My whole body ached. Every muscle. The wobbly metal chair barely held my weight, but anything to save me a little energy was more than welcome. The training never seemed to end...

Now, I just needed to find a way to approach this topic without getting my head blown off.

"Jericho..."

The internal parts of his AKS-74U were scattered across the rusted three-legged table, scrubbed of grime and shining with grease. He didn't look up picking the sand out of his Makarov PM. "Whatcha want?"

I kept sharpening the blade of my knife, to try to not look too interested. And besides, I liked that knife. "It's... just Jenny. You know- Stahl. Jenny Stahl."

Jericho locked back the slide of his Makarov, and finding the chamber empty, dropped the magazine and began to field strip the pistol.

"Did... something happen between you two? Anything?"

He pried off the slide, running a finger along the scratched barrel. "Why'a askin'?" His voice was slower then usual. Careful.

I shrugged, turning the knife in my hands. For being so scratched and beaten-up, it sure did shine in the sun. But it was a dull shine. Like the flat gleam in the eyes of someone who's seen too much. Too much for anyone to bear. "You never talk to her. Or look at her. You always take a different route if you might run into her. You've told me everything about everyone in Megaton but her." I shrugged again. "That's all."

It was a harder day than usual- heavy winds had picked up, leading to a horrific combination of a sand storm and a dust storm. Couldn't see ten feet ahead, couldn't breath, sand got in your eyes and mouth and nose like broken glass. It was only on account of the weather we were staying inside; Jericho would've had me out training, to get used to the awful conditions we'd be dealing with, but there are times when even Jericho has had enough.

Don't get me wrong. It's not like I didn't like hanging out with Jericho or anything. It's just that... we gave each other breathing room. And his tiny, rundown shack isn't what you'd call spacious.

Jericho had his bayonet out so fast the sunlight didn't have time to reflect off the blade. The point laid dead still, right under my chin.

"Sharpen this fer me, will ya?" Christ, he hadn't even looked up from the table.

I gulped, and took the bayonet, scraping the scrap of steel against the blade again and again.

It didn't make sense then, and it probably never will, but that day... I knew things were going to change.

So weak.

Like a tumbleweed rolling along in a lazy breeze. I didn't know-

So weak.

My muscles were heavy, so heavy it didn't seem like they were mine, just lead coating my skeleton. When I breathed, my whole chest tightened with the effort, my throat pinching closed with the pain of it. It almost felt like it'd be easier to just stop breathing. To stop hurting.

So tired.

I tried to move, but couldn't. Something was stopping me. So I started with my fingers, feeling the pins and needles run along the fingertips as I fought to make the swollen knuckles move. Oh, fuck it all. It hurt.

Opening my eyes almost knocked me out again- it was too bright. I couldn't hear anything, just the desperate pounding of a weary heart. I didn't know where I was- laying down? But my skin felt numb, like just a shell I was using until I found a better one.

Why was I still alive?

I guess most people would've cried in happiness and relief, that sort of shit. But not me. I just twitched around some more, spasms of pain helping me work the feeling back into my fingers, my toes, my skin. I tried opening my eyes again- only to only blind myself, again. Blues and greens and oranges flashed across the inside of my eyelids. Christ. Must be daytime. But it's not that hot...

I had to stop and catch my breath, coughing violently from the effort of waking my motor skills. Something warm on my cracked and dry lips made them sting- blood. Great. Dying of malnutrition, internal bleeding, exposure- what else to add to the list?

But then I felt something else on my lips that nearly made me bark out in surprise. Just a gentle brush, like a cool breeze. Those cows, maybe, looking for food? My shoulder joint screaming in pain, I tried to move my arm, try to touch my mouth with twitching fingers. But then came the touch again- this time, at my hand.

"Take 'er easy, cowboy."

My breath caught in my throat as my hand was slowly lowered back to my side. I tried to open my mouth, to ask who, what, everything, anything- but all that came up was more hacking and sputtering from my ragged throat. And more blood.

Something propped my head up, and I felt something I had almost forgotten at my lips- water. But what if it was poisoned? Radiactive? None of those thoughts crossed my mind as I drank desperately, my teeth scraping against the tin. Hell, I downed it so fast I almost threw it back up again.

That was nice. Having that pool of coolness in my stomach felt weird, somehow, but it was a good feeling. I breathed a bit easier, my sore throat slicked. I opened my eyes...

And standing above me, surrounded by bright light, was a gray-eyed girl, no older than me.

I passed out. Anyone else would've done the same.

I don't know when I came to. It wasn't as bright as before- because of adjusting to the light or from the time, I didn't know. But I forced my eyes open, squinting at me surroundings.

I was lying on a cot, blankets and everything- probably the cleanest one I've ever seen in the wasteland. Above my head were the beams of rafters, disappearing into dusty darkness. Sturdy wooden panel walls, unmatching windows with drawn patched curtains, some chairs, a table in the corner.

Just looking around tired me out. I let my head fall back onto the cot, wondering what the hell was going on. And that gray-eyed girl...

Sickness boiled in my stomach, and I had to fight the urge to vomit. No no no no no. She was dead. Killed by a sniper. Those raiders, the raiders that came out of nowhere. There's no way she...

