Chapter 28

The road back to Megaton was a long and hard one. Often, the large group of slaves attracted unwanted attention from unscrupulous traders and some raiders. Thanks to Lyra's sharp eye and Veldoran's senses, they avoided the worst of the Wasteland. The creatures that they ran into – mole rats and such, were an oddly convenient food source, considering the fact that the duo had not brought along enough foodstuffs for the entire group. The logistics of feeding their small army, Lyra had quipped, eliciting a wry eyebrow-raise from the Warlock.

The children were remarkably well-behaved, helping to serve the adults when food was delivered. Most of the Vault children Lyra knew were self-centered and pampered little brats. The only thing that kept her from going down that path was her father's constant attention to her behaviour, as well as her religious upbringing. Amata herself found it an oddity that a man of science like James Kendal doubled as the Vault's unofficial pastor, with many residents coming to him for advice – something which the Overseer found somewhat disturbing.

When questioned about their behaviour, the children merely shrugged.

"In Little Lamplight, the mayor taught us that the group comes first. We all have to do our part. You grownups do the tough stuff so we'll do the rest," one of the children, a little girl by the name of Sylvie, spoke to Lyra during communal dinnertime.

One night, when she was settling down to bed, one of the children appeared next to her bedroll, her emerald eyes glinting in the dim light of the fire they had started. She had short, severely-cut black hair with blunt bangs.

"Hey there," Lyra smiled, patting the little girl's head gently. "You're Sarah, right?"

"Sabba," she replied, sounding somewhat annoyed. "I wanted to talk to you."

"About what?" Lyra sat atop her bedroll, moving aside to allow the little girl some space to sit down as well.

"Is it true that monsters are after you and your friend?" Sabba asked. "I heard Mr. Vel say that you two were in a lot of danger…"

Lyra frowned. "You shouldn't go around eavesdropping like that. It's not polite."

"I wasn't dropping no eaves, Ma'am," she replied cutely. "But… is it true?"

"I suppose so," Lyra shrugged. "You shouldn't worry about me and Vel, though. We're used to this kind of stuff."

"I think it's different, this time," Sabba said, placing her small hand on Lyra's shoulder. "You should be more careful next time."

"Sure," Lyra nodded, somewhat perplexed by Sabba's sudden seriousness.

"Well, I thought you might find this useful," Sabba overturned her little backpack and dropped the contents onto Lyra's bedroll.

It was a sub-machinegun. The precisely-machined metal gleamed with gun oil, its flawless surface untouched by the elements.

Lyra picked it up and turned it around in her hands. "Where'd you get this?"

"My father gave it to me," Sabba replied. "He carved my name into the stock."

True enough, the name "Sabbatine" was etched into the metal stock in a flowing script, as well as an exquisitely machined symbol – a skull with a cross below it, similar to the Greek symbol for the female gender. The skull was left the native black of the gun-metal, while the circle surrounding the skull as well as the cross was a deep scarlet. On both sides of the barrel-casing were a pair of stylized double-headed eagles, gilded gold, and the eagle's eyes seemed to blink in the flickering light.

"It's beautiful," Lyra smiled. "But I can't take it. It's a family heirloom, I'm sure your father would prefer if you kept it."

"No, he told me to give it to you," Sabba murmured. "He said that Chaos would be hunting you, and that he would protect you any way he could. Use it with his blessing and mine."

"How the hell-" Lyra looked up from the weapon. Sabba had disappeared, as if she had never been there at all.

Placing the submachine gun in her backpack, she set off to where the bulk of the children slept.

She swept her gaze over the lot, all of them staring questioningly at her.

"Something wrong, Ma'am?" one of the boys asked.

"Where's Sabba?" Lyra frowned. "I was talking to her a moment ago before she disappeared."

"Sabba?" he frowned, before gesturing to a little girl who sat across from him. "You mean Sarah?"

The little blonde girl looked up at her quizzically.

"No…" Lyra shook her head. "Never mind."

Going back to her bedroll, she reached into her pack and withdrew the submachine gun again, examining it once more.

In small, barely noticeable script, just below the double-headed eagle on the left side of the gun, was a short sentence.

"May you be the light of humanity in a sea of unrelenting darkness."

