Notemeal: (For your daily allotment of Author's Notes and bland, tasteless oatmeal!)
1. A couple of people pointed out some issues with a certain section of Chapter 2. You guys know who you are. In light of your comments (which upon review I found I agreed with,) I went back and tweaked that section. The edited chapter's been posted, and I think the revised version does work better. Hope you guys think the same.
2. This one took a little longer than even I expected, but it's finally done. I'm fairly happy with it, though maybe it doesn't quite sing as well as the other two chapters. Still, here's hoping y'all have fun with it, anyway. Cheers, kids.
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Entry C, Subsection D-3: "It's a Hole. No, Literally."
Corner of Pinecrest and Northcott
Springvale
0547 Hours
She must've looked quite the sight: a nineteen year old girl, pale as a sheet, her sweaty, red hair plastered to her face and neck, clad in a bright blue jumpsuit, clinging to the rusted remnants of a fire hydrant and trying very, very hard not to bawl like a toddler who'd just dropped her ice cream cone on the pavement.
Hey! Hey, I'm talking to you! Yeah, you in the blue pajamas! Get a hold of yourself, you big baby! This is embarrassing! This is… this…
I… damn it… I want my Daddy…
Since she had both of her hands wrapped tightly around the cherry-red metal plug bolted to the ground, she wasn't able to physically pummel herself about the face and neck. That made it really hard to bodily slap some sense into herself. She tried projecting mental images of her well-intentioned friends accosting her with baseball bats, pool cues and rolling pins in an attempt to sober her up, but without the subdural hematomas, it just wasn't the same.
Awww, little girl want her Daddy? Well, you gotta find him first! That's why you're out here, in case you forgot! So you woman up, Megan Catherine McCulloch! You pull yourself together right now and listen to me, young lady! You are -not- going to fall off the face of the Earth and get launched into the endless void of interstellar space. Gravity doesn't work that way!
She wasn't stupid, and she wasn't uneducated. The Vault had books, the Vault had films. It wasn't like she didn't know what the damned -sky- was… that it was what passed for a "ceiling" around these parts. Somehow, though, despite being armed with all manner of book-learning, this stupid, primal, instinctive hindbrain of hers couldn't help but react… poorly to the fact that THERE WAS NO GODDAMNED ROOF OVER HER HEAD!
Pant. Pant. Pant.
Now, true… she knew that reading about the outside world and watching movies about it couldn't prepare her one hundred percent for what she would encounter once she'd stepped outside that Vault door, but she'd been expecting a far better ratio than "1.5% prepared, 98.5% unprepared." For the love of God, those were some -shitty- numbers.
And yet, here she was. The first few hours immediately after her exit from Vault 101 hadn't been too bad, but it had been dark, then. Pitch black, almost. No moon, and she couldn't -see- anything. She'd just barely been able to navigate using the faint light from her Pip Boy's screen to see by. Guided – and that was a term she used loosely – by the rough map she'd been equipped with, she'd stumbled and tripped – not to mention swore the whole time (being Irish and all, a rather impressive collection of profanity had practically been bred into her brain's language centers) – her way into the ruins of Springvale. The buildings there were falling apart, of course, but she'd managed to find one that was reasonably intact and miraculously not inhabited by something that wanted to eat her, kill her, or… do other unsavory things to her… and not necessarily in that order, either. She'd taken shelter inside to try and get some rest.
She hadn't managed to get much actual -sleep- of course – unless she was willing to count slumping against a wall, nodding off every fifteen seconds only to shake herself awake again after two seconds of unconsciousness, as "sleep." (By the way, she wasn't.) But it had at least given her the chance to get off her feet for a while, to just sit and stop moving. She'd been pretty much on the go constantly since Amata had woken her to tell her… well, to tell her that her little world, the familiar, peaceful (relatively speaking) one she'd always known had come to a rather untimely end. She was still processing that "little detail."
After a few hours of trying to rest and mostly failing miserably, she'd come up with the idea of boring herself into unconsciousness, and so out had come the pile of recon reports that she and Amata had recovered from the Overseer's computer. The material was dry, if informative. But while the reading wasn't conducive to staying awake, the "sitting in an abandoned house while who-knows-what might be lurking outside to kill/eat/something you" wasn't conducive to sleeping. Eventually, she settled on a compromise, deciding to replay some of the audio transcripts of the survey team's debriefing sessions.
"The town of Springvale is in ruins – not like we expected any different. A few of the buildings are still standing, but they're almost all in a poor state of repair, having been abandoned… who knows how long ago. The houses are all falling apart, and the one large building we could find, the elementary school, is more of a crater than an actual building. Half of the structure has collapsed and is open to the elements."
"Not all the news is bad, however. Springvale may be gone, but other settlements do exist. We came across one during our reconnaissance probe. While the majority of our group was engaged in searching the remains of Springvale, we sent Quintain and Sinclair off to the east to see what they could see. They came back a short time later with news: a short distance southeast of Springvale was a small community called Megaton."
"The town's inhabitants are few, at present – a couple of dozen at most, and the settlement itself is… well, it's a hole. No, literally. It's built around a bomb crater. Despite the odd choice of build site, however, and the ramshackle construction of the homes themselves, the people of Megaton had apparently been eking out a living in the area for some time even before our survey team encountered them. From what we've seen out here so far, life in the wasteland is quite difficult, but they've managed fairly well for themselves, which speaks volumes for their tenacity and skill. They're open to further contact with us, too, which I think would certainly benefit both us and them."
It hadn't been all that much to go on, but Megan concluded that if the survey teams had located a settlement near to the Vault, and if that settlement were still around, it would've been the likely first place her father would have stopped after his hasty exit – if only to get some traveling supplies for wherever he was headed next. Looking there for some information about him was a thin, tenuous lead, but with her new refugee status, thin leads were pretty much all that she had to keep her going. She'd been exiled from her home, she had no friends, and the only family she had left, indeed the only family she'd really had… ever, was somewhere a few steps ahead of her. She had some serious catching up to do.
Which is how she'd found herself in this particular predicament. Having read some of the reports on Megaton, listened to a few others, and determined that the small community built around a giant hole in the ground was her best and only hope for finding her father at this point, she'd promptly hoisted herself up and boldly strode out the door of her commandeered shelter, filled with every confidence in the world that she would complete the task she'd set for herself.
Three and a half minutes later, as the arid, howling winds of the Capital Wasteland began to sting eyeballs that had gone dry from lack of blinking, she realized that she'd been staring straight upwards at… emptiness. Lots and lots of emptiness.
It… it's a very nice shade of orange, though.
