Virgil

I know they're being tortured, but there's not much I can do to help them. If I push too hard, I might very well wind up in a cell myself.

I review my options – abandon my old life, let them both die; work to free them and stay; leave with them when they go, if we get that far. The first one really isn't a choice. I'm not that cruel. If I do stay, I'm guaranteed an officer position – not only due to my family legacy, but the merit of my skills. I could accomplish more here than in the wasteland, more than likely – but I don't share their love for the ideals of a dead government. I mean – it obviously didn't work the first time. What makes them think that trying it a second time is going to change anything?

Besides, I don't fit in here. I doubt I ever will.

I find myself thinking of what life would have been like, had my mother – Jeannette– not left the bunker. No one had told me the reason why she left – just that she was mentally disturbed, which may or may not be true. Joseph had the photo of her delivered to my quarters, as promised. It shows us three as a family, taken shortly after I was born. She was a slender, brown-haired woman – very pretty. Her eyes were deep brown – so deep, one could get lost in them, even from a photo. But the eyes also had a tinge of sadness in them, which deepened the mystery of our flight even more.

Unsurprisingly, I feel little connection to her. No emotions surface when I look at her photo, other than curiosity. I open the folder on the desk, and take out a picture of Mom, taken when she was about my age, probably in the vault. Her smile is genuine, but her blue eyes are piercing, unwavering, hard. She never looked at me with those eyes, I realize – she depended on Dad to discipline me, because I could pull her heart strings so easily. I was the only one that could boast that ability.

I understand why Dad loves her so much. She had an innate strength, a personality larger than life. She had commanding presence – the thing that Dad needs and deserves so much. There was anger behind those eyes, and pain – but it was well hidden. She was a selfish woman sometimes; what was hers was hers, whether it was a Brahmin, a bodyguard, or a memory.

I think back to what Dad said about memories – that my memories are mine, they belong to me. Or something like that. He probably guarded his memories of Mom as fiercely as she guarded hers of him. It was so much more than just the contract. They weren't bound together, they belonged to one another.

Eleven Years Ago

Maleficent

Virgil hears the storm coming from miles away – the ears of youth are sensitive, and I take a brief moment to bemoan my age. Fifty-three. Much too old to have an eight-year-old son, but I manage to keep up just fine. Even though I've put on a little weight, I've managed to keep myself fit.

The rain isn't as bad here as it was in the Capital – well, not as irradiated, I mean. But Charon still likes the feel of it. This doesn't happen often out here; it's a rare treat for him. It's a rare treat for me, too – I like to sit on the porch and watch him. I look down, and ruffle Virgil's hair, and get an impish smile in return. He likes to watch it, too.

Charon stands in the middle of the downpour, barefoot, soaked to the bone. He raises his arms to the sky, rotating them left, right, left. He lifts his face, opens his mouth. Virgil giggles, and Charon smiles back at him. He closes his eyes and turns away from us, towards the hills.

"Stay here." I whisper. I descend the steps and use the noise of the rain as a screen to sneak up on him. I wrap my arms around his waist in a tight hug, making him jump in surprise. I laugh. "If I was a snake, I'd have bit ya!"

"What're you doin' out here?" he turns around to face me. Before I can answer, he pulls me into a hug and twirls me around. I kick and laugh, like I'm half my age. When he stops twirling, he sets me down, and draws me into a long, passionate kiss.

"EWWWW!" Virgil yells from the porch. "That's GROSS!"

"You won't think it's gross when Wendy kisses you!" Charon teases. We laugh as we listen to Virgil making gagging noises.

"Go inside." He scolds. "We don't have a lot of Rad-Away as it is."

"Make me." I smirk, defiantly.

He picks me up and throws me across his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, then drops me off on the porch. He meets my eyes for a moment. If Virgil wasn't here, who knows what compromising position we'd be in right now. I love how he is after a good rain – the radiation invigorates him; makes him horny. We'll send Virgil away to the Davis' tonight – he likes to spend time with Wendy, and I never let a good rainstorm go to waste.

I walk Virgil to the Davis' and they're delighted to take him in for the night. If there is a God, then I hope he, she, or it blesses them. They've saved our hides out here more times than I can count, helped us avert countless disasters. The older girl was our housekeeper when she was younger, and even though she was only about ten years old, I learned how to cook and clean from her. Wendy is one of nine children, somewhere in the middle, but she's the thinnest; the frailest. It seems like Deanna is always either pregnant, or got a baby on her hip.

He attacks me as soon as I walk in the front door, carrying me to the bedroom tucked under one of his heavily muscled arms, me laughing the whole way. "You'd think that you owned me." I joked, when he put me down.

He smirks. "Not yet." He pauses. "Do you want me to soften you up a little?" he asks. I consider it. It's been a while, and I've had him start to use more restraint lately – my body's not what it used to be. Better safe than sorry. The last thing we need is for me to get hurt all the way out here, with only a first aid kit. I want it so, so bad, though. "Please."

When I give him the command, his palm connects with my cheek with a satisfying slap and a burst of warm pain. "Oh! Do it again." WHACK! My other cheek stings deliciously, and I feel my nether regions quiver in anticipation. He lowers me down to the bed, following me.

His hands grope my body aggressively, desperately. He fumbles with my trouser buttons, tears my pants off, taking my modest cotton underwear with them. He lies next to me, rubs my already swollen clit. I moan softly, and he whispers into my ear, "I want you…to be loud." He plunges a coarse finger inside of me, pumping vigorously, and I moan loudly and push my hips to meet him. I tighten around his finger and he grunts into my ear, his hot breath brushing my hair, tickling my neck delightfully. He slows, stops, then leaps up, fighting my shirt off of me. My brassiere – a plain cotton affair made by a seamstress in town – becomes a source of frustration for him. Bras aren't very common in the wasteland, and I hadn't started wearing one again until recently. Once you get to a certain age, gravity becomes more of a problem than it used to be. "Hooks – in the back." I whisper. I gently sit up, turn with my back to him, and allow him to fiddle with it until he starts growling. "Don't break it." I snake my arms behind my back, push his hands away, grip the band and pull gently, unhooking it effortlessly. I slide it off, and toss it on the floor. His hungry hands explore my naked body, cupping my breasts as he nips my soft neck.

He presses me to my hands and knees on the edge of the bed, and gives my ass cheek a heavy slap. "Stay there." I hear the heavy thump of his boots as they're tossed to the floor, the clink of his belt, the rustle of clothing as his peels his shirt over his head. He waits, forcing me sit there, stewing in anticipation. He knows this position is my favorite; I rue the day I told him, because now he likes to tease me with it.

He rubs my ass with both of his rough hands, squeezing, kneading. I whimper with need, my insides throbbing, desperate to feel him inside me. His hips jerk forward, thrusting into me forcefully, painfully. My piercing cry is deafening in the small bedroom, and he speeds up, smacking me hard. I grip the sheets, and the raw, unbridled sounds from behind me elicit moans of pure pleasure; his fingernails rake my naked back, and I scream, squeezing him tightly as stars blossom behind my eyes. He stiffens and shouts with a last mighty thrust, pulling my hips to meet his.

Both of us pause, sweating, breathing heavily.

I exhale forcefully, and then look over my shoulder at him. "Let's do that again."