Sitting on the dawnlit boardwalk, I gaze out at the rising sun, out there over the Atlantic Ocean. With the case delivered back to our joyous client, Kenji's gone home. He immediately fell asleep, and I too could feel the exhaustion overwhelming my body.

And damn, did I try to sleep. I lay in bed for what must have been half the night, tossing and turning. And all that happened was what Kenji had said to me replaying in my head on an endless loop: Zoe, you know well I don't like doing this.

I couldn't sleep until I'd apologised to him. I couldn't bear to see Kenji hurt, not after everything he'd been through – even if he didn't like to talk about it much. And I wasn't about to wake him up, especially as his loud snoring rattled the house.

So now I'm here.

Somewhere to the north, out there, lies the infested, almost glowing cluster of ruined spires they like to call Nuked York. Thank whatever gods exist that I've never been there. Even the sea miles off the coast is death, thanks to the city's rivers– if they could be called rivers anymore – and the fallout-strewn liquid toxin they spew into the bay. Having to circumnavigate this nautical hellscape – which necessitates sailing out of sight of the coast – is a huge reason why the run up past to the Commonwealth and parts nearby is such a treacherous one; most simply prefer to down to the far more lucrative south, past the Chesapeake Bay and the Capital Wasteland, down to Carolina and the Sunshine Wasteland.

And straight ahead…

Beyond the ocean, there must lie something, yeah? I mean, I've seen the rotting maps and dusty globes, with those enigmatic black names like IRELAND and FRANCE and SPAIN and MOROCCO. And of course I've heard that bloody tale about that Mad King George of England – England, was it? – whose rule the old United States had revolted from something like five hundred years ago. I know these were all countries, once, just like America had been. But. Were they like us, slowly rebuilding from the ashes? Or – what if – they had miraculously survived the War utterly unscathed?

Few New Jerseyans I'd heard of had gone past the Commonwealth, and most of what they returned with were these – usually – dark and twisted tales about eldritch cults and ancient tribes and esoteric abominations, and islands spewing out smoke where the long night sky glows in all the colours of the rainbow, with only open ocean beyond. What truth lay in them, I don't know. And maybe I never will.

I turn away. Maybe it's just not my place to know.

I return home, to the waterside building at the edge of the neighbourhood that the city's people call Ducktown, as daylight starts to fill the street. Our office is on the first floor of the old house, next to the kitchen. Our living quarters are on the second. The woman who'd sold it to us – well, to Kenji, since I'd been about thirteen then – had made it her life's work refurbishing the place, even having found a fully functional fridge from somewhere.

I'm rather taken aback, even in my dulled state, to find that in the little entrée, there sits a shoulder-length blonde-haired woman, immaculately dressed in a blue garment and what I think is some kind of silver cloak. A leather satchel is slung across her body.

"Oh," I say, stopping dead in my tracks, "I'm sorry."

Odd. Not only does she just emanate an indescribably strange aura, someone dressed like her would seem to typically have a bodyguard, even just a hired gun. But then I look at her again, and something about her demeanour tells me she can take care of herself perfectly well.

"No," the woman replies, tilting her head up so that I can see her tightly smiling face. Her voice is almost ethereal. "I'm sorry."

She pulls out from somewhere a golden pocket watch and flips it open, stylishly. There's an odd emblem etched on the back, a diagonal sword, blade pointed down, with what seems to be a diamond-shaped hole near the hilt.

She then looks back up at me. "Silly me, I was an hour early. You must be Miss Zoe Jackson," she says curtly.

"That's…me," I nod.

At this moment, Kenji, apparently having woken up from an equally poor night's sleep, groggily clambers downstairs, shaking the entire house a little. I'm afraid that our guest – whoever she is – is going to panic, flee, or otherwise instinctively revolt inside on seeing the super mutant.

Instead, she just smiles even more. "Ah, you must be the Kenji I have heard so much about."

He just looks at her with narrowed eyes, in the most distant, inquisitive stare of a sleep-deprived mutant.

She stands up, the folds of her cloak falling onto the floor. She looks down at me, her eyes a full head above mine, and I realise that her cloak could conceal a sword perfectly well. A sword. In the wasteland. What am I possibly thinking?

