Dead Man Walking

Synopsis: A teenager in an NCR mental facility struggles to hold on to family and identity as he faces the end of his life. (T)


The Hub, NCR, September 2277.

"I love you, August."

"I love you too," August muttered into his mother's warm embrace. He didn't want to let go. If he could just stay curled into her arms, he would never have to descend further into this strange facility. Once he was checked in, he'd never come out.

His father's cigarette-stained hand found his shoulder. He turned his son to face himself. "August. Be good. Write." His mouth twitched, trying to come up with more fatherly advice. "I signed off on an experimental treatment plan. If the research they get from you is worth something, we get paid. So... cooperate." His father pulled him into a rough, awkward hug. August couldn't remember being hugged by his dad before. He tried to suppress the tears summoned by this realization before he had to look the man in the face again.

That left Layla. Her expression was drawn tightly, arms crossed to show exactly how she felt about the whole situation. She scanned the room, sizing up the doctors and orderlies, and decidedly not looking at her brother.

"Layla," Mom whispered, her tone pleading.

Layla's eyes locked onto August's, studying him. Why did she have to make this so much worse? Finally, she broke into an easy smile and hugged him tightly. "Good luck, buddy. I'll see you soon."

"Layla!" Dad snapped. "There's no 'soon' and you know it. You'd better cut that out right now."

August's sister didn't accept that she was losing him. The fact had slipped right out of her reality as soon as she'd heard it. He wanted to shake her — beg her to understand. I'm not coming back. Please, make my last memory of you a good one. But the petulance in her expression did not falter. "Excuse me for not losing my mind over the opinion of some bargain-bin quack," she said coldly. "If you'd coughed up for a real doctor, we wouldn't even be here."

"Rolf has been our doctor since before you were born. Grow up, Layla." Their father was stern, but Layla was stubborn.

"Wonder how much Hub Psych paid him for the referral. On his salary, he probably jumped at the opportunity."

August buried his eyes behind his hands. "Shut up, shut up, shut up." If Layla wasn't away at work, then she and Dad were fighting. August had hoped they would make an exception in this case, but the world hadn't failed to disappoint him yet. He might have expected it from Dad, but Layla had been his hero since he was a child. She'd been so supportive when she'd found out. Promised she'd always be there for him. And now, at the end, when he needed her most, she was abandoning him.

Mom clung to August's side, a quiet apology. That was all she'd ever been able to give him. Still, she was his mom. And right now, she was there for him. The other two couldn't even do that much.

The room's attention had fallen back onto him. He hadn't noticed it shift. He could feel his mind failing him in little ways like that. Missteps, surges of emotion, the vague sense that his wretched body wasn't his own. Knowing that he was being sent away to keep his family safe was the only thing that had gotten him through the hospital's double doors. But now was the goodbye. And that was a lot harder.

"Will—" his voice cracked. "Will you be able to visit me?" The trip from their farm in the Boneyard was a huge time commitment, not to mention dangerous. But he had to know he'd see them again.

The quiet nurse with the clipboard broke her silence. "Visitation privileges are extended on a case-by-case basis, depending largely on good behavior."

August felt his face flush, and hoped it wasn't visible through his peeling skin. Good behavior. He felt scrutinized, like a kid under discipline.

"I thought this was a hospital," Layla said sharply.

"It is. A hospital with very volatile patients in need of a high standard of care. You don't need to see him during the later stages, anyway." The nurse's bobbed hair bounced as she spoke. August fixated on it rather than listen to her words, but the meaning crept its way past his threshold of consciousness. Soon, he would be unrecognizable. Even bearing witness to him would be a burden.

"What gives you the authority to decide that?" Layla was near losing her temper.

"The New California Republic. Now, the patient needs to be admitted." She signaled to some muscular male orderlies, who'd been standing politely outside of listening distance.

"Don't worry, August," Layla said. "You won't be here for long, I promise."

August gave up. "Thanks."

"Layla, you shut your mouth," Dad chastised her again. "Don't listen to her, son. Don't get your hopes up. Your sister is being selfish."

Layla turned on her heel without comment and marched out of the Hub Psychiatric Ward. The double doors slammed shut with the ringing force of her anger and grief. August wanted to follow, but the orderlies were expectant. He hoisted his suitcase in one hand and started to trudge after them. Unexpectedly, they fell in like sentinels on either side of him. Both had several inches on him in height, and he noticed with apprehension the sidearms strapped to their hips.

Through the overload of information crushing into his perception, August heard a soft sniff that had become familiar over the past years: the sound of his mother crying. It was a noise he wouldn't miss, but it got him to turn around and run to her, embracing her one last time.

He squeezed his eyes shut. "I'm sorry, Mom. I didn't mean for any of this to happen."

"August..." she breathed, sounding threatened.

He followed her gaze to see the orderlies approaching slowly, right hands hovering over their weapons. "August," the bearded one said. "Come with us, please. No sudden movements."

