I didn't like him the first time I laid eyes upon him on that rainy afternoon.

Of course, I didn't like any of the waste rats that crawled out of the rubble onto our doorstep the first time I saw them. Few enough managed to pass the surprisingly difficult test of not being hulking monstrosities with distinctively yellowed skin. Fewer still possessed the capacity to articulate their desire for entrance with reason instead of garbled curses and bullets. Literal raised-in-a-sewer mentality aside, however, I still preferred to deal with raiders and mutants over the likes of those actually granted crossing to the ship.

Outright hostility was easy to recognize and to deal with—you either avoided it or put it to the business end of a rifle and were done with it. Only when the lines weren't drawn so clearly did things became difficult, messy. And those with the wit to get across the bridge were potentially more dangerous foes than the biggest minigun-wielding mutie stomping around out there simply because they were capable of exercising subterfuge.

Out here, it was always risky letting another get close, whether it was close to your home, your heart or your physical person. Of the Wasteland's key rules, that of "vulnerabilities will be exploited" governed the standard for offensive, but especially defensive behavior.

Turn your back literally or figuratively on the wrong person at the wrong time, give someone an opportunity, no matter how small or innocuous you think it is, and they will use it against you. And, if you're lucky, you'll live to hopefully not repeat the mistake. Though, that's not to say that everybody was out to get you all of the time.

Just… too many people, too often, to assume otherwise.

Most that were reluctantly welcomed into Rivet City were harmless enough. Tired, dirty and worse for wear, sure—but just here on business. Just looking to trade whatever manner of wares they'd scavved, stolen or killed for in exchange for a drink, a bite to eat and a bed to sleep in before they wandered back out for more.

They tended to keep to themselves, falling into that learned and mutual distrust before leaving nearly as fast as they arrived. If they behaved while they were here based solely on the fact that there were multiple guns constantly patrolling the ship, then great. We didn't operate on idealism. We weren't looking for or expecting good people (hell, good people were so rare anyway they may as well have been mythological creatures except I'd actually seen centaurs). So while company was visiting, we'd strongly insist upon and gladly settle for transient civility.

We put up with the arrangement, both parties, because we needed each other. It would always be a risk letting another get close, but it was a necessary, calculated, paradoxical risk that had to be taken in order to survive.

No one is an island and, as much as Rivet City resembled and wanted to be one, it simply could not sustain itself on isolationism. The city needed the outlanders who were willing to brave the Wastes and retrieve raw materials and commodities. They, in turn, needed our caps, food and a safe hub (well, relatively speaking; I still wouldn't advise people to leave their doors unlocked).

Until the situation changed—until our scientists figured out a way to completely recycle all of our essential materials or until humans stopped fucking each other over—this is the way it would be. Suffering interaction through permanently gauged distrust. Greeting visitors rain or shine with a Hello, nice to meet you a few sizes too small to conceal the underlying hostility. Offering a welcoming handshake through the cold muzzle of an extended rifle.

And, shit, given the long history that led up to the current sad state of the world, I'd be an idiot to put my caps on anything other than a miracle of science subverting the second law of thermodynamics before human nature changed.

But, then again, I'd always been a sucker for long odds.

So I regarded him coolly as he neared, just like all the others that had come before him. Sized him up in a way that had become second nature to any Wasteland veteran, the most important questions being Where are his hands? and Where are his weapons? Then, if answering those didn't immediately lead to shooting or being shot at, Who is this guy and what does he really want?

In his case: clutched to his stomach, knife sheathed in boot, grenade pouch on thigh and mandatory assault rifles wisely slung behind his shoulder. Typical.

Other than the standard arsenal, he looked like every other grimy waster punk. Tattered clothing and makeshift armor. Covered in blood and grime. Sporting fresh wounds of his own, yet… something was odd about him. Studying him with a bit more scrutiny, it hit me.

His gait.

He wasn't walking or limping or fleeing or reenacting any of the other numerous variations on the same old theme like so many others that had crossed the bridge before. Despite the downpour and despite how he looked as through he'd just dived through a meat grinder, his steps seemed measured. I hesitated to call it striding, because not even the cockiest merc did that, but… that's almost what it looked like.

Beyond that oddity was another. He unusually tall. And despite the garb and gore he was covered in, I could still discernibly see broad shoulders and muscle. Not exactly a common physique to posses out here, not after years of ravishment by radiation, malnutrition and disease left so many stunted and marred for life.

I frowned slightly, not quite knowing what to make of our newest arrival. He wasn't that old. Still just a kid really. But his eyes didn't posses what I'd seen in too many children half his age—the stoic, broken edge of those who'd seen too much, been hurt too many times and had subsequently withdrawn entirely at some point. Just warm husks left behind, drifting on the path of least resistance.

I didn't see that, nor did I see the telltale stark vacancy or malicious hunger that marked the occasional sun-baked merc or especially cunning raider.

No, his gaze was sharp. His eyes shone with intellect and determination. With purpose. Almost like this shit-hole world hadn't sullied him, at least not in all the usual ways it extracted its toll from the minds and bodies of its inhabitants. He didn't look like he'd footed costly price of continued existence. He looked too out of place. Too different.

And I didn't fucking like it.

Different never heralded good tidings. Different was unnerving because different had no baseline, no predictors. And in the Wasteland, different usually only meant a unique and awful variant that raised the bar for the standard established horrors.

Fortunately, different still bled just like everyone else. And different wasn't bulletproof, something I was reassured of by the familiar weight and contours of the rifle in my hands.

"Hold it right there," I called to him. "State your business in Rivet City."

"I don't answer to you, pal."

And without stopping or throwing so much a glance my way.

