Mutatis Mutandis 23
"Again?" Amata said quietly.
Sarah shut the cell door and leaned against it, sliding to the floor. She pinched the bridge of her nose and took a long, deep breath, relishing the silence. It was too noisy in the Vault. Everyone was living too close together. God, did she ever miss the open sky. Vault life was claustrophobic, foul, and depressing as hell. Ironically enough, Sarah envied Amata, of all people. The young woman was stuck in the cell, that was true, but she had her own space, and blessed silence.
The Vault's transition had not been nearly as smooth as Rothchild –the Vault's defacto Overseer- had hoped. Some of the more troublesome residents clashed fairly frequently with the Wasters over what they considered mistreatment of Vault citizens. Things like the rationing of food, water, and medical supplies. Such rules were key to survival out in the wastes, and with the Vault's finite supply, the Wasters were very conservative about material usage. Most of the Brotherhood had sidearms with them, being some of the few trusted enough to carry firearms under the Vault's new martial law.
Sarah herself was one, but these days, especially with the bad dreams, she didn't like keeping herself armed. She was afraid of what she might do. Since Jason had locked her in the vault, she had been experiencing… episodes. Some ranging from less than a second, to a few minutes in length. Nothing outwardly violent or physical. However on occasion, sometimes when it was too loud, or there were too many people around her speaking all at once, the world blurred, and things occurred to her. It would be so easy to just punch somebody. Start a brawl and celebrate in the chaos. But it went further. Much to her horror, she found herself wondering how easy it would be to pick up that pencil, or that knife, or fork, and put it through the throat of the person standing nearest to her. What would that bottle look like caving in a skull. What kind of damage would that particular piece of machinery do to a man? The frightening thing was that she was imagining these violent acts happening to everybody from Glade, to Rothchild, to Amata. She had wandered through Jason's apartment again and found his father's straight-blade razor. It had taken alarming amounts of effort for her to resist picking it up for some dreadful purpose.
She had not done anything, had not acted on any of the impulses, but each time she came through another episode, she felt a little less certain about herself than the last, and she was terribly afraid that she had become some sort of psychopathic time-bomb. She didn't want to hurt anybody, but the visions that played themselves out in her innermost thoughts did not cause her disgust. Instead she felt a mild sort of dispassionate curiosity. Sometimes even fascination. It was not like she had been underexposed to violence. No one growing up out there could. It was just something in the noise and the space, or lack thereof, which was driving her mad.
On occasions she was quite frightened she was going insane. Or had perhaps already gone insane. Since the razing of the Citadel, all the old ties connecting her to the world seemed to be fraying, the binds slowly unraveling until sometimes all she wanted to do was have it all wash away. And then she would realize that the ambient noises around her had been replaced with the sweet sound of ocean waves, and the ringing of buoy bells-
"You have that look again." Amata said, interrupting her stream of thought.
Sarah blinked and glanced down at her hands. They had both curled into fists. Her teeth ached slightly, and she realized she'd been grinding them together.
"What look?" she asked, self-consciously clearing her throat.
Amata shrugged. "Just… I dunno. Distant?"
"I'm feeling tired. I haven't been sleeping very well." Sarah admitted.
"I know that. You've been talking to me instead." Amata gently reminded her.
This was true. Sarah sought refuge in the cell nearly every day. She wanted peace and quiet, and Amata was unobtrusive enough to provide that. The brunette woman studied her for quite some time. Eventually she said, "You act differently from everyone else here."
Sarah raised an eyebrow.
Amata clarified. "From what I've seen, ever since we all got settled in here, all the Outsiders have been acting like it's a waiting game. They're all calm. You… you're twitchy, you know? I always feel like I'm watching a wound-up spring."
"I'm fine." Sarah grunted. "I Just having some trouble adjusting… I can't imagine growing up in here."
"It's easy to do when it's the only thing you know."
"Have you ever actually stepped outside the Vault?" Sarah asked, honestly curious.
Amata shook her head. "I was curious, but after I became overseer, it was too dangerous to go out personally. Susie went instead and told me everything she saw."
"Too dangerous?" Sarah was about to scoff, but she gave it some thought and found she agreed. Her own father never left the Citadel for any reason either. Some people were too valuable to lose. "You're a part of this world, though. Might as well know what you're dealing with."
"I always thought the whole point of the vault was to leave the rest of the world behind." Amata said. "That's why I wanted to open it. And then I did and look what happened to us."
"For the record, we're being really nice to you people." Sarah told her. "Outside settlements? Humans up there usually just kill each other. Especially for the kind of resources this vault has."
