A settler selling wares in Filly catches The Ghoul's eye. Inspired by a Tumblr post asking for an angst fic to Hozier's Too Sweet.
1,753 words | [AO3] No warnings yet, only innocent flirting. Banner from @eupheme
The first time he spots you, Cooper thinks nothing of it. Sure, you look a little less worn down compared to the usual rabble roaming Filly. Certainly scrubbed a little cleaner than most but so were the rest of your companions. The lot of you are a curiosity for sure, but he's seen plenty of attractive women over the ages and known a handful carnally. He's not the sort of man to let a pretty face distract him. No, you don't get a second glance from the ghoul as he goes about his business.
It's not until your laughter catches Cooper by the ear that he starts paying attention. Jerks his head right round at the sunny sound, attention diverting from the bounty board as he watches you engage with a customer. You laugh again, a merry delight that lights your face right up while the elderly woman you're chatting with laughs along. She's made brighter for being so close to you while you've suddenly become the sun in Cooper's eyes. A brightness he has to squint at when he looks over again to drink you in. His long-dead heart decides that it's about time to do a little flip.
That's a sensation he's not keen on feeling. Cooper hums under his breath, frown settling on his worn lips. He tugs the brim of his hat lower, turning away as he tries to focus on the task at hand. No good can come of fancying any sort of infatuation on a smoothie like you. You're not the sort of creature deserving of the trouble he could bring.
Yet Cooper finds he can't quite help himself. Wasteland life is full of little pleasures and looking at you sure counts as a bit of pleasure. Why not indulge?
The rest of the day as he sits waiting for a client to show, his eyes flicker over you. Wherever you're from, it's certainly kinder to you than what most folks in the Wasteland see. You almost look as soft as some fresh-faced Vaultie, but he can see that your hands are well-worn as you exchange produce for caps. A farmer of sorts. Homesteader.
He listens with a keener ear to the gossip swirling about you and those in your group. A little settler band situated out east, closer to the mountains and closer to what manages to grow green. He picks up that your lot wanders in every few weeks with produce to sell, or trade to stock up the settlement the collective group runs.
Idly, he wonders what horseshit sort of ideology your commune might be sunk into, but if you're looking to spread a new sort of gospel none of your ilk seem keen on sharing it here. You're a welcome addition to the economy of Filly and it's clear that many enjoy the taste of hope this band of settlers bring in with their harvest. Cooper figures that's indoctrination enough from the harsh reality the Wasteland offers up.
Cooper finds himself wandering over to Ma June's place under the pretense of stocking up on supplies. There's suspicion in her eyes as he drops his intended purchases onto the counter but that's not out of the ordinary. There's always suspicion in the looks Ma June gives him, but she'll take his caps all the same.
"Say, now what's with that group of lil' farmers hauling in their produce like that? Can't imagine those soft-lookin' sorts making their way all the way here unmolested," he drawls out. His smile is crooked as Cooper counts through his caps to pay.
"Settlers, but the well-armed sort. No point in trifling with them. Too well-liked here for their fresh food supply they haul in," Ma June pulls the caps towards her, gaze fixed on the ghoul as she mutters. "They'll trade with ya, but keep out of their business. Ya hear?"
A hum escapes Cooper as he considers this, leaning onto the counter while glancing out the dusty window towards where you stand at the stall. He casually stashes his purchases into his saddlebag while going on conversationally. "Well- Is that so? They a regular sort of fixture here in Filly now?"
"Have been setting up that stall going on half a year now. Surprised you've yet to come across 'em. Best cherry tomatoes you'll find in the Wasteland." Ma June eases back, arms crossing over her chest as a sour look settles in place on her worn face.
Another speculative hum escapes Cooper as he digests this information before he tips his hat to Ma June and goes on his way. Which happens to lead him straight to your stall.
Once there, Cooper casually plucks up potatoes, a handful of cherry tomatoes, and okra. All of it looks as vegetables should, the sort he would have found at the grocery store before everything went to shit.
"How much for this lot?" He sets the small bounty atop the open space on the stall. Cooper gives you his Hollywood smile that would charm the pants off of any woman in bygone days, except now his face is a leathery wreck and his teeth are yellowed with age. Most people instantly flinch away in disgust.
Not you.
You smile like the morning sun towards him as you step closer while dusting your hands off on your pants. The bit of dirt smeared on your face only seems to enhance your features in Cooper's eyes. The look you give him is almost shy once you meet his gaze, smiling warmly up to him.
Cooper finds that curious. He's familiar with a scowl or grimace of disgust when anyone looks him in the face, but here you are gracing him with an easy smile. A customer is a customer, he figures, and he'll do well enough. Yet, your friendliness doesn't feel like an act. Even after all these years, Cooper Howard still can clock other actors.
"Fifteen caps for the whole lot, but I'll throw in an extra sweet potato for the smile." You wink. Wink right at him as your smile grows. "They're good for ya, handsome." You add casually, the smile tugging up further into a cheeky grin. Your expression shifts. Playful. Coy. Interested.
Ain't that something? Cooper doesn't falter at the full force of your attention. He's too old and worn for that, but he sure does grin right back with a twinkle in his eye. Even an old ghoul like him can enjoy a pretty thing like you openly flirting with him.
Now that he’s heard it, Cooper decides your voice is sweet as a silver bell. The sort of soothing tone that reminds him of rain softly pelting a windowpane. It's the sort of sound that makes him wish to stay and listen for a while, tucked into the warmth that he suddenly wants you to offer up. He wants to get you talking to hear more. Wonders how he can coax you into a conversation.
That’s a fucking stupid idea. Cooper mentally shakes himself free of the passing fancy, head tilting ever so slightly as he peers down at you from the shadow of his hat. "Mhm. Ain't trying to get me hooked now are you, sweetheart?
"Something like that."
“Well now, reckon vegetables ain’t the worst sort of vice a man can get lost in.” Cooper still can’t help himself. He lets his eyes wander right down your body before flicking back up to your face, what sort of vice he’s pondering made clear.
That flush on your cheeks blooms all the hotter as you laugh for him, the sound an utter delight when directed his way. You smile, sweet and shy now as you pluck up a hefty sweet potato to set beside the rest of his purchases.
“Oh, well-” You start, stop with a small shake of your head as you smile all the wider. Utterly disarmed.
Cooper counts out the requested coin with a speculative hum, mirth sparking in his eyes as it seems he’s rendered you speechless. It’s down-right adorable if he’s being honest with himself. You’re a right little temptation he’d like to play with further. A dangerous thought.
Setting the coins onto the counter, he's swift in sweeping up his new bounty and stowing it all away into a pouch within his saddle bag. This close you're too bright and Cooper knows he's in trouble. Best to break away before you pull him into your orbit in full.
“You take care of yourself now, sweetheart,” Cooper drawls. He tips his hat towards you and turns away with spurs clicking. You watch him go, cheeks still flaming.
You know who he is. The Ghoul, the most famous Bounty Hunter the radiated Wastelands has to offer. You've heard all the rumors and truer tales about him all your life but nothing could prepare you for seeing him in the flesh. A dangerous sort of creature. A man who always brings his bounty in.
You'd been watching him all day, stealing glances as you work. Now that you've seen him up close and personal? You're down-right fascinated. He’s nothing like the monster the stories painted him out to be. At least, he certainly wasn’t monstrous to you. There’s something captivating about him. Charming, even.
You’ve seen ghouls before, of course. You know their kind as some live on the settlement with you. The majority end up shambling and ungainly, limbs no longer listening as the radiation rot wars with their regeneration abilities. A confusion that makes most of them uncoordinated and awkward in their transformed bodies, but The Ghoul? He’s got a swagger to his step that reminds you of those cowboys you’ve seen on ancient holotapes.
He’s been lurking at the edge of your awareness all day, your head cocking in his direction to listen to the cadence of his voice as he bartered for bullets and talked business outside of the bar over yonder.
A thrill had jolted through you the moment he started to move towards your stall. The nervous energy thrumming through you had been made all the worse when you met The Ghoul’s gaze for the first time. A woman could find herself lost in such eyes and you’d certainly tripped right into them. Boldly meeting this stranger’s gaze and enjoying every second his attention was on you.
Shame he left so quickly. You sigh, turning back to count out bottlecaps he’d left as you turn your attention back to work. Best not to think about it. You’re unlikely to see that legend ever again.
She accepted what was asked of her, followed through for no reason other than because she gave her word. She held herself together with something sharper than discipline, never letting the darker moments slip past the mask she wore so well.
So if anyone could survive the Sierra Madre’s open maw, where letting go is the hardest lesson of all, it should have been Six.
…Right?
As the walls Six built around herself begin to splinter under the weight of buried horrors, Arcade is left trying to piece together a story too difficult to tell, and hold together someone who is not-so-quietly falling apart.
Word count: 8,591, Hurt/comfort with a hopeful ending.
TW: past injury/vague descriptions of injuries, PTSD/trauma, emotional trauma, masking/hiding feelings
Arcade Gannon had always considered himself rather adaptable compared to most trying to navigate the wasteland.
It was, in part, a survival mechanism, one honed long before the Mojave, long before the followers, and one he’d cling to whenever he inevitably had to abandon another home. But eventually, even he reached his limits, realized that some things resisted normalization with a stubborn, almost personal, cruelty.
This silence was one of them.
It wasn’t the absence of noise that bothered him, not completely. Many times, in fact, he prayed for more of it. For less distant gunfire and crying patients, or, as of more recent, less of E-DE’s sarcastic beeps and Veronica trying to coerce their makeshift group into yet another pre-war board game.
Really, it was more the reason behind the silence that gave it such a suffocating presence, as if it had settled into the Lucky 38 with intent, filling spaces that were once crowded with voices, arguments, and the occasional ill-advised weapons testing.
