Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Libby ran as soon as the bullets started flying. Raiders—typical. Nothing he needed to get mixed up with, not this far north, not when he was out here for a reason. An urgent reason that Clover insisted wasn't actually that urgent but hey, her leg was actually turning green and black and the antibiotics the Brotherhood had given Libby hadn't done shit.

Our Lady of Hope Hospital, down south by the GNR building, had long since been picked clean of any other options—anything, anything. It was the only hospital Libby knew of within walking distance, and it was completely devoid of antibiotics, save for a couple pill bottles of what they'd already gotten from the Brotherhood. Go figure. Just their luck that any of their regular—verifiably trustworthy—merchants that could sell a miracle like penicillin were all sold out as well. The one time the reputable doctors were too high in demand to spare even a single dose of antibiotics . . . Libby had heard the phrase "cruel summer" before, thrown about in passing, or in pre-war radio songs. This wasn't the first year it rang true louder than the gunshots still echoing in their ears, nor was it the first year to endanger the lives of Libby and their family. But the worst just had to happen now, huh? The would-be summer of their wedding—although May had come and gone already—just had to dig its cruel, cruel claws in and ruin everything they had planned?

Not that it did anything to dwell on the irony of it all. Screaming into pillows wasn't helping Clover or her leg—although it did help Libby to feel like they weren't actually about to implode, so maybe that was something. Maybe.

It wouldn't be enough, of course, as screaming rarely was. That was why they were out here, in the middle of the wasteland, in the middle of the night, with the world's most stubborn woman—Clover—by their side, and a bullet whizzing past their head. Hence, the running.

It was July, 2278, and all it had taken was a feral dog and a two-second lapse of focus to completely derail the summer's plans.

The plans being . . . the wedding, Libby's birthday, helping secure the transport of enough Aqua Pura to last the summer, finally getting that band together, sewing Dogmeat another vest, et cetera, et cetera.

That had been last week. The plans had changed since then, and unfortunately, not for the better. Now, the plan was to go north as fast as possible, go forth and find whatever trace of antibiotics still existed in the wasteland. Before it was too late—not to put too fine a point on it.

Before Clover's fever got worse. Before the reason she was finally convinced to not go searching with Libby was that she couldn't walk. Before her skin started turning any more gray and yellow around the edges, before Butch could make another poor-taste joke about the pus oozing out, before Libby had to spend another night awake, just keeping Clover from falling prey to the pain and the delirium and the loneliness and . . .

But they had been doing fine. Moira pointed them north and, shockingly, the Brotherhood had verified that suggestion with directions to a pre-war pharmacy their sources told them was still intact, for the most part. It was as good a shot as anything they'd tried thus far, and not impossibly far away. North of D.C., north of anywhere Libby had been so far, but still in walking distance—and good thing. The Capital Wasteland was either picked clean or too full of mutants to continue, and Libby had never cursed the ground beneath her feet more.

But, again, that had been last week. A few days ago. Yesterday.

Today, a bullet had sliced through the air just millimeters from Libby's ear, and they had grabbed Clover's hand and ran the other direction as fast as their feet could hit the fucking ground.

Taking the high road, below the low-hanging clouds—please don't rain, please, please don't fucking rain—Clover's hand in theirs, running until she couldn't, until they were carrying her more than leading her, until the gas station on the side of the road came into view and Libby shoved both of them through the door and let it slam shut behind them.

It took too long for the ringing of the gunfire to fade from Libby's ears. Too long for them to remember exactly how to breathe, how to walk without their legs shaking, their breath hitching, the tremors and tingles running up and down their limbs until they shook out their entire arms like they were covered in bugs—filled with bugs, crawling in and out of  every vein and pore.

They couldn't stay. Couldn't fight, not when they didn't know either side and neither side knew either of them. The chances of them stepping in and wiping out those raiders—assuming they had been raiders and Libby's eyes hadn't been deceiving her—only to turn around and have their supposed "ally," at least for the duration of the fight, turn on them were way too high. The chances of getting hurt in the process, of sustaining another wound to get infected, another round of antibiotics to locate and bring home—or the chance of not even winning the fight, with Clover how she was and Libby how she was, with the leg wound and panic that threatened to turn a brain inside out and inside out again, respectively, were all too high. Too many chances, too many, too much, and nothing tipping in the favor of either Clover or Libby. Even the clouds had seemed to be getting darker with each step they took. Libby cursed the sky, now, as well as the ground.

Inside the gas station, Clover dropped to the ground, pressing her back against the moldy counter with the cash register on it—undoubtedly either empty or full of pre-war money, both useless unless you were interested in collecting dust or antiques. Libby was not.

Clover's head thudded against the wall of the counter, an exhale wracking her shoulders, her entire chest heaving from the running.

Libby felt the same way, like his lungs were about to tear apart at the seams, like his legs were going to rattle themselves out of their joints and walk off on their own. He paced the cramped gas station, wall to wall to wall to wall to wall, purple-laced combat boots over cracked tile, past mold and fallen cans and barely-intact newspapers from hundreds of years ago and—

"We'll be married," they sang to themself, quietly. Back and forth and back and forth, shaking the terror out through their fingertips, violently shaking both of their arms over and over, back and forth and wall to wall, the repeated words tumbling out of their mouth continually changing pitch and speed in their panic.

"We'll be married in the month of May . . . we'll be married in the month of May . . ." They drew out the "May," singing the cheery tune meekly. The cheeriness of it all did virtually nothing in the way of soothing their nerves, every last one of which was on edge and practically jumping out of their skin—their set path north was blocked off by a fucking gunfight, they were supposed to make it to the pharmacy by tonight, they weren't supposed to come this way, Clover wasn't supposed to be running, their entire plan had been completely derailed—but the repetition helped.

Their brain was going to crush itself like a can of Nuka-Cola. "We'll be married in the month of Mayyy . . ." Back and forth and back and forth, combat boots thunking over the tile, purple laces over cracks and stains, past boarded-up windows and Clover on the ground, over and over and over. Their knees were going to give out with how damn hard they were shaking. Now was not the time for a meltdown, now was a fucking terrible time for a meltdown . . .

Just keep singing. If she kept singing and kept pacing and kept shaking all the nastiness of her panicked cells out her arms, shaking all the bugs out through her fingertips, then she would be okay. She'd feel normal again. The gas station was dark and quiet and she'd never been more thankful for the lack of electricity. She cursed the sky and cursed the ground, but it was quiet and she was singing and she was going to be okay.

"Love," Clover cut in after Libby's quivering voice had faded away, finishing that same line for the fiftieth time in a row. "Can you do somethin' for m—"

Someone knocked on the door. It was loud and sudden and it rattled the metal and stained glass—stained, as in the buildup of over two hundred years of filth, not like in a cathedral.

Libby shrieked, leaping two feet in the air and just barely landing on her feet without falling over. Clover hissed at her, but Libby didn't hear anything but the knock, repeating again and again in her head. Her knees stopped shaking, locked fully in place. She couldn't move. Her lungs froze, chest tightened, another scream caught dead in her throat.

Clover whispered again, and again it bounced right off the barrier of Libby's brain. She couldn't take her eyes off the door, off the blurry shape of a man behind the grimy glass. One of the raiders, the men in the gunfight. He was going to kill them.

"Hey!" the man called, the word sinking Libby's stomach all the way down to her ankles. He knew they were in there. He could see them as well as they could see him—which wasn't great, but he could see them. And he heard her. Obviously.

Fuck.

"Hey, girls?" the man repeated, clearly an adult, rough on the edges, as any given wastelander would be. "You in here?"

A question. "Yeah?" Libby replied before they could think not to, voice shrill.

"Libby," Clover snapped under her breath from her spot on the floor. "Shut the fuck up."

"Ah, good!" the man replied, and it occurred to Libby right then that he must have followed them from where that gunfight had taken place. She hadn't seen him, but he'd seen her and Clover, and after he'd either killed the other raiders or abandoned what must've been his allies, he'd followed them. What the fuck. "Listen, can I come in? Somethin' I need your help with."

"Our help?"

"Just seein' as you haven't tried to kill me . . . and clearly, you're alive. Can I come in, or what?"

Libby looked to Clover, who shook her head immediately. They looked back to the door.

"I can hear you just fine," they called, unable to stop the rise of their voice from making them sound like a frightened child.

"True enough. You came 'cause of the broadcast, didn't you?"

"What?"

"The . . . the broadcast? You came right up to the radio tower—saw you in the bushes. You heard my broadcast?"

Another glance at Clover; another shake of her head. ". . . No." Another arm shake, shoulders rolling back, already aching. "N-no broadcast. I was just . . . just . . ."

"He doesn't need to know," Clover whispered. Libby nodded sharply to themself, shutting their mouth.

"Right," the man said. "Right. Okay. Well, my name is Wernher, and—"

"Just Wernher?" Clover cut in.

"Just Wernher?" Libby repeated.

"To you, yeah. I'm askin' for help here, lady. If you could just listen and stop flapping gums, that'd be much appreciated."

"Sorry."

"Don't apologize," Clover scolded.

"Not sorry. I mean—um. Go on."

". . . Thanks. You're a real joker, aren't you?" Wernher's silhouette shifted on the other side of the glass. "Listen, I thought I'd have more time before those men tracked me down . . . I come from a settlement north of here. The Pitt."

Libby gasped. Just vaguely, he could remember a Brotherhood of Steel paladin telling his story about a place called the Pitt. That had been months ago; the details had gone fuzzy.

