"Altan!" Delilah screamed, abandoning her grenade launcher as she sprinted to his side. Her trembling hands struggled to roll him over. Bryan hesitated, his wide eyes flicking toward the wreckage below the ramp, but quickly hurried to help. Together, they managed to shift Altan onto his back. He coughed, each breath ragged and pained, his face contorted in a grimace.

"Hey, it’s okay," he rasped, his arms trembling as he forced himself into a sitting position. "I’m not done yet." His voice wavered, but he snapped his fingers sharply, pulling their focus. "Listen up. I’m fucked up, but I’m not dying."

His eyelids drooped for a moment, his head dipping before he forced himself upright again. When he spoke, his faint voice cut through the fog of panic: "Not if you help me."

The kids nodded frantically, their hands clutching him desperately. Altan's smile wavered, a drunken, pained expression, before he weakly gestured toward his rucksack.

"Bring me the lid—the top flap. Quick," he murmured.

Delilah darted to the pack, her fingers fumbling with the buckles. Her breaths came quick and shallow until she paused, forcing herself to take a deep, steadying breath. A moment later, she was back at his side, her eyes wide but determined.

"What now?" Delilah asked, clutching the pouch tightly in her hands.

Altan's trembling fingers fumbled with the zipper, his frustration evident. Gently, she pushed his hands aside. "I’ve got it," she murmured, unzipping it in one swift motion.

Inside, several canvas cases and an orange plastic box were packed tightly together. She pulled out the first canvas case and flipped it open, revealing its contents: a stimpak, an auto-injector, a syringe, and a small vial labeled morphine.

"Stimpak... now. Doesn't matter where," Altan rasped.

Delilah nodded quickly, her hands trembling as she positioned the stim over his leg. The needle met resistance before sinking in, and Altan hissed sharply through clenched teeth, his whole body tensing.

"Now the morphine—two mils, other leg," he rasped, each word seeming to cost him.

Delilah’s hands were steadier this time, though her jaw tightened as she measured the dose. She slid the needle into his other leg with care, her movements precise despite her fraying nerves.

Altan let out a long, shuddering sigh, his muscles slackening as an icy fire burned the pain away, though his face remained pale and drawn. His breath eased, but his body still longed to sink into the floor, the lingering ache replaced by a strange, detached calm.

For a moment, the only sound was the soft, uneven hiss of his breathing. Delilah stayed frozen, watching him with wide, unblinking eyes. A tense minute passed before she tentatively shook his shoulder, her voice trembling. "Altan?"

He snapped awake with a sharp intake of breath, his eyes locking onto hers. "Yeah, Lily, I’m here. Still with you," he murmured. His voice was steadier now, his words less slurred. He managed a faint smile, lifting a shaky thumbs-up. "Great job. You’re doing great."

Delilah exhaled in relief, her posture softening. Altan gestured weakly toward the orange container. "Sharps," he said. "Put the stim and the needle in there. Pack the morphine up, seal it tight, and stick it in a bag."

Delilah nodded, carefully placing the used items into the sharps container as instructed. Beside her, Bryan zipped up the canvas case and tucked it into his pack. Altan offered them a faint, strained smile. "Alright," he said, his voice still hoarse. "Take five. The epi’s gonna peak soon, and I’ll be good to move."

They waited in tense silence, the seconds dragging by as Altan’s breaths grew steadier. Finally, with visible effort, he pushed himself to his feet. His legs trembled under his weight but held firm. The cocktail of drugs was taking hold, flushing the pain from his features.

Altan scanned the area before turning his attention to his rifle. He ran his fingers along its body, inspecting for damage, and grimaced as he loaded a fresh casket mag. The mechanical click echoed in the quiet, a grim reminder of the fight still ahead.

"Let’s go," he muttered, his voice steady, though laced with exhaustion.

Bryan hesitated, eyeing him critically. "Can you walk?"

Altan nodded, but his shallow breaths betrayed his struggle. "Yeah. Stimpaks helped, but I’m still wrecked. I think I broke something when I hit that car, but I can keep moving." He paused, swaying slightly as he caught his breath. "We need shelter. Someone grab my ruck. It’s heavy, so... be careful."

Stolen story; please report.

Delilah darted off to retrieve it, but the weight proved too much for her alone. Bryan quickly joined her, and together, they hoisted it between them. They moved toward the ruins, the crunch of gravel underfoot the only sound as they descended the ramp.

"There," Altan said, pointing to a half-collapsed building nearby. "That'll do."

Inside, the building was bare, its remains scattered and sparse. A crumbling staircase led to a second level, while a few planks of wood rested precariously on exposed rebar. Altan made it up the first flight before collapsing against the wall, his breath ragged. "Okay, gimme my ruck."

Delilah and Bryan hauled the pack up beside him, and Altan unbuttoned a side pouch. Inside, nestled among his gear, was a canteen with a red strip of tape wrapped around it. He grunted, unscrewing the cap, and tilted the canteen back, draining it in a single long swig.

When he finished, Altan capped the canteen and let it slip from his hands. He slumped against the wall, closing his eyes, letting the silence settle.

"You two did great," he rasped, managing a faint, tired smile. "Stronger than you think."