But as it was, the doors to the Lucky 38 remained ever closed and as abandoned as they had been all those two centuries. The only exercise the elevator seemed to get now was whenever Arcade tired of the artificial glow of the windowless presidential suite and retreated to the cocktail lounge above. The sunlight was a stark difference from the identical smoke-stained walls. The golden hues were blinding, but reminded him, however briefly, that the world outside still existed, even if he couldn’t scrounge up the courage to enter it once more.
Despite not having an easy rest, it was early when Arcade rose from bed—if the clock Raul had fixed was to be trusted. That, unfortunately, remained an open question. Raul had assured him it worked, but with Six gone, their only reliable reference point had disappeared along with her.
…Right, Six.
The thought stung as it overstayed its welcome, like it always did.
Arcade stared at the floor for a moment longer before exhaling sharply and standing up. He added another mark to his mental calendar, the tally so ingrained now that it no longer required effort.
Week 3 of Six’s “It’ll only be 4 days” journey.
He mused, not for the first time, committing it to paper. A physical record might lend the situation a sense of structure, give way to a bit of control when everything else seemed to slip through his fingers. Or, it might make it worse, transforming vague unease into something measurable, undeniable.
22 days.
It had been foolish, in retrospect, to let her go alone. Not that anyone ever let Six do anything, not really. She had a way of turning decisions into inevitabilities, of presenting plans with just enough confidence—and just enough omission—that dissuading her felt both exhausting and pointless.
So they didn’t bother to try this time, only passing her along to the next person in line.
An offer had been extended to each of them, to join Six as she checked out a strange radio signal coming from an abandoned Brotherhood bunker, her bright smile dimming as one-by-one each member of their makeshift team had a reason to turn down her request. Even Rex had grown tired of her boundless energy. They were all simply too caught up in their own activities and exhaustion to babysit their resident Courier.
Arcade had been the last to turn her down. He’d just returned to the Lucky 38 after another shootout in Freeside left dozens needing treatment late into the night. He’d heard each apologetic excuse, he knew in the end she was going alone, but it had just simply seemed so minuscule in the grand scheme of things.
It would not have even been the first time Six had made her own journeys, vanishing from the Lucky 38 to chase quests or half-formed ideas and returning with another story of improbable success, Arcade only knowing she wasn’t exaggerating her tales because of how many he himself had experienced first-hand.
So, when presented with the idea again, it had simply felt like routine, an absurd, dangerous, entirely ill-advised routine, and just like all routines, it persisted right up until the moment it didn’t.
Misplaced confidence was a hell of a high to plummet from when looking through the lens of hindsight.
The closet stood before him, unmoving even as Arcade faced it blankly. After a beat, he remembered his intent and pulled out his clothes. The motions came automatically, muscle memory overriding thought.
Routine continued to die hard, as it was, as his hands buttoned his usual dress shirt despite his more comfortable clothes being able to serve the same purpose. Any argument of presenting his best died before it even formed. The Lucky 38 remained frozen in its strange imitation of life, its systems humming dutifully in service despite its intended occupant not being around to enjoy it; as Arcade was the only one who remained in this relic of the past.
Veronica and Rex had departed the same day as Six, claiming they’d assist at the Old Mormon Fort until the Courier returned. They’d stopped by a few times, concern increasing with each visit that passed with no update, but Veronica couldn’t bring herself to stay for long.
After day 6, Cass had left for whichever casino would take her caps (caps conveniently procured as Six’s stash dwindled). She also stopped in occasionally to get updates, responding in her own sarcasm blanketed concern. Sleeping in a bed that she didn’t have to pay for was an added bonus, though she, too, didn’t linger, either too sober or too hungover to deal with Arcade’s ‘antics’.
After day 10, Boone left without so much as a goodbye, only the rations in his pack and the sniper on his back. He, like Six, has been without update. Though, Arcade is more worried for the people of the Mojave than for Boone with each passing day.
Raul got bored with having nothing to do by day 14, and said he was going after the building at the end of the strip with all the glowing signs. He’d been coming back nightly for the first few days, but decided the walk was ‘too much for his old knees’, and hadn’t returned since.
Even ED-E, the damned bot, had induced herself into idle mode, remaining there stubbornly no matter how many times he chastised her for being dramatic.
They’d all stopped talking about Six. Any words brought them closer to the burning reality that none of them could face.
That this time… Maybe she…
He pushed the thought aside with practiced force, shrugging into his coat as if the motion itself could dislodge it.
Speculation without evidence was a dangerous habit, he knew that better than most. There were explanations. Plenty of them, in fact. The Mojave was nearly as unpredictable as Six was. It was just as likely that she’d picked up another bedraggled stranger and was currently following whatever drawn-out quest would ensure their fealty, as it was that something actually serious had happened.
And yet…
His gaze drifted, unbidden, toward the elevator. The Brotherhood bunker wasn’t that far.
Four days, she’d said.
Arcade closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again, sharper this time.
“Just a little longer,” he echoed to no one in particular.
The silence, as always, offered no objection.
The smell of coffee slowly filled the suite as Arcade won the battle of fruition against the 200 year-old machine and managed to produce a drink. The cup warmed his hands in a way that almost felt alive. It was strange. Arcade had grown so adapted to the unrelenting Mojave heat, where even the bitter nights felt merely bearable, that spending all of his time in a place with air conditioning had left his fingers and toes dispassionately cold.
It was almost reminiscent of the days on the coast, before Navarro fell just as the Oil-Rig did. Those icy nights were far worse than simply living at room temperature, but the effect of a warm mug in his hands was all the same.
…Maybe visiting Daisy would be what finally opened the metaphorical cage that trapped him here. Six did mention she’d be passing NoVac on the way to the Brotherhood bunker. It couldn’t hurt to take a quick look around, search for signs of where Six has been this whole time.
I got them spurs that jingle-jangle-jingle.
Arcade had just pressed the mug to his mouth when the sound began to trickle through the walls. Half of the bitter drink went into his lungs, the rest nearly spilled onto the table from the quickness with which he stood. He hurried to the doorway, choking down a cough and watching the dial of the elevator rise with an aching slowness, before coming to rest at the presidential suite.
As I go ridin’ merrily along.
The doors cracked open, spilling additional light into the entryway. Arcade felt his heart race oddly in his chest, nervous anticipation for whatever state Six might be in.
He’d imagined this moment a thousand times over the past weeks. Six stumbling in, bloody, and barely standing; saying how it was the Legion, or deathclaws, or cazadors. Saying how she didn’t mean to worry everyone, how she didn’t mean to be gone so long. But that she was okay, now. That everything could go back to their strange imitation of normal.
He didn’t expect Six to show up and be, by all appearances, perfectly fine.
“…Six?” His unsure voice came. It was preferable, wasn’t it? That she was okay? So why did his hand tighten against the doorframe, the name coming out with a sense of foreboding?
She ignored him, save for a small jolt to show she’d even heard him at all. But the red goggles of her helmet never turned his way, instead remaining locked forward as Six crossed the threshold of the elevator.
Her steps were steady, but heavy, betraying some level of exhaustion. As the doors closed behind her once more, she shifted her shoulders to let her bag drop to the floor, and, by the sound of it, it weighed just as much as she did.
“Six?” He asked again, stepping forward to draw her attention. “Where have you been?”
Her hands clenched at her sides, taking a deep breath before finally facing him. The speaker cut on, a faint line of static indicating she was about to speak, long before overlapping with words. “Not right now, Arcade.”
The words carried an edge to them, but not a sharp one. The finer details of tone were lost, leaving the exact emotions behind them ambiguous.
He stared for a second before irritation boiled within him.
“Not right now?” He echoed slowly. “No. You know what? We are doing this right now. Do you have any idea how long you were gone? How long I’ve just been waiting here? No word, no news, nothing??”
She turned from him again with an air of dismissal, heading instead for her bedroom.
“Are we truly such an afterthought that whatever inane adventure you found was more important than letting your friends know you’re still alive? Just off on a bender, or I—I don’t even know what else,” he said, voice bordering on the closest he could get to hysterical, “because you have nothing to say for yourself!”
She froze in the doorway, clenched fists shaking with something he couldn’t see behind that mask.
Arcade took a deep breath, in through his nose, and out slowly through his mouth. His anger was born out of concern, but yelling didn’t help. It didn’t even make him feel better. Six was air-headed, he knew that. He knew on some level she couldn’t help it. But that didn’t stop the very real fear she’d inflicted on them all in her absence.
“We all thought you were dead,” he leveled, voice serious, almost despondent. “We were all worried. You just vanished. You can’t just—“ His voice cut off as she suddenly collided with his chest, sending him a step back.
He noticed now that she was shaking, not just her hands, from exhaustion, or anger—or whatever it was that made them tremble—but her whole body, weak like a leaf in the unrelenting Mojave wind. Her hands found purchase on the back of his coat, clinging to it as if he’d slip away entirely if they weren’t white-knuckled against it.
“Okay,” he said slowly. “I’m getting the sense that something might be wrong.”
There was a muffled sniffle, and her grip tightened like she was bracing against something only she could feel. His words made her shaking increase, the tremor in her shoulders worsening. Whatever resolve was keeping her together before had shattered, revealing only what she tried to hide the hardest.
It set something off in him. Not panic, he was too practiced for that, but sharp, insistent alarm bells ringing in his ears, an overwhelming symphony of wrongness at the display before him.
“Six…” His voice faltered, then steadied by force alone. “I’m going to remove your mask, alright? Can you let me do that?”
A small, uneven nod against his chest.
His hands didn’t move at first. They hovered uselessly at his sides, caught between the clinical certainty he relied on and the unfamiliar weight such an action held. Then, finally, they obeyed him and lifted the helmet free.
Admittedly, there were many concerning things he missed about her appearance at first, things he should have noticed immediately, but in the moment was just background noise; for once his eyes locked onto the tears streaming down her cheeks he couldn’t pull his attention away.