***

They reached Megaton in the late morning, just before the group ran out of non-irradiated water. The children were already beginning to suffer from dehydration, and Veldoran ended up carrying little Sarah while the rest of them trudged wearily on.

Simms was less-than happy to see the duo return with more mouths to feed, but it was impossible to conceive of any other plan, considering that Megaton was the biggest town for miles around.

The former slaves thanked their saviours profusely. Most were too poor to offer them anything but their thanks, but one elderly man offered the only thing he had on him besides his clothes – a small locket containing a picture of him and his wife, taken when he still lived in a Vault.

Lyra pressed the locket into his hand and smiled. "There's no need for that."

The Warlock watched her quietly, seeing her hold back tears as she spoke to each and every one of them. The red soulstone she wore glowed dimly, and Veldoran sensed a strong undercurrent of emotion in the skein that stemmed not only from Lyra's latent abilities, but also from Ilrissa's spirit, contained within the gemstone.

They stopped by the clinic to get more stimpaks - three quarters of their stock had been depleted on the way back from Paradise falls.

"It was a brave thing you did," Church said as he walked in between the beds, checking on some of the newest citizens of Megaton. "If I wasn't such an ornery old bastard, I might even call you a hero."

"I'm not a hero," she replied demurely. "Veldoran did most of the heavy lifting."

"It was your idea, your vision, and your will that made it happen," the Warlock pointed out. "I was your blade, an extension of your will and intent. The Eldar have a saying – 'Halanth lyrannir selan'. It means-"

"To thyself, be true," Lyra finished for him. She coloured slightly. "Sorry."

"He's right," Church added. "Don't sell yourself short. It's good work that you're doing. Never let anyone tell you otherwise."

Lyra smiled tiredly. "Well, thanks for the stimpaks. I think I'm gonna go lie down now. Afternoon nap."

Church nodded in reply, turning back to his patients. "I need you to stop scratching at the bandage…"

***

Sandoval awoke again, eyes adjusting to the brightness.

"What's going on?" he gurgled, his voice reedy and weak from thirst.

Pain seared across his left arm as he moved, and he looked down at it.

The flesh was peeled back, revealing metallic grafts that seemed to whirr and pulse in time with his heartbeat.

"The fuck are you doing to me?" he screamed. "Sick bastards!"

"Cybernetic augmentation is one of the technologies the Enclave is working on," said a male voice. It was one of the scientists, Nyquist, if he remembered correctly. "We were using Crucinedrine to see if you could withstand the constant pain of utilising the implants. So far… you've proven yourself most resilient to the effects."

He recoiled as the sound of drills and actuators grew louder and louder to his ears.

"Put him under, Dr Dahlren," Nyquist said.

"Of course," he heard Sara's voice drawl almost disinterestedly.

"You bitch!" Sandoval roared as she inserted a heavy-gauge needle into his arm. The pain was astounding, especially with the application of Crucinedrine.

His vision blurred as the sedative took effect, and darkness crept in at the edges. He fought to stay awake, but the drug was too strong.

"I'll see you in hell, Nyquist," he grimaced.

"After you, Mr Sandoval," Nyquist replied mock-politely.

"Your turn, Dr Larraman," Sara gestured toward one of her fellow scientists. He stepped forward silently, fiddling with the scalpel as he lowered it toward's Sandoval's unmodified right arm, the sharp edge biting into his flesh and drawing blood.

Larraman removed Sandoval's arm from the elbow onwards, attaching small electrodes directly into the bloody flesh – conductors for the new cybernetic arm they were attaching. The clean cuts would heal rapidly with the proper application of medication and stimulus, melding the hypoallergenic electrodes into the flesh. The ends were melded carefully into the carefully separated nerves, looking like bits of shrapnel around a bloody wound.

Dispassionately, Sara Dahlren looked on, placing yet another catheter into his left arm and watching the blood flow from the pack into his flesh. She allowed herself a moment of indulgence, her touch lingering for a moment upon the exquisitely bunched muscles.

"Delicious," she thought with a smile, hidden behind the reflective golden mask of her suit.

It seemed such a waste to despoil such an exquisite body such as Roger Sandoval's, but she knew that it was not her decision to make. Anything she said or did was under the closest scrutiny, and even a minor screw-up would be detrimental to her career within the Enclave, likely ending in incarceration or death.