Unfortunately, while she found the hue that her impending doom took to be quite relaxing, the fact that it was… her -impending doom- that was approaching threw her into something resembling a full-blown panic. Emitting a very undignified "Eeeeeeek!" sound, (Not that she would ever admit to having done so except under extraordinary duress, of course,) she flung herself at the nearest solid (and heavy) object, which, in this case, turned out to be the rusted fire hydrant, wrapped all four limbs about it, and adhered herself to it as if the entire surface of her skin and Vault suit had been replaced with flypaper.
Nearly ten minutes later, as dizziness caused by hyperventilation began to overcome her, and a tremor – not to mention the early hints of muscle cramps – began to creep into her arms and legs, she made another concerted effort to haul the tattered remnants of her courage together just long enough to pry herself loose from the big chunk of red-painted steel she was using as an anchor.
You can't stay here forever, you know, she told herself. The "hard sell" hadn't gone quite the way she'd hoped it would, so she was trying a softer touch, praying that perhaps honey would work where a ball-peen hammer had not. You're going to starve to death. And… and God, just think of what people are gonna say when they find your body. Can you imagine the scandal when someone wanders upon your desiccated corpse and puts all the pieces together? You left the Vault on this grand quest to find your father, freaked out when you saw the sky, and died dry humping a fire hydrant. That's your legacy, Megan, the chronicle of your life.
"My apologies, young lady, I don't mean to intrude, but might I ask what exactly you're doing?"
Megan's head whirled around so quickly, she was afraid she'd twisted her neck off at the shoulders. Her eyes had opened wide at the sound of that voice, and as she expected, that… damnable sky was still right where she'd left it – mocking her, flooding her mind with terrifying images of its eternal embrace of mind-numbing emptiness and void. The only good news was that there was something else in her field of vision to occupy her attention… at least for the moment.
Off a short distance away stood some kind of animal – she wasn't quite sure what to make of it, other than it was large, sand-brown, and looked more than a little on the sickly side – then again, out here, with constant exposure to all this radiation, what didn't? It also had two heads – that came as a bit of a shock. But the surprises didn't stop there. The creature, whatever it was, stood on a set of four wobbly-looking legs, and had a tiny stump of a tail that flicked idly back and forth. Two stubby looking horns were set into one of its heads, but what really drew her attention were the massive, disgustingly swollen udders – covered in warts and sores – that dangled from the animal's hindquarters. She shuddered and quickly focused her attention somewhere else.
Atop the creature's back was a mottled collection of assorted items: what looked to be bits of random garbage and detritus scavenged from all across the wasteland. Broken machine parts had been strapped down to a makeshift saddle that had been slung across the animal's back alongside a few rusted out blades, a handful of old toys, some strips of worn rubber and chunks of scrap metal. Megan wasn't sure what good any of that old junk would do anybody, but she had to admit to a certain bias. Back in the Vault, "repair" meant "replace." Whenever she'd been called upon to service some piece of malfunctioning reactor equipment, she'd simply swapped the broken parts for fresh ones from the seemingly infinite bounty of the Vault storage lockers. There'd never been any need to jury-rig solutions – it was a luxury she was sure the people out here in the Wastes didn't have. More than that, she realized it was a skill she was lacking and would likely have to learn.
But that was starting to drift away from more immediate concerns, like the man standing right next to her, his weather-beaten and heavily lined face hovering low and only a few inches above her own. He was clean-shaven, but the dark brown hair atop his head was tousled from strong wind and dusty from miles upon miles of travel. His clothes were well worn, constantly patched and re-patched in a never-ending attempt to keep them functional. While he didn't seem to be carrying much in terms of overt weaponry, just a small sidearm at his hip, appearances could be quite deceiving; Megan knew that much. Despite his polite demeanor so far, she wasn't willing to trust him any farther than she could throw him – which wasn't very far given her arms were still quite full of fire hydrant.
That being said, she still owed him a response to his initial question. "I… um… nothing," she said, lamely. For perhaps the very first time in her entire life – aside from that one instance when Butch had called her a stupidhead while she'd been eating a peanut butter sandwich – Megan was unable to come up with a witty rejoinder on the spot.
He smiled and nodded graciously at her. "I see. Because it appears to my, admittedly untrained, eye that you are clutching a fire hydrant. For what reason, I have not yet been able to discern."
Though his pose wasn't all that threatening – he was bent down to talk to her with his hands resting on his knees – her instincts were still telling her that she needed to do something. Immediately. This man could be dangerous. Stories had circulated around the Vault of people driven mad out in the Wastes, men who had turned to cannibalism in order to survive the harsh, unforgiving conditions of the Capital Wasteland. For all she knew, this man was sizing her up for stew, and it was deathly foolish to be clutching at a damned fire hydrant instead of jumping away from him, drawing her weapon, and insisting he keep his distance.
She opened her mouth to speak, intending to order him to back off. However, all that came out of her mouth was "Oh, God… are… are you going to eat me?"
"That all depends. Are you, perchance, made out of meat?"
She blinked at the question. "Um… yes?"
JESUS, MARY AND JOSEPH, WHY DID I ADMIT THAT?!
The man stroked his chin and the barest hint of a frown crossed his face. "Oh… well, that -is- unfortunate. For you, of course."
You… you don't want to do this… I won't make a good meal for you… I mean, I'm a little on the scrawny side, you know? Kinda thin… and… and I mean, my breasts aren't all that bad, but they're not all that -terribly- succulent, you know… you could do better. Plus… plus I never did get enough exercise sitting around all the time in that Vault, so my legs aren't as in good shape as they could be…
Oh. Oh, wait… no… no, you… you kinda -want- a little baby fat on there, don't you? Adds to the flavor of the meat, no, I get that… oh, God, why am I even thinking about this?!
Well, um… um… I… uh, I know! I… I have a… a flabby backside! That's a dealbreaker, right? Can't eat me now!
No… no, c'mon, admit it, Meg, you've got a positively luscious ass. LUSH. OUS. It's incredible. No buts about it. Heh. Pun intended.
…
Oh, fucking hell, you are SCREWED.
For the space of a few, heartstopping moments, she continued to huddle there, waiting for the coup de grace that would end her search to find her father before it had even really begun, but that killing blow never came. When she finally opened her eyes (one at a time,) the "bloodthirsty cannibal" was still standing there, smiling at her, an amused twinkle in his eyes. "I realize you're fresh out of the Vault," he said, "but I'm fairly certain they still taught you what the sky was inside those things."
She didn't reply at first – the fact that she wasn't dead or hacked up into bouillon cubes was still sinking in. But once her brain had had a moment or two to catch up, she blinked. The accusation that she'd been improperly educated had suddenly gotten her gumption up. She'd always considered herself one of Vault 101's smarter kids, (she had the test scores to prove it, goshdarnit,) and implying otherwise was a good way to get a rise out of her. "Of course they did," she sniffed haughtily. "And… how did you know I'm from a Vault?"