"I've heard of the Pitt," Libby told the man. "Someone at the Citadel told me a while ago."

"That's that Brotherhood of Steel fortress, right? Yeah, I know of those guys. Your 'someone' must've been part of the attack that cleaned up the Pitt. Well . . . 'cleaned up' is a strong word. 'Calmed down' is more like it. There's no—"

"'Cleaned up' is two words, actually."

"—way that hellhole could ever be cleaned up without the cure. That's . . . wait, excuse me?"

"'Cleaned up' is two—"

"Cure?" Clover interrupted, eyes flashing when they met Libby's.

"Cure?" Libby repeated to Wernher. They blinked. "Agh, are you sick?! Fuck no, I'm not letting you in!"

"No, it's not like that. You don't catch it from other people. It's the Pitt . . . it gets to you. It's the water and the air. You can't escape it. Stay there long enough—a few years, hell, even a few weeks'll fuck you up—and it'll get to you. But listen: those bastards, the ones who have my people, they've got a cure. A way to fight off the disease. Once they've got it perfected, we don't stand a chance."

"Your people . . . ?"

"Slaves. The rest of them are still trapped, but with your help, we can get the cure and turn the tables, once and for all. Ashur will have no choice but to free the slaves once we control the cure."

"Free the slaves . . ." Libby repeated in a whisper, whirling around and dropping to their knees beside Clover. "What are you thinking? If we help him, we help slaves and I can get him to help us. He can help find antibiotics, he—we can make a deal." They laid a hand on Clover's, resting on her thigh. The leg of her pants was pinned up on the right side, making room for the bulky bandages Libby had applied herself. The boot on her right leg—the affected leg—was laced up looser than normal, accounting for the swelling that had taken hold of her foot since the infection started to develop. Libby pressed her lips together, flattening them into such a tight line it almost hurt.

"Clover," she started again, slowly. Clover hadn't even tried to reply. "I know what you're thinking, but I think this might be something I can't pass up. If—"

"If he agrees to help," Clover cut in, and Libby's stomach turned at how weak her voice sounded.

"If he agrees to help," Libby repeated with a nod. "If he can get us antibiotics, I'm going to help him. I don't know what he'll want in return, or how long it'll take, but . . . I can't . . ." They trailed off, head ducking down in any attempt to force their lungs to keep breathing, their heart to keep beating.

"Can't pass this up," Clover finished for them.

"Yeah."

Clover sighed, the rattle in her lungs audible. Her face was flush, hand clammy beneath Libby's. She was sick, and only getting worse. Libby glared at her leg, at the bandages with the edges tinged yellow, the rust-colored smudges where the bite was beneath the fabric. If only glaring was a viable solution to making your problems go away. Libby wouldn't have a single problem ever again.

"Do it," Clover said finally. "Tell him you'll help; ask him what he wants; whatever. Make a deal, you're good at shit like that." She leaned her head back against the counter, eyes fluttering shut. Libby swallowed the lump growing in his throat, getting to his feet shakily and returning to the door. Wernher's shape still stood just outside the glass, thank God.

"Okay," Libby said. "I'll help. What do you need me to do?"

"A disguise might help. We're heading into the Pitt, but they're not gonna let some random armed wastelander past the gates."

Libby couldn't swallow the lump anymore. His words choked around it, managing to come out as more of a squeak than anything. "Disguise as what?"

"A slave. If you look like one of the working stiffs, they should let you in, no problem. And lucky for us, a group of slavers is nearby, waiting on a sale. If you can get to them, you should be able to get an outfit from one of the slaves."

"I'm gonna free the slaves."

"I—sure, whatever. Just get one of their outfits. Head west, they're set up near the tunnel that leads to the Pitt. That's our first move."

"Okay." Libby eyed the man's musty silhouette, shifting from foot to foot on the other side of the glass. She contemplated opening the door, but decided against it. Not yet. "I need something in return."

"What, you mean the glory ain't good enough for you?"

"I—"

"I'm just toyin'. Trust me, you'll get plenty once this is all done with."

"I need a promise."

She could practically hear the expression on Wernher's face. "Oh?"

"I need antibiotics. If you can promise to get me some, or help me find some, then fine. I'll help you."

"Deal."

Libby's eyes widened. That was . . . easy. The hint of gleeful enthusiasm from making the promise faded just as fast as they looked back at Clover.

Her eyes were still closed. Her body limp, head slumped back against the checkout counter. Her hand still rested on her thigh, fingers clutching weakly at the fabric.

The knots Libby's stomach had tied itself into tightened. Her lungs clenched, squeezing out all the air except the bare minimum needed to stay upright.

"When do we start?" she asked Wernher, and he seemed to understand the desperation in her voice.

"Right away. Go west, get the disguise, I'll meet you by the train tunnel when you're done. Then we'll head out."

"To the Pitt."

"To the Pitt."

* * *

Chapter Text

11:48 PM. Libby and Clover crept up on the slavers faster than they could see it coming—even if they hadn't all been half-asleep. Only a couple were visible, adorned in metal and leather and holsters stocked up with guns and blades of all sorts. Hard expressions, greasy skin and hair, posted at the corners of the camp they had set up. Libby prayed it was just the two of them.

She did her best to ignore the stench, crouch-walking slowly forward with Clover on one side and her gun held in her hand on the other—just a simple 10mm, something to clear out these bastards quickly and relatively quietly.

Hopefully. She thanked God the camp was so small.

"Stay here," Libby whispered to Clover, ushering her behind one of the rusted cargo boxes that made up the slavers' little hideout. In the midst of shabby lean-tos and more misplaced cargo boxes, was a cage. Barely running ten feet on any given side, a chain-link enclosure topped with barbed wire with a gate that, in a perfect world, would already be unlocked and Libby wouldn't have to use up one of her one, two, six—she stuck a hand in her pocket and counted quickly—bobby pins. Unluckily for her, it had already been proven firsthand over, over, and over again that this was not a perfect world.

Libby counted the slaves inside, squinting at the distance and the darkness from where she crouched, hidden from the two guards. Three of them seemed to be alive, unless the one she spotted on the ground was, in fact, dead, and not just sitting down. Two were very clearly dead, even at the distance. If Libby was seeing right, one of them seemed to be . . . in pieces.

"I don't like this, lover," Clover murmured. "Let's get this over with fast."

"Yeah." Libby tried to give her something akin to a reassuring smile, faltering at the look on her face. "Of course."

Please, please make this easy. And fast. And for the love of God, please let Wernher keep his fucking promise.

There was only one way to find out the answer to either of those prayers. With a squeeze of Clover's hand and another whispered promise traded between the two of them to stay safe, Libby ducked their head and headed out. Creeping around the cargo container, one hand running along the rusted metal, the other gripping their 10mm with white knuckles. They held their breath. Counted the guards again, counted the slaves, mentally counted their bobby pins, and prayed for one of the aforementioned guards to have a key.

Two guards within sight, three living slaves—moving closer, they grew more confident that the one on the ground was truly alive—and six bobby pins tucked in the pocket of someone who barely knew how to use them. The only number they weren't worried about was the amount of ammo they had tucked away. Even if this ended up as a firefight, and if it ended up going to shit . . . there had to be at least some solace in knowing Libby wouldn't be running out of rounds anytime soon.
God, this place smelled awful.

The dry grass reached up to Libby's knees. It scratched at her bare elbows, bare because in the face of either dying from heat exhaustion or dying from exposed forearms, she gladly chose the latter. And besides, her Pip-Boy shielded her left forearm, at least a little bit. And besides besides, what kind of self-respecting raider would aim for the forearm , instead of, like, the head? Unless the goal was to disarm, of course, which Libby had done many times herself on the days when she was actually able to hit what she was aiming for . . . but none of that was helping right now. Covered forearms or not, they had one shot at this, and their shitty t-shirt wasn't one they were too keen on dying in.

Corrugated metal stuck up from the ground as grass shifted to dirt, shifted to rocks beneath Libby's feet. She snuck past, holding her breath as if a single too-loud exhale would make either of the guards turn their head. They both seemed . . . kind of oblivious. Distracted, either by whatever might be going on outside their camp, or the sleepiness that came with being awake at 11:55 PM. It was almost midnight, which was a stupid word if you were the type of person to not go to bed until at least midnight, like Libby was. Butch always made fun of her for that; staying up until the ungodly hours of the night, only to sleep in until hours after everyone else had woken up. If uninterrupted, she knew she could sleep late into the afternoon; it had happened before. Many times.

Not nowadays, of course, with her staying awake with Clover every night and day. But even with the severe cut in the amount of hours she slept, there was nothing that could twist her up and make her feel worse—physically speaking—than the sheer worry that wracked her body day in and day out. Worry over Clover, over Butch, over the things that kept happening in Megaton, over the longevity of Project Purity, which had been finished months ago and was still going strong so far, but who was to say how long that would last—or worry over the crack of the twig snapping beneath their boot.

They froze. Not a single movement, a single sound . . . barely daring to move their eyes in their sockets, glancing at each of the guards.

Nothing. They hadn't heard. Libby let out a silent breath, scanning the ground before their next step—quiet, this time. No twigs. Nothing but their breath, breathing in and out slowly . . . quietly. Inching over to the cage, ducking behind metal sheets made into haphazard walls, around wooden posts riddled with splinters. The 10mm in Libby's hands was warm just from being held, their grip growing tighter and sweatier as they neared the slave pen, closer, closer. Just east, on the other side of the camp, Libby spotted the train tunnel, presumably the one Wernher had directed them to. Its gaping mouth sat across from the fencing Libby crouched beside, looming concrete built into moonlit rocks crawling with moss and shadows.