By her behavior alone, it was obvious in hindsight that she was crying behind the mask. But peripheral knowledge and seeing it in front of him were entirely separate concepts.
He’d seen her take bullets with only a grimace, charge after deathclaws with her six-shooter and a crazed grin, ride out cazador venom with nothing more than a rag to bite down on. Pain had never seemed to make a home in her mind, acknowledged and dismissed in the same breath.
So had he ever seen her cry?
Certainly not since she started wearing that mask like a second skin.
She turned her head, trying to hide, as if the act could be undone if he simply didn’t look long enough. As if this, too, could be buried.
“Please,” he said, the word almost unfamiliar in his mouth. “Let me look. I can help.” The reassurance felt untested, like something he wanted to believe more than something he knew how to give.
“I didn’t want you to know…”
“And we’re going to talk about that,” he chastised, firmer this time. “But for now, you need medical attention.” His voice leveled out as he shoved aside his personal feelings, grasping at the persona that accompanied the coat on his shoulders and the emblem on his sleeve.
Her skin was sunken and sickly, drained of its sun-kissed vibrancy. Bruises bloomed across her face in deep, ugly shades, layered over with dried blood that traced every cut and split with almost clinical clarity. It looked less like an injury and more like documentation, or like a masochistic painting, detailing every source of pain with precision.
Yet it was her eyes that unsettled him the most.
Though he’d been seeing her them much less nowadays, he starkly remembered their bright, defiant green. That spark of unspoken knowledge and drive, that try as he might, Arcade could never quite follow. What met his gaze now was merely an imitation, but a familiar look that Arcade had never expected to see from the Courier.
He’d seen this look before, in the recently dead. Not lifeless, not yet, but empty, greyed beyond recognition, like windows to a soul that didn’t yet know it had stopped breathing. The only real color came from the raw, bloodshot red ringing them, though whether it was from prolonged drug use, or extended exposure to something toxic, he couldn’t be sure.
“What happened to you?” he asked in little more than a whisper, shifting back slightly to see her better. He felt, rather than saw, how she tried to follow, fingers tightening with sudden, desperate insistence. The motion pulled at something sharp in his chest.
“The Brotherhood bunker…” her voice wavered, unsteady in a way that suggested something deeper than fatigue. “It was a trap. When I got there, there was just this radio playing the same broadcast on repeat, over and over, welcoming you to…” her voice trailed off, demeanor growing haunted at even the prospect of the name. Her hands, which had given up on clinging to the back of his coat, found purchase on his wrists.
“The Sierra Madre.” The words came out as an omen, a promise of power even as Six traveled so far from the source.
The name itself meant nothing to Arcade, but the way it seemed to drain what little color remained from her face told him enough. That, for once, he didn’t want to ask about and learn the answer.
But he didn’t need to.
“The room started filling with gas,” she continued, stilted voice catching on something invisible. “I tried to escape, but it was so bad. It felt like I was drowning—like I couldn’t get any air in my lungs,” the words fell out in a haphazard spiral, each pause like breaking glass.
“Six—“
“When I woke up, I was there, at the Sierra Madre. It's a town, or a casino, or—or it was, before the bombs. But it’s just left there, because—and oh God, the fog—“ The words came faster, uneven, stumbling into each other as if stopping meant something worse would catch up to her. “It bleeds into the air like blood, red and—and it burns when you breathe—makes you feel like you’re constantly on the verge of suffocating to death, even when you’re standing still, but especially when the ghosts—”
Her fingers dug into him, grounding herself or grasping for purchase, he couldn’t tell. She shook her head sharply, as if trying to dislodge the memory, but it only seemed to drag her deeper into it.
“They’re not people anymore, not even ghouls, they’re like— and they don’t stay dead. You can’t kill them, not really. They just keep coming, and you have to keep—” Her voice hitched, breath breaking. “—hacking, and hacking, and hacking, until there’s nothing left of them—and even then you don’t know if it’s enough, if they’ll get up again, and again—”
“Six,” he cut sharply. “You don’t have to recall it all right now. Clearly, it isn’t helping. Just… just breathe, okay? You’re here now, with me. Focus on that.” He cringed at his words as he spoke them, starkly reminded of why ‘Doctor’ had become more of a decorative title for him, before Six had saved him from a boring, research-induced death.
Arcade had never been good at the emotional side of clinical care. He could recite medical texts like it was the Sunday paper, set broken bones with nothing but a pair of sticks and a dirty string of cloth; hell, he could probably perform open brain surgery if under duress. But his ability to comfort his patients, or lack thereof, is exactly why he was shut in a tent and forgotten about.
His gaze was lost again on the person he didn’t recognize before him, trying to shape and fit this problem into something he could fix, or at the very least, manage.
“I should run a checkup,” he finally said. “Clearly that place was…extraneous. Your mind will feel better once your body does.”
He guided her to the bedroom, the familiar walls offering no comfort to her fraying mind. Tears slipped soundlessly down her cheeks, relentless no matter how often she brushed them away, but her fingers were occupied with a different task. Trying, and mostly failing, to undo the straps of her leather armor.
Arcade tried to step forward, to help, but she backed away like they were opposing magnets. He understood, he supposed. Many patients tried to do things alone for the simple reason that they didn’t think they could.
Piece by piece, the armor eventually unraveled and fell to the floor in a dull, lifeless heap.
Beneath it, her body told its own story. Bruises bloomed across her skin in dark constellations, threaded with half-healed scars that ran wherever the armor had once concealed, likely continuing even past her battered tank top and shorts. Dirt and dried blood clung stubbornly to her, a second skin she had yet to shed.
Arcade motioned gently toward the bed. “Sit,” he offered, his voice quieter now.
He crossed to Six’s bedside table without hesitation, already knowing what he’d find. The drawer slid open with a soft rasp, revealing the small stash of Med-X tucked inside. It was a disappointing sight, but not unexpected.
She offered her hand to him, stagnant as the needle was pushed into the veins of her wrist, more practiced with this sensation than most others. With the pain taken care of, Arcade was able to take closer stock of her wounds.
“This is worse than I thought,” he admitted, kneeling down to carefully examine her up close. “I’m going to need you to wash up before I can begin to help you. Do you think you’re well enough to go shower first?” Arcade asked slowly.
Six quickly shook her head, hands squeezing into fists as her gaze became fixedly glued to the carpet.
“Alright, then,” he said, steady and structured, grasping at what he could do instead of what he couldn’t. “I’ll clean you up, then. I’m going to go get a tin of water from the kitchen.”
He kept his tone even, laying each word out plainly, trying to keep his words simple and his actions predictable.
The moment he stood, though, she was moving with him, immediate, almost desperate in intention.
“Wait—“ her voice caught, then steadied by force. “I’ll come with you, please.”
“Is this a newly developed phobia of indoor plumbing, or have I simply become that charming?” he asked in some hoping attempt that his joke would land, and wouldn’t make that horrid look in her eyes worsen.
It hung for a second too long, not making her more distant, but not bringing her any closer either. Just that same brittle quiet as she followed him.
The walk to the kitchen felt stretched thin, every step dragging against something unspoken; the floor, the silence, the unseen figure that loomed over her shoulders. Her breathing stayed slightly off track, quiet, as everything else was, but just noticeable enough to track.
She was too close. Not physically—though he didn’t look back to measure—but he could feel it. The way she stayed within reach. The way distance, even a few steps of it, seemed unacceptable.
“You can sit down at the table, I won’t stray further than the sink.” The words came more as a request than an offer. It occupied two desires in his mind, both that he’d caught the way she swayed, even when standing still; but also to test the boundaries of her monophobia, see how far was too far in her current state.
Hesitantly, she obliged, tilting the chair in a way that kept him in her view.
The tap turned with a dull twist, and suddenly the oppressive silence was filled with the steady rush of water. It hit the basin with a sharp, hollow sound, scattering into uneven echoes that bounced off the metal walls. It choicefully kept Arcades’ attention, being something clean, something that made sense in his mind. Because when it didn’t, when his gaze flickered, just briefly—
There it was. Another mark, one he hadn’t catalogued before. Dried blood at the edge of her cheekbone, leading from a cut half-hidden beneath the grime. Evidence layered over evidence, too much to process all at once.
He looked back to the basin quickly.
His grip tightened slightly on the rim, the metal cool beneath his hands, and let the droplets of water splash against his skin.
22 days.
The number lodged itself in his mind, heavy and immovable. Weeks of this, of whatever the Sierra Madre decided for her.
And where had he been?
Safe, contained by polished floors and intact walls in the Lucky 38. Turning over the same thoughts, nursing the same quiet frustrations, letting routine be a stand-in for purpose.
As soon as it became clear something might've happened, he should’ve taken up arms, joined Boone and scoured every inch of this godforsaken desert if it meant finding her, saving her from this fate, doing anything that prevented the reality before him. No matter how improbable, how much of a fool's errand it would be to try and find a Brotherhood of Steel bunker, of all things.
For a while, it had all just seemed so improbable. Six was a modicum of defied odds and just enough luck to see things through. She was also rather notorious for getting sidetracked, going to ludicrous lengths for others, for no other reason than being asked.
Arcade wasn’t sure when the belief of catastrophe bled into the belief it was just Six being Six, when it overshadowed enough to make permanent residence in his mind. But when it did, it was pushed down still by a stark denial, caged further by a surety that if something had happened, it had already happened.
“I spent a lot of time alone, at the Sierra Madre,” Six finally said, voice distant and empty, cutting through Arcade’s internal track. “Just me, and the winding identical streets, and this awful silence.” She rested her head against the back of the chair. “Every time I close my eyes, every time I look around and there’s no one else, no noise. It’s like…”
Arcade let the words hang in the air longer than he intended, trying to find some combination of words that might frame the turmoil into something he could ease; the emotional equivalent of a stimpack and bandage. Finally, with a long sigh through his nose, he spoke.