Needing no further motivation, August pried himself from his mother and let the men escort him through the door marked in red block letters: Feral Palliative Ward.


The ward consisted of single rooms, all locked from the outside. Until she'd run away two years ago, August had always shared his attic bedroom with Layla. Even now that she was gone most of the time, he'd had the cat, and known his parents were just downstairs. Now he was alone.

He set down his suitcase, noting with discomfort that its weight had rubbed more of the loose skin off his fingers. The room had no mirrors with which to track his transformation, though maybe that was a blessing. Maybe now he could just... relax.

August was a farm boy, and he knew that getting to work was the solution to most problems. But he couldn't quite bring himself to make the bed. He crawled onto the lonely mattress, pressed himself into the wall, and rode the wave of grief that his family was no doubt mirroring, in their own ways.

This was all Layla's fault, he decided. She and Dad had gotten into a fight one night, with a rage that shook the whole house. Layla had backed down unusually fast, then retreated tearfully to her room. The next morning, she and her things had been gone.

When she'd left, August had been alone. With Mom, that was. But Mom had never been any help. All she ever did was quietly try to stay within the budget Dad was drinking away. Dad's anger towards his daughter had little outlet, then, except for the boy who looked so much like her.

One day, after Dad had broken a beer bottle on the wall next to his head, August had decided he would follow in Layla's footsteps. He'd gotten barely a mile away before calling the escape a lost cause, but he had found refuge in one of the Boneyard's many wreckage heaps. It had been like a second home: an hour of annihilation plus 200 years of erosion had created a sheltered cave just big enough for a smallish-sized teenager.

When Dad hit the drink, August had escaped to the wreckage. He'd even slept there, more nights than not. Even after the vomiting started, he'd never considered that his hidey hole could be anything but a friend. Maybe if Layla hadn't left. Maybe if Dad had ever made an effort. Maybe if he'd been able to trust Mom enough to tell her he'd been getting sick.

But he never had. In the end, it was August's fault, and his family was paying for it. By the time his parents had realized he had radiation sickness, it had been almost too late. They'd told him to stick it out, drink lots of water, until they could scrounge enough money for RadAway. But with Layla gone and August unable to work, that money hadn't been forthcoming. He'd gotten sicker, until one day, he just wasn't sick anymore. They'd known what that meant. He didn't look like it yet, but he was a ghoul.

Layla had come home soon after, and he'd told her everything. She'd barely reacted — he'd thought at that point that it was just her big-sister resilience, refusing to exacerbate his fear with her own. Now he knew she'd just been in denial.

She'd returned with a small fortune, by their standards, and they'd managed to pay Doctor Rolf with the money. Too little too late to stop the radiation poisoning, but at least the doctor could help August through the ugly parts.

A few months had passed. August's body slowly failed him. Hair thinned, skin cracked and peeled, cartilage weakened. Then Rolf had broken the news — his condition was devolving too quickly. He was restless, forgetful, had bouts of aggression. He trailed off when speaking. Something was very wrong.

Once they knew to look for it, the fact of the matter had become abundantly clear. August's condition was affecting his central nervous system. He was turning feral.

The doctor had come back periodically to investigate further, and every time, his suspicions had been confirmed. August was not only a lost cause, but a dangerous one, and time was running out. Sooner or later, the shaking would start. Then the blackouts, the feverish muttering. Then he'd start attacking. Periods of lucidity would be fewer and farther between. And one day, he would lose himself, and never come back again.

The threat had seemed so abstract then, especially with Layla voicing her constant doubts. But when he'd heard his mother crying at night, when it felt like way too much time was passing between blinks, he'd known. And he was terrified.

He'd spent a final few weeks at home, but they hadn't exactly been pleasant. Then the family had taken the journey up north to the Hub. And here was August now, losing his cool in the corner of an unmade hospital bed, in a small, cold room with blank walls and unfriendly tile flooring. He didn't leave the spot until they came for him.


The first thing they did was shave his head.

This struck August as incredibly unfair. His dark hair had been thin and patchy, but at least it was his. But it fell out at an unmanageable rate; fine for a tiny farmhouse in the Boneyard, but not up to Hub Psych's cleanliness standards. So, it had to go. He understood their reasoning, but it felt so... dehumanizing. For the first time, August felt more ghoulish than human.

From there, August learned to get used to a number of things:

1 — He was dangerous. This knowledge was important, because it pervaded every single interaction he had. At all times, he was either locked in his room, restrained in a lab, or transitioning under armed guard between one or the other. The skin on his wrists was stripped completely under the friction of handcuffs. It was all very clinical, but not painless, and worlds away from comforting.

2 — The Voice. Everyone had the same tone of voice in this place, like August was some combination of a toddler and a rampaging monster. They enunciated every excruciating syllable, and chastised him for breaking eye contact. Every errant movement set them scribbling on their clipboards, or worse, flinching towards their weapons. August learned to speak when spoken to.

