The highway is quiet. Crows perch on one of the overhead electrical posts now dead and dangling open wires that sway as the wind picks up, there's a scent on the road that's suddenly sour, the murder of three focuses for a moment on an approaching shape, humanoid in nature, and watch curiously as it passes by with a saunter.
A man comes into view as he rounds the bend of the road, his torso bare and tanned by the heat of the sun, his dark cargoes hanging loose around his hips as he meanders forward with a fire axe in his hand and a cowboy hat on his head, a cigarette in his mouth, exhaling a plume of smoke with pointed satisfaction.
Damn it's good to be alive.
The slow pull of a dart on the lips of a man has never tasted as good as the satisfaction of a job well and done, sex included. Gristle drags the tobacco into his system with an erotic sluggishness that suggests he might as well have just fucked like his life depended on it and was basking in the afterglow.
This was a hell of a lot better than a good fuck, though.
All of it went better than he expected and he's liable to thank some invisible force at work because of it, those crazy ass Children of Atom bastards might be onto something after all. After seeing the carnage that those fuckers in Concord were responsible for, he found himself on a new and improved blood mission to make the settlers pay. He found the first by herself, knee deep in the river surrounding the settlement ironically named Sanctuary, sneaking up on her wasn't much of a chore, he just hopped the bridge and practically fell on top of her, she didn't get much of a sound out before her head was underwater and he held it there until she stopped struggling. He didn't drown her though, he pulled her back up before she inhaled that fatal lung full, but he had gotten her full attention. He sensed a little fight in her, but he made sure she knew better than to try something stupid, a few broken fingers did the trick.
She went back, called them all out, and told 'em she fell off the bridge and onto the rocks. He threatened to kill her if she didn't, threatened a lot more before that too, and promised there'd be two dozen more like him on her like hungry vultures if she said anything. He got a count of their number, targeted their toughest looking guy, and took him down before the rest knew what hit 'em.
Finally got his goddamn hat, too.
He decided to take a moment to savour the isolation and several pieces of meat to do with whatever he pleases, an opportunity like this doesn't come around too often, and no one is around to make sure he got his fair share of karma he's more than likely due. He locked up the lot as best he could and took the old woman back to Corvega, handed her off to one of the guards. He wishes he could've seen the look on Jared's face when the bitch was dropped at his feet, but he didn't want to give him the fucking satisfaction of doing it himself like a trained hound. Besides, he's still fucking pissed at him and the longer he's away with something else to take his anger out on, the more likely Jared will come to his senses.
Gristle figures the old bitch only has a few days before Jared sticks her so full of chems she OD's on the worst trip imaginable, and of course after the fallout that results, Gristle will go back and pick up the pieces, as usual, which means a short vacation for him in the meantime, and plenty to keep him entertained.
As he passes by the Red Rocket station, he hears an indistinct clatter coming from inside the opened garage. He stops in the middle of the road, exhaling smoke, trying to remember whether or not he left garage door open when he left, given that he rummaged through the place for a few certain tools he needed. At the bend in the road, he takes a look around, noting he still has plenty of daylight left, and then steps off to check it out. The sound happens once more when he's less than a few feet away, like a few old empty paint cans being knocked over, and one of them actually comes rolling into view. The single green can stops at the foot of the Power Armour station, leaving a light trail of old grimy sludge leading further into the station.
Listening intently, Gristle hoists his fire axe over his shoulder and drops the butt of the cigarette at his feet so he can grind it into the dirt. He steps through the garage and follows the trail of sludge through the door on his left. The pile of paint cans sit his next to the adjacent door leading out to the pumps; whatever it was must be further inside.
To his right, the station is dark, lit by a dim glow, he recalls the office having a single florescent bulb working well enough to sift through the desk drawers though he has no idea how they're still working, must be a nuclear generator somewhere in the foundation. He reaches the register and peers around the counter, then the office, nothing.
Assured that he's totally alone, he lets his shoulders fall, visibly deflating and swings the axe down to hang at his side before he props it up against the register desk and fumbles through his pockets to flush out another smoke. Suddenly there's the sound of dull clacking nails on the linoleum, Gristle freezes, and quickly spins around.
Sitting in the hall leading back towards the pump, is a dog, and he's a hell of a lot prettier than any of the feral hounds he's seen, in fact he's got a thick coat of colorful brown and orange fur that looks like it hasn't seen a single half-decent skiff in its life.
Gristle sighs heavily, "Shit, were you the one makin' all that racket? Huh?"
The dog cocks his head as if to inquire.
"The hell you lookin' at?" Gristle swipes his hand at him, "Go on, shoo!"
The dog just flicks his ear, watching him intently like he was offering some kind of treat instead of telling him to fuck off, but it's that look of his that makes Gristle realize he's seen him before.