Inwardly, I bristled, but at least it was familiar territory, something I could use to orient myself. Underneath it all, he was still just an asshole waster to the core. Probably a fervent subject of its cardinal law too—the strongest, the most cunning and the least scrupled will survive at the expense of everybody else.

Yeah, well he could do that out there. Here, our rules trumped those of the Wastes and he'd best wise up pretty fucking fast if he wanted in.

I stepped into his path and smiled, tapping my forefinger on the trigger guard. He got the message and stopped in front of me.

"We aren't pals," I stated, "and on this ship, you sure as hell do. You don't get on without my say-so, understand?" I took the scowl and his silence as acknowledgement and continued. "So I'll ask you again—what are you doing here?"

He let out a huffy sigh. "I'm looking for a Dr. Li."

I might've found his request unusual any other week, but there'd been an unusually large amount of people requesting to see her lately. Hell, he wasn't even the first person to come calling for her today; that privilege belonged to a doctor from up north, Zimmer, and his bodyguard. Important business about valuable, advanced technology, the likes of which a lowly and humble security guard such as myself wouldn't be able to comprehend, he'd assured me.

There'd been a few others before Zimmer too, most notably that polite, older scientist a month ago. He'd left quickly, I remembered, but not before putting Dr. Li in such a foul mood from their brief visit together that I'd caught no end of shit from Anna for letting him aboard in the first place.

And as much as I'd hated listening to her chew my ear off about it, she was right. I should've been more careful. Especially since I actually understood the significance of what they were trying to do in that lab.

I'd once sworn on my life to help them accomplish it in my own way. I couldn't help directly, but I could give Dr. Li and the others my protection so they could complete it safely. I'd fight off the super mutants, mirelurks and raiders. I'd take care of Bannon and the other occasional belligerent drunks that wandered into the lab to look at the pretty plants.

I'd make sure she wasn't interrupted by random walk-the-waste jerk-offs.

"Dr. Li, huh?" I asked dryly. "Let me guess—no, she's not expecting you, but it's really important and you need to see her right away."

"Exactly."

"Been a lot of that going around lately and I've had just about enough of it. So you're going to have to do better than that."

"Better than that?" He gaped at me for a moment before throwing his arms in the air in mock surrender. "Okaaaay. Maybe I was wrong, but I thought you could see the wounds I'm obviously covered in and, maybe from there, you'd reach the conclusion that I'd probably like to have them cleaned out sometime today. Y'know, before infection sets in. Or is that still not good enough? Do I need to fill out a form, too? Declare all mutfruits and vegetables? Answer three fuckin' questions before you'll let me pass? Or does the mighty bridge-keeper require more of a… toll?"

The veiled insults barely registered in the wake of his last word. Toll? Who the fuckdid he think I was?

Well… considering it for a moment after the initial flare of anger, I guessed the assumption wasn't that outlandish. Caps could grease interaction and coax movement between even the most stubborn shapes and personalities.

I had no illusions about the inherent goodness of humanity. I accepted that everyone did have a price, but mine sure as shit wasn't anywhere near taking bribes for entrance to the city.

"I don't take caps," I informed him coldly. "And you keep up that smart-ass attitude then you're gonna wind up floating face-down in the river."

"I wasn't entirely being a smart-ass," he muttered, glancing down to examine a particularly nasty gash on his abdomen. Dumbass had ripped it open while he was ranting.

I watched him, silently weighing the merits of letting him in despite his mouth problem. Wasters that had yet to master the self-preserving virtue of biting their tongues had a bad habit of starting shit that I'd inevitably have to clean up. Though, as much as doing that was guaranteed to piss me off more than anything else, some small part of me, hidden very deep down where it'd never see the light of day on my lips, still couldn't help but appreciate their dedication to candidness. As stupidly brazen and irritating as it was, at least it was upfront and honest.

"Look," he sighed again, breaking the silence, his eyes flicking back up to meet mine. "I'm, uh… I'm not exactly at my best right now, but I can assure you I'm not looking to start any trouble either. Shit, not like I'd even be capable right now. I just need to get patched up, see Dr. Li for a minute, ask a few questions about an old colleague of hers, and then I'll be gone. I don't wanna stick around here any longer than I have to, something I think we can both agree on."

"Fine," I said after a few moments, eyeing the wound he was pinching together with a trembling hand. He needed stitches. "You can go in, but we will be keeping an eye on you. And keep your damn weapons holstered—this is the only warning you'll get."

"Right," he acknowledged, with enough regrouped attitude that I could hear the eye-roll in his voice.

Yeah, no need to be thankful at all, you fucking dick. He gave me one last glance before moving to leave and I turned my head to follow his march forward… only to see him stop slightly past me.

"Um, where's the clinic?" he asked, keeping his face glued dead ahead. At least he had the decency to sound slightly embarrassed.

"Upper deck, stern section, port side," I replied curtly.

"Uh—"

"Top interior level, southwest end."

"Right," he repeated more sheepishly and stalked off, clutching his stomach.

I watched him disappear into the ship then, after checking to make sure nothing else was trying to sneak across, pulled the lever to swing the bridge back. The kid might have told me that nothing was going to happen, but I'd hug a mirelurk before I'd start believing the word of every asshole that came aboard.

I grabbed the small transceiver clipped to my belt and radioed ahead to Mruk with orders to head to the lab and remove our guest if he started getting lippy. Lies and misleading half-truths certainly weren't in shortage out here, so it was only prudent to make sure nothing was exactly what happened.

After all, these—

A chilling wail screeched out from the direction of the old subway station across the water. Sharp, wet, like metal scraping against metal mixed with the sound gagging. It held a long note, cutting through the soft background patter of raindrops, before it gurgled out with an echo that reverberated off the hull, the ruins on the shore and my own pounding heart.

—were certainly interesting times we lived in.

And as it turned out, I was more right that I thought.