Lone Wanderer

So there I was, with my hands covered in blood and dangerously close to Charon's wedding tackle, and my face blotchy and covered in tears and snot from my melt down. I was not in the best position to receive company, but Charon didn't seem to care, and neither did our guest. Her voice had been almost as deep and as hoarse as Charon's, so I had known from the outset – even when she was still in silhouette – that our visitor was a ghoul. But it wasn't until she stepped through the mouth of the cave that I could actually make out what she looked like.

Unpleasant. Alright, that might sound a little cruel, but I did say that ghouls have always sort of given me the willies. Cecelia, like Charon when I first met him, was no different. She was tall, willowy, and had obviously once upon a time been blonde – although now only strands of wispy, fragile white hair framed her face. She was standard fare for ghouls – ravaged skin, milky eyes, but she just had a look. Like she didn't give a damn what the world thought about her, because she thought exactly the same about the world. It was the same sort of attitude that I admired in Charon, and so I had to wonder why I felt so intimidated by the newcomer. Perhaps because she had caught me at my most vulnerable, witness to a side of myself that I didn't particularly enjoy being on display for the whole goddamned population of the Capital Wasteland. It put us on bad footing right from the outset, and it only went downhill from there.

"Shit, C! Where the fuck did you come from?"

I looked at my bodyguard, who was sitting forward from the wall with a look of delighted surprise plastered across his irregular features; it was almost disturbing to see him like that. Well, this was a turn up for the books. After everything I'd tried to do for the sod (barring the recent and unfortunate shooting incident, of course) he never seemed that happy to see me. For my part, I hadn't a clue what was going on; Charon obviously knew this intruder, and was evidently on good terms with her (he had lowered his shotgun – which was about as friendly as Charon got), and so as she was friend rather than foe, I tried to wipe my face on my shoulder to make myself more presentable, but neither of the two ghouls seemed to pay me any mind, anyway.

"Where'd you think I came from - outer space? The fucking Wastes! I heard the commotion over at Paradise Falls from miles away, and came to see what was cooking."

"But how did you find us?"

"Maybe it's because I'm the best damn tracker this side of the Potomac. Or maybe it's because you left a bright, red, come-and-find-me trail of blood behind you."

Charon all of a sudden seemed to remember that he was in dire amounts of pain and sat back with a grunt; I knew that he was hurting, but I couldn't help but wonder if he was exaggerating ever so slightly for the benefit of our guest. My hands remained where they were, but I realised that my arms were beginning to ache from the pressure I was still applying to his leg, and I began to fidget. Cecelia obviously noticed, tilted her head to one side and stare at the scene in front of her; apparently, she found it amusing, and I felt absurdly self-conscious. I felt self conscious. In the presence of two ghouls. Just the idea was ludicrous.

With a snort of laughter, Cecelia threw her rucksack to the floor beside her, and knelt down on one knee to root through it. I watched her, speechless, but she didn't seem to feel the need to acknowledge me. Maybe that was part of the reason I was speechless in the first place – that, and the fact my head was still reeling from what had happened to us; things didn't slow down for a second out here in the Wastes. With her head bowed, the woman began to talk again.

"Hoo boy, you've got yourselves into a right mess. Heard about what happened over at the Falls – those slavers are ravenous for your blood. There's a bounty out on you already. You and the blood-spattered smoothskin here. So what's the deal? Your brain fell out your ear since we last met?"

She didn't look up as she spoke, but was slowly removing what appeared to be medical supplies from her bag. I was grateful, really – it looked as though Cecelia might actually know what she was doing. She would have Charon fighting fit in no time, I was sure, so I don't know why part of me wanted to tell her to get lost and mind her own damn business. I guess it was because I didn't much like being spoken about as though I wasn't even present - but I heard Charon clear his throat, and realised that he was of course about to introduce me and teach this Cecelia some manners.

"Had nothing to do with me, C. It was all down to The Brain here. She's got my contract these days, only she hasn't got a clue what to do with me."