3 — The tests. Blood tests, memory tests, reflex tests, IQ tests, self-report surveys, brain scans, psychological evaluations, logic games, physicals. Every detail quantified, scrutinized. He didn't take every test every day, but there was never a day where he didn't take a test. They never told him the results. Still, he knew he was getting worse. Every misstep, hesitation, and wrong answer echoed in his mind at night, chasing away sleep.

4 — "Good behavior" was harder to attain than he'd expected. If he was too polite, they told him to relax. Too quiet, and they wrote on their clipboards. Too fast or too loud, and their hands twitched toward their hips. Balancing it all took more energy than he had. He gave up on winning their trust.

5 — Don't talk to the other patients. This wasn't a rule, but it was a piece of wisdom August learned pretty quickly. He didn't need the reminders of his future. Moreover, everyone else seemed to have learned the same lesson. Even when they were let out in the yard (only a few at a time), they mostly ignored each other. They paced, tried to peek through the gaps in the wooden board fence, or made an effort to exercise. August usually stood or sat, feeling the sun and the wind on his face. The nurses scribbled on their clipboards.


August's eyes blurred with tears of exhaustion. They'd woken him up for a round of experimental treatment. He'd taken their pill with a grimace ("Maybe we should switch to intravenous..."), and now he was horizontal, with calming images in front of his face and white noise pumped in his ears. He didn't like it.

"I want to go to bed," he croaked. He was too tired and too frustrated to be polite.

"August," the Voice spoke at him, female this time. "Keep in mind that your family will receive payment if this trial shows evidence of slowing your decline. Please try to cooperate."

He huffed unhappily at the picture above him — a mountain covered in snow. "I was sleeping. Aren't I supposed to get sleep?"

The Voice lost a shade of its sterility. "What boy your age falls asleep before ten o'clock?"

"I'm a farmer."

The Voice stopped responding for awhile. August didn't know what that meant. Then it came back again, male and haughty. "Your vitals are showing signs of sustained agitation. Would you care to explain?"

August wanted to reach up and rip the sensors off of himself, but this was a both-wrists-cuffed sort of test. "I'm not trying to mess up your experiment."

"You aren't in trouble, August."

"I'm not used to all this technology stuff. I feel, um. Intimidated."

"Mr. S-"

"Could you maybe explain to me what's going on?"

"I can't do that, August. This is a double-blind study. Would you focus on the screen?"

So August did. He tried to lose himself in the nonsense noise and the pretty pre-war vistas. He would pass all those places up, though, if he could only go home.


The room was too small to successfully avoid eye contact, but August persisted. He glanced at a lamp, a desk fan, a pencil holder, some pillows. He'd recently caught a glimpse of his own hazy, blank eyes in one of the labs' mirrors, and he no longer wanted anyone to look at him.

"Gus."

"Hm?"

"You mind if I call you Gus?"

"Uh, sure." (He did mind.)

"You seem to be disengaging." The doctor adjusted her ponytail one-handed. With the other hand, she held a riot shield. August wondered how often she had to use it.

"Sorry."

"Is something troubling you?"

"More than usual, you mean?"

"Gus," she pulled out the Voice. "We've talked about keeping a positive attitude."

He tapped his right hand on the armrest, just to hear the handcuff clink. "I think I'm just... tired."

"You think fatigue is setting in? When did this start?" The doctor positioned her clipboard on her lap, ready to take notes.

"I don't know. I'm just tired."

She frowned and jotted something down. All of these notes couldn't possibly be going to the same file, could they? There were so many. Would they burn them after he was gone? Send them to his family as some horrible parting gift?

"Um... do you have any idea how long I've got?" August's voice cracked on the last word. The scarring was starting to reach his vocal cords. He had hoped that part wouldn't happen for awhile.

"I'd have to check your file. At this point, you'll set the pace. Control what you can now, while you're still nearly sentient."

August finally made eye contact, surprised. "'Nearly?'"

"In this institution, we see it as a spectrum rather than a binary."

"I see."

"So I need you to put effort into self-care."

It would be nice if you'd let me sleep more. "Does anyone just ever give up? Try to get it over with?" He realized that sounded dark, and shuffled his feet a bit to fight the tension.

The doctor's lips tightened behind the glass sheen of the riot shield. August could almost see his reflection in it. He tried not to look. "Our patients will sometimes engage in self-destructive behaviors for the same reason anyone else does. They refuse to regard that others are affected by their actions. You're not here in a vacuum. Our experiments depend on patient cooperation."

"I was just curious."


A dark mood stole over August, which wasn't uncommon. Most days, he made an effort to read the books next to his bed, wrote and crumpled up a few letters to his family, or at least tried to stretch his stiff muscles. But some days, all he could manage to do between various appointments was curl up on his bed and pick at loose skin. His arms were nearly bare now, and the skin grew back, but it wasn't its natural tan. It was colorless, hard, and scabby. Like a ghoul.

