Mary jolted awake, her heart racing as she looked around the unfamiliar room. Panic gripped her chest as she scrambled to sit up, eyes darting around. The bed, the walls—everything felt wrong. She quickly threw the covers off, her breath quickening, but the anxiety slowly ebbed away when she realized she was still fully clothed. Aside from the usual sleep-induced griminess, there was no sign of anything amiss. "He didn't," she whispered, her voice shaky. "He wouldn't." She collapsed onto her elbows, a wave of relief washing over her.

Then, Delilah's sleepy voice drifted through the quiet room.

"What are you talking about?"

Mary jumped, her pulse racing again. She turned to see Delilah, comfortably wrapped in her brother's arm, using it as a pillow. Delilah’s half-lidded eyes peered up at her.

Mary's cheeks flushed bright pink. She stammered, trying to mask her unease. "N-nothing. Just... being silly."

Delilah gave a sleepy shrug and closed her eyes again. "'Kay. I'm goin' back to sleep."

Mary lay back, staring at the ceiling as her thoughts raced. The events of the previous evening replayed in her mind. Dinner had been a mix of crisps, cola, and a variety of junk foods, accompanied by the movies Vera had provided. The Adventures of Sparky and the Moonstone, a lighthearted children's film about a brave little dog on a quest for a legendary gem, and Echoes of the Steel Heart, a gritty noir thriller about a hard-boiled detective in the industrial city of "Pittsburgh." The evening had started off awkward and uncertain, but it had ended on a surprisingly pleasant note.

Nothing extraordinary had happened—she simply sat beside the siblings, watching the films while Altan fell into a heavy sleep and Delilah chattered on like a fountain. The girl had a lot of stories—wild ones about fire-breathing mutant ants, raiders, super mutants—and while Mary didn’t doubt the embellishments, the carefully chosen words convinced her the tales were based in some truth.

And then, of course, there was the discovery that they both came from a Vault.

Mary's gaze shifted to Altan, his chest rising and falling steadily in the quiet room. His exotic appearance made more sense now, though. She’d seen pictures in ancient books—people from faraway lands—and his features seemed like a fusion of Mediterranean warmth and Central European sharpness, topped off with the kind of rugged handsomeness that could belong to a Greek god. A small blush crept up her cheeks, and she bit her lip, remembering her earlier offer to "show him a good time."

Her attention shifted back to Delilah, who was sound asleep, her face now resting on her brother’s chest, her brown hair braided loosely and tucked across him like a child seeking comfort. Despite their shared features, Delilah's face was soft, her presence oddly soothing.

Mary glanced at her own reflection in the mirror by the bed. She wasn’t like them. She was pasty from the Bottoms, her hair frizzy and unkempt, the weight of her past etched into her short, lean frame. She frowned, a sense of unease tightening in her chest. Things were better now, but as she looked at the siblings beside her, the contrast made her wonder if that was the truth of it.

With a quiet sigh, she stood up, stretching her stiff limbs. Carefully, she tiptoed around the clutter of battle gear piled in the open footlocker and slipped out of the room.

Mary paused by the Weatherly lobby, glancing at the clock on the wall. It was still early morning, the quiet of the space only interrupted by the soft hum of a Mr. Handy as it floated about, its feather duster sweeping the air and its broom gently brushing the floor.

"Um, excuse me, Mr. Robot?" Mary called out softly.

The robot halted mid-motion, its mechanical eye-stalk swiveling toward her. "Yes, madame? How may I assist you?"

"Could you help me write a message? I—" Mary paused, uncertain. What had gotten into her? The thought caught her off guard. She shook her head, slapping her cheeks a few times to fully wake herself up. The robot hovered silently, seemingly accustomed to the strange behavior of late-night guests.

"I—I don't write very well," she admitted, a bit embarrassed. "So, I'd really appreciate it if you could help me craft a note to thank the Cooke siblings for sharing their evening with me."

The Mr. Handy bobbed in place, its eye-stalk focusing on her. "Please recite your message, and I will print it out for you."

Mary hesitated for a moment before breaking into a grin. "Thank you for sharing your evening with me. I really enjoyed the crisps, the cola, and the movies. I had a wonderful time, and I hope to see both of you again soon. Warmest regards, Mary—no last name."

She glanced at the robot, which let out a soft whir. A small compartment on the side of its bulbous head slid open, and a slip of paper was ejected. The robot used its pincer to retrieve the note and handed it to her.

"Will that be all, madame?"

Mary shook her head. "No, thank you, Mr. Robot."

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

Mary quietly slipped her note into the Cookes' room and padded back to the stair tower. Her heart was heavy as she prepared herself for the journey back into the Bottoms, where everything she wanted to leave behind awaited her. As she descended, the gradual decline in the quality of maintenance—peeling paint, flickering lights, and the smell of mold—only seemed to amplify the sense of dread that gnawed at her. That familiar panic, the same one that had gripped her upon waking, tightened around her chest once more. She paused at a landing to catch her breath, but it wouldn't come. Was she really going back?

The truth hit her like a blow to the gut. She wasn’t just returning to the Bottoms—she was returning to the life she had chosen. She could feel the weight of it pressing down on her, suffocating her.

