Samantha Red didn't go to Concord.

She was too weak. Too scared. Too shaken by her jump through time, and all that it had cost her.

Standing at the hilltop, looking down on what was left of town, all that she could think of was the last time she had been here. Everything had fallen under the same sick pallor of decay, since then.

She fell to her knees, fingers running over the ring she'd taken with her. He wasn't coming back. No one was. She felt her throat crack, her face tighten. She did nothing to fight back the tears. Her eyeliner began to run — God, she still had the same makeup on as from the morning, back before... before...

But she couldn't bring herself to even think the words.

The pop of distant gunfire shook her back into the present. That was the other reason she chose to keep her distance; she was in no shape to wander through a town where gunplay was a common law. Sam had no clue what the common law was, of anybody, anywhere. She could make an educated guess, but didn't like the answer.

She did know what rules she planned to play by on her own, though. Nate was gone, but Shaun was out there, and so was he, whoever he had been. She'd never forget his face. A twisted hope took root inside of her — that he was still alive, just so she could murder him herself. Even in the fallout of such hate, hate enough to burn the world, there were still a few things worth seeking revenge for.

It wasn't long before Sam realized that her aimless wandering was going to get her killed. More than once, a vagrant clad in scraps had noticed her, and shot on sight. She was not a fan of guns.

It was this damn jumpsuit. It stood out like a neon sign against the washed-out wasteland. She took passing refuge in what once had been a house, turned drawers and dressers inside out in search of something to change into. Her sense of propriety was rapidly diminishing. The old world was gone; she had no more obligation to be a pretty housewife.

A handful of garments lay strewn across the floor. She wondered who these clothes had once belonged to. Where they had been when the bombs fell. If they'd had anyone to hold and love before the shockwave struck. Samantha wondered the same about herself — if there was any love left in the world, if she would ever find someone to hold her again, to say 'You're gonna be ok.'

She picked out a vaguely tarnished shirt and pair of jeans. The natural fabric felt amazing, even under the circumstances. Or perhaps, especially so. After 200 years frozen against Vault-suit silicate, her skin was begging for the chance to breathe.

Then she noticed the smoke.

Stepping back outside, she followed the trail of wisps back to earth. There, just off from what once had been a crossroads. Two figures, one tending a campfire, the other lying down on some sort of sleeping bag. They each looked to be dressed in clothes like hers — a far cry from whatever things had taken potshots at her earlier.

She discarded the blue jumpsuit like the funeral gown it was, and headed down the hill, towards her first potential bid at civil interaction.

The setting sun beat merciless and hot, its final rays casting the doctor's grey hair in an orange glow.

"And another word of warning, girl. Keep a close eye on your radiation out there. They say one of the Bombs fell not too far from here. It'd do terrible things to that pretty face of yours. Wish my skin had been that smooth when I was your age! Where did you say you were from?"

"I didn't," Sam replied, looking up, arms wrapped around her knees. First human kindness I find, and I can't bring myself to open up or say a damn thing. She feared judgment, misunderstanding. Her tale felt unbelievable even by this world's standards. She hoped that the politeness in her tone would be enough to make the other woman understand.

"Right..."

She made a gesture to suggest she didn't like the subtext, but respected it. "Well, kid..." the doctor sat down next to the her and kicked an errant coal back into place. "Welcome to the Commonwealth. She ain't much, least not compared to the stories I've heard handed down. But seeing as you look to be from... somewhere else... well, I guess you'll make your mind up for yourself, in time. Here, something for when you hit the road tomorrow, before I forget."

Sam leaned forward on the mattress pad to see what she had pulled from her pack. The clamor of Concord was still audible in the distance, but sitting here, in the company of folks who cared enough to talk, to give, the nightmares of the past and future seemed a bit more far away.

The older lady handed her what looked to be an industrial syringe, complete with tubing and a gauge on top. "It's only good for one use, but damn if it can't save your life out there."

Her memory reeled. She'd seen this before. "It's a... a stimpak, right? I remember reading about these. They came out back—" but then she realized what she was about to sound like, and held her tongue. She pocketed it gently, praying it didn't jab her through the denim cloth. "Thank you again, Doctor..."

"Anderson" she said back with a smile. "Just Anderson is fine. Now why don't you lie back and rest? You look like you've had a rough day."

Reluctant, yet grateful, Samantha nodded in silence, and curled up into the makeshift bed. It didn't have the comfort of home — could anything out here, ever? — but at least she was alive.

Internally, she laughed at Anderson's words. Rougher than you know.