"There are communities, though. What about Megaton? Trading, dining, praying… they even have a Sheriff. Society exists there. It can't be that bad. We still have some humanity left."
Sarah tried not to laugh. "See if you feel the same way after you walk through a Raider hideout and see the flayed bodies strung up on meat hooks."
Amata shuddered. "Well Susie once said something. They post them outside their bases as a warning, right?"
"And inside too. Like we'd hang a picture."
"But not everyone is like that though." Amata argued. "I mean look at you. You haven't killed me. The Brotherhood are the good guys. There are good people out there. We just have to get organized, right? Rebuild what we've lost. More advanced technology like you guys have means a more advanced society."
"Technology doesn't matter." Sarah said. "The most advanced community around was the Enclave, and they had a plan to kill every single person in the wasteland who wasn't either them, or a vault dweller. They wanted to wipe the slate completely clean. Advancement means nothing. Morality itself is just another narcissistic human idea."
Amata groaned and pinched her nose. "How can you live with such a pessimistic attitude, Sarah?"
"Sometimes I don't want to."
Amata paused, watching her friend carefully. "Is that why you come here? Am I your psychologist? Because I really don't think I'm qualified."
At this, Sarah couldn't help but burst out laughing. All of Obadiah Blackhall's speeches, warnings, and explanations for her miraculous recovery were brought to the fore. She said, "After what I've been through? I don't think anyone alive is qualified to work on me. But for the record, you're doing better than the last guy who gave it a try."
"Why? Who was he?"
"A raider medic." Sarah said. " He's dead now. Just like pretty much everyone else I know."
Amata nodded. "Do you think Jason is still alive?"
"I have no idea. But I know that if he isn't… I can't spend the rest of my life locked in here…"
"Well how many other options would you have?"
"Off the top of my head?" Sarah asked sourly. "At least one."
It was dusk, and Jackrum's shadow stretched far across the carefully organized post-battle carnage. Bodies covered by brown cloth were laid in rows upon the smooth damp ground at the center of Fort Bannister. Too many, Merc and Waster alike. The Mutant losses were even worse. The fight had lasted well into the evening before the Mutie lines had finally broken. Their forces were routed. Literally decimated from four hundred to somewhere around three dozen. They crumbled under the unending fire of the exhausted defenders, and fled south. The fields surrounding the fort were green and red, drenched in mutant blood, covered in corpses. The heat was already causing that entire slice of the Wasteland to reek of decay. They would have to move soon, to prevent disease from finishing what the mutants started.
The survivors had fared better, being only cut down to sixty percent fighting strength, but Jackrum was still very worried for their prospects in facing the bulk of Brutus' army, which was undoubtedly larger than the four-hundred strong contingent they had managed to destroy.
At last tally, including the able-bodied wounded, the Wastelanders had six hundred and thirty two. Only one third of the survivors were trained Talon mercenaries.
"What do you figure, Turner?" he asked.
"It's going to be tight." The kid said, moving to stand at his shoulder. "Definitely tight. We should get wounded and the children someplace safe."
"Like where?"
The kid thought for a moment. "Evergreen Mills? I know there's a cave system beneath. They could hold there for quite some time."
Jackrum glanced at him. The young man had a blood-stained bandage wrapped around his head, courtesy of a piece of shrapnel which had scraped him across the scalp.
"You alright?"
"Fine. Besides, they say girls like scars." The kid grinned awkwardly, trying to hide his discomfort."
"Is that right?" Jackrum asked skeptically, puffing on his cigarette. His own sex life had never benefitted from his work, nor from the marks and damage it had left on him. Danger was so common in the wasteland, and so few good men made it back as it was, that he had found girls tended to shy away from those who actively sought out danger. At least, all the ones he considered worth his time. There were always prostitutes, of course, and the rare young woman who liked a Man of Danger, but most of them saw mercenary life for what it was: Nasty, brutish, and usually short. In a land where preventatives were scarce at best, risking pregnancy or illness for a man who had an even greater chance of simply vanishing off the face of the earth just wasn't worth it.
He stared at the pile of bodies and reflected that if Humanity ever wanted to rise back out of hell, they might have to rethink the benefits of taking that particular risk.
"I have to get more work parties organized." Turner said, waving his clipboard.
"Learn to delegate, Sergeant."
"Then get me some decent help, Commander. Most of the grunts can barely read. I can't imagine anyone else making up all of these damned supply charts."
"Those charts saved our asses, kid." Jackrum told him. "We knew what we had and how to use it. Every survivor owes their lives to you. Don't expect them to thank you, though…"
"Of course not." The kid said sourly, stomping off. "We're just the Talon Company."
