Virgil
It's been about a month since they took me. Hard to tell underground, though.
They've tested me – marksmanship, hand-to-hand, tactics – and say that I scored at the top of all the prospective officers in the bunker. The pride on my father's face – no, Joseph's face – is strangely satisfying. I mean – he didn't even teach me any of it. I wonder what he'd say if I told him that an enormous ghoul taught me everything I know.
Who am I kidding? I'm sure he already knows.
He's probably less than pleased about that. I know how they feel about anyone whose families weren't lucky enough to be preserved in an Enclave bunker. Just the thought of an "abomination" taking over his role must stick in his craw something awful.
They've given me an officer-in-training uniform to wear.
I put it on, look in the mirror, and remember what Joseph said to me when he gave it to me. It was overwhelming for me – the only thing I ever thought I'd do was raise a family with Wendy, ranch a little, and maybe buy some farmland.
"Son, stay with us, and you'll go places, do important things. Help rebuild a proud nation."
Thirty Years Ago
Charon
Why do I torture myself like this?
Bare-chested, I grip the edges of the sink, lean forward, and stare at my reflection in the cracked mirror, trying to remember what I looked like before I turned. The more time passes, the harder it is to do. The longer it takes.
Gradually, I can tease features out of my imagination. Clear blue eyes, thick, dark red hair. A haughty, arrogant smile. I was rebuilding the bridge of my nose when I hear Mallie pad up behind me, feel her arms snake around my torso, her warmth seeps into my back.
"Stop that." She chides.
I freeze. "Stop what?"
"Torturing yourself. I do it too."
"No, you don't." She is perfect.
"Are you calling me a liar?"
"If the shoe fits…"
She sighs. "I imagine what I'd look like, without the scars. In the vault, my skin used to be smooth, beautiful. Almost like porcelain."
"You are perfect."
She squeezes me, and I look at her hands in the mirror: soft, small, and pale, pressed against the deep red of muscle, the tough tanned leather of what passes for my skin. She's protective of her complexion these days. Hats, gloves, long sleeves, no matter the weather. She says she likes to see the contrast between us, turns her on.
I watch as her hand slides down, tucks itself down the waistband of my trousers. I take a long, deep breath, close my eyes.
"Come back to bed. I'll help you take your mind off it," she purrs, kisses my back.