The gravel crunched beneath Libby's boots, continuing to hold their breath as they made their way to the gate entering into the pen. The closer they got, the stronger the stench, until it was overwhelming; a putrid, sour scent tainting the air with death, decay, and humans in poor, poor health. The only plus of reaching the gate was that neither of the slavers were pointed in its direction. Both of their filthy heads were slouched, making it uncomfortably unclear if they were even awake. One of them shuddered with a grating snore just then, answering Libby's question.

She bit back the giggle rising in her throat, instead sticking a sweaty hand into her pocket and fumbling for a bobby pin. Her fingers curled around the thin wire, already starting to bend it into position as she pulled her hand out. After taking another deep breath and squinting at the guards once more, she holstered her pistol, satisfied that, at least for now, she was safe. She finished bending the bobby pin, fashioning it into a handy little DIY lockpick and pulling out her screwdriver—from a different pocket, one of many—and jamming both into the padlock on the gate.

It clanked. It clicked. It grinded and creaked, her palms already sweaty, grip already slipping on her homemade lockpick. Focus kept her calm—for now. Focus kept her from noticing any sounds other than the aforementioned noisy lockpicking.

Snap! The bobby pin broke, and Libby swallowed a groan, grabbing another bobby pin and quickly bending it the same as before. Another try. Another clank. Another click; another grinding, creaking endeavour. The padlock rattled against the chain-link fence.

Snap! Again! The bobby pin broke in half and Libby cursed under his breath, tossing the broken piece to the side. Four bobby pins left. Two for two broken so far . . . this wasn't looking good. Libby shuffled his sleeves, rolling them up higher and steeling himself to try a third time, when—

"Hey! Get the fuck away from there!" one of the slavers shouted, already aiming his shotgun at Libby when she whirled around. There was barely a moment to retaliate, to pull out her own gun before the man fired. The blast fired into the pen, just barely missing Libby and the three living slaves inside. Libby leapt to the side, throwing herself behind the closest cover she could reach: one of the metal-and-wood lean-tos, this one with a moldy mattress on the ground and a refrigerator with no door helping to make up one of the walls. Libby covered her head with one hand, yanking her 10mm out of its holster with the other before shifting her grip to hold the gun with both hands, aiming straight.

She fired twice, hitting the closest slaver once in the shoulder and barely missing his head. He yelled, veering to the side when he fired his shotgun—the blood pouring from the hole in his shoulder clearly affecting his aim. Libby shot again, reaching her arms between the poorly-crafted shack walls and aiming directly at the man's head as he stumbled backward, clamping one hand over his shoulder. Blood spilled through his fingers, soaking the thin fabric beneath his armor—armor that he'd apparently lacked the foresight to place over his shoulders, but then again, the kid with the exposed forearms— God forbid— was certainly one to talk. She held her arms steady, aiming the gun, relaxing her elbows just slightly.

Breathe in, breathe out.

The slaver lifted his shotgun again, face twisted with the effort to ignore his blasted shoulder just long enough to—

Bam! Libby winced at the gunshot, already braced for the recoil—the smaller the gun, the smaller the kickback, and she thanked the heavens for that—before ducking back beneath the cover before she could see too clearly what she'd just done to that man's face. With her head down, scraped knees under her jeans pressed to the damp ground, she quickly reloaded her gun. Ten seconds of distraction, on focusing on not fumbling with the magazine, tops. In the second between her hearing the footsteps and turning her head, the second slaver—the one she'd been stupid enough to let out of her sight—lunged at her from behind, knife in hand.

Libby screamed. Rolled to the side just as the man crashed into where they'd been crouching just a second before, their gun flying into some dusty corner or another. They kicked at him, missing the knife in his hand but managing to land their foot right in the grasp of his other hand. He grabbed tight and they yelped, crashing to the ground. Their chin hit the floor, teeth slamming into their lip. Blood filled their mouth.

"You!" the man growled, fingers digging into Libby's ankle. "You're that bitch who shot up Paradise Falls!" He tugged, forcing himself to his feet and dragging Libby toward him. The knife glinted, sharp and bright in the corner of Libby's eyes, and way too fucking close for comfort.

"You heard of me?!" they gasped, not bothering to tell him that it was actually Clover who did most of the shooting before kicking again with their other foot. Their boot landed squarely on the man's arm, loosening his grip and earning a grunt from him. They kicked again— fast, as hard as they could—but not before he landed a hit with his knife, slicing a gash into the back of their leg. They screamed, the sudden adrenaline from being fucking stabbed giving just enough strength to jerk their foot from the man's grip once and for all. They scrambled onto their knees, whirling to face the man and spotting the metal shelf behind him in the cramped shack they faced off in. He lunged again, the whoosh of the knife slicing through the air right by Libby's head, but she was faster. At the same time, she leapt forward, dodging around the slaver and grabbing onto the metal shelf. She pulled it down, yanking with all her might and letting it slam down on top of the man, knocking him to the ground with an angry yell.

Her gun was still in the shack somewhere—it was too dark to see. Her head spun too fast, stomach churning from the smells, the panic, the blood soaking her jeans. It didn't hurt yet. She dreaded the moment that it would, dreaded whatever the fuck could have been on that man's knife.

Sprinting out of the shack, jumping over the shelf and the man trapped underneath, she slammed into the wooden wall in her haste to turn the corner. The slave pen on the right, and the train tunnel beyond that, the rest of the small camp was bathed in shadows. The edges of Libby's vision vibrated.

They dashed past the first slaver's corpse, still lying on the ground, surrounded by blood. The terror kept them distracted from the gash in their leg—for now. Slowing down in the center of the camp, spinning in a frenzied circle in a failed attempt to orient themself, they could feel the adrenaline draining, feel the pain starting to glow.

"Clover!" she called, glancing from one shabby structure to another, mind going blank on where she'd told Clover to hide. "Clover, I lost my gun!"

A crash exploded from behind; the remaining slaver had shoved the shelf off of him, now approaching Libby once more. The rage in his eyes, the knife still clutched in his hand, was enough to render Libby immobile—fully paralyzed in the middle of the camp.

She lost her gun. She'd only brought the one; Clover had her shotgun and her shishkebab, they'd both thought it would be enough. They hadn't planned on getting caught up in gunfights or elaborate bargains involving trips up to Pittsburgh— fucking Pittsburgh.

The man stomped and she squeaked. He stepped forward and she stepped back, stumbling over her own feet, face scrunching up when the pain in her calf hit all at once, nearly knocking her clean to the ground. The blood still on the slaver's knife— Libby's blood—caught a beam of the moonlight, sending another blast of panic through her at the realization.

He stabbed her. He stabbed her. He stabbed her and she was bleeding and obviously, she hadn't brought nearly enough medical supplies for this.

Her steps faltered, knees buckling from the pulsating pain in her leg as the man kept approaching, kept getting closer and closer with the blood on his knife and the grime on his face and the death on his breath.

He sneered at her. "What's wrong, little girl?" he rasped. "You afraid? Took out the big bad Eulogy Jones all by yourself, and here you are, meetin' your match?" Another step. A wave of his knife. Libby's lungs ached, inhaling nothing with every panicked attempt at a breath. "Gonna call for your daddy, little girl—"

"Lib, get down!" Clover's shout came from behind, and Libby obeyed immediately, hearing Clover move behind her the second before she hit the ground, clutching her hands over her head.

BAM! The explosion was instant, the deafening fire from Clover's gun, the blood immediately blossoming from the slaver's mangled chest, splattering over himself and Libby. He gasped, choking on his own breath, his own spit, stumbling backwards on shaking legs. The knife fell from his hand, hitting the dry grass with a silent thud. Libby squeezed her eyes shut before the man collapsed, before his gasping turned to gargling, turned to nothing. The weight of his dead body hitting the ground sent a tremor through the dirt, shuddering through Libby.

His blood was hot on their skin.

They took a breath and it sounded like a dying bird had been caught in their chest; a pathetic, breathless whine that they nearly choked on before a hand was on their shoulder and Clover was right there and she was saying, over and over, "It's okay, it's okay, it's over now, we did it. We're okay."

And they were.

Libby opened their eyes and both of the men were still dead and that was all there was. Just two of them, drenched in blood with broken skulls and broken lives.

But Clover was alive, and Libby was alive—splattered in blood, but alive—and it was over now.

The slaves were alive, gathered in the back of their pen, shadowed by the night and the distance. Any closer and Libby was confident they'd be met with wide eyes and frightened faces. Free faces, as soon as they figured out how to get that gate open.

. . . Fuck, their leg hurt.

"You're bleeding," Clover said, as if reading their mind. They forced a smile on their face.

"Eh, I've had worse."

And you have worse, they wanted to add, brow furrowing as it always did when they glanced at Clover's leg, at the bandages and the bloodstains and the discolored skin underneath. She holstered her sawed-off shotgun, and Libby couldn't tell if the look on her face was because she was actually that calm, or if she was pretending, when she took their hands and helped them to their feet.

"I figured I'd be the one helping you stand," Libby tried to joke, tried not to wobble. Their voice came out sounding closer to a sob.

"I told you, honey, I'm okay. I've got some bandages, c'mon." Her grip tightened on Libby, holding them by the forearms—miraculously unscathed, despite being, as previously mentioned, uncovered—and leading them across the camp, to an old chair propped up beside one of the shacks. They tried to keep their eyes on Clover, keep from looking at either of the dead slavers on the ground. As soon as the chair was within reach, they plopped down onto it with a grunt, melting into the plastic as Clover took a seat on the ground right in front of them. She sat Libby's foot on her lap, easing up the blood-soaked leg of their jeans and rolling the cuff so it would stay.