"There, see? You're learning." Jackrum said encouragingly.
The moment the young Merc was out of earshot, Jackrum turned to a distorted patch of wasteland a few feet behind him. "What is it, Fletcher?"
The Wanderer materialized and pulled off his stealth hood, looking slightly put-out.
"That magic act is getting old. Just spit it out. I'm a busy man."
Fletcher's eyes wandered across the bodies of the fallen warriors. "The Brotherhood and Megaton are both still locked in Vault 101." He reminded Jackrum.
"Good." Jackrum murmured distantly. "We could use some power armour."
"Well they don't have any, so make do without."
"Times like this, you're a real ray of sunshine, you know that?"
The Wanderer didn't answer.
"Where's your friend? I'm glad to have you guys around. We need the help."
"I think we're both moving on after this."
"Really? You've got to be fucking kidding me."
"There's more at stake here, Jackrum." The Wanderer explained. "I told you before, he thinks the muties have found a way to breed without taking captives. I have to find their nest and wipe them out. I can't let them overrun the Wasteland."
"I got news for you, kid: They already have."
"Nevertheless."
Jackrum's mouth twisted sourly. There was no way to argue with 'nevertheless'.
"As long as they are reliant on us for breeding, there is still some hope."
"Joy. Anything else?"
"Yes. We're setting up an orbital strike. I'm going to try to take out the Behemoths and give you guys a fighting chance."
Jackrum turned. "An orbital strike?"
The Wanderer nodded. "The target has to be painted by hand, though. Which means-"
"Someone's going to have to sneak right into D.C. to deliver the payload." Jackrum frowned. "You?"
"It might be the only chance we've got."
"We'd have a much stronger chance if we were to contact the Enclave."
Howlett responded immediately. "Absolutely not. They have no business in this Wasteland."
"I don't care what you say. We need the firepower."
"Do what you want, but I will kill them if I see them. No matter who's side they're on." The Wanderer turned and began to walk away.
"Big mistake, kid! You know what happens to young men who hold too tightly onto useless grudges?"
Fletcher halted and glared at him.
"They forget what life's about, and turn into angry cynical bastards with no friends and no home."
"And then they join the Talon Company!" The Wanderer answered back before his stealthsuit activated and he melted into the setting sun.
Jackrum turned back to the field of stinking human bodies, and reflectively watched the carrion birds, high in the sky, circling their latest meal. After a few moments, he started to chuckle.
No sooner had Jason cleared the fields on mutant dead, than he ran across Narg. Fort Bannister was still in sight, but shrinking rapidly into the horizon. The armoured giant was leaning against an enormous hunk of concrete. His Avenger Minigun had been hoisted up onto his back, and his white assault rifle was hanging loosely from one hand.
"Where're you headed, kid?"
"East. Towards D.C."
Narg fell into step behind him. "You didn't come find me after the battle."
"Did I hurt your feelings?"
"You wish."
"Did you get the information off of that mutant general?"
Narg nodded. "The breeding pens are in vault 87."
Jason turned southward, cringing as he considered the possibilities "What about Little Lamplight?" he asked.
"What about it? Either they're dead or they're not. If they aren't, I'd get'em someplace safe."
Jason's grip on his Xuanlong assault rifle tightened. "Right."
"Ain't you forgetting something, Kiddo?" Narg asked.
"What?"
The armoured man produced the laser detonator he had shown the Wanderer after their first encounter. He said: "I'm headed north to set up the nukes. They'll be ready by the time you get back. Then I'll give this to you and you can head into D.C.."
Jason nodded slowly. "And then?"
Narg shrugged. "Stick around, maybe? Help that Jackrum guy. This is a pretty fun way to waste a week."
The Wanderer glared at him, "We're fighting for our home."
"I'm not."
"So what's your stake in all this?"
"If you win, I figure you're going to owe me." Narg grinned. "Big time."
"And there it is." Jason nodded slowly. "Most people around can't tie their own shoes. What could you possibly want help with?"
"With your skill set? Practically anything. Just deal with the Nest. The nukes will be ready by the time you get out. If you get out." the giant turned to leave, walking north toward the dead forests and irradiated mountains. Jason was tempted to follow, but the nagging thoughts of Little Lamplight dragged his own feet south.
With Sarah's scene, I really wanted to reinforce that Point Lookout screwed her up. Royally.
I am moving out as of June 1. I have my own apartment and whatnot, soooo…. Yeah. This would mean more if I were moving faster with this story, but my internet may be down for a little while.