Movement to my right. I turned my head (too fast, and got a sore neck and a headache).

She sauntered easily into the room, long brown leather duster swaying along like it was part of her. Sitting down on a chair next to the head of the bed, she bent forward to get a good look- and so did I.

Not gray eyes. Blue, like the sky on the worst of the hot days. Sunbleached hair tied into a tight braid, slung around her shoulders. But her face... there was something wrong about it. I couldn't figure it out.

She smiled. "Gonna keep 'wake this round? 'R best two outta three?"

I blinked. That was it. She... didn't have the frown lines around her eyes, the tired circles under. Her teeth weren't worn down from grinding in worry, her lips not pressed thin from pursing.

Who was she?

"Wh-" I tried to prop myself up a bit, but my elbows weren't up for the effort. Coughing, I tried again. "Wh... who..."

With a look of understanding, she reached over to the bedstand, handing me a tin of water. "We'll shoot th' shit later."

I took a few quick gulps, cleared my throat, and tried one more time. "No... no, really. Who... are you?"

"Not th' bushbeatin' kind, are ya?" She took back the tin, and standing up, walked over the the window and opened the curtains, flooding the room with dusty light. "Sheriff Ashecroft, at yer service," she said, head held high.

Sheriff? The hell? And then I noticed the gold star pinned to her duster, and I felt the water in my belly run cold. Shit. A Regulator. That's why she took me in. And I had been rolling with Jericho, a full-blown raider. Shit. Shit. Sheriff Simms was as kind the law could be out here, and even then he was a hardass. But this girl...

"What's a sheriff doing all the way out... here?" I asked. All day yesterday, I hadn't seen a living thing. Looking out the window- just sand and rock. Was there another settlement nearby?

"Someone's gotta keep th' peace." She put a hand on her hip, pushing back her duster and revealing a monster of a revolver sitting in her holster. I would've gulped if my throat wasn't so dry. A Colt Walker? Even Simms didn't pack anything like that... "'N th' same t'ya. What brings ya all th' way out here? Not tryin' to swipe m' Brahmin, were ya?"

... Brahmin? Oh. Right. The cows. "No. That's not it." As much as it hurt, I still had some dignity; I pulled myself into a sitting position, my back muscles feeling like they'd snap any second. I rubbed at my face, finding my eyebrows and beard full of dirt. "Raiders."

That got Ashecroft's attention. She cocked her head to the side, an unsettling glint in her eyes. "Y'dun say?"

"Uh huh." I scratched at my neck, expecting the slave collar to be there- but it was gone, and my fingernails dug into sensitive skin. I gave a small gasp, reaching all around my neck- I hadn't even noticed. It was gone. "They put... this one me." I look at the girl, dread filling me. "But it's gone now." Now I owed her. The one thing you never want in the wasteland is debt. If Jericho taught me anything, it was that.

She nodded, a smirk of satisfaction tugging at her lips. "Thought as much. Hope ya dun' mind swipin' it off ya- scrappin' them things is one of the few ways to make grenades." Her expression became serious so quickly I almost didn't notice. "But... yer in shitty shape. Ya were plumb dead when I found ya, and lady luck must've fucked yer brains out or somethin', 'cause ya still look like a corpse."

"Yeah. I noticed." My Adam's apple hurt whenever I talked. That fucking collar. "Um... Sheriff. Look, when I ran for it, there was a hell of a firefight going on. Not just raiders, but Talon Company, too."

Ashecroft cocked her head slightly. I guess that was her thing. "Talon Company, all th' way out 'ere? Mmmm." She reached under the cot, pulling out a pack of Marlboros. She offered me one, but I shook my head. She didn't light it, though- just chewed on it thoughtfully. "'Ny idear why?"

"No." Now that the room was properly lit, I could see my duster on the table in the corner. And on it, Jim's Colt 1911 and magazines. She followed my gaze. "What I'm saying is that they might come this way-"

"They won't."

I blinked. "What?"

"Talon dun' work this far out. Sewers n' urban sprawl is their thing." Ashecroft left the room for a minute, leaving me to my thoughts. This far out? Just how far... was that?

She came back with another tin of water and a bowl, handing me the tin and setting the bowl on the bedside table. "So yer safe, I reckon."

I stared at my reflection in the water. Christ, I did look like shit. Skin hugged my skull like I had been mummified, my beard all over the place, eyes sunken into their sockets. With a grunt, I drained the tin and set it down. "Good."

As I reached over for the bowl- which appeared to be some sort of thick stew, smelling horrible, yet my salivary glands didn't seem to mind- Ashecroft leaned forward closer, getting a good hard look at me. I could count the freckles on her nose.

"Ya have a name, cowboy? Dun' tell me ya forgot." When she had her eyes narrowed like that, I could see how this girl- this woman- could survive in a hellhole like this.

I met her eyes, wondering what she saw. "Out here, I don't have one." The stew, cold as it was, was damn good.

A few days passed. After the bullshit Jim put me through, Ashecroft made life seem like the Vault again.

Rest and decent meals got me back on my feet- that, I was going to use the outhouse like a man, not shit myself like a fucking raider. I still had dignity.

