Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s not a good call. Most of the recent calls hadn’t been great, but there were still positives:

Nate was late to the birth, but he made it.

There were complications, but she was back at home now.

Shaun was a bit underweight, but he’s gaining it quickly.

You knew she was stressed, but pregnancy and birth are stressful. Part of the many reasons why you never wanted to deal with it first-hand. People get wacked out by it. New fathers can be panicky, too. But Nate didn’t panic. He bolted.

Two months. His son was two months old. That man had been your brother-in-law for four years. You’d known him for seven. He knew you before. And he just left her.

“Fuck. No. Hey. You’re alright,” you grip the counter, short nails scratching against the vinyl.

“You’re alright, this is fucked, but just... Let me make a few calls. I’ll get a sub and sort things out…No—I’m coming down there. Look, I haven’t taken leave the entire time I’ve been here, they can excuse me for this…” she’s almost hard to understand through all the tears.

“Breathe. Just breathe. It’s not like I work in a hospital—nobody’s going to die here if I leave… Marty can take care of anything else here. Just. I’ll be there tonight,” she tries to protest.

“I know where the spare key is, and I’ll pay for a cab from the airport.” you squeeze your eyes closed tighter, tighter.

“Don’t you dare fucking try to apologize, you’ve done not one damned thing wrong. I’ll pick up something to eat, too… I love you. See you soon… Bye.”

You click “end call” and shakily put the phone down, then slam your palms down, slapping, slapping, slapping the counter. You squeeze your hands shut and try to inhale deeply, exhale deeply. No, hold it. Hold between inhale. Hold between exhale, FUCK!

You slap against your thighs, hard, harder. Don’t scratch, don’t grab your arms, it leaves marks. You can’t have marks, what if the border agents ask about them and stop you?

You slam yourself onto the couch and smother yourself into the cushions and scream.

Brightside: you can’t be charged for murder if you aren’t caught. And you won’t have to murder Nate if he doesn’t show up, so he better have figured out how to commit to something, and stay gone.

You storm into your bedroom and start grabbing a few changes of clothes, both passports, any relevant papers. Toiletries are next. You throw the small suitcase down on the floor and grab your phone again. You close your eyes and focus on your voice, will it to be friendly and calm, but resolute.

“Hi, Janice. Yes. This is Theo. Yes… Theodor...a Berwick. Yes. I know this is terribly last minute but there’s been a family emergency and I’m informing you that I’m not going to make it in this week. I know, I’m terribly sorry. I have the unit notes all in my desk there, and we've already discussed the holiday project, and I’ll write out an email with a more detailed plan and send that off to the lead teacher so that he can pass it on to the temporary substitute. Thank you, that’s kind to say. Yes, I understand it’s unpaid leave. Yes, I accept this may have negative impacts on my review. No, I’ll take care of it. Thank you. Yes, I’ll keep you posted. Thank you, goodbye.”

One call down.

"Hi, yes, I'm calling for Martin Berwick. Yes, this is his spouse. Yes, I can hold."

. . .

Martin drives you to the airport a few hours later on his lunch break. You’d shilled out more than you wanted to on a last minute flight, but the both of you only have one car, and you can’t take a rental across the annexation line. He parks the car and leans over to give you a hug.

“Send my love to Nora and little Shaun,”

“Always. Thanks for the ride, Mars.”

"Give me a call so I know you got there."

"Of course."

Security is, as always, a trial. You flag the body scanner and have to do the whole explanations game. Dolled yourself up for the occasion to try to grease the wheels, but to no dice, apparently. You even put on mascara. You'd shaved, not that you had much in the way of facial hair—most of it went to longer side burns—but you could manage a slight mustache after a month. Not that it ever got very full. But it’s only been eight months, and you’re on a low-dose. Your voice had dropped a bit, which you normally loved, but did make for a bit of worry, now. Pitch-up. Up-talk. Smile more.

“Oh yes, I thought it would flag the scan. Could I have a female officer, please? Yes, I had a preemptive double mastectomy. My grandmother died of breast cancer, and my father even had a tumor scare, so we all just wanted to be careful. I know, it’s hard, but I couldn’t imagine having to deal with surgeries every five years to replace implants, so it’s just easier without the reconstruction. Yeah, no worries! I know you’re just doing your job. Have a nice day!”

Don't make a face, don't make a face, breathe...

Step one, security, done. Now, border patrol.

You hate crying in front of people. God you hate crying in front of people. You always cry. But in this instance, explaining to the jaded agent why you are suddenly traveling back to the states, it’s a stay-out-of-jail card you don't mind having in your deck.

They stamp your passport and you shakily thank the agent as you move along.

Each crossing got harder and harder since the annexation. It’s been nearly a year since you last visited in person. You’re not sure if the double citizenship makes it easier or harder. Anyone passing through the northern border is suspicious, whether it’s coming or going. Hell, it was half of why Marty took your last name instead of keeping Pushkin.

Not that your own actions have done anything to ease your passage. The gender marker on your passport gets harder and harder to pass as with each month, even on such a low dose. You manage to keep your hair nearly down to your shoulders in a short shag style, barely long enough to tie it back, but still longer than the average man's. Thank god that black nail polish doesn’t set off your dysphoria. A little styling and a lot more smiling, and you’re still passable, but the margin feels thinner than ever, both for you, and the growing discord between nations.

You’d moved to Montreal six years ago, freshly diploma’d and began working as a teacher in a bilingual school. You were hoping to escape the US and it’s policies. Foolish. You’d put off transitioning as long as possible back home, and thought that once you finished your probational first year there, you could schedule an appointment to finally, actually, start the process. You spoke French whenever you weren’t at work, trying to hide your American identity to avoid some of the understandable bad blood, but with the next year ending with the states officially annexing Canada, it was bleak. Your timeline had been shattered. Again.

Two years and a few new friends later, you were signing the license on your lavender marriage and looking at partial Canadian healthcare thanks to it. Two years more of fighting the system and you got top surgery, half covered due to a high risk family history. Just add the medical bill to your other debts.

It was a short flight, a bumpy cab ride, and a long embrace as you arrived.

The first week there with Nora passed quicker than you'd expected. There was so much to do. It was exhausting. It was a cycle of bouncing from crib to bath to carpet to lap to car to store to shower to kitchen to bed. You finally started feeling like you had a bit of a rhythm going on night 6. Shaun was laid in his crib, mercifully asleep, and your sister was seated on the floor in front of you on the couch. You were braiding her hair as she stared out blankly, not watching the television. You rubbed her shoulders, and she cried.

The next day, while your sister took a shower and Shaun was momentarily out for a nap, Codsworth approached you as you were pulling a Nuka from the fridge.

“Sir, do you mind me asking if…” he hesitated.

“What, Cods? Spit it out,”

“If Mister Nate—” you dropped the Nuka and the cap hit the ground, spinning and spraying on the floor. And you tried to not howl in rage as the robot continued, warily watching the emptying bottle as you remained stock-still, “—if he will be coming back sometime soon?”

“I appreciate that you asked me and not Nors about this, Codsworth, as I don’t want you ever talking about that man around my sister or Shaun ever again. He’s dead to us. If he does show up here, I’m liable to take a swing at strangling him, so while I can’t tell you how to feel about him, if you still care about him at all, you’ll hope he never steps foot in my line of sight, or range of throw, ever again,” you seethe, eyes watering.

The robot flinches backward.

“I… I read his note. The one he left mum. But, he told me he was just stepping out. I… a part of me was still hoping that the lies were on the paper, and not to me.” His eyestalks drooped, and your anger abated.

“He’s let us all down, Codsworth. Every single one of us here. I’m sorry he hurt you, too.”

Codsworth looked at you and flittered for a moment.

“Let me get this cleaned up for you sir. I’m sure you’d like to change into a new pair of socks,”

You look down at your soda-damp socks and sigh.

“Yeah. Thanks, Codsy.”

. . .

While it’s a shit circumstance in any case, you’re lucky that this happened a week before your school's holiday break, but you were starting to stress about what to do afterwards. It was the Saturday of your second week with Nora. She was doing better, but... well what was she going to do when you left? She was taking unpaid leave the same as you. You’d been working at this school for a few years now, but nothing was a given; secondary schools don't have tenure. Besides, you were starting to feel the cold-shoulder at work, hear the whispers as you entered the staff room.

You’ll deal with that when you deal with that. Just focus on this week, and squeeze another week of unpaid leave out of Janice, and if they fire you, then you don’t have to make a decision, anyway. Your parents would visit after that, but that wouldn’t make things any easier. Both of their health had been going downhill. Your mom was needing more and more help, so while she could still hold Shaun, you didn’t trust her to take care of him overnight.

You tried to get them out of the house at least once a day during weekdays. Maybe you could take Nora to the movies next week if Codsworth helped your dad keep an eye on the baby. Otherwise, most of your outings had been chauffeuring the three of you around town. There was the occasional grocery trip and walk in the park, but most times, it was just driving. It was something, at least.

When Shaun gets a little older, it’ll be easier. He’s only just received his first round of vaccinations, so you didn’t want him on public transport until those had time to be effective. You’d feel bad for Codsworth if he had to start taking care of all three if you taken out by a stomach bug. And with the murmurs of a new plague starting to spread in D.C., you had little desire to increase social contact vectors more than absolutely necessary.

It’s a slower start to the morning that most days have been. Shaun’s an early riser, but he'd slept in until 8 today. The doorbell rings and you put your mug of coffee down. Nora steps out into the hallway, cradling Shaun, but you wave at her to ignore it. It’s Saturday. It’s supposed to be a day you don’t have to feel bad for not doing anything, who the hell is knocking at your door?

“I’ve got it,” you tell her.

A man in a trench coat is standing across from you when you swing the door open. You only feel a mote of relief seeing the  Vault-Tec van parked by the mailbox. Maybe not a pervert, but not much better.

You’re still in your pajamas: long loose pants, a baggy and crumpled t-shirt, bedhead, and nearly two weeks worth of facial hair growth giving you one step above peach-fuzz and two steps below five-o-clock shadow’s worth of a mustache.

The man gives a brief—and bewildered—smile, and glances down at his paper before ringing out a “Good morning, sir!” and it does wonders for your mood, actually.

“Glad to have finally caught you!” he chirps.

“Ah?”

“Vault-Tec is just looking to confirm some last details for Vault 111's listed future residents,” he chimes.

"Potential. I'm still hoping to avoid nuclear devastation, personally." Maybe you shouldn't mock him. Be nice.

"Surely! Nothing to worry about, just being prepared, you know," he forces out a chuckle, and offers you the clipboard, and you blanch when you read it.

He thinks you’re Nate.

You stare blankly at the form for a moment, heart racing. You can’t correct him. Any hiccups might risk your sister’s… and by extension, your nephew’s place in the vault. Nate was supposed to have settled this ages ago. Did he try to change the registration so they wouldn't get in? Your mouth is dry.

It’s fine. You’ll just fill this out, make it a bit more accurate to you in case the representative has further questions, and you’ll tell Nora later. If anyone can figure out a loophole around anything either that bastard or Vault-Tec would try to do to keep her son out of that shelter, it was Nors. Speaking of, do this quick. If she comes around and says your name, she could ruin the gambit before it even started. Keep it cool.

You scribble in a few more details and hand the board back to him, thanking him and rushing him away as politely as possible.

The man is starting up his van as Nora comes back down the hall, hands free this time.

“What was that about?” she asks, catching the van pulling away.

“Vault-Tec. Just confirming details,” she stiffens. So she didn't know that wasn't handled, either.

“What did you tell them?” 

“Well... Attorney-client privilege? Potentially minor fraud. In their eyes, I’m the man of the house.”

She rolls her eyes, but her sigh is one of relief.

“Sure. Well, if that causes issues, it’s a later problem.”

You hear crying from Shaun’s room and nudge her towards the kitchen.

“I’ve got him. Did you get your coffee?”

She smiles, and you go to comfort your nephew.

He's cooing happily as you spin his mobile when you hear a mug shatter on the floor.

“Sir—”

“Theo—GRAB SHAUN,”

You've never heard her like that, and her tone scares you shitless. You scoop Shaun up and run out to the living room.

Ice and lead in your stomach.

It was happening.

“Nor, we have to go,” you wheeze.

You hand off Shaun to your sister, so you throw on your boots, cursing yourself for only having brought one pair of shoes with, and they’re ones you have to lace. You take Shaun back as Nora slides on her sneakers. Codsworth opens the door for you, and you falter, looking at him. The paperwork only listed the three of you.

“Go, sir.”

“I’m sorry, Codsworth,”

Shaun is shoved into your chest as you run, glancing back to make sure your sister is following. It’s the fastest she’s moved since she’d given birth.

You’re gasping as you reach the chain link fence. There’s a crowd there, and the guard is armed. Your sister shoves forward, a death-clawed grip on your bicep as she yanks you towards her.

The guard gives you a once over, but you’re let through and the three of you run onto the giant geared platform. She snatches Shaun up, searching for anything wrong, looking at him like she's trying to memorize every detail, and an explosion hits off in the distance.

It’s so bright.

Like a giant firework.

You’d always loved fireworks.

You tuck your sister to your chest, Shaun cradled between you, and stare into the light.

Chapter Text

There are people in lab coats directing you all forward.

Your chest is tight, this can’t be real.

The flash.

What’s happened?

You remember… the broadcast. The broadcast said confirmed hits in New York and Pennsylvania… Your friend Zoe was in New York. And then Boston. They bombed Boston. Where else? Is this it? Is Montréal okay? Martin. Your apartment building had a little shelter, did your husband make it there? Was Martin dead? Eyes watering as you look down to the thin gold band on your hand. You didn’t love him, not like that, it was a marriage of convenience to protect both of you. But you lived together for nearly three years, and he was your friend, and now… is he gone? Your apartment? Your work? Oh god, your parents? Your vision blurs, and your sister grabs your arm.

She’s just as scared as you are, but she’s here. Don’t think about the rest of it, not yet. You clench your hand into a fist, digging your short nails into your thumb, black polish chipping. 

You’re in a daze as the workers shuffle you all along, but you give your older sister a hug before stepping into the pod. At least she’s here. You’re safe. She’s safe. Shaun’s safe. That’s enough. That has to be enough.

. . .

Your throat burns.

After screaming and vomiting this much, you’ve probably done quite a bit of damage to it, but you can still hear the gunshot echoing in your ears.

You’re not there, not really, stumbling through the vault. Bugs—batons—skeletons—a pistol. The overseer’s terminal takes ages to read through, your eyes not wanting to make sense of the words, and you feel outside of yourself as the what-must-be-fiction unravels.

There’s a gun holster in the security stash nearby, thankfully.

The less the pistol is in your hands, the better.

You just keep hearing the bang over and over.

Your hands itch, and you struggle to stave off the urge to hit yourself, make something hurt enough that you can think, or stop thinking, anything to snap you out of this cryo-snowball rushing down the hill and rolling towards disaster.

You fling your hands up and out, away from the holster, away, away, don’t think about the gun and the whispering, slithering urge that you could make this nightmare end, right now. Quickly. Simply.

You told yourself that you could never do that to yourself, it would kill your father. Your uncle had ended it, and dad was never the same. You couldn’t put him through that pain again.

But your dad’s dead now, isn’t he?

Don’t think about it.

You made that promise, you can keep it—at least a little while longer.

There’s still Shaun.

Shaun’s out there, he has to be. You have to get him back. And you have to make whoever killed your sister pay. That’s what you have to do. Stay alive until then.

. . .

The dusty pipboy on your arm pinches as you clasp it, and you wince and fling your arm back as needles suddenly prick you.

“Fuck!”

You grab at the remaining forearm as the machine boots up.

Vitals display on the screen and you flick through the dials. That explains the needles, hopefully. But the date listed has to be wrong. Yes, the story on the terminal, the fuck-off bugs that shouldn’t exist, the clean skeletons all hint that time has passed, but... two hundred and ten years? With a shuddering breath you push the thought down and focus on your objective, getting the fuck out of here.

At least you get to press the huge fuck-off button.

You'd covered your ears as the metal screeched when the walkway extended, and do the same as you rise up to the surface.

The flash replays in your mind’s eye as your physical eyes strain in the daylight.

It’s a fucking wasteland up here.

God it’s so bright.

Your head twinges. A moment of longing for your sunglasses, and you’re back on your knees, somehow managing to wring out more tears. You manage to stand, and step onto the dirt. Your knees wobble, but you pass the rusted chain link fence.

The walk back to your sister’s house takes so much longer than the run up did. You feel heavy and numb, awkwardly lumbering back down the path. More skeletons. Flashbacks to the people you passed struggling with luggage. You can’t see their faces. You didn’t even know their names.

Some of the houses have toppled, but hers is still standing. You see movement inside of it and run forward, delirious with hope for a millisecond—

“As I live and breathe! Sir Theodore it’s really you!”

It’s Codsworth. Codsworth.

“Codsworth, dear god, you’re here,”

“Of course sir, have to have dinner ready for the family! Is the lady of the hour following along shortly? Shall I whip up a snack for the little lad?”

“She’s. They’re. They’re gone Codsworth—”

“Oh now now sir, you’re here, they’re bound to show up! You do know the missus could get sidetracked playing with Shaun.”

“She’s not coming.”

“Away on holiday is she? Did she happen to find…?”

Codsworth’s tone dipped, softly. Your stomach lurches.

“I assume my brother-in-law is dead. Like my sister—”

And now you’ve said it.

“Sir, these terrible things you’re saying, you really must eat something. Two centuries worth of hunger seems to produce such paranoia!”

“She’s—they killed her—some man came and killed my sister, and they took Shaun—”

The bruises on your knees are once more multiplied.

The butler urges you inside, and after picking yourself up, you collapse onto the couch in a wave of dust, adding coughing to your fit as the machine shushes you gently.

“Has it really been two hundred years, Codsworth?”

“About 210 actually, give a few dinks to the ole chronometer,”

“It can’t…”

Your words end as do the sobs, and you just sit; present only in body.

“Shall we search the neighborhood for little Shaun, then, sir? He may just turn up like you have done,”

He seems to be trying to cheer you up, but you can only bite back the bile and fear that is quickly leaning towards rage. Maybe he could sit in denial to avoid the heartbreak. Your anger faltered. You wish you could do the same.

“Did you see anyone, Codsworth? Have you seen anyone going to the vault? Leaving it?”

You need to know, the urgency pushing you past your exhaustion.

“I’m sorry sir, no. I ventured that-a-way hoping to find out you and the family had gotten inside. It was a horrible scene there, but I—I didn’t see any particularly… small… casualties. So I hoped that you all had made it,”

“But since then, has anyone come and gone?”

“Oh the occasional scoundrel might pass by, a looter or two by the neighbor’s yard, but not up thereabouts. Not much reason to pass further than Concord, now, I suppose. I’m terribly sorry sir, but I haven’t ventured up to the gate since, nor have I seen or heard much goings on out that way.”

“You heard that loud screech when I came up, though, right?”

“Oh, yes, sir, that awful ruckus just earlier, was that you? Please let me know if you plan on making that noise again so I can cover my acoustic sensors, right dreadful noise.”

“That was the elevator to the vault. How long ago did you heard it before just that, did you hear it earlier today?”

“Not that I recall, sir.”

“But before today, didn’t you hear it?”

“I’m afraid that was the first time I noticed it, sir,”

A deep frustrated sigh. Data loggers on a two century old plus unit could be faulty. Or he could have pruned the memory himself to empty cache space in his databanks. The people who took Shaun... Who murdered Nora… they could have gone through the woods to the north rather than coming through the neighborhood.

You paused.

“Wait, you said people? In Concord?”

“Oh yes sir, rather rude they are. No common courtesy nowadays I daresay. But the neighborhood is much friendlier—though I daresay not terribly active in the social committee by-the-by. Now, shall we go look for the young lad?”

“He’s not—”

You heave a sigh. You can let yourself follow-along, if not for yourself, for him.

“Yeah... Let’s go look.”

. . .

More of those horrific cockroaches, and then even nastier flies. Codsworth rushed in and handled them all quite quickly, as you fumbled in horror for a clean shot, missing thrice and settling with stomping the roach that got past the butler.

“Dreadfully sorry, he’s not around. Maybe someone in town can help you out. I daresay someone there can at least point you in a decent direction, sir."

Well, it’s more of a plan than you had before. You turn to head out the door without a word.

“Wait—sir,” you glance back at the butler, “this might be useful,”

He hovers away and returns with a weathered box of fancy lad cakes and a canteen. It must be some of Nate’s old army gear. He must have gone through those old boxes.

“Oh. Yeah, Codsworth. That’s probably a good idea,”

You take the canteen, and it feels full.

“Already filled with clean water; though there might be a slight condenser taste to it, apologies. But hop down into town and ask around and jot back by dinner time. I’m sure I can wrangle something up for you by then, sir.”

“You’re not coming?”

“Well someone has to mind the home, sir! The rest of the family need to be welcomed if they show up!” the robot flitters around, anxiously, “—Besides, you managed to calm the neighbors down when they were trying to bother the madam back… back then. So I’m sure you’ll do splendidly.”

“Oh. Well. I guess so. I’ll uh. I’ll try to be back on time,”

Perhaps going alone would be better. You don’t need any help towards delusions, and if you have to actually say the words again, any love you have for the machine might be burned in your raging despair at having to convince someone else that she… that they were gone.

“Do stay safe, sir… I do hope you find them,” he adds quietly.

“Right. Thanks.”

You swipe at the tear tracks left on your cheeks, and set out down the road.

. . .

That’s not a good sign.

At the end of the bridge, dead in the road, are a man and a… mangey dog? The man has… welding goggles on? You feel guilty taking them off his head, and a bit nauseous, but those will have to work for sunglasses in the meantime. You wipe them off with your sleeve. The sun is strong, and your eyes are weak.

There’s a crowbar hooked into the side of the mutt, and it releases with a stinking squelch. You glance around, but the street is empty. Quiet.

You really don’t like this.

Fuck this, you’re going back north and around the stream. If anyone has seen you, if they follow you, they’ll pass by Codsworth, and he seemed handy enough with the bugs to manage better than you could.

You cut past the trail, the same you took that day, and walk around the water, east. It’s a stupid, roundabout path, but seemingly clear until the pond curves.

“Who’s there?”

You freeze. A person. Of course a person. There’s still people. Codsworth said there’s people. He also said they weren’t very friendly in town. You’re not in town, maybe they’re alright? Just one guy, better not spook him.

“Uh, afternoon—”

You are cut off by a shout.

“Get ‘im!”

A beast barks and bounds around the corner of some trees towards you, flesh pulled back tight over its face, snarling, and you remember the dead man by the bridge. You’re still carrying his crowbar. Time slows as you watch the hound pounce, mouth agape, and you manage to line up the bar so the hound crashes its jaws into it instead of your throat. Its body continues forward, flinging over your shoulders and you land on your back. The animal hacks and heaves, and you roll over to see its lower jaw hanging limply as it gags. You scramble up and unholster your pistol and shoot two rounds into its skull, just as you hear the man shout once more. You grab the crowbar and book it, mindlessly running away from the water, winding between dead trees as you hear gunshots behind you.

There’s a concrete building up ahead, it looks like a junkyard, but it's cover. You skid past the door and slam it shut, heaving air, yanking off your goggles to see better inside. You throw the latch of the door down and glance out the slit window to see the man running towards you.

You take three pot shots and pull the trigger again to hear an empty clink.

You’re out of ammo.

You run to the other window, and freeze when you spot a sentry bot in the same junkyard as you, just down the hill.

It’s off, oh thank god.

“I know you’re there, asshole,”

You glance around looking for something in the shack. There’s a terminal. Wait. There’s a bot there and a terminal here. It boots up slowly and you hear footsteps approaching. The man takes a few pot shots at the concrete. The terminal loads and there’s a holotape there mentioning the sentry.

“Come out coward, I know you’re in there!”

He’s getting closer.

Fuck this is a bad idea. You run the tape. The door rattles and then the man slams himself against it.

“Outta ammo are ya?”

His laugh terrifies you.

You activate the sentry.

Chapter Text

You activate the sentry.

“What the—”

You hear screeching, gun fire, and whirring. High caliber rounds shoot off and you cradle down until the noise dissipates, until a robotic voice rings out.

“Hostiles cleared. Area secure.”

You hear the treads rumbling over dirt as the sentry roams. You shuffle over to the terminal once more. There’s a few more options on the holotape: shut down, self-destruct, or even… changing location.

You shut the bot down and swap the holotape into your pipboy, curious.

You try to activate the robot again from your wrist computer, and it works. It boots back up and continues to circle the lot.

Time to test something. You scroll over the shut-down option once more, ready to press it as you open the latched door and step outside.

The robot turns towards you and you nearly enter the command, but it turns away and continues its patrol, unbothered.

Your legs wobble. You flip through the options to change locations. South Boston Checkpoint might be useful but you’re hoping to find help in Concord; maybe you can come back to grab its help if you end up having to travel that far southeast. Fort Hagen was off to the west, wasn’t it? That’s no good. And Revere Satellite Station… no clue. But Wasn’t the Olivia Satellite Station nearby?

Better to leave it here. You’re not sure how aggressive it is, what the targeting parameters are, or how easily that could change. But you'll keep the tape, just in case. You power the bot down again, eject the tape and shifting to store the it in a pocket when you realize you don't have any. You’ve got your empty pistol—holstered—a canteen slung around your shoulders, and a crowbar you’ve just been lugging around.

In the fresh silence, you turn back around to check the bunker. A satchel, a small notepad by a busted radio, a pencil. You shake out your hands. You’re not sure what use a circuit board could be at the moment, but it looks valuable if nothing else. Into the bag, as goes the dusty magazine.

Stepping through the junkyard, you start to scavenge, still hesitant around the deactivated bot. There’s gigantic naked rodents smashed and shot to bits all around the yard. Gross. Big ass bugs and big ass rats. Great.

A fusion core is in the green chest by the bot, along with two magazines of 10 mm rounds—thank god—and even a frag grenade. That… both worries and excites you. You’ve always wanted to try blowing something up. The satchel has a small front pocket, and you slide the grenade in gently, and hope that rustling around won’t set it off.

There’s a combat knife down at the bottom of the crate, too. You unhook your holster to slide the loops of the sheath through so it rests in front of your right thigh, the pistol back on the side. The dead man had a strange handmade gun on him, a few rounds in it. You clear the chamber and pour the rounds into your bag. You don’t trust his gun much, but you’ll have to be more careful with your ammo. Might as well pick up spare ammunition in the case you need to switch to a new gun.

Jesus Christ. There’s a fat man here? Just sitting in this junkyard? And a mini-nuke. Your stomach roils and your face scrunches up. You haul the weapon over to the crate and store it, and as you leave, boot up the robot as a guard to protect your stash.

Now that you’ve given up any hope at stealth, might as well find where this guy came from and if he had more gear there. Then, to just get back to the main road and head into Concord. Off-roading clearly isn’t safe, and you don’t need to risk getting lost. You can tell which was north after figuring out east—the sun is just past it’s zenith— but you have no clue how to track distance. Your pipboy helps out with a simple location tracker, but maps were never a strong suit of yours.

You spy a poorly camouflaged lean-to not far from the dog’s corpse. There’s more ammo and an… inhaler? The cannister is unlabeled. Might still be albuterol. You can dream. All this running around has got you wheezy. You stash it for later. You ought to find a backpack soon if you’re going to keep picking up things; the satchel is going to start digging into your shoulder if you don’t.

A handful of yards closer to the Sanctuary bridge, you spot more movement in the distance around a statue. A handful of people holding guns meandering about. No doubt they heard all the gunfire from earlier and are extra on-edge. Shit. You creep back towards the lean-to while keeping an eye on them.

You doubt they’re going to be friendly.

There’s three of them, and a dog. You have 24 rounds of ammo, but no desire to tussle. The road is visible, off in the distance, but unless you travel at night—which is NOT enticing—they might hear or see any activity there. Maybe if you send the robot off towards Fort Hagen, he’ll pass by this way?

Or you could wait a bit for them to gather, try to get a bit closer, and then lob the grenade. If it still works—doesn’t blow your arm off. Robot’s a better bet. You just hope you’re close enough for the command to patch through. A minute passes, and twigs are snapping under the sentry's treads.

. . .

The people had a grenade of their own, and the sentry bot is rocked by it, but continues the assault. You’re worried momentarily as it stops to cool down and the remaining two people rush forward, but the shielding snaps back down into place, and you hear screams as the minigun shreds them. Silence, and the bot starts to roll away.

Your heart is pounding as you flip through the dials and send the sentry bot back to the scrapyard. It’s quiet again as you step out from the lean-to. The smell of gunpowder is strong, but you can smell what’s underneath it.

Pennies. Red, liquid, copper.

You didn’t pull the trigger, but you sent the command. You brought the robot here, and you meant for it to handle these people. This was your goal. You did this. You killed them. The other guy, he’d sic'd his dog on you; he shot at you; you hadn't known for sure what the sentry would do. But here...

What if they were just survivors, out here? What if you could have just passed by?

You stumble back and fall onto your ass, hyperventilating.

This is too much, this world is too much, you struggle to undo the holster on your thigh scratching your leg to yank it off and throwing it at the wall of the hut, the metal echoing with the thud and you grab your ears and rock, sobbing.

. . . 

You come back down eventually, uncurling from the fetal position you find yourself in. The sun has drifted a bit further down, but it’s still very much day. How fucking long would this day be? You drink a bit from your canteen. It’s half empty now, but you need to hydrate after all that crying. Your head already throbbed, and you beg to whatever new-gods were out there for reasonable mild-painkillers. Whatever old gods there are dead, or should be.

Your stomach rumbles. You reattach the gun and knife onto your leg, and walk into the makeshift camp you’ve just massacred.

The small campfire is nearly burned out, an iguana kebab leaned against the cinderblock edge. A Nuka Cola stands on the table. Your spoils. You line up a ridge of the bottlecap onto edge of the haggard picnic table and slam it down, popping it open, and chug half of the soda immediately—coughing in surprise as the still-strong-carbonation hits your throat. 

The iguana is still warm, and you wash down the grease with the rest of the Nuka. You return the empty bottle to the table, and bend down to pick up the cap. If you crush it, you should be able to use it to scrape underneath your nails. No doubt that’d be safer than using with a knife. You pocket the cap.

Riffling through the goods of the corpses, you find more bottlecaps in little sacks on each person. Just a handful each, but that can’t be a coincidence. You gather them together and tie them up, and toss it into your bag. You loot another small shoulder bag and organize your goods a bit better. Someone had a gas mask, but it’s shot through, and you don’t want to see how much face that is holding together. Another had a thigh guard, and the last, a helmet. Fat lot of good it did them—their chests riddled with holes—but you take them and put them on. Now you’ve got a pauldron, an arm guard, a leg guard, a helmet, and goggles. You must look like a mish-mashed mess.

Finally connecting back to the road near Sanctuary Hills, the Red Rocket up ahead intrigues you. You'd stopped in there a few times before. A quick run while Shaun was down for a nap for something small, so you know there was a bathroom. Hopefully it’s in a state enough to let you sit down for your business. You can manage to piss in the woods, but you’d really rather have some toilet paper and a throne if you’re going to be shitting. Are you going to have to get a trowel? You should make a list.

As you get closer you see an animal nearby. It’s… it’s a dog. But this one is fluffy, unlike the last three you’ve seen. It looks… healthy. Pacing around, but it looks calm enough. A shepherd judging by the gait.

It turns and spots you, and you freeze. You've still got one hand on your crow bar, heart-rate jumping up, but the dog just looks at you and pants. You see its tail sway slightly. Your cheeks feels flush as you feel ready to cry with hope for a friendly face. The dog sits down and tilts its head, watching you. Waiting for you.

Please.

You kneel to the ground and whisper, “come here buddy,” and the dog gets up and prances towards you, face relaxed, ears up, tail wagging. You extend your open palm out to let him sniff, and he walks past to lick at the tears escaping out from under your googles, nuzzling into you as you sob, holding onto him as the last shred of hope you had left in this world. 

You sniffle and pull back. No collar. You give the dog a once over.

“You got a master, buddy?”

He simply stares at you happily.

“You wanna stick by me? Please sweetie, I’ll give you every treat I find,”

You try to pet his head more, but he jerk back and spins around, staring into the distance and growling. You stiffen, scared for a moment, but he isn’t growling at you.

You pick up your bar from where you had dropped it, scanning.

Dirt nearby flings upward as those same giant hairless rats pop out, and start to rush at you and the dog. Your crowbar connects with two of them, dazing them and giving yourself space to watch the dog tear another's throat out. One of yours is coming to, so you thrust out to stab at it, crunching into its skull. The other charges and leaps, and you narrowly duck out of the way, its claws scraping into your arm. It lands with a thud onto the ground behind you, and runs for a burrow, but the dog snaps and yanks at its tail. You unholster your gun and exhale, before landing a shot in its face and it goes limp.

The dog turns around, still tense. You unsheathe the crowbar from the mole rat's skull just as the second round surfaces.

Chapter Text

“I don’t know if that stuff is safe to eat, bud,”

The dog doesn't seem to mind as he tears into one of the rodent’s corpses. He ignores you, and you shiver to think that same mouth licked your face earlier. You're going to need so much soap.

The fuel station itself is empty, and while the sink doesn’t run, there’s water in the toilet tank and a bar of old soap by the sink.

There's a bottle of some type of clear spirits on a shelf, so you can sanitize your hands before and after your business on the commode. Miraculously, the bowl drains. The bar still lathers, and you clean up a bit with a spare carton of water nearby gratefully reserving your canteen for drinking. You rinse off your face next, then the scratch, before a splash of the alcohol. It stings, but it’s clean. Luckily, it isn't a deep scratch, either. The vault suit is ripped, but the fabric took the brunt of the damage. A first aid kit in the garage scores you a bandage and more alcohol. Little miracles. The dog trots over, apparently full.

“Ugh, buddy, I’m going to need to give you a bath when we get back home.”

He tilts his head happily, apparently unaware of the terrible meaning of the word. You grab a rag and wipe off the excess blood from his face and snout, and toss it on the floor. After a small pat, you both continue down the road. Your pipboy reads 4:30p.m., and the late October sky isn’t likely to stay lit much longer. Atomic war might have reshaped the face of the world as you knew it, but you doubt it threw the planet’s orbit. Or at least off that much. Probably. Regardless, you might need to bunker here for the evening if your time in Concord draws long and proves unfriendly.

Speaking of unfriendly—

You hear shouting and gunfire, then a strange reverberation in the distance as you approach the town.

Great.

You loop around the northside of the town outskirts. It seems like the commotion is centered on Main street. You’re trying to avoid being sighted, the dog following softly behind you, when a man wrapped in rusty barbed-wires turns the corner, cigarette in hand. He’s got half a sack over his head, dropping his cigarette as you lift up your pistol. His own gun falls as he does, blood pouring out of a new hole in the sack. The reverb and gunfire nearby continues.

The dog calms and nudges your hand. You shake and put the gun down, dragging the man behind the building and out of the alleyway. You shove him, but he’s dead. With shaking hands you take his gun, empty the bullets—the same smaller size of the previous people; these must be a common ammo—and pat at his pockets. There’s a stimpack in one, and you take it.

Your breath races, but you don’t have time for this, it’s not safe here, lock it down, lock it down.

Don’t think about the way his eyes peek through the sack, wide but flat.

Don’t think of the clatter of his gun on the ground or the dull thud of his body when he fell. 

The dog’s cold nose startles you back to present. You exhale and grab your pistol, again.

From your crouched position you peek down the alley. It’s empty, so you speed past and continue around. You can hear shouting from the street, violent threats towards whoever must on top of the museum. You’re not sure if these bag-headed-rusty-armored people are a gang, but they clearly bad news. You’ve got, what, 22 shots left, or 21? The enemy of my enemy, right? If not, you can just let them kill each other and pick up the gear that gets left behind.

But then where are you supposed to go next? Boston’s a ways away, no clue how far by foot. Your curiosity, and stupid hope, have you creeping along, peeking out to the distance to see who these people are fighting.

In the street, you catch sight of another jittery man, who turns towards you at the last second, before being shot down by a red bolt of light and that same reverberation as before. Laser weaponry. 

“Is someone else out there?” The voice from above cries out and you curse.

So the shooter noticed that moment. Even if he is an ally, you’re in it now; the other’s attention has been drawn.

“If you’re not a raider, there’s a laser musket by the door! There’s people inside and we need help, please—”

“Can you cover me to grab it?” you’re stupid, you’re so stupid, don’t sign up for this.

Another laser burst flies down the street, and a distance clatter signals a freshly anointed corpse.

“It’s clear, quickly!”

You suck in air and run down the street towards the rifle. You snatch it and the few fuel cells nearby.

“Incoming!” The voice above you rings and you roll and scramble towards an open shop corner.

Two more people down the street are rushing forward. You turn the rifle in your hands. There’s a faint red light and a crank? You aim it out of a window frame at one of the people approaching and pull the trigger, and a weak beam of light darts out.

“This thing’s shit!” you cry out as you duck back inside, their footsteps approaching and bullets splattering the wood nearby.

“You have to crank it! Charge it up!”

You wind and wind, and the light grows brighter and brighter. The footsteps rush closer and you wait to see someone pass the open gap, and pull the trigger with their shadow. A resounding pulse flashes out and a man turns to ash in front of your eyes. A shout not far behind is cut off by the shooter on the ledge.

“They’re trying to break through inside, please we have civilians!”

“I’m a fucking civilian!” you hiss to yourself but find your legs leading you to the museum doors.

You visited with your sister just a week ago, searching for simple outings to keep her from spending her entire day sobbing in bed or feeding Shaun. You cracked stupid jokes to her, here. She had smiled, rocking Shaun in her arms. A small smile, but still, a smile. And now these… these murderers are desecrating this place. These thugs are hurting people. Maybe they hurt her.

Good, use that.

You warp fear to rage as you run inside, yanking your goggles down to your neck to see, and dive into a hallway. Dog claws scratch on the floor, following you.

“Stay safe boy, don’t get hurt,” you whisper to him as the raiders, apparently, shout down at you.

Fire bursts in the main hallway as a bottle crashes on the ground. Fucking molotovs? You crank the rifle and crouch, exhale and lean out. One shot, miss. Shit. You go back into cover and move forward, jumping as the automated speakers blare out their scripts.

You have no clue how many rounds are in this cell, but as you crank, the light grows brighter, so there’s at least one more shot left. You’re not a solider. You don’t know this. This is. Nate would know what to do.

Fuck Nate.

That bastard took you out to the range for some brotherly bonding once. You did archery briefly in scouts. It's not that different. You’re better than him because you’re here. You didn’t walk out. You showed up. You’re going to bring back your nephew. He is your family and that fucking means something.

You’re practically frothing as you stalk forward, brash, running up the broken stairs, and through a doorway.  

You shoot the next raider through the chest. He doesn’t vaporize this time, but goes down regardless. A cry from the hallway and you drop to your knees and switch to your pistol. Three shots to center mass as she turns the corner. These people are stupid. What are they doing? They’re rushing in, for what? You head up the stairs and hear voices. Three people, not running. Three is a lot. Your heart races. You dig out the grenade from your bag. You hold it and find the pin, take a deep breath, pull it, then step into the hallway and chuck it.

Well it still worked, you shake your head, the ringing in your ears painful. You crank the rifle and crouch low and peek out. Dead. They’re dead. You step out to muffled silence, your ears still recovering from the explosion. There’s a closed door at the end of the hallway, riddled with bullet holes.

“Are the civilians in there okay?”

Your blood rushes cold as you hear the scrapping of wood and something being moved. You whip the rifle up and aim at the door.

“Woah! Friends!”

The man in the hat from earlier appears in the doorway, hands up. You drop the rifle’s nose to the ground.

“Verbal confirmation would have been a good idea, man, my heart is racing, I could have shot you," you wipe at your forehead, dripping sweat.

“Well, you only have one crank on it, I might have survived, but point-taken.” Was this guy seriously in a militia hat?

“Uh, I’m Theo?”

“Preston Garvey, Minutemen.” he responds, as if that's supposed to explain something.

“Minutemen?”

“Or what’s left of them.”

“Sorry?”

“No need for you to be sorry, you just saved our sorry hides,” another man peeks out into the doorway, bulky with a spout of black hair formed into a pompadour that is somehow holding on strong, “—but there may be more out there, so why don’t you step in here?”

The dog runs out from behind you, bounding into the room and leaping onto the man in overalls.

“Boy! Down! Don’t hurt him, he’s friendly!” You shout after him, running forward, all pretenses of concern to enter a room with these unknowns thrown to the side out of concern for the dog.

“Ah, Dogmeat, you found our helper,” an old lady speaks from further in the room as you run in.

The man in overalls is on the floor, but he’s laughing and petting the dog, so you manage to relax an inch.

“Oh, is this your dog, ma’am?” you ask, downtrodden. Your first friend is already taken, it seems.

“Oh no, Dogmeat’s his own man. Though he’ll stay by you if you ask him. He’s a great judge of character.”

“His name’s Dogmeat?”

At the sound of his name, the dog jumps off of the other man and comes up to you, tail wagging.

“Oh, here, let me help you out,” You lean over to overalls and extend a hand. Warm skin clasps your wrist as you do the same, and you almost fall over as he tugs himself upright.

“Oof, you’re sturdy, damn,”

“It’s Sturges, actually. Pleasure to meet cha, Theo,” he winks at you and you flush. You blink and turn towards Preston.

“Right, well, Sturges here is our mechanic, then that’s Mama Murphy, and Jun and Marcy. We used to be more but…”

Daggers from the woman in the corner next to a slumped man who didn’t look up. You want to put your goggles back on. A barrier. Your lip twitches.

“Well you handled yourself well out there vaultie,” Sturges claps a hand on your shoulder.

“Right. Uh,” you shift uncomfortably. Vaultie? Oh right, the suit.

Is that something to be worried about?

“Why were those people coming after you?” you ask, trying to distract away from talk of vaults.

“Do raiders need a reason?” spat Marcy.

“Raiders? That a local gang, or…?”

“Are you fresh out of the tin?” you wince at the question.

“Uh, yeah?” You’re scared but Dogmeat is still calm, “—Actually, have you seen any others coming from the vault lately?” How are you supposed to bring this up?

“The vault? Are you from 81? I've heard about it, but never seen it. I didn't know you guys ventured out much, normally it's just the caravans that go there. Unless you're talking about 95 out near the Sea?” Preston chimes in.

“No, uh, out of 111. It’s north…west, of here?” you don’t like this. 

“111? Never heard of it—”

“Fuck. No, that’s good. That’s probably better,” you cut him off.

“Strange response. That where you’re from?” Sturges pipes up.

“Yeah?” Your knees start to fail as you feel your eyes water, “Just. Where do I go for help on a missing persons case? Can the Minutemen help?”

You hear a scoff from the woman in the corner.

“The Minutemen… Well I’d like to help, but I’m the last of them,” Preston won’t meet your eyes, “But I need to get this group somewhere safe, first. We thought Concord would be good. Mama Murphy said there was a sanctuary to the north, but the raiders proved us wrong.”

“A sanctuary?” you turn towards the old woman, who smiles at you, “—And if I lead you to a safe place, will you help me then?” You watch as Preston cautiously meets your gaze.

“Do you know a place?” there’s a tightness to his voice. Like the distrust of hope.

“Oh, so now we’re trusting a stranger,” vitriolic and sharp, the woman glowers at Preston.

“Marcy, please,” the quiet man’s first words remind you of his presence.

“And I’m trying to trust strangers here, myself, ma’am. Now do you want a safe place to stay or not?” You glare at her and she huffs and turns away.

“We’d truly appreciate it,”

“Enough to help me find my nephew?”

“Oh, oh, I’m sorry, your nephew is missing?”

Your throat burns.

“Not missing. My nephew was taken. Godson now, I guess. He’s all I—he’s all I have left,” you face the floor, cheeks burning, trying to blink down the tears.

“My god, I’m sorry,”

“Well can you help or not?” you snap.

“Look, I know this is asking a lot, but there are still more raiders out there. Help us clear them out, get these people to this settlement you know of, and then. Then, I can try to help you.”

Your frustration and grief simmer on the backburner, but these people are just trying to survive.

“Right. Fine. Deal. How many more are out there? And how do I know how many charges I have left on this cell, or how do I reload it?”

