After the Vault: Chapter 12
    
    Disclaimer: I do not claim ownership of Fallout or anything that 
comprises it. This is a non-profit story written solely for my own 
enjoyment and that of anyone who wishes to read it. The story and all 
original characters are mine. Please don't use them without permission.
    
***
    
    After the Vault
    
    -A Fallout Fan-Fiction by Nutzoide-
    
    
    Chapter 12
    
    Gilded Cages
    
    
    Rathley took a long sip from the old metal stein in his hands, 
savouring the taste of the heavy, bitter-sweet beer. By most comparisons 
it was a brutal brew, but after a week either in a cell or on the road 
*any* real beer was as good as God's own nectar as far as he was 
concerned.
    
    Not only had the Micasan police stolen Abigail's loot, they had 
'appropriated' his own travelling stash of alcohol, and neither Chopper 
nor Sharn had been willing to share their own meagre supplies. Hell, 
they hadn't even bothered to stock up on anything but food before 
leaving, and since Kana was provided for by the town she hadn't had 
anything to offer but water before he left.
    
    And Kyle didn't drink while travelling. Strange boy.
    
    Then again, Rathley thought, having a good time didn't seem to have 
been on his protege's list of priorities for the last few days. Kyle 
might have become a skilled Scav, but he still hadn't learned too much 
about women as far as Rathley was concerned.
    
    Chopper could do with a few pointers on that front as well. After 
all, the whole unsavoury subject could have been broached at a more 
opportune time, if Abigail had to be told at all. Rathley was a big 
believer in secrecy, because, while what you didn't know *could* very 
easily hurt you, keeping the secrets yourself would keep you happy and 
out of harms way as long as you kept your fool mouth shut.
    
    Still, it was better this way around, for him at least. It got the 
fireworks out of the way early, so he could enjoy his rest stop.
    
    He took another pull on his beer, and smiled across the barroom 
table at his drinking partner. "Quiet night for a change."
    
    Chopper, wrapped in her coat and with her hat pulled down, gave him 
a sour sidewise glance. As usual she had declined the good stuff and was 
sticking with the limp, bottled beers. Not that they were ever the 
bottle's original contents, but those beers tended to be more palatable 
for the masses, and Chopper had got through three already.
    
    "No shit. And good, I need the fucking rest."
    
    Rathley cocked his head. "As if you were the ones screamin' at each 
other."
    
    Chopper shook her head and drained the bottle. "I don't like it when 
she's quiet. I can't tell who she's pissed at."
    
    "Aww, you almost sound concerned, Marie. That's so sweet."
    
    Chopper lashed out a hand and Rathley had to be quick to grab his 
pint before she could take it from him. He stared at her, still smiling, 
but he had no intention of letting her exact her petty 'revenge'. The 
stein stayed locked on the tabletop and they stared off over it.
    
    "Yes, I'm fucking concerned. She was supposed to have chucked out 
that shell already. She was eager enough to put her life on the line in 
Micasa." She let go of the drink. "Taking on a man twice her size in the 
fucking dark? Hell, raiding an armed police station? Why curl up and get 
pissy now?"
    
    It seemed simple enough to Rathley. But then, who the hell knew how 
women thought? "Maybe she's on the rag."
    
    He chuckled when Chopper didn't look happy with that answer. 
    
    "Okay, maybe it's 'cause she *wanted* to play hell raiser when they 
screwed her over. Wanted to fight back. And now she's just gotta sit on 
her hands. That's gotta take the fun out of anyone's personal 
liberation."
    
    "...It's not as though *any* of us like it. Except you, maybe. You 
fucking bastard."
    
    Rathley shrugged. He didn't care enough to argue the point. 
Certainly not while he was enjoying his beer. "She'll learn. They always 
do. Or they get themselves shot. One or the other"
    
    "Thanks a whole fucking lot."

***
    
    The revelation two days before had hit Abigail like a sledgehammer 
to the gut. Kyle and Sharn had been dancing around the issue of the 
prostitute for over a day, and she had been more than ready to take 
Sharn's side when Kyle's evasions came to their logical conclusion. It 
was strange for her to see Sharn displaying such open jealousy, so she 
wanted to be the voice of reason and moderation this time. Chopper and 
Rathley certainly couldn't be trusted with that.
    
    Then Kyle told the whole unedited truth and, outside the day she had 
first killed a man, Abigail had never felt so dirty in her life.
    
    "S-slaves? She was a slave? The whole brothel were slaves!?"
    
    By the time Abigail had found her voice she had already missed half 
the fight. Kyle had a bloody nose, and Sharn's left cheek was bright red 
after the slap she had received in return.
    
    Rathley was just watching as if it was an enjoyable soap opera, and 
Chopper didn't seem to care one way or the other. Or not enough to say 
anything, at least.
    
    "I *said* you didn't want to know," Kyle snapped, wiping at the 
blood that dribbled down to his lips. "And like I said, if I wanted her, 
I wouldn't have left in the first place."
    
    Though she had faired better in the sharing of blows, Sharn was the 
one who sounded more wounded. "You *lied*! And don't think I didn't see 
how you were playing with her either! How am I supposed to believe you 
weren't doing anything while you were holed up with her?"
    
    Kyle obviously considered that below the belt, or slander at the 
very least. "I didn't. But you can believe what the hell you want. I 
haven't lied about a fucking thing. It doesn't matter *who* she is now!"
    
    "IT MATTERS TO ME! It *matters* that you were so in love with that 
*whore* you wanted to buy her outright! What does that make me? Your 
consolation prize?!"
    
    "If it weren't for *Elspeth* then Rathley would probably still be 
rotting in his cell, and we might have got shot up for the sake of 
getting Abby's caps back."
    
    Sharn wasn't having any of it. "This isn't about Rathley or Abby-
girl. This is about *you*. How much is there about you I don't know, 
Kyle?"
    
    Abigail should have been mediating. Taking sides alternately and 
playing the go-between to calm them down. But weren't they all 
forgetting something important here?
    
    "Don't you care that she was a *slave*?"
    
    She didn't receive a reply. Just more argument as Sharn stalked off 
ahead, looking betrayed, and Kyle threw his pack to the ground in 
frustration after being vilified for doing what was asked of him.
    
    "At least those ones are treated well," came Chopper's belated 
answer.
    
    "They're being prostituted! Against their will!"
    
    Chopper shrugged, and tried to take her arm. "You've killed people 
against your will. Better than the alternative."
    
    "What, 'whore for me or you die'?" Abigail spat, feeling sick to her 
stomach at her companions' lack of moral outrage.
    
    "Probably worse. If they don't make money, they get sold on. God 
knows what the next owner might want out of them."
    
    "Why don't the police do anything?!"
    
    Chopper looked at her, matter of fact. "Either they're on the take 
from the slavers - that's probably the case in Micasa - or if not, the 
slavers are well armed enough to make anyone regret trying to take them 
on."
    