"You have a giant, yellow '101' on your back."
Her cheeks flushed crimson. "Oh. Right." She took a breath. "So, you're not going to eat me?"
"You look to be high in sodium, and I'm trying to reduce my salt intake."
She couldn't let a comment like that slide without some manner of pithy response, and though the redhead was still shaken by all that had occurred over the past few minutes, she was slowly recovering her equilibrium. She wasn't quite up to speaking without a small tremor slipping into her voice, but she at least managed to get the words out. "S-sounds like a good idea. You, uh… you don't want to develop hypertension. Blood pressure meds are probably… probably really hard to find out here."
"This is true. I doubt even the fabled Doc Hoff would carry those," the man said with a nod. "So… would it be safe to assume that the reason you've anchored yourself to this finely crafted contraption of red-painted steel is that you're deathly frightened of floating off the face of the Earth if you let go?"
She cleared her throat and the blush that had erupted across her cheeks earlier spread a little further, creeping down the back of her neck and even up to her ears, lending her normally pale skin a little bit of extra color. "Well, now that you've gone and put it that way, sir, it sounds downright silly." She made an awkward sounding noise as she cleared her throat.
"Not at all," the man hastened to reassure her, his tone of voice soothing. "There's a whole lot of… well, nothing up there. It's rather intimidating if you think about it too much. Thankfully, most of us don't. But most of us didn't live in a giant metal box underground, either. Almost, most of us have gravity bracelets." He flashed her a bright and easy smile and extended his wrist towards her. Looped around it was a simple piece of string – no beads, no ornamentation of any kind, in fact – just simple string.
She chuckled. "Gravity bracelets." It wasn't a question.
He flashed her a surreptitious wink. At least that's what it looked like from where she was huddled. Then again, it could have just been the glare of the rising sun – which, by the way, was starting to hurt her eyes. She was pretty sure it was a wink, though. "Oh, yes," he said. "Just like this one. Keep you from floating right off the face of the world. Incredible technology, but not all that new, actually. I'm surprised you haven't heard of it. I was always told the records in those Vaults were extremely comprehensive."
"Guess that little bit of data must've slipped someone's mind," she said, managing not to smile and keep her voice noncommittal. "No offense, but that still just looks like a piece of string tied around your wrist."
"No offense taken, Young Miss," he said, with the practiced ease of someone used to defusing touchy situations with diplomacy. "I hope my own words don't cause you any affront, either, but of course you wouldn't recognize what you're seeing here, given your rather limited experience with the world above-ground. If I may so humbly suggest that you just trust me on this? After all, I'm not floating away, am I?" He held his arms away from his sides and did a quick little twirl, showing that he was, indeed, still quite solidly anchored to the ground underneath his feet.
"No. No, I suppose you aren't." This time she couldn't hold back the chuckle. He was quite clearly BSing her. She knew it, and more than that, he knew that she knew. But they were both having fun playing this silly, twisted little game, and more than that, she suspected she understood his true motive. This little bit of sport they were engaged in was proving to be quite the distraction after all, helping her keep her mind off… well… that sky thing.
"Exactly." He grinned. "Listen, I'll tell you what. I keep a few of these in storage on my pack Brahmin here, just in case the one I'm using breaks down and I start to drift away. It's good to be prepared in case of emergencies, you understand. But I've never been able to turn away someone in dire need, so I'd be more than happy to sell you one of my spares."
"That'd be great, but I don't have any caps. And I heard you folks up here won't take these green pieces of paper with pictures of Ulysses S. Grant on them."
He gave a smooth shrug and ran a hand through his lightly tangled but very dusty hair. "That's quite all right, I'm willing to work out an arrangement."
And suddenly a whole host of alarm bells went off in her head. There was always a catch, and he'd just sprung it on her. When she spoke, her voice had dropped an octave. "Oh, really?"
He winced, suddenly realizing he'd given her the wrong idea. "Ah. My apologies. It truly is a shame that a man can't have a conversation of this sort with a girl your age without someone ultimately assuming… well… -that,- but I was suggesting something quite innocent, I promise you." He held his hands out, palms forward, and even took a step or two back to try and convince her of his sincerity. "You see, I'm on my way to the nearby settlement of Megaton, and I find myself with a distinct lack of someone to talk to. Old Bessie here has been a faithful companion for many a year, but unfortunately her conversational skills are limited to 'Mooooooooo…' and 'Nnnnnnngggggghhh…' Our talks tend to be distinctly one-sided as a result. And the mercenary guard I've hired to protect my merchant caravan – he's off searching for raiders along our route I believe, and should return shortly – well, he's little better. The man's little more than a gun turret on legs. That being said, if you'd care to travel with us, I'd welcome the company, and the conversation."
"And in return, you're just going to -give- me this piece of -extremely- useful technology?" she asked. A note of incredulity had crept into her voice. For one, despite his reassurances that everything he intended was on the level, a few kind words and a smile or two were certainly no guarantee of that. Sure, the man seemed harmless enough, but that was no guarantee, either.
Aside from that, even if the offer were one hundred percent legitimate, what it really boiled down to was this: a complete stranger who had no reason whatsoever to help her was doing some idiot girl fresh out of the Vault, someone he'd just met, a pretty big favor completely out of the goodness of his heart. She wanted to believe that people who lived on the surface were still capable of those kinds of acts of random kindness, that even as harsh as life was, they hadn't become so jaded that such notions were beyond them… but all the stories she'd heard, all the things people had told her had led her to believe that, at least as far as "surface-dwellers" were concerned, the milk of human kindness had curdled long ago. Maybe it was all Vault propaganda – it wouldn't be surprising given so much of the other Brahmin shit that they'd been fed all their lives, but what if it wasn't?
Going off with this individual was a risky proposition, but he -had- managed to calm her down, keep her mind off that whole "falling off into the sky" problem, and he -did- know the way to Megaton. She'd likely be safer traveling with someone than trying to make it on her own. And the odds of him having something… nefarious planned – while she couldn't discount the possibility entirely, her gut was telling her whoever this man was, he wasn't a threat.
Traveling with him was a risk, yes, but just about everything out on the surface was. Besides, leaving the Vault had been a risk. Hell, staying in the Vault had been a risk. Life was a risk. "So, you're really going to 'pay' me just so you'll have someone to talk to while we walk? That's one crazy idea of a bargain," she said, slowly getting to her feet and dusting herself off.
"Well, 'Crazy' is my name."
"I'm sorry?"
"My family name is Wolfgang. 'Crazy' is my given name." He gave her another quick wink before launching into a deep and rather impressive looking bow. It was a little awkward – there wasn't much call for bowing out in the Wastes, but he managed.
Megan laughed at his antics. "So your parents wanted a girl," she commented, dryly.