“Damn you’re really fresh, aren’t you?”

Preston shows you the basics of the rifle; not too difficult, and half you’d already figured out. Fewer cranks means less energy, but now you knew how to reload, and are back on your counting game for ammo.

“I think there’s still at least 6 raiders on their way. It was a big group,”

“Jesus, they territorial or something?”

“Apparently. But Sturges and I are the only ones armed, and I don’t like our chances trying to continue sniping once night falls,”

“You did a good job up there but no, night’s coming quick. Do you have a plan?”

Your heart is racing.

“Actually, you seen the bird crashed through the roof?”

Sturges has a wicked smile as he explains his idea.

“I mean I’ll go down there and try to grab the core as a backup, but I do have one. At least if one is bunk we should still be able to follow through.”

“Damn, our saviour and scavenger. Talented,” Sturges has a soft smile as he appraises you and it makes your stomach flip. Not. The. Time.

“Oh let the kid rest,” Mama Murphy lightly scolds him.

You’re grateful to both. Sturges is managing to keep the mood as up as it can be given the circumstances, and the woman has a point; it might be reaching a limit, and there’s work to do.

“But there’s something out there dearie, something nasty,” the old lady warns.

You turn towards her.

“Do you know those people?”

“No kid, it’s the Sight,”

“Ma, you’re tellin’ me to leave the guy alone—”

“He ought to know—” she starts.

“Oh there she goes again—” 

“Marcy, just leave her alone—”

“I OUGHT TO KNOW WHAT, Exactly?” you boom out in frustration and the room quiets.

“The sight,” Mama Murphy picks up, “I can ride chems and see things that were, or are, even things comin’,”

“Pardon me?”

“—And somethin’ is comin’ and it’s real angry. Teeth and claws and fury,”

You hang your head. Everyone’s paranoid, but that’s fair. They seem to be having a rough time of it.

“I’m going to get that spare core and head to the roof. I nabbed most of the ammo off those… raiders… so take that and split it amongst yourselves and grab their guns when you head downstairs. Everyone should have something. If I’m getting into power armor, I don’t think my holster is going to fit inside, so if someone wants to use my pistol or knife until Preston and I clear things, just try to save the ammo. Sturges do you think you could cover us from the ground floor if Preston is sniping?”

“Yeah, fella, I got your six,” you pass him your weapons.

“Thanks. Keep Dogmeat safe,”

The security gate to the fusion core takes a minute to unlock, but you manage it. Thank god for strange hobbies. You release the core and take the stairs back up, exiting onto the roof.

The power armor is huge. And a complete set, even. Nate hated talking about his time fighting, but a few times, when you all were well and wasted, he raved about the personal walking tanks. Guess that has to be good enough to figure it out. You unhooked the rest of your armor pieces and shoved in the fusion core, the suit's pneumatics hissing as it opened.

“Someone’s up there,” shit, company already. 

You hop in and swallow the fear as the suit closes in on you, gauges and sensors blinking as it booted up. Okay, half charge on the core. Is that enough? Whatever, okay, step up. There’s the minigun.

The tear of metal rings through the speakers in the helmet and you wince, wishing you could plug your ears. Dings of bullets hitting the armor snap you back, and you steady yourself and pull the trigger, whirring up the chambers.

You’re forced to take a step back to counter the force of the bullets punching out, your aim running up the side of the building facing you before you right it and key-in on the raiders: one on the roof across, several in the road. You manage the rooftop man, but the others are so far away and the minigun’s spread is wasting ammo.

You’d seen the commercials, heard the claims: soldiers in power armor jumping out on fly-by’s to enforce direct ground-control.

Here goes nothing.

You land with a crash, cracking the concrete and asphalt below you, but the shock absorbers function, and although your teeth are chattering, you’re unharmed. Dings and ricochets, and you’re whirring up the minigun once more, and you see raiders fall, holier than ever. You feel strong. The adrenaline is coursing and the blood pumps in your ears, nearly drowning out the crash of a metal grate in the distance.

“Problem! Sturges keep that door shut! Theo, get out of there!”

You glance down the street and watch as one of the raiders is grabbed and bitten in half but some devil-lizard.

“Fuck me,”

You jog to the nearby corner and burst through the doorway, panting. Screams ring out as you hear the sound of bone scraping along asphalt. You face the barrel through one of the empty windows and try to track the beast down as it rushes forward. You keep firing as you step back, but when the arm swipes through the opening, it swats the minigun and you feel pain flash down your wrist. You manage to keep a hold on the gun, stepping further back as the beast howls, firing at it head on. You see its hide ripple and start to crack as the bullets barrage against it. It turns to run off. You shudder and grab your arm. It aches, but the sensors aren’t flashing a warning, so it can't be too bad.

“Theodore! I’ve lost sight of it,” you hear Preston from his vantage point.

“Any more raiders out there?”

“Negative,”

 You step out of the cover of the building and glance down the street. Quiet.

“I hate this, I hate this, I hate this,” you stomp halfway into the street.

“SHOUT WHEN YOU SEE IT,” you yell.

“Copy that!”

You stomp to the other side of the street. Nothing, still…

You scream out, trying to get its attention.

“YOUR LEFT, ON YOUR LEFT,”

You run back towards your shelter as you hear the roaring get closer.

The claws swipe and scratch against your right leg, ripping away some of the plating with a hiss. You stumble into the shop and roll over to fire the minigun again as the claws come down once more, catching another chunk of metal. The barrel is red hot, and the beast roars in pain, and running off once more.

“How the FUCK is it still alive?!” you cry out.

“It was limping off as it ran, it’s hurt!”

You look down at the suit and see half of the thigh plating on your right leg gone, and a section of the calf armor on your left lifted.

“Fuck this, fuck this, goddammit.”

You shake as you stand and step onto the street again. This time, your antics don’t sway the beast to emerge.

You scream again, this time in anguish. It’s dark, and you’re so fucking scared.

“Preston do you have eyes on it?”

“Negative,”

“I’m going to the roof here to try to see it,” you shout, and take the stairs of the corner shop.

“Anything?”

“Negative,”

You sigh and glance down at the damaged power armor. God you hope this won’t break your legs. But the thing came out after a big drop in the first place.

You walk to the ledge.

“Garvey I think we have one last chance. Sturges, get ready to try to shoot from the door there when it rushes me. I’m gonna need as many bullets as possible in this thing. Everyone else in there should get back and up onto the second floor in case it tries to enter the museum if… If this doesn’t work. Any grenades, might be the time to use ‘em.”

“I have one up here, let me see if I can flush it out,” Preston shouts.

“Try it,” you respond, unconvinced.

The boom rings your ears, and though there’s a distant howl, the creature doesn’t show.

“Showtime,” you whisper, and leap.

The landing hurts. Your ankle twinges, and you buckle, kneeling over the minigun.

“IT’S COMING,”

You look up and rev the gun, tilting it up from the ground. The monster scrapes the earth with its claws, and it’s close, it’s so close, and it leaps—

Chapter Text

and it leaps—

“Theo! Theo, are you alright?”

“Get it off me,” you squirm, struggling to breath.

Legs appear by your head and you hear huffing, and then the beast slides off of you, cascading onto the road. You roll to your side and scramble up, pulling the internal release lever fervently.

“Get out, out, out, OUT,” you shout at it all.

The back of the armor swings open and you throw yourself onto the ground, gasping for air.

“Are you okay— ”

“Fuck this, fuck all of this, fuck! What the fuck was that , what the fuck is wrong out here—”

Your words are rushing together, eyes prickling, pulse racing, until you feel a cold nose press against your cheek and a warm weight settle onto your lap, and you’re regaining the able to breathe.

“Good boy,” you shudder, wrapping around Dogmeat.

“That was incredibly brave of you, kid,” the old woman praises.

“It's dead-dead, right?” voice hoarse as you ask.

“It’s innards are pooled up on the ground, but I put a few rounds through the eye to be safe. Hope you don’t mind,"

“Not at-fucking-all Sturg,” you slur, exhausted, “—the rest of my armor and gear’s on the top floor by the vertibird. Can someone grab it for me?" you remember to tag-on a small 'please' at the end after a beat. You don't have it in you to adjust your tone to be more palatable right now, but you've heard too many complaints that you aren't friendly enough when you get like this, as if the request itself isn't already polite.

The man, Jun you think it was, walks off.

“Prest, tell me that’s the last of it, because I am heading home  now.”

“Yeah,” he coughs, “is that. Is home where we can follow you?”

“Yes. Sanctuary.”

He helps you stand and you test out the ankle. It’s tender, but should be fine.

“How far is it,” demands Marcy.

“An hour? Depending on how slow we walk, because I’m pretty fucking tired. I cleared the Red Rocket up the road on the way here and you could sleep on the floor there, but it’s seriously less than twenty minutes past the station, so I’d rather get there.”

“And it’s safe?” Jun manages to speak up as he hands you your gear.

“As of this morning. And Codsworth is still there, so I’d say it’s miles better than here’s been,” you say, strapping on the other gear before flinging the bags over your shoulder, earning a wince when then thump against your aching back.

“Are you gonna leave the power armor?” Sturges asks.

“That core is at like 9 percent, I don’t know how far it’s going to get on the way, and I am NOT getting back in it now. Knock yourself out or come back tomorrow for it for all I care. I’m not wasting the other core on it tonight.”

You're fed up with the questions. You've done what you were asked, and you need this day to be over. With a quick glance around to orient yourself, and start trudging towards Sanctuary Hills.

Foot steps begin to follow suit, and a wet nose nudges itself under your hand.

. . .

It takes forty-five minutes to get there, though you probably could have do it faster if you hadn’t stopped for Mama Murphy to take a breather.

You see the light of Codsworth’s thrusters as you approach.

“I see sir has found some new friends, how lovely! But you are dreadfully late for supper, sir,”

“I’ll eat tomorrow, Cods. Did you make something? Give it to them if they want it so it doesn’t go to waste,” gesturing back to the small group.

“Listen," you turn to face them, "—This one here… this is my house. Leave it alone. And I’m going over to a little bunker I found behind one of the houses over there. Everything else? Knock yourselves the fuck out. I’m going to bed. Preston, I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Good night.”

You stomp over to the little cellar and yank the steel doors open, turning on your pip-light to maneuver better. Dogmeat sits outside, waiting. You grab the mattress and haul it up to smack the shit out of it, getting as much dust as you can out, before awkwardly carrying it back down. You do the same with the sleeping bag on the rack. There’s a small cache down here. A few bottles of water, cans of food, and the holy grail—a toothbrush. You step out behind the house to piss, and manage to clean up and brush your teeth.

You re-enter, followed by the dog, and close the hinge doors. You strip down, and crawl into the sleeping bag on the mattress. You unlatch your pipboy and turn off the light, placing it on the ground nearby. Dogmeat places his head on the mattress by your face and you hear him snort.

“Get on up here, boy,” you whisper, and he jumps up and settles by your side, and you curl around him. Your body instantly plunges into unconsciousness, pressed against his blood-stained fur.

. . .

It’s a rough awakening.

Suffocating.

Your sister’s face above you flashes and transforms into that of the raging mutt that attacked, and he pounces onto you, turning into a shard of ice—ice everywhere clawing into you, digging into you, freezing your bones, holding you down, and it burns.

The ice crystalizes over your skin, your face, then it turns hot, hot and wet—lapping over you.

The hound's snarling turns to barking and you try to move, try to get away from it but you're trapped—trapped and then darkness.

You can't see anything, where are you, where—

A wet tongue drags across your face, and you blink in the darkness, lost. 

“Bud, that’s enough, stop,” you push the dog off of you.

You swipe your arm out searching for your pipboy and flick the light on, and y ou're in the dingy hovel that you slept in. A dream. It was a dream. 

Why couldn't it all have been a dream?

You stare into the big wet eyes watching you under the green glow.

“I’m okay now, Dogmeat, thanks.”

You give him a pat and return to the machine. Five a.m. Grand . You’re exhausted, but you’ve slept for 210 years, and you're not keen for more if it's going to be more of that. You hang your head in your hands and sigh. Get up. Shuffling over to the concrete steps, you lean up to grab the latch, swinging open the hatch doors. Dogmeat jolts out into the dark morning to relieve himself. You follow suit, cradling your disgusting vault suit and bags over to your house. Hopefully the others are still asleep so they don’t see you in your flat-fronted briefs, or your scars as you hobble home, clad in only underwear and boots. Who knew what the state of gender politics are in the post-apocalypse. You'd saved all of their lives, a few times over at this point. Surely that is enough for at least common courtesy.

“Sir? Good morning, I wasn’t sure when you would be getting up, but I can prepare breakfast now. We have a few options—”

“Whatever’s fine Cods," you croak, "—the water doesn’t happen to work does it?” 

“Sorry sir, no, but I can help haul some buckets up from the stream if you’d like and get to boiling it after breakfast."

“That’d be incredible, buddy. Thank you. I’m going to wash up.” Or try, at least. 

Scrounging through the damaged shelves, you manage to find a few spare—but musty—clothes, one outfit smelling not-too-stale after a quick shake. There towels in the bathroom have devolved into rags, but a misplaced washcloth in the mirror cabinet remains clean enough. You dig out one of the cartons of water from the bunker from your pile, and wet the rag, sudsing it up with the bar.

Face, feet, pits, and bits, with a quick wring-out and rinse between each area.

It’s not a shower, but you feel better, save for trying to not worry about potable water stores. You get dressed in a simple sweater and slacks, and slide the clean socks back into your sad boots. You reattach your pipboy and wince as the needles prick you again. That still sucks . At least it looks like you aren’t injured. Sore and bruised, but no crippled limbs, no concussion, no major illnesses. Lucky break.

It’s not even six, yet.

“I tried to take the advice of the madam that you welcomed in last night on how to prepare the remaining meat, so if sir does not want sugar bombs, might I offer some roach jerky?”

You shudder at the mental image. You're going to need to get a lot hungrier to stomach that.

“I’ll just take the cereal for now, thanks Cods.”

The cereal is stale, and the reliquefied powdered milk is a bit grainy, but it’s food . You down two bowls and pause. Shouldn’t over do-it. Your gag-control has been weak—emotional triggers the biggest culprit—and you’re going to talk to Preston later about… about it all. You push the remaining milk away when you smell it .

“Codsworth,” you whisper, voice catching, “is that coffee?” tears already rushing to your eyes.

“Oh no, did sir not want coffee this morning? I’m terribly sorry—”

You stand, rushing over to him, and hug around the robot’s center. You're forced to release as the heat of his thrusters grows unbearable, quickly.

“Oh—sir...” Codsworth voice wavers.

“No, I really, really , want some coffee, Codsworth. Thank you so much. For this. For breakfast. For before. For just being here…”

You wipe at the tears and feel a metal claw lightly pat your shoulder.

“There, there sir. It’s my pleasure,” he trails off.

“Are you okay Codsy?” 

“Oh sir—” his voice ticks up and you see his arms drop as his thrusters weakens, floating a few inches lower, “—it’s been horrible ,”

What a bizarre moment. Comforting your sister’s family bot after the end of the world.

“Is she… Is she truly gone ?” he whispers, and your legs wobble, feeling sick again. You sink into the chair.

“Yeah—” you hold your head.

There’s a long pause, and then—

“Damn that Mister Nathaniel.”

You jerk, gaze burning on him.

“Codsworth. I’ve never heard you say a bad thing about him—”

“Do pardon me for speaking ill of the dead, sir, but I suppose he did one good turn running off. I'd much rather you be here on the hunt for dear Shaun than he.” Codsworth's voice is quick and deliberate.

You didn’t know his programming allowed for him to be so vicious. 

“—I’m terribly sorry, sir. That was improper of me. I do apologize,” he rushes, and turns to grab the coffee pot.

“No. It's alright. But he built you. And without him, Shaun wouldn't exist. So three things...” you felt numb, “—I just wish he were dead instead of...”

You hated this. You slam your fists against the table. Stop crying.

“But I am going to get Shaun. I am going to find him. And we’ll take care of him. For her,” fat tears rolling hot and fast, falling onto the table.

Codsworth floats a forward, and pour coffee into your bowl, the brown swirling with the sweet milk.

“That’s— that’s the spirit sir.”

You swipe at your face and chug the bowl dry, an infinitesimal reprieve. 

“The others can have so me coffee if they’d like when they’re up. But save the sugar bombs for me, if you don’t mind.”

You find iodine pills in the bathroom, and throw the bottle and bar of soap into the basket of stale, dusty clothes. With your holster on one hip and the basket on the other, you head down to the stream. You undo your boots and step into the slow water. Your pipboy beeps softly. Lightly irradiated, but running, and clear. You pop two Rad-X and strip back down to your briefs.

Unlatching the pipboy once more you rub at the small pinpricks that dot your forearm.

Dogmeat jumps into the stream and you sigh. It’s brisk out, but surprisingly warm for nearly November, but the water is still going to feel frigid if you take too long. The sun is rising, but you should have time for this load before the others wake, let alone seek you out.

You place the basket nearby and wade stiffly into the the water, calling the dog to you. You lather him up as he struggles to stay still, and you watch as the water flows away, pink.

You’re shivering as you step back onto the pebbly dirt. With a glance around to make sure it’s clear, you take off your wet bottoms and slide back into your slacks. Snapping your wrist computer back on, you’re pleased to see that your rad-x is still working, but you’re dreadfully thirsty.

Wet hair and damp clothes, you trudge back up to your house, and see a small fire pit burning across the way, Marcy alone tending to it, chipped cup in hand and what you think is a slight nod as you make eye contact.

There’s voices coming from your house. You turn in and see your dining room table full, the other four being treated to coffee by Codsworth. You freeze a moment, then mutter a “good morning” and set off to find something to hang your laundry on and go to swap out the bandage on your arm.

Codsworth floats in and glances around.

“Sir, I hope you don’t mind I invited them in for the coffee,” he says quietly.

“No, Codsworth, it’s fine, I told you to, I just forgot that meant that there’d be people here again.”

“But it’s nice isn’t it, sir?”

“Oh… yeah, I guess. Sorry Cods, I’m not really in a hosting mood is all,”

“Not to worry sir, don’t you mind, I’ll take care of it all,”

“Actually Cods,” you turn to him, settling your sweater back down, “do you know what’s around that I can hang the laundry up to dry on? I’ll go… socialize… with the guests if you’d do me that favor?”

“I’ve got just the thing. I’ll take care of it right away, sir,”

You leave the robot to flitter about, and head back to the table.

“Any coffee left?” you ask and see a sheepish Sturges smile, “—don’t worry, it’d be seconds. I had dibs earlier.”

“Sorry, Theo, it’s just a real treat. It’s been ages since I had the real stuff.”

“You’ve gotten along just fine with my hubflower tea,”

“Oh Ma, your tea is fine, it’s just, this is real coffee ,”

“What’s hubflower tea?” you ask.

“Oh don’t get her started, new guy. She’ll talk your ear off about any plant you can find out there,”

“No, that’s good. That’s good information to know. It’s probably too late in the season to plant anything unless you manage greenhouses, so gathering, scavenging, and preserving is probably up on the priorities if we want to avoid eating bugs for every meal and giving ourselves some mutated form of scurvy. Even if I can trade or buy food out there, I should know what’s around and what’s useful or to be avoided,”

“On that, actually,” Preston speaks up, “—this place here. It’s nice. You’ve already said that this is your home, but are you really sure we can settle in here?”

You rub your arm over the sweater.

“Look. There’s no one else here. You need a place, there’s space. And I’ve helped you, so now I’m asking for my turn. I don’t know what it takes to live out here, so if you’re asking directions on setting up a camp, I’d say Codsworth is more help than me. I’m no farmer.”

“Well, what are you, new guy? What’d you get up to in your vault that makes you able to wrestle a Deathclaw and win?”

“I didn’t wrestle it, I managed to shoot through it’s belly as it charged me and its momentum kept it going. I don’t know if I could have gotten out from under it if you all hadn’t pushed it off me.”

“Codswallop, you’d have been fine,” he waves his hand.

“It’s Codsworth!” You hear from the back of the house.

“—But what did you do down there? I haven’t heard of 111 before.” Preston adds.

The atmosphere shifts with your face. There's too many eyes on you.

“I don’t. I don’t want to talk about it right now.”

“Understood, but you’re still new up here, aren’t you? Do you have any questions for us?” 

You pause.

“Why do those raiders collect bottlecaps?”

. . .

Mama Murphy wandered off to search for paper to write down some plant-notes for you, and told you to find her later, as Sturges and Preston rattled on, taking turns. Jun stepped out after a bit to check on the breakfast Marcy was tending to, and swapped places with her when she brought in the mystery stew for the group and took a seat. You ate the bowl that was set in front of you to be polite, not wanting to upset this woman anymore than you already do, and tried not to think about what the chewy parts were in the slop while you listened.

At least it was seasoned.

It was a lot to take in, but you’ve gathered the basics. You filed away the image of the red inhaler sitting in one of your bags to ask Mama Murphy about later, and the same about what type of ‘chems’ were still around. Don't get your hopes up. While you’d rather not have to tell your story, less-so with the resident ice queen, the more people to hear it at once meant the fewer times you’d have to repeat it, and fewer questions in total. With a sigh, you stared at the table, building up your courage to shift the conversation.

“So Diamond City is the big place? Is that where I should go to look for Shaun?”

“That your boy?” It's Marcy who breaks the silence, and it’s the softest you’ve heard her tone yet.

“Yeah. I guess he is now. Look. I don’t want to have to repeat this—don't even want to say it—but if I’m going to find him I need all the help I can get, because I’m a fish out of water here.. And you all knowing is my best chance and figuring out what to do next. You called me a vaultie earlier, and I don't know if that's bad, but either way I don’t think that’s totally fair. I didn’t live down there. Nothing’s living down there anymore.”

“Whatdya mean—” Sturges is shushed by Preston, and you feel the table jolt a bit as he jerks forward hissing in pain.

“—It was a freezer. There were scientists and security there, but me, my neighbors. My sister. We were frozen. I… I woke up at some point, and it was hell. It was so cold I couldn’t move my fingers right. There were people out there, and I banged on the glass. There were this windows by our faces. The people were all suited up—and there was this man with them. And they went to my sister’s pod. She had Shaun, she was holding him, and they opened it up and tried… They tried to take him away and she fought them and—”

You covered your face with your hands and pushed on through the tears.

“—The man shot her. Bang. And they tore Shaun out of her arms, god her arms were probably already cold, and then they closed the pod and turned us all back on again. It was so cold and I tried, I tried to open it, I tried. And the man. He walked up to my pod before he left. Came right up to the little glass panel and stared at me and said I was the backup. When I came to, my pod was opening, and they were all gone.”

The room was quiet for a minute, and you heard Codsworth’s thrusters softly humm.

“Your sister was holding the boy? Is he real small, could he not go into a pod on his own?” Sturges asked, and was kicked again by Marcy.

Codsworth floats in.

“Why Shaun was nearly three months old when they ran for the vault. A beautiful, healthy little lad, oh he was 15 pounds exact last I held him. 24 inches give or take his hair fluffing up!” you glanced at Codsworth and swear his eyestalks were were glossier.

“Ran? What do you mean ran for the—whoa Marcy hold on—” Sturges shoved his chair back so she couldn’t reach him, “I’m not tryna be rude, I just don’t quite understand—”

“It’s fair, it’s alright. It’s. I don’t really believe it all either. We ran from here to the vault when the news came on. Vault 111 is just up the hill. We were lucky we even made it in. One of their representatives had just finished taking our information that morning to finalize our spot. He was arguing at the gate trying to get inside, himself...”

You held your tongue about Nate. About how you shouldn’t even be here , technically. That you had to have committed some level of fraud by taking his place.

Not that the authorities were likely to find out, now.

You’re not sure whether you’d wish this fate on him or not.

Coward probably would have offed himself by now.

Another reason why you can’t.

“So you’re not just from a vault, you’re from… before?”

“Two-hundred and forty in spring. At least now I know I look good for my age,” you try to crack a joke to relieve some of the tension.

“I’ll say,” Sturges whispers, and Marcy reaches over and slaps the back of his head, “Marce, I didn’t mean it like that—” he moaned.

“So, is this Diamond City where I ought to go?” you turn to Preston.

“It’s about 20 miles away, but yeah, it’s going to be your best bet. Last I heard, there’s an information broker there. Might be your next step.”

“Do you know what he charges?”

“Woah, hotshot, slow your horses,” Sturges pipes up, glancing at Marcy, “that’s going to take you two days on foot at minimum . 20 miles is a friendly estimate, but there’s a lot of nasties between here and there. You might have managed Concord, but getting through to downtown Boston’s no cake-walk.”

“Well what do I need?”

“We’re talkin' supplies, gear, probably best to get you some real armor. I could fix up that power armor if you handed over the fusion core, but that’s gonna take time and scrap, and you don’t seem like you want to wait that long.”

“He’s an infant, Sturges. I mean, if they got in there to take him, surely they have the supplies to care for an infant, but. He’s my family. He needs to know who his mother was, not raised by baby-snatchers, if that's even what they're doing—" no, breathe, what else could they possibly do with a baby. Clearly, people were still having kids, a modern audience at your table as proof, but what use is a two-month old other than for brainwashing it into some cult? Breaking into a vault is too much effort for cannibals, isn't it? And why not take anybody else? "—And I’ll have Preston with me. The Minutemen have friends don’t they?”

A sour look is shared amongst the others.

“I know you said you were the last one but it sounded like the Minutemen were a group, doesn’t that mean something?” you look to Preston.

“It did.”

“Well?” you push.

Marcy stands up and leaves.

“Garvey. What should I know.” 

His eyes are sad when they finally meet yours.

“Please,"

“I’ll go help” Sturges mutters and walks off.

. . .

It’s a sad tale. A last stand. Run-out and run-off, hope and numbers dwindling on the road.

“Christ.”

“Yeah.”

“Look. You still made it here. This place could be their new home, and that was your duty, right? Getting them somewhere safe? Well we did it. All I'm asking in return is you to help me get to Diamond City."

You stare at him. He looked defeated. But when he speaks, while his voice is flat, it's solid.

"Sturges is right. It’s not a safe route, and I’m not sure how you’re going to afford the price that information guy is going to ask, but I don’t doubt that you’ll be able to figure it out. But we ought to prepare a bit before then. I know it seems like I just keep asking for more, but these people aren't truly safe until we can set up some staples here. Plus, we'll need the supplies to head out, ourselves. We’ll need food and water to even start, and bindles for camping for a few nights just to be safe. We’ll scrounge up what we can here, but there’s a farm not far to the west—the Abernathy’s I think it was—and we can offer some work with them to trade for what we can’t manage here.”

You deflate, urgency flooding you with guilt.

“I don’t like it... But you’re not wrong.”  Your shoulders droop with resignation, “So what’s the order, then? I told Codsworth to bring up some water from the creek and set it to boil, but you all have been doing this longer than I have, so, direct me.”

Chapter Text

Sturges was might handy and had experience with simple water filtration, so the first two days were spent scrounging, demo-ing, and setting up a small purifier to bulk out the creek water runs. There was an old well pump down in the cul-de-sac of the community, and Jun was set to work cleaning and re-oiling the parts. While Sturges set to work, the rest of you went through the remaining homes and sorted any finds into possible uses.

“Gather all the bad paper in the tub over there,” you call out, pointing to a bathtub that had been moved down closer to the stream.

Most of the books, magazines, and newspapers the remained were rotted past legibility, a few scarce copies now delicately tucked into the makeshift-bookshelf in your living room, but that didn’t mean the rest couldn’t still be of use.

“We can take some for kindling, burn the really infested stuff first, but anything else, I’ll pulp and we can get some notebooks made. Marcy, if you could please set any window screens over by the tub as well. Mama M, do you know how to sew?” 

Thank god for all those arts and crafts sessions.

“More of a knitter, myself, kid. But I can manage.”

“Great. See if you can get any more screens patched and serviceable. I’ll get to boiling water with Cods.”

Later that evening, sheets of paper swaying in the breeze, pinned and draped haphazardly around your living room, you all toasted with clean, cool, well water.

Food was the next day's task.

You yawned blearily as you surveyed the miscellaneous piles of junk. Sleep hadn't come easily last night, but day broke, ignorant to your plight.

“If we had a kiln we could melt down the broken shards and make new panes, but for now, we don’t have enough windows to make a full greenhouse to feed six, let alone the plants to fill it.” Jun had opened up a bit. He had done some farming in Quincy, and having a task that he could manage seemed to help. 

“That’s a later goal, then. We’ve only got two more days of packaged supplies, and I’d like to keep at least one day as emergency,” you grumble, forcing down a second bite of roach jerky. 

There was one more bowl’s worth of cereal left, but sugar bombs didn’t exactly have much going in the way of protein, and you were feeling weak. So bug it was. Breakfast of sufferers.

“You ready to head over to the Abernathy’s?” Preston asked.

“Yeah, it's time. How long you think it take? We should be able to just go with packs right, no camping, right?”

“Maybe an hour and a half west, tops. We should be good for a quick first meet, and if things go well, we can bring the wagon with us if they’re willing to trade.”

“What have we got of value?”

“We can fill any spare bottles with well water, that’s always a staple. Tastes better than the distilled stuff, too. All together, we have about 270 caps, and that spare fusion core if push comes to shove.”

“I’d rather keep that, it could be useful if we can manage to get enough parts for a generator, or like Sturges said, for the power armor for some heavy lifting. That core’s our last resort, let’s see if we can manage without.”

“Roger that. Where’d you even find that core?”

“That first raider I ran into? Well, I ran to a junkyard to get away. Had a core and some other goodies there. We might want to go back for them actually, when we get the chance.”

You glance at your pipboy.

“Okay, Codsworth, I’m hoping we can be back by three if the negotiations don’t take too long. Let the others know and keep them posted. You’ve got the only other clock at the moment until we can find a battery for that watch.”

“Yes, sir. Best of luck, and do stay safe.”

“Thanks, bud. See you later.”

The walk is calm for the first fifteen minutes as you leave. The fields are wide, so sight lines are good, and Preston has decent aim with his rifle. You’ve done a little practice from the rooftops each night with a old pipe rifle Sturges fixed up from a dead raider. That was the most plentiful ammunition, so you felt better shooting that off than wasting fusion cells.

You see deer off in the distance under an old power line structure, and grab Preston’s shoulder to stop him.

“Do you know if those deer are edible? I’m not huge on meat in general, but I’d rather eat anything other than bug.”

“We’ve had radstag before. Butchering it is a pain, but cooking or curing will kill any parasites. They’re good eating, but we can’t haul it back right now.”

“No, not now, just if they stake out there frequently, they could be more food either to trade or for ourselves. Let me make a note of it in case we need a hunting expedition.”

You pull out one of the handcrafted notebooks, the thick and uneven pages rustling as you jot down a note. Mama Murphy had finished binding it last night. Your sister had a million and one pens dotted around the house as she had the habit of misplacing them, and liked to switch up her working locations with each case. 

“By the way, do the Minutemen have hand signals? I’m hoping for the best, but I should know the basics if we get into anything,”

“Uh, yeah, a few." he mumbles back.

“Okay, show ‘em to me and I’ll work on them. I took some sign language classes back in college, so if we need others I’ll show you those and we’ll bulk out the system. I’d rather just use ASL but if you’ve already got stuff, it’s better to stick with it. It'd be faster that way.”

Preston’s eyebrows furrow, but he nods and the rest of the walk until you see the farm you practice some simple signals.

“Have you ever met these people before?” you scratch over your vault suit, anxious.

“No.”

“Do we just walk up? Hands up as we go, or what’s the procedure here? Not sure what the common ‘how-do-ya-do’ is nowadays, or what counts as friendly, seeing as all I’ve got so far has been raiders.”

“We’ll shout a greeting as we get closer. There’s not much cover, so hands up and guns away should put them at ease enough to barter.”

“If they do fire, what then?”

“We split. You head up, try to take cover on the side of the building, and I’ll run out along the fence and draw their fire. Then we see how it goes.”

“Don’t love it. Okay. Let’s hope they’re willing to host.”

With your shoulders aching as you start down the slope, a distant shout gets someone in the field to stand up. You wave your hands and bellow a “hello,” and slow your approach.

“God my arms are tired,” you whine as you near the chicken wire, and Preston huffs a laugh.

“Who are you?” shouts the young woman in the field, “my mam’s on the roof up there with a rifle, so don’t try nothing.”

“Looking to trade,” Preston responds.

“Not trying anything but my arms are real tired and I’d love some blood flow back, do you mind if I put my hands down?”

A man walks out from the wooden structure, a shotgun in hand.

“Sure, stranger. Put ya hands down. But either of yous go for those guns there and I’m keen on gettin' new fertilizer.”

“No trouble, sir. Don’t much want buckshot as an iron supplement, we really are just trying to trade.”

“Connie!" he tilts his head up towards the towering structure, "You can come down. Traders!”

You roll your shoulders and neck and your palms tingle as the blood rushes back down.

“So, who are yous?”

“Theodore Berwick.”

“Preston Garvey, Commonwealth Minutemen.”

“Minutemen, are ya? Who’da thought. Blake Abernathy.”

You frown slightly, but let the man continue. No use clarifying that mistake. Preston glances at you again.

“Mr. Abernathy, we are here to trade, but I’m not too sure you can call us full ‘traders.’ We’re setting up a settlement a bit east, and we need food. We have enough glass to get a small greenhouse going, but the settlers didn’t have the chance to uproot any plants back home during their eviction.”

“Run out, were ya?”

“Quincy,” Preston mumbles.

“Ah, shit. Heard about that from a caravan just last week. Jeez that’s rough.” The man rubbed his neck, “but I’m sorry. We don’t have a lot to spare outside of our agreements with the caravans, and the rest is cut down further by these raiders, and we’re… we’re a hand down.” his eyes are wistful and wet.

“Ah, I’m sorry to hear that sir,” you feel for him, but your stomach growls, "We might not have much, but we do have caps and clean well water. Tested by a Mr. Handy himself; no rads, no diseases. Been drinking it for days with no problem. If there is anything you can trade, or another way we can help out in exchange, we’d truly appreciate it.”

A woman, presumably Connie, walks up.

“Ya’ll said you were Minutemen?” she gives an un-generous look-over.

“Yes, ma’am,” Preston chimes.

“We won’t do business with strangers,” your mind blanks, trying to figure out what else you can offer, when she continues, “but if the Minutemen were able to handle those raiders that have been bothering us? They clear those bastards out and make them pay? I think we can find room for a donation,” she stalks off to the other side of the field to continue picking at the crops.

Your neck twinges. More raiders. What’s the depth of this problem?

“Can we get more information on who and where this problem is?”

Blake sighs in response.

“Excuse my wife. We’re still reeling. There’s a nasty group out to the northwest, they come strolling in every week. That’s part of why we weren’t the friendliest greetings to yous. Last time they were here... I had to bury one of our girls. Those…” his face screws up, “bastards even took the locket around her neck after it was done. If you get that locket back to us, deal with those scum, we’d have the margins and the debt to you to trade. We could hand off a few of our younger crops that might not survive the winter for your greenhouse, spare some of our canned stores, plus whatever caps we can manage. I know it’s asking a lot, but unless they’re dealt with, we can’t help you. But listen, if you’re up that a ways anyhow, you ought to set up better defenses than we did. Nobody else needs to end up in the ground like my Mary.”

Your eyelids feel heavy and your feet hurt. You don’t want to do this. But you can’t get closer to Diamond City on your own, and Blake has a point. If the raiders are out to the northwest, like you are, your new homestead is a closer target for a shakedown.

“Mr. Abernathy, do you know exactly where these people have set up?”

“They bragged about some giant tower, big ole metal dishes up on it.”

“A satellite tower? Do you know which one?”

“I think it started with an ‘O’? Don’t think they’re too far. The leader got called Ack-Ack.”

“Satellite Olivia? Was that it?”

“Maybe, yeah. Sounds right. Are you really gonna take care of those sonsabitches?” Hope sparkles alongside the grief in his eyes, and your stomach drops.

“We’re gonna do the best we can, sir. I think I know where that satellite is, and I know how to make them pay. I look forward to giving you all good news the next time I’m out here.”

His shoulders lower an inch, and he stares at you.

“Never met a vaultie, before. You all good people like this?”

A sad smile crawls onto your face.

“I wouldn’t know, sir. Haven't met another one yet, myself.”

Blake gives you a nod. You start to turn around, but pause.

“Before we leave, Mr. Abernathy, have ya’ll got a latrine?”

The walk back towards Sanctuary starts deathly silent. You cave to the tension.

“Didn’t mean to sign you up back there for that, but—” you start to apologize.

“Are you really going to do it?”

“Huh?”

“Are you going to clear out that gang for them?” he needles, a fire in him.

“I mean I'm not looking forward to it, but if they are at Olivia, I've got a trick up my sleeve.”

“They think you’re a Minuteman.”

“Oh, yeah, I heard that too.”

“But you didn’t correct them.”

“I mean, what’s the point? They kinda lumped me in with it, and I understand the confusion. Didn’t want to risk any tension by telling them they were wrong.”

“So they were wrong?” Preston plants his feet.

“What do you mean?” you stop, turning to him.

“Are you a Minuteman?”

“I didn’t sign up, don’t know what the registration process is,” you try to deflect.

“But… would you?” his voice wavers, and it feels like there’s a wrong choice here.

“Preston. Look. I don’t know what it means, to ‘be a Minuteman.’ Not really. But that’s not really my decision to make. From what I gather, it means helping people out. If helping them gets us what we need for Sanctuary, then you can bring me to Diamond City. I'd like to help out of the goodness of my heart, but truth be told, I'm just trying to accrue any goodwill credits I can on the off-chance that someone can lead me closer to Shaun in paying back a good turn. But that's a moot point on the Minuteman front because that's up to you. You're the last one, which makes you leader of them, so it's not really my decision in the end. I’m just trying to figure out how to get my boy.”

“Other people wouldn’t just stop and help—” he starts, but you cut him off.

“I don’t know how this world works. I don’t like most of what I’ve seen in it, either. But even if. No, even when I get my nephew back, I’m gonna need help. 'Raising a child takes a village' and whatever. So, if I have to build my own village, then goddamnit I will. I’m going to crack this fucked up world open and scrape out a decent life for that boy if it’s the last thing I do. But a decent world needs decent neighbors.”

“That’s—”

“Stupid. I know. Been a fool my entire life. Doubt it’s going to change now. I never believed in the saying that you can't teach an old dog new tricks, but I'm pretty fucking old now, so I think it's sticking. Now. Not to end that line of conversation harshly, but I am really sick of crying, so if we see that deer again—”

“Radstag,” he corrects, an odd smirk on his face.

“If we see that fugly radstag again, do you think the two of us can manage carrying it back to Sanctuary together?”

“Maybe we should have brought that wagon along.”

“Well, you know what they say about hindsight, P.”

“P?”

“I like nicknames. You wanna be Garv instead?”

“Not sure I like that any better.”

“Gravy it is.”

“That’s the worst one yet,”

“Oh, come on. Everybody loves gravy. Don't y'all still have mashed potatoes?”

. . .

Your shoulders and neck ache by the time you return. Dogmeat had seen you nearing the hill and barked, and Sturges had run out to join and help take the deer into one of the houses.  While Marcy and Jun handled the meat, and Codsworth started to dry portions of it, you filled in Sturges on the plan.

“How much do you know about sentry bots, Sturg?”

“Sentry bots?! The Abernathy’s having problems with a sentry bot?”

“No, but the raiders giving them trouble are about to.”

. . .

“Codsworth, are you sure you’re fine with coming with us? It’s okay if you want to stay here. We can ask Sturges instead,”

“No sir, he’s busy fixing up that mess of a radio, and I'd like to... help, sir.”

“Alright. I don’t think all together the three of us are going to be very stealthy, but I’d rather have more help once we're in the tower. That sentry bot is too big to get past the doorway, so anyone inside is going to be our problem. Now I know you’re not a Mr. Gutsy, but do you think you could help me figure out how to make a scope for the pipe rifle here?”

Codsworth flitters around, happily explaining the basic components to you, and by nightfall, the plan is set.

“I’ve got an alarm set for 3 a.m. Sun shouldn’t rise until around quarter past 7. We should be able to get from the scrapyard, to the Satellite by 5, no worries. That bot moved pretty fast. So that gives us two hours of cover as we hit them as they’re hopefully just waking up. The bot will stir up chaos and hopefully drag them outside. We’ll play it by ear after that.”

“We’ve got 7 magazines of .32, 3 of the 10 mil thanks to a safe in one of the houses, and a handful of fusion cells. One first aid pack each,” Preston hands you the other kit.

“Thanks. I’m going to ask Mama Murphy something, but then get some rest, okay? Jun can do a late sweep.”

“Roger that, Theo.”

You head back to your sister’s once-bedroom. The gaps in the windows have been boarded up, and you moved anything useful, and most notably, the mattress, from the cellar bunker over to the rickety frame here. Entering here still felt strange if you thought about it too long. You’d shared the bed with Nora most of the nights you had stayed, cuddling her to sleep as she cried, but it was still her room. You walk to the dresser and dig out the red inhaler you'd swiped on your first day out, and trudge it over to Mama Murphy.

“That’s jet.”

“What’s jet? Is that albuterol?”

“I don’t know what albuterol is, but jet’s a fun one honey. Makes you race, real quick. It’ll give you a right headache on the come down, but if you’re in a pinch, that’s a nice edge to have. An outnumbered fight can still be outgunned if you’re fast, and that stuff? It’ll make you fast.”

“Definitely not albuterol, then.”

She gives you the illicit run down, what things look like and what they do. Things Preston and Sturges didn’t mention. Valuable information. Maybe one of them will help with the tics; calmex worked well enough when you were on it back when you were struggling. And maybe there’s still hormonal treatments out there... best not to get distracted. If nothing else, judging on her style and demeanor, it’s very obvious that weed is still being grown. 

You catch a few hours of sleep, your body bored into a trance after trying to recite all the drug and brand names you could from before.

. . .

Your pipboy beeps, and you roll over to turn off the alarm.

Oh, you don’t want to be awake.

Fear hits your stomach as you think of what the day holds. At least it gets you out of bed.

“Coffee’s already made, sir.”

“Thanks, Cods. We’re running low on that, we should start saving it up.”

“Right-o, sir.”

You sip from the chipped mug and rub your face. You fill up a second cup and walk it down the street to the house where Preston has been bunking.

“Knock-knock,” you say as you tap the door with your foot.

It’s more a board than a door, as there aren’t hinges to connect it. You hear shuffling, and Preston moves the wood out of the way. He takes the mug gratefully.

“Come to mine when you’re ready.”

“Got it. Be there in five.”

You nod and shuffle back home, sipping as you go. You give Dogmeat a few pats before you leave.

“Stay here, bud. Keep them safe,” he whines, but sits.

It’s a new moon. That’s good for cover, but a fucking pain to walk through. You light the ground ahead of you with your pipboy, but this would be a lot easier with flashlights. You’ll have to look into that if there’s going to be more traveling like this. You hope not.

Checking your clock, it’s 4:07 when you arrive at the scrapyard. The humming of the sentry bot as it continues its rounds stops briefly when you send the command to move to USAF Olivia.

“Keep back, and try not to start a fight with anything while it’s around. It hasn’t attacked me before, but I’m ready to shut it down if it turns. I don’t know what rules it has for selecting hostiles.”

You both give the bot space, it’s glowing red eyes a mote in the distance as you follow it. The sentry disturbs another nest of mole rats along the way, but makes quick work of them, their claws scraping noisily off the metal plating without purchase.

You see the tower in the distance, the slight glow of the skyline reflecting dim white and casting out the stars behind it. Shouts in the distance, and whirring as the sentry bot starts a fight. Five a.m., sharp.

The sentry has taken some hits, but at least three raiders have gone down, and there’s been some explosions you couldn’t quite make out. Maybe frag mines. The robot circles the base of the tower. It’s been 10 minutes and you haven’t seen any other raiders. They must be bunkering inside.

“I’m going to try to shut the sentry bot down, see if that tricks others to come out, but I think I need to be closer to send the order,”

“Shall we all advance?” Preston asks.

“No, you two stay here. I’ll send the order and wait ten minutes nearby so I can restart it. If anyone spots me and advances, you two can come up, but if the bot can clear out any more, once it goes quiet again, I’ll shut it down and come back, and we’ll move up together.”