Had I suddenly become invisible? Had the distress and trauma of what had just happened at the slaver camp somehow rendered me transparent? It pissing well seemed that way, judging from the conversation going on around me. I was angry, but irritatingly too angry to talk. Instead I sat there, looking a mess with my mouth gormless and agape, in stunned outrage.

"So, who're you girl?"

Finally! Although the way she used the term 'girl' to address me made me sound so diminutive. I mean, Charon called me 'the kid' all the time, but that was a term of endearment. Wasn't it? Still, I figured that seeing as I had been a big blubbering mess not five minutes ago, perhaps a simple, anonymous girl suited me best at this juncture in time. I let it slide, and closed my mouth to prepare a suitably witty response. Unfortunately, Charon answered on my behalf.

"Old misery guts here? That's the kid."

Oh, that was charming. He finally remembered I was there, did he? I'd only been trying to stop him from bleeding to death the whole bloody time. I sat with my back straight, and despite my bleary eyes and snot-stained nose, I tried to look dignified. I really didn't feel up to introductions right now – my body still ached, and my heart and soul were still heavy - but Dad had always taught me to be polite, unlike some.

"Actually, my given name is-,"

"Angelface." Cecelia was looking directly at me, with a funny sort of grin that I didn't like one bit.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Angelface. Sure! I've seen your type before, too many times to count, and I can't think of a better name for you."

I didn't like the way she said that. Angelface. Like I was someone very simple who needed to be spoken to very slowly and very loudly. Like I was some dumb little kid who broke down and started to cry when her plans went awry. Completely unwarranted. Completely. Right. Christ, maybe I was being too hard on Cecelia. Maybe it was all in my head. It had been a long day, after all.

"Well, no, actually, my given name is-"

"I already told you, she goes by "the kid", C. Suits her better than Angelface. Angels don't snore nearly as loud as she does."

They both laughed, but Charon stopped when I accidentally doubled the pressure I was putting on his leg. He winced and Cecelia shuffled forward on her knees to where we were sitting, her medical paraphernalia clasped tightly in her hands. The glint of a nasty looking syringe was enough to make me recoil, but I think she thought I was recoiling from her. It didn't seem to bother the woman, but I felt the urge to apologise nonetheless. I hated making anyone feel bad about themselves – which begged the question why I spent so much of my time around a man who adored doing it to me.

"Well, it's nice to meet you, Angelface, but it's lucky I showed up when I did. You've made a right mess here, hey? Budge over and let me take a look at him."

I obeyed without a word; my arms were grateful that they could finally relax and I was anxious to wash the blood off, but I couldn't help but feel… useless. Inadequate. That was it. Inadequate After the fiasco at Paradise Falls, this was all I needed, to be put in my place by what was effectively a walking, talking corpse – not that I'd say that out loud in front of present company. I sat on my heels next to them, like some sort of dejected little stray dog, and tried to figure out why I was constantly falling short of the mark out here, when I'd been doing so well back in the vault. Surely they weren't that different – the ceiling was just a bit higher out here and the people a bit more uncouth. So why was I floundering?

"There's some rations on my pack brahmin outside. Her name's Buttercup. She's a doll. Just don't hang around behind her – she gets a bit nasty around strangers. Help yourself to anything you find. And you might as well bring something in for your wounded partner in crime, here. I bet you guys are famished."

I felt so out-of-sorts. I hadn't had any time to stop and take stock of things – to analyse, at length, what had gone wrong in the slave pen, whether I could have done anything to stop Charon getting hurt, whether I could have prevented things going so badly by just using my common sense, whether I really did look like a bloatfly when I cried. Everything had happened so fast – and now out of the blue there was this superwoman, Queen of the Wasteland, with medical supplies coming out of her jacksie and her own brahmin. Called Buttercup. All I had was a Pip Boy and a pocketful of old Sugar Bombs that were starting to go furry with mould.