Minutes dragged, but hours flew. There was just no point anymore. What did it matter how he filled the days? It was all futile. He was sick of living this way. But he wasn't sure that he was ready to die, either. So he stayed in limbo, exhausted but sleepless, restless but unmotivated.

He tensed when the door opened. It was clear plastic, positioned so the orderlies could always look in on their patients, but he'd been facing the wall and hadn't seen this doctor approach.

The doctors didn't usually make visits into the dorms. Too dangerous, August supposed. He had still never attacked anyone, but they hadn't dropped their guard for a moment. This doctor in particular stood calmly at a safe distance, and August sensed it was for his own peace of mind rather than the doctor's. He straightened.

"August? Do you mind if I sit?"

"Okay."

The doctor pulled up a chair, deliberately turning his back to his patient. August got the message. Visiting him in his own territory, neglecting to carry a riot shield (though August didn't doubt there was a sidearm under the lab coat), and making a show of trusting him. The doctor was trying to be a friend. August was curious, but uneager to socialize with the man. What did he need friends for?

"How have you been?" he asked.

"You've read my file."

"I want to hear it from you."

August fidgeted. "What's your name? Have we met before?"

"Haven't had the pleasure. You can call me Dr. Robinson."

"Okay." August watched his visitor with interest. He hadn't seen someone so relaxed around him since Layla had walked out of the hospital doors. He knew the lack of caution should make him paranoid of losing control, but he let himself stop worrying, just this once.

"How old are you?"

"I know you know that." August wrinkled what was left of his nose. It had shriveled and hardened to the point that it obstructed his breathing. As much as he hated being a ghoul, he was ready for it to flake off, and take his ears with it. "I'm seventeen."

"I'm sure you're sick of being treated like just a file. I would be." He held August's reluctant gaze. "I haven't read it."

August hadn't realized how much he'd missed being talked to like a person. A weight he hadn't recognized before lifted from his shoulders. "...thanks."

"Don't mention it. These doctors, they know a lot about ghouls. But not much about people — teenaged boys, specifically. Me, I study people. And, in my professional opinion, you could use some help."

August, feeling vulnerable, pulled his legs up onto the bed. "That's... nice. But I don't get why you're wasting your time on me. There's no point."

"I hear you giving up on yourself."

August huffed angrily, breath whistling in his constricted airway. "Yeah. I'm not gonna fight the way things are and make it worse. I'm gonna be... a monster... and then, I'm gonna die. And in the meantime, it's all gonna get worse and worse until the end. I don't have a lot to look forward to." His words spilled out.

Robinson refused to be cowed. "You're supposed to be using this time to come to peace with your circumstances. That's what this hospital is intended to do for you. I think they've lost sight of that. Which brings me to why I'm here."

At the sound of another person lecturing him about a positive attitude, August was prepared to check out of the conversation, but the mystery of that last statement reeled him back in. "Why are you?"

"How to put this..." Robinson tapped his tented fingers together. "Between you and me, what I'm doing here isn't completely... legal. Loopholes, selective information. I've been trying to get into one of these facilities for awhile now, and Hub Psych is the biggest. Your sister gave me the in that I needed."

"Layla sent you?"

"Do you have another sister?"

"For me?"

"Why else would she have sent me?"

"Yeah, those were stupid questions," August agreed quietly. "So... what's up? Can I see her?"

"She's in town," Robinson confirmed. "But visitation is extended case-by-case. Officially, I'm here as a consultant, and I'm trying to fly under the radar, so I can't sign off on it. Layla will have to make the request, and you'll have to convince one of the doctors managing your case that you're able to be trusted."

"They don't trust me. That's the problem. Everything I do gets picked apart."

Robinson looked skeptical, though August hadn't said anything controversial. "That's just the thing, I think. The doctors say your situation is developing as expected. What do you think?"

August wasn't in the mood for another of these conversations. It wasn't his job to estimate his descent into a mindless killing machine. "It's like they said. I don't sleep, I can't focus, I feel... so bad. All the time. I forget things I should have known. I want... to hurt people. Sometimes." He steadied himself. Admitting that always got them writing on their clipboards. Robinson just watched. "Food tastes different. Everything is different. I get all emotional and start shaking. I'm on the verge, of, of something bad." It all came out in a rush, and he turned his lifeless eyes on the doctor again. "I'm... scared."

"With all of that bouncing around in your head, you have a right to be." Robinson was still calm, just hearing him out.

"I want to see my sister. If I can't get visitation privileges while she's here, I don't know if I'm going to have another chance." Tears pricked, and August blinked them back. Freaking out wouldn't help.

"I think you've touched on the center of our problem here. Your locus of control — your perception of why things happen in your life — is external. You feel like things are happening to you, but you're not the one making them happen."

"Well... yeah. I'm a ghoul in a mental asylum going feral. What part of that inspires confidence?"

