Day 571, The Mall

She crawled up the steps of the Metro, slowly, quietly. Her misery was complete with every movement. She struggled not to scream out in pain and still yet, she had to use every fiber in her to listen for the sound of monstrous feet. Though she felt as if the world had thrown a mini-nuke on top of her, she spared herself no pity. She mumbled under her breath as she dragged herself painfully, step by step.

"You just had to peek and poke. Curiosity killed the cat, Jack. Smushed it flat on the fucking road! You knew better than that. If Dad saw you right-" she stopped completely. In her mind, she began that same droning, screaming thought as before.

NO STOP REDIRECT NO STOP NO MORE STOP

And once again she saw herself as a child, fingers in her ears, screaming,

"I can't hear you! La la la la! Can't hear a thing!!" to no one but the walls.

She quickly picked up a thin thread of thought, something about ammunition and bandages, and continued on.

Finally, her head peeped over the top of the last step. While she could hear the occasional gunfire and even a few distant explosives, she saw nothing. She pulled, grunting, and began dragging herself to the building behind the Metro. She would have liked to marvel at the massive structure's impressiveness, even injured as she was, but at almost the same moment she thought herself home free, she heard rapid footsteps headed her way.

Fear seized her chest hard. She grabbed the Kneecapper from its holster and tried to climb to her knees. Pain ripped through her hip and flamed up her back and down her legs. She saw the world swim and go black for a moment, and then she was crawling with one hand and one leg, pointing her sawed-off in the general direction of the quickening footsteps. A voice rang out.

"Hey! Stop. I might not shoot you if you'll wait a damned minute."

In an instant, Jack knew two things. The first was that the voice belonged to a female ghoul and the second was that at that very moment her body decided it had lost too much blood and was too battered to go a millimeter further and would be shutting down now, with or without her consent. She looked back and saw the ghouless turning the corner of the guardrail.

"Well, look what the Muties dragged in. Another injured tourist."

Her tone was mocking, but the ghouless quickened her pace quite a bit when she noticed the long trail of blood behind Jack.

"I'm not a tourist . . ."

Willow's response was lost in the rushing wave of Jack's unconsciousness.

Day 575, The Chop Shop

Doctor Barrow's eyes were sweaty and his back was aching. He had been bent over the microscope in his corner of the Chop Shop for nearly an hour. He watched the tiny cells separating, eating, dying. His mind felt like a dog sick from chasing its tail. He stood and arched his back. His bones cracked, as did some of his skin, and groaned. He grabbed a clipboard and read the chart. Nurse Graves looked up from her miscellaneous paperwork and called to him,

"Are you waking her up soon, Doc?"

"I'm already awake." A voice from behind the filthy hospital curtain croaked out.

Barrows smiled and step behind the curtain.

The girl lay on her back, eyes still closed. To his surprise, she was dressed in the leather armor she had come in wearing. The bandages bulged slightly in various places. He had bandaged her right eye at first as will, not knowing behind all the blood that it was an old wound. She sat up and looked at him, obviously a bit pained.

"How ya feeling?" he asked.

"Dry."

He stepped back out to go for a bottle of good water and nearly crashed into Nurse Graves. She smiled in surprise and handed him two bottles marked "H2O".

"Thank you, Nurse."

She nodded and returned to her desk. The doctor returned and handed the girl one bottle.

"How about now?" he questioned when she finished the first bottle and half of the second one.

"Better."

"Do you remember anything?"

"Enough?"

"The sentry? Her name is Willow. Any trouble remembering your name or anything like that."

"Uhh," she hesitated. She furrowed her brow and shook her head, "Willow, yeah. My name is Jack. My dog's name is Dogmeat. I had a sawed-off and a black assault rifle with a scope on it. And a silencer."

The last part seemed to be a bit more direct to the doctor. Not hostile, but not at all confused or hesitant.

"Yes, don't worry. Your guns have been locked in Carol's safe."

Night 575, Underworld

"You're good to go, more or less. Try not to rip out the stitches for a few days at least. And make sure to keep those bandages fresh and clean. Did Nurse Graves show you how to re-bandage?" Doc Barrows asked in his articulate voice, flashing the light in one eye and then the other.

He stood, hand on his lower back.

"Yes." she answered softly, pulling the straps of her eye patch down over her hair once again.

"That eye is better healed than anything else. You don't need to wear that patch, you know." his ruined eyebrow lifted.

"I know." her soft response.

His mouth widened into a smile.

"Do you ever shut the hell up? I can't get a word in edgewise with you." he smiled at her.