I didn't know what I was doing in the grand scheme of things, but I did know that I was hungry, so I decided to take her up on her offer. By the time I left the cave, Cecelia had shifted her bag under Charon's leg so that it was suspended in the air, and was removing my now sopping shirt; I looked down at my thin vest and goose-pimpled skin, and decided I was better off being cold than trying to salvage it. Blood was a bastard to clean, and I always had my jacket, anyway. The sun stung my eyes when I emerged into the daylight.

Buttercup was a belligerent old thing who watched me with contemptuous beady eyes as I rooted through the numerous satchels and pockets tied to its body. I think I must have been personifying the creature far too much, but I swear to God that thing waited until I had reached the compartment on its rump before deciding to let out an almighty fart. The smell was horrendous. I held my nose, grabbed the few rations and water flask I had found, and made a hasty retreat back into the cave. Buttercup may have won that round, but I was sure there were plenty Deathclaws out there that would be happy to help me settle the score.

When I stepped back into the cave, Cecelia was pouring something oozey and toxic-looking on to Charon's leg from a battered old thermos. I raised my chin to get a better look, but when I moved closer to them, Charon held out a hand to halt my progress.

"Hold your horses there, kid. This is toxic waste – I can't imagine it'd be very good for that peachy complexion of yours. Better keep your distance."

"Why are you-"

"Irradiating Charon? Because, my dear, radiation has all sorts of handy little uses now that we're lucky enough to be ghouls – restorative power is just one of them."

"Really?" Wait, that sounded far too interested in what she had to say. Back track. Start again. "Neat, I guess. I'll just go sit over here, then, with this molerat jerky and utilise its restorative power."

I was happy to stay well clear - as a vault dweller, I found that I was extra susceptible to radiation. It had been difficult at first – after emerging into the Wasteland for the first time, I often felt sick, and my skin always felt tight and uncomfortable. But the (visible, anyway) effects of the world's background radiation on my health were lessening now, for sure, and the only thing I really had to worry about was being too close to Charon. Sometimes, I swear, just being near him made my skin tingle.

I washed my bloody hands with the water flask and sat down to my lunch. The molerat was not delicious, and I could but hope it was at least nutritious. I was leaning against the cool cave wall as I watched Cecelia fuss over Charon, and I did my level best to feign disinterest. The cave was cold and uncomfortable, but my body was growing lethargic and it was an effort just to raise the jerky to my lips. What a night. I seemed to have come so far from Underworld – not just in distance, but in experience and knowledge, and purpose. All I had wanted to do was find Dad. And now where was I? On a wild goose chase to save the world. I guess I was just lost, like everyone else in the Wasteland, trying desperately to cling on to direction, any sort of foundation. I didn't want to be washed away.

I was so deep in thought and dulled by exhaustion that I didn't notice, at first, when Cecelia had finished attending to Charon. She was packing up her medical supplies and looking at me funny, and it put me on the defensive automatically. She nodded in my direction.

"What's wrong with you?"

"What's wrong with you?"

Her eyebrows – or what was left of them, anyway – furrowed, but her lips were still smiling. I stiffened, tense, but tried to look nonchalant. I don't know why I was so on edge all of a sudden.

"No, I mean, with your arm. You're bleeding."

"Oh. Oh, yeah. I got shot. It's nothing, doesn't even hurt."

That was a lie. Now that she had brought it up, and now that all the adrenaline had left my body, my arm did hurt. It really hurt. But I didn't want to look, well, like a giant wuss, considering Charon had a hole through his leg. I stared the graze on my shoulder; it was smeared with blood and grit and all of a sudden began to throb.

"Right. Well, do you want me to take a look at it?"

"No."

"Are you sure? You don't want it to get infected and fall off."

I couldn't tell if she was joking. I mean, I thought it sounded improbable – it really was just a scratch – but Cecelia was clearly more worldly than me, and I didn't want to run the risk of losing an appendage. I would be doubly useless. After a moment's hesitation, I shuffled over to her and held out my arm. She laughed, and I had to resist the urge to elbow her right in her smug face.