    And then Chopper's voice got softer, as if to sooth Abigail's 
conscience. "And yeah, most of the slaving bastards deserve to be put 
down just like the raider gangs do, but there's also such a thing as a 
willing slave. Like you said, if you're starving to death - and let's 
face it, it's pretty easy to starve out here - at least someone buying 
you is going to keep you fed. You'll see that soon enough."
    
    Abigail didn't like the sound of that. "What do you mean?"

***
    
    In the intervening days Abigail had found plenty of time to read up 
on the town of Willets High. Unlike Micasa, Celia the ghoul had spent 
quite some time in the small settlement, and the notes she had made on 
her PipBoy were surprisingly extensive. 
    
    The town was not large when compared to a place like Corva, but had 
been built within the ruins of a vast, pre-war city. Skeletal high-rises 
cast their perpetual shadows over the town that nestled loosely in the 
demolished and hollowed out centre of their city. From the outside it 
was impossible to see that anyone lived within, let alone a five-
hundred-strong town.
    
    But for a community who valued their privacy so highly Celia wrote 
about it affectionately. Yes, it was a haven for those who needed to 
hide, and it had more than its share of vices, but it had no dark 
corners to taint its atmosphere. Everyone who lived there earned their 
way openly and honestly. Armed guards patrolled the streets, but their 
presence was enough to maintain the peace, without needing to use their 
guns. After fleeing her captivity, before becoming a ghoul, Celia had 
stumbled upon the place and had received succour there in return for 
nothing but the work that would pay for her bed and board. 
    
    And what twisted Abigail up inside was that Celia could be so 
grateful to hide there from the men who had enslaved and tortured her, 
when Willets High was itself a slaver town. Of the only two buildings 
that had been reclaimed from the ruins, one was the school that housed 
the slave traders who had moved in decades before. And it was their 
influence, at least in part, that had turned a well hidden refugee camp 
into a profitable and contented township.
    
    With the wasted city around it Willets High was perhaps the most 
defensible place in the Western Mid Waste after the Diamond Ring. The 
massive earthquake that had levelled the tallest, innermost buildings 
had also tilted the city centre, neatly shattering its sewer systems and 
pushing the resulting plug of city ruins a full fifteen feet upwards at 
the western side, and seven at the east. Those new cliffs, combined with 
the vast tonnage of rubble atop them, provided the perfect screen to 
protect the ruins from any Scavs who had missed picking the then-
dangerous ruins clean fifty years before.
    
    However, while it made the place the perfect haven for those exiled 
from their own communities, it also meant that food and water were even 
harder to find than in the desert. Without some sort of local trade they 
would have starved. So, when a group of slavers came to seek refuge, 
'reformed' members of the Diamond raider gang, they offered what no-one 
else could: the chance for commerce without trade caravans showing the 
world and its dog where they were.
    
    Instead of food and clothing the inhabitants of Willets High sold 
their skills. Men and women who would have been mobbed or captured for 
their expertise could work without fear of harassment, and in turn they 
were treated like assets by the rest of the town. Similarly, the secure 
atmosphere was a rarity in the Waste, and those few who knew of the town 
were more than eager to take the opportunity to relax and let down their 
guard, and the town had learned to cater to that desire. That was why 
Rathley and Chopper had brought them there, after all. Their rest stop 
in Micasa had been cancelled almost as soon as they had arrived, so this 
was the next closest option as far as they were concerned. It lacked the 
same breadth of amenities, but they could still bank on being able to 
get the best out of their hard earned caps.
    
    But that evening all Abigail could think of was the school 
playground and the unsold slaves she had seen milling around behind the 
reinforced fences, stolen from their homes and now waiting to find out 
what would become of them.

***
    
    Sharn tried very hard not to wake up the next morning. Between her 
hangover and the smell of cooking meat coming from the hotel's kitchen 
stand outside, curling back up and quietly passing away was preferable 
to anything that the morning would throw at her.
    
    She felt sick, tired, she ached, and she was all too aware how small 
and empty her single bed was. None of those things were right, and yet 
just then she was loath to try and remedy any of them. She just pulled 
the thin bed sheet back over herself and tried to block out the world 
and her waking discomfort.
    
    It didn't work, of course. No matter how civilised she appeared with 
her Scav-savvy attitude, she had still been raised a tribe girl. Living 
with the land, her village having gone back-to-basics many generations 
before, there was no leeway for wastelander sloth. Every able body was 
needed as soon as the sun rose, eking a living from the dry dirt, 
weathering the sun and the rare, terrible storms of water or sand, and 
celebrating at their many simple fortunes. Those who could not wake to 
do their part were forced awake, by means either painful or 
embarrassing, depending on who was doing the punishing. 
    
    As such, no matter how she had become used to it in the wasteland 
towns, Sharn could not sleep in. After failing for almost twenty minutes 
she finally forced herself unsteadily from her bed, and swore under her 
breath as she realised she would have to be dressed if she was to go 
down the corridor to the toilet. While Sharn had no compunction about 
walking around unclad it wasn't wise to invite that sort of attention in 
*any* town. It hadn't even been advisable in her village for that 
matter.
    
    The 3rd Rafter Hotel, like every other building in town besides the 
reclaimed school and city hall, stood only on the ground floor, so Sharn 
had to suffer the embarrassing amusement of the hotel clerk who sat 
behind his scavenged office desk. 
    
    "I hope you didn't enjoy the sipping liquor too much last night," he 
said, sounding honestly sympathetic, but it was also clear that she was 
paying the price for her drinking, and he knew it.
    
    "Yeah, no chance of that," she replied with slightly tart sarcasm. 
"Where are the toilets again?"
    
    The clerk just pointed her down the other hall, where the storage 
and utility rooms were. Thankfully it was her head rather than her 
stomach that the alcohol had hit, so she didn't have to worry about 
being heard retching her guts up, but while in there she did realise 
that the small communal lounge in the hotel foyer had been noticeably 
empty. 
    
    "Say, have you seen the girls I came in with?" she asked once she 
was done.
    
    The clerk nodded. "Yeah, most of our guests don't hang around during 
the day. The tall one in the coat went out early, said she was going to 
look for work. The other girl left about... an hour ago? I don't know 
where though. She didn't say anything. Rathley and the younger guy left 
for the bazaar a while back, said they'd meet you girls there."
    
    "Hmph, they did, huh?" Instantly Sharn could feel the resentment 
welling up at Kyle's presumption, but it warred with the loneliness that 
still lingered after waking up without him beside her. Damn her 
inconsistency. It didn't matter how much she missed him, she still had 
the right to be mad as hell!
    
    "Thanks."

