Parting Gift

Deacon

A drifter stood on the outskirts of the remains of Covenant. He'd been watching the kid in the postal getup scurry up to every settler racing to fill the abandoned town to ask them their name. After three hours it was getting damn near adorable. Was the mail service even that dedicated before the bombs dropped?

Exhausted, the kid finally stepped to the drifter's wall. He rattled a sheet in his hands, wiped at his sweat stained cheeks, then seemed to finally notice the man beside him. "Excuse me, I'm looking for someone."

"So I gathered," the drifter said, adjusting his sunglasses.

"But I can't seem to find him. The instructions were a bit...uh, vague on this one," the kid looked over the note he'd been clinging to like a fatman.

"Here, let me see," the drifter reached over and grabbed it free before the kid could object. "'For a man named Deacon, though he could be calling himself Drifter, Settler, or Guard.' Not very useful there, eh?"

"I know."

He smiled and continued to read, "'No idea what his face looks like anymore, but he'll be wearing a pair of sunglasses and a stupid hat.'" The drifter paused in his reading to touch the newsboy cap upon his brow, offended on its behalf. "That's not much to go off of." He handed the instructions back.

"There was a list of routes to find him, but it's been impossible," the kid continued. He reached into the bag across his neck and unearthed a nukacola. After saving the cap, the kid drowned his sorrows in sugar.

"Whatcha trying to find this guy for? Can't be that important if all you have to go off of is a few names and sunglasses," the drifter asked, nonchalantly picking at his nails.

"I have to deliver something to him."

"Ah, it wouldn't be a geiger counter, would it?" the drifter perked up.

But the kid's eyes danced across him, confused and a bit concerned his new friend suddenly went mad. "Noo...at least I don't suppose so. It's this..." With one hand the kid yanked out a brown package and dangled it in front of the drifter's face.

"Hm...so you don't know what it is, or who you have to deliver it to? That's a hell of a problem to have," he popped his lips in oblivious thought, watching the caravan drift down the road. The brahman broke into a run to try and keep up with the people supposed to be guarding it, its load dangerously tipping to the side.

The drifter snapped his fingers, drawing the kid's hopeless eyes. "I know, obviously whatever you're carrying, it must mean something to this Dean guy, right?"

"Deacon, and I assume. They have so far."

"So, you open it, show it around, and if anyone reacts to it or shouts something like 'Hey, that's my underwear!' then you found your man." The drifter spoke as if he'd discovered the answers to life, the universe, and all the courier's problems.

"I don't know, that seems..." the kid shifted away, but the drifter yanked the package out of his hands so deftly the courier's fingers hung in the air.

"Here, I'll do it first, you know, so you aren't accused of mail tampering. And then you can show it to the others, parade it about. Someone's got to care. Sound good?"

"That...um, I suppose it's..."

The drifter grinned wider, "Sure it is. Here, there's a trick to these knots and ah!" String and paper both fell away without a tear to them, the drifter taking advantage of some weak point only he could see. Still wearing the same cheeky grin, he pulled off the top of the box and shoved away bits of packing paper. His face fell, every ounce of impudence draining the way addictol clears a person's veins. Cupping the box like a baby, the drifter lifted up a small but thick square of paper. The courier twisted around to see the image of a woman imprinted upon it; She looked more lifelike than the few remaining paintings across the wasteland.

"Barbara..." the drifter whispered. "How could she...?" He snickered even as his face crumpled, tears dribbling down his cheeks below the black shades. "That was the few weeks with Tom combing through the archives. Shit, and just to, so I could..." A shudder rolled across the drifter's spine as he tried to pull back the grief and joy twisting his face. "So, it's a picture of a woman. That could mean a lot of things to people," his words were detached and ephemeral, as uncaring as if it were a bit of trash, but he couldn't take his eyes off the woman's face. "Lost daughter, or run away sister...wife. You should, uh, ask around. You know, see if anyone knows who it is."

"I don't think that's necessary, sir," the courier said, a lump catching in his throat. It had been an emotionally trying job, and he still had half a bag to go.

"No, no," the drifter said struggling to smile, the sunglasses obscuring his pain, "it's got to be special for someone out there. You know. Someone that remembers her, and is nowhere near deserving enough to see her again."

The courier dropped down and picked up his empty bottle for salvage, "I have more packages to deliver. It'll take ages already just to get this done. You could do me a great favor by showing that picture around and seeing if anyone recognizes her."

"Ah," the drifter bobbed his head, "good idea. I mean, I suppose I can help you out. Just cause I don't have much to do right now. But if I can't find whoever it's meant for then, uh, who should I return it to?"

The courier shrugged, "I suppose you'll have to keep it. There's no one left to take it back."

"Oh..." He ran his thumbs across the front of the picture, softly caressing what had once been a warm cheek. "Well, uh, good luck with that pile. Better you than me!" The drifter's cheeky smile returned and he tipped his stupid hat at the courier.