“Did you get kitted out?” Brandon asked, casually. Her feelings deflated as she’d failed the apparently simple task.

“I came straight back here, but…” There didn’t seem to be any point hiding the answer. “I didn’t know what you meant, I bought some tools and that’s it.” Brandon seemed amused.

“All I meant was some clothes, some food, maybe a book or two. It wasn’t a test.” Rosie felt clueless, out of place in the world she fought so hard to get to. She tried to smile, to play it off as a simple mistake, but found a lump in her throat and an unexpected wave of emotion creeping into her mind. “All this must be strange.” Brandon didn’t ask, he seemed frustrated with himself.

“It is. Good strange though.” Rosie forced a smile. The din of people wasn’t all that different but the visual chaos of it all seemed all the more overwhelming in the morning sun.

“We can head home now if you want. There’s something you might like, but might be…” Brandon trailed off, searching for the right word. “Stressful. It’s up to you.”

“Alright, what is it?” Brandon smiled and got to his feet, tossing a fistful of clattering caps onto the table as he did.

“Do you remember what Charlie told you about ghouls?” Rosie did, she hadn’t forgotten the things that tried to enslave her. “I know you had a run in with the Red Hand, the ones here aren’t like that. Here they’re more separatist than supremacist.” Rosie didn’t understand, the more she thought about those inhuman monsters the angrier she got.

“Here we are.” Brandon led her to a long flat building, windows blacked out, armed guards on the door. “Anytime you want to leave just ask.” Brandon put both his hands on her shoulders, making eye contact. “Try and remember they’re people too. Some are good, some are bad. Mostly they just want to be left alone.” Rosie understood that more than most.

Rosie followed up the shallow steps to an armed and masked deputy on the door. “Welcome to the Ghoulhouse.” The rasping voice sent a jolt of fear through Rosie.

Candles and pre-war lamps provided the only light inside, casting shadows to hide what passed for faces of the ghouls. The air hung heavy, thick with burning incense and smoke. Rosie only noticed the grip on her pistol when Brandon took her hand in his instead.

“This is where I found that magazine.” Rosie hadn’t forgotten the faded pictures of the man that designed her device, or the blue eyes he gave to John. “See, our old friends would never set foot in here.” Brandon leant in and whispered, “Not unless they were here to shoot these people.” Rosie found herself in agreement with the Brotherhood, and not for the first time. “Their hate holds them back.” She tried to see the wisdom in that. If these so called people really were over a century old they might know all kinds of things about the old world.

Sickly sweet scents changed as Rosie followed along the corridor, inspecting the stalls of junk salvaged and on sale. Brightly coloured shapes drew her attention, children’s toys she realised. Suppressing the anger that came with a memory of playing with little more than scrap cable and ball bearings. The objects before her were made from painted tin or plastic that looked almost new. Rosie picked up a small plastic bird with wide feet, instinctively turned the brass key and set it down to watch it waddle along the table.

“Clockwork.” A rasping tone spoke from the almost dark behind the stall. Rosie stared back into the full black eyes, set deep in sunken sockets. She tried not to think about the last time she saw those eyes and rubbed her neck, the mental pain of the explosive collar still there.

“Clockwork?” Rosie asked as the little bird came to stop.

“Tiny gears and springs. A lost art long before the bombs fell.” Rosie saw an expression on the rotting face she didn’t understand. The same expression Charlie had when she talked about her time with the Brotherhood. Fondness, nostalgia, a sense of loss. As she glanced around at the other ghouls, the other stalls, she saw it magnified a thousand fold.

“Hands.” The male ghoul rasped as she entered a long room.

“What?” Rosie asked, trying not to think about the red masked monsters the tone reminded her of. “Put out your hands.” Rosie did, keeping her left arm low. The black eyes inspected them and spurted cold gel from bottle onto them that smelt vaguely of alcohol. Rosie rubbed her hands clean and put on the soft white gloves that were thrust at her. She followed the foul tempered ghoul into the large room.

Natural light poured in from a central skylight, bathing a row of polished wooden desks dotted with green shaded lamps. “No food, no drink, no smoking. Fifty caps an hour.”

“Surely not full price for old friend, Gerald.” It took the ghoul a few moments to recognise Brandon.

“Barry, you people don’t know the meaning of the word old.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right. This sixty eight Merlot is probably wasted on me.” From his pack Brandon produced a green glass bottle, dusty and old. As soon as the ghoul took it his mood lifted, bringing what passed for a smile to what remained of his face.

“A fine vintage. Alright, girl’s got as long as it takes to finish the bottle.” The ghoul gestured to the wall of the room, filled with shelf after shelf of books. “What do you want to read about?”

“Everything.” Rosie had never seen anything like this, so much information at her fingertips, preserved and protected. A bastion of old world knowledge in a world ruined.

“Have at it Rachel.” Brandon opened the bottle with a pop and sat with the ghoul on old leather chairs in the corner.

Carrying as many books as possible, Rosie sat at the nearest well lit desk. Advanced coding, chemistry, high level mathematics, astrophysics. It all felt like eating real food to someone starved.

“Girl, come over here.” A rasping voice drew her attention away from the equations that governed the world.

“Rachel.” Rosie stood from the table as the ghoul poured the deep red liquid into clean thin glasses.

“Try this and tell me what you taste.” She looked to Brandon who nodded. Rosie sipped the red liquid.

“It tastes nice.” Rosie couldn’t think of anything else to say and didn’t understand why they found it so funny.

“Philistine!” The ghoul rasped between breathy chuckles. “Close your eyes.” Rosie let out a dismissive sigh but indulged the ghoul. “Now take a sip and tell me what you taste.” She let the liquid slip across her tongue, focusing on the changing flavours.