But it was the long walk to the outhouse that made me think twice about my new acquaintance. A little ways off, tucked behind a short cliff, was a cemetery. At first I didn't know what I was looking at, a bunch of mounds in neat rows with rocks or sticks at their heads. There were thirty, maybe forty.

I stuck my hands into the pockets of my duster and considered using the outhouse again. She was a regulator. She killed raiders for a living- and probably for enjoyment, too. And what was I? Just an onlooker? Jericho taught me every trick of the trade, that slaver's cage nearly made an animal out of me, and Jim made me fight alongside him. An onlooker? Like she would fall for that shit.

On the walk back, I stopped by one of her Brahmin, petting one of the heads. I guess I didn't have much choice, now. I was still too weak to put up a fight.

"On yer feet 'lready? Shit, yer somethin' else. Or plumb crazy. Maybe both."

I fought the urge to spin on my heel. Christ, for those cowboy boots (spurs and everything, for fuck's sake!), she walked softly.

"Had to get up sooner or later. Besides, that was your bed, isn't it?"

"Yeah, but still." She poked at my ribcage. "Yer no brand'a fightin' fit."

"Don't want to be an ungrateful guest." I sighed, turning around to face her. In the late morning light, her Regulator hat cast soft shadows across her lightly tanned face. But that little spark never left her eyes. Always there, like the patient point of an unsharpened knife. "You've... done a lot for me. And all I've done is eat your food, drink your water and make your bed smell like shit. Can't I help you, somehow?"

Ashecroft snorted, taking her hat off and beating it against her thigh to shake out the dust. "Duty's duty. Regulator can't jus' work a dyin' man, much less turn 'im out." But there was a little edge to her voice... unless you aren't just a man.

She walked over to the Brahmin, patting it on the head affectionately. It nuzzled its nose- er, noses- into her palm. Huh... for being a bloodsoaked killer, she had uncalloused hands. Slender fingers and soft palms, but strong all the same...

"How did you become a regulator, anyways? You're the second one I've ever met."

She didn't look up. "Runs in the' fam'ly. M' pap's line o' work, now mine." She gave a modest little shrug. "Left big boots t' fill. Best ring'r this side'a th' Mississippi. But I'm 'is daughter," Ashecroft said with a small smile. If I hadn't seen that mass grave, I would've called that arrogance.

"And... where is he now?"

"Bit the dust."

"Oh." I couldn't help myself. "How?"

She paused, turning slightly, just enough to bead one of those razor eyes on me. "Raiders. The toughest, meanest fuckin' band of 'em you'd ever seen."

No surprise there.

"Four of 'em. Any less, m' pap would'a had 'em." She didn't sound sad, or angry, or... anything, really. Just like she was commenting on the weather. "They jus' came outta the dust, like th' waste itself. Bayonets, grenades, machine guns and rifles- somethin' outta nightmares."

I felt my blood slow. Staring out into the distance, I could almost see them again.

Like the wasteland itself... personified into all that hatred, all that desperation, all that hopelessness...

But four?

"Came at high noon." She smirked at that. "But pap was ready. Gave 'em the fight o' their lives, takin' down three. But the last one got a lucky shot." She turned to me, spreading her arms wide. "Bigger than a mutant, but smart 'nough to be crueler than any man. Tattoos 'n scars all over 'im, wearing bones like skin. Eyes white 'nough to stare down death."

I would never forget that face. Not even if I wanted to.

We are killing you.

I crossed my arms. "Something tells me... you're planning on bringing these guys to justice?"

She nodded, hands on her hips. "Either their heads 'r their hides."

I didn't tell her then. I just walked back to her house and grabbed the weathered pail on her porch, setting it under the Brahmin.

"Show me how to milk this thing. Things."

She smiled.

I'm not sure why Ashecroft trusted me as much as she did. Maybe Regulators were that kind- letting complete strangers into their home, friend or enemy.

She wasn't stupid, obviously. My- no, Jim's Colt 1911 was always out of arm's reach. Sometimes she stuck them behind her studded belt, or put them on short table a ways away. Enough to let me know they were there, and enough to dare me to make a go for them.

But I didn't. That would come later.

So I took to dealing with other things. Helping her purify the water that came from the nearby spring (more of a sad trickle than a spring, really, but it did its job), milking the Brahmin, sweeping back the sand, anything. I didn't want to be dead weight. I wanted- needed some feel of order, of society. All those months before had given me a second skin, one of rage and bloodthirst that I wanted to peel away. But whether the old me was still underneath...

"'Ey, cowboy!"

I glanced away from the dusty and cracked mirror, just in time to catch Ashecroft's knife. Christ, a second longer and I'd be missing a nose.

"It's gonna break if ya look much longer!" She called from outside an open window, sundried clothes under her arm. She had an a hell of an throw... "How 'bout a shave?"

I looked at the bowie knife in my hand, feeling its weight. Nicely balanced... Jericho would've kept this one for himself. I tested my thumb against the edge, and finding it sharp, I began to slice away at that forest of my face.

Maybe I was under there. Or maybe it was someone else. Something else.