He snapped his fingers and flashed her a bright smile. "That's it, exactly."
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Main Gate
Megaton
The sun was just starting to get high in the sky by the time she parted ways with Crazy Wolfgang just outside the main gate of the town of Megaton. As a handful of prospective customers approached his caravan and he began to set up shop, she thanked him for his help and promised to keep an eye out for any promising bits of "junk" she came across in her travels.
"Great. Sainted. Jumping. Monkeys," she swore under her breath, as she hiked up the small hill separating the road and the entrance to the town proper. The sunlight beating down on her was brighter than any light she'd ever had to deal with before, her eyes having been accustomed to nothing stronger than fluorescent light bulbs. The way the sun reflected off the sand was murder on her, and even with the old baseball cap Stanley had given her all those years ago, and even with her arm up to try and shade her eyes with her sleeve, she couldn't quite keep her eyes from watering. She knew it was only a matter of time before she would get used to the conditions out here in the Wastes, she just hoped she'd survive long enough to make the adjustment, and that maybe she could find something that could help her in this ramshackle town.
Ramshackle.
The leader of the survey team hadn't been kidding when she'd used that term to refer to Megaton's buildings, Megan thought to herself as she made her way past the ancient Protectron unit standing sentry at the gate that barred entry into the town itself. She took a quick look around at her surroundings. The locals had crafted their dwellings from whatever materials they could scavenge. Most of the walls looked to be cobbled together from scrap metal stolen from some large… something or other, and the pieces were held together with rusted bolts on the verge of failure. Just about each one of those walls looked to have taken some sort of damage at some point or another over the years, necessitating hasty patches be spot welded over the cracks and gouges.
Jagged corners of more rusted metal protruded from the seams of walls or hung where a roof joined the rest of the building proper. The inhabitants had tried to fold those corners in or round them off as best they could, but the work was slip-shod in places, and a haven for Tetanus in others.
Of course, the real attraction was the fixture right in the center of town that almost certainly had given the town of Megaton its name: Megan had seen pictures in the historical archives while doing reports for school on pre-War Chinese technology. Back then, she'd wondered when she'd ever need to -use- any of that knowledge. Life, of course, seemed to have a very deliberate sense of irony.
Sitting in the middle of a crater about twenty to twenty five feet in diameter and maybe about ten feet deep, filled with brackish water, was an old Chinese nuclear warhead, probably deployed as one of eight from a MIRV-equipped missile. One rocket engine, eight bombs. For some reason, this one hadn't airburst or detonated on impact. Yet.
And these people had built their entire town around it. That was one thing they'd "conveniently" forgotten to mention in the recon report. They'd mentioned the town was built around a bomb crater. They'd just forgotten to mention the goddamn bomb was still -in- it.
Nobody ever tells me -anything.-
As she stepped through the gate, the path slanted sharply downwards, heading straight for the crater at the center of the settlement. People milled around in all directions, going about their business, completely ignoring the arrival of someone new to their town. Not that she was all that surprised. It wasn't like the Vault – up here, people came and went as they pleased. Still, she'd been hoping for some manner of welcome, someone she could talk to, someone who could help her get her bearings-
"Howdy. Can I help you with something?"
As if in answer to her unvoiced prayers, exiting one of the buildings off to her right was a dark-skinned man, probably in his late thirties to early forties. He was dressed in a leather longcoat that, like most everyone's clothing here above-ground, was covered in a thin layer of dust. He had a neatly trimmed beard and fairly close-cropped hair tucked underneath a light brown Stetson hat.
I like that hat. It's… jaunty.
What struck her the most about him, however, was the Chinese Type-56 assault rifle strapped to his back. It was easily the deadliest weapon she'd ever seen in her life… aside from Dad's Baked Bean Surprise. (She still hadn't managed to figure out what the "Surprise" was. Her current prevailing theory was 'If you consume it and don't succumb to massive gastrointestinal trauma, that's the surprise.') But it wasn't so much the weapon as it was the individual who carried it. Whoever he was, he seemed to be a man of contrasts. While he was clearly well armed and had a hard, almost flinty look about his eyes that suggested he'd been forced to kill on more than one occasion, the smile he was currently wearing was warm and friendly. Inviting, even. As was the wave he gave her as he approached.
She tried to return the grin, but she was so busy trying to figure the man out… not to mention the fact that she was still a bit put out by someone brandishing that much hardware in her immediate vicinity. Still, the corners of her mouth managed to curl themselves up into something at least vaguely resembling a smile. "That… that depends," she said in response to the man's question. "Um… who are you?"
He chuckled softly and ducked his head, even doffing his hat a little bit by way of apology. "Well, if I haven't gone and forgotten my manners. Name's Simms. Lucas Simms. I'm the sheriff in this town. Part-time mayor, too. Well, when we need a mayor, that is." He held out his hand.
Megan took it. Simms' grip was firm, like she expected – almost a little too firm as a matter of fact, and she almost winced as he squeezed her fingers tightly. "Nice to meet you, Sheriff. My name's Megan. Sorry if I seem a little jumpy, it's just that I-"
"You're fresh out of the Vault and things out here aren't what you're quite used to?"
She frowned, her brow furrowing in mild confusion as she struggled to discern just how he'd managed to figure -that- one out.
The solution hit her about a half second later. "How did you know- oh… yeah, I keep forgetting. The giant, yellow 101 on my back."
He laughed lightly and gave her a brief nod. "Heh. It's been years since I've seen one of those Vault suits."
She smiled a little sheepishly and shrugged. "Yeah, Crazy Wolfgang said something similar. I walked here from Springvale with him. He told me that a few years back, people from my Vault were out here exploring… that a few even came as far as Megaton. 'course word -inside- the Vault is that the door's never opened even once since they first locked everyone in back when the bombs dropped. Makes you wonder what else ain't true, doesn't it? But that's neither here nor there." She frowned again and shrugged apologetically. "Sorry. Rambling. I, uh… I tend to do that when I'm nervous. You, um… you said you're the Sheriff around here?"
"That's right. Law's a pretty… nebulous concept around these parts, but we do what we can."
"Gotcha. Maybe you might be able to help me, then? I'm looking for my father. He probably passed through here…" She did a little mental math trying to hash out how long it might have taken her father to escape the Vault and get to Megaton. "… mmmm… maybe some time yesterday? He's about your height, I guess, maybe a couple of inches shorter, little older. About the same complexion as me. Brown hair and beard… I figure he would've stood out if he was wearing a Vault suit, too, but he might've changed clothes, so…" She shrugged.
Simms shook his head. "Sorry, I don't think anyone new came through recently, but to be honest, I've had my hands kinda full. Haven't really been able to spend all that much time checking out any new arrivals. You're the first new face I've greeted personally in a while."