“You should never have been there alone.” His voice came out steadier than he felt.
He hefted the bucket of water from the sink, the metal handle creaking faintly in protest, and set it carefully at Six’s feet. The water had already begun to cool. He hadn’t realized how long he’d been standing there, staring, trying to reconcile the person in front of him with the one who had left.
“We should have never let you be alone there,” he tacked on.
Six flinched, not at the words, but at the movement as he knelt in front of her. Up close, the damage was worse. Various shades of browns, blacks, and dark reds clung stubbornly to her skin, caught in the seams of old wounds and new ones alike. It was almost overwhelming, trying to decide where to start.
“I guess I wasn’t, not completely… just most of the time.” her voice wavered, brittle at the edges, like something that might splinter if pressed too hard. “There were others scattered around. Elijah, the man who took me, said I had to find them, that we each had our own part to play. That it would take four of us to open the Casino.”
He worked the cloth through the water, then twisted it between his hands, more out of habit than thought. When he reached for her, he didn’t press immediately, testing for a reaction before applying more pressure. She went rigid under his touch, every muscle tightening as if bracing for something sharper, but didn’t pull away.
That hollow silence fell over them again, taking up home when neither of them could find something to stave it off.
Six looked at him, or through him, he couldn’t quite tell. With that, he found himself retreating, instinctively, into something safer, reminding himself that emotions held no weight when interacting with a patient. Or at least, they shouldn’t.
He cleared his throat. “You mentioned others.”
Her gaze flickered, feeling more solid as it settled upon him.
“…Yeah.” she echoed, like she had to work past something caught in her throat. “Yeah, there were.”
“Would it help if you told me about them?”
She paused, considering the offer.
“The first one I met, his name was Dog… or God, depending on who you asked.” A faint smile touched her lips, like the shape of a joke more than the feeling of one.
Arcade glanced up at her, catching the expression. He returned it reflexively, despite not understanding. Still, she was trying. That mattered.
“He’s a nightkin,” she went on, words feeling more natural in her mouth. “Kind of like Lily with Leo, but if Leo was a whole person too, and if they couldn’t really talk to each other.”
“Sounds like Dissociative Identity Disorder,” Arcade murmured, attention split between her explanation and the careful cleaning around a particularly fresh wound. “Not uncommon among nightkin. Prolonged Stealth Boy use tends to… destabilize things. It’s not uncommon for two or more to share a mind, however such a thing takes shape.”
“Right.” She swallowed, keeping deliberately still. “They didn’t share, though, not really. Just took turns. They both always thought they knew best, but I don’t think they ever did, only ever fighting for control. Dog just hungered, God just planned. But it never led them anywhere.”
The words faltered, implying something deeper, something more personal in her mind, but Arcade could not parse what.
“But it all worked out in the end,” she continued. “They managed to make themselves one again, realized they were both fighting for the same things.”
Arcade’s motions paused, just briefly. “That’s not exactly—” He stopped himself, the correction dying before it could fully form. This wasn’t the time for a lecture on the complexities of identity integration. “Never mind.”
He wrung the rag into the water, cleaning it before reaching for her other arm.
“Then, there was Dean Domino, he—”
Arcade’s head snapped up, genuine surprise breaking through his clinical focus. “Dean Domino? I’ve heard of him! The Kings call him the King of Swing.” A faint, incredulous huff escaped him. “He’s still alive?”
“Not just alive,” Six said, something sharper threading through her tone now, “but he’s been at the casino since the bombs. He’s been trying to crack it this whole time.”
Arcade let out a low whistle under his breath. “Persistent, if nothing else.” He resumed his work. “Well? Did he live up to the title?”
There was a pause. Six’s gaze drifted, not to anything in the room, but somewhere far past it.
“Well,” she said slowly, “he tried to kill me when we first met.” Her fingers curled slightly against her arms, nails pressing into skin hard enough to leave marks. “And what he did to Christine…” Her voice faltered.
“But… he understood the Casino better than anyone. Not just the layout or the traps, but its rules, how it breathed,” she explained, words falling out more than they were said. “I don’t think he wanted to be there any more than anyone else did, not really. He just… He couldn’t let it go, like Elijah. That place, it has a way of keeping you there.” Her voice cracked. “It gets inside your head and it—it doesn’t let go, it just—“
Her nails dug deeper, skin blanching under the pressure.
“The last person,” Arcade cut in, firmer now, the shift in tone deliberate. “Tell me about them.”
It wasn’t a question, it was a redirect.
At the same time, his hands found hers, guiding them to loosen before the pressure could turn damaging. He replaced the contact instead of removing it, pressing a roll of bandage into her palm and curling her fingers around it, giving the tension somewhere to go.
Her focus stuttered, his words and actions catching her unexpected attention.
He used the opening, pressing the needle of a super stimpack into her wrist in one clean motion, eased now that it wouldn’t grow new skin over old dirt. She flinched, but the reaction came a second too late, dulled at the edges.
“Christine,” Six said, the name coming out softer than the others. “She was with the Brotherhood, a scribe, I think. Same chapter as Elijah.” Her shoulders loosened a fraction, tension not gone but carefully unwinding.
“She was hunting him, that’s how she ended up there,” she explained. “I don’t really know what for, but if the Sierra Madre is what he’s capable of, I don't want to know any further.”
Arcade dropped the rag into the bucket, the water now clouded, like a sky of crimson and mahogany. His hands reached now for a roll of bandages.
“She had gotten trapped in an old autodoc.” She paused, voice beginning to retreat again. “It… messed up her throat pretty badly, and even when she was out, it was still like she was trapped there.” A faint frown crossed her face, but one glance from Arcade and she steadied again. “But she was nice, fun to talk to, even if there wasn’t much talking on her part.” Another implied joke, another returned smile. “And she was smart, smart enough for the both of us. I think you would’ve liked her.”
Arcade’s hands slowed just slightly. “She sounds like the kind of person I’d get along with.”
“Yeah,” Six agreed absently. “I wonder if Veronica ever knew her.”
“Hmm.” He let the statement hang in the air as he mulled it over, giving the hypothetical genuine thought. “I think it’s unlikely. The Brotherhood isn’t exactly… intimate, as organizations go. The different chapters are like families, and a lot of the ‘families’ don’t tend to get along.”
“Maybe they could’ve met here,” Six offered, then turned away in a show of defeat. “But Christine stayed,” she added quietly, “at the casino. Taking care of it, I think.”
“Then she’ll make sure no one else ever gets trapped there. That you’re the last people the Sierra Madre couldn’t let go.”
Six’s eyes began to grow wet again. “That sounds nice.” She leaned her head forward, nestling it into the crook of Arcade's shoulder, causing him to pause in his bandaging. “I never want to go back there.”
“You won’t. There is nothing left to keep you there.”
She sniffled softly, having no more words. Her body slumped tiredly, the mix of Med-X and exhaustion finally outweighing the burdens she’d carried this far.
“I don’t think there’s much more I can do for you in terms of treating your wounds. I think time and rest are what you need right now.”
Six seemed apprehensive. “But—“
“If you’re about to give me any sort of what-if, I don’t want to hear it. You’re home, Six. Nothing from the Sierra Madre can hurt you here.” His words were meant sincerely, and physically they were true. But the wounds of that place clearly ran far deeper than the bruises she wore, and those wounds would continue to ache and fester, no matter how perfectly he stitched her back together again.
Her hands found Arcade's coat, looking to her bedroom door like it was a prison cell.
“But, what if I wake up and I’m back there? What if none of this is real?”
Arcade paused in his move to stand, his hands moving from awkwardly hovering, to pulling at Six’s shoulders, bringing her away so her eyes could meet his.
“Then I will hunt down the Sierra Madre and find you myself,” Arcade told her seriously.
“You don’t mean that. You don’t understand how… how bad…”
“That doesn’t matter anymore, you’re home now, Six.” He repeated to her.
“I—I know, but—“
“Six.” Arcade interjected, squeezing her shoulders once more until she met his eyes. “Look at me, listen. You are home now.”
The words didn’t fix anything. He knew they wouldn’t.
But they landed.
Her expression smoothed instead of cracked, eyes glossing over again. She retreated, but didn’t disappear, she simply lulled.
He guided her carefully back toward the bedroom, keeping a hand on her arm like he expected her to disappear if he let go. He eased her down onto the mattress, slowly, giving her time to resist if she wanted to.
She didn’t, but she didn’t settle either.
Arcade exhaled quietly and took the armchair nearby, pulling it closer so that she could almost reach him if she needed to. He told himself that was for her sake.
A silence finally settled over them that didn’t feel oppressive. It wasn’t there because neither of them could find the words to reconcile the situation, it stayed because they finally found something resembling comfort again.
But still a wedge remained.
“What would you have done?”
Six came back to herself slowly, brows furrowed as she settled on him.
“If I hadn’t insisted,” he clarified, more controlled now. “If I let you come hide away when you told me ‘not right now’… what then?”
“I would’ve figured it out.”
Arcade’s jaw set, hardening with his gaze. “That’s not a good enough answer.”
“It is to me.” There was more edge there than before, not sharp, but present.
He leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees. “You came back half-dead, Six. That isn’t something you just figure out.”
“I came back.” Her response was immediate, sure in its tone. “That’s the part that matters.”
He blinked at that, thrown for a loop, not by the logic, but by how certain she sounded. “That—no, that’s not how this works,” he said, frustration creeping in despite himself. “You don’t get to reduce this to survival as a success metric.”
“Don’t I?” Six asked, causing the room around to still. Her finger came to pick at the butterfly strips lining her cheekbone, picking at it like Arcade was picking at her fresh emotional wounds. “I don’t have the luxury of falling apart,” she continued, quieter, but more grounded than she’d been all night. “People depend on me not to.”
