Sibling Rivalry

Time stretched endlessly for Porter Gage, his world confined to lying facedown on the sagging, significantly singed sofa in the Fizztop Grille. It was his hideaway—his sanctuary from the rest of the the town—and he would punch anyone stupid enough to point this out to him.

His only reprieve from the despair were the little jobs Bossanova gave to keep him busy: a shakedown here, a beating there. Once, even helping her clear the rest of the ghouls from Kiddie Kingdom. That had been fun, the rush of a kill banishing his gloom, while the ferals fought and failed to survive. He'd won, yet again.

But the distractions always ended too quickly, and when Gage sloped back to Nuka Town, he would flop down on the sofa, drained, and stay there until required. So it had been all month.

Bossanova pestered him to eat, but Gage found his stomach twisted so tightly his appetite was strangled away. Everything that once brought him joy—from polishing his guns, to fixing his armour, and even bullying the slaves—had lost its appeal. When Gage tried, he just went through the motions until he gave up with a weary sigh.

The boss didn't like it. She never said anything, but he could see it in her worried face—the way she tried to convince him to get up and do something, her endless cooked meals he barely touched, and the frequent visits to the Grille throughout the day to check if he was alright.

Bossanova brought up the subject of Jack only once, and the hole Gage made in the far wall meant she didn't try again. How she found out he and Jack were no longer speaking, he didn't know, because he certainly hadn't told her. He supposed Jack went crying to Bossanova after she threw him out from the brothel.

Whatever. Not his problem anymore.

Gage shifted in his spot, turning his head to stare at the wall. Who was he trying to kid? Jack was precisely his problem—a problem he couldn't even begin to understand. Ever since the argument, it had been hell—a clawing, writhing misery consuming every second of every fucking day. At first Gage thought he was just pissed off over the whole thing and it would pass. Except it didn't. It was desolation—empty and barren. Loss. And slowly Gage realised what the issue was. He was hurt.

Jack had hurt him.

Scowling, Gage hid his face in the sofa again. The fuck was wrong with him? This was ridiculous, all of it. He needed to go kill something, switch up the pace. Not lie here moping like some pathetic, chem-sucking waster craving their next hit.

Get up.

He remained sprawled there, breathing in the stale stink of the sofa leather, hating himself with every passing second.

"Hi, Mr. Gage," came a familiar raspy voice.

Gage peeled his face off the sofa and blinked up to see Sarah. The last time he'd met her, she'd been ready to fight him in a trader's arena full of raiders. He didn't trust that sweet smile. "Since when have you called me 'Mister?'"

Sarah shrugged.

He glared at her. "Well don't. Just call me Gage."

He sat up, rubbing his unshaven face and yawned loudly, before running his hands through his hair. It was starting to grow out, which was always a bad thing. He'd been cursed with a head full of bouncy, light brown curls, and after someone made the mistake of calling them 'cute', Gage had striven to keep his hair short ever since.

"Why?" Sarah asked.

"What?"

"Why can't I call you Mr. Gage?"

"Because it's weird, that's why," he snapped.

"Why?"

Gage leapt up and took a swipe at her, gritting his teeth.

"There," Sarah said brightly, dodging him with ease, his irritation apparently causing her great delight. "Knew I'd get you on your feet."

"You fucking little—" He made to lunge for her again, but she skittered back, dancing out of his reach as he staggered, suddenly dizzy. Maybe Bossanova had a point about eating more. "You better run, girl," he growled instead, trying to disguise his unsteadiness. "If I get hold of you I'm gonna rip your head off your shoulders."

Sarah rolled her eyes. "You got a gun. Just shoot me if I bother you so much."

Gage stopped where he was, her nerve taking him by surprise. He fought with himself for a moment and then allowed a grin. He always liked her ballsiness, annoying as she was. "Why you here anyway?"

"You like to be mean to me," Sarah said with a shrug. "Thought it would be fun to do it back for once."

Gage settled himself down on the sofa, chuckling. Yeah. The kid had guts. He could respect that. "Can't be the only reason. What are you up to, huh? What do you want?"

"Well…" Sarah kicked her feet absentmindedly against the fraying carpet. "I've been wondering. In the market a few weeks ago, when I was yelling at you—"

"You mean when you were giving me shit," Gage corrected.