Megan stifled a sigh. She'd been hoping for some good news, but if she wanted to be honest with herself, she knew she couldn't expect to make good on her lead on the very first try. Finding her father wasn't going to be an easy job… not by any stretch of the imagination. Still, she couldn't help feeling just a touch disappointed that the Sheriff didn't have any solid information for her. But just because -he- hadn't seen James didn't mean the whole conversation was a bust…
"Would you have any idea where I could ask around, then? Maybe someone else in town might have seen him?"
The Sheriff thought the question over for a moment or two, but he looked hesitant to give her an answer. She wasn't sure why, and was just about to prod him a little further when he frowned and let out a quick sigh. "I do…" He paused for a moment, clearly still hesitating on whether to tell Megan what he was thinking or not. "But to be honest with you… kid your age, living under a rock all your life? I'm not sure I want to send you over there."
She almost smiled at that. Part of her rebelled at the idea of being treated like a child… wanted to tell him that she didn't need protecting. But her experiences in Springvale had made it fairly clear that a little protecting was probably a good thing.
Still, she couldn't back away from anything resembling a lead, no matter how tenuous, no matter how potentially dangerous… not when the stakes where what they were, and not when she currently had so little to go on. "I appreciate the sentiment, Sheriff," she said, trying to keep her voice as steady as possible. "But it's really important I find him. He… he kinda left the Vault without telling me why, and… and I just… I need to find him."
Simms looked her in the eyes for a few moments, and his gaze softened, as if suddenly finding something in her story that resonated with him. He nodded, understanding her need if not necessarily feeling comfortable with helping her get into trouble. "I… I guess I can understand that. But you be careful, y'hear? And if anything happens, you holler, get me?"
Call for the lawman if I get into more trouble than I can handle? Which is probably any trouble at all? Yeah, better believe it.
She nodded solemnly. "You bet."
"All right. There's only one saloon here in Megaton. Run by a man named Moriarty. If you look just over there, you can see the place. Moriarty likes to keep his hands in everything around here, and even if he personally doesn't know anything about your Dad, there's always bound to be some gossip floating around." Simms scratched his beard. "Sounds like a good place to start."
"Thanks, Sheriff. I appreciate the help."
"You're welcome, little lady. You take care, now."
"I will. Oh, wait… one last thing before I go… um… I have to ask…"
"Heh heh. Everyone does."
"It's not still live, is it?" The two of them turned towards the bomb in the center of town.
"Honestly, we don't know. It hasn't gone off yet, obviously. But could it?" He shrugged. "Hell if anyone knows for sure."
Megan let out a low whistle and scratched the back of her neck. "Jesus. How do you folks sleep at night knowing… well, knowing there's possibly live nuclear ordnance just thirty feet away? I mean… I swiped a handful of cherry bombs once and hid them under my bunk, and I couldn't sleep the entire night thinking they were going to blow me up and I was going to spend the rest of my very short life running through the halls of the Vault with my hair on fire and my skin melting off."
"Just one of those things you get used to, I guess. The town's been here for a whole lotta years, and the bomb's been here for longer. The way folk see it, if it ain't gone off yet, it probably ain't gonna."
Megan let that explanation roll around in her head a little bit. Maybe that was how things were done on the surface… it made sense in a way. Life above ground was filled with a lot more uncertainty than life in a Vault. For all its flaws, Vault life tended to be more… stable, at the very least. "No offense, but… I'm not sure I could live with 'probably.' The idea of suddenly waking up one morning and finding myself atomized would make it real hard to get to bed the night before."
Simms nodded and offered up a little shrug that suggested he wasn't much happier with the situation, just more resigned to it. His words reflected a similar sentiment. "Well, just 'tween you and me, kid, not sure I'm a hundred percent comfortable with it, neither, but since nobody around here has the expertise to do anything about that bomb, we're all just trying to get by as best we can."
"Hmm."
He threw a questioning glance in her direction, and his head took on a curious little tilt. He certainly had the gaze of an experienced lawman, always appraising things, always searching for answers in people's faces, and in their body language. "Hmm?"
"Sorry, I was just thinking for a second, there. It's just… really, the safest thing to do would be to try and remove the payload of fissionable materials, since without those the bomb doesn't have any fuel to go boom with. Plus, it looks like you're getting some leakage into the local ground water, too. So get rid of the fission pile, and no more boom, no more radiation contamination. Only problem is, that'd take a lot of heavy lifting capacity you just don't have, so…" She tapped her chin with a fingertip as her mind worked the problem over from several different angles. "It seems the best bet would probably be to try and just disable the firing mechanisms in the guidance section of the warhead, then seal up all the cracks in the casing as best you can to limit the radiation spread."
When she stopped talking, she found him staring at her as if she'd grown a second head and that second head had started singing loudly, off-key and in a foreign language. "You… actually knowing something about this?"
"Uh… well, I… I mean… not really bombs, per se. The biggest explosives I ever messed with were homemade firecrackers. But I was a reactor tech in the Vault, so I've got some experience with… well, the ins and outs of some of this kind of machinery, I guess." She blinked and shot him a slightly panicked look. "You're not suggesting what I think you're suggesting, are you?"
"If you think I'm suggesting that you go take a look at that bomb, then I'm afraid I'm suggesting it." The corners of his mouth had tugged upwards into the barest hint of a smile, like a card sharp who'd just found someone new to hustle… though perhaps without so much of the sinister overtones.
She blinked again, and an even greater edge of panic had crept into her eyes and her voice. "Sheriff, I'm… honestly kinda flattered you think I'm up for that, but one, you don't even know me, and two, this thing has enough firepower to blink away your town and like everything within, oh, say, the immediate eight square miles?"
"I didn't say you should go poking around in its innards," he said reasonably, "I just said you should take a look at it. Just have a look. And if, maybe, you think you can do something to decommission that bomb permanently, well… the people of this town would be mighty grateful. There'd be quite the reward in it for you."
Megan shook her head emphatically. "Money's not the issue, Mr. Simms, I'd just feel really awful if I killed us all in one big blast of cleansing fire. It'd kinda wreck my whole morning…" She looked at him, as if imploring him to change his mind, but since he didn't seem inclined to do so, she sighed and relented. "But ok, I'll go take a peek."
-----
"Well?"
Megan stood up and dusted off her hands, trying to ignore the curious glances she got from passers-by and the slightly more pointed looks she was getting from the Children of the Atom – fanatics who worshipped the weapon as some kind of holy relic that was central to their destiny. She could imagine they weren't too happy with her poking around with the sacred heirloom that was most critical to their transcending to a higher plane of existence, but they weren't about to give her a hard time – not with Simms standing sentry just behind her. She was grateful for that. "Honestly? It's not -quite- as scary as I expected it to be. Still scary, but… maybe not -as- scary. I'm still not sure I'm up to tackling a job like this on my own, though. You've got to have someone around who's good with tools, someone you trust to fix up anything that gets broken around town?"