"Yes, I have done my research," she says, smirking.

"My name is…Coral," she says, taking sips from an ice-cold bottle of Nuka-Cola from our fridge, after we've all settled down in the office. "I come to this city as an envoy, acting on behalf of my queen."

"Your…queen," I say, trying to keep the obvious scepticism out of my voice. I haven't heard of any queens in New Jersey. But if this Coral is an ambassador, though, there are plenty of those to be found here. There are constantly rumours floating about about the Federation's ambassadors' antics or the mysteries of Old Light's delegation, and even the most minor settlements in South Jersey will always find time to send someone over from time to time, to gain the favour of one of the Republic's families.

"Yes, the Queen of Albany, from the north of here." She points to the emblem on the obverse of her pocket watch. "This is her sword, to which all Upstate New York kneels. In my queen's name, I am sent to New Jersey on a diplomatic envoy." She says the last two words with a slight scowl, as if New Jersey is far beneath her standards. "And my queen needs your help."

"What do you – I mean, what does she need us to do, exactly?" Well, all I can say is that today has become rather bizarre very quickly. I still can't be sure we're not being pranked, or being lured into a trap. Who would do such a thing? There are more than just a few in Atlantic City who have been on the receiving end of our clients before, and I wouldn't be surprised if one of them had traced back to us.

She pulls out an envelope from her satchel and places it on the table. The flap has been sealed with a purple wax seal, with the same sword emblazoned on it. Whoever these people are, I think, they really have gone the whole way. "This is a girl, very important in Albany, who has gone missing – she was last sighted near…Barnegat, I believe," she says. "We'd like to find her and bring her back home. Unfortunately, my duties as ambassador do not allow me time to investigate personally."

"Does your girl have a name?" I ask.

"Yes – Charlotte."

"Charlotte…?"

"Just Charlotte. You'll find all the information you need in there," she gestures at the envelope, "worded better than I can ever give you."

Swiftly, I open the envelope. There are two yellowed papers folded inside. One is a pencil sketch of this, about eleven-year-old girl – she looks remarkably like a younger version of me, with dark skin and messy, curled hair down to her shoulders. Her expression – at least in the drawing – is distant, a little anxious. What's her angle?

The other document is a letter. A cursory first glance tells me it's a typewritten copy of a letter from someone at the Albany court to the Royal Embassy to the Atlantic Republic, containing instructions to find this girl, Charlotte.

Coral pulls out the pocket watch and flips it open again. "Hm. See, I have spent too much time here already. I have a meeting with the President in one and a half hours," she says, placing it back away and beginning to stand up. "I have heard of you two as the greatest detectives in this city – almost a hundred percent case record, am I right? I assure you my queen will reward you greatly."

Kenji and I simultaneously glance at each other. He just shakes his head a little, confirming my exact thoughts. None of this makes any sense.

"I'm sorry," I say, folding the papers back into the envelope and pushing it back to her. "I can't accept this."

Coral freezes. "Oh, I'm sure you can," her face erupts in a distant, frightening smirk. "After all, I'm sure there are…others, yes, others interested in your business. For instance…the Scarlet Knights, perhaps? It would be most shameful indeed if someone unpleasant were to find out who you really are."

My mouth opens a little. I feel the cold sweat starting to form on my brow. How the hell did she find that out? I know Kenji is eyeing her down next to me, trying to use the intimidating stare he likes using so much, but no intimidation will work on this woman, not in the moment.

"And you, Kenji, you're afraid...what would you do if -"

"Stop!" I say. I don't want to hear any more.

"So," she turns to me, "I ask you again. Miss Jackson, do you accept this case?" She turns the envelope around and pushes it back towards me.

"Yes," I say, giving her a glare, and very gingerly, picking the envelope back up.

"Excellent," she says. "Once you've found her, bring her back to the Park Place Hotel. Our embassy is residing there." Coral helps herself to picking up the bottle of Nuka-Cola, then tips her hat to me. "Good day!"

As she walks out the front door rather loudly, I swear to myself that, before this is over, I will find out who this Coral really is. Because, as far as I care, no one threatens Kenji.