All Hope is Gone.

((OOC: So with the reboot and all I thought it would be a good opportunity to reboot one of my characters. I always wanted to try Twain in a more dangerous environment.))

Twain shifted uncomfortably on the cold steel of the dumpster floor. He had camped out there for the night but hadn't slept. Actually, he hadn't slept much in the last 4 days. Ever since they left Megaton in search of Rivet City, or hell, if you wanted to be technical, since they left The Vault. He had been too busy being in constant fear for his life.

He had already fully established in his mind that he hated himself for leaving the Vault in the first place, but what had possessed him to leave the somewhat inhabitable settlement of Megaton? Sure, they had been told they couldn't stay long but he was a technological genius, he probably could have earned himself a home if he helped out with the repairs around town or had taken a crack at that bomb. The worst that could have happened would be the bomb going off and then he wouldn't have to worry about pesky things like survival anyway.

God, I think I'm losing it.

He pressed his ear to the rusted metal for a few moments, listening to see if he could hear anything outside his trash receptacle haven. After two counts of one hundred he readied himself for the second stage of operation get-the-hell-out-of-here. Finding his weapon. Well, he didn't really need to find it, he knew where it was. It was in the bag he'd taken off one of the dead Mercenaries that had been escorting them through the city. He shuddered at the memory, digging silently through the well worn messenger bag in the dark.

He and his little caravan of Vault Refugees had been attacked by people their Mercs described as 'Raiders'. He remembered watching as three of his companions and one of their guards were suddenly mowed down by gunfire. Everything erupted immediately into chaos. An explosion had gone off to his left, showering him in bits of debris and dust and leaving him temporarily dumbfounded. Everything after that was a blur. Butch Deloria was in a knife fight with one of the studded psychopaths; Another one of his companions fell screaming, blood gushing from a bullet hole in her neck; he could hear someone screaming and it wasn't until he had to gasp for breath that he realized it was him. He had crawled across the ground, taking as much cover as possible behind cars and rubble before he came to the end of the line. There was a gap of about 20ft between the car he was crouched behind and a nearby alley. He prepared to make a run for it, not knowing if breaking cover would get him killed but knowing that staying put certainly would.

He tore across the road, so intent on his destination that he didn't notice the body on the ground in front of him until he tripped over it. Twain scrambled around seeing it was their former guide, his eyes open wide, staring lifelessly at the sky, his mouth parted slightly giving him a look of surprise. He spotted the bag hanging from the dead man's shoulder and grabbed for it. Normally he would have balked at the idea of robbing a corpse but he knew he was without supplies or better options. He tugged desperately at the bag as gunfire exploded around him, finally pulling it free before making a final mad dash for the alley.

His groping hand found the small gun between the lone can of cram and a small change purse that, oddly enough, contained a fair amount of bottle caps. He had done a full inventory and was pleased to find he also had two boxes of ammo, one for a shotgun and the other for the small pistol which was discouragingly his only defense, a single stimpak, some dirty water and the cram.

Not much to work with but it's better than nothing.

He weighed the gun in his hand for a moment before slowly and carefully lifting the dumpster lid by a few inches. The coast looked clear but he didn't entirely trust it. Again, he counted twice to one hundred before mustering the courage to lift the lid the rest of the way. He retrieved the bag, swinging it out of the dumpster and dropping it unceremoniously on the ground before gingerly easing himself up over the edge. He was particularly careful with his left foot, gently testing his ankle which he had stupidly twisted getting into the dumpster in the first place. It hurt, but wasn't unbearable. He was glad he didn't have to waste his only stimpak on a twisted ankle although he would almost rather have the luxury of using it and being able to run away from danger, should it present itself, than saving it because he assumed there would only be worse to come.

With a strained sigh he pushed his glasses up on his nose and began to limp his way down the abandoned street, gun in hand, fearing there was little hope of getting through this hellish experience alive.