*** 
    
    Abigail had been sitting on her re-planted park bench for a good 
hour by the time Sharn came to find her. They were supposed to be 
relaxing, and catching their breaths after all the recent stress, but 
Abigail was having trouble with that. 
    
    It wasn't because of the surroundings though. For all her moral 
misgivings, there was something comforting about the secluded, rubble-
built town. Perhaps it was that it had walls. It was familiar and safe 
not being able to see the horizon, even though it was the ruined and 
hollowed out cityscape that obscured it. She had grown accustomed to the 
vast, flat expanses of land, but being enclosed - protected from the 
outside - was still a welcome sensation. The fact that the destroyed 
buildings outside the town limits looked ready to collapse at the 
slightest provocation was just a minor concern next to the security of 
being hidden behind them.
    
    And it was noticeable how the city around them had shaped the town. 
Unlike the spacious layout of Corva or the few strict rows and squares 
of Micasa, Willets High was a small, comfortable mishmash of buildings, 
overshadowed by the two storey school and the town hall, but each house 
looked like a house. All of the steel and concrete from the centre of 
the destroyed city had been cut down and reassembled to make each new 
building, all huddled together as the first true bastion of masonry that 
Abigail had ever seen. The founders of the town must have scoured the 
city for anything and everything they could use, and they had done a 
magnificent job.
    
    But the end of her brief morning wander had brought her back to the 
school. She had lost enough sleep over it already, yet she couldn't help 
but watch the men and women milling around their playground pen, behind 
their two razor-wire topped fences. A throwback to the slavers' origins 
as Diamonds, perhaps.
    
    "Hey. You know, if we could get them out, we would."
    
    Abigail turned to see Sharn join her on the bench. Though she didn't 
say it, Abigail thought Sharn looked as tired and bleary eyed as she 
felt. Instead she just nodded and turned back to look at the large 
expanse of cracked tarmac that made up the pen.
    
    "I know. I saw their guns."
    
    It had been impossible to miss them. While most others were more 
discreet about carrying their weapons, these slavers had their guns in 
their hands or ready at their hips at all times. Even Rathley had the 
decency to keep the forward end of his shotgun stashed in his backpack 
rather than hanging from his fingers. And they looked like powerful guns 
as well. Maybe nothing like those which the super mutants had wielded in 
her vault, or like the over the top shotgun Stephanie had sold to Bason, 
but their pistols were big, their shotguns looked like they packed more 
than one or two shots, and Abigail had seen enough vault cinema to 
recognise an 'assault rifle' on one large guard.
    
    "It doesn't make it feel any better watching them though," Abigail 
finished. "No-one deserves that."
    
    She nodded towards the slaves, and she was thankful when Sharn 
agreed. "Of course. Whatever we say to try and make it easier, I doubt 
any of them went willingly. But if they weren't slaves then they'd be 
dead. They had something someone wanted, and they were lucky to look 
valuable enough to keep around."
    
    "And you know," Sharn added, with a sad smile, "actually, it's not 
as bad as I thought when Rathley told us about this place. They look 
like they're treated okay."
    
    The unhappy truth was that Abigail had been thinking the same thing. 
The prisoners were given little to wear, but none of them looked beaten 
or malnourished, and if anything they seemed better groomed than some of 
the less sanitary inhabitants of Corva. None of the women seemed afraid 
of attack, and they were even making up sports of their own inside the 
pen. It was a long way from the kind of cruel incarceration Abigail had 
imagined Celia suffering from in the headers of her earlier PipBoy 
diaries.
    
    "Of course, that's not much of a consolation," Sharn admitted, "but 
Kyle wouldn't have agreed to come if we'd had to sit back and watch what 
most slave traders do."
    
    Abigail was surprised at that change of focus there. Not because it 
was unwelcome, but by the fondness with which Sharn had said his name. 
"Have you made up then?"
    
    Maybe Sharn hadn't realised how she had said it, because the denial 
was instantaneous. "What? No, he's not getting off the hook that 
easily!"
    
    "You really should, though," Abigail said, and she meant it. "I 
mean, *I* don't like seeing you two like this. Does it really matter 
that much that he had a girlfriend before? Even if it was serious, it's 
over now."
    
    Much to Abigail's surprise Sharn glowered at her. "Of course it 
doesn't matter. It doesn't matter who she is or why he thought he was in 
love with her. But he was in love with her for *years*, and he didn't 
*tell* me. He kept it a secret! And the Kyle I fell in love with never 
kept secrets, let alone anything like this. How much do I really know 
him if I never knew about someone who was that important to him?!"
    
    Abigail blinked in surprise. She moved to calm her friend down, but 
privately she had to admit that, considering how close their 
relationship was, it was a very good question.

***
    
    Though the temptation of a shopping trip was alluring, Sharn and 
Abigail managed to avoid the well populated bazaar when they finally 
left their bench to finish exploring the town. Sharn was still intent on 
making Kyle stew for a bit, and neither of them really needed an excuse 
to avoid socialising with Rathley. They lived with him on the road, and 
it was pleasant to be out from under his aura of black sarcasm, 
condescension and the occasional flashes of raw grit.
    
    Privately Abigail had thought she'd rather liked the peace while 
Rathley had been in jail, after the fact.
    
    So shopping was out, but neither were they in the mood for alcohol. 
Like the rest of the services in Willets High the two bars looked very 
worthwhile, for a good sit-down meal and a fun stand-up night 
respectively, but as the time for lunch came and went Sharn was still 
recovering from her hangover, and Abigail just wasn't in the mood to 
drink with strangers. She didn't much like the town, so she wasn't 
prepared to get friendly with its inhabitants yet, however hospitable 
they were.
    
    Instead they returned to their hotel, and to the kitchen stand 
outside. It was hardly the kind of gourmet cuisine that they could 
afford these days, but they could pick and choose exactly what they 
wanted in their stonebread from the trays of meat and (to Abigail, 
unidentifiable) roughage. 
    
    If she was honest Abigail would have preferred brahmin to the ever 
present iguana, rat or the various strips of 'ant' on offer. And there 
was no way that could have been ant meat unless each of the tiny insects 
had grown to two feet long! However, never one to be squeamish she 
echoed Sharn's order for it, and whatever the soft, yellowish meat 
really was it had a sort of nutty taste - much like Vault 42's synthetic 
bacon before being salted - but wasn't in the least fatty when it came 
off the portable griddle, and it sat well in Sharn's uneasy stomach.
    
    "It's been a while since I had this," Sharn said, as she began to 
enjoy her meal properly after the first few tentative mouthfuls. "I 
didn't think people ate ant this far west."
    
    The cook agreed, shaking his head. "They don't. Especially if you 
get around the Cobalt Line. They don't consider it 'healthy' meat, but 
it's a damn sight better than pigrat if you ask me! Those mean bastards 
are tough as old boots."
    
    Abigail looked at her long sandwich. "It's really *ant*?"
    