"Say, you look awful familiar," Gristle crouches to eye level, grinning, "Yeah, that's right. You belong to those poor bastards back in Sanctuary, yeah? Got some bad news for you, mutt. You ain't gonna have a whole lot left to go back to when I'm through with them."
Gristle cackles, but it sounds off, its accompanied by another noise, it's brief, the moment his chest bubbles and he lets out that first syllable, he hears a light dull scrape. He's not sure if he imagined it, or if he actually heard it as a result of paranoia, but either way, his shoulders tense and his knees lock to jump back up on his heels.
Suddenly, a trickle of air hits the back of his neck, his ears and mind perceiving movement behind him only a split second before a strike of white lightening blinds him, a hard crack of pain erupts from the back of his skull, knocking him totally unconscious as he crumples against the side table, dragging one or two old dusty plates with him to the floor as he crumples like a sack of tatos.
When Gristle comes to, it's through splitting pain that he blinks into a darkened room. He's sitting up against something hard, a dull aching pain throbbing in his lower back where something angular is pressing hard against his skin, and when he shifts to move into a more comfortable position, he finds he can't move his arms. All he can expend is a light struggle against the binds around his wrists before he realizes his predicament, his brain piecing it together out of context given that he remembers only seeing the garage empty, and nothing after that.
Squinting, he peers around, realizing pretty quickly despite the lack of light that he's tied up against one of the pillars of the power armour station in the same garage he just investigated. Once more he struggles against the binds, this time with focus, manoeuvring his wrists to try and determine how fucked he actually is. The crunch and grind of chain follows, the delicate ringing of the metal tapping against the concrete floor, and he tries not to let his mind catch up but he can't help it, he starts to panic.
"Fuck," He hisses, twisting around and propping a leg against the opposite pillar to push against the binds, trying to pop something loose, "Fuck you, come on."
His struggle is interrupted by the sharp click and whine of the closed garage door, the thin metal rattling to life as it begins to rise from the concrete floor, letting a sharp stream of orange sunlight in that hits him right where his head hurts. His eyes clasp shut against the pain, but he blinks through it to make out the dark silhouette of a person that begins to form.
When the door settles above him, Gristle's panting with the adrenaline of his panic, one eye squinting and the other shut tight, large black pulsating circles line his peripherals as he stares at the featureless figure standing in the garage doorway.
After a moment of silence he spits out in fearful retaliation, a hound bearing its teeth after being cornered, "And who the fuck are you supposed to be, huh?!"
The figure leans over slightly to pick up what looks like Gristle's own fire axe as it sits against the frame of the door, he swings it upwards in his hand and sets it casually over his one shoulder before he steps inside and begins his approach.
"Hey, asshole I'm talkin' to you!" Gristle, despite his vitriol, shrinks back, kicking his feet against the concrete trying to sit up taller, "Wh-what the fuck do you think you're doing, do you have any idea who I am?!"
"I do, actually."
The calm voice settles into Gristle like a bucket of cold water; his head cocking back to stare into the face of the figure as his features fade in through the shutter shock of the light.
"Well, I know you metaphorically, from what you did to me and to my friends," The axe swings around to point directly into Gristles face, making the raider flinch back, "So, why don't we start off with your name and we'll get the rest in a minute?"
Gristle turns his face away from the smooth top of the axe as it presses against his face, "Look, asshole, I don't know what the fuck you're talking about."
"Your name." He insists, "You gimp bastards have those, I'm sure."
Gristle's chest is heaving, squirming back against his binds as the recollection hits him, he turns his face against the axe and stares back up to the figure to make out his face, the smooth calm features stand out in the sunlit glare like marble, his dark narrowed eyes cold and studying, his mouth splattered with a deep bruise and a swollen cut matted with dried blood. Staring up at someone he had stared down at previously, the impact of the butt of his rifle against his teeth, the barrel pressing against the blue of his Vault Suit.
"No way," Gristle sputters in disbelief, "No fuckin' way. I shot you."
"Yeah, I know. I was there."
"NO!" The raider yelps, as if it would make this phantom disappear, like it would wake him up and he'd be passed out on a mattress back in Corvega after suffering a bad hit, he'd wake up and marvel at the extent of his own imagination, he'd be celebrating his victory over those damned settlers, his victory over Jared. He'd get to see that smug grin of his wiped away and everything would work out fine like it has been since they started. Everything would have been just fine.
Gristle lets out and enraged bellow, this time he kicks out his feet and twists against his binds, pulling something wrong in his back that he doesn't feel right away, scraping his hands and his elbows against the metal and concrete, all the while the figure stands over him like a cool unblinking shadow.
"NO! I FUCKING SHOT YOU!" He snarls, "I FUCKING SHOT YOU POINT BLANK!"
The axe swings gently at his side and a long narrow grin flashes against his stone marbled skin, splitting the visage in half like some viscous horror, a row of pearly teeth found in the belly of a fresh kill.
"Yeah," The figure chuckles, "I lived."