The tiniest smile answered his.

"No."

She slipped out the door of the Chop Shop and was immediately confronted with the whirling, clanking Cerberus.

"Scanning!" his authoritative voice rang out. A few ghouls resting on the benches close to her, turned to stare. Cerberus flew on, leaving her to be speculated over by the residents of underworld. She lowered her head, eye patch toward the long wall of the staircase, and walked as quickly toward the doors as she could. A ghouless in a dress more ruined than her once pretty features, moved from her path. Jack lowered her head further and passed, muttering,

"Excuse me, ma'am."

"That's humans for you. Always so goddamn friendly."

Jack felt her face grow hot and her stomach lurch. More ghouls seemed to be staring at her now. She quickened her pace. Her heart thudded painfully. Had it not been for the hundreds of eyes on her, she would have broken out into a run. She held her breath. Now she was a few feet from the door. A shout rang out.

"Hey, wait up!"

In the confusion and heat in her head, the voice did not attach itself to any face in she knew. It only seemed malicious, only wanted to highlight her more. Her hand hit the door with a loud thud. She could feel the heads turn in her direction. With all her will, she pulled open the door as casually as her adrenaline soaked, shaking hands would allow. She slipped out and heard the heavy door slam. her breath rushed from her lungs and she could feel the blood leave her face.

Give me a gang of angry Mole Rats over city life anyway, she thought miserably.

She sat down on the far end of the steps. Her things clattered to the floor. A huge sigh welled up inside of her and rushed out with a great heaviness in her chest. She slowly stood again, shaking. She bent to gather her belongings.

"Hey, kid! You ran off. I wanted to talk to you."

The voice shocked her and she jumped. She whirled around.

"Snowflake . . ." her breath once again rushed from her lungs with a great sigh.

"Yeah, kid, who'd you think it was? Anyway, I heard Doc was let you leave. Thought I might come by and see ya, again. You rushin' off?" Snowflake's eyes looked big and kind of sad. Jack felt a little sad. Snowflake was, as far as she could tell, the only good friend she had this side of the Potomac. she turned to him and offered up a rare smile.

"No, just looking for a little peace." her smile faded. "Got any?"

Snowflake's smile would have sent shivers down the spine of even a brave man. Jack sat on the step and felt her neck soften. Snowflake jammed his hand in his pocket and fished out two full hits of jet.

"A little peace," he held out one, "and quiet." he held up the other.

After Snowflake had left, she holed up in the only place she could afford a little true privacy. The circle shaped front desk of the Museum lobby. Between the harsh contrasts of dead silence and pure hell of battle out in the Mall, and the relatively perpetual buzz of Underworld, it felt to her like her own personal Wasteland to hide in.

Laid out in front of her was an intricate display of all her belongings she carried. She had repaired and cleaned every item in her inventory. Now her eye rolled her things.

It stopped on a rusty .32 with no firing pin. It sat way off balance. It could be repaired to perfect condition. With lots of time and energy. She lifted to her eye and stared intently for a moment at the gun. She then flung it over her shoulder. The bang it made as it hit the floor sounded as if the firing pin had never been lost.

Next, she spotted a knife with a very loose blade. After a moment of inspection, it too flew away, skittering across the dusty marble floor. Next she picked up a pair of nearly sole less boots. They too, went flying clumsily thought the air, landing short. One now hung lazily from an ancient cash register. She then picked up a pair of sunglasses with only one arm. She looked over them and then placed them safely back in their row. They still had all the screws and two good lenses.

Next came two black gloves. They returned to their row, unharmed. Next came a busted pencil. It arced high, flipping through the air, end over end. It was stopped, mid-air, by something big that Jack never noticed. She heard the pencil clatter to the floor only on the very edge of her busy mind, never noticing how close it fell to her sanctuary. Next came an old t-shirt. It fluttered away silently. Next came a blue baseball cap. It spun away unceremoniously. Next a toy car. Then a few scraps of armor, followed by a green handled knife. Useless scrap and things in too much disrepair flew out of the desk. It resembled some strange Roman candle.

When she was finally satisfied that she carried nothing more than what was valuable or absolutely necessary, she repacked it all. Then, in her smaller bag, she searched in some secret pocket. Out came the large folded map, her cartography tools, and a few hits of Jet. She inhaled the jet deeply and studied a small notebook that was now drenched in her old, dry blood. She had been attacked while taking down a few locations from Three Dog's reports. all seemed uninspiring.

All but one, she thought.