    Both the cook and Sharn looked at her in surprise. "Sure it is. 
Guess you've never had the pleasure either."
     
    Abigail shook her head, and Sharn giggled as she realised that 
Abigail had never seen a wasteland ant. "Think of a mantis, but less 
spindly looking. They're about that size and a damn sight less dangerous 
to hunt."
    
    "And you don't find 'em in the open much. But here?" The cook looked 
around at the ruins surrounding the town. "Whatever the outsiders around 
here might think, ants'll always been on offer in *this* town. So long 
as the Radscorpions don't clear 'em out first."
    
    Abigail didn't know what they were, but she could guess, and Sharn 
looked at him in shock. "You have *Radscorpions* here?"
    
    The cook nodded, but shrugged off her concern. "Just a couple of 
sightings. They've not come near the town, and the Dean's got some guys 
hunting 'em down. The only problem'll be if they eat our food out from 
under us before we can get rid of 'em!"
    
    With the afternoon to kill after lunch, and since they would be 
staying in Willets High long enough to rest for a while, they went in 
search of their sometime-mentor. If Chopper was hoping to practice her 
trade again then Sharn wanted more lessons, and learning a bit more 
basic medicine would help keep Abigail occupied if nothing else. If she 
was left with nothing to do she might fall back into old habits and end 
up sleeping the days away, like she had in the mercs' caravan carts. 
    
***
    
    Of course, the obvious first place for Chopper to ply her trade was 
at the reclaimed school. While there was bound to be a doctor or two in 
the town these slavers would always want to make sure that their 
merchandise was in good condition, and if a different physician could 
speed up the time it took to get everyone seen then she would be 
welcomed with open arms. 
    
    Having tracked her down, Abigail and Sharn weren't welcomed quite as 
warmly though. They would have had better luck if they had not asked 
after Chopper at all, because as soon as they mentioned her the door 
guard's smile grew distinctly frosty.
    
    "Yes, the Dean decided we could use her services." The man was huge 
and raggedly dressed, and he waved his shotgun over to block the door. 
"So we'd like to leave her to it. No offence."
    
    While Abigail thought he was imposing Sharn remained un-cowed, and 
gave the enormous man an exasperated sigh. "Look, we're her 
*assistants*. We're not here to *abduct* her or anything."
    
    The guard wasn't convinced. "Chopper doesn't look like the kind of 
woman to mislay her help."
    
    "No, but she's the kind of woman to leave us behind because we were 
royal pains in the ass last night. I'm sure we'll be better help now 
we're sober."
    
    Abigail felt the urge to point out that she hadn't been drinking at 
all, but she managed to hold her tongue when the guard gave them both a 
wry look, and dropped his gun back to his side.
    
    "I bet. And your stuff?"
    
    "In that shiny red and white box she carries around. You don't think 
she lets *us* keep the scalpels do you?"
    
    "Fair enough. Get inside already."
    
    Sharn gave him a winning smile. "Really, was it that big a deal? I 
mean, what could we do? I didn't even bring my gun."
    
    The guard shrugged, and returned her smile with a creepy one of his 
own. "The less trouble we have around here the better. Besides, if 
you're not hers after all that then I'll get you put on our catalogue!"
    
***
    
    Chopper was working in one of the upper floor rooms, which she had 
turned into an impromptu examination theatre. It looked to have been a 
lab or something before the war, but now all that remained were a few 
basin benches and rack upon rack of storage shelving. Most of the rest 
of the rooms up there were the slaves' rooms, sleeping six to a room in 
the ever-present bunk beds that seemed so prevalent both inside and 
outside the vaults.
    
    The heavy set guard did not get to make good on his threat of a 
permanent residence for them though, and Chopper just gave them a 
distracted greeting and invited them to make themselves useful since 
they were there.
    
    "I didn't think this was your scene," she said to Abigail as she 
examined a male slave's calloused and swollen right foot. 
    
    "It's not," was Abigail's simple reply. "You said it wasn't yours 
either.
    
    Chopper shrugged, and felt around her patient's foot until he sucked 
on his teeth in pain. "If anyone needs attention, it's this lot." 
    
    She looked up at the man, but Abigail and Sharn could tell that she 
was directing her comments to the important looking man who supervised 
her as much as to her patient. "It'll heal, but you wrecked it pretty 
well. But that'll happen if you're going to run around on the asphalt in 
bare feet. We can sew up the laceration, but it's been left too long 
already so it's going to be ugly regardless. I'm amazed it didn't get 
infected."
    
    She turned to Sharn, and held up her needle and thread. "Fancy 
getting to work?"
    
    Sharn took the needle, but hesitated. "We're not going to give him 
any painkillers?"
    
    Chopper looked to the slave. "Do you want painkillers?"
    
    To Abigail's surprise the slave had to think about it a moment. Then 
he declined. "No. Just do it."
    
    The slaver watching them quirked his lips in a smile. "Brave boy."
    
    "In that case lie him down on the bench and hold him still," Chopper 
said to Abigail, wearing a smile of her own. "I'll hold the leg so Sharn 
can concentrate on sewing."
    
    Abigail swallowed hard as the slave lay down on his back for her, 
and she pinned his shoulders back as best she could. "I'm sorry about 
this," she whispered.
    
    The slave shook his head. "At least it's getting done, finally."
    
    How long had he been hobbling on it like that? Abigail had to 
wonder. 
    
    "And it'll teach you not to try leaping off windowsills for the sake 
of your sports," the slaver warden noted.
    
    The slave hissed and bucked a little under their hands as Sharn 
started to work. "Yes sir."
    
    It took an agonising few minutes as Chopper guided Sharn through the 
process again, until at last with a short tug and a gasp of pain it was 
over. 
    
    "Definitely better," Chopper said, appraising Sharn's work, before 
he turned to the warden. "Keep him off that foot for at least two weeks, 
and get him a crutch, because if he uses it too soon there could be 
serious problems. He's aggravated it too much as it is." She huffed. 
"You might want to let them keep their shoes from now on as well."

***
    
    Although Abigail had intended to be learning from Chopper and Sharn 
she ended up spending much of their working time with that first slave. 
After Sharn had sewn him up it had been down to her to finish dealing 
with the wound, as directed by 'A Dress(ing) for Every Emergency' in her 
vault medical manual - a book that Chopper seemed to have permanently 
added to her medical kit. 
    
    But while leaning how to apply dressings was valuable knowledge, she 
had been far more interested in how the man had ended up in his 
unenviable situation. 
    
    Alan Pearcing hadn't been anyone of particular value or import in 
his home town of Celebrity, a town up north west of Willets High. He 
had, however, been an able and fit young man, and had killed two of the 
Dean's slavers when they had descended on Celebrity. 
    
