"Jericho?"

"What, kid?"

"... Nevermind."

The hounds had howled all night.

I don't know what it was. Part of me just wanted... to throw down my rifle, rip off my clothes, and run with them. Forget everything. I would hunt and kill and fuck and die in ignorance.

But that wasn't who I was. It could never be.

The graveyard shift that night took on a literal meaning. To stay awake, I spent the first hour dragging the corpses we had piled outside away from the radio tower and dumping them into a nearby ravine. The bastards stank like shit without even the rot setting in, and I didn't appreciate the idea of guard duty with a stack of pungent corpses. Not as if they had anything of use for us, anymore- Ashecroft and I had looted them clean- and it was an unnecessary risk to have fresh meat where the hounds might track us.

Odd thing, really. During out first bouts of training, Jericho told me that one a hound gets a scent, it remembers it forever- to the point where a decade can pass, and out of nowhere, a moribund hound will attack a well-armed caravan aiming for only one man. The marked one.

Kind of a nice feeling, in an odd way. Knowing that someone out there remembered you. Even if their end goal is to murder and eat you.

Once the bodies were dumped and covered in rock and dirt, I became restless, pacing the outside of the tower shack, staring at my dim shadow in the moonlight. Was this really the best course of action, following Ashecroft? We could be on a suicide mission, looking for her father's killers. Maybe she was going to turn me in at the next Regulator outpost, fetch a nice bounty for a low-laying raider. I had to kill her before she killed me. Now, while she slept. Take her rations, her uniform. I'd pass off as a Regulator at a distance, keep to myself. Or maybe-

I drew Ashecroft's bowie knife and pressed it against my palm. No blood- just hard enough to feel the edge.

No.

When... did I start thinking like this?

What the fuck was wrong with me?

Without her, I would be dead. I needed to stop thinking like- like a raider, only looking out for himself, less than a Goddamn animal. That's not who I was.

Lucy West. Arefu. The Megaton bomb. Burke. Simms.

I leaned against the cement wall of the shack, knifepoint still at my palm. Why did Jericho take me in, if I was like this? A hand-wringing, bleeding heart Vault reject. What did he see?

My eyes turned up to the scarred face of the moon, its light so harsh it may as well have been day.

Maybe he saw... potential. For what he had always wanted to be.

We are killing you.

Killing who?

That pathetic, simmering anger and angst kept me warm all night.

When the sun rose, I was almost surprised. I had hoped it had burnt out and died when I wasn't looking.

Deep breaths. Steady that heart rate.

Okay. I stopped pacing, stretched a little, tousled my hair to get the sand out. Okay.

As the orange of dawn crawled over the horizon, making the wisps of clouds glow, bathing the world in a sickly hue, I readied myself.

I knocked on the door, three times. The rap of my knuckles on metal seemed to echo for miles. "Ashecroft?"

Too impatient. I grit my teeth and opened the door, hinges grinding- and ended up banging heads with Ashecroft. She took a few steps back, rubbing at her head. "Ouch."

I rubbed at my jaw in turn. Yeah, that'd bruise. "Uh, sorry." Great icebreaker, you stupid fuck. "So... look, Ashecroft. I... " Still holding her forehead, she still managed to look dignified, even with her hat, jacket and duster thrown over the radio terminal. It was... kind of jarring, to see her without the uniform, the bandoliers. Never got used to it.

Actually, it was a little warm in there. She had turned on her battery flashlamp for the night, filling the small room with the smell of burning filament, and had just turned her back to switch if off. I ran my eyes over the shack- the guns, kevlar inserts, ammo and rations we'd looted from Schauffen's "friends" were in an organized row along the far wall. A can of rations sawed open, only half eaten- the emptiness in my stomach stung, but I pushed it aside. Biding for time, I shrugged out of my duster as well, throwing it onto the bloodstained cot and propped my rifle against the bedpost. My eyes met hers, and I held my ground. "Look. I'm... sorry. I owe you my li- no, I owe you everything. You could've let me die. I have no reason to doubt you now, partner." I bit the inside of my cheek. The last word came out on its own. "So... I'm sorry. About last night. I wasn't thinking. At all."

She gave me a long look, then walked over to the radio terminal and sat switchsaddle on a swivel chair. She beckoned me over to the other chair. Apprehensively, I wiped a spatter of blood off of it, and sat facing her. Jesus, her eyes could burn holes through lead.

"Graves." She sighed. "There's a long road 'head 'a me, but at th' quick, it's my road. Do what ya need t' do. If ya wanna bail..." she shrugged, trying to lesson the blow of the word. "It's yer life, Graves. Not mine."

I looked down, studying the wrinkles in her shirt and trousers, her cowboy boots crossed at the ankles. She didn't need me, or I her, but... She granted me a new name, Goddamn it. I looked up, fighting the urge to count the freckles on her nose. "No. No, I- I promised that we'd hunt the fucks who murdered your father. I won't walk." I'd rather die.

"'Sides," she added, "Ya hadn't killed 'n a while. People, I mean. I won't hold it against ya for..."

I shook my head. "That's not an excuse." And it wasn't. When I mowed down Schauffen, I didn't feel anything. When I dumped his bullet-ridden body in the ravine, I felt even less. But... I wasn't ready to tell her that. "But about Schau-"

"Had t' be done," she said solemnly. "He had always... straddled that line. But y'know what does piss me off? An all-night watch," she jabbed, the cheerful tone back in her voice. "Should've had me relieve you. Ya look like ya've marched to hell 'n back."

My eyes did seem a little sore, but oddly enough, I felt... more awake, somehow. Like that night full of fury had pulled something in me out of hibernation. "It's fine. I dozed a little."

"That's even worse! Call yerself a sentry?"

I chuckled. She stuck out her hand, and I grabbed it firmly, giving it a strong shake. But I didn't expect her to pull me into a grizzly hug, patting my back and squeezing tight. "We got this, pardner. We got this."

With my cheek resting against hers, I almost dared to believe her.

Someone once told me that war is 10% combat, 90% waiting and thinking about combat.

But there will be combat next chapter. Finally. Seems like it's better to keep things shorter like this.

Or maybe you like longer chapters. Tell me what you think. I'll listen.