The Sheriff frowned darkly, his brow furrowing. "There's Moira over at Craterside Supply. She's quite the hot hand with a socket wrench…"
"My powers of clairvoyance tell me there is a 'but' in the near future."
His smile was wan, like someone who'd bitten into a rotting bit of mutfruit. "Yep. That you do. She's a whiz with that kind of stuff, but the woman's a little… eccentric. To put it mildly." The tone of his voice suggested there was far more to the story than he was letting on. Though she'd been out of the Vault for less than a day, it was clear to Megan that lying by omission was a fairly common occurrence.
"Oh."
"She means well, but she can be a little scatterbrained at times, and it's hard to keep her focused."
Megan knew the type. Megan -was- the type, in a lot of ways. She'd always enjoyed tinkering with bits of broken-down machinery back in the Vault. She'd had a habit of taking things apart to see how they worked. She'd just rarely seemed to get around to putting them back together. There was a workbench in one of the maintenance workshops that she'd commandeered for her own use that was constantly covered in parts from various bits of disassembled gadgets and doodads that she'd always intended to reassemble but never seemed to find the time for. The one difference was, she'd never thought to stick her screwdriver into anything all that much more dangerous than an old alarm clock. "I think I understand. I still might need her help with this, though… I'll need a little while to think about it. If it's ok with you, I'm going to head on over to that bar you mentioned, see if I can scrounge up some information about my Dad."
The Sheriff nodded. "All right. Good luck."
"Thanks."
-----
Moriarty's Saloon
Megaton
The place was hot, it was filthy, it reeked of sweat and stale beer. The furniture was in horrible condition; all the chairs were rusted, and those lucky enough to still have some kind of upholstery were leaking their stuffing out of dozens of tiny cracks and tears. The clientele wasn't much better. They, too, looked… worn, at best, all of them wearing weathered, beaten clothing. Then there was the… bartender.
She tried not to stare. It wasn't polite. It was also, however… really hard not to stare.
The reconnaissance reports had made mention of massively irradiated humans known collectively as ghouls, who, instead of succumbing to radiation poisoning had actually survived. But the mutations had been extensive, and were often more than just physical in nature. The marring of their physical appearance had been excessive, however, and more often than not, that was what people tended to focus on more than anything else. It wasn't fair, she knew that, but she found herself doing the same even as she took a seat at the counter, and when she noticed that eerie, bloodshot gaze turning to fall upon her, she grimaced visibly and looked away.
"Help you?"
The voice was raspy and harsh – not surprising given that much of the man's vocal cords had probably disintegrated along with a good bit of the rest of his flesh. He'd probably also noticed her staring – she'd done an exceptionally poor job of hiding it, after all. She made to apologize. "I'm sorry… I… I was staring… I, uh… I've never seen anyone in your… um… condition before." She swallowed to try and relieve a mouth that'd suddenly gone dry. "Well, other than in pictures, and uh… geez, that's... that's real tactful, Megan, yeah, brilliant opening statement right there…" Her voice dropped to an annoyed mutter as she berated herself. "Why don't you just chop your tongue off and use it to paint the walls of this place? They could probably use a fresh coat…" She sighed. "Listen, I'm real sorry if I offended you. I suppose now you'll want me to just be shuffling on out of your bar here…"
The ghoul blinked – he still had eyelids with which to blink. Thankfully. It would have been exceptionally unnerving if he'd had no eyelids and still had a blink reflex. "-My- bar?" He laughed… or at least, that was what she assumed that hacking, smoky sound issuing from somewhere deep in his chest was.
She wasn't sure what he found so funny, but before she could ask, a figure emerged from the back room. He was of above average height with a build that might have been considered 'rangy' in his younger days, but as he'd aged, he'd started to put on a little weight, most of it centered around the gut. He still looked to be a fairly capable brawler, but the silver hair and beard showed that most of his best days were behind him. Still, the perpetual scowl he wore on his face, and the way he stood tall and held his head high as he walked, made it abundantly clear that he at least considered himself as dangerous as ever. "What's all the racket out here?" His words were slightly slurred, taking an already tough to decipher brogue and making it even harder to understand. Clearly, whoever the man was, he'd concluded long ago that it was never too early in the day to start drinking. Or perhaps it was never too late in the evening to stop. Whichever.
"Can't a man get any peace and quiet in his own goddamned place?!"
Simms had referred to the place as "Moriarty's Saloon," but she'd seen plenty of bars in stories and movies that had strange names that didn't fit.
Moe's Tavern wasn't owned by a guy named Moe, right? Oh… wait, yeah, it was. Well, what about that Korova Milkbar place in that one book you read? I mean… well, no, they served milk there… I mean, it had drugs and stuff in it, but it was still milk… and 'korova' meant cow, which made sense, I guess. So… um… well… uh… damn. Ok, well… fine… maybe sometimes bar names make sense.
Whatever the case, she'd assumed there wouldn't actually -be- a Moriarty at Moriarty's Saloon, but it seemed she was quite wrong about that, as this drunken bum exiting from the back rooms of the tavern seemed to be the owner/operator of the establishment and the man for whom it'd been named.
She already didn't like him.
Though his speech was slightly slurred – honestly, though, she was having a hard time telling how much was the booze and how much was just his awful accent – that seemed to be the only outward sign of intoxication. He walked straight enough as he crossed the room over to where the ghoul bartender had quickly shut his mouth and pretended to look very busy polishing glasses. "It was you, wasn't it? Making all the noise? How many times I hafta tell you to keep yer damn mouth shut! Yer here ta pour drinks, and that's it!" He raised his arm and struck the ghoul across the face with a vicious backhand that sent him stumbling backwards a step or two.
"I… I'm sorry, Mr. Moriarty. It won't happen again. I promise."
Megan watched the ghoul reel back from the punch to the face, watched him practically cower in fear of a second strike, and all because he'd made the "mistake" of laughing at a simple misunderstanding she'd initiated. She had absolutely no idea what she was getting into, but if there was one thing she couldn't stand, it was a bully. And if there was one thing she always did whenever she found a bully, it was pick a fight with them.
She leaned forward on her stool and put her elbows on the bar-top, raising her voice so she could be heard over Moriarty's drunken ranting. "I'm sorry… I know they do things a lot differently here than where I'm from, but I'm pretty sure that no matter where you are, going around smacking people just for laughing still makes you an asshole."