“As you say, sir,” Codsworth whispers.

Your heart is in your throat as you advance. Thank god you haven’t eaten anything yet. You find a tree off to the side of the gate, and are close enough to connect and send the shut-down order. You try to breathe as quietly as possible as you wait, checking your clock as you count.

After four minutes, you hear a door open. A click: the door slams again, and then a crash of glass shattering. You see the sentry bot licked in flames, but unmoving.

A minute more for the flames to die out, and another before the door opens again. Voices; two people as they walk up to the machine. You hear a thud echo and one of the raiders laughs while one groans. You spy them walking around the machine.

You wait.

“It’s down! Should we strip it? I don’t like it bein’ here,” one says.

“I’ll send Pits out with a wrench. Try to get them cores out. Don’t want it startin’ up again.”

Your stomach sinks as one of the two goes back inside.

Come on…

He returns with another raider in tow, and the three of them start trying to lift the back plating of the bot.

This has to be good enough. You send the code to reactivate the sentry, and hear screams, thrashing, gunfire, then nothing but the puttering and crinkling of the treads as it resumes its patrol. The door at the base of the tower is open.

You shut down the bot again, and hustle back to Preston and Codsworth.

“There’s gotta be a few more people inside still, but I don’t think they’re going to fall for that trick again.”

“Is there only one entrance?”

“That I saw. The door’s open, but I don’t like the thought of being fish in a barrel for them as we enter. Or they could trap the entrance.”

“Might I go first?” Codsworth suggests.

“Are you sure, Codsworth?”

“It is the most logical course of action. If there are mines on the ground inside, I won’t set them off. And I can flush out those at the entrance and allow you follow with a more cordial entry.”

“Be careful. I’ll turn the bot on again as we get close just to keep them confused, but if it makes any motions towards you, I’ll shut it down. If you can give an all-clear, great, but we’ll follow after you in two minutes.”

“My hull survived a nuclear blast, sir. I’m sure I’ll be alright,” but he doesn’t sound convinced, himself.

“You’re brave Codsy, thank you,”

“Anything for the family, sir.” though anxious, the robot seems determined.

The sentry lets Codsworth pass, and you watch your clock.

“We’re up.”

The entrance isn’t small, but you feel both crowded and exposed as you reach for the interior door. It opens onto an entry room. You don’t see Codsworth. Your stomach churns. There’s a body on the ground, throat sawed open, and oil drips trailing down one of the hallways. Off from further in, below, you hear a voice.

“You’re gonna die today,”

But it's words, not bullets, yet. So there remains at least one more raider, and he knows somebody's here.

“That tin can better be alright or I’m going to electrocute him myself,” you growl, trying to turn your mounting fear into spite and keep moving.

You glance around the corner and see the oil drips continue. There’s a headless dog splayed out, the head a few feet further down. You hear shouting and gunfire around the corner, Codsworth jeering, and you run forward. You see a raider pelting bullets at the butler. His thruster sputters, and he crashes, and you see red.

Your finger aches as the raider bleeds out on the ground. You had unloaded the rest of your clip into him. So much for trigger discipline.

You run up to Codsworth, and he isn’t moving. He’s leaking oil, his thruster is out, but you don’t know what’s wrong. You’re starting to hyperventilate.

“Theodore. We’ll come back and fix him up. We’ll bring him home, Sturges can help.”

You’re crying.

“—But you have to get up. I hear more down there, it’s not safe yet.” There’s a gentle weight on your shoulder as he speaks.

He’s right.

“Can’t help him ‘til they’re dead. Can’t help him ‘til they’re dead.” You chant to yourself and shake your sweaty palms.

You reload and start to advance down the hallway. There’s a wide open room with catwalks, and a generator in the center. You glance around, but it seems empty. You signal Preston to cover, and you rush ahead, mouth full of bile.

It is empty, but you can see the a door to a room. There can’t be many more left. God you hope there aren’t more left.

There’s a grenade on the file cabinet in here, and you grab it.

You signal to Preston that it’s clear here, and he nods, and makes to circle back around the other stairs. You hold your breath as it stays quiet, and he appears on the other side of the room, closer to the doors you know you need to enter. He nods. You hold up the frag, and his eyes widen, and he nods again. He points to himself and gestures to open the door, and you roll your shoulder and nod. You count him down.

3.

He sneaks towards the door.

He reaches for the handle. You pull the pin.

1.

Chapter Text

He opens the door and you chuck the grenade. There’s a woman holding a minigun and you hear it start to whir, and duck back behind the pillar, Preston diving back towards the hallway. Two rounds get shot off before the explosion.

You blink harshly, eardrums pounding, and peek around the other side of the pillar. It’s dusty and you’re not sure if the raider is down or if there are more back there, then gunfire pierces through the cloud of dust and you slam back against the concrete, the bullets flying and shaking the pillar on impact.

Your heart is racing as you reach into your bag. The inhaler is still there.

It smells and tastes like literal shit, and your throat burns, but Mama Murphy was right. The minigun now sounds like a rhythmic beat instead of a rapid droning hum, but the vibration on the concrete stops, and she must be turning her aim elsewhere. Preston.

You feel yourself move, stepping out from your cover.

You watch more than feel your arm rise up, your finger squeezing the trigger as you move.

Again.

And again.

The woman jerks as you hit her shoulder, her chest, but her eyes are black as she shifts the barrel towards you.

Your aim sways as you run, but you land one more bullet on her, tackling her down before the barrel reaches you, both of your losing grip on your guns during the fall.

Knife. I have a knife.

You reach down and yank the knife out of your leg sheath as she shoves at you, clawing at your face. You turn away instinctively as one of her fingers catches on your lip, your knife-hand slithering up to stab and slice blindly at her throat.

Her hand falls limp, and you turn to see your work.

Red, gushing out in rhythmic pulses from the slashes in her throat, that rhythm slowing. There’s wet on your cheeks, arterial spray that begins to drip down, down, down. The woman's eyes are wide, and you see now that they aren’t black, but rather her pupils were so dilated, any other color was hidden. They jitter slightly, and then something changes, and they’re duller than before.

Your headrush is ending as you glance around. There’s another body on the ground, trembling. Another raider, bleeding out but still hacking breath. A pipe pistol within arm’s reach on the ground nearby.

You push up, off of the corpse, and walk over, picking up the gun, taking it away, away from those twitching, reaching, hopeful fingers.

You stare down, locking eyes with the man on the rubble, watch as his glowering rage morphs into fear, to confusion, and then nothing. His eyes as empty and blank, jaw as slack as the woman 10 feet away, still but for the growing puddle of blood around him.

You’re stuck.

There’s ice. Ice all around you. Icy chains, invisible, wrapped, tied around you, locking you in place, freezing your muscles, your bones, your eyelids, forcing you to keep staring at the corpse as he leaks out life from hundreds of gashes, eviscerated from the grenade that you threw.

You don’t hear him, but Preston’s hand slowly comes up, gently peeling your fingers away from the gun, then your knife. He turns you, breaking the ice’s hold on you, and walks you to a rickety chair, guiding you to sit.

“You’re hurt. Stay still.”

Oh. He’s talking to you. You stare at him dumbly, cold.

“This might sting,”

Something feels strange. You look down, and you see him pouring liquid on your leg, onto skin.

Why is there skin out?

The liquid pools in the valleys and crags of red, and the strange feeling grows, and it’s burning—and there’s a hissing sound, and it’s you.

“Sorry, I know,” he fishes out a stimpack and lines it up to the center of the shredded flesh, and stabs it down, and you flinch, but he bars his forearm across your chest, stopping you from cradling forward.

An eternity passes and you slump against the chair back.

“Theo, talk to me,” he waves a hand in front of your face.

“That hurt,” you croak.

“Can’t have you going into shock, c’mon, stay with me,”

“M fine, why would I do that,” you slur, “s’not my blood,”

“Not all of it, Jesus did you take something?”

“Jet” you mouth, and his face tightens then relaxes.

“That explains the diving onto a barbed wire coated minigun,”

“Didn’t see that” you groan, as the headrush fades and you start to regain sensation in your extremities and regret it.

“No, but it seems like you’re feeling  it now. Sit tight a minute, the pain’s going to get worse before it gets better.”

He isn’t lying, and your leg cramps up as your flesh sears and pulls tight, flexing and spasming as the stimpack stitches the injury together.

“We’ll bandage it up once the stim wears off. That should stop the bleeding, but your skin still needs more time to join. I’m going to look around, shout if you need me,” you nod stiffly, a whine still making it through your clenched jaw.

The wave crests, and you’re able to detach your hands from the sides of the seat as the pain lessens, and you can lean over to grab the first aid pouch and riffle through it for the bandaging. Preston reappears and helps you finish wrapping the gauze over your left thigh.

“Find anything good?” your voice is hoarse and thin.

“A few goodies. Got more ammo and found another medkit. There’s a locked door back there if you wouldn’t mind giving it a go.”

He helps you to stand, and you hobble over to the door. There’s a hammer and a toolbox on the ground nearby. You slowly bend down, kneeling onto the ground with a hiss as the bandaging tightens with the squat. The toolbox is locked as well, but you crack the hammer against it, and it pops open. There’s a screwdriver, a few bobby pins, and a locket in there.

“Two for two,” you grumble, and hand it to Preston for safe keeping.

The door takes a few minutes. You end up dropping the flathead as your hands shake, but eventually manage to catch all the pins and turn the handle.

You take off your helmet and use the remaining two bobby pins to pin back some of your sweat-damp bangs back. Shoulder length at the back, the shaggy overgrown mullet’s bangs keep out of your face well enough with the helmet on, but if you’re going to be breaking in anywhere, might as well keep the pins handy.

Preston helps you stand, and you step back, opening the door.

“Hey, careful. Looks like oil in there,” you point your chin ahead.

Preston moves ahead with a bat.

“Where’d you find—”

He jerks his head to the other room.

“Nice.”

He walks ahead slowly into the room, calls out, “Roaches!” and you take a step back.

“You got it?” you ask as you hear the crunch of exoskeleton.

“All good,” he shouts, the bat connecting a few more times.

You hear his footsteps as he walks around.

“Found a key,” he calls out as he returns.

“It doesn’t make sense to me to keep the key to a locked room on the wrong side of it, so what do you think that opens?”

“Security gate in the entry area?”

“Here’s hoping. That lock looked much harder to pick.”

You walk back through the room with the bodies, and try to scan for anything valuable while avoiding looking at them.

There’s a book, a duffle bag, the spare caps off each thug, a cap stash, and even a Vault-Tec branded lunchbox down here. You grab it all, shoving it into your sack, and move back towards the generator.

Maybe you’ll start collecting Vault-Tec gear to start a shooting range. There had been that bobble head in the museum you’d nabbed for shits-and-giggles, so you’re already on your way.

You pass by the generator on your way towards the ramp, another core up. You aren’t limping now, but your thigh still aches, so better to not risk the stairs. Codsworth is still heaped on the ground, an you approach.

“Hey buddy,” you whisper, tilting him upright to rest on his thrusters.

You pop open his utility hatch to check his fuses. There’s a blinking light on his oil meter and it shocks you into laughter.

“Theodore—”

“He’s— he’s out of oil, Gravy. He’s just out of oil and he auto-shut down. That first raider must have dented his tank which caused the leak,” you punctuate with laughter, gesturing back to the oil trail along the floor.

You pull out the screwdriver you’d stored away; trying to stifle your giggles lest you finally lose it.

“Could you go grab any other tools down there? A wrench or pliers would be perfect, and that ball-peen hammer too. Did you see any oil cans or something?”

Preston nods and heads back down. He returns with a gas canister and the busted toolbox filled up with the scavenged goods. You manage to open up the tank compartment and pull out the cannister. It leaks over your hands, and you wipe it off on your calves. The vault suit is getting run through. There’s a dent where the tank is supposed to seal, and you manage to pop it back out and realign the gasket. You fill it with kerosine and slide the tank back in, clicking into place. You close him up, reset his switches, and power him up, stepping back.

The thrusters fire up, spurting to life, and Codsworth jolts up unevenly.

“GOOD MORNING SIR, by Jove, sorry for slipping off there! Good heavens, what have you put in my tank?” his thrusters burn hot.

“Either gasoline, diesel, or kerosine, bud. Not sure. I’d offer you to check out the cannister but I don’t want you to set it alight,” you say, stepping back in your newly extra-flammable clothes.

“Please next time, use branded RobCo Mr. Handy fuel—” he sways as the thrusters jolt, “—whatever that is has got me feeling woozy.”

Tears prick at your eyes.

“Codsy, I’d hug you but I’m covered in grease and you’re burning rich. I’m just glad you’re alright.”

“I didn’t mean to worry you, sir. But my sensors indicate everything is running as well as can be, at the present.”

You could swear you heard relief in his voice.

“Hey, Preston, you think that key you found opens the room up in the entry area?”

“Let’s find out,” he says, smiling.

There’s decent loot in there. Even a magazine, though the material runs on the dry end of technical. Anything to read is valuable, though.

“Is that a mini-nuke?!” Preston exclaims.

“How popular were these things? That’ll make two if we get that chest from the scrapyard.”

“You have a mini-nuke?”

“Now I have two. And a fat-man, if it’s still there. I’d send the sentry bot back to guard the scrapyard but I want to keep it posted here in case any raiders were out and try to come back.”

“There were four in here, and I counted about six outside. I don’t know how big this group was, but I don’t think there could be many left. Raider packs don’t tend to last long with large numbers.”

“Power struggles, presumably?” he nods, “—still best be carefully pessimistic,”

“Sure,” he mocks.

“What?”

“Just you. Being a pessimist.”

“Not buying it?”

“If you’re a pessimist, I don’t think I’ve ever met an optimist. Or at least one not one that wasn’t high.”

You laugh, and it catches you by surprise. Preston Garvey, joking. Well, maybe the world was healing.

“Hey, what’s this box over here?”

There’s a large crate at the back of the room, labeled RobCo. The rest of the writing has faded with time. You pull out your crowbar and crack open the crate, your face twitching into a sneer as you yank.

“No clue. Buncha parts? Let’s lock this back up and we’ll think about checking it out again after we get some fucking food. I’ve got a Nuka Cherry back in Sanctuary and I think it’s time for a celebration.”

You close the crate, hammering back in the nails to be safe, and lock the security grate once more. You pocket the key and start the trek back towards Sanctuary, only the occasional wince of pain in your thigh. The sun is rising as you exit the chain-linked fence, and it makes for a quick walk back. You take the direct route, already weighed down by the miscellaneous scrap you’d scrounged from the station, plus all the ammo you pulls from their guns. It’s a good haul, and even replacing the stimpack Preston had used on you. A huge net-gain, if you excuse the tear in your suit.

Your stroll slows as you enter Sanctuary Hills and hear Marcy, angry.

“And who do you think you are?”

“Marcy! Put the gun down! Dogmeat trusts him,” Sturges is pleading, and you unholster your pistol and signal for Preston to go around.

“Oh, so we’re trusting a DOG, are we? He’s a stranger!”

“A stranger who just happened to hear your radio broadcast,” you see the stranger, palms up and out.

He’s got a pipboy. Curious.

“What’s going on?” You ask, pistol in hand but not pointed at the man. Yet.

“Great timing, kid,” Mama Murphy snarks.

“Excuse me, but do you mind convincin’ yer friend here to stop aimin’ at me?” the man asks, stressed.

“Marce, I’ve got him, thank you,”

She glances at you and the bandage on your leg. She sneers but lowers her gun. You don’t holster your own weapon yet.

“What’d you say about a radio broadcast?” You ask.

“Oh, Theo, that’s my bad,” Sturges speaks up.

You raise your brow at him.

“—Got that radio beacon runnin’” Sturges continues, “—ran a test message and it looks like this fella over here caught the signal,”

“You shouldn’t have broadcast in the first place, not while we were out,” you say, disappointed. His shoulders droop.

“You’re right. That’s my bad, chief,” you quirk your brow at him again. Chief?

You catch sight of Preston down the street.

“You promise you’re here on friendly terms, stranger?” You ask, looking him up and down.

He’s not heavily armored, nor weighed down with a load of gear, just a reasonable backpack and satchel. He’s got a few tools on his belt, and just where did he get a pipboy?

“I am if you are,” he says, hands still up as he looks at your drawn weapon.

You holster it and he sighs in relief.

“Preston, it’s alright,” you shout at him and gesture for him to follow.

“Do you drink coffee?” you ask him, and his eyes light up.

You’re seated at the table, downing your second cup of the day. You’re really going to run out if you don’t cut back, but your headache weens with the flow of caffeine and you feel calmer.

“Sorry for the miscommunicated greeting, there,” you say, as he sips his joe, a smile at the corners of his mouth.

“If all I needed to do was have a gun pointed at me a few minutes to get a cup of fresh coffee, I’d take it. More than a fair trade, I’ll say,” face awash in near ecstasy as he takes another sip.

“That why you’re here?” you ask, and he looks up at you quizzically, “—For a fair trade. You a trader?”

“Inasmuch,” he starts, “You’re starting a settlement, and I’m here to help.”

Chapter Text

It’s your turn to be confused.

“Are you looking for a new home?” the man only had a rucksack with him, he probably wasn’t moving house, he’s too lightly equipped—unless he’s on the run and forced to travel light.

He wouldn’t be the first. But he doesn’t seem so pressed.

“Oh, no, found a nice set-up over in Concord, actually,” you laugh and he stiffens.

“That a bad place?”

“Was. Should be alright now, or I did a whole lotta work for nothing,”

“How much work? I had to move quite a few corpses out of the way. Even a dead deathclaw.”

“Sorry if it’s stinkin’ up the place,” you say.

“Was it—did you do all that?” he asks, bewildered.

“Not on my own—” you start to underplay it when Preston jumps in.

“But practically.”

“Actually, Preston shot down a fair few of the raiders that were there,”

“But what about that deathclaw?”

“Is that suit of power armor still there?”

“Oh. Was that yours?” the man asks, bashful.

“Was? You do something to it?” you smirk.

You didn’t care too much about it, and the core was near empty, so you moreso wanted to see how the man was going to react.

“I hopped in ta haul some of the bodies away, and was movin’ it over to my shop, but the suit died nigh abouts where it was in the first place. Didn’t have another core, so it’s just stood there. But I didn’t know it belonged to somebody, swear!”

“No worries, man, it got pretty beat up. I have another core for it now, so Sturges can bring it back up here. Sorry if you were hoping to cash in on it, but I got dibs.”

“Naw, it’s yours. I don’t want to get on the wrong side of someone who managed all that. But that weren’t why I’m here,”

You flush with just a hint of pride to hear his praise, but settle back in to the business at hand.

“No. So you said you aren’t looking to settle here, so why are you here?”

“Well. Have you ever heard of ASAMs?”

“No. That Vault-tec made?” you ask, glancing back at his wrist.

“Am I right in feelin’ like there’s a wrong answer to that question, Slick?”

“Good hunch, Stranger.”

“In all honesty, not really. It’s RobCo tech, and there’s a purported partnership with Vault-Tec on the later model, but it don’t make sense to me why those two woulda teamed up on it.”

“To me, either. Rival companies and all. But go ahead and give me the spiel like you want to, anyway. I’ll hear you out.”

His eyes brighten as he explains, and you finish your coffees as he steps out to offer you a demonstration.

“We’re good on shelter, for the most part, and stable on water presently. But I’d be interested if that thing can manage to help us get some agriculture going this late into the year.”

“Oh ASAMs can do more than that!” he lights up, “But sure, I bet you got enough around here to get somethin’ goin’!”

You point him to an empty plot and let him loose.

He sets up the sensor, and you watch as he hustles around, checking the screen every now and then. The screen beeps, and after reading it and running off to the side, he comes back with a car hood and tire. You don’t know how he manages it, but after just an hour, he huffs and turns to show you a small greenhouse, raised beds and all.

“Damn. Guess you weren’t kidding,” you marvel.

This is sturdier than you were thinking, and he hadn’t even touched the pile of semi-broken windows you were thinking you’d have to wrangle with.

“These sensors can scan the materials around and then give you simple instructions to follow for buildin’ whatever you need. Don’t need more than half a brain for it, and if there’s problems with readin’, there’s a settin’ for mostly pictures for the instructions, though it ain’t perfect.”

“Whatever I need?” you ask, intrigued.

“Well, within reason, of course. Residential plots, agricultural needs, industrial set ups for scavengin’,”

“They can help us scavenge?”

“Absolutely!”

You stare him down.

“So. I hate to be a pessimist here,” you say, smirking at Preston, “—but is the price the catch, or do you have a problem that needs taken care of for that there machine?”

The stranger smiles sheepishly.

“Good eye. For the moment, I only have the one sensor on me, so I can’t leave it here. But I have more in Concord, and would be mighty pleased to strike up a deal with you.”

“What’s the price?”

“We can discuss that in time—” he starts but you cut him off.

“Or we can discuss this not at all, friend. I’d like to know upfront what I’m looking at.”

Your patience was a limited resource at the moment.

“Fifty caps per sensor.”

You glance at Preston, trying to judge if that’s a fair price or not. Struggling to do the math, thanks to this morning you should have just over three-hundred caps, but you’ve yet to trade with the Abernathy’s, and fifty is still a serious fraction of that.

“You said they can do more?”

“Plenty, why don’t you scan through the options there and see for yourself before you take my word for it,” he offers, placatingly.

You glanced at the greenhouse. It’s what you need. With the crops the Abernathy’s will hand off, you could have the starts of food production, here. But you aren’t sure the value of caps quite yet. You could at least get a couple sensors and see how it goes. If nothing else than to get a few more greenhouses up, it’d be worth it.

You peruse the tech and make up your mind.

“Hey, stranger,” you call out, “I understand we can’t keep it, but I’ll meet you in Concord later. We have an appointment to make today, and then I need some sleep. Your pipboy have the time?”

He smiles.

“I’ve got just bout noon, now.”

“Jeez, not even noon. Yeah, my clock reads the same. That’s good. If it works with you, I can come by Concord tomorrow morning, round 9:30 if that’s not too early? I’d like to sleep on it before we decide.”

He sends a soft smile your way and nods.

“Sounds good, Slick. I’ll see you then.”

The man turns to start gathering his gear, and you feel a flush of shame.

“Hey. Take and fill up any bottles you’ve got at our pump before you go. As thanks for the demonstration.”

His eyebrows raise and his face relaxes just a hint.

You turn back towards you house and head to your bathroom. Codsworth had kindly refilled the pail in here, so you were able to bathe. The skin on your thigh was pink and tender, but no longer bled. You ought to ask if the Abernathy’s have some type of moisturizer in case it split. You glance down at the damaged vault suit. Maybe Mama Murphy can have a go at it before you decide to retire it. It would work well as a base layer at least, if she can manage a handsewn hem on the stretchy material.

You throw the rag into the tub, a problem for later you, and switch into fresh, undamaged clothes. You’d gathered a few more pieces of armor, including a chest piece off the raider Codsworth… dealt with. You’d managed to wipe off most of the blood. You’d taken out the bobby pins and shook out your hair to let it airdry, you shouldn’t have any locks to pick on the errand run to the farm. The sun is still high, but you ought to put on a sweater before leaving for the farm, incase the weather drops.

You’re sitting in the sun sipping your Nuka Cherry as Preston comes up to you.

“Feeling alright?” he asks.

“As dandy as I can be. Give me another minute to finish my soda and then we’ll bring the good news to the Abernathy’s.”

“About that…” he starts and you lean back to look up at him.

“Are you alright?” you ask, and you see his shoulders inch up.

“Could we talk?”

Your stomach drops a moment, but you tell yourself to stay calm.

“We are talking, but come-on. Let’s go inside. You’ve got the air of a couch-conversation going on.”

“You going to see that guy out in Concord tomorrow?” he asks, once you’re both seated on some form of upholstery.

“Yeah. I’m thinking at least two of those sensors should help us in getting the food set up. We’ll see what the haul is after we talk with the Blake and Connie. Honestly, maybe the Abernathy’s could use some of them, too. Not sure how they handle the frost with the tatos, but the melons probably won’t pull through if it freezes. Assuming it still freezes during winter.”

“Why—” he stops himself, “how are you so…”

“Be kind, I’m fragile,” you joke, but his face falls.

“How do you do it?” he asks.

“Do what…?” you ask, softly, waiting to meet his gaze.

“Keep going?” his voice is tight, and your grip strains on the glass bottle.

You sigh, a tap your knee trying to divert the building energy.

“I don’t know. I don’t have a choice.” You take a sip. “—I don’t think I’d be doing any of this if it were just for me, though.” He looks up at you from his hunched position.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I never was very good at staying motivated without external forces, if I’m honest with you. I do things better for others than for myself. Don’t see much point in doing things for myself. I know that’s not right, everyone has worth, yada yada, and I do do things I like, hell I’m easily distracted, but getting through hard shit? I’ve never been good at doing that just for me,”

Breathe, you’re rambling.

“But helping us like this—”

“Is keeping me moving, Preston. If I stop… I don’t know if… I can’t stop, Preston. Maybe things are delayed, maybe this is all a distraction. But it’s progress in some fashion, somehow. And I just have to cling onto that until I find my next break. These ASAMs can get you all moving closer to self-sufficiency. Helping out the Abernathy’s is a roundabout way towards that same goal. Once that happens, you aid you would lead me to Diamond City. If this place is self-sufficient—if I am—then that means profit, and that means money to pay off the information guy there, and to buy whatever guns and armor and bullets I need to, to take down whoever broke my family apart. I have to keep moving or I’m either going to lose my mind, or go blind with rage and self-destruct, and neither of those get Shaun back and into a safe environment. I’m going to try my damnedest to do all I can on my own, but very clearly, it’s going to be easier with help. And people don’t just help for nothing.”

He leans back to stare you down.

“You did.”

You don’t know how to respond to that. Your cheek twitches and you purse your lips. You exhale slowly, willing the tics down, and drink more. Tell yourself it’s just the carbonation that is making your throat tight.

He’s wrong. I didn’t, and I just told him so. He can’t see that. He doesn’t see how close I am to ripping myself apart the moment I can’t see an answer to problem in front of me.

“General, I think we ought to get moving,”

You jolt to look up at him, to see who he’s talking to, but Preston is just staring back at you.

“General’s a weird nickname, ‘Ton.”

“It’s a title, not a nickname,” he says, resolutely.

“General, of—”

“You said it was my choice whether or not you were a Minuteman. Well, I’ve made my decision.  The one good thing about being the last Minuteman is there’s no one to argue with me when I say you’re the new General.”

“But you can’t just—”

“I believe it was you who said I had the right to make any Minutemen decisions,” he’s smirking.

“I didn’t even say I would—” his face falls and you stop.

“If you need to be convinced, I’ll fight to do it, but there’s no way in hell there’s anyone better to be running the Minutemen than you.”

“That’s—” that’s a lot.

He had told you about what the Minutemen stood for, and what they fell for. And it’s a lot. A lot of expectation, a lot of responsibility. Or maybe… it isn’t. Preston’s the last of them, and you two have been working well together. This seems to mean a lot to him, and you’ve made your own goals and needs as clear as you can. And… well… most of those goals do go hand-in-hand, don’t they? You need Sanctuary as a home base, need it safe, need it to prosper. You want a better world to raise your nephew in, and isn’t this just one way towards that? If he doesn’t want to believe you when you say it to his face, then what can you do? Let him put you on a pedestal if he’s so willing.

“So does that make you Lieutenant Garvey? I’m not sure on rank order,” his smile is beaming, and at least for now, it feels like the right thing to do.

Chapter Text

Blake Abernathy cried silently while his wife howled, and Lucy hugged you when you presented them the locket.

“We killed ten of them, and cleared the station. I’m not sure if any of them were out, but we have a… guard… stationed there, so any stragglers we missed should be handled, or run-off. They won’t be bothering you anymore.”

“We didn’t think—” Blake start, until Connie cuts him off.

“Thank you. The Minutemen are back, and they have our support. Come inside, let me gather some things for you,” her grip is warm but strong as she leads you in, your Red Rocket wagon dragging behind you.

As you wait at the table awkwardly for your supplies to be loaded in the wagon, you see a ham radio.

“Do you mind?” you ask, pointing to it. Connie waves you off and you approach it.

Lucy enters and you catch her attention.

“Do you use this for anything?”

“I mean we could probably sell you it, if you want. Mary… was the one who fiddled around with it. We have the radio to pick up Diamond City’s broadcast, so it’s not like we really need this.”

“No, no, not to buy it, just, do you use this to communicate with anyone?” she shrugs and gives a noncommittal shake, and walks off.

“Hey, Preston—”

. . .

You tear out the paper you scribbled basic radio rules onto—including most of the international phonetic alphabet, give or take a few letters you don’t remember—leaving it by the microphone once you explain to the Abernathy’s.

“We have a radio beacon being set up at Sanctuary. I’ll tune us to this frequency and send out a test message. If it gets here, then we can be in communication, so that if something comes up, either of us can send a message.”

Blake and Lucy look unconvinced, but Connie nods. It’s a start.

The trip back has you and Preston taking turns to drag the wagon up the hill and over the bumpy ground, discussing radio protocol. You weren’t in the military, Martin had been into pirate radio. After the annexation, it became all the more real, and you helped set up a few simple kits and listened into some illicit broadcasts. Most of it was just information, keeping up on news that the mainstream media wasn’t sharing: where pop-up soup kitchens would be; small zones for handing out pamphlets; lists of friendly stores and businesses. It didn’t feel like you were doing much, but it was a relief to know that there were people out there who thought like you did—who didn’t agree with how their governments were running and were working to combat it.

The same run-down goes much smoother with Sturges.

“I thought I was in right trouble with ya there for a minute,” he starts when you ask him about the beacon, rubbing his neck as he smiles.

“Oh no, you were, but I’ll admit I was a bit cranky. Consider your punishment coming with me to Concord and hauling that power armor back up here to get fixed.”

“Didn’t you say you’d let me use the other fusion core you found? And that’s my punishment?” you nod.

“Aren’t you a treat,” he leans a little closer, “—maybe I ought to do something to see what a real punishment from you would be,” he smirks and flutters his eyelashes, and you feel half of the blood in your body rush to your face, and the other half… else-where.

You splutter and break his gaze.

“Well, uhm, once we confirm with the Abernathy’s that we have range for that, we’ll set up the beacon on a standalone frequency with a repeating welcome message. Connie said she’d talk with the next caravans that we’re here in case any of them are open to side trading. The spare ham radio and receiver will stay tuned to their channel and kept running, so that if there’s a problem, for either of us, we’re all kept in the loop.”

You feel the flush subsiding as you push business. Sure, he’s nice to look at. And listen to. And the whole retro-greaser-slash-grease-monkey thing he’s got going really floats your boat, but no need to A) risk drama with the first group of people you meet, B) find out the hard way what the modern-day wasteland thinks of trans people, or C) have to ask what forms of STI protection have survived, let alone backup contraceptives considering with your luck, perhaps the radiation has undone your tubal ligation.

Besides, you’re not even sure he’s serious about the flirting. But it is fun, at least. And—the devil as your witness—you could use some fun.

It’s only late afternoon by the time everything is said and done, but you told the stranger tomorrow morning, and you’re crashing, hard. You see Codsworth as you head inside. Sturges saw to him while you were out at the farm, and he seems back to normal.

“Hey Codsy, you doin’ alright?” You ask.

“Yes, sir. Much better. Mister Sturges here topped me back up with some adequate fuel. Might I get you anything?”

“Naw, bud, I’m fine. Actually, I’m going to lie down for a bit. I’ll eat after I get up.”

“Yes, sir,” he says softly, “sleep well.”

You yawn, “thanks Cods.”

Daylight filters in through the gaps in the walls, but as opposed to your attempts at night, or perhaps just due to the cumulative exhaustion, you fall asleep.

The nap runs long, and you wake heavy and dazed. It’s dark out, and cold. Your pipboy reads 2a.m. You had taken off your boots and flopped on top of your sleeping bag when you first laid down, but with the sky dark and the November draft, your sweater and jeans were no longer enough. You get up, relief yourself, and toss on another sweater as you hobble to the kitchen to fish out a piece of radstag jerky as you stand looking out the doorway into the neighborhood.

There isn’t a strict guard duty roster. Thanks to Codsworth’s circuit board vigilance, anyone who feels like it can patrol or stare out from a rooftop, but nothing’s consistently organized in terms of a rotation schedule. You’ll have to check in with him about that. He doesn’t sleep, but it’s still a lot to ask of him, especially after today’s scare. Plus there should be a bell or alert system just in case.

You chew and swallow, and take out one of the notepads to write your thoughts down while working on a new piece of jerky. You lace up your boots and wander out and over to the side of the house. There were a few ladders around the settlement, and you used one to help you onto your roof, settling back against the cold metal, sprawled out under the stars.

You felt tired in a way you hated.

Helpless.

But looking up, at the wide sky… full of stars you couldn’t even see before because of the light pollution? The galaxies rippling above you with a sliver of the moon in the distance? You see the constellations you knew from before.

And here you were beneath it. The same and different. Still here.

And it was beautiful. Amidst the horrors, the pain, the hurting. Somehow, humanity couldn’t kill of beauty.

Maybe you’d feel that way about the people again someday. There were seeds there. The guarded protectiveness of Marcy. The gentle labor of Jun. The broad smile and light word of Sturges. The cackling laugh and shared knowledge of Mama Murphy. The hope of Preston, the hope that he sees in you.

Lucy’s hug played back in your mind. She knew. She knew what this was like, in a way. Seeing your oldest friend mowed down and having to push on in the aftermath. She shouldn’t have to know that. You shouldn’t have to know that.

Your chest ached. And that too, was beautiful. Nora was such a beautiful soul. If the terrible world that let so much death happen, ran on war and strife, couldn’t stop her from coming into being, from sharing her love until the end… maybe there was hope for you, yet.

You glanced upon the stars, and imagined Nora’s face when she last truly smiled.

A streak of stardust careens above. A shooting star.

Make a wish.

The collar of your sweater is wet while you climb back down from the roof. Your head throbs.

You wipe your face off with a clean rag, and empty the rest of your canteen with a gulp.

This time, you crawl into the sleeping bag. Dogmeat nudges the door open, hops up, and you hold him.

. . .

The second waking is both harder and easier. Maybe easier isn’t accurate. Quicker. You push yourself off of the floor, hip and shoulder pulsing with ache from the landing. Dogmeat stands in the doorway, head tilted looking down at you.

“You get up in the night, bud?” he gives a soft yip.

“I’m fine. Nightmares. I should get up, anyways.”

You see soft dawn light fading in through the cracks in the boards. Nearly seven in the morning.

It’s likely a touch early to wake Sturges. You’ll leave around half-eight, that should give you fifteen minutes of cushion time for your meeting, so better to let him sleep at least another thirty minutes. Though you’re not sure how long his morning ‘do takes to coif. A trickster urge to know what he looks like with bedhead peeks in, but you shut it down. You either will, or won’t, find out when you check to see that he’s up later.

You stretch, and you back pops loudly. That’s a good way to kill time. Some stretches.

You change into looser pants, but keep one of the sweaters on and try to remember as many stretches as you can. By the time you’ve done that twice, your stomach growls.

The Abernathy’s sent you back with a few melons, and you have to hold back from eating an entire one yourself. You’re dying for fiber, but you shouldn’t be selfish. Fresh produce is going to have to be a delicacy for now. Looking at the rind, you wonder if you could manage pickles from it. You’ll have to ask if any of the others know how to make vinegar, and how to use up food scraps best. You cut out as much of the white as you can, and chew it slowly, while Dogmeat chews his own piece of jerky.

Sturges is, somehow, awake and coiffed when you knock at his door at 7:30. Shame.

“Disappointed to see me, General?”

“No titles necessary unless you’re militia, Sturg. You looking to sign up?”

“If I get to call you sir, I might,” he wiggles his eyebrows.

“Don’t let Preston hear you. He’s running me into the ground with work, and I would be too happy to delegate.”

“I take it back!” he laughs, “But really, everyone’s happy to pull their weight around here. Glad that I can help out today.”

“Say that after you’ve gotten the armor back here. That suit pinches, I swear. And you’ve got more mass than me,”

“I think we wear it well, though I’m a bit more top-heavy,” he flexes and you laugh.

“I’ll work on it. Maybe I’ll start doing push-ups. Can’t have the General be that much weaker than his civilians,”

“Oh, I look forward to that. Let me know if you need a work-out buddy. I used to have some weights back in Quincy,” his smirk drops as he remembers.

“Actually,” you say sincerely, “that’d be great. I do seriously want to bulk up a bit, and I trust you know your stuff.” This time, he’s the one that flushes.

“Oh. Yeah. That’d be good. Probably should get Jun in on it as well, though I think he might be more suited to cardio. But it’d give him something to do,” he rambles, “well, anyway, are you ready to head out?”

“Oh, yeah, but we still have a little time before we have to go if you need to eat or anything,” you say, petting Dogmeat.

“Why don’t we head out early? I wanted to take a glance through that Red Rocket along the way, if you don’t mind?”

“Sure. I’ll go tell Codsworth and Preston we’re setting out.”

The caps in your bag jingle slightly as you walk. You’d taken one hundred and twenty of them to force a budget. You’d tried to pay the Abernathy’s more for all the produce they loaded into the wagon, but you only managed to shove 30 over to Lucy before Blake shoo’ed you and Preston away, refusing any more.

As Sturges searches the fuel station, you fiddle with your pipboy. Tuning over to the frequency of your beacon, you grimace at the sound of your own voice. It’s higher pitched than you wish it were. It’s not as bad as it used to be, and at least your voice doesn’t crack anymore—usually—but you should pay more attention and pitch it down a bit when meeting new people.

You’ve also been holding back on some of your standard flamboyancy—not that you’d felt much reason to be playful given the circumstances—but considering Sturges has been flirting with you pretty directly and openly, and none of the others seem to mind, maybe you can relax a bit more around them.

You flick the dial to scan through the other stations when you hear a tinny, whiny voice mumbling, followed by a soft jazzy song playing. Oh, this must be the station Lucy mentioned. It’s a nice song. You don’t know it, but the singer has a lovely rich voice, and it’s a good quality for even the weak signal. The whiny announcer comes back on and stumbles something about that being by a ‘Magnolia.’ It was stupid of you not to think that music was still being made. You just hadn’t… thought of it. Instrument backing, recording hardware, professional broadcasting equipment, it was so much more advanced than what you were dealing with here. It was real city living stuff. There had the not only be the tech, but the organization for it; businesses and funding and regulation, not just backwater shanties eking out day-by-day.

A glimmer of society. Community. Art. Your mind races.

Can people make a living playing music nowadays? Are there still theatres, too? There’s going to be oral story-telling, sure, but are there still productions?

What if they don’t know the classics. Would they still like Shakespeare? Did you even like Shakespeare? But a modern rendition could probably still entertain. Though the slang and euphemisms probably need updating outside of your knowledge. Have dialects shifted that much? Clearly there’s vocabulary you’re missing, but you’ve been picking up most of it naturally, and they understand you well enough when you talk. Preston filled you in on plenty those first few days, but how are they supposed to know what you don’t?

“You good there, sport?” Sturges calls out, closer thank you expected, and you jump.

“Ew, ‘sport’?”

“Yeah, it was weird, sorry chief,”

“You could call me by my name, you know.”

“Oh sure, but you’ve been handing out nicknames to most of us, figured you might like the same. But Theo’s already short, so gotta find somethin’ else. What is your full name, exactly?”

“Full name basis huh? Well if I tell you, at least I’ll know if I get into trouble.”

“If? Or when?” he jabs you lightly with his elbow and you shove him back, moving him not-at-all.

“It’s Theodore Oliver Berwick,”

“Oliver?”

“Yeah. My parents had a thing for food names, so I guess Dogmeat still fits in. My sister’s middle name’s Rosemary. Oh god wait do either of those still exist? Is there still rosemary?”

“Uh, yeah I’ve heard of olives, but what's rosemary taste like?”

“Like… rosemary? How do you describe an herb to someone… oh god what seasonings are left now? If you ever find a bottle of hot-sauce or a jar of spices at any point, please, please, scream.” you grab onto his arms, trying to convey how fucking serious you are about this.

“Woah there pal, we got seasonings, we aren’t barbaric. I just don’t know ‘em all. Ma Murphy told you she’d write down edible plants, but I’m sure she knows herbs too. That can go in an appendix.”

“Right. Right…” you release him and settle down as the radio changes songs to one you do know.

The nostalgia sharpens, and you turn off the radio.

“Hey Olive, we still got plenty of time, don’t we?”

You stop, and smile softly at the name.

Your sister called you that.

“Yeah, Sturg, we still got like an hour, why?”

“Why don’t we search through the kitchens of these houses and see if we can’t find you some seasonings?”

You sniff as you blink, nose starting to run. Your voice cracks as you reply.

“Yeah, Sturg. That sounds nice.”

Five houses and 6 radroaches later, you’ve managed a small collection. Most are salt blends, which actually might hold up better to the test of time, but you’ve found the odd jar and packet that rattle and bump around in your duffle. You pull the bandana you’d found down off your face and shout out to Sturges on the second floor.

“Hey, we ought to head back towards the museum, it’s almost time. I think that guy’s shop is around there.”

You pull the bandana back up as dust falls from the ceiling as Sturges stomps back down the stairs.

“Gotcha. Hey, Theo, what’s that guy’s name anyway?”

You pause.

“I think I did a bad job at introductions, Sturg.”

“Ah, well then, so did he. What kinda salesman don’t introduce himself?”

You laugh.

“You know what, yeah. So did he. Now let’s go, I don’t want to add ‘being late’ to my growing list of social faux-pas.”

“Faux-pas? Wait do you know Cajun?” his turn to be excited.

“Cajun? Like Louisiana French? I mean I’ve heard bits of it, fun accent, but no, I know French. Do you know it?”

“My Nan spoke Cajun. She moved a long ways away from the south before my momma was born, and then we all moved to Boston when I was little. I don’t know it, not anymore, just a few words here and there. But damn, you really know another language?”

“I doubt it’s all too useful now. But yeah. I… I spent time outside of Boston. It was my sister who settled here, but I moved north. I spoke French for work, too. I know some sign language, but that’s rusty by now,” you pause as you approach the corner store by the museum, “—hey you think this is his shop?”

You hear rustling and then mumbling and clang as metal hits the ground.

“Hello?” Sturges calls out, approaching.

“Oh hey! Hey! Yeah, in here, one second,” Sturges steps inside and you follow, “need any help there, fella?”

The stranger is laid on the floor, looking up at the foot of a protectron, sat on a chair, and you bark a laugh at the scene as Sturges smiles.

The man quickly scuttles up from the floor and dusts himself off.

“Ah, you’re early—” he glances at his pipboy, “or I just lost track of time, actually. Look at that, right on-time.”

“Didn’t want you to wait. Might have made it out yesterday evening, but it had been a long day.”

You hold your hand out to shake his. He grabs it, and as he does you speak again.

“Theodore Basil Berwick. I believe I forgot a formal introduction in the thick of it yesterday.”

He has a solid hand, fairly calloused but somehow still soft.

“Oh pardon me, Jake Evans.” He gives you a shake, and Sturges follows suit.

“Well, nice to properly meet you both. Berwick, huh? As in General Berwick on that new radio loop?”

“Ah, yes. The same,” you cough and try to pitch your voice a hair lower, but stop when Sturges gives you a smirk, “Commonwealth Minutemen.”

You feel silly. It’s a title in name only, and a fresh one to boot, but perhaps it’ll help in business dealings to seem like you have weight to throw around.

“Well, honored to be doing business with ya, General,” he nods, “now about that…” he shuffles over to a cardboard box.

“Yes you said 50 apiece, was that right?”

“Yes, though if you put in a bulk order, I’m sure we can bring that price down.”

“One sensor per plot? And each sensor can do residential, agricultural, or industrial guides for construction?”

“With ease,”

“What else can they do?”

For a moment your mind flits to a radio booth, or a theatre stage. Put it aside. Get to Diamond City, first.

“Excuse me?”

“Well, I looked through the industrial options. Honestly, salvage is good, but how much does it help us? Sure it looks like we might be able to boost production at the front-end, but is there a next stage? You said something about another model that partnered with Vault-Tec, can that one do more?”