"You deserved it." She glared at him while he continued to grin, and then went on. "In the market, I yelled at you. And you were horrible to me. But when you started to leave, that guy got hold of me and you threatened to kill him. You...you lied. You said Mrs. Bossanova only kept me around as a personal slave. But that isn't true, is it?"

"A raider lying?" Gage sneered as he leaned back in his seat. "Imagine."

"Why did you save me?" she snapped, scowling.

He shrugged. "Dunno. Bad decision-making skills?"

"Just give me an answer!"

"I have no fucking idea," Gage said sharply, folding his arms and glowering. "And that's the truth. Should have just let him kill you, really. Would have saved a bit of my reputation."

She stared hard at him, searching his face with narrowed eyes, trying to pick out a lie. He glared back, suddenly on edge.

Why had he saved her? The question had drifted in and out of his half-formed plans to speak to Jack all the time he'd been lounging in the Grille, before he'd quashed both. Whatever the reason, he wouldn't do it again. It had been a spur of the moment thing, an accident. The reckless gesture put him on dangerous territory with the other gangs, even though he'd kicked the brat face first in the dirt afterwards. Whisperings he'd gone soft. His prolonged absence over the last few weeks probably hadn't helped matters.

She was still staring at him, waiting for an answer to her question. Gage scowled, relenting a little. "Fuck knows. Jus'...kinda happened. Ain't gonna repeat it, I promise you." He paused. "Why? You want me to call him back to finish the job?"

"No," Sarah said, twisting her mouth to the side. "Thank you."

"Whatever."

They glared daggers at each other for a moment, until he couldn't keep the smile back any longer. She was an annoying, stupid little brat who caused him as many problems as a chemmed-up Disciple in a brawl, and yet Sarah had more balls than half the gangs put together.

Gage liked her.

Sarah gave him one last scathing look and walked off towards the exit, all pretense dropped. He watched her go, still chuckling to himself, and then called out lazily to her, "Hey, asshole."

She stopped, shooting a black scowl over her shoulder.

"Do you know how to kill a man?"

Whatever she'd been expecting, it clearly wasn't that. Her expression cleared, her eyes widening as her mouth fell open. The confused innocence of their first meeting flooded back into her face as she gaped at him in alarm. "No?"

Gage sat up in his seat, cracking his knuckles as he flashed her a wicked grin.

"Do you want to?"

Gage stared up at the large brahmin carcass suspended from a hook on a steel bar normally concealed by the ceiling panels. It had taken him—and by 'him', he of course meant several slaves—the best part of an hour to fix the carcass on, having 'acquired' the hook from one of Nisha's lackeys for a few caps and a good kick to the shin. Lugging the brahmin back to the Grille required significantly more effort from the slaves, but with his encouragement it was a nice change of pace from stagnating on the sofa all afternoon. He waited with bated breath for the support to snap straight off the beam, but the carcass held, spinning slowly on the spot.

Sarah paled. "Buttercup?"

"Butter-what?" Gage said, frowning at the immense hunk of meat.

"Buttercup! The brahmin in the market! You killed her?" Sarah's lip wobbled dangerously.

He racked his brains, then remembered. "What, that ugly old pack brahmin?"

"She is not ugly!"

"She's fucking hideous, kid, and you know it," Gage retorted. "I'm genuinely surprised the boss hasn't nicknamed that walking corpse a 'ghoulmin' or some other stupid shit."

Sarah giggled nervously and grinned at him. "So...Buttercup's okay?"

"Buttercup's fine," Gage said, wondering how his life could have taken such a disastrous turn that he was reassuring a kid about her half-rotten brahmin pet. "This is a prime bit of meat, unlike that runty little thing."

"Promise?"

"What did I just say?" he snapped, his patience wearing thin. "You got ears, ain't ya?"

Sarah pointed to the holes in the side of her head. "No."

"Oh." He frowned. "Well. That explains a great fuckin' deal."

"Hey!"

Sarah set about making target sheets, standing on the coffee table so she could hang them up on the brahmin carcass while Gage pondered what to do first. Eventually he decided to start the lesson with knives, and dug out an old one of his. Bossanova liked them, and in a pinch they were a reliable weapon to fall back on. There were lots of guides and techniques for the different ways to handle a blade, and he suspected Bossanova knew them all, but Gage only followed the purest method.