“You—“ Arcade tried, but Six wasn’t finished.
“Out there, if you hesitate, if you second-guess, if you let people see you’re not sure, then someone dies. Maybe it’s you, maybe it’s someone else. But it still—” that careful steadiness was faltering, whatever she was trying to say got lost in her throat, so she continued with something she could. “So you learn to be decisive, stagnant, filing things away until you can stop and figure it out. Then people start relying on that.”
Her voice softened, not weaker, just more honest. “Then everyone needs you to be that person, the one who figures it out.”
Arcade’s expression shifted, something conflicted flickering through it. “And you think that means you don’t get to be anything else? Even in the comfort of your own home? Even around people who deserve to know better?”
“I think,” she said carefully, “that the second I stop being that, I stop being useful.” She went quiet again, clearly trying to find the words, and despite his better judgment, he let her. “You started traveling with me to help the Mojave, because you knew that I could. But if I can’t even help myself, if I can’t be what the Mojave needs, if you see that I can’t, then what even am I? No one would stick around to find out.”
“I would,” Arcade told her seriously. “I am your doctor, but more than that I'm your friend, whether it’s convenient or not. Don’t put a mask on in my presence because you think it makes you more palpable,” he scolded. “You don’t get to decide what I can and cannot handle for me.”
Her expression wavered at that. “That’s not what I’m doing—“
“It is.” His tone sharpened, just slightly. “You made that decision the moment you walked in here and tried to hide this.”
“I wasn’t hiding it,” she said softly.
He scoffed. “You—”
“I was managing it.” The correction came automatic, carrying with it a stark intention.
“No you weren’t.”
“I have a first aid kid under the desk, I would’ve.”
Arcade exhaled through his nose, tension pulling at his posture. “That doesn’t count.”
“It has before.”
He leaned back slightly, studying her. “And how’s that working out for you right now?” His words weren't cruel, but they weren't gentle either.
She flinched like they had been the former, falling back into silence as she considered her next words.
“I’m still here,” she said eventually.
Arcade’s gaze softened, but he didn’t let it go. “Barely.”
That one landed, striking her in hesitation, and that hesitation said more than anything else had.
“I’m sorry,” she finally said.
“Don’t apologize to me.” His eyes flicked, just briefly, to the red gleam of her NCR helmet resting nearby. “Just stop hiding behind that mask. Take it off for people who care to see.”
Her gaze followed his, then returned to him. For a moment, it looked like she might argue again, but she didn’t. Instead, she turned onto her side, facing him more fully. Her eyes were tired, hollow, but genuine. “Thank you, Arcade.”
Arcade averted his gaze, words faltering as he considered them carefully before sharing. “I understand what it’s like, forcing yourself into a box. Locking away pieces of yourself, even with people who deserve to know better…” he admitted. “It consumes you, and it leaves you with nothing in the end. That’s why…” he trailed off, struggling slightly. “You don’t have to do it. Your sins are not—they’re not like…”
He turned his hand over in his lap, tracing the lines in deep contemplation. “Six, there’s actually something I need to talk to you about.” He turned back toward her, only finding her lax, the tension in her face softened into a fragile slumber.
“…Sleep well,” he murmured, folding himself down until his face smoothed once again. “You’ve earned it.”
He lingered, eyes tracing the gentle rhythm of her breathing, the faint twitch of her brow as remnants of nightmares passed through her mind. Slowly, the shadows eased from her features, leaving behind a sense of peace, or, at the very least, neutrality.
Eventually, it weighed too heavily on his mind to find the others, save them from the same thoughts that had kept him so trapped here. But the threshold of the doorway gave him one last pause. He turned, watching her chest rise and fall one last time as a small anchor against the uncertainty that threatened to creep in.
As he lingered, the elevator rattled to life behind him, the vertical ferry bringing another uncertainty into the delicate space. All Arcade could muster was a tired hesitation.
When it dinged into place, Boone stepped through, steady in his walk and intense in his demeanor, though the latter was elevated by the amount of blood staining his clothes. Most surprising to Arcade was that some of it seemed to come from Boone himself.
Before he could ask, he stepped forward, grabbing Arcade by the arm and half leading, half dragging him back into the elevator.
“I found the location of the bunker Six went to. We’re going there.” He instructed plainly.
“What?” Arcade had nearly forgotten that’s what Six had originally gone for after hearing the horror stories of the Sierra Madre.
“We are going after Six,” Boone repeated, enunciating each word deliberately, pulling Arcade down to be level with him. “Unless you have other plans, Gannon?”
Arcade shook his head, trying to keep the tone calm. “Well, there is the slight issue with your plan in the fact that Six had actually returned just a few hours ago. I doubt your quest to the bunker will yield more answers than simply talking to her.”
Boone’s eyes narrowed, processing. He didn’t move at first, just stared, as if weighing every word. Then, with careful steps he walked to the bedroom.
“She’s asleep,” he murmured, almost to himself.
Arcade approached from behind, voice low. “And you’d do well not to wake her. It’s been rough, to say the least. She was taken to this place… I’ve never seen her talk about anything with that much fear.” He shook his head. “I know you’ve been worried, but let her work through it for herself before you demand answers.”
Boone’s gaze lingered on her face. “Who took her?” he asked quietly.
“No one you’d know,” Arcade said tiredly, “and knowing Six, she saved a special fate for him.” He studied Boone’s demeanor, the set to his jaw, and the tight hold of his fists. “She doesn’t need you to go find payback or justice for her. Right now, she just needs you here.”
Boone nodded slowly, almost imperceptibly. He didn’t shift, standing unmoving in the doorway like a sentinel.
Arcade exhaled and tried again. “Look, I know you’re worse at this than I am, which is saying something. But if you keep lingering in the doorway covered in blood, she might wake up and you’ll probably set off a new wave of emotion in her, and neither of us wants that. My advice would be to wash up, then just sit with her. She spent plenty of time alone where she was taken, and she seems pretty keen on not being so anymore.”
Boone’s fingers flexed at his side, a silent acknowledgment. He didn’t move, but the tension in his shoulders eased slightly.
“I’m going to fetch Raul, Cass, and Veronica,” Arcade said, trying a light note. “Help me keep them from disrupting her sleep, won’t you? Your imposing glare is much more effective than anything I could say.”
His tone implied a joke, and it fell as flat as Arcade expected, but there it was. A flicker in his expression, realizing that there was in fact something he, and probably he alone, could do.
“Right,” he finally mumbled. “Get the others, I’ll do what I can.” Then, without another word, he moved toward the bathroom.
“And,” Arcade began, catching him. “You should probably wake ED-E.” A long, resigned sigh went through him, annoyed despite himself that he was the one to bring this up. “She’ll probably want to see that Six has returned.”
Boone said nothing, but there was the slightest twitch at the corner of his lips, catching the irony, but saving him by not commenting on it.
With nothing else, Arcade finally slipped towards the exit.
The elevator hummed beneath him, as it brought him back to the world outside. It was a slow, quiet ride. The metallic whispers doing nothing to drown out his own thoughts.
They circled around Six, of the armor she’d built around herself long before the Sierra Madre had ever carved new scars into her. Of how he should’ve known better, long before it ever came to this.
He could see now, more clearly than ever, the weight she carried. And yet, even in sleep, she had not been entirely unguarded. Those small cracks, fleeting glimpses of the person beneath, lingered in his mind, stubborn as a stubborn truth.
Arcade drew in a breath, feeling the cool metal of the railing under his palm. The elevator lights flickered as they neared the bottom. He straightened, bracing himself for the world beyond, already trying to come up with explanations for their scattered companions.
When the doors opened, the world spilling into frame, he took a deep breath, then stepped in to join it, hoping that Six could soon do the same.
[Bonus]
The sun had begun its slow descent, casting golden hues on the Lucky 38 doors when Arcade finally pushed his way through, Veronica at his side and Rex at their heel.
It had taken longer than expected to traverse the Strip and Freeside to round up the three companions, though, that was due in part to Cass getting kicked out of the Tops, and having too strong opinions about the other Casino’s to indulge them. Most surprising of all, though, was when he finally did find her, it was by the East Gate, sharing drinks with Kings, of all people. Clearly boredom did wonders for grudges.
“—swelled up to the size of a baseball, I mean I don’t know how she was still standing. But, she was convinced the only cure for it was just some agave juice! She argued and argued until the venom closed her airways!” Veronica rambled as they stepped into the elevator, using far more hand gestures than necessary.
Arcade let out a small chuckle despite himself. “Just wait until you’re on hour 24 of being awake, and there’s a whole tent of people like that. I suppose it’s comforting to know that things have stayed interesting at the Old Mormon Fort without me.”
“Well you should’ve stopped by,” she said, elbowing Arcade between the ribs. “I don’t know what up here was better than what’s out there. The Lucky 38 is just another hole in the ground.”
“Yes, yes, and you’ve made your opinions on those clear.” He felt as if he should answer her further, shed light on what had kept him so grounded, especially when his worst fears were proven true in the end. But before he could find the words, the elevator opened once more, allowing the many voices of the suite to carry through.
Rex bounded for the dining area, his whole body wagging with the force of his tail. Arcade and Veronica were not far behind.
As soon as Six came into sight, she was engulfed in a tight embrace from Veronica, the hug could’ve only been tighter if their Brotherhood of Steel scribe was wearing her signature power fists. A beat later, however, it seemed to catch the amount of bandages lining Six’s body.
“Okay, I’m no expert, but this looks like some serious damage,” Veronica said in hesitant surprise. “What happened to you?”
Raul brought his beer from his mouth, resting it in his lap. “Yeah, mija, you haven’t yet graced us with the daring tale of your adventure.”
Six’s smile strained, kept together, but shaking. “Right, yeah, I… I just…”
Her eyes found Arcade’s, and he was ready to step in if she needed him to. But first, he offered one terse nod.