“Almost tastes like leather, wood and smoke, berries, and something else…kind of like fresh earth.” She opened her eyes expecting more laughter.

“Not bad girl.” The ghoul looked impressed as he took a sip from his own glass. His black eyes closed Rosie saw the look of pleasure on his gaunt face. Radiation ravaged taste buds could no longer pick out the shifting notes of flavour. Yet he could vicariously enjoy the deep red liquid in the company of others. She also realised that Brandon had carried the bottle since meeting up with them last night.

“Don’t let us keep you.” Brandon dismissed her subtly and topped up glasses.

“Put that out!” Raised rasping broke Rosie’s attention from a book about structural engineering.

“Relax Gerry.” Responded a ghoul with a burning cigarette held between yellowed teeth. “I just need to check something to settle a bet.”

“It’s Gerald. Like I’ve been telling you for the last seventy five years, not Gerry, Not Ger. Gerald.” The smoking ghoul ignored the increasingly irate Gerald and strode confidently along the bookshelves. Rosie found herself staring, despite Brandon’s advice.

All the other ghouls she’d seen in here covered their ravaged skin with long sleeves and high collars. Not this one, he only wore a white vest, almost showing off his affliction. Then Rosie noticed his arm, and that she couldn’t look away from. Unlike the crude metal hooks of the prosthetic arms in the Vault this looked mechanical. No, not mechanical, Rosie thought, robotic.

“It’s not here Gerry, you lose a book?”

“Check the cart.” Gerald’s tone dismissed the suggested insult.

“I don’t see it.” The smoking ghoul’s full black eyes caught Rosie staring and took note of the stack books on her desk.

“Hey there Red. Like what you see?” He inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly, letting the grey smoke escape from the patchy skin along his neck. Rosie tried not to react to such an obvious provocation. “Ah, here it is.” Rosie thought she saw a look of surprise on the smoke clouded face. “You read all these?” She nodded, still trying not to recoil. “Not bad, for a Smoothskin.” Before Rosie could respond the ghoul used his remaining arm to carelessly take one of the books. “Got it. Thanks Gerry.”

“Fuck you Virgil.” The door slammed and Gerald drank the last of his wine. “Dreadful man.”

“He’s the arms dealer right?” Brandon asked casually.

“Amongst other things.”

“Thank you for taking me to the…” Rosie couldn’t think of the word, her head swimming in new information from the pages of the old world.

“Library. And that was my pleasure.” Brandon smiled as they walked back through the crowded market. They’d got her kitted out along the way with more clothes. Blue jeans, t shirts, and a couple of thick jumpers. And now they sat at the same second floor table on the balcony opposite the hospital. Something caught Brandon’s eye and Rosie turned to see Paul coming up the stairs, Matt following. They looked tired and dirty, boots caked in mud.

“Boss.” They waited till Brandon nodded for them to sit.

“How did it go?” Brandon asked Paul in a hushed manner.

“We followed them south to a meet. It’s like you thought, Jones put them up to it. Only he never showed up. They got tired of waiting and decided to try and sell the guns to the Baron so we moved in.”

“So either Mr Jones didn’t make the meet or…” Brandon trailed off, waiting for someone to reach the same conclusion.

“Or he had no intention of turning up.” Rosie said, trying to be useful.

“Exactly. Chaos is a means to an end in itself.” Brandon seemed pleased with her input.

“Doctor.” Matt said. “They kept calling him Doc Jones.” That piece of information brought a worried look to Brandon’s face.

“What does that mean?” Rosie asked.

“Raider doctor means chem manufacturer. The closest thing those animals have to leaders. And capable of bringing different factions together.” Brandon sat back in his chair, absorbing the new information. “And the loot they stole?”

“We pulled the best stuff and stashed it. Put a tracker in one of the rifles, left them at the meet. It’s a long shot but even the one we brought in alive hadn’t met him. He’s more cautious about showing his face than we are.” Paul shared the worried look. “Got the bounty, two thousand.” He tossed two clinking pouches onto the table.

“Fine work gentlemen, as always.” Rosie saw what Brandon’s praise meant to Paul and Matt. “Take half of this to the office, spread it around, ask about offloading some precursor. Any self respecting chem cook will be on the lookout. We’ll head home and I’ll meet you there in the morning. Let’s eat first though.”

“How was your night Rosie?” Paul put his hand on her shoulder as she looked down at the wooden table, trying to find the right words.

“It wasn’t easy. She did you three proud, you trained her well.” Brandon answered for her.

“He’s ok, that’s the main thing.” Rosie tried to reassure herself, although the forced smiles around the table suggested it didn’t work.

Charlie returned as they ate. Rosie, at Brandon’s suggestion, had a strip of steak, served with thick cut fried tatos and washed down with a fizzing mug of beer. The new flavours and sensations provided a welcome distraction. Paul and Matt left straight after. Heading to the office that Rosie knew nothing about. Although she’d worked out it had little resemblance to offices of the Vault.

As she followed Brandon and Charlie through the crowds Rosie noticed they were the only ones moving. People seemed to be waiting for something. A good many of them carrying binoculars and looking to the top of the Tower.

“What’s going on?” Rosie asked.

“Execution. The raider the boys brought in.” Charlie sounded displeased. A murmur of activity rippled through the baying crowds as they all became focused on the top of the massive Tower. Rosie zoomed her vision and saw a nearly naked man, beaten and bloody.

After a moment he was hurled from the sniper's nest by black clad figures. In less than three seconds the body hit a patch of purposefully clear concrete. The stomach churning splat drowned out by the cheers of the people around her. One last rush, Rosie thought to herself. Intimately familiar with the mind of an addict and indifferent at best the raider’s fate.