As she cleaned my wound, and I pretended that it didn't hurt, I tried to figure out why I was feeling so defensive. I put it down to the fact that I had just been through a most traumatic experience, and she had caught me off guard, seen me exposed and defenceless. It really wasn't her fault, but I just didn't like the woman – although she had done nothing to deserve my scorn. In fact, she was really quite entertaining. My body and mind were tired and confused and guilt-wracked, and so of course I was going to be over-sensitive to every little thing. But still, she didn't seem to wrap that gauze around my arm half as gently as she did around Charon's leg. Perhaps that was my problem. Perhaps I had just grown accustomed to being the centre of attention, and now my position had been usurped, and I was nothing more than a barely adequate side-kick in my own badly drawn comic book.

"There, all done. You were very brave. Now, if you two want to get some much deserved sleep, I'll keep watch."

I looked meaningfully over to Charon, and he looked back, nonplussed. I tried to tell him, through motion, that we couldn't trust this intruder. She might rob us blind while we slept and slit our throats. Surely he would recognise that - he was the most suspicious, world-weary person I knew, although, granted, I exactly didn't know a lot of people. Unfortunately, he didn't seem to understand my wild gesticulating, and instead shrugged his shoulders at me in that annoying way he always did when he thought I was acting up.

"Are you feeling alright, kid?"

I decided to just come out and say it. When it came to survival, one had to be brutal – and if that meant hurting someone's feelings, then so be it. No more mincing my words. I had to be tough, I had to be ruthless, I had to be honest.

"I'm awfully sorry – and I don't mean to cast any aspersions on your character, Cecelia – but, and I really am sorry to say this – but are you sure we can trust her, Charon?"

He started to laugh. I hated when Charon laughed at me. Something about that deep, destroyed rattle of his just always smacked of mockery. Not laughing with me, but at me. Right at me. Up close and in my face.

"Kid, go to sleep."

I scrunched up my nose at him in irritation, grabbed my jacket, and curled up in the corner. After all, I was just doing what he had taught me to – staying alert, not trusting a soul. I didn't see what was so bloody hilarious about it. Still, by the time my head hit the ground, I didn't care anymore. I was absolutely, wholly and completely, mind-numbingly exhausted. That was why I was acting so strangely - it had to be. I just needed to close my eyes and sleep. Rest my frazzled brain, give it a chance to recover from everything that had happened. I had thought sleep might prove difficult – the things I had seen were so very vivid in my mind still. As it turned out, though, fatigue consumed me and I was unconscious before I even realised what had happened.

My dreams weren't nearly as forgiving, though. They were, unsurprisingly, filled with blood and screams and gunfire. It was one of those strange sorts of lucid nightmares, in which I knew that I was asleep and yet could do nothing to stop what was happening. I saw that woman again, with the little rivulets of clear skin streaked down her dirty cheeks from the tears she had shed. I saw the terror in her eyes and I saw the blood all around us, and the thunderous clattering of the gunfire rung in my ears. And then I saw my father, melancholy, disappointed, and cold. He turned his back on me and the filthy Wasteland creature I had become. I'd never seen him look so cruel.

I woke up with a start, clammy and uncomfortable from sweating. The cave was dark and quiet, with Cecelia nowhere to be seen, and Charon's reclining form rocking ever-so gently with his breathing. I had apparently slept throughout the entire day – my body felt renewed, but there was still that heavy weight in the pit of my stomach, letting me know that it all had, horrifically, really happened. And to top it off, I felt no more accommodating towards Cecelia, either.

Charon

"Charon? Charon? Can you hear me? Charon? Are you awake?"

"No."

"Yeah, I'm awake too. I had an awful dream."

"Not your usual sunbeams and lollipops, then?"

"Fuck you. I'm not a goddamn kid, so stop treating me like one."

What had crawled up the kid's butt, I hadn't a clue, but judging from the mood she was apparently still in, it hadn't just crawled up there but made a fucking nest. It was obvious it had something to do with our botched rescue mission – I could tell the last thing she needed right now was someone like Cecelia showing up. Cecelia, who like a cat, always landed on her feet. Apart from the whole ghoulification, thing, of course – but then, she'd even turned that to her advantage, scavving places that smoothskins didn't dare go because of ferals and radiation levels. That woman was a wonder.

