Chiyo closed her eyes against the rush of cold air against her face. Stepping into the dimly lit tavern offered her respite from the toxic fumes of the wasteland, and from the damp embrace of her trusty gas mask. Warm tunes played from a jukebox in a corner, and she hooked her ‘outside face’ to a clip on her belt, sizing up the locals around her.

The watering hole was sparsely populated. A shifty-looking ghoul in a business suit was the most attention grabbing of the lot, arms waving in exaggerated motions to a disinterested middle-aged man. A couple of scrawny teens in rags and overalls brandished rusty baseball bats, comparing them as if they were measures of their egos… or some other unmentionable appendage.

Chiyo paid them no heed and made her way to the counter in the end of the room. Her equipment jangled behind her, barely drowned out by the ambience around. The bartender had been staring at her since she’d stepped in.

“What’ll it be, Wanderer?”

Chiyo took a moment.

“Supplies, mostly. Work, if you have it.”

The bartender tilted his head back, eyes fixed on the girl from the wasteland.

“If you’re looking for supplies, you’re looking for Milhouse round the corner. He’ll keep Betsy on your back well fed.”

Chiyo groaned. Why did everybody see fit to name her rifle for her? The bartender’s gaze scanned her body, lingering momentarily on her rubber gas mask.

“Once she’s had her fill, come back around here and we’ll see about putting her to good use.”

She motioned to the mask on her hip.

“Got filters?”

The bartender reached under the counter, bringing a small box of olive-green canisters to the table.

“150 caps a piece.”

“Fine.”

It was overpriced, sure. But Chiyo hadn’t the patience to bargain with the man. She pocketed three and replaced the spent filter on her mask with another, then paid the man for four.

Whilst her pack was still open, she retrieved a small jar of Rad-X, swallowing a bitter pill dry.

The bartender returned to his duties and Chiyo made for the door as she unhooked the gas mask from her belt. Stopping short of the door, she brought the rubber hood up to her face. She tucked the mask under her chin and pulled it across her head and over her short undercut.

She pushed out of the bar and back out into the wasteland. Turning in the direction pointed by the bartender, Chiyo made her way toward Milhouse’s. The stench of the wasteland no longer seeped in through spent filters, and Chiyo relished the sweet scent of rubber filling her nostrils.

When she’d first gotten her hands on this mask in particular, she’d found it unpleasant. The rubber hood enveloped her entire head, and its stench was overpowering. Still, she was stuck travelling with it for at least fifty days before fate gifted her a working replacement. She’d swapped masks immediately – the new one was a simple face mask with straps, and was made of some other synthetic material.

She was rid of the old mask’s tight, slippery embrace. Free from the sweet aroma of rubber.

She returned two days later to retrieve it.

The door jingled as Chiyo pushed it open, spilling warm incandescent light out into the blue, moonlit wasteland. Colorful festoon lighting hung across a wall and a thin man stood across a counter. The wall behind him was a mess of shelves stocked with ammunition, apparel and arms.

“What can I get for you, traveler?”

“How many boxes of .308 have you got?”

“How many caps you got?”

Chiyo stared at him, unmoving. The man, presumably Milhouse, stared back at her, but his stiff face slowly melted.

“Wait here.”

Milhouse rummaged through the mess around him, pulling out boxes from every nook and cranny of the store. He tucked them haphazardly under his arm, finding a stray bullet here or there. Before long, he had a little pile, which he promptly dumped across the counter.

“Uh. 1200 Caps.”

Chiyo looked at the pile. He’d be lucky to get 500 for this. She reached into it and pulled out a bullet, handing it to the man.

“5.56.”

Milhouse took it and put it in his pocket.

“1000.”

Chiyo turned to leave.

“Wait! I’ll count it. Just wait.”

The man scrambled to figure out how many boxes he had, and tried to sort the loose ammunition into a few piles. It quickly became clear that he had no idea what he was doing.

“I’ll give you 500 for the lot.”

“A-alright. 500.”

She put 650 on the table and pointed at a leather pouch in a corner.

“I’ll give you another 150 for that.”

The man retrieved it.

She stacked the boxes neatly in her backpack and poured the loose ammunition into the pouch, deigning to sort them out later alone. She reached for her gasmask as she approached the door, only just realizing she’d never removed it.

The night had grown darker – the moon hid away behind a thicket of clouds, and a crisp wind cut through the otherwise still humid air.

She returned to the bar to a completely different vibe. Most of the guests had gone, leaving only the bartender and a single guest sat in the shadows in a booth in the far corner.

“You’re back.”

The bartender pointed to the booth.

“You have a client.”

Chiyo peeled her mask off and strapped it to her belt, making her way to the booth.

“Please, have a seat.”

A woman’s voice, sultry. The figure leaned forward and into the light. She was a middle-aged woman, her figure and complexion unnaturally beautiful for the world she existed in. Her lithe body was wrapped in a purple sequined dress and a cigarette dangled from her fingers.

Chiyo sat, choosing to remain silent. The two women studied their other, neither the type to take unmeasured actions. The stranger ashed her cigarette and returned it to her mouth. Her face glowed a brilliant orange as she took a long, hard drag.

Smoke rose from the booth.

“There’s something I’ve left behind.”

She pushed her carton of cigarettes across the table. Chiyo ignored it.

“Something I miss… dearly.”

The stranger slid a small slip of paper toward her.

“I need you to get it for me.”

Chiyo ignored the sheet, maintaining eye contact with the woman as she took another drag.

“It’s not far. You’ll be rewarded, of course.”

“How much?”

The stranger’s gaze turned to the gas mask on Chiyo’s belt.

“They say the journey is often sweeter than the destination.”

She extended a hand for the paper, only for the stranger to extend her own gloved hand to hold her down.

“If you read that, we have a deal.”

She relaxed her grip. Chiyo retrieved the slip, sliding it into a pocket.

“If I return with your treasure, we have a deal.”

Chiyo stood. The stranger took another drag of her cigarette, gaze fixed on her gas mask as she retreated into the shadows. A cloud of smoke obscured her face as the wanderer turned to leave.

The bartender was no longer on duty.