Jake looks astounded by your questions. You hope he hasn’t always been a salesman, because he seems a little out of the water.

“You want… more?”

“Well, yes? I want to know the extent of it. I’m still interested in buying a few, I had planned on two as a trial, but if the sensor only manages one plot, we can double that so we can test how the scrap yield goes with the industrial mode, but if these machines can do more, I might be swayed towards a future bulk order. But if this is one of those rackets where we have to pay a subscription fee to keep using them, or there’s a paywall for half of the plot options after a trial use, I am not interested. If I buy, I buy to own, I’m not looking to rent unless there’s a shared benefit.”

Even Sturges is staring at you now. You start to sweat. You probably did something wrong. You’ve just suggested he might be trying to scam you, that’s rude, isn’t it?  You think you were polite enough, but maybe business dealings still need more of the small-talk stuff. Did you make too much eye contact? Not enough?

“Sorry if that was blunt,” you say, looking at the floor.

“No, no, no, no apologies needed there Slick.”

At the nickname you glance back up at him, and he looks pleased, and continues.

“It’s just most people I have to give ‘em a hard sell, explain how these ASAMs can really help, and they’re only focused on the real foundations of surviving, not that there’s nothin’ wrong with that. But if you’re really interested in puttin’ these puppies to the test, I can half that price for ya. I used to give out the first sensor for free to the people I met, but it seems like the tech’s too complicated for most to bother with anything past the food plots, so I started just bringing the one and doing the demo myself. Most times, people go for the simplest shelter plan and call it a day. I haven’t even gotten to do a demonstration of a full industrial plot, yet, so it thrills me to even have ya askin’ about it!”

He seems genuinely enthused, but something isn’t quite adding up.

“How are you making money if you’re just giving them out and halving the price all willy-nilly?”

He rubs the back of his neck and Sturges gives him the eye as you wait for an answer.

“Well, I’m not, really. Making that many caps. Yet!”

Your suspicions grow.

“Listen here, I really do believe in these devices, it’s just that most people haven’t really cared so far. Ya said yerself, it’s late into the season for the agricultural plots. And the area’s more… turbulent than I thought. People lookin’ to make new homes are worried ta spend too much time workin’ on ‘em in the case they get kicked out… And the industrial plots are really somethin’ but most folks are farmers or traders and don’t wanna bother. But these devices are so much more. We could rebuild this place, make it someplace special. Prosperous—” he catches himself, “—Don’t mean to proselytize.”

So he might be greedy, but working the long-game, or an idealist. He’s definitely sure of the product, either way. You can work with that.

“Do you really think these things can do all that?”

“If I can just convince enough people, yeah. Yeah I do.”

“Well… you’re starting to convince me. Against what should be better judgment. You said you’d bring the price down on a bulk order, how much are ya talkin’? We don’t have much.”

You don’t mean to mimic his accent, but it slips in. Sturges’ accent is lighter, but being around two southerners? The drawl seeps in.

He smiles, wide.

“Let me come back out to Sanctuary and build you an industrial plot. If you like it, I’ll sell you a box of twenty for 200 caps.”

Now that’s a fifth of the original price, isn’t it? He more than halved it again. Well, you haven’t agreed to that many, yet, and he’ll set up an industrial plot…

“We’ve only got about a hundred caps budgeted out. But you set that demo one up, and I’ll see what my lieutenant thinks. I can only agree to ten sensors at that rate, for now.”

“You got yourself a deal, General Berwick, but you’ll want the lot, I’ll prove it to ya,”

The title still throws you, and Sturges catches it.

“Ah, no need for all the formalities, Slick here doesn’t love the full title outside of officers. Makes it all business, no pleasure, ya dig?” he slings his arm around Jake as you flush.

“If Mr. Evans wants to be formal, we can be formal. Sturges, leave him be.” You straighten up and try to feel less silly about it all.

“Ah, just Jake’s fine with me, Slick,”

“Atta-boy!” Sturges claps his shoulder and steps back when you notice the radio on the table.

“Mister Ev… Sorry. Jake. Is that a ham radio, by chance?”

. . .

You tune to the frequency you’d been using and pick up the receiver.

“Sierra-One, Sierra-One, this is Tango Bravo. Come in, over.”

You wait a minute before rebroadcasting.

“Sierra-One, Sierra-One, this is Tango Bravo on a radio check, come in, over.”

You hear a crackle, and back to the neutral static, then a shaky voice comes through.

“Uh, this is… Juliet, Juliet Lima at Sierra-One. We read you.”

The static returns before a rushed “Over!” comes through. You sigh and chuckle a little with only, a hint of embarrassment before continuing.

“Roger that, Juliet Lima, take it easy. Is Papa Golf nearby, over.”

There’s a pause in the signal.

“Uh, Papa Golf? is a little busy, right now. Over.”

“Busy?” you whisper to yourself and hang your head. So much for looking professional. With another sigh, you press the receiver.

“Juliet Echo, is Sierra-One all clear, or is there a problem, over.”

“Not a problem, I think—” you hear shuffling before Marcy comes through.

“—Your damn signal is making us new friends. They’re you’re problem when you get back. Over.”

You sigh. Maybe you were a little heavy-handed with the radio etiquette.

“Copy that. Sturges and I are headed-back with a friend. Over and out.”

You stand up and pinch the bridge of your nose.

“Hey, don’t beat yourself up there, Theodore! Marcy even used ‘over’!” He claps an arm around you.

“We need to chat about radio rules. These aren’t walkie-talkies. The Abernathy’s might have heard that broadcast.” You rub your temple.

“Ah, the Abernathy’s ain’t full Minutemen, neither are the Longs. Take it easy on ‘em.”

Jake coughs in the corner.

“Right, sorry about that. Thanks for letting me use your radio. I’ve left it on our frequency, if you ever need to send word. Unless you have a callsign, with your initials you’d be Juliet Echo, and Concord would be Charlie-One. We’re denoting all places with ‘one’ since there are a few repeat initials. But don’t feel pressed to follow the etiquette, it’s hardly obligatory, clearly.”

“Juliette Echo? Don’t tell me I gotta worry about a Romeo out there,” he jokes, but you light up.

“Wait you know Shakespeare?” you’re floored. So plays are still around!

“Damn, Teddy, you that into stories? Everyone knows about Romeo and Juliette. Not sure what Shakespeare is, though,” Sturges mumbles.

“Shakespeare’s the writer. He’s the one that came up with that one. He had a few, didn’t he? Real old. You into pre-war stuff? Your vault have a good library?”

At the mention of the vault you remember to close-up a bit. It was difficult and weird enough explaining things to the others back at Sanctuary. No need to open up that can of worms on a business trip.

“Yeah, something like that. I’ve. I’ve read a lot. Just excited to know that theatre’s not dead out here.”

“Well, I hope it ain’t, but I couldn’t say, recent local and all.”

“I guessed, but didn’t want to pry. Your accent’s quite different.”

“You talk a mite strange yourself, but I just figured it was a vault thing,”

You wince again at the mention, but this time Jake notices.

“Oh, don’t mean to bring up any bad memories there, Slick,”

“No harm, no foul. Let’s just get back to Sanctuary, hey? Here’s the 100 caps.” You dig out two small cloth sacks from your duffel bag, each with fifty caps.

“Ah, don’t worry ‘bout it Slick. Payment’s after. Besides, I’m still trying to upsell you another ten,” he winks and slides a box off the counter and into his arms.

“Oh, if that’s heavy, you can have Sturges carry it—” you begin, but Jake looks mildly affronted.

“While it’s polite, I hauled a lot more here all on my lonesome, don’t you worry—”

“Ah!” you giggle, realizing the miscommunication and quickly trying to clarify, digging the fusion core out of your bag, “—Sturges? Show-time. No, I can see you’re plenty strong Mr. Evans. But we’ve got power armor,” and it’s your turn to wink.

. . .

“I can’t believe you managed to find a set of weights and a bench in that garage, Sturg. We can get our gym set up by nightfall!” you say, readjusting your goggles as the sun shone brightly down.

“‘Our’ gym! Why, you be careful there, fella. Might just see a future together,”

“Ah, you better believe it, Sturgy. You won’t be getting rid of me that easily with such a lucrative franchise in the works. You can be the brawn, and I’ll be the brains and the brawn.”

“Not if I don’t spot you, Theo. I got enough brain here to see you trying to give me the short end of the stick! I’ll have you know I’m more than just my rippling muscles and fine tinkering capabilities,”

“And your beautiful hair that you refused to put the helmet on for.”

“And risk messin’ up this ‘doo? Not a chance. But I’ll have you know I also have a gigantic heart. Room for plenty, in there,” he smiles and winks at you, then Jake.

“You two get on like a house on fire, doncha?” Jake chuckles.

“Depends on who’s the house and who’s the fire,” he chimes.

“I call fire! Besides, he’s built like a house anyway,” you stick your tongue out at him as he turns.

“Well thanks hot-stuff,” he jests, and you laugh.

It’s the most lighthearted you’ve felt, joking around with him.

“Been on the road together, long? If ya don’t mind my askin’” Jake adds.

“Ah,” the mood sobers as you pass the Red Rocket. You look down at the helmet in your hands, “Just fast-friends actually.” Sturges turns to you and smiles.

“This one here popped outta a vault and started savin’ the world,”

Though the sincerity with which he says it floors you, your stomach twists in guilt. You want to refute him, but don’t know how, and you’re trying hard not to snap at him for it.

“Slaying deathclaws, building-up settlements, that sounds about right from where I’m standin’,” Jake adds and you decide to try to distract with a joke, itching at the height of the rising pedestal.

“I’m actually planning on world domination. I’ll build up settlements of different theatre troupes, and we’ll tour the wasteland performing different plays and musicals, vanquishing the evils of this land with the power of art,”

“Musicals? That like a play?”

You laugh once, before the reality comes back. It wasn’t a joke.

“Oh. Yeah. Musicals are a type of play, but instead of just talking and acting, people sing and dance, too. It’s… silly.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, nearly breaking skin. You are not going to cry in front of another stranger, let alone someone else you’ve only know a handful of days, about musicals of all things.

A moment passes, footfalls the only sound, when Jake pipes up.

“Well, it makes sense. People love stories, people love music. Why not have both at once?”

You let out an exhale you didn’t notice you were holding.

“Yeah,”

“You ever been in one of them?” asks Sturges, looking down as you kindly, curiously.

“A musical? No. Well, technically? Yes, once. But I was just a background dancer, and it wasn’t a professional show, just a school production, years ago. But I’ve been in a few plays. Also small things, though. Black-box theatres, you know? The audience for those couldn’t have been more than forty either time, tops,”

“Forty? And that’s not a professional venture?”

You flush.

“No, really, it’s not that impressive—”

“Shucks, of course it is! The crowds for a band down at the Sanford lounge couldn’t have been more than 50 on a full night, and half the people there were only there to drink!”

“That where you’re from?” you see a chance to switch the conversation away from yourself.

“Yeah…” Jake trails off, uncomfortable.

You want to ask how far away that is, try to place his accent, but he might not know what the old region’s state name was, nor why you should care. Here was the Commonwealth. People must have forgotten the full phrase, and dropped the ‘Massachusetts’. It is easier to spell, now.

Instead you let yourself continue walking in curious silence.

The bridge is just ahead, and as you near it, Preston crosses.

“General,” he greets you, “there’s a new settler that’s shown up. A man named Paul? He’s causing a bit of a commotion.”

“Grand. Thanks, Lieutenant,” you say, trying to keep up appearances, but Preston straightens up, taller. Maybe he needs appearances more than the no-longer-stranger does.

Sturges steps off with Preston to get out of the armor, and you approach the small crowd over by your house. It’s come to be the central hub of the area, with the radio beacon across the street, and most of your chosen shelters surrounding it.

Well, at least this time, Marcy doesn’t have her gun pointed at someone.

“She always this friendly?” Jake whispers to you, but you call out to the others.

“Excuse me, is there a problem here?”

“Finally. You deal with this geezer,” Marcy stomps away.

“I guess I’m glad to know it wasn’t just me,” Jake mutters and you smirk.

The old man walks towards you, looking frustrated, but not hostile. Dogmeat sits off on the side, watching. Relaxed.

“Well, finally. You the man in charge here?”

“In a way. What were you talking to Marcy about?”

“Well she didn’t want to help me find a spot ta set up my new place!”

“Your new place?”

“Well yeah! This is the place with the radio message talking about a new settlement, ain’t it!”

“Uh, yes, sir. Paul, was it? Yes, this is Sanctuary. Did you hear our broadcast?”

“That’s Old Paul to you, sonny. And I did! Heard your message and thought that it was about time for me to settle down!”

“… Old Paul… we do have plenty of room, but we could use some helping hands to make sure everyone stays fed. Can you tell me what you’re good at, and we can find a place for you?”

You’re a bit hesitant on jumping aboard the ‘open-arms’ welcome, but you did put that message out, and you should have expected this to happen. Just not so quickly. Or enthusiastically, you admit.

“Why I’m a scavver! Used to do other things as well, but that’s a tale for another day, I’d say!”

“Oh, well that sounds like my time to shine, if you don’t mind, Slick?” Jake looks at you, waiting for your approval.

“Oh, right, knock yourself out. Over there should be fine.”

Jake steps up and starts talking to the old man, and you watch as he flourishes his way through his explanation again. But once he starts up the sensor, things start looking a bit different. The machine beeps and Jake reads the screen with a bit more interest, this time. A shack is quickly set up, stations sorted, and before long a hut for breaking down and organizing scrap is set up.

“Now that’s a mighty handy device you got there, son,” Old Paul starts.

“The shack might not look all that impressive, but the sensor here also keep a log of what materials are nearby, and it can tell you the basic components that you bring in. It might suggest reorganizing the storage bins if you start bringing in a lot of a certain type of material, but for now, it’s tracking wood, steel, concrete, screws, and adhesive.”

“That’s it? It just notices what we bring into it? What good is that?” Marcy snipes.

“No, that’s not all. It keeps a log of roughly how much of each material there is, and once you get enough of things in there, it can pair up with another ASAM to help you build somethin’ else!”

“Well, I’ll say you put that shack up right quick, youngin. How many times you done that before?”

“Oh, actually, that was my first time with an industrial layout—”

“Why if you got one of those that helps with house buildin’ I could make myself a whole new place right now! And work in that scavvin’ shack, no sweat!”

You cough to get their attention.

“Uh, Old Paul, why don’t you go ahead and tinker in that scavenging set up. I’d like to know if you think that ASAM helps you out much on that front. As for a house, we have several other options down that ways of still-standing houses if you’d like. If one of those suits you, there’s no need to spend your time building a new one when we can get working on more pressing fronts,”

You spot Preston off to the side and catch his sight.

“Lieutenant, if you would follow me. Mister Evans, we’ll call you in shortly. Make yourself comfortable. Again, the well is for use if you’re thirsty. Thank you for setting up that station.”

You see him flash a tight smile as you turn away.

At the table, you look to Preston.

“What do you think, Garvey?”

“Of the old coot, or Evans?”

“Moreso Evan’s tech. He offered a bulk deal of twenty sensors for two hundred caps, but I’ve only agreed to ten at that rate so far. That’s more than we were expecting to get, but at the same price we’d already budgeted. I’m not sold on the ‘industrial’ part, but the agricultural ones would be a big help, and we can test out the scrapping with the spares,”

“That’s still a fair amount of your caps, are you sure?”

“Of our caps, that I wouldn’t have been able to gather without your help, so I don’t want to make a large purchase without your input. What’s your outlook on this?”

“General, if you think it’s worth it, I agree. I can see us putting them to good use. It will speed up farm set up, which we need, but I don’t know about Evans. He seems awfully keen on getting those devices spread around, and not too worried about the profit. Not that I’d like him much if he were a cap-hungry pusher, either.”

“You don’t think it’s a trap, do you? Bombs or something?”

“Bombs? No, that seems extensive. And I don’t know what trap this could be playing into. Build us up, to what? The effort to get us to set something up, just to come and try to steal it? Maybe to make other settlements a lure, indirectly protecting your own? But why bother with that when you could build up twice the houses or farms in the same amount of time, and with a lot less effort or risk, if you just used these things yourself?”

“He doesn’t seem like a raider or anything. Do you know where Sanford is?”

“Sanford? Huh… I’ve heard that before, but it’s way out to the southwest. Is that where he’s from?”

“Yeah. Didn’t get much more than that, seemed like a sore subject, and I’d be a pot to a kettle if I pushed on that front. But do you think he could be running from something?”

“It’s a possibility. I don’t like it. My gut says he isn’t telling the whole truth, but it seems like too good of a deal to pass up. We need to get those greenhouses set up as quickly as possible if we hope to have a harvest during the winter—”

“Uhm, excuse me—” you hear Jake call from outside.

You’ve made up your mind.

“Come on in Jake,” you shout back.

There’s a soft rap of knuckles on the door before he opens it and steps in.

“Nice place, Slick.”

Well, he’s polite.

“Thank you. Please, sit.”

He takes a seat.

“Did you need something to eat or drink?” you offer, matching his hospitality.

“Oh, no, no, I’m fine thank you,” he waves his hands slightly, “—Did you have any questions for me about the ASAMs?”

“We did,” you say, and see him fix another smile to his face, but it feels strained.

“Well, shoot, Slick. Happy to help.”

“Are you going to be in Concord for long?” you ask, and his mask flickers.

“If you don’t mind my asking, why?” his tone seems light.

“My Lieutenant and I are just trying to work out why you’re so keen on selling us these.”

“Well, like I said earlier at the shop—”

“Who else have you sold these devices to?” Preston juts in.

“Ah, if you’re wantin’ some customer reviews, I can happily say I’ve got three other homesteads in the Commonwealth that have already found use for ASAMs. I’m not sure I should go out handing past client’s addresses out to each prospective party, out of respect for their privacy, but I can assure you of their satisfaction,”

You shift your bag and take out the two sacks of caps and slide them over.

“Look, Mister Evans. We’ll take the ten like I promised, but we’re going to wait to see if the industrial plot is a good fit. We’re going to get some more greenhouses set up right away, then test out a few more of the industrial types, and if we have any questions, we know where to find you. Do you have a base frequency you leave your radio on? Since we know the signal covers the distance, we can give you a ring if any of us come out to avoid a trip for nothing if you’re not there.”

You thought he would have looked crestfallen, given how hard he was trying to sell off a complete box of them, but he looks overjoyed.

“Yes, I can write down my frequency. Heck, you could just save it in your pipboy, too. But that’s fantastic, Slick. Ten sensors for now, but you’ll see! They’re mighty useful,”

“Look, you’ve already sold us. Why don’t you work on that industrial plot pitch a bit more for the next group.”

“Or the next time you stop by,” he smiles. Determined.

That earns a chuckle from you at least.

“You’re dogged, I’ll grant you that. And Dogmeat likes you, so I’m predisposed to give you the benefit of the doubt. Look, if you’re really trying to help people out like you said you are? There’s a farm over to the west, about an hour’s pace. The route’s quite clear, it’s been safe the last two times we’ve trekked it. There’s a family out there that might be interested in those devices. Our radio reaches that far, though I’m not sure if it connects from Concord to them direct. But let me send a message their way and let them know if you’re coming.”

You rustle into another cap bag, and pull out a handful and count out ten caps, and push them his way.

“Trusting that you sold these ones to us at a rate of ten apiece, leave your ‘demo’ ASAM with them this time. If they decide to buy more later, they can relay that to us here, and we’ll send the message along.”

“Slick, that’s,” he looks stunned for a moment before he wrangles back on his customer service smile, “that’s mighty kind of you.”

You stand up and extend a hand, and he shakes it enthusiastically, gripping yours with both of his own.

“You’re welcome in Sanctuary whenever you pass through here, Mister Evans. Thank you for your business.”

“Thank you, Slick,” he turns and shakes Preston’s hand, “Thank you Lieutenant. You won’t regret this.”

“Is that a guarantee of satisfaction I hear, Evans?” you smirk.

“Oh you bet it is. I trust this product with my life, you hear.”

“Nice to see someone with passion for their work. Now not to insinuate anything, but you are good to get back home to Concord on your own, right?”

“No need to worry, I’m sure if anything was out there, they saw Sturges strutting along in that suit and ran-off. But thanks.”

“Goodbye, Evans.”

“See you next time, Slick.”

There’s a notable pep in his step even as he walks out with his half-full box of sensors.

He’s not telling the whole truth, but neither are you. Here’s hoping what you’ve heard is truthful enough.

Chapter Text

You walk over a few houses down to find where this Old Paul has settled in. It’s a few houses separate from the rest of the group, and especially from the Long’s. You see Mama Murphy seated on a chair in a surprisingly well furnished living room through the holes in the wall.

You knock against the door.

“Come in, youngin”

“Old Paul, Mama Murphy. Just checking in. Codsworth is making dinner for us all, if you’d both like to join. Marcy and Jun won’t be coming tonight, but that’s probably for the best as my dining room table is only so big.”

“No need to extend the invitation to me just to get to this fine drink of water over there,” he says winking at the woman, who bats her hand at him, but still smiles.

“I would like to talk a little shop with you, though. I’d like to ask how the scavenging plot was, and if you had any suggestions on how to improve it or if it was all that impressive. We’ve finished two more greenhouse plots, so tomorrow we should be able to set up a few more industrial plots to give ‘em a go, but if you have any input, I’m all ears,”

“Right to business, you are, huh? Don’t you forget to smell the roses. Or the fertilizer, it seems.”

You sniff at your sleeves. Eugh.

“I’ll be cleaning up and changing clothes before we eat, no worries.”

“Oh, I’ve smelt worse, sonny, don’t you mind. The lady and I will head your way shortly.”

“You’ve done good work, today, kid,” Mama Murphy smiles at you, and you leave.

You sniff your shirt again as you head home. You gotta see if there’s somehow a laundromat option in those industrial plot options.

. . .

The next day sees major construction continue at Sanctuary Hills. One more greenhouse goes up, totaling to four, and two new industrial plots get finished: one for building materials, and one later for organics. The industrial plots weren’t flashy, but honestly, they did good work. The sensors help to keep track of what goods you’ve all gathered, and advise how to break down some of the more complicated pieces. When Sturges walked by with a pipe pistol on his belt, the sensor started beeping, and even gave a rough outline for a basic grip modification.

You, Sturges, and Codsworth mess around with the modification possibilities for a while, but you don’t have the same stamina for it as those two, and end up stepping back. You’re pacing around in the late afternoon sun watching the others, not quite sure what to do, when Preston strolls up.

“Gravy,” you mock salut.

“So I’ve heard Sturges call you Teddy and Olive. What’s all that about?” He smirks.

“Oh, he asked my full name. My middle name’s Oliver. He’s just playing around.”

“That bother you?” he asks.

“The nicknames? No, I like nicknames. Except… well, maybe Olive isn’t one to be shared around.”

“You don’t like that one?”

“No, no, I do. It’s just…”

“Personal?”

“Only my sister called me that.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” You swallow sharply.

“You don’t mind me calling you ‘General’ though, do you?”

“It’s a bit formal, but good for appearances. I don’t know that we’re up to that much official Minutemen activity, but when we are, of course, General is fine.”

“Noted.”

“And you don’t mind that I call you Preston, Ton, Prest, Garv, or Gravy?”

“I won’t begrudge someone their moments of whimsy. The world could use more of it. But like you said, Theodore,” he smiles at you, “when we’re public facing? I do appreciate the title.”

“Yes, sir, Commodore Gravy, sir.” You salute him and he laughs.

It’s a nice laugh.

“I’m going to have to explain ranking order to you again, aren’t I?”

“Probably a couple dozen times. It’d be more efficient to just write down the order in my notebook.”

“Your notebook? Which one? I’ve seen you with three different ones, by now.”

“Actually, I’ve got four. Though if you ever find the yellow-covered one, no, you didn’t. My eyes only, you hear? Official order. But the others are free to rifle though, if you can manage to read them. The red cover is our logs of supplies and goals for the settlement. I’ve been trying to leave that near the radio setup so anyone can reference or update it. Blue has notes on the local wildlife and other things to know about the wasteland. And the funky-green one is for traveling. Writing down what happens when we’re out, keep track of what might need doing.”

“Damn you’re organized,”

“I wish. I’ve misplaced the red notebook three times already. I forgot I left it by the scrap shed, and it blended in with the side where that old car hood is, and I made three loops of the neighborhood before I noticed it. And good luck trying to read the wildlife notes if you need them. There’s half finished sketches, with words curving around them added wherever I could fit them on the same page. I just. I try to organize where I can. My sister was really into color coding and filing, kind of a prerequisite of surviving law school. And I taught, so I started to do the same, though my systems were a lot messier. So many folders… but those colors made sense to me like that. My pipboy’s green, that has my map, so traveling things? Green. Yellow’s my favorite color, so, personal journal. Hubflowers were the first new plant I learned about, and they’re sort of blue. Kinda purple—but I like blue better. And red like blood. The supplies that keep us alive, what we need to do to make sure that keeps going. Or like the red car hood that I lost it by. Both work.”

“I guess that works. Strange system, but it works.”

“What can I say, I’m a strange guy.”

“Well, I’m just glad you’re not a stranger anymore.”

“Oh, who know Gravy could be made from sap?” you jibe.

“Huh? Oh—did you just call me a sap?”

“Yeah-huh. Are you going to argue facts with me? I’ll have you know that truth did exist as a concept back in the old world, mind you,” you poke his shoulder.

These friendships were still fresh, but they felt nice. Quicker to bond than you expected, but risking life and limb seems to speed up the process. You still were hesitant to reveal just how badly you wanted to touch someone, so playful jostles would have to suffice to stave off the touch starvation. A memory of your sister brushing your hair flashes in your mind’s eye. No. You are supposed to be a leader here. You’re not sure how to navigate a dual superior-to-friend status, yet, nor comfortable enough to open up to that level of vulnerability. But—for a brief respite—you can steal a moment not as the General, but simply Theodore.

Preston sits quietly next to you, staring out at the fleeting daylight before he turns.

“We’ve gathered up a good amount of decent materials that we can trade with. We’ve kitted out our weapons a bit. We’re good on water, and the food supply is going to take time, but it’s in the works and we’ve got rations for a couple of days, now. The others can supplement with hunting until the plants take root. Sturges brought back that fat man of yours from the scrapyard as a hail-mary if anything were to threaten them here. That should be enough to start towards Boston.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. There’s a trader along the route we should be able to get any last supplies, less than a half-day.”

“You did good for them, Preston,”

His head hangs low, shoulders hunched.

“I led them through hell. Bad turn after bad turn… it wasn’t until you showed up that we had a chance.”

“If you want to see it that way. But without you they wouldn’t have made it to Concord. Those raiders were out for blood. You survived—there’s. God, I want to say there’s no shame in that, but I know how fake it feels,”

You drop your head down, eyes wet under the fading sun. You feel Preston’s shoulder come to rest against yours, and it’s quiet. Understanding and guilt between two survivors.

You hear a crackle on the hub radio.

“Abernathy’s to Sanctuary, Abernathy’s to Sanctuary, come in, over.”

“Well that’s close enough to proper call,” you mutter, and job to the set-up, mild worry prickling at your mind.

“This is General Berwick at Sanctuary, we read you loud and clear, over.”

“Ah, Theodore, yeah, would you mind tellin’ that ASAM guy that we’re willin’ ta buy five more of his sensors? We tried ta relay the message direct, but I don’t think it went though. Over.”

No fires. That’s good. You settle into the seat as you press the receiver.

“Roger and wilco, over,”

“It’s Blake? Blake Abernathy, actually. Over,”

“Affirmative, Blake. Roger just means that I understood. You know what, I’ll write up a new list of the radio signals and codes the Minutemen are using for you, and tell Mister Evans to pick it up and send it along when he passes through here with your sensors. Over and out.”

You sigh.

You switch the frequency over to Jake’s, and Preston waves, wandering off.

“Concord-One, Concord-One, this is Sanctuary-One, come in, over.”

After a brief pause, you hear a response come through.

“Givin’ up on that fancy alphabet you had goin’, Slick? This is Concord-One, over.”

“I wouldn’t want to break your heart if you were keen on going by Juliet, Evans. But probably better to leave it simple. Over.”

“I’m not sure how I’ll get over this travesty, but alas, we all must go on, over.”

A grin warms your face even as dusk falls. You banter a bit with the others, but save for Sturges’ ribbing, you don’t get much time to just talk. And he’s quick, funny. You get to be a bit more human for a second.

“Well, let me try to lighten your mood. The Abernathy’s want to buy five more sensors from you, over.”

“Whoooie, well don’t you know how to cheer a fella up, Slick? You think they’d mind waitin’ til the mornin’? I almost got the bot here up and runnin’ and I’d rather not hustle it back past dark, over.”

“They’ll be fine with tomorrow, I’ll let them know. Stop here on your way out if you can. I’ve got a paper to hand off for clearer radio conduct, over.”

“Can do. But do you happen to have a postman hat for me to go with the new role, Slick? Gotta make sure I’m dressed for the job. Over.”

Oh if he wants to snark, two can play at that.

“A uniform hat can be presented with the letter. Over.”

A pause on the line, and you think you hear the end of a chuckle patch through, as he replies.

“You’re not serious are you? Over.”

“Lethally. But I will pay a five cap delivery fee, if you’d rather pass on the hat. Shame, it’s vintage I’ll have you know. Regardless of attire, I would like to remind you that the facilities at Sanctuary Hill remain open to you, should you need them. Is that an enticing enough offer for the favor, over.”

“Enticing?” you jump at the sound of Sturges’ voice to find him smirking down at you, unaware you had an audience.

“You drive a hard bargain, Slick, but roger that. I should be passing by around 10 if that’s fine, over,” Jakes voice buzzes through the speaker.

Sturges snatches the receiver from your hands.

“You stop by at 9 and there could be breakfast for ya, too, hotshot. Sturges and the General at Sanctuary-One, over and out.”

“Sturges!” you smack his arm lightly.

“What? Let him see what he’s missing, and maybe he could wind up here for breakfast some other way. Besides, if he were so worried about traveling back at night, he could just stay here til mornin’. I don’t mind sharin’, got plenty of space” he smiles deviously, and you shove at him, playfully.

The radio crackles again.

“That sounds like fair payment for a delivery. 9 it is, over and out.”

You heave a sigh and switch the frequency back to the shared band with the Abernathy’s.

“See? All’s well that ends well,”

“That was unprofessional—”

“Oh and you were the peak of professionalism then, huh?” He waggles his eyebrows at you, “—No flirting there, at all?”

“That’s—I’m just—he’s friendly is all!”

“Oh so you weren’t flirting with him? Does that mean you haven’t been flirting with me either? You’re bouta break my little heart,” he leans in and you feel like you could fry an egg on your cheeks.

Eggs would be nice for breakfast, actually. A breakfast in bed would be even better—

“Oh, you’re redder than a sunburn, there Theo, I’m just yankin’ yer leg,” he waves his hands and takes a step back.

You squeeze your eyes shut and exhale.

“I mean. Maybe?” you need to clarify, “—I wasn’t really, or I wasn’t meaning to really flirt with him. Not that I would mind,” you whisper, glancing up at Sturges, but he remains there, listening attentively.

“—But. You don’t. You don’t know if he’s even… queer,”

At this Sturges’ face softens.

“Oh, this isn’t 2077, Theodore, gay’s fine—” he sees your face drop and stops.

“It’s. It’s not that simple,” you cross your arms across your chest, and cinch down on your arms, gripping to keep yourself still.

“Sure it is. Somebody likes somebody else, and if they like each other back, go at it! I won’t say there are zero bigots out there, but it’s not much of anybody else’s business who you’re gettin’ screwy with. As long as you’re not hurtin’ no one, and yer all grown, it ain’t like none of us is married, and you don’t gotta worry bout gettin’ pregnant with two fellas—”

While your eyes glossed over at the mention of marriage, it was the visceral urge to distract away from the last comment that caused you to blurt out.

“I am.”

“Huh?” His eyes widen.

“I was. Married. I had a husband.”

“Oh. Oh goodness, Teddy, I didn’t know—”

“No, it’s alright—” you sigh, “I mean obviously it isn’t,”

You wore your ring on a necklace. While you loved jewelry, you didn’t want to risk any kind of degloving incident, and you hadn’t told any of them, so how would he know?

“—I miss him, but. He was a dear friend. I don’t know if I get to really count as a widower. We weren’t actually… in love. Not like that,”

“But you were married?”

“It was a lavender marriage.”

“Lavender?”

“Like the color? Or the plant. I guess the other meaning might not have stuck around… I needed Canadian citizenship, and Mars… Martin was in need of a new last name and to calm down the rumor mill at work. But we weren’t together like that, just friends who needed to hide the fact that we were both queer,”

“But how did two guys together hide that yous were queer?”

You blanch. You’ve said too much.

“No, what I mean was—” figure it out, figure it out. What’s close enough to the truth?

“—Gay marriage was still legal in Canada, but it was reduced to a civil partnership in the States—so it wasn’t—it was more that Martin’s family had a lot of expectations, and having a w—spouse would get them off his back, and I needed healthcare there and the rates are better if you’re a citizen—”

You’re rambling, trying to get away from the subject, but he’s curious, and needling in.

“You were sick?”

“No—yes—in a way? But it’s fine now, I got treatment, I mean I still could do with some medications, but I can survive without them—”

“What kinda meds? What’s wrong?”

His brow furrows as he scans you over.

Get a grip. It’s fine. He’s probably fine. They’re going to find out eventually. And it’s better if you know now. Easier if know now. And if it’s not fine, you can leave. You’ll grab some things, and Codsworth and you can run to Concord, and you’ll figure it out from there. Maybe they’ll tell Jake what you are by the radio. It’s okay, maybe you can figure out where the trader is that Preston mentioned on your own.

His hand comes down onto your shoulder and you flinch, face scrunching up and you flex your hands, tensing the muscles in your arms.

Sturges pulls his hand away quickly.

“Breathe, easy, I’m not gonna hurt you,” he says as you press the back of palms against your face, fingers splayed.

You’ve said too much already, he’s going to piece it together. He’s going to find out and then they’re all going to find out. Just say it.

“—Look, you’ve changed color rapidly in the last few minutes, and I don’t think you meant to talk about this, and it’s clear, you don’t wanna right now—”

Stop it, stop it, you look weird, don’t flap, don’t hit yourself. Squeeze your legs instead, less attention. Put your hands down, bite the inside of your cheeks so you can’t sneer. They all hate it when you pull faces.

You manage to bring your arms down, gripping tightly at your pants, your head rocking slightly as you stare at his boots and force yourself to speak.

Say it. Get it out. Before he leaves, get it over with, get it over with, get it over with, get it—

“I’m not sick. I am but I’m not. The medicine I took. It was to change how I. How I looked.”

“Are… are you a synth?”

“A what?”

“Like a robot-person. The institute makes them. I think it’s all baloney, but—”

“The institute? What—no, I’m me, I’m just tra—”

“And all the twitchin’? Do you get seizures?”

“No, that’s—” you pause, forcing yourself to breathe, “I have Tourette’s. It’s. I’ve been trying to keep it down, but it’s worse with stress and I’m pretty fucking stressed all the time, and talking about it makes it worse—”

“What’s Tourette’s?”

You’re actively rocking now, trying to get through this.

“Fuck, it’s this type of brain problem. Sometimes I say and do things I don’t mean to. Like twitches, whistling. They change, and it’s not consistent, and I used to be better at controlling it, and it was better when I was taking testosterone, but now I’m not and I don’t know if I’m ever going to be able to get on it again and are my periods going to come back? Jesus Christ, fuck, no wonder I’m crying all the fucking time—”

Sturges takes a step and you flinch back. He puts his hands up.

“Hey. You’re sayin’ a lot of things I don’t fully understandin’, and I’m not tryna end this conversation, but somebody is bound to come walkin’ over this way, and maybe you want a little privacy? Can I help you get back over to yours?”

You exhale shakily and nod, and he’s slow as he offers a hand. You grab onto his arm and he winces, and you try to loosen your grip.

“Sorry,” you mutter, but he just humms.

You get inside and he leads you to the couch, and you grab at the lumpy pillow and hug onto it.

“Now I don’t mean to push things, but I don’t want to leave you here in this state, neither, so can you tell me what’s wrong? You ain’t gonna have like a seizure or somethin’ are ya?”

“No, it’s not. It’s different than that.”

“Are you gonna need that testyrone medicine you said? I can ask Ma Murphy if she knows anything about it, I’m sure we can find somethin’ to help,”

“No, I didn’t take it for that—there isn’t—there’s not really medicine specifically for Tourette’s. There’s stuff you can take that can help, but. Mine is mild, just that it gets worse when you’re stressed and tired or when you talk about it—” your neck chin is getting yanked to the side as you get caught in a loop, “—and I’m just really fucking stressed,”

You pulse your balled fists, squeezing down and releasing slightly, over and over, trembling. Focus on your breathing. Out. Hold. In. Hold.

Your heart is  still racing, body still flickering with spare movements, but you find your voice again. Start from the top.

“The testosterone happened to help with my tics. But it wasn’t for them. When things are... normal… my tics aren't too bad. Faces I make here and there. I can hide it most of the time. Play them off. But the hormones…”

Get it all out.

“—Martin was my husband. And on our license, on paper, I was his wife. I’m. I’m a man. Mostly? I mean I just know I’m not a woman. I was born a girl—but I’m not! I mean I don’t feel like a man all the time, either, but—I’m—not. I’m not a woman,”

You shake your head, trying to force it out, be clear, you have to make sense, as you rock.

“I’m. My body… is. Different. Different parts. T, surgeries. To make me feel. Look. More like me,” you grit out, trembling.

Sturges is quiet.

He hasn’t talked.

He hasn’t said anything.

He’s going to leave.

He’s going to leave, and the rest of them are going to leave, and you’re going to be alone, alone again. Fear. Fear, disgust. And cold. You’re so cold. You’re so cold and you’re back in the vault and the floor is so cold and hard just like her skin—

“-dore, what’s wrong—”

Sturges isn’t on the chair anymore, but his voice is still so far away, echoing, echoing in the empty vault.

“Talk to me Theo, what do you need—”

“Hhhhh—” you stutter, anger at yourself, shame, engulfing; burning, ice-cold and heavy and fast, “—HhhHead. Head, head,” you whine.

“Head what? Head hurts? Do you need something? Water?” he asks, worried.

Your fists clench as you shake your head violently.

NO. STOP LOOKING. ALONE. DON’T LOOK. DON’T LEAVE.

“TTTTTTTT,” you growl, “Tttttouch. Hair, touch.”

“Hair? Your need to… touch my hair?”

You’re angry. At him. At yourself. At the world.

Can’t think. Why CAN’T. SPEAK! Words, words! UNDERSTAND!

You yank at your hair, pulling, slapping at your head.

UNDERSTAND!

Hands grip your wrists, holding them against your head, stopping you, and you struggle, pushing against the weight. His fingers curl, trying to keep your hands in place, and there’s pressure—glorious pressure—on your scalp, and your arms halt; a pause in the tension, a dip in rigidity.

“Touch?” he whispers, and when he runs his hands through your hair, your arms go limp.

“Oh. Touch your hair,” he mumbles, and your breathing slows as he awkwardly pets your head.

His hands are warm.

. . .

You’re heavy. Lead. Slow. But you can start to think again.

“Melt…down. Can’t talk. Too much. Happens. With stress. Bad stress,” you croak.

“Noted,” his voice is a rumble of thunder in the night, hot desert air thick with humidity as the monsoon finally rolls in to heal the dry earth.

“Sorry. Weird. Bad,” tears flowing, images of the giant cactus outside of your childhood home glistening as the rains fell on it, your mother’s hands work, braiding your locks from behind as you sat in the candlelight of the outage together, safe.

“Hush,” he whispers, hands still raking through your hair.

“Brain chemicals. Balance isn’t good. I get… overwhelmed.”

“I see that,”

“Not a leader,”

“Shush. Don’t work yourself up again,”

“Don’t tell P,”

“I won’t if you don’t want me to,”

“Girl—”

“That either, though I still don’t get it. Just calm down. That’s right. Get some sleep,”

“Radio. Abernathy,”

“Hush. Leaders delegate. I’ll pass on the message to the farm.”

“Dinner... not here,”

“I’ll get dinner going at mine. Call folks over, tell ‘em you’re busy. They’ll all give you some space if you want.”

A gentle nod.

“Thanks,”

“Least we can do, chief,”

. . .

You don’t remember falling asleep, but when you come to, there’s a bottle of water on the coffee table, and a blanket over you. Your head throbs with movement, and you lethargically lean over to grab the water, sipping it slowly. Your pipboy reads 10 p.m.

It’s dark, but not too late. Sturges might still be up. You feel tender. The street is calm as you walk over to his door, and you can see a lantern burning inside. You rap against the wood, pulling the blanket tighter around your shoulders.

“Hey,” he says, waiting in the doorway.

“Hey,” you repeat, throat hoarse.

“Saved you some dinner if you want it,” he steps back, offering entry.

You nod, and shuffle inside. It’s the first time you’ve visited his place, and it’s nice. Simple, but cozy.

“I wanted to apologize,” you start, voice flat with exhaustion.

“I’ll let you, but you don’t need to,” he says.

“You’re not… mad?”

“Theo… I’ll admit you had me worried for a while, but no. I’m not mad. And I’m not gonna say anythin’ on the matter to anyone else ‘til you tell me I can. But I don’t think Preston’s the type to be mad about any of this stuff either. He’s a good man. Like you are. Now I’m gonna give you a hug because you look like you need it.”

He  wraps his arms around you in a gentle embrace, and you sink into it. You feel… much better about this.

“Sit down, let me grab you a bowl.”

“I want to explain.”

“So long as you eat somethin’, sure.”

He hands you a bowl of lukewarm stew, and you take it. It’s decent.

“My brain… works a bit differently than other people’s. I guess everyone’s does. But literally speaking, some people run a bit differently. Brains are just puddles of electric jelly, running on chemicals. You can have too little of one chemical and it makes you anxious, too much of another and it makes you hear voices, have receptors for certain chemicals get confused and not recognize and accept the chemicals they’re supposed to, so even if you do have enough of them, you get depressed because your brain just doesn’t know how to use them. I don’t know it all, but neurochemistry is really easy to set off-kilter, and I already had balance problems before nuclear devastation. And granted, maybe it was easier to just label problems instead of seeing that the world was broken, too, but I was different. Am different.”

You pause to swallow another mouthful and try to gather yourself. Package the information more clearly.

“I have Tourette’s. That’s a tic disorder. A chronic motor and vocal tic disorder. Chronic as in it just is. Sometimes it’s better, sometimes it’s worse, and stress typically makes it worse. Big changes, makes it worse. Changes in medications? Worse. Oh and it’s ‘tics’ t-i-c-s, no ‘k’. Tics are like involuntary expressions, like movements or verbalizations, ergo the motor and vocal pieces, respectively. They can be simple, or complex. Blinking or running, breathing or shouting; anything. There’s usually an urge for the movement or vocalization. Sometimes, when it’s more under control, there’s a delay between the urge and the action, or it’s not as intense, and I can divert it or suppress it for a while, but either tends to the tic more intense when it does happen. When things are bad, there’s no delay, there’s no thought, and I just move. Talking about them also makes them worse because then you’re thinking about them. Smaller ones you can play-off. ‘No, I didn’t just swing my arm suddenly, there was a fly,’ or ‘No, I didn’t make a face at you, I just needed to sneeze’ or ‘No, I was just on a phone call, not just shouting ‘hello’ for no reason’. Although, I’m not always sure what is a tic and what is just stimming sometimes, and they feed into one another a lot—”

“Stimming?” he interjects.

“Self-stimulation. Self-soothing, basically. We all do it, absolutely everybody, but neurodivergent people or people under duress tend to exhibit self-stimulation techniques more obviously and frequently. Twiddling your thumbs, tapping your foot, humming, singing along to a song under your breath, repeating phrases, rubbing your arms, clenching your fists, biting your nails, bouncing on your heels. Anything could be stimming. Tics are usually not rhythmic, versus stimming is usually repetitive, but it’s blurry. Both are kind of like processing energy, getting excess out, in a way. But everyone stims. Pacing to think things through? That’s stimming. When you’re overwhelmed, when there’s too much emotion, the brain’s flooded with chemicals and hormones and signals and everything is a mess and you just can’t sort through it, stimming is a way to get some of that out.”

