, I'd take offense to that, if it wasn't so fuckin' true."

"Even got yourself a fridge. Where'd you find that?"

"Right here, if you fuckin' believe it," Blinkey said, swallowing down a good mouthful of ale.

"I'm… not sure I do."

"Boys managed to get it up and running. Took a while, though. There's a police station across the street that still has power. Had to scrounge enough cables together to make it work."

Daye narrowed his eyes the tiniest amount. "Huh. Lucky."

Cait swallowed, parched as a whore, and moved to bring the bottle up to her cracked lips –

And Daye, so softly, soft enough that she might've even imagined it, brushed her leg with the tips of his fingers and shook his head ever, ever so slightly, no.

Oh.

Oh.

It was that kind of game, then.

Daye himself did a pretty damn good impression at taking a little swig from the bottle, even wiping his mouth for effect.

"Fuckin' eh, I'll say. So," the raider said, taking another swig. "The fuck's been going on with you, Boomer? Last I saw of ya, you was clickin' wires or some shit, and then half of Boylston came crashin' down on me."

"Oh, you know. A bit of this, a bit of that. Same as always."

"Figured. Whatever happened to the goods, eh? Did you get 'em outta the basement? Year's supply of canned food, that was, decent catch. Did you get it out?"

"No, never did. There was a building falling down, Boomer, or did you forget?"

"Fuck you," the raider chuckled. "I'll never forget that, not for the rest of my shitty days. That was… uh, some "official business", that was, right? Who were you playin' again? The Tin Can Nazis or the Anarchy Zealots?"

"Brotherhood, that time. Couldn't talk my way out of that one, actually. Got myself put on probation, Danse was fucking pissed."

"Ha! I bet! Droppin' a deuce like Boylston Place on their food cache – I'd be a little pissed too."

"A little is a bit of an understatement," Daye said, setting his untouched Gwinnet down on the crate. "So, what – you a caravan jumper now, Blinkey? What's that about?"

"Hey – man's gotta do what a man's gotta do. Gotta make a livin' somehow, right?"

"Guess so. Thought you weren't about that life – too sedentary, you said. Like shooting fish in a barrel. Thought you preferred the more… predatory kind of kicks."

"Yeah, once upon a fuckin' time, I did. Then you dropped a goddamned building on my head and I kinda lost half of me under there," he said, clanking his bottle of stout against his metal leg, a sliver of irritation in his voice. "Can't run the quarter mile like I used to."

"Right. And… your arm?"

"Hey, my legs may clam me up more'n a tit on ice, but this hand ain't so bad," he chuckled. "Actually kind of prefer it over my real one. I can wank for hours and not tire out."

"Well holy shit, sign me up."

"I'll put you on the list. So, Red here looks like she can fuck up a face or two, but where's your Deadeye?"

"Mac? Oh, he's holed up in Bunker Hill. Took a bullet to the asscheek about two weeks ago. On our way there now to go fetch him."

Cait swallowed again, parched as a lizard, avoiding Daye's eyes as he flat-out lied to Blinkey Gorbachev's face.

"Shit, that sucks. Well, tell him I says hi. And the boys, too, I guess. He might know a few of 'em."

"I will."

"Good. Did you, uh… did you hear about Ed?"

Cait swallowed, glancing at Daye, who betrayed no hint of association.

"Chuckles? What about him?"

"Heard he got his head blown off, I guess. Downtown, near the corner of Kneeland and Lincoln Street."

"What else did you hear?"

"Not much," Blinkey said. "Just that maybe you mighta been the one to off him. That true?"

"Where'd you hear that?"

"Nowhere. Around. Is it?"

"Fuck, what do you think, Blinkey? He was one mean fucking bastard – even tougher than you, and I shit out a million tonnes of concrete on your ugly face. You think I could've taken him myself?"

"Yeah, I kinda do."

"Well, you've got more faith in me than I do, that's for fucking sure. Whenever you meet the mad sonofabitch who brained him, send him my way. I'm going to buy him a beer."

"Yeah, he was kind of an asshole, wasn't he?"

"Bet his downtown chem monopoly is open now."

Blinkey pondered this a moment, tapping his glass absentmindedly.

"Yeah… yeah, bet it is…"

Daye eyed Blinkey severely, like an animal caught in a trap, searching for a way out, for the exit strategy with the least resistance.