    The town had been an easy target though, and had never stood a 
chance of resisting. It had been as close to the Mid Waste Swarmlands as 
had been thought safe - much like Corva was as close to the Cobalt Line 
as people had dared to build - but decades of complacency had not 
prepared them for the summer of 2155. It had been so lethally hot that 
year that it drove the mantis swarms out of their territory and into the 
rest of the Waste, leaving devastation in their wake. Celebrity had been 
reduced to a chewed up ruin, over half the population killed along with 
their crops and brahmin. Those that had barricaded themselves well 
enough to weather the swarm had tried to rebuild and clear out what 
mantis infestations remained. Then the slavers arrived. 
    
    Willets High had been hit as well, and the Dean's men had been in no 
mood for resistance. They took what little there was left and rounded up 
everyone of physical worth. Those like Alan who still had the strength 
to resist had been too valuable then to be shot, but were instead 
subdued with overwhelming force. The wounded and infirm were left with a 
single cart and a barrel of water to take them wherever they wanted to 
go. They could not hope to fight back, and the bullets had apparently 
been too valuable to waste on them.
    
    When Abigail had asked Alan had told her that the children had been 
taken as well. The older ones, teenagers who were too loyal or vengeful, 
became slaves for sale like their parents. The younger ones who could 
still be bribed or brainwashed had since filled the Dean's own weakened 
ranks, and had now become the teenager slavers they had seen loitering 
out in the school corridors, keeping the place sanitary and evidently 
content with the hand they now held.
    
    It was both sick and logical. The slavers might treat their 
merchandise well, but they treated their own people far better and, 
while it may have been bought, their loyalty to each other and to the 
Dean was solid. It was made more upsetting that Alan had little to 
complain about. He was among those few who had remained unsold for more 
than six years, and while the liberty he was allowed was paltry he was 
treated relatively well. His only remaining anger was over the day his 
wife had been sold, and he'd had to stand back and watch knowing he 
would never see her again. After losing their two children to the swarms 
that had driven him to madness for a while, and earned him a solitary 
room and a permanent watch until his senses had returned. He just 
consoled himself with the knowledge that she had been bought by a 
wealthy pair, and whether it was to be the man's mistress or the woman's 
maid she was probably living better than he was now. And even that 
better than he could have managed scraping the remains of Celebrity back 
together. 
    
    He was, Abigail had realised with pity, resigned to the life of a 
comfortable prisoner. And apparently, after the first few months of life 
in classroom bunks and behind the fences, very few of his fellow slaves 
thought differently.
    
***
    
    "Abby. Abby? Abby! Are you going to sleep all day?!" 
    
    Abigail woke with a start to find Chopper looming over her. Her 
alternately seductive and caustic lover looked a lot more amused than 
she sounded, but still managed to seem disapproving enough to prevent 
Abigail from turning back over on the Hotel's lounge sofa and trying to 
ignore her.
    
    "Huh? What's the matter?" she mumbled through the unpleasant morning 
taste in her mouth. "Are we going again?"
    
    Chopper let out a mocking breath. "Yes, assuming you want to eat 
today. The bar's on the other side of town."
    
    Abigail moaned. She rally wanted to go back to sleep, before she was 
forced to acknowledge that she wasn't all that comfortable with her 
leathers crumpled up around her in their dishevelment. She probably 
wasn't making the best use of her image right then.
    
    Chopper only made it worse by asking, "You know, you could have 
stayed in bed instead."
    
    "I just wanted to relax a bit, after you got me up so early for 
breakfast rat-burgers!" Abigail grumped.
    
    Then, as she brought herself upright, her eyes widened in 
realisation. "What, you're going for food again already? What time is 
it!?"
    
    "Time for lunch, and a late one at that. The others are eating 
already, but I'm not having you miss a meal when there's already so 
little meat on you."
    
    "I was going to come and learn some more first aid from you! Why 
didn't you wake me?" she asked petulantly.
    
    Chopper gave her one of her condescending stares. "Because I was too 
busy working to come back and haul you off this couch. And it's not like 
you missed much. I was patching up slavers instead of slaves this time 
anyway."
    
    Abigail nodded unhappily in reply, but to her surprise the Hotel 
owner seemed to shrink behind his desk at the mention of the Dean's 
second job, and the men that carried it out. She chose not to enquire 
though. She felt groggy as hell, and could only cope with one thing at a 
time right now. That one thing was going to have to be Chopper.
    
    "So who are you dealing with this afternoon then?" she asked, making 
it obvious that she resented being left out of the morning's work 
regardless, even if it was her own fault.
    
    "That's what I wanted to talk to you about," Chopper replied with a 
more serious, appraising look as Abigail got to her feet and made 
herself look more presentable. "It's about time you learned to shoot."

***
    
    Back in Vault 42 the thought of their single firearms locker had 
been one of security and familial trust. Those few people with access to 
that limited armoury were dependable beyond the shadow of a doubt, and 
if there ever was to be an uprising those weapons would be used both 
swiftly and sparingly to protect the Overseers' council and the vault 
population. They had never been needed until that last nightmarish day, 
but nobody had ever worried that a member of VaultSec might one day use 
their own weapons against them. Combat inside the vault had been a 
sport, not social discontent, and softball or wall darts had been 
Abigail's sports of choice instead of karate or judo. 
    
    Now however, the everyman was armed and determined to protect his 
life and his property with lethal force, and his paranoia was not 
unjustified. If you could not shoot back then you were at the mercy of 
anyone amoral enough to want what you had. 
    
    Abigail had wanted to argue the point. She had come to hate guns 
even before she had ever fired one herself, and her attitude had not 
changed even after blowing away the last remaining mutant in the 
abattoir that her home had become. At least with a knife she could 
threaten - seem imposing and in control - without one mistaken impulse 
blowing off someone's head. And she knew how to use a knife. Moving from 
miniature javelins and wall mounted bull's-eyes to stripped down knives 
and mantises or raiders had not dulled the accuracy in her arm, and she 
did at least trust her arm. However well meant the gift had been, she 
did *not* trust the pistol that Albert the ghoul had given her.
    
    "But," Chopper had said with all seriousness, "Who's going to be 
scared of a knife when they've got a gun pointed at your head? Even with 
a measly pipe gun, they can pull the trigger faster than you can stick 
your hand out to stab them. At least if you've got a pistol pointing 
back at them they're less likely to kill you in case you pull the 
trigger out of reflex."
    
    Unfortunately the knife fighter of their own group agreed. "A blade 
will get you a long way," Kyle had explained, "and best of all it's 
silent, but think about what we *have* gone up against. Your knives 
might get you a few quiet kills, and if you can take a guy out of the 
fight from a distance with them then all the better, but what if you get 
caught and have to take cover? Just firing in the air is enough to make 
me think twice about chasing someone down, because I don't know that he 
can't put a lucky shot between my eyes."
    