"Just get it over with," Libby began in a dramatically distraught whisper. "Tell me, doc: am I going to die?"

"Well, the bleeding's not too bad, actually, but I have my suspicions."

Libby narrowed his eyes. "Suspicions?"

Clover waved a hand, taking an old handkerchief from her pocket and pressing it to the wound. Libby winced. "Oh, the usual. I think you'll be just fine, though, sweetie. Don't worry." She met his eyes. "Your death'll be unrelated to this."

"Ah. Comforting."

"Ain't it?" Clover kept the cloth held firmly, her palm flat against the leg.

Libby counted her breaths, managing to hold her leg still, keeping from fidgeting too much. How many months had it been? Seven? Eight? And being so close to Clover still got her heart beating faster than she could say "ow" when Clover adjusted her grip on the handkerchief? They were engaged, for God's sake, but while some habits died hard, Libby figured that some habits never died at all.

If getting nervous around the most beautiful woman in the otherwise not-so-beautiful wasteland was something that could be considered a habit. Maybe it wasn't. Maybe it was just the only plausible reaction anyone ever would have to being around Clover. It definitely was for Libby.

"I have a theory . . ." Clover began under her breath after several minutes had passed of her holding the cloth firmly and Libby internally freaking out over her—as she tended to do alarmingly often. Slowly, Clover moved her hand and the handkerchief away from the wound, humming to herself when she moved the leg with her hand to see the back, where the wound was located.

"A theory?" Libby squeaked, white-knuckling either side of their chair's plastic seat. "First your 'suspicions,' now what?"

"I don't think it's bleedin' too much."

"Am I a guinea pig to you?"

"If you are, you sure are a cute one."

"Aw, gee." Libby swung her other leg up, giving a shy little kick to the side of where Clover sat. "Got my cheeks all pink and everything."

"Your cheeks are always pink."

"Babe."

"What?" Clover looked up, a scrunched smile on her face. She had pulled her bag off her back, rifling through with both hands, before pulling out a bottle of vodka and another handkerchief—this one was made of gingham, all red and white and pretty. Clover popped the cap off the vodka with her teeth.

"Be nice to me," Libby reprimanded only half-jokingly, eyeing the alcohol Clover poured onto the fresh handkerchief. She reached toward their leg again, fingers cold on their skin despite the heat of the summer night.

"Eh. It's not my fault this is gonna sting." Had her voice always been so hoarse?

Libby had done this same thing exactly, taking the vodka from the pantry because they'd run out of antiseptic, just a couple weeks ago. They'd been too late then. The wound had already been dirtied and dressed; the infection had already started, already started to spread..

Libby's stomach turned, already clenching hard enough to make them sick before Clover even touched the alcohol to the gash.

"Ready?" Clover warned, her other hand tightening its grip on Libby's leg, squeezing and twisting their calf just enough to reach the wound.

"Yeah," Libby said faintly, forcing at least a little bit of confidence into their voice. It didn't work. "I'm always ready. For everything, always."

"I can find you something to bite, if you like."

"Nah . . . I can just look at you." They forced a smile. Clover didn't return it.

"Okay."

The gash was right above Libby's ankle on the back of their calf, the firm flesh already hurting like hell. She gritted her teeth, gripping the plastic seat and keeping to her word, staring dead ahead at Clover. She dabbed at the cut with the cloth, still turning Libby's leg firmly with her other hand, and immediately, the pain swelled up, forcing a whimper out of Libby's mouth. Clamping her lips shut did nothing—gripping the chair did nothing—staring at Clover only helped a little.

"Sorry, sweetie," Clover murmured, not looking up and dabbing carefully with the cloth once more. As best and gently as she could, she cleaned the wound. "I'm tryin' to be fast. I think I'm right, though: it's not nearly as deep as it looked."

Libby resisted the whimper rising in her throat. "Mhm," she peeped in response. Silver linings, silver linings. Maybe she wouldn't even need stitches.

"There." Clover tossed the blood-and-vodka handkerchief to the side and Libby took a deep breath, closing their eyes and waiting for the sting to subside. Clover shuffled around in her bag some more, unrolling a section of bandages when Libby opened their eyes again. She wrapped the bandages swiftly around their leg, secure around the wound, and tied it off neatly. It would be a temporary fix for now—once they were able, they would re-check, re-clean, and re-bandage—but at least they wouldn't be bleeding out.

Libby looked to the skies—closing their eyes, never looking at the skies—and prayed that it wouldn't get infected.

They rolled their pant leg back down while Clover got to her feet, a limp visible in her normally graceful gait as she moved to the remains of the slaver she had shot. He lay on the ground almost peacefully, with one arm crossed over his stomach. Peaceful, if not for his head having caved into an unrecognizable mess of blood, flesh, and shattered bone.

Clover's hand brushed over her holstered shotgun, leather straps fashioned against the crimson leg of the suit that had once belonged to Eulogy Jones—she had modified it herself months ago, adjusting the size and claiming it as her own. Libby watched her.

She did that. The slaver. She stared at the damage she had caused, and Libby couldn't help but wonder if she was admiring the power of violence, of destruction, that she held in a holster on her hip. In her bare hands, in every muscle in her body, in that animalistic flash in her eyes whenever Libby or Butch were in danger; whenever anyone they came across so much as looked at the three of them the wrong way.

It was in the way her cheeks flushed and her hands clenched, the way her aim was always exact, always deadly. In the way she'd killed that man, the same way she'd killed Eulogy—except not. Eulogy's death had dragged on; she'd made damn sure of that. This had been fast. A single shot and it was over.

It was in the way she did exactly what she said she would, all those months ago. She said she would protect Libby with her life, and she had, and she continued to. Continued to put herself at risk, put herself in danger, all for the sake of keeping Libby safe. She kept them by her side, kept them behind, so they didn't have to see the destruction, the blood, the sky.

There was only so much she could protect them from—they'd both learned that over and over, from the death of Libby's dad, to them nearly dying the same way he had, to her nearly losing them again to the wilderness of off-coast Maryland.

Clover kept insisting she was fine. Kept proving it over and over, kept going out into the wastes by Libby's side—never leaving them alone—and throwing herself into every single self-defensive scrap they came across, or that came across them.

But her bandages had bled through again.

Her hair was falling out again.

Her dark eyes had never looked so . . . dark.

Libby looked down at her hands, twisting the silver ring on her finger around once, twice, three times, before getting up. Clover's hand was deep in the dead slaver's pockets by the time Libby made her way over, walking tenderly on her freshly-bandaged leg. Clover pulled out her hand with a smile on her face, handing the ring of keys she retrieved to Libby.

"One of these has gotta unlock that cage, hey?" she asked with that same glint in her eyes, that ache of arbitrary anticipation.

"Let's hope so," Libby said with a nod, passing the keys between her hands and feeling the jingle tickle her brain. She shuddered—a good shudder, one that trailed from her brain down to her spine."Nice job, Clove!"

Clover's smile widened, her eyes big and bright and shining for one brief, perfect second before her expression sank back to its normal scowl. She straightened up next to Libby, offering her hand and squeezing tight when Libby accepted. Hand in hand, they headed to the slave pen, each leaving an uneven set of footprints in the sand.

Upon arriving at the gate, Libby pulled away from Clover to try the keys on the ring—unlabeled, because of course they were. One at a time, she inserted each key into the padlock on the gate, trying to turn each one that fit enough to do so. Finally, two keys away from the end, one of them let out a satisfying click, and the gate swung open. Libby stepped back, letting the hinges creak and open fully. Clover put a hand on her shoulder.

The slaves inside didn't move at first. There were three of them alive, like Libby had clocked from the start of this whole thing. Three men with grimy skin and gaunt faces, clothed in rags stained in shades of brown, yellow, and a concerningly bright shade of red.

The remaining two were already dead. Their corpses lay sprawled over mattresses coated in filth. One was, like Libby had noticed and feared, in pieces, blood soaking into the dry dirt. Scraps of flesh littered the ground, and Libby tried not to look at the body, at the bones protruding from the dismembered limbs. She tried to breathe through her mouth to keep from gagging at the smell—oh God, the smell—

One of the slaves—ex-slaves, now—walked to the open gate and Libby dug her heels into the ground, not letting herself fall backwards or crumple into a ball or run far, far away from every human but Clover. Her nose fought for freedom from her face, every inch of her body and brain desperate to not physically be in this moment.

Fuck . . . it wasn't their fault, Libby knew it wasn't their fault . . . but they smelled awful.

"Hey," she managed, "sorry about the wait, I—"

"You killed them!" the man cried. "You—are you real? You really killed them? Are you going to save us? Where are you taking us?"

"We're not taking you anywhere," Clover said firmly from just over Libby's shoulder.

"I need your clothes," Libby explained to the man, before realizing that was a horrible explanation and shaking her head sharply. "I mean; you're free now. We're not taking you anywhere, no, but you can go wherever you want and—oh wait, I can give you directions to the Lincoln Memorial. You can find help there. But I do need your clothes. First."

"Wait, wait, wait," the man shook his hands at Libby's face as if clearing the air of any possible misunderstandings. "Free? We're free? You're sure?" At Libby's nod, he let his hands fall, the look on his weathered face somewhere between incredulity, glee, and absolute, overwhelming exhaustion. "You're either the kindest person in the world or the stupidest. . . Either way, thank you, anything you need from me you can have. It's the least I can do."