"Been robbin' any train stations lately?"

"Hey, you know me," Daye said, "can't let a good subway car of Old World shit rot down there. Park Street was the last big one."

No it wasn't. The fishpacking plant was.

"Lennon gave a hot tip about some crates stashed down there."

No he didn't.

"Big ones. Yellow ones. With a red fish on the side."

Without missing a beat, Blinkey waved lazily at the yellow crate his legs were resting on. "Yeah, seen them before. Found a couple myself."

Bullshit.

"Oh? Where?"

"Chinatown. South Station."

"Huh. That's weird."

"What?"

"Nothing, nothing. Just… me and Mac cleared out South Station about a month ago."

"Ha! See, great minds think alike," he said, tapping the side of his head. "Huh. Might have to hit it up again. Good spot for chem stashes, I guess."

"Right, right. Except, Marowski doesn't play that way."

Blinkey narrowed his eyes. "Not sure I get what you're sayin'.

"The Boss never uses the same stash twice. Especially after a raid."

Blinkey slowly removed his robotic legs from atop the yellow crate, one by one, as if making a point – and Cait wasn't sure what it was. He took his time downing the last of his beer, then tossed it to the side, shattering it on the ground. Then he leaned towards Cait and Daye, smelling of sweat and booze and old blood, his fingers steepled in a severely contemplative way.

"What are you gettin' at here, Daye?"

"Nothing. The Boss… must have slipped up, I guess. Happens to the best of us. Thanks for the beer, by the way," he said, tipping the bottle up towards the sky. "Wow, it's cold. Must've been in there a while. Like, a long while. When did you say you got here?"

"This morning."

Daye glanced out east, toward the rising sun, not even high enough to burn the mist off the harbour yet.

"Right, right."

A heartbeat passed.

Then another one.

And another.

And, like a cable snapping under the pressure of the bridge, the raider camp detonated.

In an infinitesimal moment of time, quicker than Cait could wink, Blinkey and Daye vaulted up from their couches and drew their weapons at the exact same instant – but Daye was faster, lacking half a ton of metal attached to his body, and he blasted his shotgun low, entirely blowing off one of Blinkey's robotic legs in a fantastic shower of sparks and shrapnel, some of which lodged right into the entire front end of Lefty, standing just behind the raider boss. The kid screamed.

"Fuck!" Blinkey shrieked, crumpling onto the pavement in a twisted jumble of warped metal and skin. He scrambled to heave himself up onto the crate between them, but quick as lightning, Daye slid out a sharp little knife from deep in his jacket and slammed it down with all his might, right into the meaty part of Blinkey's hand, pinning him to the crate. He howled for half a second before Daye gave him a swift kick to the side of the head, rendering him unconscious.

Cait blinked.

"The fuck…?"

Of course, by now, Blinkey's other raiders had been ripped from their relative ease by the shock of their leader's sudden and violent incapacitation. They scurried like rats for their weapons, screaming and cursing and clambering over each other, over piles of trash and filth and burlap. Daye blasted his shotgun into the front of the closest one, blowing half his head off and spattering it across the sloping canvas of a tent in a fine red mist interlaced with grey chunks of brain and skull like some rather fucked-up art nouveau. It was fucking horrid.

Heart thrumming against her ribs like a caged deathclaw, the Psycho revving up in her veins like the old Corvega back on the bridge, Cait scuttled for her shotgun as well, unloading both shells into the gut of a shirtless raider – Cock Jockey, she was damn certain – churning his insides into a spongy, soggy mess. She had her gun reloaded by the time he hit the ground, already dead –

And then a sadistic, feral snarl and devastating yank was all the warning Cait received before she was slammed viciously and unceremoniously onto the ground, skidding her elbows and knees on the concrete, face to face with the snarling, savage dog.

"Lord thunderin' Jesus –!"

It snapped and gnashed its teeth in her face, way too loud and way too close all at once, hot breath reeking of rancid meat and pus. The feral beast pawed at her and then leapt for her throat, entirely intent on tearing it out in a single monstrous mouthful – but Cait's ancestors, whoever the fuck they were, must've been attacked by a dog or two in the past, for she instinctively threw up her arm between her face and the animal's, blocking the incoming attack.

Cait screamed.

