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Arlecchino first found her in the corner of the old house, tucked between the wall and a bookshelf. The gunshots had just died down, long enough for silence to settle and start ringing. Then the door had creaked open, light spilling in and illuminating the corpses scattered 'round—some undead, most just regular dead.
She'd tried to tuck herself further in. The person who stepped through had an axe. Their hair was unkempt, bags under their eyes, white hair slipping out of its ponytail. They looked over the room, expression shadowed, before their gaze landed on Lynette.
Lynette had stared at them as they approached, barely daring to blink. Distantly, she thought that they could just leave, if she stayed still enough.
But they holstered their gun and crouched down in front of her, hesitant, yet reaching out their hand. Their voice is hoarse with disuse. "What's your name?"
Lynette doesn't believe in angels. She believes in what she sees, in the observations she's made of the variety of people around her. What she's seen is that that kind of unconditional goodness doesn't exist in anyone. Not even her brother, good-willed and good-natured, believed in kindness for its own sake. She clutches Arlecchino's sleeve as they lead her out, expecting to be brushed off immediately.
When Arlecchino does brush her off, it's to step between her and a horde of undead. The spray of blood glistens in the dying sunlight, and for a second it looks like a halo as Arlecchino tears through them. Standing next to a pile of corpses, at the end of the world—for the first time, Lynette feels... safe.
They travel in near-silence, except for the soft rumbling of the pickup truck's engine. Desolate landscapes are laid out beside them. Lynette stares out the window, entranced. Arlecchino speaks occasionally, to point out a landmark or to ask if Lynette is hungry. They become more talkative when they stop for the night to set up camp. Arlecchino teaches her how to pick a good location, how to shoot a gun, how to cook, hunt, scavenge, avoid the undead, barter with other survivors, detect ambushes. They're blunt but never cruel, and Lynette's successes are met with an approving nod and small smile.
One night, the shape of protector-teacher-provider resolves so clearly and suddenly in Lynette's mind, and she asks, "Can you be my mother?"
Arlecchino stills. "No."
Lynette nods, swallowing the swell of disappointment. "Okay. I understand."
"I cannot be a kind and caring mother," Arlecchino says. "It is not in my nature. But I can be a cold and uncaring father, if you would accept that."
Lynette considers all that Arlecchino has done for her, all the things no one else has, not after her brother. If that's how Arlecchino—Father—defines cold and uncaring, Lynette thinks she's fine with that. "Okay."
The months roll by. Humanity slowly, surely begins to get up. The two of them stop to talk with other survivors to trade supplies and information, little pockets of people which grow into larger groups then camps then settlements, slowly building fences to keep the rest of the world out.
Lynette hides behind Father when they talk, especially when it becomes obvious a group of survivors are trying to gain the upper hand. Just like the undead, she thinks. 'Good' or 'bad' no longer matter, just hunger and the need to survive. That's all any of them wanted these days. There's never enough to go around.
One of them steps forward, their eyes catching on Lynette. Their hand rests on their gun. The obvious target, small and defenseless. Father tenses, and their voice goes deadly sweet as they conclude negotiations. They squeeze Lynette's hand.
The one reaching for Lynette loses their hand first, then their ability to speak and breathe. Father wrenches the knife out of their throat and lunges at the next person, revolver in their other hand. In the shouting and terror and drawing of weapons, no one can notice Lynette scrambling to hide behind the truck so she doesn't get in the way.
Gunshots ring out, echoing too-loud in Lynette's ears. She winces, pressing her hands to her ears and trying to ignore the pulses of fear that maybe that's the one that hits Father, or that one, or—
When they go silent, Lynette waits for thirty counts before peeking out. She sees Father methodically hacking the bodies to pieces. No one seems to have been left alive. She can't see anyone waiting to ambush them, so she runs over to tug at Father's sleeve.
"I think it's safe now."
Father stops, knife buried in a corpse's stomach. They look to Lynette for a long while, eyes narrowed, then give her a quick sharp nod, pulling their knife out and sheathing it before standing. "Are you hurt?"
Lynette shakes her head.
"Good."
They ransack the truck for supplies. This group really was almost out of food; weapons, however, they still had plenty of.
"Can I have this one?" Lynette holds up a butterfly knife. Arlecchino looks at it, then nods.
"Be careful not to cut yourself. I'll show you how to use it later."
"Thank you, Father."
They don't have time to clean up the corpses; the undead will be attracted by the scent of blood soon, away from wherever the two of them are headed next. The smell has grown almost unbearable. Lynette scrunches up her nose. At the very least, it means she's safe.
The sun is halfway to the horizon when they pile back into their car, slightly heavier with the pilfered weapons, and they drive on.