Something inside my chest pinches tightly and doesn't let go, from the first moment he calls me 'sister'.

There's just a... wrongness about the word, like he's pronouncing it incorrectly, or something equally horrid.

No... worse, I think. A lot worse.

This whole not remembering shit is getting fucking old now. First, my whole life, now... this guy.

This... this ghoul with a voice that makes me very glad I wore panties today.

Just the thought of it sends a shiver tripping its way up my spine like an addict on a bender.

It's not just the voice, either.

Where he kissed my rough, scarred knuckles, the skin... it kinda tingles a bit. I've shaken that hand out a dozen times trying to chase the sensation off.

Can't be something as stupid as rads; I mean, Charon would've had a much better chance at leavin' those behind with his bear hug earlier if either of 'em were gonna do that somehow.

And I've been hit with rads plenty of times; it don't feel like this. This is just... weird.

There's also this strange desire I have to tap a finger on the breast of his coat; like it means something. Or, it's a signal of some sort.

The whole damn situation makes me itch.

It's throwing Charon off, too, I'm noticing. He's a lot jumpier than usual, scanning more frequently, almost frantically.

Must be sensing my tension.

This shit has got to get squared away, soon as fucking possible.

If not for the fact that we've got three shotguns in the party, we would've been overrun by the ghoul pack that stumbled into us a quarter mile back, and I have no interest in becoming feral chow today, thank you.

Mac's taken up the space to my left, at Hancock's insistence—and even that feels wrong, tainted somehow; like waking up with a hangover, an entire forest of mossy fuzz on your tongue—and he's chatting about... what's he on about, again?

Oh. Right. Med-Tek. Duncan.

He's been chewin' my ear off about that for goin' on a week now.

Not that I blame him or anything, I'd be chewing just as hard in his shoes—hell, probably harder.

But, if the marker he's pinned on my pip-boy is any indication, it'll take us... oh, two, three hours to get there, from Goodneighbor? If we're not held up by fifty assholes along the way.

Frankly, I want to get to the bottom of this memory thing. We get that figured out, I find out why the guy at my back feels like a fucking open, oozing, itching sore on my soul, then I'll be happy to go traipsin' about the 'Wealth fixin' all the world's problems. Or just Mac's. Whatever.

By the time I'm going stir-crazy enough in my own skull to just randomly pick targets and start shooting, I shove down the impulse and stop, turning on my heel to face Hancock. I scratch the patch of scalp around where Charon had stabbed me with the stimpak, a bit of irritation having risen in the past half hour at the site. "Look," I start, as I lower my hand to my hip, looping my thumb into my pistol's holster belt just to keep it still, "it's probably a weird question, but there's an itch in my skull that won't go away, so I'm gonna ask."

I jab his coat at the spot that's been driving me insane, only to find a rather firm, rattling presence reporting to me from beneath the thick fabric. "Why the hell have I been wanting to do that for the past twenty minutes?" I stare at him, pleading with him to end my madness with a rational explanation. "And what is that, anyway?"

"Mistress." Charon lays a gentle, but firm hand on my shoulder, shaking his head when I look over at him. "Not here. This location is not safe enough for the answer he would give you."

"Gotta agree with him on that one," Hancock concurs, "wait until we get to my office; I promise, I'll show ya what all the fuss is about."

I narrow my eyes, sliding my gaze over the both of them, despite having to tilt my head to manage it. I huff a sigh and turn, shaking my head. "Fine."

I glance aside at Mac, grasping the crook of his elbow in gentle solidarity. "We'll get Duncan's cure soon, Mac. Just... let me get my head screwed back on, yeah? This is gonna fuck with me too hard to let me be much good to you if we go now. I swear, it's top priority after I get my eggs unscrambled, alright?"

I watch as he draws half a breath, holds, then releases it, before he nods. "Yeah, Bossy. I hear ya. Just... soon, please."

I snort and release him with a soft pat. "Believe me, Mac, I don't want to have my brain fucked any longer than I have to. I'm sick to fucking death of all this memory schmemory bullshit fucking..." I threaten the sky with a clenched fist and growl of frustration, because there is nothing else to blame, and it's a convenient target.

Charon palms his open hand onto the base of my neck, thumb and fingers resting warmly on either side, rubbing reassuringly.

I take a slow breath, forcing my muscles to relax as much as is reasonable in the situation, tossing Charon a grateful nod for the diffusing touch. Contract or not, the man always knows what I need most. It's fucking uncanny.

Fucking... uncanny.

Huh.

Why do those words sound so oddly familiar together? I don't remember saying them.

Hm.

Another piece of the puzzle, perhaps?

I've never wanted to rip my brain out of my skull and scratch it so fucking much as I do right now. The whole goddamn thing itches.

Can't even tell if it's the stimpak or the fucked memories.

Is this what losing my mind feels like?

Charon's fingers dig a little into muscles that refuse to stay relaxed, and he tosses me worried looks, between his harried searching for enemy movement.

What will be the twig that snaps, stealing the rest of my tenuous hold on reality from between my fingers?

Will I even recognize it, when it comes?

Charon's fingers are beginning to feel damningly like a vice; a hold, a collar, a lead, a guide... control.

I shrug him off, storming ahead without a word beyond an angry huff, suddenly indignant and desiring only my own company.

No, not even that, really, but...

It's not like I have a choice in the matter.

Mac wisely hangs back by Charon, but I hear the hurried crunching of trash beneath the boots coming from behind me, and I know Hancock is trying to catch up.

No.

No, no, no!

"Hey, sister"—the word feels like poison being slowly dripped into my ear canal—"where ya goin'? Safety in numbers, doncha know?"

I stop, wheeling to face him, holding up a firm hand for Charon and Mac to halt where they are, fifteen paces to my left now, as I bore my gaze through Hancock's skull. "I'm not leaving any one of you behind. I'm simply..." I choose my words carefully, "creating some distance. Unless you want me breaking important things, I suggest you return to the group and stay there, for now. I need a few minutes to think and chill out, in as much solitude as the open road can offer. Capiche?"

The enamel-grinding glower he's giving me by the end of my little speech tells me exactly how little he approves of my current attitude.

Well, he can shove it, unless he wants me just losing all my marbles, right here in the dirt.

"Fine. I'll bring up the rear then. Wouldn't want you to break anything important of mine, after all." He turns sharply and storms back to my pack members in a huff; taking up the rear position, true to his word, eyes dark under the curved brim of that damn hat of his.

"Fine!" I call back at him, "You do that!" I spin to face the way to Goodneighbor, to home, to the fucking Mayor's town; taking on a ground-eating pace and utterly seething as I do so.

Why the fuck... how did he... ugh!

I've never known anyone to get under my skin that easily.

And he's supposed to be as important to me as Nick Valentine?

Fat fucking chance.