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Rio isn’t even sure why she bothered to come down to the bar tonight. Maybe it was the promise of getting so flat-faced drunk she couldn’t walk straight, or maybe it was just the need to get off of the streets for one damn second .
It’s not like her job has ever been easy. Being an agent meant leaving everything behind, any promise of long-term friendships or any belief of a better life, after, weren’t feasible things any longer. It’d only been a year or so now, that she’s been working for Desdemona beneath the old church, a new hire after the disaster at Switchboard, their old hideout.
Pretty sweet place, it’d been, at least until synths turned it into a flaming smokebox deathtrap.
Goodneighbor has been a frequent stop on her job routes, running intel, leaving dead drops, meeting contacts and recruits. Sometimes she’s surprised she hasn’t worn through the bottoms of her boots yet, but she can still feel the rubber soles under her feet when she walks, somehow- miraculously.
It’s not like Desdemona is doling out paychecks, and ‘ secret agent’ isnt really the highest paying job in the wastes. New boots don’t come cheap, and if she has to ask Tom to make her some new ones… she isn’t sure she wants to do that. Last time she asked him for something, she wound up spending three weeks on bed rest. (Long Story.)
The Third Rail, then, is usually where she rests on her stops. The Rex costs cap to stay and sleep, the storefronts all close at nighttime so their keepers can rest, and the memory den only takes specific customers, and Rio certainly has no interest in reliving her past. Zip, Zilch, nada. Nope.
The bar is perfect.
She never stays in one place long enough to warrant any of the drifters, or Ham, bothering her about crashing on a lounger in the far corner of the bar where the lights are dimmed out from burnt bulbs and subway pyles block the stagelights. No, all she needs is a place to nap and a good, quick drink to distract her from the way her hands cramp, her finger joints stiff and hard, from the way her knees ache, and the actual, honest to god heartbeat in her feet.
But tonight…
She’s not feeling like a nap, or even a drink. She wants to keep moving. She’s got sensitive intel in the dusty, dirt covered, piss-yellow backpack slung around her shoulders, and she’s alight with what it could mean for them. For the Railroad.
This Sole Survivor woman had shown up only a few months ago, poking her nose into railroad business- looking for the institute . She’d been recruited then, Professor, is what she’s called as far as Rio is concerned.
She and Des and Deacon, all working closely on this issue, and Rio plays the messenger. No, she’s not peeved at all that Des doesnt trust her to get involved with all of this new information, new places to check out, more things to string up with red thread on their conspiracy board.
Okay.
She’s a little peeved.
She just wants to get back to the godforsaken (ha!) church and drop off whatever the hell these files are- blueprints, or something. She’d fished them out of a dead drop after warding off some particularly nasty ferals that left her with a gash across her upper arm and her coat streaked with old, coagulated blood and dirt from a fall she’d sustained.
Her feet, however, need her to stop and take a quick sit-down, and who could resist Whitechapel Charlie’s fine selection of, ah- alcohol.
She just orders a beer when the Mr Handy toddles over to her, something easy on the insides. Hopefully. As long as this batch isn’t one of the ones she thinks she’d seen them brewing in the alleyway upstairs. She contains a shudder, using the countertop to crack open the cap and flicking into her pack with nimble fingers.
She’s sure she looks like a real good time, right now- she’d not bothered to really clean up, her clothes are filthy and her arm still hurts. She’d come straight to ol’ Goodneighbor after picking up the intel, hoping to avoid those beloved afternoon super mutant patrols.
She sits at the counter, beer in hand, and rests her forehead on the cool metal of the bar, her back bent over the edge as she slumps forward. Sitting down for too long has let the exhaustion seep into her bones. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see someone hopping up onto the little stage in the far corner of the bar.
Rio is way too farsighted, and much too tired to truly make out the figure as they bend over to adjust some sort of wiring and click on some buttons. Music stuff, she guesses. It’s either some drifter or it’s Magnolia, but Magnolia doesn’t wear trousers and tshirts, and Magnolia isn’t a blonde- at least, she wasn’t the last time Rio had seen her.
That was… two days ago? Hair dye is hard to get a hold of but…
Despite her laziness and the protest in her muscles at lifting her head off of the bar, she pushes bangs out of her eyes and squints through the recently flicked-on stage lights, and takes a better look at the person in front of her.
Definitely not Mags, she decides. The woman is smaller than the usual late-night bar singer, and her blonde hair is much too long to be a recently-dyed Magnolia. Her fashion sense isn’t quite as “sexy lounge singer ” as the other woman, but it’s about 100% more practical. She must be a traveler, then, or a local, Rio deduces.
But then, what is doing… hooking up an amp?
Rio’s brows furrow in silent confusion and she double takes at the beer in her hand to confirm that she really has only had one sip. She definitely isn’t drunk enough to be imagining this.
It’s not that weird, really. Lots of people play music- it lifts spirits and keeps things light, it’s a hobby to distract oneself and others from the hard life of a wastelander. Hell, she and Tom had been trying to fix a harmonica just the other night, “for shits and giggles” he’d told Des.