She recalled one of the verses Altan had shared with her the day before. The words had struck her in a way she couldn’t explain, something in them resonating deeper than she'd ever thought possible. It was from a book, she remembered, a chapter, some verse—well, that didn’t matter now. The verse itself, however, spilled out from her between quick, shallow breaths, its meaning more piercing now than ever before: “‘So when they continued asking him, he lifted up himself, and said unto them, He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her.’”

And like that, something in her broke. All the years of regret, of self-loathing, of numbing herself with chemicals and cheap distractions—everything she'd tried to bury with each passing day—came rushing to the surface. She staggered over to a ratty old chair in the corner, its fabric damp with something she didn't want to think about, and collapsed into it. The tears came like a flood, too much for her to hold back any longer.

She wailed, sobbed, and shook with the weight of everything she had been carrying for so long. Grief, pain, anger—all of it poured out of her in a torrent, raw and unrelenting. The world around her seemed to fade as the floodgates opened wide. For a moment, she let herself feel it all—every ounce of the years she’d spent selling herself, trying to survive, pretending she was okay when she wasn’t. The sobs wracked her body until there was nothing left.

She didn't care what anyone thought. Let them think she was on some bad chem bender—it didn’t matter. Not anymore.

It was only when a harried Rivet City security officer appeared, a syringe of naloxone in hand, that she finally stopped. The woman seemed momentarily confused when Mary threw herself into her arms in a desperate hug, but after a brief hesitation, the guard awkwardly returned it. It was the first human connection Mary'd had in... God, how long? The officer patted her back, unsure but there, and in that moment, Mary realized she didn’t want to go back. She couldn’t. Not after everything. She was done.

"Hon, you alright?" The officer asked, a mix of confusion and concern in her voice. Mary nodded, hastily wiping her face on the hem of her skirt.

"Y-yes, ma'am, I'm fine." She smiled. "I think I'm the most fine I've ever been, actually." And it was true. For all the weight of what she planned to do, a much greater weight had fallen off her shoulders.

The officer stepped back, stowing the naloxone syringe in her emergency kit. “Well, if you say so.”

Mary raised her hands quickly. "Wait! I— I need to get my stuff. Could you help me?"

"Are you in danger, ma'am?" The officer's hand hovered near the baton at her belt.

Mary shook her head. "No. Probably not. I don't think so. I..." She hesitated, then shrugged, no point in hiding it. "I'm just tired of being a whore, ma'am. I’m moving my stuff out of the Bottoms. I’m just afraid that if I go down there alone, I’ll lose my nerve."

The officer nodded and gestured to the stairs. "Well, I’ve come this far. I’ll escort you. Just make it quick—I don't want the shift commander riding my ass for missing my patrol."

Mary nodded, the smile on her face so wide it almost hurt, and eagerly led the officer down until they reached the room she shared with several of her... coworkers. With the officer’s help, she quickly packed a few mementos, her caps pouch, and the few outfits she owned that weren’t work-related into her laundry bag. Without looking back, she left the room—hopefully for good.

The journey up was mostly quiet, with the security officer asking only where Mary wanted to go. Soon, Mary found herself outside Father Clifford's church, dedicated to Saint Monica. She had been here a handful of times, but never before had she felt like she needed to be here. She took a deep breath and stepped inside, where Father Clifford, the kindly old man who led worship services, was busy sweeping the floors. He looked up from his work, and gave Mary a warm smile.

Before she could speak, the officer placed a hand on her shoulder. "Take your time," she said quietly, offering a brief, reassuring smile. "This is a good start."

Mary nodded, feeling the weight of the officer’s words settle in her chest as she made her way toward Father Clifford.

"Good morning, my child. How can I help?"

Mary hesitated, clutching her bundle of belongings. "Father Clifford, I... I didn’t know where else to go. I need help."

He set his broom aside and gestured to a pew. "Mary, yes? You’re always welcome here. Please, sit. What’s troubling you?"

Mary sat beside him, her eyes downcast as she fiddled with her laundry bag. "I... I’ve been living a life I’m not proud of. But I want to change. I can’t be that person anymore. I’ve hurt people, and I want to do better. I’ve left the Bottoms behind."

Father Clifford nodded, offering his weathered hand. She took it, her eyes welling up as he gave her a reassuring squeeze. "The first step is the hardest, Mary, but you’ve taken it. Admitting the need for change requires more courage than most know. What made you decide?"

"I... I met someone yesterday, in the brig. He wasn’t interested in me. He just talked to me, and afterward, he and his little sister let me spend the evening with them. We watched movies and ate junk food. They were so... normal. So strong." She paused, her gaze dropping. "This morning, I looked at myself, and I... I didn’t like what I saw. I’m tired, Father. I can’t keep living like this. So, I’m here."

Father Clifford reached into his pocket and handed her a handkerchief. She took it with a quiet "Thank you" and dabbed at her eyes. "The road to redemption is never easy, but it’s always worth walking. You won’t be alone on this journey, Mary. Stay here for now. We'll help you find your way. God’s grace is infinite, and His love is boundless for those who seek it."

Mary nodded. "Thank you, Father. I don't know what I'd do without someone like you."

The old man closed his eyes and smiled, giving her hand another gentle squeeze. "Give thanks in all circumstances, for this is God's will for you in Christ Jesus." He rose, pulling a feather duster from his belt and offering it to her with a warm smile. "If you'd like to thank me, however, you could start by dusting."

Mary looked up at him, feeling a rare lightness in her chest. "I think I can do that.”