“Like a steam valve to release pressure… but if you can’t cool the system down—”

“Meltdown. Nail on the head. Gold star.”

“But why the touching your hair?”

“I’m not sure, but… when I was little… I had long, long and heavy, hair, and that shit really hurts when it’s been up all day. My mom would take my ponytail down, and she’d rub my head, and it always put me to sleep. Now it’s like a built in heat-sink. But it doesn’t work if it’s just me doing it. When I get really overwhelmed… most times I just want to scream and hit things and throw myself around. But that calls a lot of attention to yourself, kind of the opposite to what I want when I’m crashing-out. I’ve heard that deep pressure therapy is supposed to work, so like having something heavy push on you or constrict you, but you can only hug yourself so hard. And it has the be the right amount, or it’s just going to feel like you’re suffocating with no escape, right? But when I’m really worked up… it’s hard enough to talk about this stuff normally, let alone when you’re already keyed-up. I don’t want to be alone when I’m like that… but I would rather be alone than have to try to explain it in the moment, or be around someone who… doesn’t or won’t get it. I don’t like being judged for it. I’ve had to work really, really hard to try and accept that this is just part of how I exist. I’m still. I’m still smart. I can do plenty of shit. I still can be useful. But… it was bad today. I’ve only gone non-verbal like that twice before, and it makes me feel like such a child. Helpless. And I’m supposed to be a General?”

You’re clenching your fists, staring off out of a gap in the boarding at the night sky.

“But there was medicine for this stuff, pre-war?” he asks.

“Sometimes. For the other things. Pills for anxiety, pills for depression. Diagnoses and ‘neurodiversity’, but most people just acted like you were wrong instead of different. That it was something to be cured. But. My sister didn’t think I needed to be cured. I like how my brain works—most of the time. I can see patterns pretty good. I know a lot of things. And I don’t know who I would be if I wasn’t like this. Most of the medicine doctors would push was only focused on making us act like a normal person. To be productive, to be palatable. Not about making it easier to just be us. Sometimes it still helped. I’ve taken stuff on and off before, but it was just so frustrating that when people pretend like America was all about being ‘an individual’ but there were only certain acceptable ways to be an individual. Anything too unique from that was a threat. We could tolerate lesbians if they were dainty enough. If one of them was the man and the other was the woman. Gay men ought to be sophisticated and feminine, but not too feminine. But it was all cookie-cutter bullshit. When the science started to say that things were more complex than the government wanted it to be, scientists started going missing. Papers were being edited. Curriculum changed. Educators punished if you encouraged too much questioning. Society is so much easier to control when you can put people into tidy little boxes. Neat and tidy. Men and women. Tits meant you should only ever be able to do these things, a dick meant you were a real leader. I guess I’ve scammed the system twice.”

“Twice? But you don’t have…” his hand hovering over his own chest.

“Tits?” you chuckle, “—not anymore. For all our fucked up bullshit, prewar medicine did at least have some benefits,” you lifted up your shirt, cool air flowing over your soft belly, lifting to reveal the faint scars that darted over your ribcage.

“You don’t say,” he says, awed, and you drop them hem back down.

“This was part of why I immigrated to Canada. It still cost a fortune, but I guess the debt collectors are all dead, now.”

“Was there a surgery for… all of it?” he asks, curious.

“Kinda personal, but fair. There existed… a few options for downstairs. Still not sure I’d do it given the chance. Potential complications outweighed my own interest. I just really needed the tits gone. I was on really low-dose hormonal replacement therapy as well. I needed the changes to be gradual, since it was still a legal grey-zone. But there were plenty of women who grew more facial hair without HRT than I could with. Didn’t win any jackpots on that, as you can see. But it’s something. And at least I don’t have to shave all the time.”

“But mentioned your period,” he mumbles, flushing.

“Oh, yeah. That doesn’t help with any of it, either. The menstrual cycle’s hormonal fluctuations makes all of the brain chemical stuff worse. It’s bullshit. I never even wanted to have kids,” he glances up at you, confused.

“Oh, not not like that—I have nothing against being a parent, except I wasn’t ready for it. I am going to get my nephew back and raise him, he’s my family and I love him. I meant like. Being pregnant, myself,” you grimace, “I tried my best to take that possibility off the table.”

“How? You just said—”

“Tubal ligation,”

“What?”

“It’s a surgery. I still have my ovaries. I would say ‘unfortunately’ but it’s probably for the best. Going without consistent hormonal treatments would risk a lot of health complications, and I’m not good at consistent, frequent medication long-term. Wait—how much do you know about reproductive anatomy?”

“Are you like a doctor, too?”

He startles a laugh out of you.

“Oh god, no. I get woozy each time I loot a corpse that’s too bloody. Exposure therapy-ing that out, I guess. No, I just. I like to know a lot of things about a lot of things. That’s another side to my own weird brain stuff. Collecting random bits of encyclopedic knowledge because I got really into certain subjects. Started up a million different hobbies, but I rarely stuck to them. Not often helpful, though the lockpicking has been. But on the anatomy front, if I do get laid, I’m very unlikely to get pregnant, not that I’m trying to risk it. I’m not sterilized, but it’s close.”

You cough, awkwardly, and continue to fill the silence.

“That’s. But you can see why earlier…  how I make things more complicated. Anyway. That’s a lot of me, talking. Listen… I know that it’s impossible to ask that this all ‘won’t change anything’ or to force you to keep everything a secret if it needs to come out for some reason down the line. I kind of hate secrets, actually? Oh and if there was a medical emergency that any of this was relevant, my blood type is A negative. We should get basic dog tags for medical emergencies, though I guess blood transfusions aren’t a standard field procedure, so that’s probably a later problem—”

“Are you sure you’re not a doctor?”

“It’s just. I don’t mean to ramble. I thought my head would still be moving slower, but it feels really good to get this off my chest. Sorry, it’s a lot to dump on you, are you alright? I can go—”

He waves his hand at you not to move.

“If this is your brain on the regular, just give me a warning if you ever plan on taking jet near me, alright, Teddy?”

His voice is soft as he calls you that, and you stare at him, touched.

“Considering it smelled tasted like literal shit and my head really hurt on the comedown, I don’t think I’m planning on using it recreationally, so you should be in the clear.”

He laughs, holding his head in his hands a moment.

“You really are somethin’ strange, hotshot,”

He tilts his face up to look at you, and there’s a grin tugging at his lips.

“I am strange. But people are strange. I just hope I’m not too strange to still be friends…?”

“You can’t get rid of me that easily, Olive.” he crosses over and gathers you into a hug, and start to cry.

“Sturg?” you ask, shoved against his chest, wetting his shirt.

“Hmm?”

“Can you say that again?”

“You can’t get rid of me. I’m here for ya whether you like it or not.”

You squeeze him, sobbing.

“Nors,” you sniff, “—my big sister. She called me Olive.”

His arms tighten around you.

“I could never take her place. But… if you didn’t mind, I always wanted to be a big brother,”

“Taking you at your word, Sturg. You better mean it,” and you squeeze him back tight.

You settle back down onto the couch, both of your eyes wet.

“As my first piece of brotherly advice, you should tell Preston some of this. At least about how to help you calm down if things work you up that bad again while you’re travelin’,”

“Kind of a shit General,” you mumble.

“Be a shittier one if you didn’t let your people help you. Not to try to force your hand or nothin’, but information like that might be life or death out there if things go wrong.”

“Fuck. I guess shitty beats dead. I—I’ll talk to him before we set out for Boston, at least about the meltdown stuff.”

“That’s all I’m askin’ for. If I’m not nearby and something like that happens, I want to know someone’s got your back. He can’t do it if he doesn’t know, and you shouldn’t have to do it alone.”

You really don’t want to have to repeat this ordeal of a conversation, but he has a point. And practice makes perfect, you guess.

“Yeah,” you grumble.

“Thanks.”

“...thank you.”

“Now, I think it’s bedtime. Get goin’ before Dogmeat wanders over here and starts thinkin’ he can get on my bed.”

Chapter Text

You sleep better than you have any of the other nights since… But you still don’t sleep well.

It’s barely past five when you give up and roll, teeth chattering, out of bed. You’re going to need a warmer sleeping bag if you’re heading out. The temperature is getting cooler with each day, even if it’s still passable in the sun. But the nights are starting to frost over the ground. Fuck. You’ll talk with Preston when he’s up. He said that it’d take at least two days to get to the city, which means figuring out at least one night away from Sanctuary. Maybe Jake passed through that way and has some advice, or gear you could buy off of him. Another day to prepare for it, you guess.

You’re shivering. Move. Get warm if you’re going to be awake. Dogmeat’s been sleeping with you half the night, but he’s usually gone by the time you wake up. You imagine the nightmare-induced-running-in-your-sleep isn’t conducive to sharing a bed. You hope you haven’t kicked him. But if you have, he doesn’t seem to hold a grudge, joining you nightly to help you eventually drift under.

Okay, movement. Your patience for morning stretching only lasts so long, and you don’t trust your form to go to the weight-training bench that Sturges set up by your lonesome—let alone the possibility of noise if you drop a plate. Running? That’s useful, though. You sigh. Useful, but you hate it. You rub your eyes, resigned to your fate.

You lace up your worn boots again. Add another thing to look for either at the trader on the route, or in the city proper. You should have checked the shoes of the raider’s you’ve put down. You can at least start grabbing socks. God, that’s going to be gross. Maybe you should pack two bars of soap.

“Ah, morning, sir. Up early again?”

“Heya, Cods. Yeah, uh, gonna go for a run? I’ll eat after.”

“Jolly good idea, sir. Nothing like a bit of exercise to get the blood running! My circuit around the edge of the hill was clear as of 0300, two nasty overgrown mosquitoes aside. Handled, now, of course.”

“Good to hear. Would rather not just do laps in front of all of our houses.”

Your combat knife if on your thigh. No gun, but something. You won’t stray far from the hill, so shouting is your best bet if something turns up.

No headphones anymore, so the pipboy will have to do. You tune it to Diamond City Radio’s frequency—on a low volume—and start walking down to the edge of the water. Your first lap a brisk walk to warm-up. Next lap, you manage to jog through half a song, and alternate your pace between wheezily stepping and heavy stomping. Jesus, this sucks. Third lap, you push, legs on fire, through a complete song, and pant, huffing, as the broadcaster comes on—and for the first time you feel gratitude at his droning.

You’re drenched in sweat by the time you wander back up to your home. You treat yourself to two rag baths. Marcy set up some vinegars to ferment from the rinds and peels of the melons you’ve shared, so additional cleaning supplies can be added to the inventory in a few more days. That might be good to wipe down your pipboy with. The leathery material sitting directly on sweaty skin for hours at a time is going to start smelling ripe if you don’t. Another thing to ask Jake: pipboy care.

You tune your wrist radio to Jake’s frequency, in case he sends out a message before he heads out. It’s still a bit early—ten to seven—and a solo trip on foot here could be done in thirty minutes without any hold-ups. Less, if in a hurry.

It’s a touch cloudy out. You hope it doesn’t rain. Another thing you aren’t prepared for. If it does rain, your roof seems complete enough to not give you trouble, but you really ought to patch the building up a bit further less you wet your socks in rainwater on a midnight trip to the toilet. You grab one of the spare ASAMs and give the residential plot a go to see if it can build off of a base structure and guide you on the repairs.

That wasn’t so bad.

You’re sweaty, again, but you’ve patched at least fifteen holes you hadn’t even noticed, and boarded up all the bedroom windows—correctly—this time.

Some of the corrugated metal from the downed houses has a layer of lead throughout it, and while you don’t want to mess with that alone, the ASAM had a good idea on adding light radiation shielding with them. That could be a good job to handle in power armor. You walk to your pipboy and note the time. Shit, it’s 8:50. Jake should be nearing and you’re gross again.

Not that that matters.

It shouldn’t. Work makes sweat, you’re busy. No it’s just being hospitable, is all. You go in for your third rag bath, and finish sliding into your second change of clothes when you hear voices out in the street.

“Mornin’” the drawled greeting shouts.

You lace back up and step out. Sturges walks up to Jake and reaches out a hand for a shake, connects, and uses the grip to pull him into a hug, catching the man wildly by surprise. You laugh.

Breakfast is an attempt at a hash. Roasted tatos, some rehydrated shredded potatoes, and some of the radstag jerky. Presumably using the stag fat that had been jarred up, too. And you see flecks of pepper, and sprinkles of dark red in there as well. It smells smoky and tangy. While it’s different than what you’d normally imagine for a hash, it’s fantastic.

“Gods, Codsworth, we don’t deserve you. An angel on this earth,” you praise him, mouth watering as he served up the meal.

“Bon appétit” you say, and take your first bite, holding in a moan.

“Bone app-teet!” Old Paul shouts and also digs in.

You hear Sturges mumble an attempt with much better pronunciation, but the rest just chirp out their own form of ‘thanks’, then the table is awash in rapture as you all chew.

“Oh, I love you, Codsy. Jake, please come for breakfast more often, this is the best thing I’ve eaten since—” since before— “in a damn long time.”

“Oh I hope you all didn’t go to the trouble just for me, but boy am I appreciatin’ it.”

“Well, I think we made-do on that ‘enticing’ offer,” Sturges chimes in and you squint at him.

You’d stick your tongue out at him if you weren’t busy stuffing your gob, but Jake just laughs. It floats through the air like windchimes.

Stop it.

Most of the group is around the table. Makeshift chairs to fit five of you. Preston has his plate on an old armchair near the Longs on the couch.

You get halfway through your plate, and pause.

“I’d like to talk a little business, if you don’t mind, Jake,” you look at him.

“No work at the eatin’ table, I says!” Old Paul juts in, cheerily.

“Course, course, don’t want to ruin the vibe, sorry,” you get back to your plate.

“We can take this outside if you’d like,” Jake offers, putting his fork down.

“No eatin’ and businessin’, go on, get yer chattin’ done and see if that food’s still left when ya get back!” Old Paul jests.

“I’m putting my plate in the kitchen, and Codsworth has a very sharp saw and a deeply programmed desire to protect,” you warn, and as you stand, Jake follows suit.

Sturges winks at you, and you purposefully bump his chair as you pass.

Shut up.

“Jun, Marcy, if you’d like a spot at the table, it’s open.”

Marcy stares you down and returns to her food. Jun just nods.

The morning has warmed up considerably with the sun, but there’s a westward breeze coming in.  You step across the street to get some distance from the others, and lean against the facing house.

“So, what’s the word, Slick?” Jake asks, sauntering up.

“Hey. Mostly questions, trying to get some advice,” you start.

“Need some help with the ASAMs?”

“Oh, no, not really. They’ve done great work, actually. You can share my thoughts with the Abernathy’s, too. In fact, I was just patching up my place earlier this morning using the repair guides on a residential setting, and I saw some ideas on using some of the leaded metal of the wrecked houses for radiation shielding, even. It’s wicked smart, truly.”

He smiles as you speak.

“Right glad to hear that. So, if it ain’t the machines, I don’t know how much help I’ll be, but shoot.”

“You’ve got a pipboy. And I think it’s safe to presume that you’ve been taking care of it longer than I have, since I only got it mine the way out of the vault… and it didn’t exactly come with a manual. I wanted to ask about upkeep,” and the questions pour out, “—Do I have to debug it? What do you do if it freezes? Is the battery source replacable or rechargable, and what do I do if it dies? It doesn’t look big enough to house a fusion core, so it’s probably something branded and rare, so that’s probably a pain. Or what if it actually freezes? I’ve been taking it off at night and now that it’s starting to frost, do I have to keep it warm how waterproof is it? Probably not fully if that’s leather on the inside. Oh, and with those microneedle pricks for constant vitals, I assumed that it has to sit on bare skin, but is that actually the case? I’ve been taking it off at night but if it rains do I need to cover it? What if I fall in water? Not that I’m terribly keen on swimming in anything other than a pool. And how do you clean it? I’ve gotten right sweaty and keeping it on all day every day seems like it’s asking for a rash. We’ve got vinegar going, so I figured that inbetween soap, but if it is leather, I’ll need to wax it too, right? And—”

Jake’s hands lightly grip onto your upper arms, halting your rambling.

“Woah, there. Slow down, that’s a lot of questions, Slick. Your mind always runnin’ that fast?”

“Sorry. It’s either that or empty.”

“Ya don’t say. Somehow I don’t believe it could ever be empty in there.”

You’re not sure how to take that, so you pivot.

“But it’s not just pipboy questions. I don’t want to bother you if it’s too much, but you traveled a long way, and I could use all the advice I can get. I’m not sure if you passed by Diamond City on your way here, but regardless I need to be prepared for a few days on the road. If you had any gear that you’d be willing to offload, I’d be interested in buying it off of you. My own sleeping bag isn’t graded for low-temperatures, so if Preston and I have to camp out in the open, I’m not prepared for it, yet.”

“Headin’ into the city? Listen, let me walk you through the pip-boy stuff, and then we’ll get to the other stuff, alright?”

Your red notebook is on the workbench just to the side, so you grab it, and nod at him to talk as you take notes. You can copy the relevant info to the right pad later.

. . .

The sun has risen higher, and the two of you had paused to return and finish the remains of the morning meal, and continued your discussion at the vacated dining table.

“So what’s in the city, if ya don’t mind my askin’?”

You put the pen down as you answer.

“Information.”

You pause. Might as well give him an abridged version if you’re going to continue being near-neighbors. He’d been helpful so far with the pipboy details.

“—Information for a missing persons case. My… my godson was taken from my vault, and the rest of them were… they killed his mother. I need to get him back.”

Your voice quivered as you said it, but you kept the tears in. That’s progress.

“Oh, Slick… I’m so sorry…”

Your nostrils flare as you inhale deeply.

“There’s apparently an information broker in Diamond City, and that’s what I need. I have no clue about his rates, which is why we aren’t talking to you about buying more ASAMs just yet, but once I get what I need from there, on my way back if we have any funds left, we’d be interested. We’ve only got one ASAM left, and those residential repairs options are going to be a real lifesaver when winter sets in.”

“Actually, I know the guy. He goes by ‘The Ron’ and he’s got fair prices, but it ain’t cheap, neither. Listen. If you’re serious about getting more sensors—”

You lift your hand.

“I don’t want a loan. I’m not interested in accruing debt right now, even with a friendly salesman. We can survive until we make ends meet and pay you properly.”

“No it weren’t about that, though I wouldn’t be against it, actually. The loan, I mean. You’ve been my biggest purchaser. You’ve got several down here, and a variety of them. Even the industrial ones! Sanctuary Hills is standing proof of what people can get out of ASAMs.”

“I can admit I have come around to the industrial plots. We’ve even managed to get some basic weapon and armor modification schematics to pop up. They’re truly impressive tech, though I still don’t understand how you’re just giving them away. You’ve got to be bleeding caps with such a low price for serious tech.”

“I won’t lie and say I’ve been rollin’ in the profits, but they’re an investment towards a better Commonwealth, and that’s worth the costs. Listen—I’ve been going at this alone—and not havin’ the greatest go, I can admit. But you? You’ve got me 9 other people onboard with ASAMs in a matter of days.”

“It’s a good product.”

“It is. And I’m hopin’ you believe in it enough to be my partner.”

Your head pulls back in surprise and confusion.

“What do you mean ‘partner’?”

“Look, I can handle the tech, and even some of the people-side, but if people start seein’ what you’re doin’ with these, how could they say no? But if we really want to make somethin’ outta these ASAMs, there a machine that’s out in a Satellite base that could let me upgrade the sensors and even downsize my beacon models,”

“Beacon models? Satellite? Wait, are you talking about the USAF Olivia Satellite Station out to the north?”

He jerks to a standstill.

“Yeah, Slick, that’s the one. It was crawlin’ with raiders when I first scoped it out. Part of the reason I set up here. Too many for me alone, but you cleared this place out! I’m sure that together we could manage it.”

There’s a wicked flint in your eyes as your smile grows.

“Boy do I have some good news for you.”

. . .

“No kiddin’! Then you’ve seen it! It’s still there!”

“I mean, yeah I think so? I’ve had the sentry bot guarding the place to catch any stragglers, so it should be clear. But that crate looked obscenely heavy. We have a spare fusion core back at Sanctuary, and the one in the armor’s still at 80% charge. If you’re willing to trade my help in bringing that crate back to your shop in Concord for another ten sensors, I can deliver it. Extra fees for delivery while wearing the postman hat.”

“It’s really happenin’” he exhales, blowing past your joke, and you hadn’t noticed how much tension must have been in his shoulders until some of it lessened.

“Let me grab that radio paper to pass off to the Abernathy’s, too.”

“Wait, Slick,”

“Hmm?”

“I’d like to go with. To the satellite station. To make sure that crate is the right thing, and that no pieces get left behind or nothin in case people have messed with it.”

“Sure, if you want. I don’t mind the company. I did crack it open to take a peek at it when I was there, but couldn’t make heads or tails of it and just closed it back up, but it seemed sealed when I cracked into it.”

“I’d like to get back to my shop before we head out that way. I’ve got my pistol, but I’d like to grab some more tools if we’re headed out today.”

“Yeah, well then it would be quicker for me to just meet you there in Concord and head north from there then. We’ve cleared the path from here out, but I haven’t been direct from Concord to the station, so it would be better to go together in case there’s trouble. I don’t want to risk you trying to approach the station without me since I’m not sure what the sentry bot’s targeting parameters are, and I don’t want you on its bad side.”

“Good idea.”

“I’ll talk with Preston. If I’m meeting you, I should be fine just bringing Dogmeat along as backup to get there.”

“Gotcha. I’m gonna hustle over to the Abernathy’s, but I should be back at my shop by one at the latest.”

“I’ll be there.”

. . .

“Wow, Sturg. I don’t know what your quality of work was before, but you’ve outdone yourself,”

“My work’s always been quality, I’ll have you know. But I am quite pleased with her,” he taps the shoulder of the freshly painted metal.

“Where’d you find yellow paint?” you marvel.

There are sunflowers painted around the suit, linked and wrapped in green lines.

“I figure since these things ain’t built for stealth, might as well have a little style. And with all those plant drawings you worked on with Ma, thought you might like something flowery. Preston said you liked yellow, so, wah-la.”

“I love it.” It’s cute, a touch childish, and you adored it.

“Couldn’t have my baby brother clunkin’ around in a hunk of junk. And she ain’t just pretty. I patched up most of the sockets that were weathered, though I’d say don’t go searching for a lake. Not sure she’s fully airtight just yet, but she’s sturdy again. And smooth. She needed grease in all the leg actuators and a few lugs swapped, but she should move a whole lot easier now.”

He helps you in, and he wasn’t lying. You bend your knees and the suit follows, gliding.

“Oh, this is so much better. I would hug you now but I don’t want to crush you,” your voice is tinny through the helmet speakers.

“You have fun out there and bring my girl back so I can finish replacing those other gaskets. And haul back any aluminum you can get yer hands on. I think I can improve the thermal plating some,”

“I’ll write that down in my notes. ‘Aluminum for the best big brother a guy could ask for.’”

He laughs and sends you off with a, “Have fun on yer date!”

You throw a metal arm up to the sky to wave him off and stomp down towards Concord, Dogmeat bounding behind you.

. . .

“Gee, Slick, that that same suit of armor?” Jake whistles as you stroll past the museum.

“Sturges fixed it right up. He used to work on power armor back in Quincy. Real pro. And not bad with a paintbrush apparently,”

“Not bad at all.”

“You ready to head out?”

“Yeah, let me just grab my gun,”

Jake hopped back into the building a moment. Your own rifle was slung behind you, attached to a hook on the back of your shoulder that Sturges welded on. Your pistol was similarly mounted on your right thigh, mimicking your leather holster.

“Make sure that scarf of yours is tied tight, Evans, it’s getting windy out.”

The westward breeze from this morning was turning into a strong gust.

“I’ll say. Let’s get out there so we can get this thing back in. I ought to board up my place a bit better if a storm’s comin’ in. Say, y’all don’t get cyclones round here, do ya?”

“Not that I’m aware of, but I’m no meteorologist,”

“Let’s hope not. But I guess I can just grab onto you if one does roll up,” he quips.

“S’long as you don’t scratch the paint.”

The first half of the walk is quiet, save for the branches and dead leaves dancing in the wind, until Dogmeat starts to growl. You slow, scanning.

“What is it, boy?”

He continues to turn, growling.

“I think he might be smellin’ molerat,” Jake adds, “I don’t see or hear nuthin’ but the wind.”

Suddenly, Dogmeat barks, and you see dirt flying as the molerats emerge. It’s a short fight, ending with no injuries, and a few flattened rats. As you near the tower you tell Jake to hold, and you squeeze the release lever inside the suit.

“We’re almost there, I think I can connect to the sentry bot from here.”

You hop down, and shiver. You hadn’t wanted to risk getting a sweater caught up inside the frame, so you only had a t-shirt layered over a thermal longsleeve, and the slimmest fit pants you found. Most of the clothes you had from before were starting to feel ever so slightly looser, but at least you didn’t need a belt, yet. Your old leather belt cracked apart when you first tried it on.

“Damn it’s getting cold, are you alright in just that, Jake?” you glance at him in his flannel and vest.

“I’ve been haulin’ ass trying to keep up with you on those stilts, Slick. I’m just fine,”

You pull out the bot’s holotape and shut it down, relieved to watch the red lights fade out, and step back into the suit.

“Hey, did you go up on those walkways when ya cleared the place last time?” he asks you.

“Uh, no? Why?”

“You mind if I check?”

“Sure, but I’m gonna stay down here. I don’t like the gamble of those things withstanding a ton of metal clambering around,”

“Fair enough,” he jogs into the compound and starts winding up the walkway as you wait.

“Hey, Slick! You’re not gonna believe this—”

. . .

“How did I miss this?” you muse, as Jake boots up the power armor next to a crashed vertibird, “—I mean seriously? I passed from the Scrapyard to here.”

“Well it wouldn’ta meant much if you didn’t have that spare core. I owe you big time, Slick,”

“It’ll will make bringing the crate back so much easier. Though Sturg is going to be so sad to not have another suit back at the hill. If he finds out you have one, he might show up and beg to work on it.”

“Well, it’d be right cruel to take such an opportunity away from that man,” he chimes, voice tinny from the helmet.

It was missing an arm and a leg, but it worked.

“Now I think you’re just saying that so you can get a free repair on your free power armor.”

“Finders keepers, as they say. I got to have some business sense now and again, don’t I?”

“If he really wants to, it’s fine. Just,” you sigh. You didn’t want to get into this, but it’s a good time to, “—Don’t lead him on about it, okay? I know he’s flirty, and if that bothers you, I can pass along the message so he stops, but. Be nice to him, alright? He’s my friend, and I don’t want to see him get hurt if you flirt back with him just to get some help, and don’t mean none of it.”

“Woah, woah, I haven’t meant to flirt with the guy,” his arms go up, and you tense.

Did you read him wrong? Is he going to react poorly to that insinuation? Better to find out now before any further business dealings if you need to cut your losses. The world may be small, but you weren’t going to tolerate homophobes. Not if you had a kickass suit of power armor to deal with them with.

“I didn’t say you did. Just that you’re right friendly. I know that could just be a cultural thing, southern hospitality and all that…”

It’s an out. He’s smart enough to take it if hate doesn’t blind him.

“I mean I figured he was flirting with me, but I thought you two were a thing, and he was just playin’ around to mess with ya! Not that his joshin’ bothered me none, so long as he’s ‘ware nothin’s comin’ of it.”

“Oh! So you’re fine. With him. With that. Good. But no, uh, we aren’t. Hah! We aren’t a couple. At all, actually. Barring the blood-pact to seal it, we’ve decided we’re good as brothers. So just forget I said anything, earlier.”

“Now, now, I don’t have to forget about it if you don’t mind, you ain’t done nothin’ wrong. You just sound like you’re lookin’ out for a friend,”

“Trying to.”

You’ve made it back to the satellite station, and stop just inside of the station doors. You hear Jake’s suit hiss as the back releases.

“UGH, ICK—” he flinches back in disgust.

“What is it?” you ask, looking around.

In the corner, the bloated corpse of a raider lies, a pool of dark goo beneath it, the skin sloughing and yellowed.

“Oh, nasty,” you whine, as Jake scoots back towards the door.

“Now I hate to push off the dirty work back to you, but I really don’t want to touch that body without a full barrier—” he gestures to the missing arm of his suit.

“Oh, you’re paying me for that fusion core,” you groan, squeezing your eyes shut.

You remove the bodies, grimacing as you you scoop them up and flop them across your metal arms, one at a time. You feel a bit guilty just dumping them outside, so while Jake continues routing through the compound, you dig a shallow grave and push them in. A quick few kicks of dirt to at least cover the mass grave, and you end the ritual by sinking out your suit and retching on the ground nearby, rocking softly on your knees.

The only positive is that you managed to find a pair of boots that should fit you.

You groan as you lean back onto your heels, wiping your mouth.

A clap of thunder scares you, jerking your head up to see what’s happening. Massive clouds overhead swirl, and as you stare up, rain starts to lightly fall.

It’s… warm? Ah, ow, OW —

You hear sizzling and your dark sleeves are turning orange with the droplets. You heave yourself to standing, and throw yourself into the power armor. You burst back into the compound, the door slamming shut behind you.

Your forearms tingle with little patches of warmth but your face itches with heat as you try to eject from the armor as quickly as you got in, running over to where you dropped your bag and yanking the canteen out to splash it on your face, cooling the burning sensation.

“Slick, you alright there?” you hear Jake from inside the intel room, Dogmeat’s claws clacking as he trots up to you.

“Acid rain.”

Your grumble turns to a whine as you see some of the paint on your armor dissolve away. Another wave of thunder booms, louder. Your pipboy reads 4 p.m.

“Hey, Jake? Any clue on how long this storm might last? I think there’s only two hours left of daylight,”

“Then let’s hope less than two hours,” he calls back.

. . .

You glance outside again after 40 minutes, and a bit of water floods in as you swing open the door.

You slam it closed again, and head back into the intel room.

“Not good, I take it?” he asks, looking up from the machine. He’s been sketching out a model of the machine, trying to label the parts.

“Negative,” you lean against the concrete wall, annoyed and cold, “I’m just gonna do a lap or two to warm up, k?”

He throw a thumbs-up at you while working and you flick your radio on and start walking through the place. You start jogging on your second lap, and slow as you return to the intel room, warmed back up enough to rest a moment. Sliding down to the floor, you pull out your own notebook, and start sketching Dogmeat as he lays, desperate for something to do.

. . .

It’s only been another twenty minutes. You’re bored. You’ve already tried stretching, playing little brain teasers with lifting alternating fingers and trying out basic paradiddles, you’ve locks and picked the desk drawers in here three times, and you’re hungry now too, since your stomach has finally settled after losing your lunch earlier.

“Jake.”

“Hmm?”

“Jake, I’m bored.”

“Oh, sorry bout that, Slick,”

“Talk to me.”

“Give me a moment, I’ve almost got this component figured out—”

“You’ve been doing that for an hour and a half, Jake.”

“Yeah, and it’s complex machinery—”

“You can do that later. Please, I’m boredddd,” you whine.

“Alright, alright! Didn’t mean to ignore you, Slick. What do ya wanna talk about?”

“Literally anything before I give into the urge to bash my head against the wall, Jacob.”

“You don’t do well with boredom, do you?”

“Clearly.”

“What’d you do down in your vault when you were bored, then, other than all those theatrical productions?”

“I didn’t do those in that damned vault,” you snap, and catch the both of you by surprise, “—sorry. You were trying for small talk.”

You rest your head on your balled-up fists and continue.

“Look. Vaults are probably a very interesting talking point for a lot of people. And if you had lived in one, I’m sure you’d have stories to tell about it. But… I didn’t live in it,”

Dogmeat comes over and nuzzles his head into your chest, forcing you to look up, and you catch Jake glancing at you.

“Vault 111 was a cryo-facility. All of us residents were frozen. They told us it was just a decontamination pod. Stupid,” you dig your fingers into your arm, and Dogmeat nudges you.

Petting him, your tone smooths.

“—We were all so scared by the bomb, we were so out of it, we didn’t even think twice. ‘Come over here, go in there, it’ll only take a moment.’ So, no. I didn’t do any theatre, or juggling, or lockpicking, or dancing, or drawing, or violin playing, or hobbies in there. I did them before.”

You glance up and he’s looking at you again, but this time, he doesn’t look away.

“You did that stuff before. Before the bombs fell…”

You nod.

Another clap of thunder, receding into the distance, and you wish you were back there, in the home in the desert, cradled in your mothers arms, listening to the thunderheads.

“Well I guess I can see why you asked whether ASAMs were Vault-Tec tech or not.”

“Yeah. Not the biggest fan.”

“But before… damn, Theo,” he murmurs.

You bend your knee and rest your head on it, waiting for the questions.

“What was it… What was it like?”

Tears prickle in your eyes and your throat clenches. You wish you had your goggles on. Easier to hide your wet eyes behind those.

“Different.”

He senses your discomfort and shifts around awkwardly in the silence. After a moment, you continue.

“I don’t know how different, yet, though. I’ve only seen a few places. Farms or ruins. Small sample sizes, you know… I can let you know after I reach the city, if it lives up to before-times,”

It’s a peace treaty. A pause button. A let’s-not-talk-about-this-now, but we-can-talk-about-this-later, maybe, button.

“After it is, then. Do you still want—do you still want me to talk?”

You stare off, down at the floor, petting Dogmeat. You nod slightly, not wanting to make eye contact.

“Oh. Okay…Uh—well this comm hub is lookin’ pretty beat-up. There’s some rust on a few components, and I can’t tell how bad some of the internal processors have degraded until I get it splayed out, but the sealant’s clearly cracked with age in a few places. Not that it’s a waste, goodness, no, this here is still a marvel of work I’d say—but it might take some time fiddlin’ around to get it up an runnin’. Findin’ or makin’ new replacement parts ain’t gonna be simple, neither—”

The limpness of emotional exhaustion is being ripped away, and in it’s place, frustration is mounting.

“—and if the internal memory is corrupted, man, I hope there are redundant back-ups. The code on the ASAMs is a mess, but it runs smoothly so long as you don’t take out any of the comments, and the loops have this weird logic to ‘em half the time, and don’t even get me started on the sub-processes—”

You clench your jaw, losing patience.

“Jake. Something else.”

“Huh? Oh. Like… what?”

“I meant talk about yourself or something,”

“There’s not much to tell, Slick,”

You grit your teeth. That’s not true. That’s unfair. You just bared your chest—but it’s not like he has an obligation to do the same.

“Fine.”

You stand up and walk out to find something to do, elsewhere in the base until the rain lets up.

“You alright there, Slick?”

You stop walking. Back still turned to him.

“If you don’t want to share about yourself, Evans, that’s fine,” you wanted to be colder, more in control, but you feel a wobble to your voice as you speak and you dig your nails onto the tops your thumbs to distract yourself from the rising tide, “I can’t make you. But you said you wanted to be partners. My bad for misreading that and thinking that meant a fair shake.”

“Wait, where are ya goin’—”

“Down there to go find something to break before I start ripping out my hair or something,”

“Slick—”

“My name is Theodore. Or you can call me General Berwick. But cut the crap with the friendly act, alright? If you want to do business, we do business. I’m tired. I don’t want to pretend anymore. The world’s fucked, so fuck its stupid social rules. If you don’t want to be my friend, stop acting like it. I can be cordial, but if you’re going to pretend we know each other well enough for nicknames, the least you can fucking do after I share about my shit is tell me one goddamn thing about yourself. But I’m not owed it. I’m not owed nothing, but neither are you. So this—” you gesture back and forth between you two “—doesn’t need your charming façade.”

You storm off, to get away, rubbing at the tear-streaks running down your face in shame as you stomp into the basement room where the raiders had once been. You want to push over the filing cabinets, tear out the drawers and throw them against the wall. But the pool of red stained on the concrete makes your stomach drop, and you sink down into a ball and cradle yourself as you force air through your nostrils, and exhale through pursed lips, counting seconds to try to regulate your breathing.

. . .

“Hey… Theodore. Just lettin’ ya know the rain’s stopped,”

Jake leans through the doorway, lips pressed together in a brief and hesitant smile, before he steps back and begins walking away.

You sigh and get up, heading back up the ramp to the entry way.

“What are you doing?” you ask, as he’s opening up his power armor, about to step in.

“Oh. Hey. I don’t mean ta take up any more of yer time, I can get the comm hub back myself,”

“In that?” you gesture to the suit, “—It’s going to be a mudfield out there after all that rain.”

“Yeah,” he groans.

“It’s dark.”

“Figures.”

“You have one leg and one arm on that suit, Evans.”

“I am aware.” he grumbles.

“So leave the box—”

“We came out here for this, and I’m going to damn well get it back!” he snaps.

For a beat, neither of you move.

“Sorry,” he mutters.

“No. I probably deserved that for earlier. I started the bad mood in here.”

“You don’t need to apologize—”

“I want to. I snapped at you earlier. I said I could be cordial, and I can Mister Evans. I’m not letting you haul that crate back on your own in a half set of power armor in the dark through the mud. If you really want, I’ll help you carry it back, but you seemed worried enough earlier over the thought of any damage to the machine for me to recommend it. Both of us are liable to slip or fall and drop the crate if we try to bring it back tonight. It’s sat here for two hundred years, it can sit one night more. We can come back to get it tomorrow with daylight, or I can just give you the sentry’s holotape if you want to handle this alone.”

His shoulders drop.

“No, you’re right. It’s a stupid idea trying to get it back tonight—” he sighs, “—I just. I missed my broadcast time.”

You glance at him, confused.

“My nightly broadcast time. Every evenin’ at 8 p.m., sharp, I send out a broadcast. It’s for… It’s for my daughter. She was always a real stickler for bein’ on time, so I try to do the same.”

His voice is low as he speaks, and you step closer to hear him better.

“—So, I should apologize to ya for earlier, too. I was gettin’ a bit worked up, myself… It’s not easy. For me to talk about her. So, I know that it wasn’t easy for you, neither. But there ain’t no motivation like tryin’ to get yer kid back, is there?” his voice drops off.

An olive branch.

You walk towards him, slowly, and place a hand on his shoulder.

“No. No there isn’t, Jake.”

He gives a soft smile as he looks up at you, hearing the returned peace offer, a sad glint to his eyes.

“Howabouts we get out of here, Slick?”

“Gladly.”

You lock up the security gate once more, but this time, toss Jake the key. You each grab your fusion cores from the suits, and as you open the door back onto the Commonwealth, goosebumps shoot across your arms with the night breeze and you hike your shoulders up. You trudge out of the fencing, following Jake, and activate the sentry behind you. The both of your boots squelching as you swing your arms, casting a green glow on your path back to Concord.

. . .

You’re shivering violenty as you finally step back onto paved road.

“Made it,” Jake says, stumbling to his doorway.

He yanks off his boots before he steps in and drops his bags onto the floor.

“If you’re positive about getting the crate back solo tomorrow, feel free to use my armor to do it. I don’t think I’m going to get out of bed,” you grumble past chattering teeth.

You’ve really got to get a better base layer.

“Good night, Jake,” you huff, and turn to start the rest of the journey back to Sanctuary.

“Woah there, come inside. You’re going to turn blue if you don’t warm up,”

“I’m tired, Jake. If I sit down, I’m not getting back up,” you rub your arms over the longsleeve.

“Just have some tea before you go and let me get you a sweater at the minimum.”

You slide down against the doorframe and fumble with your boots, struggling to direct your frigid fingers to grasp the muddy laces. When the knots are finally undone, you kick off the wet boots, and peel off your disgusting socks, slapping them onto the ground.

“Can I borrow a pair of socks, too?” you call out, tucking your knees to your chest and vibrating.

A blanket falls over your shoulders, and Jake’s hand is extended to you, helping you up.

“Sorry, but the stove’s upstairs. C’mon.”

“Hold on. I should send word to Sanctuary that we’re fine.”

It’s Preston who responds on the radio, to your not-surprise.

“Affirmative, Lieutenant, I’m fine. We were stuck by the storm, but we are back in Concord-One, over.”

“Should a patrol be sent out, or will you be basing there tonight, over.”

“Negative, Lieutenant. I can get back to Sanctuary-One. Codsworth can keep an eye out if he’d like, but get to bed. Over.”

“Roger. I’ll pass that along. Over and out.”

You stagger up the stairs, and plop down onto a cushion by the cookpot, and sigh in relief rubbing your hands in front of the flames.

He’s got a little set up on the second floor, but it’s practically spartan in comparison to the bustling wires and electronics he’s got downstairs. You sneeze.

“Hope you don’t catch somethin’, mighty sorry for wastin’ yer time with this all today,” he mumbles, handing you a mug.

You take a sip, nearly scorching your throat, but sigh in pleasure as the heat spreads, finally slowing your shivers.

“Is there cinnamon in this?” you marvel.

“I even splurged and put a spoon of honey into the pot.”

“Honey—are there still—”

“Yeah, there’s still bees. Haven’t seen none of ‘em this far north, and not this late into the year, neither, but back in Sanford there were a few farmers that risked gathering some every year. One guy was even tryin’ to tame the darn things, last I knew.”

“I always wanted to be a beekeeper,” you muse.

“You might want to re-evaluate that dream after you see the bugs nowadays,” he jokes.

“Bees the size of pomeranians…”

“Don’t know how big pomeranians are,” and when you gesture, he quirks his eyebrows.

“A breed of itty-bitty dogs. Fluffy little things. Most were damn dumb, but boy, are they cute. My sister wanted one when we were kids.”

You scratch under Dogmeat’s chin and his leg scratches at the air.

“A bit bigger, maybe. And I doubt they’d be as cuddly. I’ve heard horror stories that out west there are wasps as big as a man,”

“Yikes. Guess I’ll need a different hobby. Maybe I’ll have to take up playing the guitar instead,”

“You’re lookin’ to be awfully busy. Savin’ your godson, rebuildin’ the world, settin’ up the Commonwealths’ own traveling theatre, and now musician extraordinaire?”

“Don’t forget ASAM business-partner,”

He smiles.

“You got some sorta vengance against sittin’ still, Slick?”

“Not always. But I’m not very  good at doing things in the middle. It’s hard for me to stick to something and focus if it’s not interesting. And if it is interesting, I can’t put it down. I’m usually just trying to distract myself with a new task the moment my motivation falters. I’m better at entertaining myself than when I was a kid, but honestly, I just relied on having music playing all the time and that’s… all I’ve found is Diamond City radio with the same 40 songs, and if I get tired of those, I’m going to lose my mind, so I better start learning how to play something.”

“Fair enough.”

You yawn and rub your bleary eyes. Your pipboy only reads 11 p.m., but it feels later.

“It’s late. I’m gonna get headed back, now. Thanks for the tea.”

“Not to insinuate anythin’, but are you good to make it back? I’ve got enough blankets now to make somethin’ work if you need it,”

“With new shoes and a clean sweater? I’ll be right as rain. But I’ll tag onto your frequency and give a shout when I’ve made it back.”

“I’d appreciate it. Good night, Slick.”

You jog in short bursts back to the hill, kept awake by the cold air and the fearful sense of being prey, but the raider’s boots fit your feet well, and they’re dry, and the trip remains luckily uneventful.

Chapter Text

It’s still dark in the room as you wake, though you hear shuffling out in the street. Your arm flops out, searching for the pipboy, and squinting through the green glare, you read the time. Ten a.m., the latest you’ve slept-in. You sniffle, ears popping as you yawn. Your throat scratches.

You cannot get sick right now.

It’s not that bad. Drink some water, stay warm. It’s fine. It’s fine. You’re not coughing, not sneezing, not even a runny nose. You can keep your plant notes close when you head out and see if you can gather enough things to make some of the tinctures Mama Murphy described to you. If nothing else, a nice placebo effect would calm you.

The drink of the morning is a tea of dried melon and ash blossoms. It’s no coffee, but it’s hot. You take a strip of jerky to go, off to find Preston as the steam from your mug is wafted away by the breeze.

“Morning, General,” he calls out from one of your scavenging sheds.

“Lieutenant.”

He sets down the components he was comparing against the parts in his rifle, to turn to you, attent.