(She thinks everyone in the catacombs silently thanked any and all gods above that the thing had ultimately fallen apart. Being stuck with Tom trying to learn the harmonica…. eugh.)
Still, an amp, not that common out here- and the guitar strapped to the girls back, she’s just now noticing- impressive. It looks a little tinkered with, a little “put-together” but it’s an honest to god electric guitar - and if the way the woman is jauntily plugging all of the cords up is any indication, it works.
She feels a little guilty when she realizes how excited she is to hear something other than “Man Enough” with the music running on a speaker CD in the background for the six hundredth and forty time. Sorry, Mags. The woman’s always been too good to the beat up railroad agent, but she’s always had a much more… boisterous music taste.
It’s a treat, really, when she begins to play- just some warming up chords and some nifty little tunes to prepare her fingers as she picks on strings and tests the knobs on her little amp. The real sound of an actual electric guitar is just the pick me up she’d needed, honestly- her beer is forgotten in her hand.
Rio’s never seen the woman before, but that’s not saying much. There’s thousands of people out there, and Rio keeps to herself and to the church, to the railroad. It’s not like she gets around a lot. Still, there’s not a lot to her aside from the clothes on her back- not a lot that Rio can gleam from just watching her play.
She’d pride herself on being able to figure out a lot about someone from just a little- like that the woman must have some musical and mechanical know-how to even have been able to fix these items up herself. And she knows they’re homemade by the way the woman carefully cradles the guitar close to her, handling it like precious glass. It’s very obviously important to her.
It’s enough for now, something new and fresh to entertain her while she tries to shake off the worry caused by the papers burning a hole in her backpack.
She listens, and becomes completely entranced by the sounds coming from the amp to her left. Slumping in her stool seat and staring at nothing in particular as she lets her ears take over her senses. She doesn’t even notice the man who sidles up next to her, not until he touches her shoulder.
Though she’s caked in dirt and blood and wearing a blank gaze that could split steel and melt glaciers, she must still look interesting enough to someone in this musty bar, because some man has sauntered up right next to her barstool and leaned on the counter on his elbow right up in her personal bubble.
She’s used to dealing with all sorts of people- people who don’t wanna talk, people who spill too much, people who grin like Cheshire cats and people that she’s sure could win a stick-in-the-mud contest, no competitor ( cough Carrington cough)
It’s not like this hasn’t happened before, some drunken asshole getting up in her personal space and expecting her to swoon at the beer on his breath like he’s some kind of prewar hottie fallen off the front of a big-girl mag. Still. Today has not been her day. And it seems tonight is not her night, either.
She makes to ignore him at first, that’s always step one. See if he’s seriously just so drunk he has no clue where his hands are going. But he doesn’t move away or fall over the stool, so he’s not in a stupor just yet.
“Hey there,” she can feel his smile in his voice, that kind of man-smile that curdles milk and makes babies cry, “what’s someone like you doing up here by yourself?”
The guitarist has started to play, and sing too- she almost almost forgets about the grimy nails in the shoulder of her shirt and the smell of an entire brewery wafting on this man’s breath- the voice is nice, just the right tune to match along with the riffs flowing from the guitar. She doesn’t know the song, and wonders if maybe the girl writes her own, or if it’s something prewar she picked up.
People have gathered, she notices, when she tries her hardest to keep her head turned away from the man at her side to try and dissuade him further. They don’t crowd the stage, but they’re certainly watching the singer, looking at one another and smiling and nodding. It would be quite a display, would have her enraptured, really, what with her love of music, if it wasn’t for the man leaning now over her shoulder.
If she turned, his face would be exactly in hers, his nose would be against her cheek. So she takes a deep breath to steady herself against mounting anxiety and keeps herself facing to the left.
“What?” He leans back, huffs in a disgruntled manner, “Cat got your tongue?”
She shifts away from him in her stool, and finally decides to face him. She narrows her eyes to slits and furrows her face in a threatening manner- raises a hand to point a finger into his chest. If the look on her face isn’t enough to scare him off, she hopes the grime and blood on her cheeks sends the message that she is a tired woman who is not looking to be trifled with.
Unfortunately, drunk men do not possess the sense of sight that non-drunk men do, and sometimes even sober ones tend to underestimate her. He just stares her in the face with that, “hello, I’m drunk, meet to nice you,” kind of crooked grin and she nearly growls at him.
“Bug off, Buddy,” she tips her head jerkily back towards the stage, “I’m watching the show.”
He leans in again and she leans back so far she nearly spills onto the floor, grabbing the edge of the bar to keep herself upright- and he finally seems to have taken that extra leap of drunken faith because he sets a hand over hers as she scrambles to sit upright again.
The unwarranted touch is the last straw, and she tries to stand up and get the hell away from this guy before she has to make a spectacle of herself and do something about it- but he grabs her by the side and pulls her back towards him with surprisingly firm and sobering force.
