Two Eyes [Closed] [M]

    Struggling behind a foggy haze, the sun slowly began to rise above the skeletal Washington D.C. The early morning had been relatively quiet, and the sunrise was almost serene... If one didn't mind a foreground of mangled buildings and desolation set to the ambiance of distant gunfire and wails, that is. The roaches below scattered slowly, seeking refuge from the closest star and preferring a dark environment rather than the beating heat of the Capital Wasteland's long days. A cool, morning breeze howled through the downtown ruins, as did the muffled cries of feral ghouls. For the vagabond, this was home.


    The young woman grumbled from her haggard bedroll, reaching groggily for a bottle of Aqua Pura in the dim light of daybreak. Two bottles left. After it had been drained and tossed across the ancient floorboards, she sat up and adjusted the eye patch. A pain stung her eye with every beat of her heart, an all-too-familiar throbbing from her long-vacant eye socket. Ugh. Slept on it.

    The breeze had found it's way through a broken window, sending the sun-bleached hair whipping across her forehead and carrying with it the sound of emptiness. It was a hollow sound, one that often invaded the young woman's mind with or without a breeze. Bad dreams were common for the vagabond, but often forgotten as quickly as any others. Last night had carried with it one such dream. Running thin fingers through her dirty hair, a yawn escaped her as the darkness began to lift it's veil.

    Rising from the bedroll and walking stiffly across the cracked tile, she stood barefoot before the eastern windows. Scars covered her body, coverind each limb with painful memories. While watching the sun climb slowly over the hazy horizon, the woman lit a cigarette and placed one hand on a broken window ledge. Memories of the day before came to her as the dreams finally left, and the young woman remained indifferent. Those thugs deserved to die. The hell am I still mullin' on it?

    The vagabond made her way back to the bedroll, tossed the cigarette from the broken window, and proceeded to dress herself. A raven cawed somewhere outside. Then another. Stopping to smell her tank top, she pulled it over her head with a soft groan. Her clothes were filthy, and had neared the boundary of carrying a stench stronger than sweat. The armor was in need of attention as well, but a walk to any settlement would wait until she finished her job. So close to her goal, hygiene and repairs had been put on hold for lesser causes in the past.

    Retrieving her gear and tying up her boots, the young woman stretched for a moment and surveyed her temporary home. Time to move on. Soon she was navigating her way out of the ruined Anderson Financial Office. The president's third floor office had been cozy enough, but the vagabond had not planned on staying one more night. Not with the ghouls and muties she had heard last night, moving through the ancient streets so close below. The Brotherhood's presence had failed to keep the monsters out of the darkest areas. They skulked the inner ruins, still dragging helpless wasters away for God knew what unholy acts. Part of the vagabond retained a healthy dose of primal fear. The rest of her retained devout faith in the sniper rifle and her own will. Stay cool, get to the hotel, and get outta downtown before sunset. Easy money, babe.








    Descending a mountain of concrete, the young woman managed her way down with more noise than she cared to make. When her boots finally rested on the broken pavement below, Shea tossed the sniper rifle over her shoulder and found another cigarette. Nothing moved. Taking a moment to survey the area, her gaze fixed on a twisted signpost. The names on the rusty signs were impossible to decipher. After a moment of squinting, she dismissed the attempt and continued her journey into a river of skeletal vehicles.

    The name of the street, which the illiterate vagabond did not understand, still legibly read: Allen Avenue. Nearly two miles down this road, deep in the ruins of D.C., stood a small hotel. It was her destination, and a change to her usual jobs. A snatch instead of a snipe. The young woman thought absently.

    Sudden prickling sensations were prelude to the radiation, snapping her out of any other thoughts. She had no device in which to measure rads, nor did she understand how they worked, but a gut instinct kept her wide of the crater to the north. A walk through that area, even a brief scout, would likely end in vomiting and the onset of the sickness. She had subjected herself to such unfortunate side effects before. She would not do it again.