"Exactly. Though it's likely that your control problem started many years ago, I hypothesize that facilities such as this one are unintentionally optimized to breed despair. A massive placebo effect."

"Placebo effect?"

"It's when you expect so strongly for something to happen that it does. Symptoms are as much mental as they are physical. If you believe you're sick, you'll eventually get sick."

"So you're saying..." August sighed. "I know Layla sent you because she thinks Rolf is wrong. But all the doctors here say it too. And I told you, I know something's wrong with me." His voice grated, and he swallowed to soothe it.

"All those symptoms you listed sound like a teenager in crisis. This entire situation was mishandled from the beginning." Robinson's mouth flicked automatically into an unreadable smile before extinguishing itself.

"No. I'm getting worse in all the tests—"

"A disruption in your sleeping schedule and rapidly decreasing self-confidence will do that to you.

"And everything looks different..."

"All ghouls experience a change in sensory input. It's just something you're going to have to get used to."

"I want to hurt people."

"Sometimes, you said. And you seem self-aware about it. If you really were going feral, the real sign would be that you couldn't control these impulses. There are thoughts you need to work through, but it isn't an indication that you're losing your humanity. In fact, I think it's a good sign that you're concerned."

August stared critically at him. If true, that would change everything. But it was all too convenient. "I don't want false hope. You... I need to think."

"Think away," Robinson granted, waving a hand. "But, if you would, allow yourself to hope. It's the only way to get out of here. And if you need more concrete motivation, it's your best chance at getting to see your sister."

August paused, intrigued. "You think they'll let me see her if I try to... sleep more, and stop worrying so much, and all that?"

"That's my hypothesis. I'm writing you an official prescription for believing in yourself. Doctor's orders."

August's eyes flicked up at the sound of a struggle. Outside the clear plastic door, guards were escorting a struggling patient. He was yelling something, his words warped and unrecognizable from inside. The door couldn't temper the razor edge to his voice — gruesome and animal.

August and the doctor bore witness silently. The handcuffed patient lashed out once more before the guards managed to secure him, still twitching furiously.

"What's that all about?" Robinson asked, not daring to raise his voice.

"They're taking him to hospice. I don't know anything about it. Just that whoever goes in doesn't come out." August shot the doctor a look, and he nodded knowingly.

"Your own little Room 101," Robinson mused grimly, glancing at the book on August's bedside. "Just... stick to that prescription, okay?"

"...What's the dosage?"


When August entered the booth, Layla had her face smushed against the glass, trying to make him laugh. He chuckled halfheartedly, then jumped as the door slammed shut and locked behind him. He wished he could be on the other side of the glass, in less cramped quarters, and able to hug his sister. But she seemed content where she was.

He scanned her narrow face for surprise, maybe revulsion, at his changed appearance, but she seemed ecstatic to see him again. "Hey, buddy. Missed you." She pressed her hand to the window.

"I missed you too," he whispered hoarsely. He mirrored her hand, feeling cold glass against shredded skin. "I'm sorry I haven't written as much as I meant to. There's just... not much worth telling."

"You mean it's uninteresting, or you mean you'd rather not tell it?"

"Uh... both, maybe. Plus they read my mail, in and out. I didn't want to say anything too personal."

Layla scoffed, with genuine disapproval. "Despicable — besmirching the great sanctity of the postal system. I expected... well, I didn't expect more. But a girl can hope." She shrugged lightheartedly. August was so happy to hear her voice again that he could have wept. "So, listen..." She leaned closer to the glass. "While we have a minute of privacy... Dr. Mendoza said you guys had a talk?"

August drew a blank for a second. A week ago, he'd have taken that as a sign that his brain was rotting away, but now he wasn't so sure. "You mean Dr. Robinson?"

Layla hummed quietly. "Must be a pseudonym. I guess he's tried to sneak into these places before... He was a little hush-hush about it. Swore me to secrecy."

"That sounds really illegal."

Layla seemed to agree, and it delighted her. "Sounds like the only way you're gonna get out of here."

August let out a soft note of ambivalence.

Layla's eyebrows climbed nearer to her dark bangs. "That is, if you're not still convinced that Rolf has any idea what he's talking about. You were misdiagnosed, buddy. I knew it from the start."

"Maybe."

"Come on."

"I just—" August looked for a distraction, but the only thing in the tiny booth besides himself was a chair. He leaned back in it. "I don't want to be wrong. What if one day I just..." She didn't answer right away, so he hissed savagely as an illustration.

"Yeah, I get what you meant, August." Layla hesitated somewhere between amusement and sympathy. "Look, families take risks for each other. And it's not like we're defenseless... I know some fighting, and Dad's pretty tough too, when he can figure out which way is up. We just want you safe, okay?"

"Are they even gonna want me back? I look..." He couldn't think of a good adjective. "I mean, look at me."

A soft smile crept absentmindedly onto Layla's face. "A graceful transition, as far as ghouls go. If you'd been around the block as much as I have, you'd know that it could be a lot worse. Heck, east of the border, before the road got blocked by the army, you could have met guys who glow, or guys whose eyes rotted out. Yikes. Helps that you were much more handsome to start out with."