“I’ll tell you all later, just… not right now, okay?” The words were soft, unpracticed in Six’s mouth, but genuine.
Arcade weighed the words, not sure where his expectations had laid. It was a start, if nothing else. The truth would be a harder battle, but at least, in this moment, Six found the strength to keep the mask off.
“Veronica, why don’t you entertain everyone instead with the story of the woman and her radscorpion sting?” He offered.
“Oh my gosh!” Veronica gasped, remembering the absurdity. “You guys won’t believe it, so this woman—“
The anecdote became background noise in Arcade’s ears, having already heard it once. His gaze lingered on Six, searching for the same shattered pieces he’d seen before, and finding only cracks. But her eyes then met his, and she offered a small, thankful smile, sincere in its authenticity.
The young woman loved the smell of the fresh blossoms. The spicy-sweetness of the big purple tato and radish plant, or the earthy mellow of the split bean and the pumpkin. Or the rich sweet floral of the hub tree, they were always amazing. And tasty too!
In the quiet of the early morning, Cassidy could relax in the warm filtered light coming through the window before doing her task of hand pollinating the two tato plants at this window. Holding her flask of still warm tea, Cassidy kicked her legs in the air rocking a bit with her rope seat. Watching out the window as one of the pregnant ground squirrels was waddling by, not seeing her.
She really did like the early mornings of spring, was able to watch where the animals came from and went too. From her current spot, Cassidy could turn and look over the library that was her family's safe home. It was so much bigger than anyone in her community had imagined. A rarity that there was only one safe, hidden entrance and a stable building.
Cassidy was a lot younger when they had moved here, so much so she only had faint memories now of not being in the library. She knew that someone, or another family, used to live here. They had left several things but never returned as far as she knew. They had tried to save as much as they could, just in case that someone, or a decedent came looking.
It had been so many good years here, the elderly of her community, including her own grandparents, could likely rest for their last years without the stress of constantly being on the move. Even though the last winter outside had been harsh, they had fast growing crops inside the library to help them through the worst of the weather. It was more than enough space to grow things without hurting all the wonderful books.
Cassidy was so thankful her grandmother had taught them all how to read and write. Though they had to be very careful with the old books, it was still so much fun to explore the bookshelves. There were old display planters that her parents had thought might have had rare plants before the bombs dropped. Now the biggest had their own pride and joy plants. The mutfruit trees and hub trees had gotten so big in the heathy being sheltered inside, with help from clean water they could get, and the extremely solid window up high that let sun in but not let anyone see inside. The fruit trees were not nearly as big as other trees outside, but they still had a nice thick trunk that was almost four inches thick! These trees had fruit all of last year now too, as long as there was fresh, clean water. Enough fruit that the whole community could and did make jerky out of the excess.
Where Cassidy was this morning was one of two almost ground level windows, and they just kept the tatos here to get the light. From where she was sitting, the young woman could almost see the ground a foot below the windowsill. A planter outside and a short wall after that. The day was promising to be a good peaceful one. She could pollinate the flowers, harvest the pedals for dinner and make some tea. Maybe see if there was some easy to get to grain as well. Then she could finish reading a chapter in her current book.
The young woman kicked her legs out to get herself to swing a little bit back and forth. The gentle movement felt so nice with the sun beam and freshly opened tato flowers above her. Cassidy watched as her feet brushed the thick old growth stem of the tato plant. This was the one plant that was already here when her people had moved in. It was the main reason they had food way back when.
Again it was just hazy memories for Cassidy herself, she remembered everyone being so happy. It was one of the first really good meals they had before everyone had been able to sleep safely. It was such a luxury to be able to sleep safely, they still had night guards, but did not need to be as many as there once was according to the stories that were told about when traveling. Cassidy swung a bit more, touching the stem of the tato plant, pushed off at an angle. Spinning herself in the rope seat one way, then everything unranked the other was. Giggling as she just had some low impact fun before settling and shifted to stand in the seat. Reaching to pull a line free to hock into her climbing gear. Swinging again until she left the seat and was in the climbing gear proper, away from the swing almost at ground level.
Climbing up to the first old growth branch, Cassidy pulled herself up on top. She did not have the same upper body strength as some others in her community, or even her dad. It took her longer to climb the tato plant to the first flower. She untied the permanent line and started to make a new harness to wrap around the stem, sitting down with legs on either side of the branch as she worked.
Cassidy took several deep breaths, making sure the harness was secured. Getting ready and then tipped to the side, rotating off the thick stem and… and was caught in the harness. The young woman sighed in relief as she was supported from her shoulders to her thighs in the harness. Able to relax suspended and using two lines to slowly let out slack to drop a bit. This gave her plenty of room to work. Reaching out to grasp the nearest purple peddle of the tato flower. Scooting herself closer and only once sure she was nice and secured could Cassidy focus with confidence. Taking a hook and another line, piercing the peddle and anchoring it first, and then started cutting it free.
Cassidy made sure to do neat, clean cuts before pushing the pedal away from her and watched it fall free. Mostly. Attached to the line it put some pressure on the harness, but that line would fully disconnect after the last petal was cut free and the joint weight of them all would pull all the knots out for that line.
The young woman carefully scooted closer to the now opening inside of the flower. Reaching for one of the small bags at her side and her knife before reaching back in. Cassidy gasped in delight at finding new tiny petals inside the edge of the flower. “Ooh, those are going to be sweet, I need to get some after this.”
She had to be very careful with cutting the whole staman off, not wanting to lose the pollen. Cassidy carefully put each filament in one bag marked with a ‘1-1’ for this plant’s first flower. Once all the pollen was collected, Cassidy got another bag with the pollen from another plant, dipping her fingers in to coat them and reach to pat the pollen on the… pistil. The inner stem, that was what it was called according to the book. Cassidy made sure not to waste any pollen but also made sure she would not have to come back to do it again. Then she could start to get the rest of the petals harvested.
Taking her time partly to inspect the bigger petals. Cassidy ran her hands over the softness of the pedals. Wondering what it would be like to sleep on the softness. Feeling something like the silk in the stories and books, Cassidy imagined it would be like new flower petals. So soft and smooth, would silk have a smell? Like the flowers that were sweet and spiced.
The tato flowers always smelled exactly like how the tea made from the petals did. Same with the hub trees in one of the ornate planters, their flowers and hips were sweeter and a bit earthy.
Cassidy gasped to herself as she started to harvest the petals, realizing that she still had some hip jam in her room. She would be getting her own home soon too! After the harvest of the hub flower hips in the next few weeks. Her dad had been definitely doing something with his spare time with his adopted brothers.
There were the two whole winter melons that would be ready after that. The small pumpkin would be ready after that, at least Cassidy was pretty sure it would be ready for them to try and get inside! She missed fresh pumpkin seeds. Having them roasted or ground up for a nutty past was… really such a comfort this last winter.
So was their attempt at making pie from the books with what they had for substitutes.
Cassidy reached out, to get the last petal and cut it free, making sure that line was disconnected from her harness. The collected pollan bag was tied and attached to her hip. Then as no one else was up on the desk, Cassidy carefully scooted closer to reach into the flower to carefully cut out the little baby petal leaves. She had three that she could relax back in the harness and get the pollen left over carefully off her left hand and onto one of those little white petals.
Nectar, that’s what was a part of the flower that soaked these little petals. Sweet and spiced, and with a bit of pollen inside the rolled up petal… it was a wonderful breakfast after all that work. It was also a treat as a pollinator job to be able to enjoy this treat. The other few petals were stored carefully in another bag. Cassidy would share some with her family, but wanted to try and see if she could bake them.
Make… candy. That’s what it was called!
Cassidy finished her treat, looked around the flower to be sure that nothing was missed. Getting herself backwards and up to climb back on the branch, the young woman could go back to the main trunk of the old tato plant and the climbing line to the next branch with a flower. Going through the same process and saving the little petals and it was nice and warm now from the magnification of the sunlight.
unprompted writing bc im hyperfixating about fallout new vegas
Can read it below the break, spoilers for many major quests.
6's eyes flutter open lazily, taking in the room around her, she recognizes that feeling. And the headache that follows. Last time she felt like this she was in Doc Mitchell's care.
This time the headache is from the Med-x, not a 9mm.
She rolls over over to see ED-E patiently waiting for her, hovering next to her bed like always. It's 2284, New Year's Day on the Strip. Or at least it would have been if they weren't dealing with a thousand issues at once. Refugees clogged the Strip and Freeside, the Followers were overwhelmed, and her army of Securitrons were trying to keep the peace.
She stands and puts on her clothes, leaving off her blackjack duster. And moseys on out into the penthouse meeting room, ED-E following closely behind.
Sitting at the table are some of her closest advisors, Arcade Gannon, in his Remnant Power Armor, and Veronica Santangelo, in her modified suit of T-45d. The leaders of many of the most powerful groups from throughout the Mojave also sit at the table: Raquel, the new elder of the Boomers; Elder Hardin, of the Brotherhood's Mojave Chapter; Marcus, mayor of Jacobstown; The King, from Freeside; Julie Farkas from the Followers; a delegate from each of the major towns, Goodsprings, Novac, Westside, and a representative each from the Three Families.
As always, she was late, and they were all screaming at each other by the time she arrived.
She takes her seat at the head of the table. And everyone falls silent, she looks tired, it's been a long 2 years.
The delegate from Goodsprings speaks up first, "Ma'am, what are you planning to do? We've already lost Primm and the majority of the I-15."
"Well, the Gun Runners pulled out weeks ago, so we've lost a huge potential store of weapons to help, didn't we?" Veronica's voice is low, trying to consider all possibilities.
She thinks back on what Ulysses had said to her in the Divide years ago, "Mojave'll be easy prey for them. They'll start emerging throughout the Mojave in time, might be years. Probably less. They breed fast, hunt in groups, more than enough to bring down the strongest in the Mojave."