"Great! Give me your clothes. I need to look like a slave," Libby added at the look on the man's face.

"My . . . clothes? Off my back?" He paused. "Well, I guess that's fair. You did help us . . ." He started reaching for the leather straps of his tattered outfit, tugging it off his shoulders, but Libby stopped him.

"Hang on—let me give you the directions first."

. . . Instead of talking to a man in his underwear—if he even had that underneath the rags of his outfit—Libby pulled up the map on her Pip-Boy, dragging a finger over the screen and showing the first man, as well as the other two that walked over, the fastest route to the Lincoln Memorial. She told them about the group living there, how they helped escaped—or freed—slaves. She told them they'd be all right there. If they could make it to the Lincoln Memorial, they'd be all right. Libby had helped ensure that firsthand months ago.

The first man Libby spoke to, who introduced himself as Prosper, stripped off his clothes and handed the rags to them. He was about to head off, about to say something or another about finding something . . . somewhere—silver linings, silver linings—but Clover reappeared before he could. Libby had barely noticed she'd vanished, too distracted by the Pip-Boy and the directions, but she returned with a full outfit in her hands: shirt, pants, even a belt with a holster still attached, pistol still visible inside. Only enough for one person, but of the three ex-slaves, Prosper was the only one no longer sufficiently clothed.

"I didn't want to touch his feet," Clover said, shoving the clothes into Prosper's hands. Libby looked over their shoulder, eyes widening at the now-naked slaver still on the ground behind them. His boots were still on his feet, and silently, Libby agreed about not wanting to touch them, but they were surprised they hadn't heard the ordeal of Clover shuffling off the pants without first removing the boots.

The man's head was still blown to bits . . . but hey, at least now his clothes were being put to good use.

Prosper pulled on the pants, mouth widening into a smile when they fit—which seemed to surprise everyone gathered around in the pen. He slipped on the shirt and then took Libby's hands in his, giving them a squeeze and repeating to them, "Thank you! Thank you so much!" He went to do the same gesture to Clover, but she stuck her hands into her pockets, so he nodded deeply instead. "Thank you both, for everything. Please, be safe, with whatever endeavors you have!"

He and his two friends ran off, dodging the wooden and metal shacks that made up the camp and disappearing behind one of the massive cargo containers. Their footsteps faded away into the night.

Libby let out her breath.

Assuming she was as good at giving directions as she hoped, that was three people helped, and one disguise acquired. A job well done, all things considered. Assuming the outfit even fit, considering its owner, Prosper, was a man and Libby, for the time being, was not. And assuming it was the right type of disguise Wernher had wanted in the first place. Libby didn't know how specific things were when it came to the slaves' attire in the Pitt, but this would have to be good enough. The only other options for clothing were, first of all, also mens' clothes, and second . . . well . . .

Libby approached the dead slave, the one whose body was still intact, her stomach twisting at his appearance. Clover peered over their shoulder, following closely. Her lips pursed.

"Damn," she whispered. Libby couldn't muster up the strength to agree.

The man lay on the mattress on his back. From a very, very far distance, it could almost seem like he was asleep, but his eyes were plastered wide open, all red and dry and crusty. Cloudy, too, like he'd gone blind. His skin looked thin, tinted yellow and green with thick, swollen veins carving dark tracks over his body. They covered his face, intersecting and creating a sickly cobweb of blood and . . . whatever the disease caused that made them so swollen in the first place. Patches covered his body that almost looked like rot , or like something similar to ghoulification. His skin was split open in places, large scabby areas that peeled off of his flesh, some places almost appearing to go to the bone.

It wasn't clear just how long he'd been dead, but Libby got the nauseating feeling that he had looked like this long before he'd finally reached those pearly gates.

"That must be what the disease is," Clover murmured. "The one in the Pitt."

"With the cure . . . ?" Libby looked at her and she nodded, but there was a hesitation. A noticeable tremor in the way she held herself.

Libby's stomach twisted, churning over and over with every new detail they noticed on the body—the gaping holes on his face, crusted by blood and framed by veins and bruises—and they backed up. Wiping their free hand roughly on their pants despite not having touched the body, they gripped the scraps of clothing tighter in their other hand, looking at Clover with eyes wide from sudden panic.

"I think we should go," they said weakly, knowing how green they had turned from the look on Clover's face. "Find Wernher, and—and—"

"Got the disguise?" a gruff voice cut in before Libby could even turn around. They froze, recognizing the voice. Wernher. Face to face for the first time—if Libby could turn around. "Good work. C'mon, we're ready to head out."

"'We'?" Clover echoed. Libby couldn't get themself to turn away from the body. It was a twisted, sickly magnet, and their eyes were stuck. They had frozen completely.

"Yeah. Me and you. Well, her." A pause. "I don't think I caught your name, joker."

"Don't call them that," Clover snapped. "It's Libby. And I'm Clover."

"Just Clover?" Wernher's voice dripped with . . . something. Libby still couldn't turn around to look at him—or Clover. Even if they could, they didn't feel like deciphering tones today. Not anymore.

"To you," Clover said coldly, "yes."

The corpse twitched.

"Fuck!" Libby yelped, jumping backwards and slamming into Clover, who caught their arm.

"What!" she cried, and Libby pointed a shaking finger at the dead man.

"H-he moved."

"What?"

"He—I-I . . . I saw . . ."

"Thought you saw," Wernher corrected harshly, brushing past Libby to stand on the other side of the body. He gave the man a firm kick in the ribs. The impact made him shudder, but then he went still. His eyes stayed open, but he was very . . . very dead.

Libby bit her tongue, forcing the taste of blood down her throat to keep a sob from choking its way out.

What was going to happen to the man's corpse? Were they just going to leave it here for the animals to find? To be eaten, or to decompose in the weather, and not buried? Wouldn't the animals just get sick too? Wernher had said it wasn't contagious, but he hadn't mentioned the case of physical ingestion.

"Haven't even made it to the Pitt," Wernher grumbled, "and you're already seein' things."

"Shut the fuck up, or I'll make you wish you did," Clover said, keeping her voice remarkably even despite the rage Libby knew she was feeling. It was in her grip, cold and tight as iron around their wrist—but if she was hurting them, they couldn't feel it. The only hint that her words were a threat she very much intended to make good on was the slight break in the word "fuck."

Her voice kept getting hoarser. Libby closed their eyes for a moment and thanked God she was still able to grab them so tightly. They wished she would squeeze tighter. Make them feel it, make them bleed from her nails in their wrist, just to know she still could. They prayed she wasn't holding so tight just so she could keep upright. They prayed the infection wouldn't get worse before they got their promised antibiotics.

Wernher chuckled lowly. Oblivious. His boots were still the only part of him Libby had seen clearly. She didn't look up.

She didn't know what happened to her dad's body. He was right there, he was right there in the Jefferson Memorial, and then . . . then he was gone. Libby had watched him die. She hadn't gotten to say goodbye.

She hadn't gotten to bury him.

It had been over a month by the time she returned to the memorial, to the site of Project Purity, with Clover, Butch, and the Brotherhood of Steel in tow. Liberty Prime's robotic voice had echoed through the wasteland, leading them to certain victory . . . or certain doom. They were there to take down the Enclave . . . and they did. The doom hadn't come until later. Or earlier, depending on who you asked.

But Dad was gone. He wasn't in the memorial—wasn't where he'd collapsed to the ground. He'd stopped breathing on that floor and Libby had watched him go still, but he was gone. Gone gone.

Had the Enclave taken him? Buried him, burned him? Had anyone kicked him like Wernher had kicked the slave?

Had anyone known his name?

Wernher and Clover stared at Libby. She blinked, finally tearing her gaze from the body and noticing Wernher's appearance for the first time. Red hair made grey by the dull moonlight, tan skin coated in grime—same as his clothes—and . . . an eyepatch. His remaining eye—left—narrowed.

. . . No one said anything.

She blinked again. "What . . .?"

"Are you okay?" Clover asked at the same time Wernher demanded:

"Keep yourself together; we have a job to do."

It took a third, purposeful blink for Libby to realize she was crying.

"Why are you like this?" Clover snarled at Wernher, jabbing a finger into his shoulder. He scowled in response, yellow teeth baring for just a moment.

"Just trying to stay on track here. If you're ready . . . Libby . . . let's get moving. The train tunnel that'll take us to the Pitt isn't far."

"Where did you even come from? Did you fucking follow us?!"

"Twice now, yeah."

"What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"I don't let opportunities go fleeing away." Wernher's voice had gone low, its nasal qualities not lost in his frustration. He turned away from Clover, giving Libby a hard look with his one eye. "You good, or what?"

They managed a nod, wiping their eyes with the backs of their hands and smearing the tears over their cheeks. "I'm okay," they sniffled. "I'm ready."

"Good. Let's go." Wernher's frown deepened. "You have everything ready for the trip?"

"Yeah," Libby said after exchanging a glance with Clover. "We were ready to go pretty far anyway."

"Good," Wernher repeated. He turned without another word, moving quickly out of the slave pen and through the camp, off to the nearby tunnel. Clover moved to follow him, but Libby grabbed her hand, stopping her gently. She looked back at them, the concern on her face visible even in the darkness.

The night had grown to be nearly pitch-black, the only upside to that being that the sky was barely more than a blotted-out void of nothing, dotted with the occasional star. Infinitely, cosmically horrifying, still, but a little easier to avoid looking at, at least, when it wasn't the brightest thing around. No visible clouds, either . . . God, Libby hated clouds.