Now, the kid, I had so far learned, was competitive by nature, used to getting her own way. Used to being a real know-it-all, told-you-so smartass. I suppose in light of the biggest failure she had experienced in her short life, meeting a woman like Cecelia was just rubbing salt into the wound. Part of me felt sorry for her, but I had to admit, it was fucking funny to watch. She would get over it soon enough – this was all part of the learning process. When life knocks you down, you have to jump right back up again, swinging and kicking, and make sure you're not knocked down again. And besides, it was a Godsend that Cecelia had shown up when she did, with her food and her medical supplies. Maybe Lady Luck finally was cutting us a break.

"Where's your friend?"

"Keeping watch outside."

Satisfied that Cecelia was out of earshot, the kid pulled her jacket closer around her shoulders and scooted over to me. It was as obvious as a slap in the face that the kid hadn't exactly taken to my old Underworld acquaintance, which I again put down to the fact that Cecelia had blustered in and saved the day, on the tail end of the kid's terrible defeat. She hadn't exactly said anything to that end, but she didn't need to – it was written all over her face.

"So, how do you two know each other, then?"

She was fiddling with the buttons of her jacket and looking incredibly humble, and it struck me then just how young she was. I hadn't asked her exact age, but what – she couldn't be much past twenty-one, if out of her teens at all. I really should have cut her some slack. Living all of your life in a vault and then coming out into this. It took balls, especially when she hadn't even been out of diapers for five minutes. I'd had to try and remember that the next time I felt like teasing her - but she was just so shitting easy.

"From Underworld, where else? Must be three years since we last saw each other now? She never stayed long – loves the Wasteland too much, that one – but when she did, I always made her feel right at home, Ahzrukhal permitting."

I don't know why I said it, especially after I had not thirty seconds ago decided to cut her a break. I think I just enjoyed baiting the kid, because I was sure to get a rise out of her. I guess I thought it might help her forget, and get her back to her old self again, too, because the kid was plenty capable of giving as good as she got. The past was the past, and she had to start looking to the future again. To finding her father, and yes, to helping me find Salvatore, whether I wanted to or not. Predictably, the kid looked at me sidelong, distrust and just a hint of uncertainty in her eyes. I'd have to help her kick that nasty innocence habit. There was only so much of it I could stomach while still sober.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"What the fuck do you think it means? That we had a sleep over and braided each other's hair?"

She hugged herself a bit more tightly, and her lips pinched together, troubled. I could literally see her working through what I had said in that snow-white, cherubic little brain of hers – the cogs were turning but there were clearly a few important springs missing - and it was almost painful to watch. And entirely too much fun. Fuck me, I was on my way to hell, alright. Still, can't have been much worse than DC.

"You mean you- well, you- when you were back in Underworld, you and Cecelia, you-,"

"Fucked. Go on, you can say it. It won't hurt."

I leaned back against the wall and laced my fingers over my stomach. I wasn't sure exactly why I was curious about her reaction, but I watched her intently, my face expressionless - although it was difficult to hide my grin. Luckily, I was well practiced, and I gave nothing away. Her sheer inability to handle sex entertained me to no end, because it just made no sense. She was smart enough - a scientist herself and her father was a doctor, for Christ's sake. It didn't add up that she was so bashful around what was, scientifically speaking, just procreation. Well, for humans, anyway. For ghouls it was just a way of forgetting how fucked up lives our lives were for a little while.

Slowly, the kid scrunched up her face the way she always did when she wholeheartedly disagreed with something, although as usual, I doubted very much she knew that her face was illustrating every single thought and emotion that passed through her mind. She still had no control over it. She also hadn't learned to control her mouth, either, because before she knew what she was saying, she let it slip.

"Well, that's just disgusting."