Slowly, 6 stands up from her chair – robbed from Caesar after the Second Battle for Hoover Dam – and steps quietly over to the window, overlooking the west side of the Mojave, able to see everything from Goodsprings, Red Rock, and Jacobstown. And all the fires to the Southwest past Goodsprings. Where Primm used to be, that the Boomers turned into a smoking crater to stop the spread.
"The Khans had the right idea, leaving. It was the only way I'd be able to help them get away from what was coming."
6's voice cast a shadow of gloom and doubt over every representative.
"We're going to die here, in the Mojave. Nothing in the Big Empty can help us against what's gonna come crawling up outta the Divide."
Watching Star Trek the other day and suddenly I was thinking about The Institute! (Spoilers)
"What Are Little Girls Made of" - Series 1, Episode 7
Dr. Roger Korby has the technology to make programmable androids that are indistinguishable from humans (at least, on the outside).
[Gen 3 synths]
He copies Captain Kirk and sends it to the Enterprise.
[Art, Roger Warwick, etc.]
He argues that these android bodies are superior to human ones...
[Gen 3 synths, again]
...yet the androids develop their own free will
[escaped synths]
and ultimately, Dr. Korby reveals his intentions to upgrade humanity... in fact, he has done so himself and is revealed to be and android!
[Father creates synth Shaun].
I've always thought that the Institute's endgame was to create 'Gen 4' synth bodies that allowed them to potentially live on the surface again, resistant to radiation and disease, need no sleep and little, if any food so that the scientists could instal themselves into this manufactured immortality and do Science! without the inconvenience of interruption by sleeping and eating - oh and keep lesser generation slave labour, too.
This is what I've always felt that Father really meant by 'Mankind, Redefined' and I wonder how much this particular Star Trek episode inspired the Fallout writers?
If I were to make a story with two original characters, set along the storyline of fallout 76, would y’all read it?
Now, putting aside most of your problems with 76 as a game, would the world be of interest to y’all? IMO the world of 76 is so full of interesting things and I’m sure I could make it palatable to those who dislike it with my writing. I’m definitely gonna do it anyways and have it as a fun little side project but I kinda want to do an actual multi-chapter story for once because I am absolutely atrocious at doing them and sticking to them, so posting it would hold me accountable.
And of course I’ll do a full personality breakdown for all of my OCs and stuff so you’ll know something about them instead of going in blind.
Would y’all read a Fallout 76 story with my OCs?
Sure, why not
No, fo76 is icky and I want nothing to do with it
Actually I have a better idea (please send it in an ask I beg you)
THE MOST POWERFUL WEAPON ON EARTH IS THE HUMAN SOUL ON FIRE.
The massive expansion to the wildly popular game, Fallout: Hunters of the Wastes, is finally here!
Developed in Late January of 2022, and officiated in early February 2022, Fallout: Martyrs is the long-awaited expansion of Fallout: Hunters of the Wastes. Taking place 5 years after the events of the main title, Fallout: Martyrs takes us to pre-war France and Europe and includes a new story, missions and unpublished areas with their own climate and fauna. . .
The story.
Taking place within the years of 2301 to 2306, Fallout Martyrs tells the story of the events that transpired shortly after the end of the Great Brotherhood War, including the sudden arrival of a French Armada, arriving to the shores of the Commonwealth under the claim to be there for peace - While all goes well for the first few years, it’s becomes very obvious that peace is not the only reason for their arrival. With fears of another war looming on the horizon, the player is sent to France to negotiate peace, however things do not go quite as planned and now the main task is to survive in this new environment while simultaneously trying to stop an impending war with a less then stable queen.
- - - -
Possible 18+ content
Worldbuilding Fallout Blog penned by Duke and Earl
Read About/Rules before interacting
My first actual Fallout fic, I guess! What goes down on the day of The Bombening in my boy Cas’ story. For some background leading up to this scene, click here and here!
October 23rd 2077
Sanctuary Hills
I'm sitting at the kitchen counter, slumped, staring at nothing, when Lindsay comes in. I turn immediately - first my head, then my body - pulling against the knot that clenches in my gut. I flick an anxious look over her. She's already dressed, not even putting a last pin in her hair - a bad sign. She's put together, prepared, fortified. All without me.
Swallowing, I watch as she pauses. She's not looking at me; her eyes are wandering instead over the counter, then into the living area. Looking for the empty bottle, the glass with a few drops of apathy still wallowing in the bottom. But I haven't had a drink in three days. Maybe four. Not since she yelled and I pleaded and we both crumbled under the weight of my cowardice.
Lindsay moves into the kitchen, still without a glance in my direction. I slide clumsily off my stool, turning automatically to face her again.
"I - I made you tea." My voice is hoarse from lack of sleep. I cup my hand around the steaming mug in front of me - oolong rose, her favourite - and slide it tentatively in Lindsay's direction. She can't know that it's the third one I've made this morning, wanting it to be fresh and hot whenever she appeared. The two previous attempts have already been discarded, tea leaves languishing in the garbage bin and the too-dark liquid long poured away.
She pauses again at that - I think, I can't be sure, but I cling to it. But then she goes to the stove, fills the kettle, sets it on the burner, switches it on. She's making it very clear that she wants nothing from me. Nothing, she's thinking, is all she's ever gotten anyway.
Read on AO3
I just stare helplessly as she goes about the routine, fetching another mug from the cabinet, setting out the sugar bowl, getting a teabag of her own. I stand there, arm still half outstretched over the counter and hand curved around the rejected mug. My fingertips are tight on the hot ceramic and it's only when they're nearly burned that I jerk them back. I straighten, massaging them as guilt burns a worse pain through my chest.
I wet my lips. "Lindsay," I try, but my timing is less than ideal, my voice lost in the shrill shriek of the kettle. I wait as she pours the water, then try again. It's harder the second time; the knot in my gut seems to have sent tendrils up into my throat, closing it off.
The look she gives me in reply is like a taser to the chest. It's beyond upset - it's livid, and on her normally sweet face it makes me physically balk. I clamp my mouth shut immediately and my own eyes fall to the counter.
Thick, stony silence follows, disturbed only by the soft clink of her spoon against her mug and then the pad of her steps as she goes into the living room. For some reason I feel afraid to move now, so I don't even turn this time. Just slide my eyes along with her as she pushes past until she's out of sight. I hear the soft click of the television as she switches it on, and the low, confident murmur of the anchorman as he blithely delivers today’s news highlights.
Shoulders tensed, I stare at a small nick in the countertop, and absently feel it with my thumb. Seconds tick by, or maybe minutes. But I can't stand here forever. I can't bear to let this go on. The last few days have been slow, agonising hell and anything has to be better than this. So I let out a breath, and despondently, waveringly, I turn around.
Lindsay is seated on the couch, on the opposite end from the rumpled blanket I'd slept under. From my unhappy perspective it's like she doesn't want to be near anything that's mine. She's watching the television screen with an aggressive disregard for anything else. I twist my hands together, and breathe in and out several times to steady myself, and with uneven motions I make my way over to her.
"Lindsay...."
"No." It's the first thing she's said to me in three days, a flat whipcrack of a word, and it makes my stomach plummet. This is not going to go well. She keeps her attention rigidly ahead, not even flinching as I walk in front of the television and around to the empty side of the couch. I sink down onto the edge of it, my brows tugging together in a pleading sort of way.
"Lindsay, please. We have to talk about this. I - I know I messed up -"
"Messed up? Messed up?" This, at least, has roused her, but in the wrong way; she jerks her attention around towards me, expression hard. "Cas, this is so far beyond 'messed up'."
I flinch, and have to look away for a moment. She's right. I've fucked us both over and now - I don't know what.
I dither beneath her piercing gaze, in my head casting frantically about for something, anything, I can say to try and fix this. Nothing's occurring to me. Maybe it can't be fixed. God, I have to try, though.
I stutter something out, something about Anchorage and how it screwed with me and there are still things I can't bring myself to talk about. It's pathetic, and we both know it.
"That's your excuse? You weren't thinking clearly?" Lindsay sits a little straighter, her mug clutched tightly in her hands. She's trying to be acerbic, but she can't cover up the pain in her voice. "Are you thinking any more clearly now? Do I need to lay it out for you before you'll get it?"
My throat tightens. "No - don't, I already -"
She carries on regardless. "You got engaged to keep yourself out of prison, Cas! That’s it! That is the only reason!” Her voice is shaking - with anger, and with anguish. Even as I cringe back, she continues relentlessly, “You proposed to make a life with someone you never had any intention of loving back. And you - you didn’t tell me any of it.”
“I couldn’t!” My own voice cracks as I wrench it back into existence. “That was part of the agreement, if your father hadn’t -“
“We are not talking about my dad here. This is about you. You didn’t even tell me you were gay, for god’s sake! That would have been good to know!”
I screw my eyes shut. “That would have made it worse,” I whisper, followed by a shuddering breath. “Lindsay, I was scared. They would have killed me, I wouldn’t have lasted two weeks in prison. You know how many ‘accidents’ happen to people who try to call out the government's bullshit?” I can’t bring myself to tell her that more than once, I’d contemplated taking my own life. That would have made it feel all the more pointless.
She doesn’t say anything. I don’t want to bring back that horrible silence, so I keep going. Trying to explain.
“I told you - your father promised me protection. He - he backed me into a corner, we both knew they were going to toss me away, I didn’t - I couldn’t see another way out -” I draw in a needed breath. “Besides, he’s the one who wanted the money to go to you, he used you just as much -”
“That doesn’t justify what you did!” Even without looking, I feel the way she’s stiffened. “Don’t keep trying to pin this on him! You made the decision! You’re the one who’s been lying to me for all these months, telling me that everything was fine when it clearly wasn't, refusing to explain anything, pretending that you ever cared -"
The words flay into me, and I look up. Tears are pooling in her eyes, and her tea has long gone cold yet still remains tight between her hands as she rails at me.