"Ha-ha."

"Well, of course you were; you're related to me." She flashed her teeth in a deliberately awkward smile, and got another forced chuckle for her efforts. "More to the point, Mom and Dad make bad choices, but they aren't crazy. At least, not the kind that makes you stupid. Of course they want you back. I've been on the road for the most part, but whenever I'm at home, it feels super empty. Like it's waiting for you, like..."

"Like when you ran away."

August's words had bite, and Layla smoothly recovered from the surprise. "Like that," she conceded. "But worse, because they don't know you're coming home."

"We didn't know, Layla. You think we weren't worried about you? We didn't know if you were alive or dead, or if you were alone, or what criminal underworld you'd gotten yourself stuck in."

"You thought so little of me? I left to find a job. I was out there making a life for myself. For us, once I made enough money to bribe my way out of getting disowned."

"Well, it didn't work! Look what you did!" August gestured vaguely at the space around him. Look at me.

Layla's face darkened when he raised his voice at her. She was seeing Dad in him. Still, she tried to placate. "I would never do anything to hurt you, August. If I'd known you were sick, I'd have dropped everything to come home and help. I couldn't have known."

"You're always walking out of situations you don't like. You didn't have to leave."

Layla massaged the bridge of her nose. "I did. If I'd stayed, I would have ended up doing something even dumber. If I'd woken you up to say goodbye, you would have sounded the alarm on me. But I had to go... I was done working my tail off to make money that Dad was just gonna spend on booze. I wanted to live, dangit!" She blinked, realizing she'd been ranting. Her eyes flicked to August, gauging his reaction.

He knew. They'd lived in the same house for fifteen years. Their father was a terror, their mother a doormat. Layla had never been the type to bear it. When she'd started thinking of herself as a woman rather than a girl, the open road started looking a lot sweeter than her broken home. Knowing she'd always intended to come back with the money helped. A little.

"I wanted to stay. But I'm not as strong as you. You're the best of us, August. We all know it."

Layla had a way of twisting words to her own ends, but August knew her well enough to see that she was being genuine. She didn't apologize, but she was asking for forgiveness. "I shouldn't have brought it up."

"Well..." she hesitated. "If it's something you need to work through, I'll be back. I mean, I'll be back regardless, but we can talk about it when we're a little more... calm. Whatever needs to happen for you to get better." She collected her long hair behind her ears, surreptitiously wiping an eye as she went.

"You can't know that I'm going to get better."

Layla, frustrated, half-stood. "Look. You will. Mendoza knows what he's talking about."

"Because he says what you want to hear."

"Because I know you. And I know how people panic and make assumptions about things they don't understand. And you don't seem crazy; we've been talking for how long now—"

"Layla. Please stop." This was wearing on August's brain. He had been so excited to see his sister again, but right now he could only handle her in small doses. "Just... tell me you love me, and that'll be enough for now."

"I love you. And you will be okay, little bug."

"Thanks, Layla." August leaned against the glass, exhausted by the conversation, and Layla pecked a kiss where his forehead would be.

They communed in silence for awhile, but both of them knew their time was up. "I'm gonna go. I'll see you tomorrow, buddy."

"Bye, Layla."

She rose, reluctant, and disappeared through the door in the back, her mailbag bouncing jauntily against her leg.


When August got back to his room, all he wanted to do was sleep. Layla had fractured the calm that had arrived along with Dr. Mendoza, and August wanted to do whatever he could to retain it. Yet there was a strained, turbulent hope now, breaking through the skepticism. He was stressed after her visit, but he was no longer complicit in his own death.

You will be okay.

You willbe okay.

"I'll be okay."

The words came out before he really realized he was saying them. They hung in the air, clung to the empty white walls, imprinted themselves on the silence. A forbidden promise to himself. Electric, dangerous hope.

"I will. I will be okay!" he shouted to the empty room, willing it to argue. He hopped up on the bed for emphasis, feeling it bow under the sudden weight. "I'm getting out of here!" He continued his battle cry against the forces of despair.

August's heart pounded. He hadn't been this worked up in a long time, but he was alive. Better — he was himself. Not a cautionary tale, not a lab rat, not a monster. Himself.

"I'm still me." He bounced a bit on the mattress, distracting from the gravel in his voice, ignoring the bizarreness of the ritual. "I'm gonna be okay!"

"August," said the Voice.

He spun. He hadn't noticed the door open.

Three orderlies. Guns drawn. The rush of the moment froze in place, but August's heart hammered on.

"I'm sorry—"

The orderly leading the charge stepped forward. "August, I need you to calm down. Get off the bed."

Blood rushed to August's face. That had been a private moment, but nothing stays private in the place where there is no darkness. He slowly moved down to sitting, then slid off the bed onto the floor. No sudden movements.