“Apologies for the late start, Preston.”

“No worries. With the hold-up from the storm, we didn’t get to finalize packing yesterday, so I figured there would be a slow start.”

“Do you think we can still make it down to that trader you mentioned?”

“We could still make it out to her today. And if push comes to shove, if she doesn’t have traveling gear, we can head back and set early the following morning.”

You press at your temple, a slight headache building behind your eyes.

“It’s not ideal… but until caravans start passing our way, getting supplies is going to be a pain. I hate to push it off another day, but we don’t know what’s waiting to get into Boston, and I’d feel better if we were prepared. Let’s head her way for a shopping trip and stay in Sanctuary tonight, that way we can repack any goods we purchase there, and see if we can find anything the others need for here. I don’t like how the generator’s been sounding, and Codsworth could do with some spare oil on hand.”

Maybe the lady sells Nuka Cola’s, or has coffee tins in stock. You already had a mild caffeine addiction just from your teaching job, but taking care of a newborn and now barely sleeping most nights from the theft of said newborn, you’ve been running on it. And with only one cola and one can of grounds left in your pantry, you’re feening for it.

The trek is about double the distance to Concord, and as you pass through, you see an empty half suit of power armor inside of his shop, but no Jake. He must be grabbing the crate with yours, now. You step in and scrawl a quick note to leave at his radio, that you’re headed down to a trader and will be passing through after, so’s not to worry about a trip up to Sanctuary. You can grab your suit and the ASAMs on your way back.

The route south of Concord is easy-going. A few bloatflies that you two manage to snipe down before they get too close. Your aim is getting better. But there are raised voices as you approach the diner shop, and you pull the wagon off the road to rest against a stump.

They’re arguing, but guns haven’t been drawn. Yet—though you’re not certain it will stay that way. Seems like the two outside are wanting payment. You signal Preston to stay there and get his rifle out. You might have managed to clip two of the flies earlier, but he’s still the better shot.

“Excuse me!” you shout cheerily once you’ve stepped back onto the road, drawing their attention.

Eyes turn towards you, and you wave your raised hands. De-escalate.

“—Just looking to trade, is the shop open?” you call out, approaching slowly.

“Hear that, Trudy! You’ve got the chance to earn some of our caps back.” the man jeers at her, “—play nice wastelander.”

You take that as your cue to continue your approach. The atmosphere inside the diner is no less tense, and the woman behind the counter sneers as you enter.

“You lookin’ to trade?” she greets, sharply.

“Yes, ma’am.” you near the counter.

“What kind of supplies you lookin’ at? You don’t look like no merc, so I’m guessin’ food, bedding, the like?”

You think her statement holds more than just the insult.

“Mostly. I need a few sleeping bags if you’ve got ‘em, and I’d like to see what you’ve got food-wise, but I could do with more 10mm and fusion cells if you’ve got the ammo.”

She glances you up and down, a flash of surprise flittering across her brow at the mention of the fusion cells.

“‘Mostly’, huh? My prices are fair. But if you didn’t notice, I’ve got hasslers tryna exhort me, so if you’re wantin’ a discount, you’re gonna hafta work for it,” she intones, placing some packaged meals on the countertop. You hear a cough from behind, and notice the young man hugging his knees off to the side.

“He alright there?” you ask the woman, the flicker of worry of catching sick peeking back in.

“That idiot’ll be fine once the shit is out of his system.”

You can notice the trembling now as he reaches up a hand to bite at his nails.

“Those people out there dealers?” you ask her, quieter.

“Pushers, more like,” she retorts, “—got my boy hooked on jet. Proud to oversell him on credit, too, and itchin’ to collect.”

An old business. Malignant and profitable as always.

“And if those two were to get that debt paid, would they has a reason to come back?” you ask.

“I’m not payin’ ‘em.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

She looks down at her son.

“Well, Patrick?” she asks, tone disappointed but tender, “—you gonna give them a reason to come back here?”

The man trembles as he looks up.

“No, ma. Never gonna touch another hit of that stuff. Promise.”

“How much do you owe them, Patrick.”

“A hundred n thirty…” he rasps out.

“What they’re owed is a lead-filled head,” Trudy snaps, “and you’re lookin’ to either earn a few caps by helpin’ me make that happen, or get caught in the cross-fire.”

“Oh, really? You’re going to take on two well-armed thugs on your own? And if that goes poorly, did you stop to think what is going to happen to your son? You think he’s going to be able to stay off the chems after watching his mother gunned down in front of him while he’s shuddering with withdrawals? You think they aren’t going to kill him as punishment? Just leave him here to try to scrape up the money in that state? Or maybe those people out there have worse friends, and Patrick’s going to find a different way to pay off that debt.”

She’s turning red, but remains still.

“And what the hell are you gonna do, huh?” she finally asks.

“I’m going to set some of the things in here aside, and ask for a better price once those goons leave.”

“Oh sure, they’re just going to leave empty-handed?”

“They’re going to leave, and yes I’d prefer that, but they are going to leave one way or another. Just keep that gun handy as a precaution.”

You step back out of the diner, the two black-leather clad figures watching you intently. You halt a few paces away to keep the peace.

“Those are awfully nice leather jackets. You two must do a lot of business to afford such a look. General Theodore Berwick of the Commonwealth Minutemen,” you introduce yourself.

“Minutemen!” he barks a laugh, “Wolfgang, General of Jet. And this here is Simone, General of Shooting People That Get In Our Way. Yeah we do business around here, and we get paid for it.”

“Of course, of course. So here you are.” You hand out the sack of caps to Wolfgang.

“The hell’s this?”

“100 caps. That is the final payment to cover the debts of one Patrick, there.”

“How the hell you’d convince the hag to pay up? This isn’t even all of it—”

“I didn’t. She’s right set on doing something stupid that is going to get her killed.”

“Oh, no, no, no. That bitch is going to pay for her damned kid’s habit.”

“That bitch isn’t the one who oversold to a client that couldn’t pay. Take your caps and cut the losses.”

“Oh, we can take your caps too if you’re so damned set on it, but that junkie owes us.”

“I also said this was the final payment if you were listening,” your finger twitches. Keep it calm, “—aren’t you business people?”

“And what sort of business would it be to pass up on a repeat-customer?” the man sneers. 

“One that keeps you alive, for starters. I’ve got officers stationed out there ready to shoot you down if you don’t leave.”

“Bullshit. You ain’t nobody.”

You shrug, fighting for nonchalance against the blood surging in your ears, and tilt your head to the side as you shout.

“LIEUTENANT? REQUESTING A WARNING SHOT.”

With the hand hold holding the baggie, you point to the ground a few yards away, and a laser round strikes out, stirring up dust. Wolfgang startles, and Simone grabs her pistol, but you lift your empty palm up in appeasement.

“So, what. You’ve got a buddy over in the bushes there. Quit testing my patience, wastelander.”

“I’m just trying to keep you doing business, elsewhere. You’ve got your money. And Patrick there is clean, so you don’t have any reason to keep bothering them here. You can go, now, and there’s no trouble and additional costs for ammo and meds if you manage to make it out of the fight. But if you try coming back, if Trudy doesn’t kill you first, then the Minutemen will.”

Wolfgang glances about towards the brush, the diner, and back to you, weighing his options. You feel sweat beading along your forehead. Ultimately, he shrugs, and snatches the caps from you, turning on his heel. After a pause, Simone follows suit, and they walk onto the road; away.

You exhale and bend over in relief. Footsteps crunch, speeding over the dirt, and Preston appears at your side. You glance up at him and give him a queasy smile.

Trudy wasn’t happy, but she did lower her price on your supplies. You’d wiped out most of your savings now. You had thirty caps left at the Hill, but even after trading her well water and a bit of scrap, you only had fifty caps left.

The walk back north had you in a mixed mood.

“So the Minutemen are promising protection, again?” Preston asks, softly.

“I’m hoping it will only be a bluff that’s needed. Those two saw the reason, though, so I’m hoping they stay away for good. We don’t have the numbers or the range to get down here at a moment’s notice between just the two of us, even if she passes along a radio message asking for help.”

“But if we did?”

“Hmm?”

“If we did have the numbers.”

“We don’t—” you pinch the bridge of your nose, “—if we did, then yes. But I can’t think about trying to recruit or train or organize—” you force yourself to pause. Breathe.

“Preston, I know this is important to you. But I don’t think I’m the person to be leading an army. I don’t know anything about running one, much less building it. I don’t even like the army. I shouldn’t have thrown the name around like that, but I was just trying to handle the situation without bloodshed.”

“The Minutemen are a militia—”

“I’m not a soldier, Pres.”

“And I’m not asking you to be. A militia is made up of citizen, Theo. People who are just trying to protect their neighbors. You say you don’t know how to recruit, but that’s not what I’m seeing. Maybe we aren’t at the point of running drills, but you’ve set up security patrols, organized hunting parties, are working on establishing supply lines—what do you think that is?”

You pause, the wagon wheels halting.

“I’m just trying to make a safer place to bring Shaun back to.”

“You’re trying to protect those you care about, defend it, are you not?”

“Yes, but not like—it’s different, Preston. I want our people at Sanctuary to be safe. At Abernathy farm to be safe. And to do that, unfortunately, they need to be armed, carry around some weight behind them so that these bullies—” you invoke the image of Wolfgang, of the raiders, “—think twice about trying to hurt them. But I can’t just demand sign up and tell them all what to do. I’m not going to be a dictator. I don’t like that they have to fight to protect themselves, so I’m not against helping people learn how to do that, but I’m not going to conscript people,”

“And I wouldn’t want you to. Just give them the option. People are noticing what you’re doing, and how you’re doing it, and if you give them the chance, you’ll see that some of us want to follow.”

“I’m just. Preston, I’m just me.”

“That’s why I chose you to be the General, Theo.”

“Fine, just. We’ll talk about this more later, okay? After dinner.”

You need a break from the conversation, and picking up your power armor provides the opportunity.

“Jake! You there?” you shout down the street as you approach the museum.

A protectron hobbles into the doorway, the beacon on its head flashing. You throw an arm out to stop Preston behind you and reach for your rifle, dropping the wagon handle.

“Yeah, I’m here! MALA get out of the way!”

You lower your rifle and exhale. Jake must have finally gotten the robot up and running.

“Heya, Slick. Lieutenant. Say, while you’re here—”

. . .

“Remind me again why I said yes to this.”

You’re hunched over as you try to maneuver through the brick tunnel, trying to stay as much out of the puddles as you are trying to keep a gap between your back and the damp, cobwebbed bricks above.

“Because you’re a gem of a business partner,” Jake replies as you step out into the town’s underground utility room.

“I’m going to start charging for new boots as a company expense,” you grumble.

Jake is fiddling with the console set-up when you notice the button.

“Evans if that big red button needs to be pushed at some point, I am claiming that as my reward for wading through sewage for you,”

“Easy, now, Slick. I’ll let you push the button, give me just a moment…”

It’s a bit anticlimactic at first, but after a swift kick to the generator, your second press lights up the place. It’s a quicker path back to the surface, Preston waiting back in the Jake’s shop to apparently ‘keep an eye on the hub’ rather than ‘avoid going into the sewers’ though he keeps a wider walking distance from you on the trek back to Sanctuary, nose crinkled.

You return to Sanctuary loudly—your footfalls heavy and metallic in your power armor—bags laden with ASAMs, razor grain, packaged food, new traveling gear, and scrap supplies in tow.

“Why is it each time I leave, more new people show up?” you murmur to Preston as you approach the small crowd.

More settlers, a woman named Lily and a few others. Sanctuary’s big, but you’re only getting off the ground. With the extra ASAMs it’ll be alright, but you might have to turn the radio beacon off for a while if they keep showing up at this rate. You’d hate to turn people away, but if something doesn’t change, it’s a real possibility. At least this group was well stocked, even a few different plants to add to your greenhouses along with the fresh produce to vary that night’s dinner.

. . .

The next morning starts on a technicality, dark night not yet fading into dawn, and you and Preston are finally able to set off properly. You make great time making it back to Drumlin Diner.

“Morning, Trudy. Patrick.”

“General,” she snarks, but there’s the hint of a smile nonetheless, “—you on a patrol or somethin’?”

“Headed south, actually. Just coming back to trade for some of my caps back from yesterday. Those two stayed gone, I take it?”

You don’t want to correct her to say you don’t have the people to do patrols.

“Yep. I think your threats helped. And your stupid caps.”

“Well, I needed a trader, so I’ll consider it a deposit to keep you here.”

“Sweet-talkin’ isn’t gonna get you a better price,” she smirks and you laugh.

“Worth trying. But seriously, you send a message out to Concord and they’ll patch you to us if something starts up. I can’t promise a quick response, but we’ll do our best.”

“I’ll start shootin’ if I see that scum show up. But… thanks. You know if you have the folks, you could set up in that old lot just east. Might be some odd bugs out there, but there’s that shack, and you could get a look-out on that big wall.”

“To the east…” you try to imagine where that’d be if you were driving, “—wait you mean the drive-in?”

“Huh?”

“Drive-in cinema—is it a big parking lot, cars out there and the like?”

“That what it is? Yeah there’s cars out there.”

“Thanks for the info, Trudy,”

As you step outside, your clock reads 8:30. You’ve still got plenty of time. Maybe a small diversion wouldn’t be so bad…

. . .

You’re sweaty as you trudge back into the diner. You’re still jittery after setting off a few booby-traps at Starlight. Luckily, you had dropped under the countertop at the first beep and missed the majority of the impact, though your eardrums were still ringing. After, you’d been more on-guard, and while you still tripped the bomb at the door, you’d dove away. Your leg took the brunt of it, but the small armor plate managed to stop most of the shrapnel, and a stimpack resolved the rest.

But she was right. It could be a good set-up. If you can pass the word along, any new settlers can bring some ASAMs down there and get it going. Your talk with Preston last night had gone well enough, and you conceded to setting up a few training sessions for those who were interested, but you still felt unnerved at the thought of yourself as leading troops.

“Hey, Trudy, do you mind if I use your radio?”

Chapter Text

The sun is high as you follow the railroad tracks south. Save a brief scuffle with a lone raider in a graveyard, it’s been appreciatively calm after this morning’s scouting of Starlight. You’d kept a wide-berth from Lexington; Preston and Trudy both having warned about that area. It was just past noon as the path sloped down, nearing the elevated highway.

“I think that’s Graygarden down there,” Preston gestures towards the immense greenhouse up ahead.

“I’ve heard about that place,” you mumble, thinking back to the report you’d listened to on the radio one day, “—is it still running?”

You had driven past on the highway a few times and caught a glance, but hadn’t found the time to do an actual visit together. Most of the machines ignored you upon approach, save the more personable supervisors. You didn’t want to risk upsetting any of them by theft, so once you’d picked the fruits and earned your meager reward for the hour’s labor and a few of the seeds back from Brown, you bought a few back to take along with on the road.

Though supervisor White had been rather persuasive, you had to decline helping them with their water troubles for the moment. Perhaps later, it could be a good use of time, seeing as their greenhouse would be a fantastic boon for winter resources, but you needed to make it to the city first. Maybe you’d bring Codsworth out with you for the return.

“I can’t believe you convinced Greene to buy back their own wrecked car,” Preston chuckles as you two cross the bridge over the Charles.

It’s only three p.m. as you make friendly with the settlers at Oberland, but you’re exhausted. They let you use their cooking pot, and after buying a few tatos, you have a rough stew for an early dinner. Your shoulders ache from carrying your pack around, and while it’s early, dark will come on quickly in another hour’s time. This isn’t the route Preston and the others took, and you’re not sure if you’ll find a better option for shelter. You have a small tent and a spare sleeping bag to act as padding, but you’re not keen to have your first night of wasteland camping be under the stars.

“I don’t mean to impose—and we can pay a few caps as well—but would you both be alright with us to camp here, just overnight?”

“We’re not too keen on it, stranger,” one of the women starts, “unless you’re willing to prove you’re trustworthy to close an eye around.”

“What would it take?” you ask, hesitant.

“You all came up from the tracks, yeah? You pass by that old brewery?”

“Beantown? Yeah, we saw it.”

“There’s a few raiders setting up there. They haven’t been too much of a bother so far, but I don’t like the look of it.”

“You need us to clear them out for you?”

“If you can manage, we’ll let yous sleep on the ground floor here, tonight.”

“How many are there? Have they given you trouble, yet?”

“Caught one sneakin’ around a couple days ago. Noticed a few tatos gone, but he ran off when I shouted. Cursed at me a bit, but they might be more bark then bite. Don’t like to find out, myself, so if yous handle them, run ‘em off or elsewise, we’d be willin’ to let yous sleep here.”

You leave some of your gear there, and whisper to Preston on the walk north.

“How do you know someone’s a raider and not just a settler? What if those people are just hungry?”

“When they’re in a group, it’s easy enough to tell. They like to go for a look, make it clear to people that they don’t mess around. Most of them are hopped up on chems at all times of the day. But if they’re alone, I guess you can’t always be sure. But if someone shoots first, that’s a pretty clear sign about what they’re planning to do.”

“I’d rather not start a fight if we can avoid it, especially if we don’t know how many are in there.”

“We can try talking to anybody near the door, but we didn’t see any signs of farming when we passed, so unless it’s just a few travelers who are passing through, if they’re settling in and not looking to provide for themselves, likelihood is they’re looking to take.”

You sigh. He’s right. As you approach, the sun edging towards the horizon, you see a man leaned against the wall, smoking. He’s got a bare chest with a spiked tire makeshift pauldron, and not to judge a book by its cover, but he doesn’t look friendly. You could take the gamble, try to approach and find out if he’s willing to talk, but doing so gives up any chance at stealth. He could call out to whoever’s inside and throw you into the deep-end.

“You see him?” you whisper to Preston, and he glances down his scope.

“It’s not looking good for debating,” he responds.

“I guess not. We both take aim and see if we can drop him without alerting the others inside?”

He nods, and though the lasers’ jolt cracks out through the air, minutes pass and no-one opens the door to check on the new pile of ash.

“Showtime.”

Though not comforting to walk through the warped building, the proof that these were not simply settlers becomes more and more apparent as you progress. The stench of freshly spilled beer, the stink of empty jet cannister, the detritus of cigarette roaches and ash. You’ve swapped to your pistol, and you hear footsteps in the next room. The efforts for gaining the element of surprise work in your favor, as you crouch forward into the next room, shooting a raider in the back while another startles from his seat on the couch. The shot echoes into the building, and though you get another two bullets off before the seated man managed to grab his own weapon, there are footsteps pounding towards you in the distance.

Backing up into the hallway, a woman bursts through with a knife, a laser bursting her down thanks to Preston, but in the flash of light, you don’t notice the other raider until the baton swings down and connects across your face.

Searing pain is what clouds your vision for the second time, adrenaline flooding you as you try to roll out of the way of a following blow. As you turn, your attacker’s form crumbles apart, and you smell the ionizing ash, and hunch over as the rush of the fight pauses and the pain takes precedence.

“General, are you alright—”

Oh, it’s a stupid question, and you groan in reply, but you would do the same. You’re shuddering as you mouth-breathe, but other than the blinding ache, you’re alive nonetheless.

“Think it’s a broken nose,” you spit out some blood, and hesitatingly touch your face, trying to sort out if there’s damage elsewhere.

“Looks like it. Might’ve caught your lip, too. Do you need a stim?”

Oh how desperately you want to say yes, but you’ve only got five for your trip to the city, and it would be better used on something life-threatening.

“We can spare a dose of med-x at camp,” you grumble, blinking away the dizzying ache.

He nods, and the two of you push deeper into the building, alternating who leads into the following sections. Two other raiders go down, their bullets whizzing past but luckily not connecting. You circle through the base once more, but find no others on the quick scan.

“Clear. Let’s get to camp, I don’t want to spend another night out here if we can avoid it. ”

“Agreed, General.”

It’s another quick walk back to Oberland, darker now with the dusk-light fading, at least one small relief to your pounding head. You wave to one of the settlers from their perch as you near.

“You look like shit,” she says once she’s back on ground level.

“Thanks. We killed about six of them, and did a walk through to clear the building. Not sure if there are more, they had some terminal entries that sounded like they were eager to expand, so I’d keep an eye out, but that should seriously dissuade them on their choice of base.”

“It’s more than we expected. You can set up in here for the night. We’ve got dinner going if you’d like to eat, but you should let Nancy look at your nose, first.”

You drop the rest of your goods off with your packs from earlier, and head towards the other woman.

“Nancy?” she looks up, and her eyebrow raises as she looks over your face from her seat at the campfire.

“That’s rough. Get your noggin’ rocked, did ya?”

You groan in response to avoid nodding.

“You get knocked out?” she asks, approaching.

“No.”

“Get sick? Slurring at all?” she grabs your chin and turns your head from side-to-side as she stares into your eyes.

“No and no. Hurts, but I don’t think it’s a concussion,” you mutter.

“You’re lucky. Your eyes don’t look big, you should be alright, but I oughta set that before you sleep on it.”

“Can I take some med-x beforehand?”

“Either that or some whiskey. Take a bowl and after you eat I’ll snap it back in place for ya.”

You can’t say you’re looking forward to it, but you feel guilty at the thought of wasting one of your stimpacks on less than a crippled limb. You can’t taste the stew much; mouth breathing not giving much in the way to smelling the meal. Preston helps you clean up and sterlize the needle and site, and the pulsing in your skull is fading by the time Nancy steps in.

It’s a disgusting, wet crunch as she presses against your nose, and tears rush to your eyes as you hiss.

“Sorry, bud. Try not to move around too much in your sleep. Better to rest on your side if you can manage. It’s just a small break, but it’s gotta bleed.”

You nod, and wait for the meds to take over before falling into a dreamless sleep.

The sun wakes you, and Preston is out of his sleeping bag, his gear already stowed. You crawl out of your own set-up, and step into the light. After taking care of the morning necessities, you return from the tree line and grab a mutfruit from your pack. As you finish up, Preston exits from the base of the tower, your bag in tow.

“You didn’t have to pack up for me, thanks Pres.”

“Consider it an apology for the nose. I know you wanted an early start, but you needed to sleep off the dose.”

You stand and wipe the juice on your palms off onto your pants. A brief goodbye to the settlers, and you’re back on the road. The mood is much less chipper this morning. You might have slept hard, but you didn’t sleep easy. Your shoulder aches and your neck is stiff, and there’s still a dull pulsating discomfort when you breathe too deeply. You returned your welding goggles to your face, and though the pressure on your nose adds to the tension in your temples, the squinting against the sunshine would do more to sour your already tart mood. You try to keep it contained, walking a touch faster and further ahead.

The pain doesn’t make navigating any easier, and by the time you near the Fens, you've managed to get turned around a few times. With your anger rising and patience facing, when a stranger shouts out down the street at you—begging for help—your response comes out clipped and acidic. The woman sneers and starts to reach for her gun before stopping and redoubling her efforts, seemingly starting to cry.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this, General.”

“Glad it’s not just me, Prest.” you whisper back to him, the both of you still at a distance from the woman.

“Please! He’s gonna die—I don’t know what to do! We can pay, I swear! He’s inside here!”

The woman tugs open the red door of the old hardware store, frantically waving you inside, but you hesitate. As you wait, a person in some kind of plague doctor attire turns the block in the distance.

“Are you hurt?” the stranger in the mask calls out, approaching, seeming to have overheard enough.

“Not me—my friend inside—can you help?” the woman steps back from the doorway and rushes closer to the lithe figure.

“What’s wrong with the guy?” you call out, to her, wary.

She turns with narrowed eyes.

“He’s hurt. He needs help. I’m not a doctor, are you?” her voice curt.

“I am, I can help.” the short doctor replies, starting to be led forward towards the store.

“Fuck,” you whisper and jerk your head up for Preston to follow.

“And what do you want?” the woman barks at you, “—I’ve got a doctor, now. We don’t need a crowd.”

“Call me a Good Samaritan, is all,” you give her a tight smile and nudge your way between her and the doctor.

“Fine! Hurry up, he’s back here,” she calls out loudly, and runs towards the back of the store.

The man in the plague suit starts to follow, but you hold out a hand and catch him by the chest. He steps back quickly, his shoulders hunching forward a fraction in a familiar way.

“Look, I’m not going to stop you, but let’s make sure this is safe, yeah?” you tell him and wave Preston forward.

The store is quiet, but as you slowly walk forward through the aisleway of misplaced wood shelving, you start to hear hushed voices from the backroom. You slide closer, listening.

“...we told you to bring ‘em through the basement, idiot—”

“I’m tryin’ here, why don’t you take a turn, asshole?” the sound of the woman from outside.

“Why are they takin’ so long?” someone else hisses.

“Cram it! I’m gonna haul their ass in here,” a new voice snaps, and you shuffle to the side of the door, and wait.

You raise your pistol to roughly head height as the steps approach. The door slams open, and a rifle pokes past the doorframe. Time is slow as the man steps through, rifle leading the way. Preston and the doctor are still at the other side of the room, half-covered behind a shelf. The man steps forward again, his nose passing the frame—raising his gun towards them—and you pull the trigger. Blood and viscera splatter against the door and he crumples. Preston fires through the open door, and the doctor dives back behind the shelving into better cover.

“Frag!” Preston screams, and you dive into the backroom to add distance to the grenade.

A burst of pain erupts in your leg as you turn lean back and aim, shooting down another raider as the explosion rings out. There’s movement further down the aisles, and you scramble, half-crawling into cover. A bolt of laser flashes down the aisle, bullets replying soon after. Your leg is bleeding; your calf burning. You check your magazine as you breathe. A whistle from Preston, asking for cover to advance. Exhale. You scoot to the edge of the rack, and lean out, aiming back. You fire once, twice, and the raider ducks. Preston rushes ahead, taking shelter behind the aisle-end across from you. You nod to him and scoot to the other edge of your own, preparing to check if the others were advancing on that side.

You peek out again, and manage to clip one of the raiders, and his leg gives out. You send another bullet his way, and he slumps the rest of the way down to the floor. You hear laser shots fire and at least two more sets of footfalls. Get up. You turn towards the metal bars of the warehouse shelves, and pull yourself up, heat and hurt flaring with the weight change as you shuffle yourself forward, your left hand in a death-grip on the shelves as you limp. Your pistol shakes as you advance. Hurry.

More laser fire. You turn the end of the aisle, and shoot the distracted raider as she’s reloading.

“Clear?” you cry out, leg buckling.

“Clear!” Preston returns, and he’s at your side, clamping down onto your leg, “—Hey! Kid! You said you were a doctor, right?”

More scuffling and the figure in the plague mask is there.

“Jesus,” he’s muttering, a slight tremble as he moves, but he looks practiced.

“I’ve got a stimpack,” Preston says, pulling out your own supplies as the doctor slices at your pant leg and turns your leg over.

“No, you can’t—not yet—there’s no exit wound,” he pulls out his own tools, “—I’m sorry this is going to hurt,” he holds a metal rod against your leg and wraps a cord above your knee and starts to twist.

“AH!” it does indeed hurt, but it’s at most a slight distraction from the pain of the bullet wound.

“Hold that, and the leg down—” the figure directs Preston as you claw at the ancient concrete flooring, “—sorry.”

Vodka fumes and more pain, then he’s shoving and digging and you kick out, Preston’s hands coming down to hold your other leg down while he kneels on your left ankle.

You feel cold steel as the stimpack stabs into you, and then warmth as the medicine courses through you, and you go limp from the exhaustion of the agony, panting against the dusty floor. Your head lays facing the back of the workshop, and you can see down the broken floorboards into a pit below. Bodies. A pile of corpses, naked, heaped on top of each other.

“Did that really have to turn into a gun-fight, immediately?” the man asks, wiping his hands clean.

“Probably,” you croak and direct his eyes back to the hole.

His shoulders drop and he sighs.

“And I didn’t notice any injuries we didn’t cause. It was all a ruse,” Preston adds.

“Sorry. I. Of course it was a trap… but raiders usually leave us alone. We’ve treated other groups before,”

“You help raiders?” you ask, shifting up onto your elbows to look over the doctor again, unsure of how stupid, dangerous, or overly kind he might be.

“Nightingales help anyone that needs it,” he replies, a hint of pride in his defensive response, but he softens, “—but without you two, I could have been in real trouble.”

“I’ll take my payment in a spare stimpack to replace ours that we just used,” you mutter, though your leg is quickly returning to a usable condition, and even your nose feels a little less inflamed.

“Of course,” he says and hands Preston one from his own kit, “—but really. Thank you. We have a station just across from Diamond City’s entrance if you need a place to rest, get any more treatment, or trade supplies. I could lead you there, now. I ought to get back, and you should take it easy on that for a day if you can.”

“We’ll see. We have to make it to the city, but can we take you up on the offer for a place to sleep tonight?”

“Yeah, we have a few beds there, though if we have patients to treat you’ll have to make do with the ground, but at least it’s indoors and covered. And free, as thanks.”

“Peachy. Thank you…?”

“Oh! Ellis.”

“Thanks, Ellis. Theo,”

“Preston Garvey, Commonwealth Minutemen.”

“Oh, you’re Minutemen? No wonder you helped,” his comment earns a touched grin from Preston.

“I’d like to say we’re better at this, but we’re getting off the ground again, and I’m learning a lot, myself.” you grunt and manage to stand, wincing as you put weight on the healing calf.

Preston stands to offer support, but you shake your head and start to hobble around the warehouse, picking through the raider’s pockets.

“Do you Nightingales have a protocol for dealing with corpses?” you ask, turning back to the still-masked Ellis.

. . .

You part ways with the young man as you approach the stadium entrance. The guards patrolling kept the remainder of the walk incident-free, but you doubted that would last: there was a woman arguing at the gate. You go to rub at the bridge of your nose and regret it as the pressure on the now green-tinted bruises stings.

“You open up this gate right now, Danny Sullivan!”

The woman is furious. You catch a bit of the back and forth; seems like the mayor wasn’t keen on the reporter. You cough as you approach to let her know she has an audience. She turns and looks you over, then confidently leans away from the speaker box.

“You. You want into Diamond City, right?”

“Yeah... it is open, isn’t it?” you quirk your brow.

“Shh. Play along,” she spins a tale about a new trader from Quincy—you apparently—one ‘crazy’ Myrna, a few veiled threats, and before you know it the giant metal grate is creaking open.

“Better head inside quick before ole’ Danny catches onto the bluff,” she smirks, rushing ahead, but doesn’t make it very far.

The infamous mayor himself—as well as a handful of guards nearby—are standing just beyond the gate, and you catch his vicious tone as he snarls at Piper, making bold claims of slander.

“Why don’t we ask the newcomer? You support the news?” she turns towards you as you awkwardly wait, unsure if you can pass the lot and head inside.

You aren’t keen to immediately start ruffling feathers, but you’d hate to lie. Too many years of an eye over your shoulder, it’s hard to break the habitual worry that drops into your stomach, but there’s no way the current day’s government could be as all-consuming and suppressing as the States had been.

“Always believed in freedom of the press, truly a foundation of an honest and safe society. But if you don’t mind, I was hoping Miss Wright could help me find some services in town?” you add a small smile, trying to offer an end to the interaction.

“Why, Diamond City is the safest place in all the Commonwealth, I assure you. Surely we can point you to where you need to go, sir, no need to mind the riff-raff,” he gestures to Piper.

“I’m sure you’re a busy man,” you smile tensely, trying to make polite with him; no need to dig yourself further towards his bad side after a tense first impression, “would you be the authority to talk to about a missing persons case?”

A strange mix of emotions flash across his face.

“Trying to find someone? Who?” his tone is delicate, though he seems tense.

“My… my godson. He’s less than one. I’m the only family he’s got left,” your throat is tight as you speak, and you press your weight down onto your left foot, trying to flare up the pain on that side to prevent the tears.

“Wait, an infant is missing? Hear that McDonough? An infant this time!”

“Goodness… I’m terribly sorry to hear that, friend. There is one private citizen that may be able to help, Nick Valentine. A… detective of sorts. He specializes in tracking people down, though usually for debts,” McDonough tries to ingratiate himself to you.

“Is he different than ‘The Ron’?” you ask, and the mayor rebuffs at the name.

“That imbecile? He might have a few old papers, but I wouldn’t waste my time. Now, I have to get going. I’m afraid Diamond City Security doesn’t have the time to follow every case that comes through, we have to prioritize our citizen’s immediate safety as you can understand, but I’m sure Mister Valentine charges a reasonable fee,” the man is trying to slide out of the conversation while saving face.

“This is ridiculous! You can’t spare one officer to help? I want the truth, McDonough! What’s the real reason security never investigates any kidnappings?”

“I’m sorry I don’t have time for any more questions. Much to attend to,” he turns to you, “—Enjoy your time in our fair city!”

And with that, the mayor and his entourage of guards scatter, heading towards the pitch. Piper turns towards you, but you’re first to speak.

“There are more missing people?” your voice is strained, and she huffs.

“Unfortunately. You aren’t the first person to try to report something here, but the mayor has been too busy sticking his head in the sand. He'd much rather spend his time trying to shut me down for not doing the same. Thanks for your help back there, by the way.”

“Yeah, no worries. They don’t have any right to try to kick you out like that,”

“Glad to know another good one has stumbled into the Great Green Jewel. Don’t let it chew you up and spit you back out, you hear? You can find Valentine off down the alley by third base. Why don’t you stop by Publick Occurences after you see him? I think I just found my next story.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” you reply, tired.

“I am sorry about your kid,” she adds, before sprinting into the city.

Preston gives you a pat on the shoulder. You swallow back the tightness in your throat and step through, into the light.

Chapter Text

It’s bright. The dome is open and the sun is strong. With the stadium walls blocking the majority of wind, and the warm bodies milling about, it’s degrees warmer than the walk in, relieving a fraction of the discomfort in your calf.

It’s… it’s the most people you’ve seen at once. It’s dingy, the buildings are a mess of scrap metal and materials meshed together, but it’s alive.

“Wow,” you hear from Preston, and you agree.

“Not bad,” you mumble back.

You head down, pausing a moment as you step onto home plate. You hadn’t be a huge fan of the game, but your dad liked it. He took you and Nora to a handful of games when you were small. Hot-dogs and pretzels, ice cream out of plastic bowls shaped like the player’s ball-caps. You sniff at the tear running down the inside of your nostril. You pass through the heart of the market on your way to third plate, but pause as you pass a guard with sunglasses and reverse, Preston nearly bumping into you.

“Excuse me, officer?” you smile, trying to be disengaging, not sure of the local force’s attitude.

“Uh. Yeah?” he seems a bit surprised that you’ve approached.

“Don’t mean to bother you, but just wanted to ask if I might, where did you get those sunglasses?”

“W-what? Oh, these old things? Yeah, uh the. Clothes seller? Should have some.”

“The clothes seller? Sorry, man, I’m new here, uh who would that be?”

“Oh, welcome to the Great Green Jewel. You’ll love it here.”

“Thanks… and the… clothes seller?”

“Just over there,” he points off to a dugout.

“Right, thanks man.”

“Yeah.”

You step away, noting the shop entrance for later, and continue towards third plate.

“Was that weird, or just me?” you whisper to Preston.

“No, that was weird.”

“Cool.”

You hustle away of the pitchers mound, finding the neon sign for the Valentine Detective Agency and enter to find a young woman in a skirt pacing.

“Another stray. ‘Fraid you’re too late. Office is closed,” she talks over her shoulder as she shuffles papers off a desk and into a box.

“Wait, are you the detective?”

“Me? No, I’m Nick’s secretary, or that’s what I used to do anyway, but now he’s disappeared. Can’t keep a detective agency open without a detective, can you?”

“He’s gone?”

“Is he coming back?” Preston asks.

“Again, I handle the papers and appointments, not the cases, but God I hope he is, and soon.”

“Can I ask where was he last?”

“Nick's working a case. Skinny Malone’s gang had kidnapped a young woman, and he tracked them down to their hideout in Park Street Station, but he hasn’t been back in days.”

“Is that unusual for him?”

“I mean, not always, but he sends word. There’s an old Vault down there they use as a base, and I told Nick he was walking into a trap but he just smiled and walked out the door like he always does.”

“Goddamnit,” you sigh. Another detour. “Can you point out that station on a map? And what’s Mister Valentine look like?”

“Wait, are you serious?”

“I need his help. I can’t make any promises, and I’m going to see if The Ron can help me instead, but I don’t have high hopes. So what can you tell me to help me find Mister Valentine.”

“No, absolutely, you have a map on that pip-boy, right? I’ll point it out, it’s not too far actually. And Nick is. Well he’s hard to miss. He’s always wearing a trench coat and hat, real big on the gumshoe silhouette. Are you really going after him?”

“I don’t have much of a choice.”

“Here, take this. I had a little bit of a rainy-day fund, but if it helps get Nicky back, it’s more than worth it.”

Ellie hands off a sack of caps, and you take it with a sincere thanks. You’ll stop in at the market for the ammo before you head out. But first, the information broker. It’s a jot over to the back wall, the smell of fresh paint heavy, but not overpowering the scent of brahmin. Your mind flashes back to the warehouse you clear earlier and the paint mixer there.

“That’s a lovely shade of green, sir.” you call out as you approach the painter.

“I’d say. Just right, ain’t it?”

“It must take a lot of paint to keep the wall that green,”

“Why’re you askin’ boy?”

“Fan of design. Just curious about where you get your supply and if you were in need of more?”

“To keep the jewel glowing like she ought to? Takes more than you could sell, buddy.”

“For sure, for sure. But green paint’s gotta be hard to come around.”

“Real hard. Actually gotta mix it up most of the time,”

“You got a paint mixer in town?”

“A paint mixer? I got two arms.”

“And two working eyes, so I’m sure having to remix all the paint by hand all the time to get just the right shade of green is a skill you’ve mastered. But I happen to know where a professional machine is, and can get it delivered here for a fair price, that would make those days of sore wrists and flawed swatches a thing of the past. Freshly liberated from raiders, too.” You smile, and you’ve got ‘em.

. . .

With a handful more of caps in your pocket for an added ache in your back, you finally make your way past the neon sign. 

“Excuse me? The Ron?”

“Oh yeah! In here, cool cat!”

Oh this was going to be something at least.

“You strike me as a fella with his head on right, say what brings a sophisticated type like you to my office?” 

The man's hairdo rivaled Sturges, blond instead of black. Leather-clad and full-send on the ambiance, he was leaning back, cheerful if not a bit boastful. 

“A friend of mine told me you’re an information broker.”

“And that little birdie was right! Always a good sign to have client recommendations. Whether you’ve got the skinny or you need it, I know who, what, and where.”

“I’m hoping so. Detective Valentine is missing, so you’re what I’ve got.”

“I heard our local P.I. was away on business, but it has been a while, hasn’t it? You looking for a scoop on Nicky?”

“Not as much. Different missing persons case,” your leg bounces as you try to soothe yourself. 

“Ask away.”

“I’m looking for a stolen infant,” you bite the inside of your cheek as you wait for his response.

“To the quick, huh, yikes. Who’s the babe?” his words run a bit crass, but his tone is gentle and his face sincere.

“Nephew. He was stolen out of a vault.”

“Family ties. I’d take a guess you were underground with the kid? I’m going to guess you’re not talking about 81, or this would be an internal investigation. So someone nabbed your nephew and brought him out into the ‘Wealth?”

“Yes.”

“I’m gonna need all the details you can give, friend. Correct me if I’m wrong, but you’re talking about Vault 111, aren’t you?”

“Yes. I guess you are pretty well informed.”

“What can I say, it's my business to know things. The gossip on the street mentioned that tin opening up. I’d wager that you’re also our new player out there, and that your friend here is working on restarting the Minutemen, I take it?”

“Will confirming your suspicions get me a discount on the information I need?” you mull.

“A savvy business man, too! Hot dog. Well I like first-hand notes best of all, so it won’t hurt.”

“Then I’ll correct you. I’m the new General of the Minutemen. We are beginning to rebuild, slowly as we have limited numbers, but yes. We have a growing settlement out to the northwest, and a few partnerships with a few others. Looking on getting the word out to caravans headed to Abernathy Farm that we can host a rest if they need it, including overnight, so long as we can trade as well.”

He’s scribbling this all down as you speak, nodding as his pen flies.

“—So what’s that get your rate down to?” you finish.

“For looking into who took your nephew?  I can look into the vault, see who has been asking around, who could have gotten in, but the search for the kid? I’m sorry to say that would fall under the Detective’s purview moreso than my own,” he pauses as you dig your fingers into the arm of the chair, “—but seeing as Valentine's also M.I.A. I can hand over what I know about where he went as repayment for your information.”

“Fine,” you grit out, and he stands and starts rifling through his files.

. . .

You close the door behind you as you step back out onto the field, minimizing the internal map of Vault 114 hidden inside Park Street Station on your pipboy.

“That guy’s a real character,” Preston attempts to ease the mood.

“A real hoot,” you respond curtly.

You march back into the market, trying to pack away your anxiety and annoyance and put on a more affable appearance for bartering. Most of your remaining caps go to Arturo, the weapons and ammunition merchant, a few caps to the robot for a hot meal, and with twenty caps remaining, you enter Fallon’s Basement.

“Uh, hello. Have you been here before?” an old woman from behind a counter says, sizing you up.

“Hello ma’am. First time, I was looking for some sunglasses and a guard directed me here?”

“Very well. Some ground rules. This isn’t a charity. Clothes and items here are for sale if you have the money. Otherwise, the door’s right there. Accessories are upstairs.” She returns back to her magazine.

“Thanks...” you mutter, and head over to the small wooden staircase.

There’s a small selection of goods on the upper platform, a few glasses and shades, and a… holotape? The frames all have a little price tag on them, but the tape is shoved between pairs. You pocket the tape quietly and head back down, holding a pair of shades labeled ‘10 caps’.

“I’d like to get these,” you place them on the counter in front of the woman, and as you reach for the money, you pose a question, “—do you happen to sell any other goods here? Any tech or home decor?” feigning nonchalance as you put the caps on the counter.

“Only clothes and wearables for sale here. If you’re looking for junk try that shrew out on the mound, I only sell quality here. Are you quite done?” she yanks the flimsy string tag off the glasses and hands them to you, scooping up her payment.

“Yes, thank you much.”

Preston quirks a brow at you, but you remain silent as you head out, and over to Publick Occurrences. You smile softly in greeting to the young girl who points you to the door. You knock and enter, and Piper turns around from her press, wiping her hands.

“Blue! Ready to spill the beans and take charge of what people here are whispering about you?”

“Why 'Blue'?”

“Other than the storm cloud above your head? Or the bruising peeking out from under those goggles? Or the whole fish-out-of-water thing? Plus that pipboy, it’s not hard to figure out you used to be in one of those blue suits. Only upper stands fat-cats or sheltered vaulties could look that well-fed and out of place stumbling in from the open ‘Wealth.”

“I hope you’re planning on paying me for the interview if you’re just going to insult me during it?” you ask, wincing as you remove the goggles; no need for them indoors or to hide the black eyes.

“Oh, sorry, no, I wasn’t trying to insult you Blue—you look healthier than a brahmin compared to most wastelanders, is all I meant. I’d wager you’ll get some jealous stares at any bar you go to, plus a few over-friendly welcome’s if you aren’t careful. And all your teeth still, too? Sheesh, fresh meat, you’re really gonna be the talk of the town,” she smiles at you, and you flush.

“I’ll accept you moving onto flattery, but let’s just get the interview done with so I can get going,” you rub your arm as the discomfort of voicing your past returns.

“For sure, for sure,” she waves you to a chair and once more, you return to the beginning.

. . .

“Is everyone in this city like that? I might have to reconsider moving,” you mutter, rolling your shoulders as you exit Piper's place and head towards the stadium gates.

“I don’t know, General, she seemed nice. Fighting for the truth and all,” Preston mumbles.

“She called you a boy-scout, Pres."

“Is that a bad thing?” he looks flustered and you laugh.

“You know what, it’s a compliment.”

You round the corner, following the route The Ron pointed out to you to the subway entrance. Inside, you sneak forward, listening-in to at least three voices. You wave Preston back, signaling to set up at the top of the escalator. You take out a frag mine from your bag, and set it just to the edge of the door, scooting back towards the steps. Once you get a bead on one of the men milling around past the doorway, you take a shot and run back up to join Preston.

