She has no name. That’s what she’s looking for, you see. It was lost when the bombs fell, when the radioactive fire ignited the tiny sun in her belly. Green fire seared her veins, burning her humanity away until all that remained was it. The body. The anomaly. Stealth and espionage were her skills, she remembers that much. But now, even under mild duress, she glows brighter than a light bulb. Covering up only does so much good - the glow seeps through anything. And it burns so hot she no longer has memories of the cold. The clothes are an uncomfortable necessity. A disguise, as if she were a person still. Even the folks in Goodneighbor call her ugly, the regular ghouls shy away with polite terror. They try to help, putting her in a dress, slapping a wig on her head, saying “well, look at how lovely you are!” They give her names - Jane, Sally, Sue - but she throws them away, draws up her hood, and keeps searching. Finding her name won’t fix anything. She knows that. But it still gives her hope.