Heads turned. Even this early in the day, the saloon had a fair number of patrons. Most were Megaton locals, folks who had nothing better to do but waste their time and their caps getting drunk off the watered-down swill Moriarty's passed off as liquor. A few others were travelers passing through the area to points unknown. Regardless of who they were or why they were there, however, all of them were suddenly caught up in watching the free show. Some grinned savagely, expecting a bloodbath, others were merely stunned that some complete stranger in bright blue PJs had had either the guts (or more likely the sheer stupidity) to challenge Moriarty in his own bar.
The saloon's proprietor had just begun to wipe his hands on a filthy towel when Megan spoke up. Suddenly his bloodshot and bleary eyes were right on her, his lips curled into an almost-snarl. "And where I'm from, little girls know to keep their stupid mouths shut before something bad happens to them." He flicked the towel carelessly onto the bar and leaned forward to tower over her.
Well, congratulations, Megan. He's pissed. And you've pissed. Yourself. Now what?
She hadn't. Pissed herself. Not literally, at any rate, but her heart -was- doing its best impression of a sprint runner on Buffout, and that was making her feel distinctly unwell. She stood up from her bar stool and planted both hands on the counter-top, leaned forward herself and did her best to stare Moriarty right in the eye. It didn't help that even at her full height the top of her head barely reached his chin. "Is that so?"
"Aye, 'tis." His expression made it abundantly clear that he would take an extreme amount of pleasure in gutting her, but just before he was about to reach across the bar, grab her by the shoulders and possibly fling her through the door, he stopped and squinted as if trying extra hard to focus his eyes on something – specifically, her face. "Wait just one damned minute… no… you can't… you can't be her…"
He's not killing you. This is good. This is very good. This is your chance. Maybe your only chance, so don't blow it, ok?
"Oh, now you recognize me, huh? Like I'm going to believe -that.- A drunk like you couldn't find your own ass with both hands and a locator beacon."
You have a latent death wish, don't you?
Luckily for her, now that he'd apparently recognized her, he didn't seem as much inclined to put his first through her face, though she was sure his reasons for granting such a reprieve weren't altruistic in the least. Almost certainly he felt he could profit more from 'helping' her than he could from simply getting her blood all over his floor. Still, it wouldn't be wise to continue baiting him any further.
Which is why that was exactly what she did.
There was a fine line between "intelligence" and "wisdom." She'd often been told she had the former but lacked the latter.
"I think you and I need to have a little talk."
" 'A talk,' huh? That a euphemism for me extracting your molars with my fist?"
He snorted, his patience once again starting to wear thin. He grit his teeth and stared her down. "No. That's a euphemism for you shutting the hell up and me telling you something I get the feeling you want to know. But not where everyone can hear us. Understand?"
She didn't respond right away, just held his gaze for a few long, very tense moments. "I'll think about it."
"Don't think too long, lass. I'll be in my office if you change your mind."
Megan glared at his back until Moriarty had disappeared into the back room, then retook her seat and sighed, wearily, her hands shaking as the adrenaline began to fade from her system. She turned to the bartender and gave him a small and brittle smile, trying to apologize for all the unexpected difficulties she'd unintentionally dropped in his lap. "I… uh… sorry I got you in trouble with your boss, there. I wasn't trying to cause any trouble for you or anything."
The bartender sighed and replied with a small half-shrug. "It's not your fault," he said, tossing a backwards glance over his shoulder to make sure Moriarty had really gone. "He's always looking for some excuse to bust my chops. If it hadn't been you, it'd've been something else. But thanks for sticking up for me. Most folks wouldn't have bothered. Fact, most folks would've just started hitting me when they first saw me, or pulled a gun."
Megan smiled, but it was a wan smile. She knew he was trying to make a joke, but the truly sad part was she had a feeling she understood just how much truth there was behind what he'd just said. "Well, sorry to disappoint. If I'd known you were looking for a fight, I woulda pointed out how that shirt clashes with those pants."
The ghoul almost laughed again, but managed to keep his reaction to a low chuckle. "Heh. Most everyone calls me Gob."
"I'm assuming that's because that's your name."
"Yep."
"A lot of people call me 'Hey, Stupid.' That's -not- my name." She grinned. "You can call me that, or you can call me Megan, which -is- my name."
"Nice to meetcha," Gob said in that nasal, raspy voice of his. "You know, funny thing, you coming on up outta that Vault. We had someone walking in here about a day ago, looked like he was from there, too."
Megan sat up straighter, her eyes opening a little wider as she leaned forward across the counter. "Just under six feet, brown hair, brown eyes, mid forties? Had a hint of Irish in his accent? And not the trashy kind, like your boss, but the good kind?"
Gob tilted his head to the side, shooting her a quizzical look – at least she assumed that was what passed for a quizzical look with him. "Uh. Yeah."
"Where'd he go?"
"Uh… you'll… you'll need to talk to Moriarty about that."
She frowned. She understood why he was being so careful. This must've been the information Moriarty wanted to impart her way, and knowing him, he wanted to charge her for it. Gob was risking more than just a beating by even telling her this much, she knew that, but… "Gob, -please.- He… he's my father. He just up and walked out of the Vault without telling us why, and I've been going out of my -mind- trying to find him."
The ghoul shook his head. He looked contrite. "Kid, listen to me, I ain't tryin' to stonewall you, here. I just don't know what he was doin' here. He came in for just a few minutes. Moriarty recognized him, same as he recognized you, and the two of 'em went off in the back to talk. They came out a half hour later and your Dad left. Never saw 'im again. That's all there was. I swear to you."
A woman with hair almost as red as Megan's own, only curlier and cut shorter took up the stool next to her. She kept her voice low as well so that none of the other patrons could hear. "It's true, honey, he was out here all of ten seconds. We never got the full story. If anyone knows anything, it's Moriarty."
Great. And he's not quite my best pal at the moment.
Megan groaned. "Terrific. And I haven't exactly made the best impression, have I?"
The other redhead chuckled softly. It was a deep, smoky chuckle, the kind of laugh that was always a permanent fixture in bars. Every pub, every saloon, every cantina had one like it… the jaded, world-weary woman who'd seen it all and who nothing could faze. "I'm sure he's heard worse," she said with a smirk. "Anyway, he's a businessman, darling. The only thing that makes a lasting impression on him are caps. Wave enough of those around, and he'll play nice."
"If I saved the bottlecaps from all the Nuka I drank in the Vault, I'd be richer than sin. Curse me for a goddamn fool. Unfortunately, I don't think they take lint in trade out here." Megan rolled her eyes. "Guess I'll just have to think of a way to scrounge up some cash. Suppose I'd better get on that, then." She made as if to stand up.
"You want a drink before you go, kid?"
"I'm flat broke, Gob. You ever hear the expression 'ain't got nothing but the clothes on my back?' That's pretty much true." She chuckled wryly and picked at the sleeve of her Vault suit.
"This one's on me."
"I don't know. You're already in enough trouble with Chuckles back there..."