((OOC: Quarry = Customer. Also: Silly Twain, you don't know how to use a gun.))

When he set out that morning Twain had felt moderately okay. Yes, his foot ached hatefully every time he put weight on it and his stomach let out a painful grumble every so often but they were minor distractions. Several hours later, after wandering aimlessly through a deserted city, lost, scared and alone, his state had significantly deteriorated. His foot throbbed constantly, alternating occasionally with sharp, shooting pains that would twist up his leg. His stomach felt as if it was turning in on itself, he knew he should give in and open the cram in his bag but it was the only food he had and with no way to reseal it he wasn't sure how long it would last in the scorching heat. If he was able to restrain himself from devouring it in one go that was. The sleep deprivation was what was getting to him the most though. He was disoriented, taking turns seemingly at random, backtracking only when he came to a dead end or impassible object. His head spun and his eyes played tricks on him. He would turn sometimes, sure he had seen something just out of the corner of his eye, but find he was still alone amongst the ancient, skeletal buildings.

So that's why when he heard a raspy voice address him, seemingly out of nowhere, he wasn't sure if it was his mind finally breaking down or not. He looked around as he processed the words being spoken to him, his sleep addled brain trying desperately to keep up.

Textiles... Something about wind... rotting flesh... Wait, what?

It was about this time he realized the disembodied voice seemed to be coming from behind him.

"... Rotting?"

Twain turned slowly, a cold chill running down his spine even before he laid eyes on the man behind him. His first instinct was to scream; which he did. The man before him was easily over 6ft tall and appeared, at least at first glance, to be a rotting corpse. He took a few panicked steps back, eyes darting around frantically for a weapon. It wasn't until he looked down, desperately searching for a decent sized rock, that he noticed the gun still in his hand. He allowed himself a second of self-loathing before snapping the firearm up, holding it shakily with both hands because he had a feeling one just wouldn't cut it.

"S-stay away from me!" He shuffled back a few more steps before squeezing his eyes shut and pulling the trigger. Or at least he tried to. His emerald eyes snapped open as he tried again, and again, his frenzied breathing breaking gradually into a delirious laugh. He stared at the gun, the zombie-man temporarily forgotten.

He was actually too weak to fire a gun.

He laughed harder, head shaking in disbelief as he slowly slumped to his knees. The gun coming to rest on his lap, mocking him with it's silence. Slowly his laughter melted into bitter sobs as he lowered his head miserably.

Twain reached up, sniffling loudly as he wiped his eyes with the back of his formally pale blue sleeve, now stained with dirt and sweat. He looked up at the figure towering over him, repressing the involuntary urge to retch. Upon closer inspection he found that the 'man' was, in fact, alive; even though his skin seemed to be coming off in some places. In most places. Despite the man's grotesque skin condition and his intimidating stature there was kindness in his eyes. Twain took the box of snack cakes numbly, looking it over carefully to make sure it was actually real.

He nodded along silently as the the big man offered his advice, Safety... Of course. Oh yeah, and being loaded... That would help.

He kept his head down for a moment, trying to decide the best way to ask the question that now plagued his delirious mind. What the fuck happened to you and how do I avoid it? Of course he wouldn't be that forward; that would be rude. He opened his mouth to speak but was cut off before he could begin.

Hear what?

Who's coming?

They're startled?!

Twain scrambled to his feet, clutching the box of snack cakes to his chest with one hand while the other shakily held the possibly useless gun, as the other man strode past. He turned frantically this way and that, searching every window, doorway, pile of rubble or broken down car for any sign of movement.

He didn't see anything but he knew he wasn't exactly functioning at maximum capacity.

The man spoke again, his gravelly voice like nails on a chalkboard to the young vault dweller. Twain turned to face him, silently marveling at how dramatic the stranger looked with his coat billowing around him like that. He watched the other man disappear into the derelict building and began to weigh his options.