He shuddered, and Clover gave his hand a squeeze.

"Just for the antibiotics," she said. "We'll stick together; it'll be all right. C'mon, lover."

"For the antibiotics," Libby agreed, hating how his voice came out as nothing but a whisper. He ran his fingers beneath his eyes, wiping away the tear tracks and hating, hating, that the worm of worry about the sky and the nightmares it held had once again taken root in his brain. It was inescapable, every single fucking day they spent outside overwhelmed with that fear that no one else felt . At least their next destination, for as long as the road was, was a tunnel. Infinitely better than doing anything outside, in the open wastes with the open air and the open sky just . . . there.

Ready to swallow you up at any moment.

Libby wasn't ready to follow Dad yet.

They squeezed Clover's hand tighter and she squeezed back, tugging them forward and leading them after Wernher. He hadn't bothered to check if they were following, predictably, having already disappeared into the night.

At least the tunnel was nearby.

At least Libby could keep holding Clover's hand, walking over rocks—not looking at the bodies, not the slaves nor the slavers—and nearly tripping over the uneven path. Clover held them steady.

At least they could look up at the tunnel, all big and cement and brick and altogether ominous, and give a name to it. Like something from an old-world horror film—the gateway that a monster would jump out of, maybe—Libby didn't know, she hadn't ever watched them.

At least when she gasped with a shudder that ran through her whole body, a tremor in every limb, she knew Clover felt it too.

The tunnel felt big. It was big, obviously, but it felt . . . bigger. Like there was no going back from here. Or like maybe there was, but it wasn't a way back that wouldn't change you. For better or worse.

Libby squeezed Clover's hand again.

"Any last words?"

Wernher was waiting for them. Clover squeezed back.

"Never."

* * *

Chapter Text

Inside the tunnel, Wernher stood against a large metal cart with the kind of handle-lever-whatevers in the center that made Libby's arms ache just from looking at them. He stared straight ahead, looking at the grates on the thick metal gate closing off the tunnel. Glancing at Libby and Clover for only a second, he gave a nod, just barely acknowledging their arrival. He was already frowning, not that that was unusual; Libby couldn't recall having ever seen him smile in the short time she'd known him.

The problem was that, when he did look their way as they stepped closer, he was frowning at Clover. She frowned back.

"Uh, everything okay?" Libby asked, cutting through the tension between the two before it could get any thicker. She didn't want to risk that kind of suffocation, not in such close quarters, not when they hadn't even started out on their journey down the dark, dark tunnel. Only a couple barrels were visible, flames licking out the tops, illuminating the grim brick walls, the cement ceiling.

"One more thing before we go," Wernher said, and Libby nodded.

"Ah, great. I love surprises."

"It's about your, eh . . . companion."

"What about me?" Clover hissed, brushing up against Libby, whose eyes widened. Both of them stared at Wernher, who crossed his arms.

"I've only got enough supplies here for two. She's gonna have to stay behind."

"We have our own supplies—"

"And besides," Wernher cut in, "we don't need some diseased whore tagging along with us. She'll only get in the way."

What.

"I'm sorry?" Libby stammered, barely able to register Wernher's words before Clover lurched forward, snapping at his throat in an instant—or close enough. She lunged and grabbed onto the collar of his vest with both hands, jerking him so hard his ass slammed into the cart he'd been leaning against and he grunted loudly.

"Take that back," Clover spat in his face, yanking him close to her only to slam him back again, knocking him onto the metal bed of the cart. He nearly toppled over, instinctively pulling up one leg and kicking it at Clover's legs, but she leapt back, eyes flashing, flaming.

"Stop it, stop it!" Libby screamed.

"Take it back!" Clover yelled.

"Fine!" Wernher said, matching the volume in the tunnel. All three of their voices echoed, before settling into heavy breathing.

Wernher and Clover kept their gazes locked in a silent spitting match, a staring contest to the death. Neither dared to move, with Clover's hands clenched at her side as tight as she could without her nails drawing blood, and Wernher's one eye darkening beyond recognition. Libby's chest was tight.

"Clover," they whispered, but she didn't look at them.

"I'm coming," she said to Wernher. He shook his head, propping himself up on his elbows, still sitting on the cart. Clover seemed to appreciate him being physically beneath her, at least until he sat up further.

"You aren't. I only have enough supplies for two, I'm sorry about the way I worded it, but you aren't coming."

"I have my own gear."

"It won't work."

"I'm coming; you can't make me stay."

Wernher looked to Libby, who immediately shook her head, freezing up. "No, no, no, no, no, no, no," she stammered. "No, no, no, no—"

"This'll only work if it's just the two of us."

"No—"

"Why?" Clover demanded.

"It's delicate. Can't have more than one of you goin' in, that'd be one way to ensure you draw attention—which you don't want. It has to be her alone."

"They can go in and I can go wherever you go."

"No," Wernher snapped.

Clover narrowed her eyes, lifting one hand as if to use it in continuing her argument, but Libby squeaked at her, "Wait."

She turned. "Hon, hold on."

"No, no, no, no, no, wait."

"What?"

Libby waved her over frantically and she hurried to their side, the two of them huddling in the corner of the tunnel and doing their best to ignore the look Wernher was giving them. Libby ran their hands through their hair, bright red and freshly dyed, wet with sweat. Their chest hurt, the inside of their rib cage bruised from how hard their heart was beating. Like a caged hummingbird with a death wish.

"I think maybe, maybe, maybe you should stay," they told Clover quietly, shakily. "I-I think maybe you should go home, because you're hurt and you shouldn't have to pretend to be a slave again and I think I would rather die than see you in danger one more time. Especially like this." They looked down at her leg, at the bandages, at the blood. She shifted her weight, resting all of it on her good leg. Her arms crossed.

"I can protect you."

"I . . . I think I can protect myself now." Libby's voice didn't sound like her own. It was faint, it was high, it was scared. "I think you need to go home. But I don't know how to do this alone."

She had to. She was going to have to, if Wernher was as certain and stubborn as he sounded. She was going to have to do this alone, as absolutely terrifying as that sounded, but she didn't have it in her to convince Clover of that.

"I can come, I can—"

"Clover," Libby squeezed her eyes shut, "please. You have to go home."

. . .

". . . Okay."

Libby burst into tears. Clover gasped, immediately reaching both her arms around Libby and pulling her close to her chest, running one hand in a quick, soothing motion over her hair.

"Oh, sweetheart," she murmured, her comforting drowned out by Libby's sudden, irrepressible wailing. It caught in their throat, choked-up whimpers and pathetic sobs that echoed in the dark tunnel. They smushed their face against Clover, unsuccessfully burying their—also unsuccessful—attempt to calm themselves down in the folds of her red satin suit.

"For crying out loud," Wernher snapped—presumably no pun intended—"the hell's her problem?"

"Shut your fucking mouth or so help me, I will tear out your tongue and shove it down your throat," Clover retorted—a threat she actually had firsthand experience in. Libby had seen it themself. The memory of Eulogy, of his corpse mutilated at Clover's hand, admittedly didn't make them feel much better. Not right now, anyway. Clover held them tight against her, pointing both of their bodies away from Wernher, toward the grimy concrete walls, the bricks lined with lichen, the comfort of the underground.

"Breathe," Clover whispered, hands on Libby's back, in Libby's hair, rubbing up and down, firm, slow. The same hands—the exact same—that had killed Eulogy. Libby had seen his eyeballs detached from his body, seen the gashes torn in his skin, in his throat, that killed him; remembered that death had only come after hours of the former. "Breathe, baby," Clover hummed with the same voice that had screamed at Eulogy until it was raw, "just breathe."

They did. Or—they tried. They inhaled and smelled Clover's perfume, overshadowed by the sweat and cigarettes permanently etched into the fabric of her suit. The smell of blood. Eulogy's blood. They inhaled and it hurt, and it sounded like the final breath of a dying mole rat, but they did inhale. Inhaled, exhaled, then did it again. Once. Twice. Clover's fingers combed through their hair, ran down their back along with the shudder that wracked their entire body. They breathed again. They kept breathing.

"Good girl," Clover said under her breath, her mouth nestled right beside Libby's ear. She shuddered again, remembered, remembered. Clover had called her a good girl back in Paradise Falls, back when it was just the two of them standing, and Eulogy tied up to receive his recompense. Libby had picked up a knife and given it to Clover and she'd said that exact thing— "good girl." Libby had stood in the room, stood with her back against the wall, her hands covered in blood. She'd watched everything unfold and she had done nothing. She'd watched Clover retrieve her well-fucking-deserved revenge, pry forgiveness gone sour from between Eulogy's broken teeth. She'd watched everything, watched it all, been sick in the corner, sure, but she'd been proud.

"You're sure about this, hon? Goin' alone?"

"I h-have to."

She was proud of Clover. She always had been. From the moment they started traveling together, a sweaty loser fresh from the vault with a taped-together hockey mask and a stick coated in chems, accompanied by the singular most beautiful woman the former had ever laid their eyes on. Ever. No one in the vault could ever think of comparing.

She wanted Clover to be proud of her too. She'd said it before, a couple times that never really stuck, but Libby wanted her to mean it. She wanted to do something, go somewhere, be something, and come back to Clover being proud. The irrepressible kind, the kind that made you glow, that made you slap your thigh and say "you've done it, girl!"—the way Dad always used to say.