"Put your hands behind your head."

"I didn't do any-"

"Put your hands behind your head!"

August did.


He'd done what was asked of him, but at some point rage had overtaken fear. It was a rage he'd suppressed in the past months, because he had been afraid of what it meant. But he knew now what he had never allowed himself to consider — the rage wasn't a symptom. It was a statement — whether or not I'm going crazy, I deserve better than this.

"I'm not an animal," he muttered, loud enough to be heard but too quiet to be dismissed as a raving madman. "I'm a person. I wasn't doing anything wrong."

A female orderly glanced at his wrists, making sure he was locked securely in the chair. "The director will be with you shortly, August."

"I want to go home."

"When's OSI gonna release that new sedative?" she asked her colleague, ignoring him.

"Not long. They'll probably have us test it."

"That'll be nice."

"Mm."

"Hey!" August yelled. "Remember me? The guy you chained to a chair?"

"August," said the male orderly. "Relax."

"No. I have the right to be mad sometimes. I can be mad when someone points a gun at me for no reason." He made eye contact, unashamed.

The director entered, labcoat billowing behind him. "Status?"

"Unruly, sir. Erratic," said the woman. The third orderly, who had come in with the director, took his place at her side.

"Not the sort of episode I'd expect at this stage of regression. He needs much closer observation." The director had his nose in August's brimming file and wasn't looking up.

August seethed. "It's not an episode! I'm just angry."

"This is a drastic personality change," the director continued. "We're going to have to move up the calendar on hospice care."

"Look at me!" the harsh words tore from August's throat. "I want to go home! You can't keep me here!"

The director put a knuckle to his mouth, considering. Aggravatingly calm. "You were right, Abrams," he said to the third orderly. "This must have been triggered by seeing his sister. All visitation to this patient needs to cease immediately."

"No!"

"August." The director, stone-faced, crouched at a safe distance. "You are very sick. You need to realize that, even if your sister told you differently. She is not a doctor."

"She knows me better than you do." August was breathing hard — anxious, but adamant.

"I thought you'd reached a place of acceptance. This is very disheartening. Your treatment schedule will have to reflect this change, and—" The director stopped when he heard the door open. Miffed, he turned to the intruder. "Oh. Dr. Robinson."

"Yes, hello, Dr. Travis. August." He directed a nod at each in turn. "Has there been an incident? I was supposed to meet with my patient today."

"Unfortunately, yes. August is experiencing a very sudden and intense psychotic episode. He can't fulfill any counseling appointments today." The director shook his head disapprovingly.

August hesitated, unsure whether Mendoza would still believe him. "I'm not crazy. I'm just mad. They won't listen to me..." His voice sounded unnervingly pathetic, but it fit his situation.

"It's okay. Just tell me what's wrong."

August squeezed his eyes shut, so relieved that he wanted to cry. He explained all at once, making little sense. "I was messing around in my room... They came in with guns and I got mad. Now they're not gonna let me see Layla again, and - "

The Director butted in. "Dr. Robinson, August has been claiming he doesn't need to be here. He's very suddenly developed these delusions. All of this started after the visit from his sister. It would be irresponsible to allow any more outside influence on this patient."

"We should allow him to voice his concerns. Stifling them won't help. August, what do you have to say?"

August clammed up. It was one thing to make an assertion, but another to back it up with evidence. "Well... I'd been feeling pretty bad before. But then I started sleeping better, and stuff like that, and... I think... I don't feel like I'm going crazy anymore."

"A self-report isn't valid evidence in a case like this," said the director.

"You're absolutely right," Mendoza said. August felt crestfallen. "I think the burden of proof falls on the hospital."

"Uh—"

"It's a simple solution. Allow me access to August's file and I'll serve as an arbiter. If I don't find sufficient evidence that August is becoming feral, his course of treatment should be altered and he'll be put under observation for a week, then sent home."

"Sir, if we change treatment now..."

"Weren't you planning to anyway?"

The director buried himself in the file instead of answering, his eyebrows furrowed over the top of the tan-yellow folder. "Uh... of course. I'll go back to my office and give you official clearance."

"Splendid," Mendoza smiled. "Orderlies, would you give me a moment alone with my patient?"

The three orderlies filed, awkward and wordless, out of the room. The woman cast a glance at August, appraising. There was a strange feeling in the air, like something beyond this situation had just changed majorly.

When their footsteps down the hall became inaudible, Mendoza laughed. "Hoo! Well, this wasn't really the breakthrough I was waiting for, but it was a breakthrough nonetheless."

"...It was?"

"If your file shows what I expect it to. These doctors never even considered a second opinion. They're just going off what your family doctor said. Based on their attitudes, they've just now realized it, and they know they're screwed. If I can bring this to light... it's big news. Who knows how many ghouls have gone feral due solely to malpractice?"

"Is that a good thing?"

