* EXT. MOJAVE DESERT.

you are not meant to be vicious.    never,  never was that what was meant for you.    you are sweet,  and you are gentle,  but you have [learned] that kindness does not equate to survival in this world.    you were preyed on,  and hunted,  and so you learned from the very same weapons that harmed you.    you are not made for loneliness,  and solitude.    where is your herd?    have you noticed they have gone?    pushing them away in hopes of safety does not work when you are a creature that relies on their herd for survival.    i do not diminish you for what you needed to do to survive    . . .    you have travelled long with the fangs that are not yours,  but you are allowed to take them off now.    frolic,  do not prowl.    you do not have to mask your bleating for a howl,  nor wool for coarse fur.    remove the bloodied maw you so desperately cling to    :    make amends with what has been lost,  and continue in peace.

CUT TO: THE GHOUL’S BLOOD IS BLACK UNDER MOONLIGHT. IT SLICKS THE METAL LIKE OIL, BUT HE CANNOT AFFORD ANOTHER SLIP. AS HE REACHES THE TOP, HIS GLOVED HANDS GRIP THE POLE PROTRUDING FROM HIS BACK AND HE HEAVES HIS ENTIRE BODY IN ONE LAST PUSH. GROANS CHURN IN HIS CHEST UNTIL THEY’RE GUTTURAL. THEY BREAK INTO A BELLOWING SCREAM, BUT FREESIDE IS DESOLATE. THERE IS NO ONE WHO CARES TO LISTEN; DOGMEAT ALONE WHINES FROM BELOW. THICK CAST - OFF SPATTER SPITS ONTO THE ASPHALT BESIDE HIS HAT AND SATCHEL AS THE GHOUL FINALLY TEARS FREE. HE COLLAPSES, EXERTED, AND SLUMPS AT THE BASE OF THE POLE.

it’s not his choice that he regrets,  𝒊𝒕'𝒔 𝒘𝒉𝒐 𝒈𝒐𝒕 𝒅𝒆𝒂𝒍𝒕.    an unfair hand in an awfully big blind.    at j. griffith’s old lookout,  stood upon a mighty precipice,  the ante was never easier to pot    :    one miss lucy maclean,  full of woe with nowhere to go but exactly where he needed.

the ghoul chokes on a rankle in his throat.    a polyp,  a plank,  another excision.    his spastic breathing bokes bloody pulp and scratches raw the ache in his chest.    two hundred years of smoker’s lung and gone - off flesh,  SKEWERED AND LEFT TO ROT IN THE HOT MOJAVE SUN;   but impalation runs the body cold.    hallowed and gaping,  it’s hardly begun to heal.

𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐭 is a girl betrayed and her sucker - punched hope tearing you asunder because she trusted you so much.

he’s wet - coughing up loose clumps caught between his remaining ribs;   just below the heart,  in the place it hurts most.    with stiffening fingers,  the ghoul clutches entrail sinew and dislodged tumors that threaten to spill.    but his wound still weeps,  discharging with desert runoff toward a miraged oasis he’ll never get to see.

blood and bile dribble from his lips.    that tang,  metallically sharp,  suffuses his mouth and burns his tongue with putrid acidity.    it tastes like surrender.    o’death,  cooper thinks,  is this is what you feel like?    :    last - chance contrition and a numbness spread beyond marrow.

DISSOLVE TO: IT HAS BEEN ANOTHER LONG DAY ON THE ROAD TO NEW VEGAS. LUCY AND THE GHOUL FOUND SHELTER FOR THE NIGHT IN AN OLD, ABANDONED DINER. THE WALLS ARE CRACKED AND LITTERED WITH BULLET HOLES, LIKE EVERYWHERE ELSE. LUCY SHOULD BE ASLEEP; INSTEAD, SHE IS SAT UPRIGHT AND THINKING ALL OF HER THOUGHTS ALOUD TO A CAPTIVE AUDIENCE. SUNKEN, IMPASSIVE EYES STARE AT HER FROM UNDER THE BRIM OF A DIRTY COWBOY HAT.

𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝒂 𝒄𝒓𝒖𝒆𝒍 𝒋𝒐𝒌𝒆.    the clock still ticks and the bells will toll.    midnight on doomsday was merely the beginning of the end.    OCTOBER 23RD, 2077 FELLED A SINGLE DOMINO IN A LONG CON,   and he’s waiting for the last tile to drop.     a tile,  a shoe,  a rug pulled out from underneath.    lay waste to idioms,  the ghoul bides because waiting is what’s easy.    the difference between one year and two hundred is up to the rest of the world to decide.    for a man once named COOPER HOWARD,  it all started to look the same after a while.

“  well,  sounds t’me like you was all havin’ a grand ol’ time.  ”    he leans back,  stretching his legs flat on the faded,  checkerboard linoleum and crossing them at the ankle.    reminiscence is a temptation,  human as any.    lucy can hardly be blamed,    “  i bet your daddy slept real good at night  ”,    but it spreads a slow rot.    hank maclean is old - world think gone sour.    a bygone worse than himself.