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 f*cking 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 sh*t . . . 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 sh*tty 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 f*ck 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 f*cking 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 f*cking 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 f*ck 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—f*cking 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.
. . . f*ck, 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.
f*ck . . . 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.
"f*ck!" 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 f*ck 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 "f*ck."
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 f*cking follow us?!"
"Twice now, yeah."
"What the f*ck 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 f*cking 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."
* * *