Libby had said their first word at five years old—"pen"—and Dad had been proud. He'd told that story time and time again, how he'd run with them all through the vault, getting them to say it to anyone who would listen—which had been a lot of people because, hello, the weird fuckin' quiet kid who'd been mute for five fuckin' years had just talked. He said it was because he was at his desk, writing something with—shocker—a pen, and Libby had wanted it. He said it had been yellow. The cheap, disposable kind, but hey, that wasn't the first time cheap plastic was enough to change someone's entire life.

. . . Maybe that was dramatic, but it was a big difference going from no talking for five years to suddenly bam: talking constantly. Like, constantly. Libby sincerely had not shut up since.

All thanks to a piece of plastic their dad had so cruelly denied their five-year-old self the joy of stuffing in their mouth.

Yellow was still their favorite color.

Clover was still holding them. She couldn't wrap her arms all the way around them like Dad had. She wasn't tall enough, wasn't big or broad enough, to envelop Libby like Dad always did. Butch was closer, was big enough, at least, but that was Butch. Just a whiff of his cheap cologne was more than enough to break any possible illusion that he wasn't who he was.

There wasn't any replacement for Dad. Him or his hugs.

Still . . . in terms of comfort . . . Clover came pretty damn close.

"It'll work out," she soothed, "just focus on what you know how to do. We'll only be apart for a bit—for the antibiotics. You'll be okay. You've . . . been without me for longer."

"I hated it."

"I know."

"I almost died."

". . . I know. I don't have to leave, I can come with—"

"No,  I—it has to be just me."

"Can you do this?"

"Does it matter?"

Clover pulled out of the hug, cupping Libby's face in her hands. Blood stained her knuckles, caked underneath her nails. Her lips were cracked, deep, dark circles framing her eyes. The light of the tunnel washed her skin out, turned warm tan clammy. She opened her mouth, took a breath—

Wernher huffed loudly, "Get on with it, Jesus. You girls done yet?"

Clover held her breath, Libby jerked their head to the side, Clover's hands still on their cheeks. Wernher was waiting, getting fed up. That much was obvious from the grumble of his voice.

"S-sorry," Libby managed, "We were—"

"Shh," Clover interrupted, turning their head back toward her, squeezing their face a little tighter. Her thumbs rubbed in small, gentle circles on their cheeks, wiping the tears from underneath their eyes. "Listen. If there is really, really no fucking way I can come with you, here's how it's gonna go: you're gonna go with this guy, you're gonna be careful around him—I don't trust him—but you're gonna do what he says. You're gonna get the antibiotics. If he tries to back down, tries to cheat you out of the full dose or whatever, you don't let him. You fight him, talk to him, do whatever you have to do, okay? Okay?"

Libby sniffled, inhaling so sharply the breath stuck in her throat. She struggled to speak, trying to get out an "okay" but squeezed her eyes shut again when it threatened to come out as another sob. She nodded.

"Okay. Good. I'm gonna go home, all right, baby? I'll make it there fast—I'll take the road straight there—and I swear on my life I'll make it in one piece. Just do what, uh, Wernher says. You'll be fine. You always are."

Libby nodded again. Clover's thumbs stopped moving, settling just beneath Libby's eyes. She hesitated, biting her lip gently and meeting Libby's wide-eyed gaze. Libby stared back, eyes flicking from Clover's hair, stick-straight bangs falling across her face, to the scar on the bridge of her nose, to her lips . . .

"Can I kiss you?" she asked, like she'd read Libby's mind. They were quick to nod, and Clover moved closer, pressing her lips to Libby's and closing her eyes. They kept theirs plastered wide open, staring at the blush of Clover's skin, tasting the sour-sweetness of her breath. It was a quick kiss, just a moment before she pulled away, appearing entirely unsurprised at Libby's eyes remaining open.

"Okay," she said. "Let's see what this bitch has to say." She nodded at Wernher, her face hardening once more. Taking Libby's hand in hers, the two walked over to where Wernher stood against the cart on the tracks.

He had regained his balance since Clover had shoved him over, having crossed his arms and leaned somewhat casually against the large cart. He looked pissed, brow knitted low, lips pursed, single eye focused on Clover and Libby.

"Ready now?" he snapped. "We don't have time for this shit."

"We're ready," Clover said coolly, continuing before Wernher could respond, "if you're really that stubborn about keeping me out. I'll be leaving."

"Go on, then. I told you, it won't work with two of you."

"Your loss."

"Yeah, whatever."

Clover squeezed Libby's hand tighter, gripping their wrist and lifting it up, catching their eye. "I'll wait for you back home. Go along with everything just until you get the antibiotics, then we can be together again. Can you do that?"

Libby nodded, forcing their upper lip to be stiff, forcing themself to be calm when they looked at Wernher, drilling their gaze into his. "Can you wait here?"

"What?" Clover interrupted.

"'Wait'," Wernher repeated, unamused.

Libby nodded again, faster. They kept their hand in Clover's. "I'll walk with Clover—to make sure she gets home safe—and then I'll come back. I'll be so fucking fast, you won't even know that—"

"No. Absolutely not, that's out of the question. We're doing this now, joker, or we're not doing this at all."

"Antibiotics," Clover hissed at Libby. "I'll be fine."

There wasn't enough time. Libby's stomach sank all over again, their grip going lax in Clover's. Not enough time to make it all the way to Megaton and back, not when Wernher was as impatient as he was . . . as he had every right to be, if what he said was true. He—and the Pitt—couldn't wait, and neither could Clover.

". . . Okay," Libby said—"squeaked" would be a more accurate descriptor. "Okay."

"I've still got a couple stims, if it comes to that," Clover said. Then, immediately: "It won't come to that. I'll be fine, baby, I swear. We both will."

Libby watched Clover's lips move with her words. I'll be fine. They'd both be fine. Libby's brain was soft and yellow like the pen that had gotten her to speak. She was missing pieces—she had a jar with a chunk of her brain in it stuffed into a drawer of her desk back in Megaton. She was mangled like Eulogy had been, mangled by the simple act of Clover saying goodbye.

She would miss the feeling of their lips touching—of course she would, of course she fucking would. She would be fast. She would be so, so fast, get into the Pitt and help Wernher and then get out, antibiotics in hand. She didn't have a choice. It didn't matter, really.

"I'll be so fucking fast, you won't even know . . ."

This wouldn't be the longest she and Clover had been apart. Not when she was vowing right now to get this over with so fast, and definitely not when that honor—of the longest time apart, that is—went to the absolutely mind-numbing, life-uprooting experience that had been Libby's visit to Point Lookout, Maryland.

Any time spent apart was too long, though. So those months spent on that godforsaken boat were meaningless in this matter. All of it sucked, all of it, when they just wanted to be safe and sound with Clover and Butch in their carefully decorated home in Megaton. Safe. Safe and sound with no possibly-fatal leg infections—not a single one, not ever again—and absolutely no dealings with slavers. Never again.

They'd seen the insides of enough dead slavers to last them a lifetime .

But they were okay now. They wiped what remained of their tears from their cheeks with the backs of their hands. They were okay now. Or at least, they weren't crying anymore, at any rate. Only one problem remained, presenting itself at as inconvenient of a time as it always did: they couldn't talk. At all. They couldn't even get their mouth to open. They remembered the yellow pen, remembered Dad, but neither of those were around anymore, so without any other option, they stayed quiet.

Clover gave Libby another quick hug, snapped something under her breath to Wernher that Libby didn't quite catch—something about not fucking with them—and then she was gone. Out the door, into the night, shotgun strapped to her back. She took Libby's voice with her. Not on purpose, of course—she didn't even have a pen on her—but the door slammed shut and Libby watched the crack of moonlight disappear and when Wernher spoke to her, she couldn't respond.

"Ready to head out?" he asked, gruff as ever. Libby could barely even nod her head. Eye narrowing even more than before, Wernher let out a huff, brushing Libby off when the silence sat too long. He clambered onto the large cart and roughly gestured for Libby to do the same. "I'll navigate," he grunted, "just stay the fuck out of my way, and you'll be fine."

Libby did what she was told, climbing onto the cart. She tried to nod, failed, and promptly put all her nervous energy into making herself as small as possible, sitting on the edge of the cart with her feet hanging down and her arms crossed over her chest. She hugged herself tightly, wishing for a more compact body, or a way to turn invisible, or a bigger, more enveloping shirt than the tee she was wearing—then she stopped, suddenly pissed that she had to be wishing for shit like that. Wishing to be less noticeable, less of anything that might get in Wernher's way, or get his attention in a way she would much rather avoid.

He was pissing her off.

Like, really pissing her off.

Who the hell did he think he was, anyway? Mr. Hot Shit, "Ooh, look at me, I'm gonna call your wife" —well, fiancée— "a whore and send her home on a crippled leg." The entitled bitch , with his stupid beard and stupid graying red hair and stupid eye patch and stupid nasally voice and really stupid plan, luring a twenty-year-old kind-of-girl to dress and act like a slave in a hornet's nest. Metaphorically. Hornet's nest where . . . where the hornets were the slavers . . . and their nectar was slave labor . . . ah, whatever.

Libby's only solace was the knowledge that Clover really was as tough as she said she was—of course she was, Libby had witnessed it firsthand. She'd seen her face-to-face with deathclaws and seen her survive. She'd seen her go up against Enclave soldiers when the two of them had fought alongside the Brotherhood of Steel in taking back the Jefferson Memorial and infiltrating the Adams Air Force Base—though the latter had, for some fucking reason, been without the Brotherhood backup Libby had come to rely on.

Clover had rescued her from mirelurks within a day of them knowing each other, way back in '77, when Libby was still somewhat fresh from the vault, before she even knew what a mirelurk was.

