Wasteland Ferns

Sniffed The Trail

**Fern's POV**

Things changed since Moriarty died.

Better, or worse? I couldn't tell.

Gob took over the Saloon, since he liked handling the bar. I even helped him fix up the place, moving some furniture, and holding the ladder still as he pained his name over Moriarty's on the sign.

No one else from the vault came after me.

Must've gotten the hint after last time, the bastards.

One day, a guy walked up to me as I sat at a table.

He looked around 30, maybe a little older. His hair was tied in a small ponytail, and he had a bandana around his forehead. Red shirt, denim jacket, all the rest.

Basic wastelander.

I looked up at him, noticing that he was staring at me. "Do I know you?"

"Nope. Just grabbing a drink at this shit-hole. Things are a lot more interesting here after the rumors."

I raised a brow and implored, "The rumors being..."

He smirked. "Some kid gutted the last owner of this place. Must've had some screws loose."

I rolled my eyes and quiped, "By loose screws, do you mean to describe the owner, or the kid? Because I might agree with you, or I might be offended."

His eyes widened, and he looked at me as he asked, "You're the kid, aren't you?"

I nodded, and raised my hand for him to shake. "Fern. Nice to see a fresh face." He shook my hand, smiling.

"Miles. Charmed, I'm sure. You ain't from around here, are you?"

I leaned back in my chair and replied, "Nope. And no, I don't wanna talk about it."

He nodded, turning back to his drink. "Fair enough. What brings you here anyways?"

"Looking to survive. Like anyone else."

Miles smirked and gestured to the switchblade on my belt. "Well, word of advice, you'll need a lot more practice with that thing."

I looked down at my switchblade, taking it into my hand. I did kill one guy with it, but after what happened with that raider, I knew he had a point.

Miles continued, "If you wanted, I could teach you a trick or two. No need to worry about owing me anything."

I looked back at him, unamusement and skepticism lining my face."Don't bullshit me."

"I'm not. Consider it my good deed for the week."

I chuckled at his comment. Soon enough, he brought me outside, into the wasteland, and led me to an abandoned house.

Must've been a pre-war building.

We headed into the garage of the house, where an old punching bag hung in the middle of the room.

I walked over to a workbench, pulling my jacket off and leaving it on an old chair. I was left in my tank top, and wrapped my hands in makeshift wristwrap. Miles smiled as I readied myself, and he stood to the side and nodded towards the punching bag. "Go ahead, kid. Let's see what you got."

Cracking my neck, I strutted to the bag, and clenched my fists and moved, swinging my fist at the bag. It swayed to the side, and I resumed striking it with a few blows.

It was nice to not be the punching bag for once.

After the session was over, I stood to the side, catching my breath. Miles looked at me with amusement on his face.