A small town in the distance seemed to shiver under the heat of the Mojave sun, it's lean-to and tumbledown buildings striking color against the sand.

A painted traffic sign wore the name of this municipality, so fancily inscribed that Courier Six had to blink a few times to make sure it was truly there. It was surreal to see something that was concocted with a gentle hand, rather than bloodily carved into it's surroundings.

There was one word lilting from these flowing letters: "Asilo."


The Courier began trudging up the road, and when they stepped close enough to the first buildings, they were greeted with leering. That was fine with them; they were aware of what sacredness they'd interrupted. Friends on their porches sharing drinks, giggling children kicking up dirt in the street, someone strumming a guitar melody from afar. This aura of home, of something so thoroughly lived in that it was almost tangible in the air—that was the closest to holy this denizen of the wastes had ever gotten.

Asilo is the word for asylum. Refuge. That was precisely what these people had created, and their sneering at a possible invader was to be understood.

Courier Six gave a respectful nod as they passed by ogling townsfolk, trying to look relatively peaceable, even if a peaceable person could never exist in this world.

Cordially tipping their hat to the people lounging by it's door, they strolled into a would-be lively watering hole. They kept walking through glares, and only when they sat down did music and chatter resume.

"What's your poison, stranger?" the bartender, a blubbered, round-faced man asked.

Courier Six placed a few caps on the beaten counter. "Just a beer, if you don't mind."

The bartender quickly obliged. Six nursed the lukewarm drink in silence as the rest of the saloon buzzed around them.

They were blessed with no interruptions up until they'd nearly emptied the bottle. By then, they were approached by a ghoul, one of the first lucid ones they'd met in their travels.

She was short and sturdy with muscle. The Courier was unsure what parts of her skin were torn by rot or scars, but there was certainly a healthy mix of both. Her toothy, welcoming grin crinkled her jet black eyes, further shadowed by a dark bob wig.

"Hey there, stranger," she warbled, voice flecked with a growling accent the Courier couldn't quite place. "Forgive me for not greeting you sooner."

She stretched a hand that they shook as she kept speaking. "Name's Claire Abucajo. I don't exactly run things here, but I was the first to settle," she explained, "so most look up to me, and I look after most. I gotta ask—what's your business here?"

"Delivering a message to someone," the Courier curtly and respectfully replied. "Not much more than that, ma'am."

It was much more than that, of course. The scar on their temple told that story, but it wasn't one these folks needed to know.

As the bartender handed her a shot of whiskey, Claire pried further. "You're a courier, then?"

"Just that, ma'am."

"Can't be 'just that,' but, whatever you say," she quipped with a click of her tongue. "Powerful work, that is. My props to you. Maybe."

As she lazily rose her glass, the Courier chuckled. They understood the maybe—so many of the messages couriers carried got just as many people killed.

"Thank you, ma'am," they replied. "You said you were the first to settle here?"

"Just that!" she said with a snicker. "Yeah, I was. Had been wandering for... a hundred and fifty-five years before that. Eventually, I just tossed my bags on the ground of somewhere random... here. Made myself comfy."

"A hundred and fifty-five years?" the Courier echoed, brows quirking up with curiosity in spite of themself. "It took you that long to get tired of wandering? I've been doing it for only a fraction of that, ma'am, but I'm already exhausted."

Claire chuckled once more. "Well, 'just a courier,'" she teased, "you gotta understand what it was like to try and tumble freely through the good ol' USA. Think of it like... hm."

She leaned back in her chair. "Think of it like... if the folk who controlled everything were cazadores," she explained, "and only you and a handful of others could tell. And every time you pointed out that the cazadores were cazadores, you were stung to near death."

The Courier's skin crawled at the thought of seeing such wretched things everywhere they turned. "And the cazadores in this analogy are... the government?"

"Bingo!"

"So, what?" they queried. "You were... a commie or something?"

"A commie," Claire chirped with glee. "A dastardly red! Just 'cause I wanted people fed, not thrown in internment camps, and our survivals to not be dictated by something finite!"

The Courier blinked in surprise at her openness. "And Asilo doesn't... mind that you're a red?"

"It's not like I was fighting alongside Chinese forces," she replied with amusement at the idea. "And people get used to it. Like it, even. The burden of worrying about your next meal being alleviated is appealing to some folk."

"And we still trade—" she nodded to the beer in the Courier's hand—"caps still flow. We're just self sufficient and currency-free where we can help it."

Six sloshed the liquid in their bottle with a blink of absorption. "Huh," they croaked. "That sure is something."

Claire nodded in agreement. It sure was.


They continued to converse, uttering through topics like Six's journey, pre-war life, and stories from Asilo.

Eventually, Six agreed to help hunt some geckos in return for dinner and a place to sleep. When it was clear that they had earned the ghoul convener's approval, the townsfolk were a little warmer to them, too.

They were welcomed around a fire as the small population gnawed their meals, swapped their tales and shared their music. And, when morning came with all her hangovers and piercing heat, the Courier was given a kindly goodbye.

Claire herself sent them away with some surplus supplies and a pat on the back for good luck. And, funnily enough, they felt that luck in a slight spring in their step as they left.

Asilo is the word for asylum. Refuge. That was precisely what these people had created, and their earned kindness placed a bit of hope in the Courier's heart.