Go with the sort-of monster I just met and hope he doesn't plan to eat me or keep wandering around this hell hole by myself until I die of exhaustion... Or I'm shot... Or I starve... Not the best options.

He gave the desolate street another nervous glace before yelping as the distant sound of gunfire reached him. Gunfire that could just as easily have been a brick falling from pretty much any of the decrepit buildings. Yeah, I want to live. He thought assuredly, and began to limp after the man, into the shadows of the broken building.

"H-hey, wait up!"

Twain awkwardly navigated the loose rubble in the abandoned building as quickly as he dared. He stumbled a few times, sometimes because of his bad leg and sometimes because of the shifting floor beneath him. By the time he reached the other man he was wheezing, leaning slightly against the wall a little more with every step. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of one arm, wondering if it was normal for his cheeks to still be burning so fiercely in the shade. He pressed himself against the concrete wall near the stranger and closed his eyes, thankful for the cool surface against his back.

He knew he should probably drink some of the filthy water in his bag but as generous as the other man had been he didn't think it would be wise to display what provisions he had just yet. Trusting people had never served him well and he wasn't about to hope this time would be the exception.

He opened his eyes and studied the other man while he spoke. He couldn't imagine why the stranger would want to help him. This can't be common practice out here... The settlers they met in town were standoffish and suspicious, the mercs had been less than enthusiastic about helping them through the city until Butch had somehow negotiated half their supplies for safe passage and the Raiders were a nightmare. Maybe the stranger was just lonely because of his condition or maybe he had something sinister planned for the boy once he got him to drop his guard. Yeah, like I'm any sort of threat now.

He shambled closer to his towering companion, shoving aside his suspicion and paranoia for a moment. Whatever his reasons are, I'm not turning down an opportunity to learn how not to die.

Twain shifted uneasily from foot to foot as he was studied. He pretended he didn't notice, choosing instead to glance around as though death may come screaming towards him at any moment. He was partially sure it would anyway so the paranoid glances were only half faked.

He was relieved when the big man introduced himself, breaking the tension he was sure only he felt. He listened to the introduction and the numbered instructions, puffing with pride for already completing the second step. He scratched his neck and shrugged apologetically, deciding it would be best to be as honest as possible, "Well I've um... Only been out here for about 4 or 5 days so I haven't really heard of anyone I'm afraid." He hoped the man wouldn't be too put out by his confession, some people took their reputation very seriously. He added a quick 'sorry' before turning his attention to the gun in his hand.

After a moment of fiddling he managed to get the cylinder open. Fully loaded... Fat lot of good that did me. The gun snapped shut with a satisfied click and he began his search for the safety.

The boy jerked his head up, suddenly remembering his own introduction, "Oh, and I'm Twain by the way. Twain Edwards." He caught himself a second before offering his hand for a shake, choosing instead to wipe it awkwardly on his pant leg.

Twain jerked around at the sound of gunfire behind him and was only halfway turned when he was suddenly yanked backwards and whipped roughly around a corner by his arm. He stumbled forward, barely keeping his balance on his bad foot, which didn't seem quite so bad now that he had adrenaline pumping through his veins and his life depended on it.

He allowed himself to be dragged, tossed and downright manhandled as he focused all of his attention on putting one foot in front of the other and not taking a bullet to the brain.

It wasn't until the metro gate clicked shut that he allowed himself to lurch forward, hands on his knees as he panted for breath, "Who the hell was that!?"

Twain had managed to catch a glimpse of their shooter before he was hauled away and as his breathing slowed his mind began to work again. Christ, that kid looked younger than me! Must have a grudge against my new friend or something... He gave the gate a long, appraising stare before quickly rummaging around the room. After a moment he found what he was looking for, or at least something that would do the trick. Producing a lead pipe from a tool box he limped purposefully to the rusty gate and jammed it shut before turning back to his companion, "Hopefully that will hold for a while... Uh, sorry about your supplies..."