Its jaws clamped down on her arm regardless, and then the creature shook with everything it had, everything its own ancestors used to tear apart Cait's ancestors anyways. She heard – she felt – her skin tearing beneath the teeth, her flesh separating, pulling away, unravelling. Cait punched and clawed and screamed and kicked, clawing at the beast's eyes and fangs and jowls, desperately struggling to pry open its mouth, or sink her thumbs into its eyes, or rip its face right off its fucking skull – whatever it took to eradicate the lock-jawed demon. Blood poured forth from her arm, pulsated through it, through her head, and she could feel her heart in the back of her throat, beneath the very tips of her fingers, deep in the marrow of her bones, driving Psycho and adrenaline through her constricting veins with utter wanton desperation.

Cait's entire being fought with itself, and with the dog, warring against the overwhelming animalistic instinct to fight, and the more human one to flee, and it was utterly – literally – tearing her apart.

In her wild flailing, Cait managed to discern the smooth cold metal of her double-barrel beneath her bloodied, torn fingertips. She scrambled, wild and desperate, managing to grasp it at last. With a torn, shaking hand, she aimed the barrel of the gun right down at the dog and fired.

It missed.

"Fuck –!"

Instead, the shells blasted apart the triangular support post of the largest canvas sun-shade, right in the middle of it, shattering the wood outward like a blown knee. The post buckled, groaned, and in one long, achingly acerbic rumble, it collapsed in on itself, sweeping across the raider outpost terrifyingly fast, held horizontal and aloft by fraying ropes attached to the other canvas posts.

The splintered wood swept under the feet of two or three raiders caught unawares. The legs of one – a short guy with a heavy mallet and ugly face – splintered at the crushing blow, bone rupturing through the mangled skin. The other guy, tall and lanky and covered in crude tattoos, caught the corner of the yellowed fabric and was flung high into the air, tumbling over himself, and out over the bridge railing, cast off into the choppy waters far below.

Throat raw, fingers and hands and strength raw, and unable to keep the dog off her for much longer, Cait abandoned her double-barrel and heaved every last shred of strength hidden deep below into fending off the savage animal. The edges of her vision turned red again, but not because of the Psycho this time.

Fuck. This was it, then. Cait wouldn't go out in the Pit, not under the collar, not even by some seedy raider in a back alley or tossed into the river after a wicked night out.

Nope. Death by smelly dog.

How fucking cruel.

And then, just as she was beginning to accept how much Daye and Tommy and Preston (okay, maybe not Preston) would laugh at her shitty demise, it ended. As swiftly and violently as the dog tackled her to the ground, the beast was yanked off her by a grimy, scarred hand around the scruff of its neck, all four feet off the ground. The animal snarled and writhed and yelped before Daye gave it a swift kick and let it go. It yipped, tail between its legs, and scampered off down the stretch of broken highway.

Daye watched it go.

"Not a dog person, are you?" he grimaced.

"Fuck you. Help me up."

Daye offered her a hand, wiping the blood from his mouth. His hair was wild and untamed and dusty, his jaw sporting a brand-new purpling bruise, a punch to the face, most likely, cutting his fat bottom lip.

All the raiders were gone or dead, the dog probably already out of Massachusetts by now. Cait's arm was a bloody, torn mess, wide, meaty gashes oozing with blood. She felt weak and light-headed.

Daye heaved her up, took one look at her, and snarled.

"You."

He pivoted on the spot and stalked back, positively fuming, to Blinkey, draped pathetically over the side of the crate, awake now, unable to either stand or get a good angle to yank the knife away.

Daye kneeled in the trash. "You," he growled again, yanking him up by the throat, broken nose touching the other man's nose. "How much?"

"F – fuck you on about?" he slurred dazedly.

"How much, Blinkey?"

"What –?"

"How much did he pay you?"

"I – look, this is all just a big misunder-"

Daye twisted the man in his arms so the knife itself, still nailed to the crate, twisted within his hand. Blinkey howled.

"How much?"

"F – fuck – four – four crates," he blabbered.

"Four crates? That's it? That's what I'm worth to you?" he snarled, grip tightening around his neck. "Fuck sakes, Mason – after all we've been through?"

"N – Nate –"

"It's Daye – it's fucking Daye!"