He gave her a gentle shake of the head and motioned for her to retake her seat. "I'll worry about that. C'mon, you look thirsty."
"I… thanks, I appreciate it. I think I'd better stay away from the hard stuff, though."
"No problem. I'll get you some water. The bottled stuff. Don't watch you catching too many rads too soon, y'know?"
She nodded slowly, still a little hesitant, but he seemed earnest enough. "All right, if you're sure."
The woman sitting next to her took a puff from her cigarette, tilting her head upwards so she could release the smoke into the air. Megan let her eyes drift a little to the side, watching as the other woman gracefully exhaled, then pulled the cigarette from her lips, her long, nimble fingers tapping the ash from the end of it into an ashtray. She half-turned on her stool, fixing the younger girl with a conspiratorial look, as if they were two old comrades in arms sharing trade secrets. "Trust me, kid," she began in that rich, husky contralto of hers, "word of advice? Something I learned a long time ago: if someone offers to buy you a drink, don't turn it down."
"Heh. Thanks."
"No problem. Name's Nova by the way."
"Pleasure."
-----
Megan had just stepped out the door of Moriarty's Saloon in search of Sheriff Simms when a man wearing a tan-colored and impeccably pressed business suit with matching fedora hat, stopped her. He was leaning casually against a thin metal railing that separated pedestrians in this portion of Megaton from a nasty fall thirty or so feet below. He looked decidedly out of place amongst the grungy citizens of Megaton, but from the way he carried himself, he considered that a badge of honor. He motioned towards her with a hand, indicating she should come a little closer.
She didn't trust him. Just about everything about him raised the little hairs on the back of her neck. True, he didn't -look- like the stereotypical bad guys she'd always heard about in the stories of all the evils that populated the Wastes above-ground. Those were always filthy, wild-looking savages, covered in blood and grime with bestial looks in their eyes, grunting and howling at anything that moved. This guy… was about as far from that trope as one could get, but she couldn't shake that bad feeling she was getting.
Still, it was broad daylight… and out in the open; she wasn't too worried about being attacked. And if his purpose was to mug her (highly unlikely given he sure didn't -look- like a street tough) he wasn't going to be too happy when she found out that all she was carrying in her pockets was a whole lot of nothing.
"Something I can do for you?" she asked, trying to keep her voice casual as she came within whispering distance of him. Up close, her gut instincts were even more on edge than they'd been just a few seconds earlier. Her hazy feelings about him were a little clearer now, that fuzzy impression of unease sharpening. She'd always had a sense about people; she'd never been able to fully explain it, even in her own head, but oftentimes, she'd found her gut feelings about people's intentions, their motivations, tended to be on the money. And her gut was telling her this man wasn't quite on the level. It was the way he walked, his steps deliberately light as if he wanted to touch the ground beneath him as little as possible… the way he just barely managed to hold back a sneer every time someone walked a little too close… or the almost imperceptible way he'd grit his teeth every time he heard one of Megaton's children laugh.
Still, he hadn't actually -said- anything to her yet… she should at least hear him out.
"I was thinking more that there might be something I could do for you." His voice was liquid smooth, like scotch flowing over ice cubes into a tumbler. "I overhead the… conversation you had with Mr. Moriarty inside." He chuckled softly, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I have to admit to being quite amused. It's quite easy to best a ruffian such as he in a contest of wits, but so very few even care to try. You did so, and won quite handily."
She wasn't sure where the conversation was going, wasn't sure what this character was getting at, wasn't sure what he wanted from her, but until she -was- sure, she had to play things safe, keep from giving too much away. "Like you said, it wasn't very difficult. Not much of a challenge. Most of his brain cells dried up when the whiskey did."
He chuckled again. "Quite. As I said, I overheard the conversation you had with our… esteemed friend, there. It seems Mr. Moriarty is in possession of some information you require. I'd surmise it has something to do with the location of a certain man who visited Megaton within the past couple of days?" He didn't wait for a response to his question, instead making a show of 'casually' picking a scrap of lint away from the lapel of his suitjacket and flicking it away with a look of scarcely restrained disgust. He turned his gaze back up towards Megan, expecting to find some measure of surprise in her expression and finding himself mildly expressed when her face betrayed none. "I like to keep abreast of the happenings in this… squalid little hole that tries to pass itself off as a town," he said, by way of explanation.
While she'd managed to keep the surprise from her face, that didn't mean she wasn't feeling any. She'd thought that her conversations with Gob and Sheriff Simms hadn't been overheard, but clearly she'd been wrong. She couldn't afford to let on that the extent of his knowledge had rattled her, however. "And you know where this man might've gone?"
"I do not. But I do know how to find out. Your new ghoul friend and his whore companion (Extra-strong emphasis on the "whore" part) are quite correct. Currently, only Moriarty himself is likely to possess that information. But what they failed to tell you is that among Moriarty's many failings is this inane need of his to record every single scrap of information he can get his grubby mitts on, upon the computer terminal in his office. Pertinent or trivial, it doesn't matter to him; everything he can secure is potential blackmail material, and his files are quite extensive, especially for someone residing in this fetid, noxious excuse for a town. I can assist you in obtaining access to that terminal, and in securing the data you would need."
Really? And how much would this help cost me?
"That's… uncommonly generous of you, Mister…"
"Burke is my name, and I sense you remain skeptical. That's good. You show more sense than the lackwitted poltroons that inhabit this cesspit. What I'm proposing is actually more akin to an exchange of services. I help you, and you help me."
She nodded. "Of course. Isn't that always the way?"
"Indeed. Quid pro quo, as it were."
And here's the catch…
"And what would I have to do to have your help in obtaining Moriarty's files?"
Burke shrugged. It was a casual shrug, as if he were discussing what kind of dessert pastry he'd like to have with his after-meal coffee instead of something far more… sinister. "Simple. The bomb at the center of this insipid little burg. Most of the degenerates who call this revolting place home aren't aware the bomb is still dangerous. It won't explode on its own, but with a little bit of 'motivation' from someone with an intelligence quotient higher than can be counted on two hands… someone such as you and I, for example…"
"Ambitious."
He smiled. "Those destined for greatness have to be, wouldn't you say?"
She folded her arms across her chest. "True. But that seems to be a lot of work, even for some data that could prove useful to me."
"Fair enough. I could probably arrange some monetary compensation to go along with the other reward. I would have to speak to my employer, but I'm certain he wouldn't mind. He's a man of considerable resources, my employer, and more than willing to expend those resources when it comes to securing the talents of capable individuals."
She nodded and arched an eyebrow at him. "So who's this employer of yours?"
"All in good time. All in good time. I can't reveal -too- much until you've agreed to undertake the task. Precautions. You understand, of course."
"Of course."
"So… do we have a deal?"
"Sure. I'm in."