“I was going to leave you, do you know that? I was done putting up with this, putting up with you, but now I’m pregnant, with your child, Caspian!”
I stare at her. My hands are knotted together in front of me like they’ll never come apart again. I can’t blame her for wanting to leave, and yet somehow it still feels like a blow to the gut. I swallow against the whimper rising in my throat as my eyes fall from Lindsay’s raw, damp face down to her abdomen where my child - our child - is slowly becoming whole, even as everything else is falling apart.
“I’m sorry,” I breathe wretchedly. “I’m so, so sorry -”
“No.” She cuts me off almost immediately. Startled, I jerk my eyes up again, to the contorted expression she wears. “You don’t get to be sorry,” she goes on forcefully. Somewhere under that harsh facade, I can see how this is breaking her, too. “We are way past sorry. Listen to me. You know what happens now? Now you get to stand up and decide what you’re going to do, because I am done holding up this relationship by myself.”
My breath catches and dissipates somewhere in my chest. I look back at her because I can’t seem to do anything else; I’m paralysed. “What am I -“ My voice echoes the words feebly.
“What’s it going to be?” Her eyes bore into me. “Are you going, or are you staying?”
“I - Linds, it’s not that -“
“No, it is exactly that simple. What are you going to do, Cas?”
How can I answer that? How can I make that choice? My throat feels like sandpaper as I try to swallow. Leaving, abandoning her, is the coward’s way out of this. The idea is despicable. Not to mention it would put a target on my back again. But staying means committing - to Lindsay, to fatherhood, to this lie I molded myself into.
The silence that follows her ultimatum is unbearable. Unfortunately, the words that break it are worse.
"We do have... coming in... confirmed reports I repeat, confirmed reports of nuclear detonations in New York and Pennsylvania. ...My god. Oh my god...."
In a surreal motion, Lindsay and I both look towards the television. What we had assumed to be an ordinary morning broadcast, drowned out by our fight, is suddenly anything but. We have time to register the look of panic, of resignation, on the news anchor’s face before the screen abruptly cuts out.
“Shit,” I breathe.
The high drone of a warning siren rises outside. I snap around towards Lindsay again. Her fury at me has been instantly overrun by disbelief.
“No - Cas, this can’t be -“
“It can.” My head is spinning; I fight against it, trying to breathe. I reach out, take the mug from her grasp, set it down, and clutch her shaking hands in my own.
“I’ll stay, of course I’ll stay. I won’t leave you, Linds.” It’s not me saying it - it’s somebody else, the same guy who used to step in and take over when bullets and energy blasts were cracking into frost-stiffened buildings and bodies. “But right now we need to go. We need to get to the vault.”
The vault. A source of loud controversy in Sanctuary Hills, and then of comfort, when people found out that of course, it was meant for them. They’d been more concerned with being possibly left out of something touted as important, patriotic, than by the implications that came with it - that if it needed to be used, they’d have a hell of a lot more to worry about than patriotism. That if nuclear annihilation loomed, they should all be hoping to whatever god they knew that everyone had a place inside.
When the representative from Vault-Tec came around, after even my brusque dismissals failed to get him out of my face, I’d given in and registered both Lindsay and myself. Not because I had any faith in the government’s ability to protect us, but because, truthfully, there was nothing I could do that would have proved a better option. I was actually surprised that it went through, given my history, but the papers had come back approved, and I’d filed them away in the hopes that I’d never have to think about them again.
Now, in an instant, that hope is gone.
Everything seems slow motion, surreal, as I get up, tugging gently at Lindsay’s hands so that she’ll follow. At least she’s already dressed, and I was never undressed, still in yesterday’s wrinkled button-up and slacks. We pause at the door so I can jam my feet into my old army boots, and then with panic grasping at our lungs we rush out into the bright, glorious, devastating morning.
The peaceful, smothered existence of this tiny town has been ripped violently away. Blurred faces are stamped with varying levels of shock, of heartbreak, of disbelief and anger and a dozen other reactions that all mean the same thing, attached to bodies that can’t make the choice between flight and paralysis.
“Oh my god… this isn’t really happening, is it?”
“I…I don’t know….”
“The nukes are coming! Those communist bastards!”
“They… they always said we’d be safe….”
People mill about, some in their bathrobes, slippered feet crushing down their browning, manicured lawns and flurrying through the leaves that have managed to sneak onto the sidewalks during the night. The cries of betrayal rising from the street are torn apart by the thunder of military aircraft overhead, and a stern voice amplified across the chaos.
“Residents of Sanctuary Hills. If you are registered, evacuate to Vault 111 immediately.”
“This is just a drill, right? This can’t really be happening….”
“Oh my god… we don’t have anywhere to go.…”
“We’ll drive to the coast! That’s gotta be far enough!”
“What if it isn’t?”
It isn’t. I can feel it in my gut as I hold tight to Lindsay’s hand and we stumble as fast as we can down the autumn-scattered street. Nowhere is high enough or far enough. We go off the road, through a gap in the waving trees, down the hill towards a picture-perfect wooden bridge. But maybe, if someone’s done their fucking job right for once, this new sanctuary will be deep enough.
The crisp, sun-tinted air has no right to taste this sweet as it drives us up the hill on the other side of the chuckling stream. All my senses are alight, drawing in the last minutes of an Eden that never was. Ahead, beneath the calm assurance of a Vault-Tec billboard, its frantic residents press up against a chain link fence, hands grasping, mouths wide with pleas for entry and for mercy. I pull Lindsay closer and push past these people, my neighbours, her friends. I never gave two shits about any of them, but now as I meet their eyes I know them - their names, their faces, their souls. The little details of their lives jar my memory with uncomfortable clarity, bringing them into focus, and it’s a few moments before I realise why. I’m trying to preserve them, to take them with me, because I know with closed-throated certainty that some of them - perhaps many of them - will not survive this.
“If you’re in the program, step forward - otherwise, return home!”
A soldier stands at the gate in familiar army fatigues, his presence bolstered by two others in power armour just behind him. I grit my teeth and force my way forward, trying to close my ears to the despairing cries of the damned welling around me like a chorus from the underworld. Lindsay stays close behind - close, but not clinging. It’s something I wish I could have appreciated more about her. Maybe there will be time, in the vault, to tell her that.
The gate guard looks up expectantly, but I speak before he can start to question us.
“We’re on the list, let us in.” I give him our names, and add, “And I’m not going back to get the fucking papers so you’d better not ask.”
He doesn’t react to my abrasive words, just checks his sheet, nods, and gives an equally brusque, “Go ahead,” before stepping back to allow us entry.
“Thank you,” says Lindsay, her voice thick in her throat. Now it’s her turn to hurry ahead, dragging at my hand until I speed up a few steps and fall in beside her again.
A man in a Vault-Tec uniform beckons from ahead, turning to lead the way further up the hill. The trees have been cleared here, and construction equipment stands around the perimeter, soon blocking our view of the people below as we jog towards the summit.
“Cas - what about everyone else?” Lindsay asks breathlessly. “What’s going to happen to all those people outside the gate?” I set my jaw, but my only answer is a firm squeeze to her hand.
The top of the hill opens up before us, capped by a large circle of Vault-Tec-coloured metal. Half a dozen frightened residents are clustered tightly in the middle, huddled, uncertain. Our escort waves an arm wildly back towards us, urging us onward.
“Step onto the platform! In the center!”
Lindsay and I obey; what else is there to do? I draw in another ragged lungful of the fresh air as we both stumble ahead to join our neighbours. The view from up here is magnificent, the sunlight dabbing wads of gold across the copper and scarlet of a New England autumn. Tilting my head back for a moment, all I can see is blue.
“Alright, that’s it! Send it down!”
The call shakes me from my brief reverie. I swivel around, looking from the nearest guard and up to the control booth in disbelief.
“What? No - that can’t be everyone. Most of the town’s still down there, for fuck’s sake! You bastards can’t just leave them, you have to let more people in -”
“Sir, you need to get back on the platform, now -”
I don’t even notice that I’ve started for the booth until Lindsay grabs my arm and pulls me back. I shake her off, seething, outraged, glaring at the guards before -
There’s a massive, heart-stopping impact, a burst of searing white that explodes from the south and instantly engulfs our eyes, our brains, our beings. The world shakes and shudders as though trying to rid itself of its greatest scourge, humanity itself. But it’s too late. The final blow has been dealt - nothing can save it now.
I throw out my arms, fighting for balance, catching Lindsay as she falls against me with a cry. Fire swells like a raging star, filling the sky, burning us with its golden fury. Amidst the screams of terror driving in my ears, I hear the desperate call of the Vault-Tec staff.
“NOW! NOW! SEND IT DOWN NOW!”
The star darkens into roiling clouds, a tree of death that blooms to swallow the day as rings of fire reverberate across the sky. The air is gone, the world is being consumed, and in the midst of it all I am nothing.
Beneath my feet, the platform shudders again, but it’s a different motion from the violent tremours around me, and suddenly it’s descending, slow but sure. Everyone else is cowering, heads downturned, yelling for it to go faster; Lindsay is turned inwards, pressed into me, her face buried against my heart; but I can’t tear my eyes from the relentless wave of death that is rushing at us, obliterating everything in its path. Water fills my vision and is instantly burned away, the heat scorching the breath from my lungs. As the ashen darkness looms, I hope, for a single, vengeful instant, that whatever god could have stopped this will be annihilated alongside his creation.
It seems impossible that we’re still alive, but the vault is doing its work. The blaze of atomic destruction surges overhead, horrific, and yet receding. All I can do is bow my head and keep my arms tight around Lindsay as cold shadows embrace us, carrying us downward into the bowels of the unknown.