Delilah, still trembling, nodded but said nothing. Instead, she sat beside him and hugged his arm tightly, her body shaking until he took her hand and squeezed it gently. Bryan stood at the entrance, his gaze locked on the ruins, silent and vigilant.

He paced near the entrance, gripping his Chinese assault rifle tightly. Distant gunfire echoed sporadically—faint, but unmistakable. He wasn’t certain, but it sounded closer now. His jaw tightened, his hands trembling against the weapon’s grip. Shifting his weight from foot to foot, his breathing shallow and uneven, he kept his eyes fixed on the ruins outside, the light fading as the afternoon sun dipped lower in the sky.

Behind him, Altan leaned against the wall—pale but steady—and Delilah sat beside him, quietly sobbing, clutching his arm as if it were the only thing keeping her grounded. The silence in the room made the outside world feel sharper, more threatening.

A sudden noise—just the wind catching a loose piece of metal—made Bryan whirl around, his rifle raised, finger hovering near the trigger. The clang echoed through the empty building, and he exhaled shakily, lowering the weapon.

"Bryan?" Delilah’s voice was soft, but it startled him all the same. He glanced back to find her sitting up, her face pale, streaked with tears and dust.

"Still clear," he muttered, his voice low and strained.

She studied him for a moment, her hands clutching the straps of Altan’s rucksack. "You've been standing there a while. You should sit."

“I’m fine,” Bryan replied quickly, his eyes flicking back to the entrance. His knuckles were white against the rifle’s grip, but his stance remained steady.

Delilah didn’t argue, but her gaze lingered on him, filled with quiet concern. She leaned against Altan again, her eyes following Bryan as he moved to the side of the doorway, scanning the shadows outside.

Minutes stretched into what felt like hours. Every noise seemed amplified, every shadow darker. Bryan adjusted his grip on the rifle, his arms stiffening from the tension. The silence inside the building was suffocating, broken only by the soft sounds of Delilah shifting her weight or the faint rasp of Altan’s breathing.

Bryan froze at the sound of footsteps crunching over debris, his finger sliding to the trigger. He squared his shoulders, aiming at the darkened doorway, where fleeting shadows danced just out of reach.

"Stop!" he barked, his voice echoing through the ruins like a gunshot.

The footsteps halted. A voice called out from beyond the entrance, smooth but cautious: "Easy, kid. We’re Rivet City Marines. We’ve been sweeping the riverfront, clearing out the super mutants. You alone?" A man clad in heavy armor, hands raised in a gesture of peace, slowly stepped through the entrance.

Bryan tensed, his gaze darting toward the shadowed stairwell behind him where Altan and Delilah were recovering. "Doesn’t matter. Stay where you are."

The marine exchanged a quick glance with one of his companions, who stepped around the corner, lowering the muzzle of his rifle slightly. "Look, we’re not here to hurt anyone," the marine said, his voice calm but firm. "You look like you’ve been through hell. If you need help, we can provide it."

Bryan's grip tightened on his rifle as more footsteps echoed from behind the first two figures. "Don’t come any closer!" he snapped, his voice breaking slightly, a tremor of fear creeping into his tone.

"Stand down, Bryan," came a calm but firm voice from the stairwell. Altan, unsteady but upright, leaned against the crumbling wall for support. Delilah trailed behind him, rubbing at her eyes, her laser pistol clutched tightly in one hand. "I’ll take over," Altan added, raising a hand to Bryan. "It’s okay."

Bryan blinked, his eyes darting from Altan to the marines and back. Slowly, he lowered the rifle, the tension in his posture melting as his arms dropped to his sides.

The marine lowered his hands, exhaling in relief. "Your kid's got nerve," he said, nodding toward Bryan. "Not many stand their ground like that." He paused, then added, "Name’s Sergeant Harlan. We’ve been sweeping through this sector. No mutants left between here and Rivet City."

"Appreciate the update," Altan replied, straightening despite his obvious exhaustion. His gaze swept over the marines, lingering briefly on their weapons and armor. "We had our own encounter earlier. Didn't go so well."

Harlan glanced toward the fallen skybridge, then back at Altan. "Damn. Looks like the muties got the worst of it."

Altan let out a tired chuckle and nudged Delilah with his elbow. "Believe it or not? All her." The girl bashfully hid behind her brother, too exhausted to be smug or snarky. Altan chuckled again, but it turned into a ragged cough.

The guards grimaced. "Yeesh. You don't look so hot. Tell you what, we're wrapping up our patrol. Stand by for fifteen, and we'll escort you to Rivet City."

Altan glanced at Bryan, who hesitantly nodded. He could feel Delilah nodding against his back. He looked back at the guards. "We'd appreciate that."

With a few directions exchanged, the marines began to move off, their heavy boots crunching on the rubble-strewn ground. Bryan watched them go, his rifle still loosely held in his hands.

Altan placed a hand on Bryan’s shoulder. "You held your ground, Bryan. You kept us safe." His voice was hoarse, but the hand on the boy’s shoulder was steady. "I’m proud of you."

Bryan nodded silently, finally lowering the weapon completely. Altan glanced at Delilah, who gave him a small, tired smile. Together, they began packing their things to follow the marines’ path toward Rivet City.