Well, Roger was dead.

Not the way the Ghoul wanted to see him go, but beggars couldn't be choosers, and every moment without his medication was another moment hurtling towards being a fucking beggar.

He was getting desperate. And as his unwilling tagalong was learning, when the Ghoul got desperate, he got mean. Well... meaner.

The sun had dipped well below the mountains, casting the sky in a darkening blue, but the Ghoul kept going, squinting in the dark until he nearly tripped over a half-buried bench. "God fuckin' damn--"

Vault dweller, he's seen her coming a mile down the road; technically, he supposes if you want to get down the brass tacks of it all, he's one, too, in a broader definition, but he never had the misfortune of wearing the blue and gold jumpsuit, and he's actually kind of glad. It's like a target out here, people assume anyone still wearing one of those things is fresh faced, naive, and ready to be taken advantage of, too eager to ingratiate themselves to the people scraping by on the surface while peddling high handed ideals of a world long dead. She says she's had a week, and he takes her in a moment thinking even for a week on the surface she's still entirely too clean to be mistaken for any scav.

So, yeah, she's probably right. It's probably been one hell of a bad week. God knows his own first week thrust into this new reality, coming to grips with the world he was looking at is not a happy, fun-time memory. And he'd been a seasoned superhero, once upon a time; she's barely more than a kid.

He pauses, where he's been making his way up the 95, back home to Novac, leading a cobbled together and hastily reprogrammed assaultron (an assaultron, here, in the Mojave, wonders never cease), her whirring and clicking loud next to him as she clomps to a stop, pincer hands clamping together, just the once. In the distance there's the muffled sound of gunfire, up Copper Mountain way.

He's not sure, considering the rifle slung across his back, the assaultron, what about any of that has made her decide he, of all people, looks friendly.

"If you're talking to every stranger you meet on the road, kid, yeah. I can." That's a lesson he'd learned quick, out of the gate: The majority of people just want to live their lives, and that's fine. They don't want to get tangled up in other people's business, which is...Also fine, but less than ideal. But there are a lot - more than is comforting - that'll slit your throat on the chance you're carrying a bottle cap with a star inside, or because you dared to make eye contact while passing by. Or just because they feel like it. The wasteland is not what he'll call a friendly place, and you either adapt, or you die.

A week out of the vault isn't enough to determine which way that'll go.

powerfist   spattered   in   new   gore   finally   slipped   off   like   a   weight   being   lifted   and   yet   he   doesn't   look   any   less   intimidating.   blood   and   dust   and   chips   and   scrapes   grace   his   mask   all   make   it   clear   he's   seen   this   sort   of   carnage   before.   the   way   that   vivid   red   adorns   the   blazing   light   of   his   visor,   it   makes   him   look   more   closely   related   to   a   creature   like   the   Deathclaw,   than   Lucy.

the   silence   feels   heavy,   like   waiting   for   the   other   shoe   to   drop.   fingers   itch   to   flick   through   his   pip-boy's   radio   in   desperate   search   for   something   to   lessen   the   tension.

&    𝚠𝚑𝚘   𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍   𝚢𝚘𝚞   𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚜𝚎   𝚝𝚘   𝚋𝚎   𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝   𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑?   𝚊   𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚠   𝚘𝚛   𝚊   𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚟𝚒𝚟𝚘𝚛? (   𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝   𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍   𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚜𝚎   𝚝𝚑𝚎   𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚠 .   .   .   )

𝚊𝚕𝚕   𝚊𝚝   𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎,   𝚑𝚎   𝚜𝚗𝚊𝚙𝚜   𝚑𝚒𝚜   𝚐𝚊𝚣𝚎   𝚝𝚘   𝚝𝚑𝚎   𝚟𝚊𝚞𝚕𝚝   𝚍𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚛   𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚌𝚔   𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎   𝚝𝚑𝚎   𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚔   𝚘𝚏   𝚊   𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚙.   the   gravel   crunches   beneath   the   boots   of   the   stranger,   footfall   heavy   and   the   worn   coat   billowing   amidst   the   slight   breeze.   approaching   simple   as   ever,   as   if   he   didn't   just   run   out   of   ammo   and   decide   to   beat   the   apex   predator   to   death   with   his   nightstalker   nipping   at   its   heels.

there's   a   moment   of   silence   as   he   peers   down,   appraising   her   or   perhaps   waiting   to   make   a   move?   it's   impossible   to   tell,   𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎   .   .   .   gloved   hand   reaches   out   to   offer   a   hand.

𝚝𝚑𝚎   𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚎𝚛,   𝚑𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛,   𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖𝚜   𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜   𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚗   𝚘𝚗   𝙻𝚞𝚌𝚢.   scampering   around   behind   the   man   hissing   and   rattling,   fussing   at   the   stranger   until   he   uses   his   other   hand   to   wave   them   off.

well   it   wasn’t   the   first   time   she   had   been   tossed   around   —   the   wasteland   didn’t   discriminate   —   if   you   had   limbs   chances   are   it   was   going   to   try   and   take   them.   she   looked   to   the   rebar   that   suck   out   of   her   leg   and   hissed   through   her   teeth.   it   hurt,   but   not   as   bad   as   it   probably   should   have.   maybe   it   was   the   adrenaline,   maybe   it   was   the   med-x   she   had   taken   just   moments   before   getting   launched   down   some   subway   stairs   by   a   feral   ghoul   with   a   mean   right   hook.            ‘   yeah.   no   this   sucks.   ’         she   says,   looking   up   at   the   other   woman.            ‘   but   you’re   gonna   pull   it   out   and   then   i’m   going   to   take   this   stimpak   i   have   in   my   —   ’         she   patted   her   bag,   quickly   feeling   how   empty   the   pocket   felt.