"Dr Dahlren," Nyquist's terse voice jolted her out of her reverie. "10 ccs of Thyroprometazine."

She nodded, turning toward the small metal cupboard next to the operating table. The cupboard was sterilized and climate controlled, the drawer hissing quietly as it opened. Retrieving a small jar of Thyroprometazine and a syringe from the drawer, she pierced the rubber cap of the jar with the slender hypodermic needle, extracting the required amount from it and tapping out the bubbles carefully. Picking up his left hand, she injected it into his wrist with practiced swiftness. She felt his finger muscles tense for a moment as she did so.

A twinge of desire crossed her mind as she held his coarse-skinned hands. She had once released his wrist restraints during their nightly dalliances, and the feeling of his hands upon her waist and hips was truly an experience to remember.

She shivered imperceptibly at the memory. Likely, her unlikely paramour would be in no mood for it the next time he woke up. Again, the flitting tactile memory of rough skin against smooth bare flesh-

"His blood pressure is going down again," Larraman grumbled. "The Thyroprometazine needs to kick in soon."

David Larraman, the Enclave's foremost authority on bio-engineering, was an impossible-to-replace resource. The life of seclusion he led as a result of Enclave security procedures gave his skin an unhealthy pallor. The beginnings of wrinkles were masked by the paleness, making him look somewhat younger that he actually was.

"Don't worry about it, Doctor," Sara replied coolly. "Sandoval has a solid constitution."

"He is the best specimen that we've found in two years," Larraman shot back. "Forgive me if I don't want to waste this opportunity."

Larraman was correct, of course. The last specimen that they had used was a Raider from Evergreen Mills, captured during an attempt to steal supplies from an Enclave outpost. He expired during the initial stages of priming with Crucinedrine, unable to withstand the immense pain from his purposefully-inflicted wounds.

"Well, if my work here is complete, I will be returning to my own project," Nyquist drawled, moving over to the airlock adjoining the operating theatre. "I've been most eager to start with the new specimen our collection team brought in."

"Of course, Richard," Larraman replied, not looking up from his work.

There was a moment of awkward silence as Larraman continued the surgical procedure. It was, oddly enough, Larraman who broke the silence.

"Are you enjoying your time here?" he asked. "I was given to understand Raven Rock can be awfully dull."

"As well as can be expected, Doctor," Sara replied stiffly. "I was not assigned here to have fun."

"Come now, we are colleagues," the elder scientist chided her gently. "Call me David."

She paused for a moment before she spoke again.

"It's difficult," she said, finally.

"Working in Raven Rock or calling me by my first name?" he joked.

"Both," she chuckled as she replied. "I mean, the soldiers I talk to don't share my interests. The other scientists are simply too dry for my taste."

"All very legitimate concerns," he stood up, placing the bloodied scalpel in a disinfectant bath. "My wife thought like you went I first met her. I used to work at the genetics lab in Norfolk. Back then, the bases were even smaller and less well-appointed as this one."

"How is she?" she asked politely.

"Oh, she lives at the Crick facility in the West," Larraman replied. "Works as a project advisor. Our two children keep her busy most of the time. I think of them every day."

"I see," she tried to keep her voice interested. She respected Larraman's scientific prowess, but talk about family really turned her off.

"Thankfully, I am happy either way," he continued. "I cannot stand it when family keeps me from my work and vice versa. Balance in everything."

He removed the golden mask from his suit, revealing his grinning face behind the airtight visor. His salt and pepper hair and beard were tousled and messy.

"Don't spend your youth on work," he placed a hand on her shoulder. "We all live for ourselves. The so-called greater purpose should always be secondary to your own happiness."

She removed her visor as well.

"Easy for you to say," she retorted lightly.

He shrugged, before looking over his handiwork wistfully. "A pity. He would have served the Enclave well if he had joined the corps. A strong, powerful specimen of a man. A leader. Imagine the good he could have done."

She shrugged. "We all serve in our own way, just like how Roger will, now."

The use of his first name was dangerous, she realized as soon as the words left her mouth.

Thankfully, Larraman did not react to her sudden informality.

"Yes, I suppose he will," Larraman nodded. "Pass me the cauterizer, please."