    So Abigail had relented, but not before forcing Chopper to join 
them. The doctor had expected to spend the afternoon going over her 
medical inventory again and buying the supplies she needed to shore it 
up, but she had admitted more than once that combat was not her forte, 
and so Abigail had been given all the justification she needed to rope 
her into shooting practice as well.
    
    The range was set up well outside the town since they had no 
official shooting areas of their own, and old burnt cans and dirty 
bottles made up the firing line along the top of a concrete wall in the 
ruins. Rathley and Sharn merely watched from either end, while Kyle ran 
Abigail through the motion of using the old 10mm Colt in her hands. It 
was a deceptively simple weapon, but that didn't give Abigail any more 
confidence about using it. 
    
    "So, once you've checked that the safety is off and chambered the 
round you're ready to go. Hold it back up like I showed you, look down 
the sight, and breathe slowly. Just pull the trigger as soon as you're 
ready, and remember that you're expecting it to kick so don't hold your 
arms too tight. How about we give her a couple of shots head start 
Chopper?"
    
    At the other end of the line Chopper was watching them with her sub-
machine gun in her hands. Abigail had forgotten what make that gun was 
moments after Kyle had told her, but all she needed to know was that 
despite coming from a different pre-war company it was essentially the 
rapid-fire version of her pistol. It used the same bullets, and Chopper 
liked spraying out lots of them to make sure that she always hit, no 
matter how bad her aim was. As such if Chopper ever said she was going 
to open fire you got out of her way as fast as possible!
    
    This time however the older woman had her weapon set on single fire 
mode, and they would be competing. Whoever had got the most targets when 
they'd hit them all won. It was Kyle's way of motivating them. It was 
just a shame than neither participant wanted to compete much.
    
    But if she was being given a free hit that was fine by Abigail. She 
would need all the help she could get. She lined up her target, let her 
breathing slow like Kyle had told her to, and squeezed down on the 
trigger.
    
    She blinked at just the right time to avoid the worst of the muzzle 
flash, but the noise and the sharp lurch from the weapon made her shriek 
and stagger back a few steps into Kyle's hands. Something could have 
died just then, and she would only know when she looked back up! She did 
*not* like guns at all!
    
    However, Kyle, Sharn and Rathley all did apparently. Sharn perked up 
very quickly in her congratulations, and Rathley's gravely voice sounded 
impressed. "I guess that's one more talent under your belt, Sugar."
    
    Abigail looked up slowly to see what they were talking about. One of 
the cans had been removed neatly from the wall.
    
    "Though we did say to start from the outside and work in," Kyle 
chastised with a chuckle.
    
    Abigail was much less happy with the result, and admitted it with a 
very sheepish voice. "I know. I was aiming for the one on the end."
    
    The applause came to an awkward halt, "But a hit's a hit," Rathley 
said pragmatically. "One-nil to you, Sugar. Let's start the 
competition!"
    
    Chopper sounded as unhappy about that has Abigail felt, but neither 
one objected. Abigail couldn't help jumping whenever she or Chopper 
fired, and it didn't help that Chopper's third shot finally hit its mark 
while she continued to put bullets into the wall or off into the city 
ruins. However, both her fifth shot and Chopper's fourth hit their 
targets soundly, and Abigail felt a surge of confidence at her 
achievement, buoyed up by the pleased look Chopper gave her as well. 
Each shot flashed too brightly and sounded terrifying, and even now her 
wrist was beginning to ache after all the abuse from the recoil, but 
maybe she could desensitise herself to it the way the others did.
    
    She raised her gun again and gave a glance towards her lover before 
she lined up her sixth round, but when she pulled the trigger the flash 
was far too bright and the pain in her hand far too sharp. She dropped 
the gun instinctively as if it had bitten her. 
    
    It may only have been seconds later but she came to her senses again 
as Kyle caught her. She hadn't even realised she had fallen backwards 
again, but her head hurt and her hand ached, and everyone was rushing to 
her as Kyle sat her down.
    
    It was only then that she saw the blood welling from her fingers, 
and felt a trickle of the same from her forehead. "Wha... What the 
hell?"
    
    "You're okay, Abby-girl," Sharn soothed. "You'll be fine."
    
    Chopper was far more venomous. "Kyle! You bastard! Didn't you check 
out her fucking gun?!"
    
    "Of course I did!" Kyle retorted. "It was old, but it looked fine. 
It was probably a bad round. Just make sure it's nothing serious." 
    
    Then he turned his attention back to Abigail, still holding her as 
she shook. "It's okay, Abby. The gun exploded, but you look okay. Just 
relax and try and calm down."
    
    From the back somewhere Rathley chuckled. "Nice way to get 
acquainted with pistols. Anythin' permanent?"
    
    "No, Rathley," Chopper said far too loudly, "it's nothing permanent. 
Just a burn and some cuts. A stimpak and a couple of bandages and you'll 
be fine, Abby. But I'm going to wrap up your hand for a few days, okay?"
    
    Abigail nodded. Her tears were coming from the pain that now 
throbbed in her hand, but she knew a stimpak would deal with that in 
short order. It was her morale that had taken the brunt of the blow. 
"God damn it. Alfy would have loved to see a screw up like this."
    
    "Who's Alfy?" Sharn asked, but the question was drowned by the 
reassurance that came from Kyle.
    
    "Hey, Abby, you didn't do anything wrong. I was watching. It was 
just a bit of real bad luck."
    
    Abigail turned on him with a look of rage. "Yeah! *My* god damned 
luck!"
    
    Then just as quickly as it had appeared that anger faded. "Uh, 
sorry." She winced as Chopper slipped the stimpak needle into her hand, 
then began to bind it up where the flying metal had torn into her index 
finger. "Can we go back to the hotel now? I think I'd like some of that 
sipping liquor."
    
    "Sure, hon," Chopper said. "I think you've had enough shooting for 
one day."

***
    
    "Hey, Abby, you done now? Time's getting on."
    
    Abigail looked up from the mess she had made of their hotel room and 
sniffed. She'd been done throwing her fit for a while now, but after all 
the noise and fuss she had made she didn't blame Chopper, or any of 
them, for giving her more space than she had needed. 
    
    It had been stupid really, her usual brand of self-deprecating 
nonsense, but combined with a few too many fingers of liquor it had 
turned her into a raging lunatic. She'd even gone as far as trying to 
punch Rathley for his 'take it in your stride' attitude, with 
predictable results considering that her hand was bloody and swathed in 
bandages. In the end they had done just what she had wanted - left her 
alone - and so she had stewed in her own neuroses for an hour before 
pulling herself up by her bootstraps and telling herself that she had to 
live with it, by whatever means necessary.
    
    Three hours and another bout of screaming rage later and Abigail had 
settled down for the most part, which is how Chopper found her. It 
rather pleased Abigail to see how surprised Chopper was by her lucidity, 
especially amidst all the torn out dresser drawers and scattered 
bedding.
    