    Her boots carried her southeast, down Allen Avenue. The heavy rifle rode on her armored shoulder, and the young woman cursed it's weight for the thousandth time since the weapon had belonged to her. Time with the weapon had eased it's burden, even strengthened her arms, but the small-framed woman would never find it easy to lug around. When a familiar skittering reached Shea's ears, the vagabond ignored it. Lone roaches were no threat in broad daylight, so she continued on.

    

    Shea found herself standing before an intersection, staring at one of the few remaining stop lights in D.C. The device hadn't glowed in centuries, but it's presence was still enough to provoke thoughts. Having been raised with little in the form of education, the light was a mystery to the vagabond. It's alien shape puzzled her in the same way Easter Island had puzzled denizens of the Old World. Get moving.

    For the next few minutes, she kept to the ruins. While her pace was slowed, this allowed her some degree of camouflage. Moving slowly across the broken storefronts and dark buildings, the young woman raised her weathered rifle. Pausing and looking through it's scope, she surveyed the streets ahead.

    In the distance stood what was once named The Hubner Hotel. It's right wing had collapsed centuries before when a neighboring office had fallen on it during the Great War. Unidentifiable, rusting hulks remained in a strange grid pattern before it. One door to the entrance hung open, the other gone completely. Nothing but dust moved around the ruined structure, and for this Shea was grateful. She supposed it would be alright to return to the street, cutting her walk time in half. While the vagabond looked from window to window, an unknown object made a loud thunk behind her.

    Shea spun in the crouching position, dropping the rifle from her eye while keeping it shouldered and ready to fire. Her eye found only a dark, strangely object laying on the sidewalk near a damaged Nuka-Cola machine.

    Grenade.



    No sooner had the though sparked into her mind, an explosion shook the street and shattered what little glass remained in the nearby storefront. A rotting Corvega rocked slightly and the tired beams supporting the store's ancient sunroof collapsed. Chunks of brick blew outward, dislodged by sharpnel or the explosion it'self. A chunk of sharpnel tore through one of Shea's water bottles as she fell backwards. Another piece sail past her left shoulder, leaving a bloody cut in the shoulder strap of the vagabond's sport's top. Shea hit the concrete hard, a ringing filling her ears and a stinging in her shoulder. Softly, overpowered by the ring, the young woman heard laughter.

    "Hah-hah! Got it! Did yah seeyuh!? Tolds yah I could get next human firss try! Still counts, tho she didn't splode! " a voice bellowed somewhere from the adjacent alleyway. A heavy grunt, fueled by pain, fear, anger and disgust, escaped the the vagabond's chapped lips. Muti's. Fuckin' careless.
    
    Shea's heart pounded like a hammer as adrenaline surged through her veins like acid. So stupid of me. Move, girl.

    The vagabond released a roar of effort as she stood up, stumbling down the sidewalk and bashing her left should on the wall of the ruin. Still suffering from the disorientation that comes from nearby grenade trauma, she turned the great rifle and exhaled slowly. Two of 'em. One of 'em got grenados. A different sound echoed through the street now, one of a long-barrel sending a .308 round into the alleyway. Then another. Then a third round to the second mutie.

    The first round sailed off-mark, smashing into the wall of a former clothing outlet. The second, while still missing the grenade belt, caught the bomber mutant in his unarmored abdomen. The monster stumbled backwards two steps, clutching his yellowed hand over his wound before studying his bloody palm.

    "You BITCH! You-YOU-YOU DIE!" he howled, trudging across the road, dragging a car axle with a bent rim behind him. Sparks shot from the metal being dragged along the broken asphalt. To a human, the gut-shot would have been a fatal wound. For the monsters lumbering down the road, it was an injury that would heal with enough time. "YOU DIE!"

    The vagabond rose once again, her mind swirling. Run. Turning quickly, she dashed down the sidewalk. Her legs struggled to keep steady as her hip banged painfully against the shell of a pickup truck. The rifle seemed to weigh a hundred pounds. Slinging it over her back with a heave, the young woman produced the revolver as she sprinted down the broken sidewalk. Shea then spun once again against a leaning streetlight, swiftly emptying six magnum rounds into her pursuers with increasing accuracy. Wheezing softly as she reload, Shea-Victoria's cold blue eye looked for an escape.