"Well, it would prove my hypothesis, so it isn't a shock to me. More importantly, if I go public, we can actually do something about it. Establish some sort of industry standards... It'll get my name passed around back home, anyway." He pulled back his labcoat to flash the Followers of the Apocalypse pin on his undershirt.

August had to smile. "So, I'm gonna get out of here?"

"You're thinking too small, my friend. If the issue gets any traction, you could be a public speaker... Plenty of people make a living off being a martyr. How does this sound: first ghoul congressman from Los Angeles? You may have just started both of our careers, Mr. Sage."

"Thank you, sir. But I just want to go home."

"Well then, that's exactly where you're going to go."


The old farmhouse in Los Angeles was the same as August had left it, months earlier. The fence still stood, the roof still sagged, the path still ambled lazily up to the doorway. Layla leaned her head on her brother's shoulder as they stared at it. Their parents weren't expecting them, and neither knew what to expect in return once they walked through that door.

"Think Dad's gonna be upset he's not getting the money?" August asked blandly.

"Maybe a little. But nothing beats knowing you're safe," she said. "He's probably gonna work you harder to make up for your little 'vacation,' though."

"Whatever."

Athena appeared from the long grass. Mewling a greeting, she stood up on her four hind legs and planted two more on August's boots. She reached out with her spindly front legs to claw at his hand, and he stroked her head to calm her.

"She's happy to see you," Layla remarked. "She gave me the silent treatment for a long time after I came back."

August lost himself in petting the cat's brilliant white fur. She closed all eight of her eyes and purred. "Let's make a deal?"

Layla raised an eyebrow, looking at the cat instead of at him. "Such as?"

He turned back to her. "Can we promise each other not to leave again?"

Athena meowed for his attention, twitching her spinnerets. He got down to her level to appease her. She tilted her head in concern, then started licking his ruined face in a motherly way. Her sandpaper tongue lifted flecks of skin, and he had to push her off before she tried to investigate his shapeless stump of a nose.

Layla was looking off down the road, avoiding his question. "Layla?" he prompted.

"I don't want to leave you," she said softly. "You know my job demands it."

"I guess." Athena turned her efforts towards Layla after August's rebuff. She received a gentle scratch on the carapace, but nothing more.

"Look," Layla started. "I can't promise I won't leave. You shouldn't promise the same to me. I know you're okay with farming, but it can't be all there is to life. And living under Dad... I won't swear to that. If I get called on a job that requires me to leave for awhile, I'm not going to turn it down."

August sat back on his heels, unwilling to stand up straight. He really shouldn't have asked. Maybe he'd had this fantasy, that after this, she'd settle down and be happy here. August suddenly had the rest of his indefinite life ahead of him, but he didn't want to plan a future where couldn't count on his sister being there.

"But." Layla paused, not taking her eyes off the distance. She was staring east, at the early morning sun, eyes tight and tired. "I'll promise... that when I leave, I'll always come back. No matter what I have to do."

August relaxed. "Okay. That's enough for me." It wasn't what he'd wanted. But her assurance meant everything.

Her face softened, even as her eyes stayed tense. She studied August now, observant but unconcerned that he looked like a corpse.

And really, he didn't care either. Who was he trying to impress? He had been one of the dead, surrendered to the bitter end. Now he had a new lease on life, signed and dated by Doctor Chase Mendoza. He could finally breathe, finally feel something. He knew that he was changed, in both mind and body, but he was still August Sage. And he was home, and Layla would always come back for him.

"Time to go inside?" she suggested, voice like the wind.

August turned, but his mother was already in the doorway.


2262 -
Protective Custody
2263-2265 -
2266 -
January - Distance, No More
October - Power and Beauty
2267 -
2268 -
Ensnared
The Way Forward begins
2269 -
2270 -
The Way Forward ends
I Can't Help Falling in Love With You begins
2271-2273 -
2274 -
I Can't Help Falling in Love With You ends
Tik Tik Boom begins
2275 -
Tik Tik Boom ends
Treacherous begins
2276 -
2277 -
January - Sage destroys the Divide
February - First Battle of Hoover Dam
July - The Mummy Returns
August 17 - Aniss leaves Vault 101
The Prodigal Son
September - To Set the Record Straight
Dead Man Walking begins
Treacherous ends
November - The Burned Man Walks
2278 -
March - Dead Man Walking ends
April - James dies (Purity War begins)
June - Guide Her Through the Night
September - Project Purity activates
November - Human Capital
2279 -
Adams Air Force Base (Purity War ends)
2280 -
May - Dogmeat's Vacation
August - Boones are married
2281 -
New Canaan is destroyed
October 11 - Sage is shot in the head
October 19 - Sage wakes up
2282 -
ED-E, My Bud
2283 -
January - Second Battle of Hoover Dam
February - To Have and To Hold
April - Awake, O Sleeper
May - Worst-Case Scenario
July - Mercury's Messenger
August - Safe Haven
September - Power and Beauty (pt. 2)/East and West begins
October - East and West ends