"Daye –"

"Shut the fuck up. Where is he? What did he tell you?"

"I – I ain't tellin' you shit."

Daye yanked the knife from Blinkey's hand only to stab it down again with all his might.

"Fuck!"

"Feel like talking now?"

Blinkey spit in his face.

"You fucking –"

Daye yanked the raider up from the ground, the knife nearly slicing his hand in half as it stayed behind in the table. He dragged the man by the neck across the pavement, through piles of trash and over the bloodied, mangled corpses of his raider cronies, Blinkey howling all the while. Daye hauled him around the splintered tent post, over to the metal railing on the bridge, slammed him up against it – and began to haul him over.

"Wait – no – no!"

"Ready to start talking?"

"Fuck sakes, man, you know I can't swim!"

"Then you better spill your guts before the mudcrabs do."

"Fuck – fine. Fine," he blabbered, not quite so intimidating anymore. "The – the Boss-Man told me to come here, to wait for you."

Cait's stomach dropped.

"He knows," she said, and Daye growled.

"Why? How did he know I'd be headed this way?"

"I don't know – guess he figures you're on your way to get him, you'd have to cross the bridge soon enough. Fuck, Daye," he wheezed, "did you really blow up his chem lab?"

"You're fucking right I did. Chuckles and Trish, too."

"Fuck."

"Anyone else? Does he have anyone else on my ass?"

"I don't know."

"Mason –"

"I don't know, alright? He… he sent out a couple of guys a few days back, those guys in fedoras with the fancy guns. Told me to camp here and wait for you. Brought the crates with them. Figure they thought I'd play along."

"Where is he?"

"I don't know, I never saw him!"

"You're lying."

"No I ain't –"

Daye shifted his weight and let the raider drop further down the railing a bit.

"Wait – fuck!" Blinkey squawked, grabbing onto Daye's jacket with one robot hand, and one bloodied, mangled hand, staining Daye's jacket red. "He's – he's in some sort of hideout, up near the old interchange, I think, out west, past the marsh."

"You mean up northeast. Near the satellites in the marsh, past the Northgate mall."

"No, no, I mean west."

"Did you see him? Did you go there?"

"No! I only heard his men talkin' about it – something about swingin' by Beantown, picking up The Boss a few Beantown Browns before heading down to the turnpike."

Daye sighed heavily. "You're a fucking idiot, Mason. Next time you try seduce me, maybe rub your last two fucking brain cells together and say you've been here more than an hour or two."

"What – oh. Fuck. It was the beer, wasn't it?"

"Yeah."

"Fuck."

"Well, a cold beer always was your downfall, you absolute cretin."

"Ha. You're not wrong there."

"Did you poison it?"

"Yeah. Hubflowers."

"Oh my god, Blinkey. You wouldn't have killed me, you'd have made me shit water for a day or two, tops. You know, for a raider, you have remarkably few survival skills."

"Enough to keep me alive this long, though."

"Yeah. But that ends here."

Daye shifted his weight again and dropped the man even lower.

"Wait – wait! After – after everything we went through? Come on, I didn't mean it – look, I'll let you have the crates, the food, the guns, anything you want here. Anything! I'll even tell Marowski you… you got away, you snuck past me, or somethin'. Or – I never even saw ya. Even better. Come on, Boomer. You – you're not really gonna toss me over, are you?"

"Let's see – you ambush me, lure me into your sleezy raider hole, try to poison me – you took a bribe from The Boss, told him whatever else you're not telling me, played it all off like everything we did together never happened – tell me. What would you do?"

Blinkey sighed. "Yeah. I'd, ah… I'd toss me over."

Daye shrugged. "Right. Sorry, man."

And he let him go.

A long moment passed before the raider hit the water, a hard, loud splash, even from so high up.

Daye sighed, leaning against the railing, and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck this is bad."

"Yeah," Cait said, cradling her fucked-up arm. "We might be in a bit of a pinch."

"Ha. Putting it mildly."

They were going in the wrong direction.

They already had people tailing them.

Marowski already knew his chem lab was gone.

And he knew Daye was the one who had done it.

Yeah.

She was putting it mildly.


A/N: Honestly, Dr. Pepper is the best fucking pop on planet Earth. I'll go to war over this fact. Daye's an asshole though and doesn't know what he's talking about.