mementomorphosis:
August’s remaining eyebrow raised slightly at the mention of “Father Saul”. Well, that confirmed his suspicions. The guy actually was a priest.
Probably.
Such was the crux of the matter, as was too common these days. He could just as easily be lying. The wasteland wasn’t exactly fertile ground for ecclesiastical sects to come sprouting up. Most people were worried about whether they’d starve, or whether they’d get irradiated, or whether they’d simply get torn apart by some ambiguous, blood-stained maw deep within the ruins. Not God. He’d clearly up and left long, long before all that.
He wondered how old Saul was.
The ghoul remained quiet until the two reached the gates of Bunker Hill, climbing up the steps while silently cursing the nagging twinge in his ankle. The sun hadn’t completely dimmed. He had time to spare.
“Um… Saul… Sorry, Father Saul, before you go, I…” August faltered, stopping and scratching at his right temple. It wasn’t exactly an easy question to phrase. It never was. “I… I know you’ve probably got more important things to attend to, and I know I shouldn’t be asking personal questions, but I was just wondering if you… well, you’re… pre-War.”
A smile spread on Saul's face, nodding in the affirmative. Was it really that obvious? It was true, Saul was a relic of days gone by, entering middle age when the bombs dropped and making him positively ancient. He still remembered riding his bike down pristine Midwestern streets, borrowing his neighbor's Mister Handy to help clean every once in a while, remembered grabbing a Nuka-Cola at a soda fountain on his rare days off. Remembered luxury.
Those days seemed like a distant memory, because they were. Nowadays, he was more concerned about not falling apart at the seams, doomed to immortality due to some divine punishment he did not understand. How could he have made God so mad? He lived his entire life, from first breath to that fateful day as a good Catholic.
" Now, uh, do you know of any place I can stay for the night? "