Chaos ensues, and in their rush forward, two of the triggermen get hit with the scrapnel of the mine, and Preston’s laser rifle finishes them. You hustle back down and rush for cover inside, hiding behind a rusty trash bin. You whistle as you cover Preston, and take out the last man in the room as he peeks.

It’s a quick rifling through pockets, cash registers, and bins, but you’ve found some meager rewards. You doubt there are many ticketing stewards still roaming abouts, but you make sure to keep a few subway tokens on your persons on the off-chance. The gangsters that had firearms were split between submachine guns or 10mm’s, so after pocketing any spare ammo of both types, you grab one of the Tommy’s for later.

Advancing, you’re amazed that others further in didn’t come to investigate. You and Preston manage to snipe off one more each, rushing forward to take cover in a side-room.

“We gotta look into silencers,” you grunt to Preston as footsteps and shouts approach.

The remainder out in the tunnels manage to get a hit on Preston before they go down. It’s a through-and-through on his arm, and after waiting for the stimpak to work, he’s back and moving without complaint, albeit a stiffness to his movements. The two of you gather what you can, and Preston calls to you from over a slumped corpse.

“Hey, it’s a bit late, but catch,” and he tosses you a weapon.

The weight hits your hands and you nearly drop it, but looking down you see it’s a 10mm with a silencer.

“Not even my birthday, Gravy. You deserve a promotion,” you smirk.

You make it to the Vault’s entrance and pause. The giant steel door stills your blood, and you feel cold. Preston’s hand on your shoulder pulls you back, and you exhale shakily.

It’s slow progress, but eventually, the two of you carve your way through the construction. The silenced pistol sees a bit of action, and the Minutemen are racking up the kills without further injury until you come to an atrium. There’s a lone triggerman, arguing with someone behind a window. You and Preston line up shots and manage to hit his shoulder while Preston bursts a shot into his back. Another round and he’s down. Up the stairs, you’re advancing towards the prisoner who must be the Detective when you stop.

You can see him now, from across the way. His face is wrong. Grey skin, riddled with cracks and gaps. Is he a ghoul? No, his eyes glow. Those incandescent pupils track you, and you resume your approach. You pat down the dead gangster and find a computer password written on a scrap paper.

“Are you… Nick Valentine?” you ask through the glass.

“The detective, himself.”

“What… are you?”

“Told you. I’m a detective. Look, I know the skin and the metal parts ain’t comforting, but it’s not important right now. What matters is why you went to all this trouble to cut me loose and how you knew where to find me.”

“Right. Uh, Miss Perkins told me where to look. I need your help. My godson is missing,”

“Ellie sent you? I should give her a raise. And a missing kid, huh? You came to the right man, if not the right place. I’m glad to help but let’s blow this joint, then we’ll talk. Skinny Malone and the rest of his boys are waiting for us, somewhere. The name’s, uh, ironic, but don’t let that fool you. He’s dangerous, just like his new flame. Turns out the runaway daughter I’d been looking for wasn’t kidnapped. She’s got a mean streak a mile wide and a strong swing, so keep an eye out for her, too. Now, did that lug over there have the code to get me outta here?”

You give him a small smile and boot up the terminal, releasing the door lock. The remainder of the vault passes quickly, three to your team stacking the odds in your favor, and the detective is a real wiz at getting things unlocked.

“Okay. I got it, but I hear big, fat footsteps on the other side. Once we step through this door, get ready for anything.”

“Nicky? What are you doin’?"

You figure the big guy is Malone, thanks to Valentine's hint about the ironic name. He's got a few more thugs in here, and whom you can presume is Darla, donning a sparkling dress and heels. 

"—You come into my house, shoot up my guys. You have any idea how much this is gonna set me back?”

“I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for your two-timing dame, Skinny. You ought to tell her to write home more often.” Valentine starts.

“I told you we should’ve just killed him, but then you had to get all sentimental! All that stupid crap about the ‘old times.’” Darla snaps.

The other men are tense, unsure of what to do, but you don't like how the woman is gripping her bat. She looks impatient, but Valentine hasn't gone for his gun, nor has Malone. It's clear there's a divide already present between the couple, maybe you can work with that.

“Pardon me, not to say these guys don’t have flair, but something’s got me thinking that you in that stunning dress are not getting the spotlight you ought to hiding away in the rubble down here,” you add, trying to appease the woman, “—the Detective was hired by your parents. They’re paying good money to make sure you were alright; no doubt that would be a far more stylish set-up than this dusty ruin of a construction site.”

“You stay out of this, punk!” Malone shouts at you, and your hands are up, palms out. 

“No worries man, you make all the decisions you want for your girl there. Sure she’s loving being told to heel and just watch on as you sort out… your business here. And I’m sure she’ll love all the work you’re gonna put her to to get back on the up-and-up now that your crew has dwindled,”

“You watch your disrespectful little mouth—”

“For old time’s sake, Skinny,” Nick raises his hands to quiet you both, “—I was just coming to check on the girl, make sure she wasn’t hurt, and you lock me up for it.”

“I wouldn’t hurt my doll—” Malone starts, but gets cut off.

“Oh yeah, Skinny? You won’t hurt me but you won’t do a damn thing for me, neither! That waster’s right! We’ve been sittin’ here for ages and what now? You barely had the men to clear this place, and now these strangers just stroll on in and you’re talkin’ with them? You care more about your old buddy than you care about what I want! My mama was right about you, you no-good fraud! I’m done!” She screeches and starts walking out.

“Darla? Wh—where are you goin’?” Malone's voice cracks.

“Home, Skinny! Where I should have been all this time. This is goodbye for us.” The woman spits at the ground near the mobster and storms off.

“Oh, come on, Nicky! You cost me my men, now you and your friend cost me my girl?” his tone ticks up, heated.

“My friend here just did you a favor, Skinny. You always did have bad taste in women. Now that she’s not around to feed that temper of yours, maybe you’ll see sense and let us walk? You still owe me for two weeks in the hole.”

“You smug, overconfident ass… Agh! All right! You get to the count of ten! I still see your face after that, I’m gunning all of yous down!”

Nick sets off at a jog, and you follow suit as the mobster counts down. You make it out and to the service ladder exit that spits you back above ground, but onto an unfamiliar street. You bend over and exhale in relief. You were sure for a moment there that it was going to turn into a bloodbath.

“Ah, look at that Commonwealth sky. Never though anything so naturally ominous could end up looking so inviting…” Valentine murmurs, his face turned up to the evening sun.

You’re checking your pipboy map as Nick guides you to the south, but then there’s movement off in the distance and you pull at his coat to drag him back into the alley.

“Jesus Christ, what are those?” you hiss, risking a glance through your rifle’s scope at what you saw lumbering a few blocks away.

Gigantic and green, you see a wall of muscle as something that looks like a bodybuilder whose blood was composed of steroids stomped around, oblivious to your small group.

“You never seen a supermutant before? Consider yourself lucky; Muties are some mean green bastards,” the synth mumbles.

“I don’t feel very lucky right now,” you whine, and check your map again, “—okay, there’s a route around that way…”

You lead them away from the heavy footfalls of the ogres, heading further north towards the water. You’re turning to loop back around towards the stadium’s entrance when you hear a voice shout out, and dive out of the way as bullets hit the wall where you were stood.

“A break. Just one, fucking, break. All I’m askin’ for,” you grumble, switching over to your rifle, “—you good to lend a hand there, Detective?”

He checks the barrel of his pipe revolver and winks at you. The guard outside goes down to Preston, and you and Nick hustle forward to the door. As Nick picks the lock, you shoot down the raider above peeking over the guardpost. Three others inside go down, and it’s your turn to use a stimpak. You’re angry about the waste of supplies, but it’s a good set-up here. Your wound seals up as the sun sets.

“Hey, Valentine,” you call out from your seat, nursing your leg.

“What it is, kid?”

“We don’t have the caps to spare on a bed in the city, I think we’ll camp here for the night.”

“Are you sure? I can spot you the caps for a spot at Dugout Inn,”

“I’ll take your caps if you're offering, Detective, but I don’t want to waste them on a bed when there’s options for free here. This is looking nicer than the floor with the Nightingales, and I'm loathe to move another inch.”

“As you like,” he mumbles and turns away.

You lean your head back against the wall for a minute to rest as your skin heals over, exhausted, but your curiosity urges you to stand when you hear more than one pair of footfalls. Preston hasn’t made any commotion other than the occasional thunk of things dropping into the cook-pot, so when you round the corner, you’re surprised to see Nick dragging a raider’s body out of the settlement.

“What are you doing?” you ask, leaned against the tile.

“Cleaning up the place. These guys seem like poor bedfellows.” He responds.

“Aren’t you going to go back into the city to sleep?” You ask, watching him work.

“I don’t sleep.”

“Oh. Sorry? Do you... do you not eat either? We can offer you food if you do.”

“I’m a synth, wise-ass,” he jeers, shoving the corpse out into the alley beyond the door.

“Synth?” you ask, confused, and he stops to stare at you.

“You really don’t know? I’m a synth. Synthetic man. All the parts, minus a few red blood cells.” He gestures to his face.

“Oh. I figured you weren’t a ghoul, but I didn’t know what else there was.”

“Did my knight-in-shining-armor just spring out of the ground fully-formed, or what?”

“Still learning the ropes," you mutter, your shoulders high in defensive embarrassment.

“But holding your own better than most, kid." his tone softens, "—Look, we’ll talk in my office tomorrow morning, alright? I’ll help clear out the bodies and go send word to Ellie that you helped me out so she quits worrying about losing her job, but I’ll come back and keep watch. Least I can do for busting me outta the joint.”

You nod, and return to your seat. Preston brings you a bowl of something, and you manage to choke down the gruel. Next time, you should man the pot. And bring spices. The two of you hobble up to the row of beds in the shack hut, and fall into fitful sleep.

Chapter Text

The morning comes with the scent of cigarette smoke, and you cough.

“So you don’t sleep, eat, or drink, but you smoke?” you call out, morning voice hoarse.

“A man’s gotta have his hobbies,” he smiles.

Preston hands you a piece of jerky, and you sit and chew it as you pop in the holotape you stole from Fallon’s Basement.

“Wake up, Commonwealth. Synths are not your enemy. They are victims in this war, as well. True, they were created by the Institute. But they were created as slaves. Thinking, feeling, and dreaming beings utterly oppressed by their tyrannical masters. So join with us in fighting the real enemy: The Institute. Join the Railroad. When you're ready for that next step, don't worry, we'll find you.”

The Railroad? Piper told you a little about the Institute, their boogeyman status. But Nick is a synth, clearly an older model. You pocket the tape once more, and decide to ask Nick about it later.

You lock up the alley the best you can. You’re a bit far in range to reach Oberland to send word back through your channels, but maybe a radio in the city could make contact to send any surplus people out this way. It would be useful having a base this close to the stadium.

It’s a brief jot back into the city proper, and the guards seem friendly enough welcoming the Detective back inside. As you pass by the little newspaper girl, she flags you down and passes off a free copy of your interview. As you walk to the agency, you pass the paper off to Preston to hold. He can let you know if there was anything worth dealing with in there later. When you enter Valentine’s office, Ellie rushes forward, taking turns hugging you all tightly.

“Thank you, thank you so much,” she whispers, and you return her embrace.

“Just remember that gratitude when we crack into our next tough case, El” Nick smiles at her, and she wipes her misty eyes and lets you settle.

“Now, you mentioned something about your missing nephew?”

It’s a crowded audience as you answer his questions.

“So we’re talking a small team. Professionals… whoever took your kid had an agenda. There’s a lot of groups in the Commonwealth that take people, but not many mercs can afford something as fancy as a hazard suit. That rules out Raiders, Super Mutants, and most merc groups… though there’s always the Institute.”

“What do you know about them?” your curiosity spikes.

“Nothing, unfortunately.” hit answer is unsatisfactory.

“Aren’t they the ones that made you?”

“They were smart enough to build something like me, so they were damn well smart enough to cover their tracks. Some kind of security setting strips or blocks out those memories. And not just me, any synth that gets trashed, left behind, or escapes has the same problem. Probably some kind of failsafe.”

“Are there others like you?” 

You'd heard talk on the radio, asked Piper about her prior work, and found out that there were growing tensions and fears of robots replacing regular people, infiltrating lives. But whether it was true, and to what purpose that would even serve, you weren't sure.

“Not as far as I know. I was a prototype, somewhere between the dumb-as-rocks early versions and the new ones that are almost human.”

"Oh. Sorry? But do you think they’re responsible? "

“It’s early to speculate. What else can you remember about the kidnappers?”

“The man had… some sort of metal brace on his arm. He’s the one that came up to me. Bald head. Scar across his… his left eye. He was the one that shot my sister. I didn’t see the gun clearly but it was so loud…”

"Large caliber, likely... say, you didn’t happen to hear a name or other details during all that, did you?”

“I… I might have. It’s all foggy. But I heard his voice. Low and rough. Like sandpaper across your face. And he called me 'the backup'.”

“Not to lead the witness, but does the name Kellogg ring any bells?”

“I… maybe. It’s familiar but I’m not sure.” you clench down into your skin, begging to remember, but coming up with nothing but the threat of rising bile.

“It’s too big of a coincidence… Ellie, what notes do we have about the Kellogg case?”

“The description matches. Bald head, scar, reputation for dangerous mercenary work. But no one knows who his employer is.”

“And he bought a house here in town, right? He had a kid with him, didn’t he?”

“A kid?” you jerk forward.

“Yeah, that’s right. The house in the abandoned West Stands. The boy with him was around ten years old.”

“Ten? Wait but Shaun wasn’t even one—” you blanch and the room swims, “—they put me on ice again—” you’re wheezing, and Preston's hand are on you but you feel cold—

A waste bin is shoved into your hands just before you vomit. A small hand rubs your back as you heave.

“Sorry,” you huff as you start to feel your limbs again.

“No apologies needed. We can’t be certain, but it… it is a possibility that boy was your nephew. But it’s not a certainty, either; if Kellogg was the man who took the infant, he only showed up here with a ten-year old a few months ago, so it might be a different child.”

“So a serial kidnapper, how comforting,” you wheeze.

“Listen, I didn’t want Ellie to hear this, but I think you should know. Everything I dug up about Kellogg before his disappearance is bad news. He’s more than just a mercenary. He’s a professional. Quick, clean, thorough. Has no enemies, because they’re all dead… Except you.” you tilt your head up to look at Nick from your hunch over the bin between your legs.

“—But nine to one odds says he’s our man. It’s more than just you identifying his distinguishing features. The MO is all him as well. Don’t jump the gun on me, there’s a nine year difference on the boy. Maybe he has a son of his own. Maybe it’s someone else’s kid. But in any case, they both vanished a while back.”

“How long ago?”

“A while, more than a month. But that house is still there. Let’s you and I take a walk over to his last known address and see if we can snoop out where he went.” he offers.

“Security doesn’t really go to that part of town, but you two should still be careful,” Ellie pipes up.

You put the vomit pail down on the floor and turn to Preston.

“Lieutenant,” he glances at you, “I’m going to work with the Detective on this. I want you to return to Sanctuary Hills,” Preston opens his mouth to rebuke, but you hold up your hand.

“—I want you to go there and start organizing our people. Any new settlers that are willing to join the Minutemen are welcomed to. We need hands at Starlight and training started if you are still intent on rebuilding.”

“Are you alright here?” he asks, softly.

“I’m not alone. You did your duty getting me here, we’re even now.” you're trying to keep this professional, formal; for both your sakes.

“You’re still the General.”

“If you say so. Then I am entrusting you to go check on our people and spread the word, including about the alley down here as a potential settlement if we have enough interested. Take my caps and purchase a radio kit to set up at the alley to link to the rest. We should have a decent relay set up. Miss Perkins, might I ask a favor?”

“Of course,” she turns to you.

“Do you have your own radio kit?”

“Yeah, the agency keeps one in working condition.”

“Here’s our frequency band we’ve been using. Until we get people set up further south, would you mind keeping the radio tuned to this station in case news comes through?”

“No problem, I’ll keep it running while I’m in the office.”

“Thank you Miss Perkins,”

“Ellie, please.”

“Thank you, Ellie.”

You turn back to Preston.

“Stay safe on the road back. Have the settlers bring ASAMs with them for rebuilding, and talk with Evans to see if he can figure out a way to boost the ham radio range. Maybe you can relay off the odd towers if they’re running. And send my regards to Sturg, Codsy, and Dogmeat.”

He nods solemnly, accepts you sack of caps, and heads out.

“Detective? Lead the way.”

. . .

Nick leads you up to the West stands, and while Ellie was right that security was rare to pass by, trying to break in during bright daylight could be risky.

“Can you try your hand at it, real quick?” You ask, stepping over to keep an eye on the walkway.

“It looks tough, but let me see,” you almost expect his knees to pop as he kneels down, but the synth is quiet as he works, so quiet that you hear the crack of a bobby pin breaking.

“No dice. You want a go?” He asks, stepping up.

“Whistle if you see something. Or cough. Can you whistle?”

He purses his lips at you and you lift your palms.

“Hey, it took me ages to figure out how to whistle, that wasn’t a synth thing. You got lips. You smoke, so you have some kind of lungs. You speak, so sound. Just didn’t know if you practiced whistling in all your free time detective...ing,” you mutter, sliding a bobby pin of your own into the lock.

You catch a pin and tilt the screwdriver, but feel the pin release. You manage to catch two pins before breaking the bobby, then another, then another. Your patience is wearing thin.

After the fourth broken bobby, Nick whistles and you jerk up, but he just smirks at you.

“It’s a tough lock, kid. Let’s try another approach before someone actually spots us.”

“You know, I’m probably older than you are even with your old-timey… whatever you’ve got going on.” you wiggle your fingers at him.

“Technicalities. I’ll stop calling you kid if you’d like.”

“It’s fair so long as I get to call you old.”

“I am old.”

“You are.”

You head to the mayor’s office, and Nick fills you in on his thoughts.

“The mayor keeps copies of all the resident’s keys as of time of sale,” he whispers.

“Isn’t that a privacy concern?” you ask.

“Probably. But the houses are city property until sold, and revert back to city property on lapse of ownership, so that’s just how it goes. Here’s hoping the fellow wasn’t paranoid enough to change out the lock.”

“Are you going to try to push on the lapse of ownership to get the key? Has he been gone long enough for that to be valid?”

“That’s my first point. But I’ll see if he’s willing to budge on the investigation front if that doesn’t sway him.”

“And what’s the backup plan?”

“If McDonough won’t give us a copy, you can always try his secretary, Geneva. She’s not above taking a bribe. While I talk to him, why don’t you see if you can manage to butter her up.”

“That's the backup plan?” 

“Oh, a new young man walking into the city? A little bad-boy energy with that slight scar on your nose, and a charming smile? I’m sure she’d be happy to listen to you flatter her and offer her a nice night at the Taphouse,” you cough and nod, “—You can be smooth, right?”

“Yeesh, grandpa, just give me a moment to get into character—” you flush and run your hands through your hair, trying to style it and hide your nerves.

“Not half bad,” he smirks at you and you take the elevator up.

Nick gets led into the office, and you feign nonchalance as Geneva practically juts out her backside when closing the office doors, spinning on her heels and catching your gaze with a smirk.

“So, the man out of time, himself? To what do I owe such a special visit?” she coos.

“Ah—” you swallow, she must have read Piper’s article, “—sorry to say that I came up here on business.”

“Dreadful stuff, I hear. Searching for your nephew, all alone? You must be terribly brave,” you hold back a wince as she speaks so bluntly about it all.

“Oh, I try to be,” you reply, but you see her interest wane at the solemnity, “—it can just be difficult keeping hope in such a desolate world, but then I see moments of beauty and find the strength to go on,” you tilt your head down, trying to go for more ‘suave’ than the ‘idiot’ you’re feeling like, but her eyes glisten again as she bats her hand at you.

“Well, well. A charmer, huh? You sure you didn’t lie in that interview and you’re not searching for your own son out there?” her lack of tact helps you stick to the role, the annoyance covering up the hurt.

“Haven’t had the chance, yet. Never thought about it much before, but if the women back then looked half as stunning as you did, perhaps things would be different,” you murmur and she giggles and you want to scream.

You hear raised voices from the mayor’s office, and figure you need to push this along.

“Say, I would hate to be too forward Miss Geneva, but I would love to treat you to a night at the Taphouse if you’d do me the honor,” you plaster a gentle pleading look to match your saccharine tone.

“Oh! Why, smooth-talker, you, I may just say yes,” she places a hand on her chest, puffing it a bit to accentuate her breasts.

“I could float with joy to hear that—” you try for a calm grin, and then let your face fall, “—oh but I really do need to deal with this business with the detective first.”

“And what business is he up to?” she asks, her tone dropping quickly.

“It’s truly such a bother,” you whisper to her, as if letting her onto a secret, “but he needs a copy of the key to that Kellogg guy’s house. As soon as he gets that out of the way, why I’d be free to focus my energy elsewhere, on more daring ventures.”

“Oh, really?” her tone warms again.

“On such worthy goals of wining and dining beautiful secretaries that deserve only the finest the Great Green Jewel can offer,”

“Beautiful secretaries? You have your eyes set elsewhere?” she muses.

“How could I have eyes if they could be distracted by lesser forms than the gorgeous specimen before me?” you're going to hurl again, aren't you; how can this be working on her?

“And say the detective got his key?”

“Oh, my heart would soar. But it seems like it’s not going well in there,” you mumble.

“You let me handle McDonough. I’ll see you at seven at the Taphouse, vaultie.”

“Oh my stars, an angel on this Earth. I’ll count the minutes.” 

The office door swings open, and Nick walks out quickly.

“C’mon, kid. We’re leaving.”

You nod, and turn back to smile at Geneva, who gives you a wink. Once you get back onto the ground of the pitch, you exhale deeply.

“So, how’d bribery and flattery work, Slick? I saw that little wink.”

“Hah! You know you’re the second person to call me that.”

“Seems like you earned it, I haven’t seen Geneva that friendly before, ever.”

“We’ve got a date,” you sneer, “she’s an ass. But I’m expecting she should hand off that key at dinner.”

“Well we ought to get you cleaned up if you want Wellingham to let you in.”

“Great. Now I get to deal with the crone in Fallon’s too?”

“Hush, you. Becky’s not so bad. And she’ll like you much more after you buy a suit.”

“With what caps, Nick?”

“With my rainy day fund, bub. Ellie might have paid you for finding me, but you’d be doing me a favor changing out of the rags you’re in now. Detectives are supposed to be stylish,”

“Hey, I’m plenty stylish—”

“You will be. Now let’s go.”

Nick wasn’t wrong. Becky Fallon was a lot more amicable this time around. She must not get the chance to style many of the residents here. She even ribbed Nick a bit to update his own outfit as she was tired of patching and darning holes in his coat.

“But Becky, you’ve got such skill. Can’t even see the repairs,” he praises her and she rolls her eyes, smiling.

You make your way to the Taphouse early, with a plan. You would allow her to order a drink before you requested the key, and then unceremoniously bomb the date and meet Nick at Kellogg’s house after.

The Mr. Handy, Wellingham, is curt, but allows you to enter.

“Yes, a table for two, please, sir. The lady of the hour will be paying for herself, independent dame and all,” you smile and he hovers away.

You hold off on ordering anything, and ten minutes late, Geneva finally shows. She’s changed, still in black slacks, but a deeper cut blouse, with a fresh coat of lipstick. At least you can admire her talent for walking in heels on the metal grating. You stand and pull out her chair for her. Keep up appearances until you have the key.

“You look stunning,” you whisper to her over her shoulder, and take your seat.

“You clean up rather nicely, yourself, junior detective.” she purrs, and you try not to groan.

Wellingham returns and takes your beverage order. She chose the most expensive item, naturally. That'll be a fun surprise for her, later. You chose the cheapest red wine they had.

“Please, call me Theodore,” you force a smile.

“Ooh, so we’ve moved on from business to pleasure for the evening, have we?”

“I’d love for that to be the case, my dear.” you tilt your head, hinting for her to complete her end of the bargain.

She leans forward and strokes at your leg, and you have to stop yourself from jumping, but then you feel a ridge press against you. You cover her hand with your own, and take the key from her. She traces along your thigh as she removes her hand. She’s pretty, just focus on her being pretty. Maybe negging is just how normal people flirt now.

You pocket the key and the butler returns with your drinks. A quick cheers, and you grimace at the wine. Acidic. You were hoping for better for fifteen caps a glass. Time to change the pace of things.

You slam half of the glass, and after a moment, belch loudly and shamelessly. The flicker of disbelief that washes over Geneva’s face is delicious. Honestly, she looks better when she isn’t smarmy. Shame. She places her glass down gently.

“Oh, do you not like your drink?” you ask, leaving your jaw open, slack.

“No, no, it’s fine,” she smiles awkwardly.

“Oh, good. Well drink up quick then!”

“Quick?”

“Well, yeah. You said you were looking for pleasure! I’ll have you know my fees are quite high, but I’ve gotten great reviews.”

“Fees—reviews?!”

“Yeah, you are clean, right? I charge extra for bug-catchers. Antibiotics are so expensive nowadays, would hate to catch chlamydia, but a man’s gotta eat! Haha,” you aren’t being quiet, and though there are few other patrons present, Geneva’s hand slaps down onto yours as she forces a laugh, then under her breath while staring daggers at you, hisses.

“Quit trying to be funny.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, is prostitution illegal here? I thought they would have done away with that after nuclear apocalypse. Were you not looking to hire me for the night?” you ask, blithely. 

“Hire?!” she screeches.

“I get the feeling that’s a no? But you seemed so lonely,”

“How dare you,” but you’re up before she is.

“Well, I’ll take my business elsewhere then. I don’t work for free, doll.” and you drop your fifteen caps on the table to cover your own drink, emptying it before you go.

“You do look great, though. Good effort,” you call out as you rush down the ramp, as she directs her offense to Wellingham insisting she pay before being escorted out.

You pass a few guards as you cut through the market, and point them up towards the Taphouse, saying that there’s a commotion that you're worried about, and head over to the West stands once more, this time under the guard of night.

“My, my. Seems like you had fun. Could her her squawking from here,” Nick chuckles as you run up, pulling out the key.

“Had to make the evening worth it. Fifteen caps for a stale beaujolais, can you believe it? Criminal.” the door opens and you usher in the synth.

“A man of culture, huh?” he asks as he steps inside and you follow.

“I dabbled,” you laugh, then sigh, “—but no. Not really. I lived with a wine snob, and I guess he rubbed off on me eventually,” you set the light on your pipboy and scan it across the room, finding it empty.

“What was he like?” Nick’s voice is delicate.

“He was witty. Balding and mean about it, but still loved a roast. He was one of my closest friends. Oh, he would have cussed me out for slamming that glass,” you trail off.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he says, looking at you.

You sniff and then wipe at your eyes.

“Well. He’d just be happy I got into a suit. I rarely had the occasion, so he’d be jibing me to no end on how long it took me to remember how to tie a plain Windsor knot. Anyway, it’s your time to shine, Detective,” you sweep your arm around the room, lighting it for him as he searches.

It’s rather empty. And smaller than you though it’d be… you’re not strong at spatial orientation, but you’re pretty sure the house was bigger than this on the outside.

“Hey Valentine? Is it small in here to you?”

“I was thinkin’ the same, kid. One of these walls is likely a fake, but I haven’t found a switch yet,”

“Shall I try the ominous button below the desk?” you call out.

“Hit it,”

With a soft rumbling, the wall behind you rolls out of the way.

“Freaky,” you mutter, entering the now lit hidden room.

You start rifling through the storage crates, pocking any 10mm ammo or fusion cells, chucking them into the duffel bag you pick up. You also yank the Nuka Quantums and Cherries for later. Even if this guy wasn’t the man you’re after, he obviously wasn’t missing a few sodas.

“Particular tastes,” Nick mutters, holding out a cigar.

“Do people still smoke those?”

“Sure, but not many can get their hands on these. These are San Francisco Sunlights.”

“Gross. I take it that’s a rarity?”

“High price to get anything imported from the west coast.”

“You think we can find a receipt or something?”

“Or something. Say, you mentioned Dogmeat to your friend, yeah?”

“I did, why?”

“Send word to have him bring the dog back with him. A wasteland mutt can track a scent like you wouldn’t believe.”

“Sure, I can pass on the word by radio, but that’s going to be a few days,”

“Then in the meantime, we’ll try to work with The Ron some. See if he knows who stocks these and how frequently, but so far, it’s our best lead.”

“Fine,”

Your shoulders sag. You’d had your fun earlier. But your buzz is going to fade, and now you’ve got time to kill.

“Are we done here?” you ask Nick.

“Yeah, I think so.”

“I’m gonna go to the Dugout, then. Wanna join?”

“Thanks, kid, but I think I’m gonna turn in. See if I can find any other hints in my old files. Feel free to crash on my office couch if you need a place, tonight. And don’t get that suit too mucked up. Becky’ll have my head if I show up the next day asking for dry-cleaning.”

“Alright. Thanks.” you leave the duffel bag and swap keys with Nick; you lock up Kellogg’s place, and you head towards the Dugout Inn, sipping a Nuka Cherry, bored.

The bar is active enough, a low bumble of noise and a few patrons. 

“Come, come, have a drink. I didn’t buy bar to sell water!” the man behind the counter waves you forward.

“You are new here, yes? Well you are in luck! My brother Yefim and I make the best moonshine in the entire Commonwealth,”

“Moonshine, huh?" you dig into your pockets for the remaining change, "could I get a glass of that for… 13 caps?”

“Hah! A light-pour, brother! But it will work just as well, believe me. You have a place to sleep tonight, yes? Otherwise Yefim will have to find ten more caps on you to pay for a room here,” he smiles with only a slight threat behind it.

“I’m good, thanks. I have a spot.”

“Happy to hear it, friend!” he slides you a short glass with clear liquid to you.

You take the glass to the couch and upon the first sip, your face scrunches down, puckering at the intensity.

“It’s an acquired taste,” a dark man says, joining you.

“I’ll say,” you take another sip and swallow thickly.

“Now what’s a fancy stranger doing in the Dugout?” he chimes, and you look him over.

He's tall enough, maybe two inches on you. Decently built, decked out in leather armor with a crisp flattop. Seems friendly enough.

“Exploring.”

“A traveler?”

“That depends,” you smile, “what would that make you?”

“A peer. Hawthorne, mercenary and wasteland explorer for hire.”

“Theo.” you nod at him.

Overly friendly. Maybe you should have changed out of the suit before heading out, he seems to think you’re looking to hire.

“Wait, the Theodore from today’s paper?”

“Only if you liked my interview,” you hum, choking down another sip.

“I did, actually. Refreshing, if not terribly sad.”

“Why don’t you buy me a pity drink, then?” you mutter, but he laughs.

“Fair! I’m sure you didn’t come in here to be hassled. I’ll save that for the next time,” he wanders off, leaving you to sip your drink in peace as you listen to the jukebox amidst the ambient chatter.

“Cheers,” you mutter, but the man reappears, with two bottles of beer.

“I presume you’d be more partial to a brew?” he holds out one of the bottles to you, and you see the condensation roll off of it.

“Alright,” you take the bottle quickly, “—but just because I’m all snazzy doesn’t mean I’m looking to invest,” you say, taking a swig.

“Just chatting with the newbie. Consider it a hobby of mine,” he smiles, and this time, you feel more at ease.

“Tell me about your favorite place to explore, Hawthorne.”

“I like ruins. I was actually headed to Salem, but decided it wasn’t worth it. Bad feeling out there.”

“You superstitious? What rumors have lingers to the modern day, pray tell.”

“I wouldn’t say superstitious. But you don’t get as well traveled as I do without being cautious.”

“And what makes a strapping fellow like you cautious?”

“An overly friendly welcome, so I can forgive the rocky start to our conversation. Though I’d stay clear of Covenant if I were you. Or when things go too quiet. That means bigger things than you are watching. And it gets awful quiet up by C.I.T. ruins.” You sip as he speaks.

“Hmm. Noted. Any other free pieces of advice you’ve got?”

“Don’t eat anything here.”

“Ah? The owners here too friendly for your likes?”

“No, you’ll just be in for a long trip to the toilet. I doubt Vadim’s washed his hands since last week’s distillery check.”

“Hey! I run a clean business here, Hawthorne!” Vadim calls out from behind the bar.

“Sure, Vad! Is my pet dust bunny still under the bed in room three?”

“Of course! Yefim didn’t want you to be lonely the next time you pass out here!” he jeers, happily.

It’s nice. Your buzz has dipped towards drunk as you finish the beer. You still have your barely-touched glass of moonshine, and you sway along to the music. It’s the most relaxed you’ve felt in a long time, but you feel the need to piss.

“Hate ta inderupt,” you slur as you stand, “—but I’d love to know where that toilet is.”

“Back that way, follow the hallway. There’s an actual stall, too, don’t just whiz in the bucket down the hall, learned that the hard way,” he jokes and you slap his shoulder and shuffle around the corner.

Back on the couch, you sip at your drink. Should I have left it unattended? The guy bought you a drink, it’s probably fine. Old habits from old fears. You distract yourself humming along to the song playing. When the announcer comes back on, he catches you off guard.

“Louis Jordan is up next. This is one I can relate to, sort of... Because I don't like talking to people that much.”

“Hah!” you snort, and a skinny man nearby turns suddenly, eyeing you warily.

“—sorry, pal, ignore me. That announcer guy can be funny,” you mumble and sip.

“Oh. Really?” his whiny drawl is familiar, somehow.

“Oh, yeah. He used to annoy me a bit, but I think he’s a real character. Wish he’d be a little nicer to himself, though. Half the time he sounds like he's about to lose it. But he’s not so bad. He announces the songs, shares some news,” you trail off.

“And, uh, what do you think, what do you think would make it—I mean him—better?” the man mumbles.

“Oh, I dunno. He rambles on a little bit sometimes. That’s fine but he doesn’t say anything when he rambles, just kinda grumbles stuff. Maybe a quip about the next or the last song? I’m not an announcer, what do I know—” you wave your hand.

“But, uh, if you were? What would you do?” he moves a bit closer.

“I mean. I’d share little facts. About the songs. If I knew any. Like ‘and today, we’re wishing Miss Fitzgerald a happy 300^th birthday,’ or whatever. Maybe try to work in the transitions to the ads a bit smoother? But he’s doin’ fine, I’m sure it’s hard work,” you mumble, starting to feel sleepy.

“Oh, thanks—I mean, that’s real kind of you to say,”

“Yeah, man, you wanna try to work in the industry?”

“Oh, no—not really. I mean, I already do—” he stumbles.

“Wait a second, are you the announcer guy?” You stare up at the two of him, trying to focus.

“Sorry!” he starts to apologize and stand.

“No! Sit down!” you pat the empty cushion next to you, “you’re alright, guy!”

“It’s Travis,” he mumbles.

“Travis! I’m Theo,” you shoot out your hand to shake, and he delicately returns the gesture.

“Nice to meet you,” he mutters.

“My pleasure! I didn’t know you were him! What do you do?”

“Uh, the—I do the radio?” he sounds confused.

“No, sorry, I’m a bit toasted I think. I mean, what’s your set up? Are your records all holotapes or do you have spools? And what about that Magnolia lady? She’s a singer, now, right? Where do you record her stuff?”

“Oh, you mean my equipment? I mean, the station is behind second base,”

“Could I see it?” you ask, excitedly.

“Oh, you—you want to… to see the station?”

“Yeah! You don’t mind do you? Of course you do, we're at a bar, it’s late—”

“No, no, it’s cool! I mean, you could stop by tomorrow? Sometime? If you’d like,” he rambles.

“Oh you bet your ass I’ll be there. You’re savin’ my life out there, Trav.”

“What—whatdya mean?”

“The radio! I got it on all the time! Traveling around. I think I woulda lost my mind already if I didn’t have some music going.”

“You really—you really think so?”

“Sure do, pal.” you clap his shoulder and stand, wobbling, and head to the bar to place your empty glass there.

“Great stuff, man. You were NOT lying,” you slur to Vadim, “when I get paid, I’ll come back and leave a tip next time, promise,” you slap the counter and wave goodbye to Travis.

You wander around the city as you go, only Nick’s key in your pocket. There’s a fair amount of street lighting, but the moon is nearly half full, and lights the rest of the way as you walk out towards the outfield. You slump onto a bench there, the cold air starting to weave its way past your stupor, but you want to stare at the stars a while.

Your face is red and wet by the time you get back to the Detective’s agency. You stumble inside and lock the door, and shuffle over to your pack. You grab some other clothes and lay the suit over a chair, changing into a ratty shirt and pants, and pass out on the couch.

Chapter Text

The morning comes with it a hangover like you haven’t experienced since freshman year. You did not miss the experience.

“Good morning, sunshine,” you swear you can hear the smirk in the mechanical voice.

“Mmm,” you groan, head pulsing.

“Morning, Theo!” Ellie calls out from the other room.

“Mornin', El” you grumble and wipe the drool off your face.

It’s a slow shamble to the bathroom, just a sink and toilet here but that’s more than enough. A brief face was and body wipe have you edging towards a simulacrum of humanity. Brushing away the film in your mouth moving you another step closer. Your stomach flips and you are loathe to try to force down any of the dried rations from your bag, but you know you have to eat.

“Don’t mean to keep bumming, but can you spot me some change for a bowl of noodles?” you call out as you step back into the main room.

“There’s some odd-jobs posted over in the market, why don’t you pick some of those up after you eat,” Nick hums as he tosses you a small pouch and you nod.

“Thanks.”

After ensuring that Ellie had been able to relay the message about Dogmeat through your settlement lines, you step out into the sun, wincing, and pull your sunglasses down over your eyes. You’re slurping down broth when the shouting begins.

“I knew it! I knew you were a synth!” A capped man near to the noodle stand raises his voice, waving an issue of Publick Occurences around.

“What the hell are you talking about?” You lean over and see the two men facing off.

“What did you do to Riley? I know you replaced him!” the merchants have hushed and doors are opening to check what's going on, and the capped man throws the newspaper on the ground.

“Kyle, I’m right here—” Riley reaches out trying to calm the other man, who jerks away.

“You’re not my brother!” Kyle screeches, and draws a pipe pistol.

It may be a flimsy weapon, but it can still kill, especially at this range. Especially when the man it's pointed at is unarmored. Someone in the crowd calls out for more guards as the two present in the market push forward through the onlookers.

“I swear I’m not a synth! Don’t shoot For God sakes we’re a family!” you’re standing now, far too close for comfort to not be involved, this 'Kyle' far too jittery to risk a bullet in the back trying to slip away.

“Hey man, let’s step back here,” you raise your palms trying to deescalate, but the man is frantic.

“Don’t you move! That thing is a synth!” He jerks his pistol towards his brother again, and you hear the crunch of dirt as more guards near.

“Please, please put the gun down before someone gets hurt,” Riley is crying, eyes glancing around at the circling guards, weapons being drawn.

“Stop! Stop it!” Kyle’s gun hand is shaking.

“Put the gun down, man” one of the guards calls out, lifting his rifle.

“I can’t let them get away with this! They killed my brother!” Kyle shouts, and another guard lifts their own gun, this one pointing at Riley.

“Don't you see?! That thing is going to kill us all!” Kyle shouts, and the guards are split—caught between the brothers—and tensions are only rising.

“Kyle? Put the gun down and we can all talk about this,” your hands lower, slightly, but he swings his pistol towards you and you stop.

“PUT THE WEAPON DOWN,” as the guard shouts, Kyle sways back, aiming at Riley, and he’s going to do it, and you move without thinking.

. . .

You holster your pistol, the barrel still hot, and Riley screams as he cradles his brother’s body. He was going to kill his own brother. A guard grabs at your shoulder, but you hear Piper shouting, and she tears you away.

“Hey! It’s over! Let him go, I’ll take him,” she barks at the guard, and leads you out of the market.

You’re guided to the couch in her office, and sit stiffly.

“You stay INSIDE, Nat,” Piper shoves her sister further into the house.

“But I wanna see what the synth looks like—”

“You do not. That is a body out there, and I don't care if it's human or synth blood, but you are too young to see that,”

Nat grumbles and stomps over to the side room.

“He was going to kill his own brother,” you whisper.

“Hey. Hey, it’s over.”

“I killed him.”

“You stopped him from hurting anyone else.”

“Are the guards going to come for me?”

“No. Look, if they do, sure you might stay a night in the Piper suite, but they can’t hold you long. The guy pulled a gun, aimed at you, too. Those idiot guards didn’t know how to handle it, and you did.”

“I killed his brother,” your eyes water.

Is there a word for that? There's plenty of words for the killing, but for the survivors? An orphan, a widow. What do you become when you lose a sibling? What title of own your own have you now passed onto another? A fresh bereavement that you've wrought.

“Hey,” she sits down on the couch next to you, “it’s not your fault,”

“How could he threaten his own brother,” you whisper

“People are real scared of the Institute. Kyle wasn’t well,” she holds your hand, stopping you from gripping into your skin, and you remember what he had held.

“He waved around your paper,” you mumble, feeling frost in your throat.

“What?”

“He waved it around. Like it was all the proof he needed,” she drops your hand, pulling away.

“Oh, so this is my fault?” her voice is hard.

“No. No, Piper—” 

“They need to know the truth out here. How can they protect themselves if—” she starts, her voice rising but you cut her off, defiant.

“The truth is that a man is dead out there. A family is broken, and it could have been full on bloodshed, and he was waving around your paper, Piper. That didn’t seem like protection.”

“And what if he had been replaced? What if Riley was a synth?” she crosses her arms in front of her, red-faced but defensive.

“I don’t know! But you have to be more careful with what you print!” your voice shreds at your throat, you want to sob, scream, scratch.

“I thought you believed in a free press!” she snaps at you, standing over you as you try to fold into the couch.

“I do! But that doesn’t mean there aren’t consequences!” you are curling inward, trying to keep talking, don't blame her, explain. Explain better.

“They deserve to know the truth!”

“Was that the truth? So what if that man was a synth? He was scared, Piper! Or did you not hear how he screamed, holding Kyle’s body? That didn’t sound like acting! That man just lost his brother, and I did that!” you wring your hands, forcing yourself to breathe, “—of course they need to know the truth! But words aren’t just true, Piper. Words make us feel things. How we say stuff matters. Kyle was ready for a lynch mob against his own family, do you realize how easy it is to encouraging that!?”

She deflates.

“I never meant—I didn’t mean for this to happen,” she mumbles, and it’s quiet; no blocks or toy cars rolling around in the back room.

“Piper. You are doing good work. I’ve read your other articles. Nick’s told me about some of the things you’ve managed to change here. Change for the better. But journalism isn’t simply spreading the word. McDonough is wrong to want to shut you down, but you need to be more careful. You care, that’s obvious. That’s a good thing. But we aren’t all skilled at seeing clearly when we care so much, evidenced by this. I’m not saying manipulate the people, but you have to guide them to safer conclusions, give them options on how to handle this, or people are just going to start taking measures into their own hands if they think they don’t have anyone to trust. You meant well with that article about the Institute, and people deserve to know what threats are out there, but we have to figure out how to do that without stirring up fanatics.”

She holds her head as you speak, trembling as she breathes.

“I’m angry at the guards for not handling that better. Angry at the Institute for even posing such a possibility. Angry at the world that this is how it is. I’m not angry at you, Piper.”

“I wanted it to be better,” she mumbles, “thought if I pointed out the corruption, that it would end. That people would make it stop if they just knew.”

“And they do need to know, Pipes. But we aren't these magic good people and bad people, we're just people. It would be so much easier. So much fucking easier, but the moment we start labeling people as 'one of them' instead of 'one of us' we risk this sort of thing. Synths are sounding like a scapegoat to me, Piper. An easy boogeyman to blame for all the bad things that happen, because if it's 'one of them' that's doing the bad things, it's not 'one of us' because it's terrifying to admit that there could be circumstances where we do the same. You say we need to know the truth, and I agree, but the truth is not easy. I have killed so many people, and I have to learn how to sleep at night because of it. But what scares me more is that each night it becomes easier to drift off. I hate that I killed Kyle. But I am terrified by the small part of me that feels righteous about it. Because that's how he felt; righteous. I think we all want to do the right thing, but that isn't as easy as I wish it was. But the moment the right thing becomes easy? I'm afraid it won't be the right thing anymore," she settles back down onto the couch, facing you.