"See this?" Gage said, crouching down next to Sarah and showing her his well used combat knife, touching the tip of his finger on the sharpened point.

"Yeah?"

"Stick that in whatever is pissin' you off until it stops movin'."

Sarah fixed him with a contemptuous look.

"I'm bein' serious," Gage said, standing up and turning to face the carcass. "Your biggest advantage is your size. People will underestimate you. You need to—"

He stopped, staring at the suspended remains. It had been covered in three large sheets of paper, across which displayed a very crudely drawn stick figure with black clothes and a wonky, spikey helmet on its head. "What the fuck is that?"

"You told me to draw target sheets," Sarah said proudly. "So I did."

Gage peered at the strange figure, turning his head to the side, trying to figure it out. "I meant actual target circles. This looks like Cappy on calmex."

She flushed. "It's Nisha."

He squinted his eyes and leaned away. Suddenly, there was Nisha. Sort of. Gage threw back his head and roared with laughter. Fuck the bitch. It was the best she deserved. He grinned at Sarah. "Good likeness. Just don't tell her about it."

Sarah shivered.

Gage showed her the best places to strike, which was basically anywhere soft and squishy. "The stomach," he said, prodding her gently in her own, "the eyes," he went on, indicating his eye patch, "and the neck. Good, solid places to stab someone. Oh, and also the dick, if you're feeling particularly mean. But in a pinch, go for the stomach or the chest. Biggest target, easiest to hit, and they'll panic while they hurt."

Sarah nodded, looking a little ill. She bit her lip when he handed her the knife, turning it over between her fingers, as if wondering how many lives it had taken. Then she gripped the handle and turned to her target sheets.

Her first attack sent her bouncing off the carcass, the knife barely clipping the flesh. Gage snorted with laughter, circling her pathetic attempt. "What is this?" He flicked the carcass with his finger. "Show some damn effort. Throw your weight behind it and attack."

Sarah scowled at him, but obeyed. The knife went a little deeper but slipped, leaving a long, shallow cut along the sheet. Again, Gage criticised, giving pointers and barking his orders, and again she followed, each adjustment showing slight improvement.

It wasn't enough. She wasn't aiming to kill—just going through the motions, mechanical, without feeling. He stopped her, snatching the knife from her hand, turning to the carcass, and burying it into the cold flesh with such force the hook creaked ominously from its fixture on the ceiling.

Gage pulled the knife back out with a grunt and turned to her, taking in her sour expression with some amusement. "That's what you need to be doing. You ain't killin' no one bein' polite-like with your strikes. You need to mean it."

"You're bigger than me!" Sarah protested, stomping her foot. "I can't do that!"

"I killed someone when I was twelve," Gage said, cutting her off with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Stuck him right between the ribs. The only difference between you an' me is I ain't soft. I'm willin' to hurt to get what I want."

"But—"

"This," Gage said, holding up the knife, "ain't your weapon—just an extension of it. Anger is what makes you a killer—makes you capable of the worst. Anger is your weapon." He prodded her hard in the chest with the handle and then held it out to her. "Now fuckin' use it."

Sarah glared at him, taking the blade and clutching it so her knuckles turned white. She didn't move for a moment, hatred coming off her in waves, and then turned to the carcass again, stabbing it. The knife went a third of the way in.

"Pitiful," Gage said. "No wonder you're a slave. You got 'weak' written right across your forehead."

Sarah dragged it out with a grunt, but didn't look at him. He kept the pressure up, her face growing redder and redder with every insult, and yet something still wasn't right.

Gage considered her for a moment. She was pretty pissed off, but she hadn't quite gone over the edge. There was a surefire way to turn Sarah into a raging wreck—it was whether he wanted to go that far. As he watched her struggling to get the blade free, he made his decision.

"I killed Oswald," Gage said in his harshest tone, readying himself for the explosion, "and you know I don't give a shit."

