“Wasteland mercs, huh?” Shrapnel looked down at himself, and at his grimy, worn and threadbare clothes. “Don’t look like much, though, do I?”
“Man, with that fucking collar around yer neck it doesn’t matter a fucking thing what you wear, buddy.”
“Yeah.” He absentmindedly rubbed the band of metal around his neck and sighed. “I’ll get her hide for this, I swear.”
“And I’ll hold her down for you. But first, you have to get up to speed again. Then we need equipment. You need a gun. I’ve got a ten mil to spare, but that won’t get us far, either, though it’s better than nothing. And we gotta get rid of that collar.”
“And where...”
“Fuck if I know.” Flak exhaled a long, bluish cloud. “Megaton, perhaps. If they believe us about being mercs having run out of luck, they might help, though fuck if I know how to pay for any service. It’s our best bet, I guess.”
“Megaton, huh?” Shrapnel wiped a hand across his nose. “Never been there.”
“Me neither. I only know that their Sherriff is a retired regulator.”
“Fuck. That’s a risk.”
“Maybe. You don’t precisely look like a raider anymore. I can’t imagine he can smell I’m...” Flak faltered for a second. “I was a slaver. We just need to watch our mouths.”

Shrapnel nodded and took a deep breath, then exhaled a long cloud. The nicotine calmed his jittering nerves somewhat and numbed the pangs of hunger that had begun to churn in his belly despite the meagre meal. He took the hunger as a good sign, however, that his body was on the way to recovery.
“I guess there’s nothing but to get going.”
“You can walk?”
“Slowly”, Shrapnel answered. “And probably not very far. But if we wait here until that gets better we’ll probably starve.”
Flak gave his back a friendly, albeit cautious slap to avoid pushing him out of balance. “Then let’s get going.”
Shrapnel gave him a lopsided grin, and they set off, at a slow pace, heading south and east.

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