Wasteland Wanderer
The place is small and dirty, an old gas station on the outskirts of town converted into a bar. The alcohol is harsh and burns all the way down. Basja’s pretty certain it’s toxic enough to kill all the nasty things probably stuck to the glasses that they’re served in. No matter how hard someone tries to clean them, they never are.
Nothing is ever clean out in the wasteland.
She comes back in the evening, after a day out in the waste, pack laden with choice cuts of gecko meat. Basja doesn’t like gecko meat herself, but the few inhabitants of the little town the gas station is a part of do, and if she’s going to run around clearing the countryside of the pests she might as well put their carcasses to some use.
Basja walks in, and stops.
There’s someone in her seat.
There are only a few things that Basja likes that she can still have, the wasteland having claimed everything else, and that seat is one of them.
“Hey,” she says, striding over and dropping her pack on what serves as the bar. Gecko blood seeping through the canvas smears across the counter. “You’re in my seat.”
They set out early the next morning, the sun burning off the mist from the previous night, leaving the desert dry and bare and baking. Skuld bashes a new power pack into her laser rifle, turns to Basja, grins.
“Good day to start a search.”
The other woman doesn’t return the smile. There are two types of people out here, Skuld’s learned: those that the Wasteland has chewed up, spat out, and made hard. The others go crazy, each in their own special way. Skuld knows which one she is, and she’s getting a feel for Basja too.
“Bartender told me about a Vault kid who’s popped up over in Primm. Best lead I’ve had in a while.” Skuld flicks the display of her Pip-boy, which fuzzes (eventually) into a map. She drops a marker over the town, and turns back to Basja, pushing her hair out of her face.
“You’re good luck.”
Barbas barks agreement and trots a short way up the road, looking over his shoulder. Skuld follows, Basja taking up the rear. It’s a long way to Primm, and even longer to where Erik might be. Skuld pushes the thought that he might be dead (no might about it, a kid like that, a more cynical voice reminds her), slings her rifle over her shoulder, and starts to whistle something catchy from before the war.
The Wasteland unrolls before them: vast, dry, deadly. It’s going to be a long walk.