That did it. Sarah dragged the knife out with a shriek, swinging it directly at his head. Gage grabbed her arm just in time, twisting it sharply behind her back. She screamed—not in pain, but frustration, pulling herself from his grasp so suddenly it took him by surprise. The blade caught his hands and blood splattered everywhere, before Sarah lost her grip completely and the knife went spinning away under a table. With a grunt, Gage slammed her to the floor, pinning her with his knee and pushing her face into the red stain she'd painted on the carpet.

"See what you did?" he said over her howls of rage. He bent in close, keeping her held down with one hand, showing her the other. "You got me." Gage grinned. "Good. Very good."

Sarah shook where she lay, her eyes so wide he could see the whites. But she was no longer shouting, staring up at him intently.

Gage wiped his stinging hand on his pants, smearing them with blood. "So you used your anger and it got you a result. But you were uncontrolled—sloppy. Look at you now—where's your weapon? What's to stop me just snapping your neck?" He stood up, dragging her to her feet and shoving her forward. "Go get it. And don't fuck up again or I'll break your arm."

She was a quick learner. By the end of the spar, he was littered in cuts, some a lot deeper than he'd have liked. When Sarah calmed down enough to return to the target sheets, she drove her weapon into the brahmin carcass to the handle, before glowering at Gage and waiting for him to pull it back out for her.

As the lesson went on, though, the rage left and regret took its place. She stared mournfully at Gage's wounds, a sorry clamped tight behind her teeth.

"Don't you dare say it," Gage drawled, pulling the knife from the brahmin again, Nisha's portrait almost in tatters.

"Say what?" Her voice was small. Uncertain.

"I don't care about being cut." He passed the knife back to her. "In fact, I'm damn pleased you managed to get me at all. So if you try apologisin', I'll knock your teeth down your throat."

Sarah's face went rigid. "Why are you so mean to me?" she spat.

Gage raised an eyebrow. "Do you feel like saying sorry anymore?"

"No."

"There you go then."

He caught the shocked expression on her face as he turned his back on her, and hid his own little smile by rooting through his weapons trunk. Eventually he found what he was looking for: a small gun he'd taken off a trader's body and never gotten around to selling, the ammo to go with it.

Gage showed her how to load it, and the quick basics of gun care to prevent jamming— "Never hit someone with your gun. It'll jam and you'll end up with one eye less than before." —and then started to pass it to her, before stopping.

There was a strange expression on the girl's face: a mixture of awe, apprehension, and hunger. It was the look of someone who'd never handled a firearm before and most desperately wanted to.

"If you're thinking of turning this on me," Gage said, holding it just out of her reach, "then you only get as many chances as this thing has bullets. After that, I'll cut out your tongue and let you drown in your own blood. Got it?"

Sarah recoiled from him but nodded. Satisfied, he gave her the gun. He doubted she'd have actually tried to kill him with it, but he'd pushed her hard today, far beyond her emotional restraint. All it would take is one upset and she might try to get revenge for Oswald. A child's action, but she was a child. Better safe than sorry.

Gage showed her trigger discipline— "I ain't one for carin', but between shootin' your own foot off and accidentally killin' someone you shouldn't, it's better to just keep your finger to yourself." —how to hold it properly, and the best way to aim. He had to crouch down close next to her for the last two, and Sarah immediately gagged.

"God," she gasped, her eyes watering. "You stink like a dead blowfly."

"Better than smelling like the dead blowfly's shit," Gage replied cheerfully, giving her a pointed look. "So suck it up and deal with it."

She blinked at him and then giggled. He grinned back.

"Hold your breath if it's that bad," he went on. "So long as you listen to what I'm sayin', I don't care much."

"You need a bath."

"You need skin."

He lingered around her a little longer than was necessary, just to piss her off, but finally moved away when she retched and accidentally shot out one of the lights. Instead, he left her to practice on the remains of Nisha's caricature and returned to his weapon's stash. After a few minutes of digging, Gage found what he was looking for and took it over to his rickety workbench, humming as he altered and bashed the piece into shape.

Eventually Sarah ran out of bullets, and she came over to him, tired but triumphant. "I got her right in her stupid face."

Gage held out his hand and she passed the gun back without argument. Before she could withdraw her outstretched palm, though, he pressed something into it.

"What…?" Sarah held it up to the dying light streaming in from the window. "What is it?"