***

Simco drifted in and out of consciousness. It was a dark, cold place where he felt cold metal enclosing him at all times. The cold was almost unbearable, but it numbed the pain he felt in his gut.

A surge of adrenaline went through his body as he remembered the wound.

That bitch had stabbed him in the gut.

He struggled, but it was impossible to move anything except his eyes, which were useless at present.

Cold metal, everywhere. Surrounding him in a cocoon of impenetrable darkness-

He started to retch, and the taste of bile in his mouth was clear as day.

The hissing of servos and the rush of compressed air against his face stopped his panic retch for a moment, which returned full force when bright light shone into his eyes, blinding him momentarily while they adjusted.

He screamed, a raw, painful animal howl that reverberated within the confines of the room he could barely make out. A string of blistering expletives followed that scream, and he screamed until he ran out of breath, the sound of his heaving dominating his senses.

"Disgusting," he heard a tinny male voice towards his right. He could not tilt his head or move his eyes enough to look in that direction.

"Fuck you!" he rasped impotently, breathing heavily and nostrils flaring. Muscle and sinew stood out clearly on his face and neck, tensing every so often as he struggled vainly against his restraints.

As his eyes adjusted to the light, he realized that the room was as sterile white as the light, except for a mirror in front of his claustrophobic prison.

From the mirror, he saw the gleaming steel coffin that was his prison, his bare shoulders and his terrified visage emerging from the top.

"Release him, please," the voice said.

With the whine of electrical motors, the coffin opened. The rush of cool air against his body told him that he was completely naked. It felt disconcerting and somewhat arousing all at the same time, a fact which manifested itself quite clearly in his rapidly growing tumescence. His liking for bondage was also reinforcing the fact as well.

His wound, while severe, had been clearly tended to. The slight ache told him that it had not fully healed, and the livid scar as well as the suturing showed the extent of the damage that had been done by the girl's machete.

His eyes were fixed upon his crotch, but try as he might, he could not shake off the feeling of arousal.

The door hissed open and admitted a single, white suited person, identity concealed by a golden visor.

Red with humiliation, he averted his gaze from the visor.

"My new specimen," the white suited person spoke musingly. "You're excited by your predicament… how novel."

Simco said nothing.

"Do you have nothing to say to me? No pleas or vulgarities to offer?" he asked.

The white-suited man lifted Simco's chin gently, but Simco shook his hand away.

"Such spirit," he commented wryly. "Good… good."

The white suited man left, the door hissing shut quietly again, leaving Simco to his thoughts.

Suddenly, his restraints slid away, releasing him. He sprang forward toward the door and unleashed a torrent of bare-fisted blows against it.

He struck it again and again until his fists bled all over its smooth and previously stainless white metal surface.

***

"A fine specimen you captured, Captain Rowell," Richard Nyquist turned toward the armoured Enclave captain who stood next to him. "A veritable animal."

"Yeah, he was still alive in spite of the wound that was inflicted upon him," the captain replied. Silas Rowell was a man of excellent skill and leadership qualities, and it showed in his professional demeanour and confident poise. His blonde hair and blue eyes bespoke a perfection that Nyquist at once admired and envied. "A true fighter."

They watched impassively as Simco flung himself at the one-way glass, shaking it ever so slightly. There was no way he would ever break it – it was reinforced to contain the worst of specimens, super mutants in particular.

Again and again he threw himself at the mirror, blood appearing upon his lean, muscled torso as he did so. An inarticulate scream issued from his mouth, but it was rendered down to nothing by the sound dampeners inherent in the room's construction.

Finally, in defiance, the young feral human grabbed his genitalia and began to gratify himself. Rowell averted his eyes in distaste, but Nyquist looked on in scientific fascination.

"What a delightfully perverse creature," he drawled.

He was finished blessedly quickly, and he left a long dribble of his fluids upon the mirror and upon his abdomen. He smeared the whitish liquid haphazardly on the one-way glass as well as himself, before sitting quietly in the corner, still fondling himself absently.

"Almost as if he's marking his territory, eh Rowell?" Nyquist observed.

"Yes," Rowell agreed, disgust playing over his aquiline features.

"He will be perfect as the prototype for our Eversor project…"