She looked up, horrified by what she had said and instantly apologetic, but it didn't make a difference. The fact was, she had said it, and she couldn't take it back. There she was, with her holier-than-thou attitude and her 'everyone is equal' bullshit, and surprise surprise she felt exactly the same way every other asswipe, bigoted smoothskin did. I don't mind admitting it took me by surprise – as corny as it sounded, I hadn't expected it from her. She'd just given that impression, like she didn't just see my rotten skin or the sinews of my muscles. Like she actually saw me as a person, and not a brain-munching zombie. Perhaps she was better at hiding her true emotions than I gave her credit for. I guess I couldn't blame her, anyway; I disgusted myself.

And still, something about the way she had said it – nauseated, almost – really pushed my button. I was suddenly really fucking angry, more than I rationally should have been. I don't know why it had hit me so hard. I'd been called worse, before – I'd heard every name under the sun in my time. But coming from her, fuck. I actually felt wounded, which just made things worse. I was angry at her and I was even angrier at myself for getting so worked up about it.

"Disgusting?"

"No, Charon, no - I didn't mean it like that!"

"Then how did you mean it?"

"Well, it's just that – you, and her, together - but I don't mean – no, I don't think you're disgusting, I just meant – you know, the act in itself..."

"I know what you meant. Fucking smoothskins. You're as bad as the rest of them. Just because we don't look human anymore, doesn't mean we don't have all the same urges you fuckers do."

She didn't have anything to say in response. She just sort of sat there, with that stupid hangdog expression of hers and her eyes wide and aghast at her unintentional bluntness. I shouldn't have let it bug me so much – I was over-reacting, blowing it all up and out of proportion. I knew this, and still I couldn't help it. Where the fuck did she get off thinking like that? She'd only been out of the vault five minutes. Awful high and mighty of her considering she had nearly shit her pants back there in Paradise Falls. Lucky I'd been there to save her ungrateful little ass.

I stared at her, unforgiving. It was something I had developed a knack for – staring people down, motionless and unyielding, until they finally cracked completely. I was waiting for some sort of answer from her that would make me feel less agitated, although I knew it would never come. She just sat there, her brown eyes full of meaning and oh-so contrite, and her mouth slightly open. Jesus.

"Just forget it."

"No – I'm sorry, Charon, I really am. I'm just an idiot, is all. I didn't mean to make you feel bad."

"You didn't."

"Well, it sort of sounds that way to me."

"Please, kid. I've heard worse blown out of a brahmin's backside."

"Funny you should mention that – actually, nevermind."

She fell silent again, and looked around herself at the empty cave. There was a heavy sort of uneasiness that hung in the air around us – I could practically see the kid squirming. Me, I thrived in this sort of environment, but the kid always wanted everything to be so peachy and, most importantly, uncomplicated. I could tell this was driving her nuts. She pushed a hand through her hair and shrugged at me,

"So, like, she was your ghoulfriend, then?"

The joke was so bad that I could've cried, but fair play to the kid for trying to lighten the mood. Trying, and failing. I wasn't about to let her off the hook yet, and I stared at her unimpressed. She physically shrunk away from my unforgiving stare, but before she could go and put her foot in her mouth again and insult my mother's chastity or something, Cecelia interrupted us, bustling into the cave without a care. She seemed to be pretty good at that.

"You're looking a lot better, Charon. Seems like C's Irradiated Homebrew did the trick, huh?"

I grunted an acknowledgement at her, almost as unfriendly as the kid had been earlier. I wasn't in the mood for conversation. I liked Cecelia – we'd always got on well, on every level – but now I just wanted her to say her goodbyes and get the hell out of here, to leave me and the kid in our awkward silence. I was betting the kid would snap before I did – she just couldn't handle quiet at all – and then, well. I didn't know what. I think I just wanted some sort of petty revenge for everything she had put me through the last couple of days,

"So, anyway, it's night. Best time to move through the Wastes, if you ask me. We should probably get going right away."

"We?", the kid and I chorused together. Apparently, now we were on the same page.