She reread the latitude and longitude. She traced her lines, measured, re-measured, and measured again. Finally, with a triumphant grunt, she touched the empty area of the map with a tiny marker dot.

That's where I'm going. Evergreen Mills.

Another hit of Jet. A calm rolled over her. A tranquil nothingness washed over her mind. Peace. She lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. She had found a scrap, a tiny bit of morsel. Peace. Her eye closed. She smoked and sighed and, for a rare moment she smiled. Her eye slid lazily open. She flicked her long cigarette ash.

A ramrod of fear and adrenaline shot up her spine. In the nanosecond it had taken to flip her cigarette, the same moment the tiny spark reflected in some surface on the thing in the lobby, her mind ripped its huge form from the darkness behind it. She leapt to her feet. She leveled her Infiltrator on the thing in the darkness and took four long, rapid steps forward, gasping,

"Come on, motherfucker. Come on!" her fifth step faltered.

The light of her PipBoy washed over the thing and it stood. It rose and grew and the muzzle of her gun fell to the floor.

The first thing her panicked mind noted was that the biggest, scariest looking Ghoul she had ever seen stood towering more than a foot over her. The next was that a shotgun, as uniquely huge and intimidating as its owner, was pointed no more than a few inches from her nose. Tied to the muzzle, dangled a tiny gold cross, sparking in the light of her PipBoy. The ghoul wore black leather and the mottled look of his dark muscles showing through the rotting, dark skin looked every bit the monstrous guardian of the gates of Hell. But, it was the cold, calculating look in his eyes, emotionless and more than ready. The look of a predator. It paralyzed her. And when she heard the sound of the safety level clicking from one position to the other, her heart stopped.

Night 575, Lower Halls of Underworld

Charon never entered the Museum from the front. Since he had fallen into the employ of Azruhkal, he had used a nearly buried, little known entrance from the side. It discouraged the Steels from following. Or that was the reason he gave the other ghouls. Truth be told, he enjoyed the solitude he could find in the Lower Halls. Only the Ferals roamed here, and when they saw Charon coming, they fell away to the shadows, hissing and scuttling. Except for one storage room near the back, the room he never opened unless ordered to, these halls were his own personal wasteland. He read, most often, the few unruined books he had found over the years, cleaned and repaired his gear, or simply ate in the empty cafeteria. When he felt he had spent enough time in his sanctuary, he would leave through the lobby door, perhaps stopping to hear the last report from Willow.

Today, he entered and was immediately uneasy. But, he had made it a good ten feet from the service door before he noted the change that made his senses strain. He hadn't heard a single hiss, no scuttling of feet. By the time he finally missed the presence of the Ferals, he nearly tripped over three of their corpses.

"Damn!"

His first thought was Steels. But the lack of flash, flare, destruction, and patriotic speeches cast too much doubt. The second thought was that perhaps, finally, his prediction had come true. Either ghoul haters that were organized and crazy enough had raided Underworld, or someone with enough money had hired someone else crazy and organized enough to take on the job. Talons. His shotgun never lowered; his eyes and ears pained for the slightest sensation.

He stalked every hall, checked every nook and cranny. All he found were more feral corpses and spent 5.56 casings. The furrows in his ruined brow deepened. His face was darker than usual with a wicked sneer. He mounted the steps to the lobby door and crouched. he slid the door open without even disturbing the dust on the floor. He crawled out, shotgun still at the ready.

From the corner of his eye, he caught a bit of greenish white light. He turned and saw the glow coming from inside the circle desk of the front lobby. Three feet to the right of him was a split in the desk, a gate with the hinged counter that swung up to allow the ushers of old to enter and exit. A pale carpet of light fell from it. He began to sneak in that direction.

Without warning, a shot rang out against the silence. He jumped to his feet and trained his shotgun on the desk, waiting for the slightest hair or movement to give away the position of his assailants. He waited. Suddenly, a knife flew, skittering across the dusty marble floor. But the direction and power were weak and much too far to his right. He continued to wait, though his mind was fogging with confusion. When a pair of old, black boots flapped lazily up and onto the desk, his shotgun finally came down. The absolute absurdity was almost comical. He watched the boot dangling from an ancient cash register. Now his confusion was complete. What the fuck was goin' on here?

A pencil flipped through the air and hit him square in the chest, clattering to the floor. He crouched down again, instinctively. He began to sneak again toward the trail of light. As he came upon it, he watched an old t-shirt, a baseball cap, a toy car, and other bits of junk go flying in different directions. Now he was insatiably curious. He finally squared himself up to the light.