"Blind as well as deaf," Gage muttered, rolling his eye. He put the gun away and returned to Sarah, snatching back the gift and crouching down to fix it onto her belt. "It's a sheath." The triangular leather pouch reached down to her thigh.

Gage frowned. Too obvious—the gangs would never allow it. He pulled the sheath up and tucked it down through a hole in the waistband of her pants. Then he grabbed the knife Sarah had been practicing with—now sharpened and cleaned to a decent shine—and slotted it into the sheath, before untucking her shirt a little and tugging over the top. Gage stepped back to admire his handiwork. The knife was completely concealed.

Sarah stared down at the slight bulge where the blade lay hidden, then looked back up at him, her mouth hanging open. She moved her leg back and forth, as if trying to get used to the new weight on her hip and thigh, still gawking at him.

"Don't get caught with it," Gage said, his voice stern. "And don't use it unless you absolutely have to. I can't protect you all the time." He paused, realising what he was implying. Sarah didn't seem to have noticed, though, so he went on quickly, "There's a lot more of them than there are of you. If you take that thing out, you need to put a fucker down fast. Otherwise, they'll skin you."

Sarah nodded, her face pale. She licked her lips, making croaks in the back of her throat as she tried to speak, before managing, "Thank you."

"Yeah, yeah," Gage grunted, his face hot. But then he met her gaze and said softly, "Go on, git."

She smiled broadly at him, and after a moment, he returned it. Then she left, throwing him a grateful—if somewhat confused—look over her shoulder, before disappearing out of sight.

Gage watched her go, suspecting he'd probably just spent an entire afternoon teaching Sarah how to kill him, but he didn't mind. It would be a nice challenge for her, if she decided she needed his head later down the line.

As her footsteps faded away, so too did Gage's smile. The despair, kept at bay by the distraction, came sweeping back into the room, burying him under its crippling weight. Legs heavy, head cluttered, Gage dragged himself to the sofa and dropped onto it, covering his face with the crook of his elbow, thinking of Jack.

He'd fucked it all up.

By the time Bossanova came home an hour later, Gage hadn't moved a muscle. He grunted in response to her overly cheerful, trying-too-hard greeting, but did lower his arm, staring dully at the scorched panels above.

"Gage?"

"Mm?"

"Why...why is there a dead brahmin hanging from the ceiling?"

Gage smirked to himself, a sliver of joy needling him from the depths of his gloom.

"It looks like it's been through a butcher's." A pause. "Is that a drawing of Nisha on it?"

Gage snorted with laughter. How could he begin to explain this weird fucking day?

Bossanova came over, staring at him with great concern, before her eyes fell onto his sliced up arms. "Oh my God, who did that to you?"

"No one," Gage said, still chuckling to himself. This apparently was not the right answer.

"Gage," Bossanova snapped, her eyes wide with alarm now. "There is a rotting animal in my front room, someone has clearly been shooting in here, and you look like you've just gone toe to toe with Dixie. What—?"

"Dixie?" Gage sat up, offended. "Give me a bit of credit, boss. That bitch would never get the jump on me. At least make it Nisha."

"Gage! Who did this to you?" She stopped, understanding dawning on her. "Did you...did you do this to yourself?" Her eyes flew around the room, looking for the offending knife.

"Oh fer cryin' out loud, no!" Gage snapped, getting to his feet.

"Then what—?"

"That stupid little kid came over and she wouldn't stop pestering me, so I taught her a few tricks to make her go away," he snarled, his cheeks hot again. "Happy now?"

Bossanova blinked. The silence stretched out like the intestines decorating Nisha's lair, and the boss simply stared, apparently lost for words. Finally she said, "And were you the tester for these new 'tricks?'"

"She had some anger she needed to work out." Gage shrugged. "No big deal."

"I...I see." Her expression was one of disbelief. For a moment she looked as if she wanted to ask more questions but then seemed to decide it wasn't worth the hassle. She shook her head and changed the subject. "I have a job for you."

There was something regretful in her face as she said this, but he'd gotten used to her being a big bleeding heart by now. Probably fussing over the slaves not having enough food or water or whatever other trivial thing she thought was an issue today.

"Spit it out," he said, settling back onto the sofa with a glare.

Bossanova bit her lip. "Something worrying has come to my attention."