    "Feeling better, are we?" Chopper asked once her initial look of 
incredulity had worn off.
    
    Abigail sat in her mess, unaccountably defiant, and sniffed again. 
"Yes. Thanks for asking."
    
    "Don't get mad at me for not asking sooner," Chopper said, frowning 
slightly. "You made it pretty clear you wanted nothing to do with us 
'savages'."
    
    Abigail remembered that, and it hurt that she had meant it at the 
time as well. "Yeah. I'm sorry about that. I was just angry."
    
    "No kidding." Chopper regained her more pleasant, enquiring 
expression and sat next to her on the ruined bed. "Fancy telling me what 
that was all about?"
    
    Abigail's defiance returned with a vengeance. She didn't need to 
explain herself. She knew what Chopper was like. Even when she was 
pleasant and seductive, she wouldn't resist making fun. "Not really. 
It's my baggage, I'll live with it."
    
    But she also knew that Chopper was one to pry, and as unsubtly as 
possible, if she felt it necessary. This time she did. "Worse than 
having a pack of psychotic, steroid pumped lobotomy patients kill 
everyone you've ever known?"
    
    Abigail glared daggers at her for that, but Chopper went on 
undeterred. "I guess you never do your personal issues by halves, do 
you? And if it's as bad as all that," she said leaning forward, "then 
even the old bastard's going to worry about what you're keeping from us. 
After all, with the way you were going on last time they saw you, I'd 
have sworn you were trying to drive us off. Stupid, huh?"
    
    "Yeah. Stupid." It wasn't stupid in the least. Chopper had hit it 
right on the nose. Well, she was stronger than that. If something *did* 
happen to them Abigail wasn't going to accept responsibility for it.
    
    "So is it really that bad?" Chopper asked, a quirk in her smile. 
"The slavers? Seeing an old city? More bad dreams?" Then, absurdly, she 
almost seemed serious as she made her last suggestion. "Man troubles?" 
    
    Abigail's indignation vanished in a burst of hysterical laughter. 
Chopper laughed with her - in relief, Abigail hoped - but Abigail could 
not stop herself. By the time her giggles were back under control 
Chopper looked almost worried, and Abigail wiped her watering eyes. It 
was hilarious because once again, and quite unintentionally, Chopper had 
got it right. Just not in the way she had expected to. 
    
    "Yeah," Abigail said, with a sigh. "Man troubles. But not you!" she 
quickly explained. "I mean, men don't come with your kind of chest after 
all."
    
    "So... You're not entirely gay after all?" Chopper enquired, her 
face now straight but not blank or cold. Just waiting. "Kyle maybe?"
    
    "No! Not men as in *men*. Men as in Alfred Parker."
    
    She could see Chopper was lost now, and wondering what the hell this 
unknown man had to do with anything. "He was a friend of mine. When I 
was five."
    
    "In the vault."
    
    "Yeah. Gillian, Alice and me, we played with the boys a lot when we 
were kids. One day we were mucking about in the gym, and I said I'd race 
Alfy to the top of the climbing frames. We weren't supposed to be 
playing on them, and Alfy wasn't as good as me. He slipped, and fell. We 
were probably only twenty feet up it, but it looked like a long way back 
then. He broke his arm and got carted off to the medical suite, and I 
got told off, grounded, rationed... I was just glad Dad never smacked 
me, 'caus there were some dads who would have beat the hell out of me 
for 'getting Alfred hurt'."
    
    "So? Shit happens. He shouldn't have tried it if he couldn't do it."
    
    Abigail tried to look plaintive, wanting Chopper to understand. "We 
were only five. I was the kid who didn't get hurt, so it was my fault 
for putting him in danger. Anyway, I didn't care about getting my sweets 
rationed or staying in our room, was just upset about Alfy. But he 
blamed me as well. He said it was my fault. That I jinxed him and made 
him fall. And I believed it."
    
    Abigail was glad for Chopper's incredulity this time. "What? That 
bullshit?"
    
    Abigail shrugged. "I know it's stupid, but that's when it all 
started. I'm a screw up, plain and simple. When it matters most I can 
guarantee you I will mess up. Remember that super mutant? What kind of 
idiot would not only miss a target that big, but put her knife into one 
of her *allies* at the same time."
    
    "Things like that happen in combat. A lot. You have to react 
instantly, full of adrenaline. And you *did* take it down..."
    
    "During our festival," Abigail interrupted, "I was on stage 
performing some acrobatics on the gymnastic ropes. I had the routine 
down pat weeks in advance, and on the night I miss the rope and *I'm* 
the one falling head over heels, twenty feet down to the floor. And I'm 
not the only one keeping count. Some of the boys had a record going in 
the vault! When I'm around I *do* jinx people. They flunk tests that 
they should have passed easily, they screw up routine maintenance, put 
salt in the sugar cellars. They have their guns jam, or blow up in their 
faces, or kill people they shouldn't have done."
    
    "Is this about Old Burt? People die in fire fights Abby. This is 
bullshit. It's just bad luck, coincidence and carelessness."
    
    "And I don't want you to die because of *my* bad luck, or *my* 
coincidences or *my* carelessness! My nickname in my own home was Jinx, 
Chopper! It doesn't matter why it happens, or why it's me. It just is, 
and it *does*!"
    
    She smiled, her rant now over. She hadn't expected explaining her 
terrible, contagious luck would take so much out of her. "I'll carry a 
gun if you want. You're right about it being useful. But I don't want to 
rely on it like you do. If something went wrong again it might be worse 
than just getting my hand cut up."
    
    Chopper stared at her seriously, and let out a long breath. "You 
know how stupid that all is?"
    
    Abigail refused to wilt. Even now she still had enough fire left in 
her to stand her ground. "Yeah. I know. And call it what you want, I 
know it's true." 
    
    "So how come you didn't accidentally blow up the generator in 
Micasa? That would have been pretty nasty."
    
    Abigail shrugged. "I'm trained to do that stuff. And back in the 
vault, I was still being mentored so that I *wouldn't* screw something 
like that up."
    
    She took a deep breath, and let all the anxiety go. Chopper knew 
now, and that was that. "Whew. Tell the others if you want."
    
    "It's your business. If it matters that much, you can tell them that 
nonsense yourself."
    
    "And what about you?" Abigail retorted "What's your nonsense, 
Chopper? You can't tell me you don't have baggage."
    
    Now her lover grinned at her. "Me?" she asked, getting to her feet 
again. "Daddy and I didn't get on. So, are you coming out yet? We were 
going to start debating where to eat again before you shanghaied me."
    
    "Well do excuse me, 'Marie'. And don't change the subject. You *can* 
tell me. I promise not to scream or run away or anything."
    
    Chopper shook her head. "I bet you wouldn't, too. But I don't want 
to deal with that just yet."
    