Inside, sitting cross-legged was a young, blonde haired girl, picking over items that were set up in almost military fashion. He noticed first the patch over her right eye and the thin, lightning scars that radiated from it. he was then struck by how long her pale hair was and how, despite a few fresh scars, her skin seemed unmarked, clear as milk. His eyes fell upon the source of the pale greenish white light. A wrist computer.

What were they called? PipBoys? Yes. That was it.

She must be from a vault. Charon had had the sneaking suspicion that one of those bastards time locked seal would crack open one of these days. Suddenly, he realized that she could be the Vault Dweller he had heard of on the radio lately. Doubt clouded his thoughts. The Vault Dweller was a woman, but this girl. She looked no older than 20, and her face seemed to beautiful to be that of the bad-ass Ambassador of Peace Three-Dog howled about.

She packed her things and searched in the side of her smaller bag. Out came a largish piece of old folded paper and several pencils, rulers and a nearly pristine compass. Next came three small red inhalers.

Junkie. Charon thought.

He watched her inhale the first hit of Jet and felt a tiny sadness grow in his heart. She was too pretty, too untouched by time and radiation, too much of a child to be destroying herself with those nasty chems. He watched her trace along the lines of the map, almost lovingly. She measured something and pulled a notebook with a ugly brown stain seeping through the layers of paper.

Blood.

She read and reread the page. He saw her fall upon some scrap of writing and watched her untouched eye narrow. She returned the paper in front of her. He realized it was a map. A huge map. Only a small section near the middle had anything on it. He studied the detail as best he could from his position. He watched her measure, re-measure, and measure again. She grunted and tapped a tiny dot on the map. Seemingly satisfied she repacked her map and tools.

She took another hit of Jet. The sadness in his heart bloomed a little. She lit a cigarette and closed her eyes. A tiny smile, sweet and frail, touched her lips. Her striking beauty as the smile lit her face was almost completely disarming. He felt the urge to stand, to hail her and ask her name. he watched her eye slide open and noted the pale green of it. She was gorgeous. She flipped an ash away.

At that very moment, he knew she had spotted him. He watched her leap up and train an assault rifle with a scope and a long, deadly looking silencer right between his eyes. She lurched toward him.

"Come on, motherfucker. Come on!" he heard her gasp.

He stood, mechanically, aiming his own shotgun at her in return. His mind cleared and battle ready blood froze in his veins. He saw himself clear in her vision. Her gun dropped. He clicked the safety lever away and aimed.

They stared at each other, one gasping, one nearly growling.

Charon's voice was too loud in the suffocating silence.

"Who are you and what are you doing here?"

He watched her eye widen and her mouth move. No sound came out.

"What?" he barked.

"Jack! My name is Jack, and I'm staying with Doctor Barrows in Underworld. Please . . . please don't h . . ." he breath failed.

Charon lowered his shotgun and straightened. Her eye grew impossibly wider as he towered above her. Then, without provocation, her eye narrowed and her ears pulled back like a vicious dog. Her rifle was up and in his massive chest.

He was stunned by her speed. But more stunning was the cold, killer look in her single eye.

"I . . . I don't want to hurt you! I . . . what . . . Who are you and what are you doing here?"

"I am Charon. I live in Underworld."

After several exaggerated seconds, she lowered her rifle. While her face softened and the suspicion fell from her, fear still blanched her skin.

Charon felt another urge to reach out to her. To comfort her. But, his well trained mind reminded him that Azruhkal wanted his caps. Duty killed his emotions rampage. He made toward the door of the concourse.

Behind him he heard Jack sigh in great relief. A beat later he heard her call his name.

"Charon? I'm sorry for any misunderstanding. I perhaps if I see you again, I'll buy you a drink."

Charon turned to look at her. In the darkness that surrounded her, he could suddenly see less of the pretty child he had seen and more of a ghost. He suddenly wished some other ghoul would walk into the lobby, if only to confirm that his eyes needed checking.

"No. I do not drink while I am working."

"Well, when you get off then. When is that?" now the conversation felt casual. As if a moment ago they had not almost killed each other.

Charon shook his head.

"Never."

"What a bitch! What kind of boss won't let you have a day off?"

Azruhkal, Charon thought. Now he realized the absurdity of the lightness of the conversation. He cocked an eyebrow.

"Well, maybe I'll see you around anyway."

For a moment, he did not have a reply. Finally, he simply nodded and walked away. He thought about the two empty Jet containers laying inside the circle lobby desk.

Yeah, kid, see ya around. Real soon.