She immediately begins to struggle, wiggling against his hold and going in to strike at his face and shoulders with balled up fists, but as she makes to protect herself from just another drunken wastelander piece of work, there’s a whine of feedback from a microphone and the music all but comes to a screeching halt- literally.
“Hey!”
It’s the voice of the singer from the stage, and when Rio manages to break free because the man’s grip had faltered, she spins on her heels and turns to see the sight behind her-
The woman on stage has loosened her grip to let her guitar hang around her navel, supporting it with one hand and the other hand is curled around the microphone, holding it close to her lips like she’s prepping a speech.
The crowd isn’t looking at her anymore- they’re looking at Rio , and so is the singer-
She blinks dumbly in the figurative spotlight and her mouth runs dry despite her usual wit. Why are they all looking at her?
“Yeah, you!” The girl says into the microphone, her voice suddenly low and serious, and Rio points at herself wordlessly, in shock, but it’s then that she’s realizes they’re not looking quite at her, but behind her- at the man.
“I gotta be real honest with you,” she starts, and Rio looks back to see that the man has staunched, his mouth hanging slightly open, his face gone white and his eyes wide in surprise, “I’m not fond of seeing people, yknow, assault others while I’m on stage.”
Her voice is dripping with condescending snark, and her little eyeroll has Rio noticing that her irises are green.
“I’m gonna ask you to not touch the lady again,” she leans into the microphone even closer, the crowd has now all completely turned their attentions to the man on the stool- who seems like he’s gone frozen in the moment, like the singer is Medusa and she’s frozen his sorry ass into stone on the spot.
It gives Rio a moment to breathe, be still my beating heart ! She doesn’t like being the center of attention, hates it, really, and the anxiety that had nearly surfaced at being called out in public had almost caused a stroke, if she’s honest.
“Or I’m going to show you what else I can use the guitar for.” She suddenly pulls away from the microphone, a smile appearing on her face as if she hadn’t just threatened to beat someone with a musical instrument, and she adds a chipper, sarcastic, “thanks!” For emphasis.
Her green eyes connect with Rio’s over the heads of the crowd for a split second, but it feels like the second is being drug through molasses as she looks at the woman who’d saved her ass. Thank god. Thank you.
It’s over as quickly as it happened, and after a shock like that, all she wants to do is run. Rio wants to gather all of her anxiety and fear and take off to the church so she can lay on a mattress and stare at the roots growing out of the catacomb ceiling and hide from the worry of being seen in public,
but she doesn’t.
She thinks she ought to do something. Say thank you, offer some caps- something. The man has disappeared off of his stool of shame and slunk off into some dark corner to sleep off his inebriation. And Rio really, really ought to go, as an agent, but as a human, a real life human with emotions, she stays.
She lingers by one of the sturdy, tile covered poles that used to be part of the subway, waits until this mysterious woman finishes up a set- she swings her guitar onto her back and unplugs her amp- the ground scatters some generous cheers and claps for her and she nods to them with a smile-
As she meanders to the bar for something to drink, to cool off after performing, Rio hates how she feels nervous to approach her. It’s just a woman, some lady who’d been conscientious enough to call out an asshole and save her the trouble of having to get into a physical fight- it’s not like this is going to endanger herself in any way.
She steels herself and takes a deep breath. Desdemona would kill her for this.
“Hey,” she starts, and then coughs at the weak way her voice comes out, “hey.”
Her second try is a little better, and the blonde turns to look at her as she comes to stand aside the seat the singer has taken.
“Thank you, for- uh. Yknow.”
The woman laughs, raises the glass in her hand a little in a toasting motion and smiles.
“‘Course. I’ve really had enough of men like that.”
Rio manages a bark of a laugh, scoffing in agreement. She shuffles on her boots, and the woman gestures to the stool next to her.
Desdemona would kill her for this while she’s on the job.
“I’m Rio.”
Scratch that. Desdemona would do worse than kill Her.
“Sara,” she extends a firm hand, and Rio takes it for a sturdy handshake. They say you can tell a lot about someone from a handshake, and if this says anything, it’s ‘ im Sara, and I dare you to try me’
Someone who can hold their own, then. That’s refreshing. And talented too!
She eyes the beer she’d left behind, and gently reaches to scoop it back up, checking it for flies before lifting it back to her lips, relaxing next to the woman.
“Nice to meet you, by the way,” she adds, her posture friendly, and Rio can’t help but agree- it is nice to meet someone. Railroad agents don’t usually get to meet people. And she’d used her real name .
She decides to stay, as Sara had offered, and finishes her beer. And they make conversation. Sara asks where she’s from, what she’s been doing to get so covered in dirt, and Rio manages to forget about the weight in her backpack as she returns the friendly conversation.
It’s been a while since she’s talked to someone.
So she orders another beer, crosses her leg over her knee, and gets comfortable. She plans to get to know Sara a little better, ask about the amp and the music and whether she makes a habit of rescuing strangers from weirdos.
And sure, Des would kill her for this, but, she thinks, as Sara orders another drink for herself as well, it’s so worth it.