    "But you will tell me eventually?" Abigail wheedled, happy to have 
the initiative over her for once.
    
    "Yes. I will."
    
    "Good girl," Abigail said, taking her arm and giving her a quick 
kiss. "Now I'll leave you alone and we can go and find some food."
    
    Chopper gave her an un-amused look. "You brushed your teeth 
already?"
    
    "Hey, having clean teeth always makes you feel better." 
    
    And behind them, out of sight in Abigail's bag, sat the little 
bottle of Buffout, yet another pill emptier.

***
    
    Em's Bar was exactly the kind of place a girl needed after an 
afternoon like Abigail's. The people were happy, the food was fast, the 
liquor was strong and music, such as it was, kept the air friendly and 
highly charged. The quintet at the back of the large, concrete built 
hall all played scratch build instruments - mostly drums and horns - but 
the energetic, aboriginal mess could still pass for music even to a 
cultured vault girl like Abigail.
    
    And it made her feel so much better. The mixture of fading, 
unnecessary combat drugs and newly drunk alcohol was a heady brew, 
diluted by grilled brahmin and freak vegetables. Under all that, and 
with the drums pounding through her, she could forget about the pain in 
her hand and the worries for those who weren't there with her. 
    
    Chopper had her weak beer in hand and her growing collection of 
brown bottles was slowly invading the darkened tabletop. No wonder she 
had started getting a gut, Abigail thought, but she felt too euphoric to 
bother passing judgement. Instead she opened her mouth so that one of 
the new friends at their table could feed her another piece of steak. 
    
    Chopper had acquired them from the dancing crowd as they had left to 
rest their legs and recharge on whatever booze was waiting for them. 
Casey, the one who slipped the fork into Abigail's waiting mouth, was 
just brilliant! She was full to the eyebrows with piercing and her voice 
squeaked like a rusty gate, but she hadn't stopped smiling since she had 
plonked herself down with them. She had bubbled through her 
introductions and had made it her night's goal to hear Abigail's life 
story, never having met a vault dweller in person before. Chopper had 
tried to interpose herself between them when Casey started feeding her, 
but was now resigned to having one of them on either side of her, and 
let Casey lean across whenever she felt that Abigail needed more to eat.
    
    She had descended to keep Abigail company while Chopper had spoken 
to a more severe pair of Casey's friends. David and Katina were... 
Abigail didn't know what they were, but they lived on Chopper's 
wavelength. David shared Abigail's favour for black leathers, while 
Katina dressed like she had fallen through the bazaar that morning and 
come out dressed. They were asking questions about the raiders and had 
been very keen to hear about Abigail's super mutant, but Abigail hadn't 
really wanted to talk to them. The pair had just come to have fun and 
get drunk or get laid, like everyone else, but they were killers. 
Somehow she knew it. They were laid back and smiling, but somehow too 
reserved. Or maybe it was just the booze talking!
    
    Anyway, they were hiding out in Willets High for the sake of a woman 
they knew, but they never went into detail about that, so Abigail 
contented herself with Casey's exuberant company while their friends 
talked shop. When Casey asked about her own friends Abigail pointed out 
the rest of their splintered group. 
    
    Rathley was sat on one of the patchwork lounging chairs, a woman in 
each arm. They looked as dishonourable as he did, their hair bleached, 
inked and shaved in strange ways, and full of metal. 
    
    Then again, Casey had just as many piercing as they did, and she was 
lovely! Weird.
    
    Thankfully Rathley seemed to be his usual unpleasant self, and while 
he took advantage of their very close company he obviously had a 
different woman in his sights, all curves and somehow gyrating in his 
direction on the dance floor.
    
    And Sharn and Kyle... Abigail sighed. They looked like they were 
trying.
    
    "Well, come on!" Casey said suddenly, leaping over the back of her 
chair. "Let's go help 'em out!"
    
    The pair of lovebirds sat facing each other on their table, while 
their little audience by the wall placed bets on their staring contest.
    
    "I'm not asking you to beg!" Sharn exclaimed as the pair got closer.
    
    "Then what, Sia?" Kyle asked over his fourth empty glass. "You just 
want out?"
    
    "No I don't 'want out' you deaf prick! I want *my* gunner-man back!"
    
    Kyle's unsteady stare just got colder. "You're looking at him. This 
is all I am, Sia. Yeah, I loved River like my life depended on it. Turns 
out it didn't. I moved on. There's nothing more I can do."
    
    Abigail and Casey shocked the pair of them by pulling up a chair 
each and setting their drinks on the table with a crash.   
    
    "That sounds pretty good to me, Sharn," Abigail said. "I know you 
love him."
    
    Casey took the line with Kyle. "And you know, 'Gunner-Man', whatever 
it is, there isn't a girl alive that doesn't like hearing their guy say 
they're sorry, eh? It ain't that hard either."
    
    Kyle shook his head. "I won't apologise for River."
    
    "I DON'T CARE ABOUT HER!" Sharn cried. "I never did! But you never 
told me! You never cared about me enough to tell me? I never kept 
anything from you. Nothing!"
    
    "Hey," Abigail tried, "everyone has a few secrets."
    
    But Sharn just shook her head, staring at him. "I didn't keep 
*anything* from him. But what's he still keeping from me?"
    
    All eyes around the table turned to Kyle. "You want to know 
everything."
    
    "Oh ancestors! I knew it."
    
    Kyle stared at her unhappily. "I'll tell you. Everything. Beginning 
to end."
    
    Abigail's heart leapt as Sharn's face lit up. "That's all I want. I 
want to know who you really are again."
    
    She pulled herself out of her chair to take his shoulders in her 
hands, but he stopped her.
    
    "I'll tell you, but you won't like it."
    
    "I don't care! I love you, you moron."
    
    "It's that important to you?" Kyle asked, confused. 
    
    Sharn nodded. "Of course it's important. It's who you are!."
    
    Abigail, Casey and their peanut gallery let out a cheer as Sharn 
slipped onto Kyle's lap and finally kissed him.
    
    "Whew," Casey said, with a grin. "That was hard work."
    
    Abigail could only giggle in agreement. "You're telling me."
    
    It was so great to have the two of them finally make up again, even 
if it took alcohol and a shouting match to do it.
    
    "You know, she's pretty frisky," Casey noted as the kiss grew 
heavier. "Is she always like that? Maybe we ought to find a bucket of 
water."
    
    Abigail's eyes widened as Sharn's hands slipped up Kyle's shirt. She 
knew Sharn was passionate and had little concern for privacy, but this 
was ridiculous. 
    
    "Forget the bucket. Someone get a hose!"
    
***

To be continued...

***

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nutzoide@nutzoide.net

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writer than to hear back from the readers.

Many thanks to Richard King for his proofreading assistance.

(c) Nutzoide 2009

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