And . . . Eulogy. Clover had survived him, being in captivity at his hand, everything he had done to her, and . . . and then, what she had done to him in the end. A long-awaited happy ending of sorts.

Those weren't things that someone who wasn't tough as shit could handle—none of them. Libby knew they wouldn't be able to handle them, not without Clover beside them, or the Brotherhood behind them. Wernher wasn't exactly an adequate replacement for either of those forces to be reckoned with.

Which left Libby, for all intents and purposes, alone in this, as well as very painfully clearly being the wrong choice for the single person to accompany Wernher—if not for Clover's leg. They couldn't do things alone. They never had. But then again . . . they had gone all the way to Point Lookout alone . . . and somehow, they were still alive to tell the maggot-infested horror stories they'd lived through.

So maybe they were wrong. Maybe this would be okay.

Maybe Clover was as right as she always claimed to be.

Maybe . . . maybe they'd be okay.

Alone.

They held on tight to the cart as it started moving, rattling over the tracks slowly at first, then picking up speed. Wernher grunted with the effort it took to pump the handle, the lever that powered the cart forward—all manual, like the old-school type of thing you'd find on the train tracks outdoors. The light from the thick grate sealing the tunnel shut disappeared faster than Libby would have preferred, plunging her and Wernher into an uncomfortable darkness.

. . . Still better than being out in the open night, but then again, anything was better than the clear night sky.

God, they hoped Clover would be all right.

*

three hours later

*

Twenty years was a heck of a long time to be alive. At least a quarter of whatever timer God had set up for Libby, that much was almost certain. More than enough time to do some good for the world, at least. More than enough time to meet more people than Libby could remember the names of, and yet . . . there were only a handful of people that possessed the ability to infuriate her and vilify themselves in the span of a single, one-sided conversation.

Wernher was one of those people.

It wasn't that he was a bad person—his intentions to help the people he called "his" were good-hearted enough, and he was definitely enthusiastic enough about helping them. It was just that he was a person that, from the very first conversation Libby had with him but especially now, was strikingly set on approaching every aspect of life in such a way to conflict anything Libby would have done in his place.

It was: call your only hope's fiancée a "diseased whore" and expect no negative consequences from the audacity of being such a bastard right to her face. Libby was still seething.

And it was: disguise yourself as a slave, put yourself in danger, throw yourself right into the jaws of certain danger and the happy-go-lucky full ride of experiencing the life of the slave! Or whatever this fucking plan was! Instead of, say: go up to wherever the hell these bastards lived—how big could the Pitt be, anyway?—and demand an audience with their ruler, and from there , determine the next course of action. Hopefully a peaceful course, but if the shit hits the fan . . . well, the slaves could buy themselves a new fan once they were free . No need for an admittedly-not-so-happy-go-lucky plan for Libby to actively endanger herself. She knew what type of people slavers were. She knew where she would stand among them, especially as a slave. She knew, Clover knew, Wernher had to know, and yet: the plan remained.

And with Wernher . . . last, but not least—and the worst of all, at least for the time being—it was: let's fill the improbably quiet hours—three so far, according to Libby's Pip-Boy—of this tunnel-bound trip with talking. All the background info and exposition that would be fine and dandy and, come to think of it, pretty fucking useful to know, considering everything, excepting the simple fact that Wernher was an annoying bitch with a frog in his throat, and Libby was fucking tired. The possibility of a so-called "sensory heaven" rising from the ashes and taking the form of a gently rocking cart ride through dark and mostly-silent tunnels died the moment Wernher opened his mouth.

Libby kept his own mouth shut. His voice seemed to have gotten caught on Clover's sleeve, carried home with her back to the Capital Wasteland. Maybe. Three hours of sitting here, listening to Wernher talk, and . . . well, wherever his voice had gone, it was more than safe to say it wasn't here. If it was, he would've told Wernher to stuff it as soon as they hit the road.

. . . That was a lie. It probably would have gone something more along the lines of:

"Mr. Wernher, sir" —no, no, not like that.

Like:

"Wernher, babe."

. . .

"Wernher, I'm sure what you're saying is fuckin' important and shit, but like, if you don't mind shoving it up your ass for a bit while I try not to explode, that would be great! Thanks!"

. . . Yeah. Something like that. Which, sort of, would have been telling him to "stuff it," so there. No problem.

Well, one problem. Libby's voice was back in the Capital Wasteland. So, stuck in the endlessly navigable metro tunnels with no one to tell him not to, Wernher talked.

A lot.

"The Pitt got its name after the war. The place turned into a shithole after the bombs fell, buildings falling over, the sickness making people turn on each other. I grew up there; you don't need me to tell you the kind of people that come out of a place like that."

Slavers, obviously. Wernher gave no indication if he'd ever been one, but considering his current status as a runaway, Libby gave him the benefit of the doubt and assumed the negative.

"It was around the time I'd been born when the Brotherhood swept into the Pitt; you already know about that. Killed anything that looked like it might put up a fight 'n' left the rest to die. Left the place as a slaughterhouse when they were done, but they were the ones ended up getting the worst of it. If it weren't for their effort to 'clean up' the place, I doubt Ashur would've been able to take control of as much as he has. You should know: he's in charge down there. Dunno where he came from in the first place, but he's got the strength to keep the other bosses in line. Anything that happens in the Pitt, Ashur knows about it or started it. And the bosses . . . ugh, they're a ragtag mess of vicious little fucks, but they listen to Ashur. Don't fret too much about them; Ashur's the one you need your eye on.

Wernher's rambling stopped for a moment, and Libby allowed herself a breath, but it quickly became clear that was all Wernher had stopped for as well. After a deep, scratchy inhale, he continued his monologuing:

"I've told you about the disease, right? Eh . . . maybe a little. There's not a good way to describe it without seeing it firsthand . . . that won't be a problem soon enough. It affects everyone differently. Changes you. If you're lucky, you just get sick and die, but others end up losing their minds. We call them the 'wildmen;' can't reason with them, just keep them where they can't hurt anyone 'til we get that cure. And the worst . . . they turn into animals. Forget who they are, do nothin' but eat, sleep, fuck, and kill. You're best off avoiding them, but once you're in there, I can't make any promises what you'll end up havin' to do."

Libby shuddered, the sight of that dead slave back in the pen flashing in her head. If Wernher noticed, he didn't comment on it.

"But this cure," he said quietly, "maybe this can stop that. You get why I'm doing this. Why I need you—we all need you."

Laid out on a bloody mattress that smelled like death and every type of human excretion all mixed together, both eyes staring wide at nothing and everything, eyelids scabbed open permanently. His body had been intact, but . . . not whole. Holes in his flesh, bones crooked beneath his skin, so thin it was almost translucent. He'd been rotting, covered in patches of filth and bruised, crusty flesh peeling away from the bone, revealing dried blood and pus. Libby had realized he'd started looking like . . . that . . . a long time before he finally died. Now her fears had just been confirmed all over again, and again, she prayed that he had found his freedom in the afterlife, prayed he made it up to heaven. He deserved better than what the wasteland had given him. He deserved better than broken skin and swollen veins, a life in captivity that ended up killing him.

A life that Libby was heading directly toward by means of metro tunnel, if only for a little while. As long as it took to get the antibiotics.

Wernher kept talking, rambling about trogs—that's what the sick people were called, the ones that were past saving, the ones now closer to feral animals than the humans they used to be. Libby didn't want to hear anymore. If she still had her voice with her, she would tell him to shut up, to let her sit in silence and remember what it's like to be a human before she's put to the test again. But she didn't have her voice. Clover had taken it.

So she watched the walls. Let the brick and the cement roll past, barely lit by the occasional electric light that still flickered, humming with the ancient thrum of backup power somehow still running. She let Wernher's voice trail off, eventually, let him be replaced by her own thoughts, her own chaos harbored in her brain.

For now, that chaos existed in the form of Clover. In the form of absent-minded worries that blasted into their head in one big burst of panic, trembling hands frantically digging into not-quite-healed scabs on their fingers. They didn't notice. Clover had taken over their brain, a flood of what-ifs and what-thens that they didn't have an answer to .

What if she ran into something on her way back home? Her leg was hurt; she couldn't run , and the wasteland was overflowing with things that wanted to kill everything in their path. Raiders or Enclave or Talon Company mercs or even more dogs, more things Clover wouldn't be able to get herself out of—not unscathed, at least.

What if she got lost? Took a wrong turn, or got twisted around in the dark? The sun had set hours ago, and Libby had no way of knowing how far Clover had made it before then, or if she'd found herself a light source of some kind.

What if her leg suddenly got worse? If the infection spread, knocked her flat, kept her from walking any further? She'd never make it home. She couldn't call for help, not without attracting the attention of something she really didn't want. She didn't have a Pip-Boy; Butch wouldn't be able to track her, and the likelihood of him stumbling across exactly wherever she was if he did set out to look for her was unbelievably slim, unless she happened to take the exact same path home as they did going out, which— why would she, they had run into raiders. All Butch knew was where the pharmacy was, and roughly the way they had headed to get to it. All he knew was that they were north. Somewhere. And that they were expecting to be gone for several days. By the time he realized something was wrong and decided to head out and do something about it, it would be too late.

Please, Libby prayed, the silent words tickling her lips, please let her get home safe. If there is anyone still up there who gives a shit about me, please, please, please. Let her get home safe.

. . .

But what if she doesn't? What if all of this is for nothing?

What if it's all too late?

* * *