"I'm trying to find my nephew. But I'm scared that by the time I do, I won't be the type of man to raise him like he deserves. Nora deserves to have her son know how much she cared. To look up to someone who fought to help people for the sake of it being the right thing to do. I'm just faking this, Pipes. I don't know what I'm doing. I'm just putting on different costumes trying to pretend to be as good as she was, but it's exhausting. It would be so much easier to just stop caring, but Shaun deserves to grow up in a place that cares. So I'm faced with this horrible responsibility to try to build that. It's so fragile. That trust has to be earned, and it needs to be real. A community can't thrive on lies. You already know that, and you're doing a damned good job trying to keep this community honest and informed, but that doesn't mean you can stop at just breaking down the lies. You have to work on building back trust, too. Look, this isn't my city, I don't live here, I don't know these people like you do, but you said that this was your home, the ugly and all. It’s not my place to say what you need to do or how to fix things, but people need to feel safe at night. A city can’t survive if the people don’t work together.”

“McDonough isn’t working together,” she looks distraught, trying to cover it with stubbornness.

“Maybe he isn’t. I'm not endorsing choosing the lesser-evil, here, believe you me. But he’s one man. A powerful man, but one nonetheless. A mayor is supposed to do good for the masses, but the frenzied crowd doesn't think. A mob is easy to direct, but it is made out of people. We have to remind people that they don't need to just follow blindly, that they don't need to just stand back as bystanders. They need to know what's happening, and question it. And that's uncomfortable, but that is being a citizen. McDonough is trying to get them to ignore their fears, and that powder keg burst today. Fear isn't bad, but it is easy to manipulate. You want them to open their eyes, but do they know what to do with their fear once they see it? They need to know how to use it to help each other, not tear each other apart. You aren't wrong for wanting to raise awareness. I'm only saying that there are more steps that follow."

She leans back against the couch, pensive, a gravity around her. A rare moment of silence, and it unsettles you.

"You ever want a part-time gig, you let me know, yeah?" she huffs, trying to affect a humorous tone, and you melt into the cushion with relief, "—For a pre-war popsicle you sound real red. Were you some kind of commie sympathizer, Blue?”

“I went to a liberal arts university to study languages, Piper. You have no idea how many times I’ve had to answer that question.”

“That’s sounding an awful lot like ‘no comment,’” she mumbles through a soft smile.

“Language is powerful, Piper. You wouldn’t be a reporter if you didn’t agree with that. But our words aren’t perfect. We can’t just transmit facts and data without contaminating it in some way with how we feel and what we believe. We have to always question ourselves and our biases to try to minimize undue influence on the truth, but even choosing what to share has an impact. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders and a better heart in there. You want to help your people. It just always turns out to be more complicated than we want it to be.”

"Thought you said you didn't know what you were doing," she smiles.

"I read a lot of theory about 'communicating'. But it's a bitch in practice, I gotta say."

"Well then, your theory have any advice for what to do next?"

"You're going to have to print something about today, about what happened. News is news. You already give them info, but maybe it’s time to help them figure out how to use it. Something like a call to action, or an advice column? Something real that they can do, someway to get that energy out so they aren't sitting at home, paranoid, isolating. If the institute is trying to take and replace people, what better way to fight against that than by getting to know your neighbor? Getting to bond with the people nearby, see them for who they are. People disagree and argue, but you’re all part of this city. You all want life to be better here for yourselves, so make it better for your neighbor and that makes it better for you, too. If they can't be bothered helping for the sake of helping, remind them that they benefit from it, even if that's indirectly. If they need to be tricked into helping themselves, fuck it. You're smart. I'm sure that devious big brain of yours can come up with a scheme to make people care about their neighbors until they realize it's a good thing.”

"That's a tall order, Blue. I don't know if you've noticed but people here are pretty stubborn,"

"They're proud too. Use that. People here talking about this being the great green jewel. Make it great. Isn't it great how you can rely on your neighbor to help you bring in the laundry when it starts to rain? Aren't you proud of how smart our children are thanks to our publicly-supported school? Blah-blah. McDonough isn't the only one who can use propaganda. Besides, if I had to bet on it, I don't think anyone could be more persistent than you, Pipes."

"Nat could give you a run for your money," she nudges you.

"Hey!" an indignant voice from further back in the building responds.

"Hush, eavesdropper. Grab three cups and bring a Nuka over since you're just going to keep listening in,"

“Do you forgive me for earlier?” you ask softly as you hear ceramic clink in the background.

“Only if you forgive me for snapping back," she extends her palm, smiling.

“Deal.” you shake on it, and your face tics, scrunching. 

“You doing okay after all that, though? You still seem a bit twitchy,” she gestures to her neck and shoulder as another tic passes.

“Yeah. It’s just a thing I do.”

“Okay,”she says, and leaves it be as Nat arrives.

“Were you listening in the whole time?” you ask her, mellow, but she avoids your gaze with a shameless grin.

"No comment," she muses.

"Atta girl," Piper shoves her lightly.

“A family of nosy do-gooders. Commonwealth beware,” you lilt. 

“You don’t know the half of it,” Piper replies, bittersweet.

“I’d be a pot to your kettle if I mocked it. Seems like big sisters just have a drive for justice," you wink at Nat before continuing softly, "—Nora was a public defender."

“That must be why you’re so good at talking,” Nat adds.

“She’d quote so many things as proof when she was arguing about even the chore chart. I had to read so much to even try to catch-up and still, half the time she’d convince me she was right even when I was mad. But I don't know if I'd have studied languages if it wasn't for all her debating while growing up.”

“She sounded special.”

“She was. Too nice for her own good, sometimes. A real bleeding heart.”

“Sounds like someone I know,” Piper shares a tender grin.

You smile, bittersweet. You feel like a fraud half the time you speak, droning on about compassion and kindness while you console yourself at night with the promise of retribution. But maybe, maybe one day you can believe it again. Until then, at least let your impact carry you while your intent catches up.

“She deserved better,” you mumble as Piper pours cola into the three mugs.

“To siblings,” she raises her cup, clinking with Nat before posing it to you.

“To siblings!” Nat cheers, excitedly looking into her cup.

“To siblings.” you tap your chipped mug to theirs, and sip at the brown bubbly.

. . .

Another half-hour passes, and it seems like the hubbub has died down outside. Hopefully someone is still willing to hire you for errands after the morning’s duel. The market is quieter than it was before it took place, but you can still see the pool of dark mud where Kyle fell. Eyes track you as you move, but the shop-keeps do not shirk away. The chem dealer seems the least tense. Potentially sampling his own products, or looking forward to a potential rise in sales thanks to the increased stress and anxiety of the aftermath.

“Hello,”

“Greetings, killer.” Though your lips thin, his tone isn’t harsh and he does not turn away as he continues to lean against the back wall.

“I’d like to see you wares,”

“Looking to forget your earlier actions?” he coos, smarmy, and you hold your breath as you think.

This is to be expected, push-back. You're an outsider, and now you've gunned down a resident, albeit arguably in self-defense. Nonetheless you've been neither detained nor ejected from the city. The traders seem to still be willing to deal with you. Perhaps this can be a boost to your reputation, in a way. A fragile vaultie is a poor look for the General of the Minutemen. But a peace-enforcer? You are looking for work, and a gun for hire is no new thing, here. Play this to your advantage.

“No. I made my decision, and I stand by it.”

“Good. Not sure if there was a right choice there, but there were wrong ones. And you didn’t make a wrong one. Shame it happened, but thanks for taking care of it. More than we can say of our security here,” he leers at a guard off across the way.

“There are always things that need doing. That’s why I’m here, actually.” 

“You don’t say?” he gives you a once-over. 

“Looking for some minor work, as I wait for the Detective. Have any tasks you’d be willing to contract out?” keep it vague, open.

“Nothing local, fella,” he says, picking at his nails, but when you nod and shift to step away, he continues “—But a guy like you seems to know how to get around.”

“I travel,” you confirm, not wanting to risk giving too many details and accidentally dissuade him from saying more.

“Well then. Maybe I could find a contract for you,” he smirks.

“I’m listening.” calm, cool, collected.

“Chem-I-Care is in the business of innovation. Innovating new cures to the same old blues that plague us all, brother,” he tilts his head back as he talks, “and I have a new recipe I’d like to try out.”

“Hmm.” let him speak, he needs to persuade you.

“That new recipe had a good first batch, but the ingredients are a bit scarce around here,”

“Those ingredients being?” disinterest, he needs a delivery, make him work for it.

“Mutated ferns. They got these purple-y flowers. Hardy suckers, closed up now that it’s getting cold, but that’s fine. Them ferns grow in boggy places. Last trader brought a few and it made for some nice rad-x. Wanna test ‘em with some other chems, but most of the caravans don’t venture out around Forest Grove Marsh. Heck, fewer bother wading through it," you stare at him, silent, trying to urge him to overshare something you can use.

"—Sheila ain’t been back in a while now, so I figure I’m outta luck. You mind heading that way and harvesting some buds for me and I can hook you up. A hundred caps per bulb, plus a few of my test batches.” 

Aha. Not just a random caravan, but a name. And the starting offer at a hundred each?

“That’s a ways east,” you muse as he points out the location on your map, “—and no certainty there will even be ferns if I went. That'd be a big waste of my time for the possibility of a hundred caps.”

“Oh there’ll be plenty of ferns. Dale said they got a whole system set up,” Solomon catches himself on another slip-up.

“Really? A system? And yet you haven’t heard from this Sheila or Dale in how long?” 

“Month or so,” he mumbles.

“So ferns, but danger.”

“I can do a hundred and twenty five a pop.”

“Two hundred.” 

“Two hundred? You’re crazy," he waves at you.

"You started at one-hundred, and I find out that you had a two-man crew working this, so double the rate is only fair," keep it even, monotone.

"One-fifty, that’s the best I’ll do," he squints at you.

“Deal. One hundred and fifty per fern flower bulb.”

“Hmph,” he grunts, and shakes on it.

One option. You wander as you start planning out how long the journey might take and whether you could convince Nick to join, when you find yourself behind second plate, not far from the water purifier. A young boy shouts out to you, waving you over the rickety platforms.

“You look thirsty there,” he holds out a carton of water, shaking it, “pure, refreshing water for sale! Can’t find this out in the Commonwealth!”

“Sounds lovely, but I’m out of caps. You willing to take payment in services?”

“Ugh. I don’t do charity, jackass. But I’ll tell you what. Those stuck-up guards keep telling me how to run my business, hassling me with city regulations. I’ll pay you a hundred caps if you hop in there and clear out the filters. You won’t believe the junk people toss in the water.”

“What kind of things would I be looking at?”

“Big things, anything the size of a book, usually. You do know how to swim, right? I’ll never be able to clean your carcass out of there if you drown.”

“I swim just fine, thanks.”

You dip your hand into the brisk water below, and your pipboy geiger counter ticks up.

“I’ll be right back,” you tell the kid and stop off at Valentine’s to grab a rad-x, a few rags, your welding goggles, and switch into a pair of shorts.

“Did nuclear winter end? Didn’t think it was shorts weather, kid.” Nick chimes.

“Off for some beachside community service, Val," you quip.

“Don’t flood the place when you come shivering back in,” he drawls and leaves you be.

. . .

You keep your boots on as you step into the water, not trusting the ground below you. Thankfully, Jake confirmed that your pipboy was indeed waterproof, so as you step in deeper—your leg hairs rising at the coldness washing over your skin—you swing your arm below the surface, scattering the light towards the lakebed. You do a few sweeps, using the handle of a mop to help you pick up some of the debris in the shallower sections, but soon enough the water reaches up to your pecs and you figure it’s time to start diving for the junk. Though your welding goggles are tinted, the pipboy in combination with the sunlight let you see the bottom fairly well, and you swim around, hauling up a typewriter, plastic containers, and a bucket. You can see one of the pipe intakes rattling something round against the filter mesh. After surfacing for another breath of air, you're able to grab onto it and pull it away from the suction grip.

“Hey, Sheng,” you call out treading water and holding onto the metal platform edge, hands pruney.

“You almost done in there? Water pressure just increased loads,”

“You wanna tell me why there’s a skull down here?” 

“I told you you wouldn’t believe the junk down there,” he says approaching and then whispering at you, “but shush, I don’t need city security giving me any more grief. You might not be the… first person I asked to help clear the filters.”

“You are adding three cartons to my payment, kid.”

“Fine. If you make it out of there, jackass,” he mutters.

You haul up another pail and a tire, then flop up onto the platform, shivering. The kid comes by and drop a sack of caps on your pile of clothes, and thee bottles of purified water. You wring out your rags and throw your shirt back on, shivering as you head back into the agency to dry off.

“How was the swim, Slick?” Nick calls out as you close the door, and Ellie laughs.

“Please tell me you have a heater in here,” your teeth chattering.

. . .

Ellie hands you a mug of weak coffee as you sit on the couch in dry clothes, hair still damp. You thank her, and count out the change to pay back for your breakfast this morning, chewing on your pack jerky.

“Oh, I got word back from your people while you were out. Seems like Preston made it back to Sanctuary just fine, but that it’s going to take a day to get the people willing to move packed up, and probably another two to get them out to the alley, Dogmeat included.”

“Thanks, Ellie, that’s good news,” you mutter, trying to soothe the impatience you feel.

“And don't worry about staying here. The couch is yours as long as you need it. I know it’s tough to wait,” she consoles, and you flash a brief smile that doesn’t meet your eyes.

“Yeah. But I am grateful for you doing that.”

“No worries, Theo. Some of us still remember the good the Minutemen did. Plus it was a nice distraction from the papers Nick is having me reorganize,”

“Where’s that gratitude for still having a job, El?” Nick hollers from further back in the building, and you both laugh.

“Hey Nick, do you think you’d be willing to go on a field trip tomorrow?”

“Depends, do I have to pack you a lunch?”

“Har-har,” you sip at your coffee, “Solomon is willing to pay me a hundred-fifty per fern flower delivery. There’s a marsh out to the West, could do a day-trip, make some more coin.”

“Not really my speed, pal. Water and electronics aren’t a great mix,” he wiggles his wiry hand.

“I guess not,” you sigh.

“You tried asking Piper? Pretty sure she’d only take half your cut.”

“Fair point,” you empty the mug and stand, “I’m gonna go ask around a little bit more, maybe the Dugout has some work—THE DUGOUT!”

“Woah there, Teddy, what’s the matter? You remember making a dunce of yourself last night or something?” 

“I told the radio guy I would come by today,” you rub your temple, trying to clarify the memory.

“Travis? Why’d you tell him that?”

“I wanted to see the set-up. And I’ve just gone back and forth past the radio shack like three times already. I hope that wasn’t stressing him out,”

“Kid. Breathing stresses him out.”

“Oh, be nice, Nicky," Ellie adds.

“He’s anxious. But at least there is a radio station here. He plays good tunes, keeps it running. Though I wouldn’t mind if he added a few more songs, but it’s a consistent genre I guess. Look, I told him I'd stop by, I don't want him to think I'm a liar. I’m gonna go over there and then talk with Piper about tomorrow.”

“Later,” he calls out and you wave to them both, jogging over to the radio shack.

. . .

Chapter Text

You rap your knuckles on the small metal door. It’s still afternoon, not quite yet evening, so you’re hoping Travis hasn’t ended the day early. Though—actually—you’re not sure if he lives in the trailer as well, but the door opens before you can reevaluate.

“Travis!” you say, raising your hand in an awkward wave.

“Oh—you’re here,” he remarks, staring at you in a mix of surprise and confusion.

“Yeah! Sorry I’m late. Am I late? I don’t remember if we agreed to a time,” you ramble, and he's still in the doorway, holding his arm.

“—Oh, sorry, you don't mind that tour, do you?” you ask hesitantly.

“Oh! Yeah, no, yeah, come—come in,” he hops to the side, making room for you to enter.

It feels longer in here than you thought it would, surprisingly spacious for all that’s fit inside. Other than the equipment, it’s rather plain, but there are hints at decoration: a beaded lamp, a small rug.

“Nice place,” you glance around. 

“Um, thanks? Home sweet, uh, home,” he shifts weight from one leg to the other, tense.

“I really appreciate the tour, Trav. Would you mind explaining a bit of your set-up? I’m a big fan of music but I don’t know much about the technical side. Is this where you record?” you gesture at the desk.

“Oh. Yeah, sure?”

He starts off tense, glancing at you frequently as if unsure if you would still be there the next time he checked. But as he continues and you ask clarifying questions, he starts to relax a bit, growing more enthusiastic as he explains the tech and his systems.

“That’s really impressive, Travis.” you compliment him and he caves inward, unable to accept the praise.

“I mean, it’s not really, you should hear what Three Dog sounds like when he’s on air,” there’s a mix of awe and hopelessness as he says it.

“I don’t know who that is, but I trust he’s good at what he does if you speak of him so highly,” Travis grins sheepishly.

“I met him, you know. Traveled all the way to the Capital Wasteland! He’s why I wanted to start a station here,”

“No kidding? Is that… far?”

“Is that far?! You’re kidding right? Oh, sorry, I mean of course you aren’t, you were in a vault, you don’t know—” you do not want to get too far along that line, so you butt-in.

“When you say capital, do you mean D.C.? Like Maryland?”

“Yeah, way south from here. Took forever.”

“No shit. I didn’t know you were so well traveled, Trav.”

“Oh! I mean, it’s not that impressive. I was with a caravan the entire way,” he rubs his neck.

“It’s still impressive, Travis.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. And you came back and made all this happen,” you gesture to his microphone and the tape spools.

“Oh but it isn’t much here,” he mumbles.

“It’s an entire station, and you’re running it on your own. That’s gotta be hard work.” you give him a smile when he glances your way.

“I mean, yeah, but I can only broadcast so far patching into the local towers, so I bet there aren’t even that many listeners,”

“I’m a listener. You play good tunes,”

“You really like them? You know I try to make little orders of the songs. I pull out a couple of records for each couple of hours so I don't have too many repeats, but when they change too much in tempo or theme, I try to add in an announcement for a transition, but. Well... you’ve heard me,” he trails off.

“And I keep tuning in. Having heard you. Be nicer to yourself bud,”

“But I’m no Three Dog,”

“Again. I don’t know who that is, but he sounds like a real character.”

“Oh he is! The greatest! He’s so cool,” he could have stars in his eyes for all you can tell.

“Maybe he is.”

“Oh he for sure is! He’s helped the capital wastes with his show. He keeps the people fighting the good fight!” 

“The good fight, huh?”

“Oh, yeah. I mean he’s all about standing up for the little guy. Although he worked with the Brotherhood of Steel down there for a while. But they seemed alright, I guess.” another group you're not familiar with, but you don't want to distract him, now.

“Is that what you want to do? Stand up for the underdogs?”

“I mean, sure, yeah. But, like, who needs me to do that? I can’t do much for anyone,”

“Did Three Dog not do much?”

“What? No! Three Dog helped make the capital so much better! He kept people inspired, and told them about what was happening and how to fight the bad guys—”

“Did he punch the bad guys?” see if you can lead him there.

“No! I mean, I don’t. I don’t think he did? But he helped!”

“How did he help?”

“With his radio show! You should of heard him—”

“So why can’t you?”

“What?”

“You said Three Dog helped people with his radio show. You have a radio show. Why do you think you aren’t helping? Do you want to help?”

“I mean, I’m just me—”

“Is Three Dog an alien?”

“What?”

“Is he an alien? A super mutant?”

“No, he’s just a person—”

“A person,” you poke Travis on his sternum, “like you?”

“No, I mean, yeah, but—”

“He’s human, Travis. Like you or me.”

“But you’re the General of the Minutemen, you’re from before, you’ve—”

“I’m just a guy, Trav,” you exhale and drop down to sit on his mattress, “don’t put me on a pedestal, please. I’ve got enough people doing that, and I’m tired.”

Travis is quiet, and when you look up, he flinches.

“Travis. I’ve got good news, and bad news.”

“B-bad news?”

“Yeah. The bad news is that I don’t think any of us know what we’re doing. I think we’re all just trying, and figuring it out as it goes. Lord knows I’ve been faking it and hoping for the best since before the war, and I know even less about what's going on, now.”

“And… what’s the good news, then?”

“That none of us know what we’re doing.”

“I don’t… I don’t get it. Isn’t that the bad news?”

“It’s both, Trav. I can say with a fair amount of certainty that Three Dog didn’t know what he was doing when he first started. But he started, and he tried, and he kept trying until he felt like he did know what he was doing, and he just kept doing it until he got good. So go easy on yourself. You’ve already started. You’ve got this station running; you’re hosting it. You’re halfway to that kind of greatness already, you just have to keep trying until it starts to feel normal.”

“You… you really think so?”

“Yeah. It’ll get easier with practice. It’s just acting. I mean, no one’s parents names their kid ‘Three Dog’. It’s a stage name, a persona. Maybe that’s who he became all the time, but he started as a kid somewhere. It’s just a microphone, Travis. It’s not going to bite you. You wouldn’t have gotten this far if you didn’t care, so let yourself care. Have a little fun. Dance around to the tunes every now and then. You don't even have any windows in here for someone to see you grooving around, so why not? Your job lets you listen to music all day, that is so incredible.”

“I mean, I have to do advertisements, too—”

“I know, Trav. Just trying to look at the positives. Listen, I’ll keep trying to be better at what I do if you promise me to try to do the same, here. Do you believe in me, Travis?”

“Uh, yeah, I think so.”

“Well then, I believe in you. So believe in the me that believes in you. Deal?”

“The you that… oh okay, yeah that makes… sense? I mean, I’ll try,” his palm is clammy as he shakes your hand.

“That’s all it takes. I’ve got a few things I’ve still gotta do today, but I’ll keep tuned in. Just keep playing music, and the rest will come with time.”

“Oh, okay. Uh, bye, Theodore.”

“See you later, Trav.”

You wait until you’ve turned the corner into the alleyway before sighing deeply. Poor kid was a ball of nervous energy, apologetic to even take up space in his own home. Beating himself up over the littlest things… hopefully some of your attempts at advice will manage to help. He reminds you of your earlier days. It was almost… refreshing… to see. Far too much of your time up top has been literally fighting to survive, but you still remember. Things felt so intense when you were younger, but in reality they were such lower stakes than it all seemed. Maybe learning to deal with some of your adolescent anxiety gave you some decent survival tips for facing more pressing threats, but if nothing else, at least if gave you some compassion. You wonder if wasteland therapy could be a decent gig in this place, but then you remember your botched 'date' with Geneva last night and doubt your patience to deal with the Upper Stand residents that would be able to afford such fees. You start to walk over to Piper’s once more, set on heading out tomorrow to pick some ferns, instead.

It's along that base-path that you notice the atom molecule decoration on a building front. You find the faded paint label Science! Center across the door. It’s a separate building from the school, and your curiosity leads you to enter.  

“Aha! You do want to talk about it—” a scrawny blonde woman points at a brunette, both donning lab coats.

“Oh look, we have a visitor! Doctor Duff, dear, if you could bother them while I walk away from this conversation,” the brunette rushes up the stairs, and the blonde steps forward to greet you.

“Hi there, are you here for today’s free biology lesson?”

"Biology lesson?"

“Yes! Usually the kids from the schoolhouse are the first to stop by, but I can’t see why I can’t start with you!” the cheery blond woman smiles at you expectantly.

Free, huh? That’ll do.

“Sure, sounds fun,” you return her grin, politely.

“Yes! Love that enthusiasm!”

She dives in, going on about radiation, and she shines when you manage to remember those old news broadcasts mentioning gamma rays as the worst of the worst.

“The key thing to remember is that life is always reacting to it’s environment! Or it dies! And life out here has reacted immensely to the background radiation! For example, the oversized bloatfly of today evolved from an earlier species of smaller fly. Radioactive adaptation has resulted in a unique gland that enables it to balance and maintain speed despite its size. So what do you say? Ready to go out and dissect one?"

"Go out?"

"Yes! For the field-trip portion of the lesson. You go out, do some Science! of your own, and come back. I even have a prize for the best junior scientist that can bring back a bloatfly gland!”

“And as a very motivated learner, might I ask what the grand prize would be?”

“A junior scientist labcoat! Although… it was meant for a student, so I’m not sure it’d fit you,”

“How about a cash prize instead?”

“Oh, great idea! I could do a hundred and twenty caps if you bring back an intact gland!”

“A hundred and twenty? Those bugs can be dangerous, should kids be sent out to do that? But if you need a gland, I bet I could carve it out nice and delicate, too. Much more finesse than a child could, assuredly. I’m sure that could make for advanced experimenting. I’m sure the next students that come in would enjoy seeing what trials you manage to complete with that!”

“You know what, the students do so rarely manage to bring in specimens. How about one-fifty?”

“Grand! Next time I stop buy, I look forward to handing off that gland to you, Doctor Duff.”

. . .

It’s approaching dinner as you finally knock on Piper’s door.

“Oh, it’s you.”

“Hey, Nat. Is Piper busy?” you ask.

“I dunno,” she turns back to face the rest of the abode and calls out, “PIPER! BLUE’S HERE,” and wanders off, leaving the door open.

“Coming!” you hear footsteps scramble and Piper appears, “you can come in, you know."

“Oh, yeah, sorry,” you step in and close the door.

“What’s up?” she asks, a pen behind her ear.

“Well. I wanted to ask you something,” you pause, trying to figure out how to best approach this.

“What’s got your panties in a twist, Blue?” you grimace at her phrase, but she doesn’t mean ill, how could she? She doesn't know.

“You floated the idea of getting out of the city for some scoops, yeah?”

“I did, but aren’t you waiting for your friends to get here?”

“Yeah, yeah. Should be here in two more days or so.”

“Oh, that’s good news. So… why are you here?”

“About that,” you pause, “—well it’s probably no story, and I understand if you’re busy, but I was going to make a run out west tomorrow, a day trip just past the river—be back before night—to pick some flowers.”

“Why’dja need flowers?”

“Solomon’s offering me a hundred and fifty caps per bulb, but it seems like the last two people he worked with didn’t make it back. I already asked Nick if he’d go, but since it’s a swamp, he said he probably wasn’t a good fit. But I figured I’d ask if you were willing to join? I’d half the profits of course, but I could really use a second gun for this just to be safe. But I’d understand if you can’t—”

“Tomorrow? Sure. I need to finish up edits on this article and set it to print, but if you can wait until, say nine, after we get our initial distribution out, I can do that.”

“Really? That’d be fantastic,” you sigh in relief.

“Say, since you’re here,” it’s her turn to look nervous, “—would you mind looking over what I’ve written? I’m open to constructive criticism.”

You pause on edits to have dinner, walking over to carry some bowls to and from Takahashi for the easiest take-out experience you’ve ever had, and chat with the sisters. As the evening draws on, Nat retires to her room, and Piper puts down her final draft.

“Say, Blue,” you look up from your pipboy.

“Huh?”

“What’s your opinion on gossip?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know, gossip. The word on the street. Rumors.”

“Like related to journalism or related to just living around people?”

“Both.”

“I mean gossip is a loaded word. It can get a bad wrap, but gossip is an ancient oral tradition. If you’re talking about people talking to each other, that can be an integral part of information gathering. Hard to verify for sure if you’re wanting to use it as proof, but useful for knowing what to keep an eye out for to find proof. But there are plenty of lies out there too. Rumors can be real nasty, so I try not to spread anything I can’t backup. And I try not to badmouth people, but damn it does feel good to justifiably talk shit. But I try to only delve into the lighthearted stuff if I can,”

“Lighthearted?”

“Yeah, you know, like ‘Did you see Sacha? She wore pink three days in a row last week. She must be dating someone new,’ or ‘Didn’t you hear? Daniel moonlights as a pool-shark over at the nursery home. They don’t even bet money there, but the man’s loaded in pudding-cups now.’ Bullshit like that just for fun, doesn't hurt no-one,” you shrug.

“Oh. Like, ‘did you hear the new guy in town said he thought Geneva was going to pay him to sleep with her’? Is that lighthearted enough?” she quirks her eyebrow at you.

“Hah, word spreads fast.”

“I’ve got very big ears, what can I say.”

“They match your very big eyes and your very big mouth. You’re perfectly proportional, I'd say.”

“Hey! Don't forget I also have a very big heart. I could quote a General on that, mind you.”

“Well with how Nick was telling it, she was pretty easy to overhear, so I guess the word was out the moment it happened.”

“You glad you didn’t follow through with said side-business?” she asks.

“With her? God no. She acts like the men here have done good work inflating her ego, telling her just how pretty she is, but she’s abhorrently tactless. She ordered the most expensive drink there, too. Not sure how much the mayor pays her but I’m sure that was a hit to her salary when she realized that I wasn't footing the bill.”

“And I thought you weren’t going to be a gossip,” she smiles devilishly.

“Hey—I said I don’t like to pass along things I can’t attest to. I had front-row seats to her asking if I was sure that I wasn’t looking for ‘my own son’ out in the Wastes, and that I must be so ‘lonely.’ No fucking shit Sherlock. She read your article, and she thinks it’s just cheery conversation with a stranger?”

“So why’d you go to the Taphouse with her?”

“Ah, ah. Is the fifth amendment still around?”

“What’s that?”

“You have the right to not incriminate yourself if answering would admit to a crime or something like that.”

“I think most people just say ‘no comment.’”

“Then, at this time, no comment. I may have intended to insult her with the gigolo gag, but I haven’t been ogled like that since—in a really long time. So I would rather leave it at insult before I risk potential incrimination.”

“So you aren’t intending to abscond to Goodneighbor and join a brothel? Shame.”

“Goodneighbor? Where’s that?”

“That crime den? I’ll point it out on your map, but it’s probably best to avoid it. Valentine’s spent time there, though, so if you have questions, he’d be better to ask.”

“'Crime den', huh? So is prostitution illegal, then?”

“I mean not explicitly, but practically. Official businesses have to be approved by the mayor, but I wouldn’t be shocked if there were private johns in the upper stands. People like to throw their money around and sex sells, but most people would be hush-hush about it. You could probably get charged with tax fraud if you tried.”

“Oh, boo,” you playfully sigh, “I couldn’t stand having to hire an accountant.”

“The horrors,” she jokingly agrees.

Piper sets her article out to copy, and you part, cracking your neck as you walk back to the agency, not terribly thrilled for another night on a couch, but desperately needing the sleep. 

Chapter Text

“You ready to head out?” You ask, standing in Piper's doorway. 

“Yep. Just finished our route, got new editions out to our regulars, and Nat’ll man the stand here and see if she can sling a few more copies in the meantime.”

“Cool. See you later, Nat,” you wave at the young girl but she returns the gesture with a raspberry.

“Don’t mind her, she’s just mad I told her she couldn’t come along.” Piper remarks as she closes the door and you head towards the gate.

“The curse of childhood, always wanting to grow up?”

“No kidding. She keeps complaining about only selling papers, like there isn’t enough happening inside the wall.”

“Always wanting to do something? Get involved? Why does that sound familiar…” she shoves you and you laugh.

“Har-har, Blue,” but her tone lowers, “I just worry about her.”

“It's only natural.” you console her as the stadium gate creaks open.

“Hey, Blue?”

“Hmm?” you humm, checking your map to verify you were headed west.

“You said that you had an older sister… and that you really loved her, but you two argued a lot.” her voice strains slightly.

“Yeah… though to be honest, I was a real brat for a while," you sigh, "But once I figured out how to handle myself a bit better, we got along really well. She was a few years older than me, so sometimes I got so mad about her getting to do things that I couldn’t. Looking back, I can understand, but it felt so unfair at the time.”

“What changed?”

“It wasn't all at once... but there was a big fight that finally changed somethings. Our dog, Cookie, had puppies, you see. I thought it would be nice to feed them a little bit of food from supper. My sister caught me as I was trying to sneak it to them, and she slapped it out of my hand. I tackled her and my dad rushed in, and had to haul me off of her, I was pulling her hair and kicking. It wasn’t fair, I thought, because all the puppies seemed to like her so much more. So I thought if I gave them some yummy people food, well, they’d like me more, right?”

“Sure. Dogs love food.”

“But not all food is good for dogs. Especially young ones. I was going to feed them scraps from dinner. Chicken bones, the like. Dogs eat bones, right? All the cartoons show it, hell we’d bought big bones for Cookie before, so I figured it was a win-win. But cooked chicken bones aren’t safe for them. They shatter, break, and can turn into jagged shards and pop through their intestines, might cause them to bleed out.”

“Oh, no… but your sister stopped you?”

“Mostly. The puppies didn’t get it, but while I was fighting her, Cookie ate one of the wings.”

“What happened?”

“My dad hauled her outside and made her throw up. I thought he was hurting her, but my mom explained why he was doing it. I was so scared that Cookie was going to die that I stayed up all night laying next to her.”

“And?”

“And eventually, my sister came out to check on me. There was still a red scratch on her face from my nails catching on her skin. But she just talked to me, asked me what I was thinking. I told her that I just wanted the puppies to like me like they liked her. And she told me that they liked her because she spent so many nights doing what I was doing there; making sure they were okay. I had bottle fed some of them a few times, but she had slept in the living room next to them for a week. I didn’t realize how much care they needed, how much work it took. My sister walked Cookie every day. She changed her water bowl. Fed her every morning when I was sleeping in. There were so many things I wasn’t aware of. Of course the dogs liked her, she was taking care of them and I had only ever played with them. It’s stupid, but I hadn’t realized just how hard it all was because no one told me. I knew there were things to do, but I didn’t get it unless someone explained it to me. After that, my sister pointed out details that I didn’t notice. Explained the reasons of what she did. Eventually figure out how to notice what wasn't there, too, and to ask why.”

“And so you stopped fighting?”

“Not immediately, but it helped a lot. The bigger thing was that it also meant that she, and my parents, needed to be able to label their reasons for why I could or couldn’t do something, and that ended up changing some rules, too. It’s a lot easier to follow rules when you know why they’re there. You’ve taught Nat to pay attention and question everything. That's good. But that also means that she’s going to question you, too. Which means you need to make sure you have good answers for those questions. Wouldn’t you get annoyed if all you ever heard was ‘because I said so’? If school here is anything like it was for me, she gets enough of that, there.”

“She’s already too smart for her own good. I just… she’s growing up so fast.”

“She’s still so young... but don’t you remember how badly you wanted adults to believe in you, trust you, when you were her age? I can’t imagine how hard this has been, is for you two, but a cage can only keep you safe while you’re in it. I’m not saying let her run loose, but if she’s anything like you, I don’t think she’s the type to stay inside even a comfortable prison. Trying to withhold information, trying to restrict her? She’s only going to get sneakier and do it anyway. My dad wasn’t perfect, but I knew that I could always go to him, no matter what. I made some stupid mistakes, mistakes that I really regret, but he always showed up to help pick me back up. Childhood is about fucking up. I think life might be a never-ending recovery attempt. You can help her learn how to fall more safely than we have, but you have to let her have the chance to fall, or she’ll never trust that she can pick herself back up. The world keeps knocking us down. I think the best thing we can do is to help each other stand up again.”

“You read that in a book or something?”

“I went to a lot of therapy.”

“You can tell.”

“I’ll choose to take that as a compliment. But it’s a lot easier to say things than it is to live them. A lot fucking harder to practice what you preach.”

“Yeah. Yeah it is.”

“I think you’re doing a good job, for all it’s worth. Nat’s smart. She’s got a spark. I think she’s going to do good things.”

“She’s a great kid. I just hope she doesn’t end up too much like her older sister.”

You’re not sure how to tackle that, and it’s already been a lengthy and heavy enough conversation, so you give her an out.

“I think that would be all-Wright,” you strain an overtly toothy grin and Piper presses her temples.

“Was that a pun?” she sighs with a small smile undeniably there.

“I may be but an Uncle, but I think I’ve got rights to dad jokes. Although…” you pinch your hand and put on a facetious italian-american accent, “—Say, if I goes along with Godfatha jokes, chu think dat private eye is gonna go all crosseyed at me?”

“Stooooooop, I’m begging you,” she whines, but you see her teeth as she turns away.

“I don’t think he’d even notice the accent!” you jest, and she shakes her head as you start to veer north to follow the railroad tracks.

. . .

“Hey, scoot this way, there are some bugs up ahead,” Piper whispers, pointing at the way-station up ahead.

“What kinda bugs?” you whisper, pulling out your rifle.

“Bugs, Blue. The gross kind.”

“Skeetos? Roaches? Flies?”

“Why do you sound excited about bloatflies?”

“Are there? I convinced Doc Duff to buy one of their glands if I brought it back on a field-trip,”

“You have to tell me how you swung all these deals, Blue. I’ve had to knock on doors asking for investors for the paper before and I don’t know how you’ve turned them generous.”

“Pre-war costumer service experience, Pipes.”

“Score one for the salesmen of old, then. But yeah, I saw a fly or two up there.”

“Hell yes.”

“This is going to be gross, isn’t it?”

“Probably.”

. . .

You squash the gland into the metal lunchbox with a plop, and flick up the latch, before shuddering.

“I might have to start calling you green, are you gonna hurl?” Piper holds out her canteen for you to rinse your hands under.

“Mmmmmm,” you shake your head, fighting the rising bile as you scrub the goo off of your skin.

“I don’t know what Duff’s paying you, but I don’t think it’s enough.”

“People eat bugs. It’s protein. It’s fine,” you close your eyes and roughly dry your hands against your pants.

“I’d rather eat ‘lurk than bloatfly, Blue.”

“Whas ‘lurk?” you latch onto an alternate topic of conversation.

“Mirelurk. Giant crabs?”

“Crab’s good,” you feel your color returning.

“They’re sea-bugs. No thank you.” 

“Didn’t know you were a picky eater,” you mumble.

“If you think I’m picky, I know not to ask you to babysit Nat.”

“Oh really?”

“She only eats like 7 things.”

“No kidding?”

“She’ll drink almost anything, but if it isn’t soup, she’s hard to please. She finally started eating carrots if I smash them into insta-mash.”

“Damn. I love carrots,”

“She’ll be your biggest fan if she can give you all of hers,”

“Fantastic.”

“If we get enough of these flowers, we could have a nice little feast for supper.”

“Does anyone sell beans?”

“Beans? Really? We could eat at the Taphouse if we find enough of them,”

“I mean maybe, but I don’t think Wellingham would be terribly keen on my return too soon. Other than Power Noodles and Choice Chops, who else sells food?”

“The Inn has a kitchen,”

“Not sure I trust it.”

“That’s fair. Yefim’s the cook, though. Did I tell you I got poisoned there?”

“No!”

“Oh yeah. I barely had the paper going before the first time. I’d just published an article about this cartel of caravans that had been driving up food prices in the city. It went over well, even got a boycott of their goods started in town, so I figured I’d pop over to the Dugout for a victory drink. I’d already taken a swig by the time I realized something was wrong. There was someone else at the bar, it wasn’t Vadim or Earl. The beer tasted off, more so than usual, mind you. And I start feeling real woozy. I don’t know what he slipped me, but I’m looking around and the still is right there. I just start chugging. Honestly? I’m still not totally convinced it was better than just dying from the poison, but it worked. While I was passed out on the floor, security managed to grab the bartender. He eventually ratted on his bosses, and they all got to share some time in the pen.”

“Holy shit.”

“Yeah. It can be hard to make friends in the reporting industry, but it sure is easy to make enemies.”

“So what would you eat at the Taphouse?”

“I’ve always wanted to try Deathclaw steak,” she muses.

“You’re incorrigible. Deathclaw? You know what, I doubt claw steak would be that great. The jerky was pretty bland.”

“No way.”

“Concord Deathclaw.”

“I am asking Garvey about this when he gets back, I don’t believe you.”

“Ask away! But I’d take any of his food opinions with a grain of salt. He knows how to camp, but I’d take a chance on roasted fly before having to eat more of his mystery stew. Pretty sure he re-hydrated roach jerky for it.”

“Yuck. Noted.”

You’re approaching the river, and the marsh should be just across the way. With a quick jot over to extend the satellites of the relay tower just off the path of the bridge crossing, you reload your rifle.

“Wetlands. Mirelurks, direct to your doorstep. Yeesh.”

“I’ll organize a crab boil.”

“Let’s hope they’re migrating for the season or something,” she pulls a face.

“Solomon said that the prior people had some sort of system set up. Let’s try to get some high-ground and scope things out.”

Piper swaps over to a pipe rifle and the two of you slowly advance, sloshing through the puddles until you make it up a rusty fire escape.

“Woah. I think we found the system,” Piper remarks, as you see the boardwalks and makeshift bridges linking the rooftops.

“Okay flowers, where are you…” you scan with your scope and spot several bunches of ferns growing along the roof patches, “wait a second…” you see some movement disappear behind a corner.

“Blue, I think we’ve got company,” Piper hisses and you glance over.

On the next rooftop is a feral, swaying. You signal Piper to hold still, and pull out your silenced pistol, exhaling as you try to line up a shot. Plink. Plink. Wood on the roof splinters as you miss, and the ghoul spins around, searching. He takes two steps, and you connect. The body crumples as its skull explodes, and then tumbles off the roof and into the water below. Splashes sound as other ghouls approach to investigate. You duck down and wave Piper to squat as well. After a few moments the noises slow and quiet.

“Pipes, do you have a suppressor?”

“No,” she hisses back.

“Take my pistol,” you hold it out to her, and she takes it, “I have a mine to set on the fire escape, but my rifle is going to be loud. Can you cover the bridge here with the pistol as I try to snipe them down?”

“Have you got any other explosives?”

“No.”

“Hold on,” Piper shuffles over to a faded lunchbox on the roof’s edge, “bingo.”

She pulls out a bottle of alcohol, rum maybe, and digs out a sock out of her pack, shoving it into the bottleneck, crafting a makeshift molotov.

“You ready?” you whisper and she shift back towards the bridge and nods.

“Looks like your crab boil will have to wait. Not interested in cannibalism,"

“Noted,” you grin and scan for a target.

Two buildings away, you see a head pop up. With a zap, a bolt of red disintegrates the ghoul, and the crack of the shot echoes, drawing attention. You hear groaning and limbs thrashing through water, and are scanning frantically. Piper calls out targets and you move, searching for them. Half of your shots land, and you try to exhale slowly as you crank the rifle, reloading, but for each ghoul you drop, another shambles out from another alleyway. Piper stops calling out targets, and you hear the soft pop of the silenced 10mm, and you shift your aim. Piper drops the feral rushing towards the bridge as you down another crossing onto the nearby roof. The frag explodes and you shout at Piper to check it, focusing on the bridge crossing.

“Escape’s clear!” she shouts after another two bullets whizz.

“Molotov!” you shout at her, firing on another enemy.

“Lit! Out!” you hear the crash and fire erupts on the facing rooftop.

“You got eyes?” you call out as you scan your scope out along the watery streets.

“Down, ten o’clock!” you swivel and spot the ghoul, missing twice before you land it.

“Cover the bridge, I’ll check escape,” you shout, and run over to the other edge, “clear!”

“Bridge!” Piper shouts, and you hear the raspy screech as a flaming body charges onto the flimsy crossing, collapsing at the last minute on your side of the bridge.

You put another target down, and it stills. You exhale shakily and sink down, reloading and catching your breath.

“Clear to me,” Piper calls out tightly.

“Stay alert. More could still be out there or inside the houses. Let’s clear this rooftop and move one by one. We’ve got plenty of daylight, take it safe.”

It’s a slow process, pausing after each platform to scan from the new vantage point, but you snipe down four more ghouls that could have charged if you had tried to rush it. By the time you’ve made it to the last roof, you’d gathered eighteen flowers.

It’s quiet as you retrace your steps, but not calm. Every noise in the water makes you jump, but eventually you make it back to the railroad tracks, and can finally exhale fully. The hike back to the city passes quickly, without conversation but in fair spirits.

. . . 

It’s four p.m. as you enter the city walls.

“Okay, I’m going to run the gland over to Doctor Duff real quick,” you pull out the lunchbox.

“Have fun with that,” she takes a small step back from it.

“It should be quick. I’ll meet you at Chem-I-Care soon?”

“Sure, just let me drop off my bag.”

You part ways, and jog over to the Science! Center, but as you close the door behind you, the blonde woman turns and smiles at you blankly.

“Ah, hello! Did you… need something?” she asks, staring at you.

“You sent me on a field trip? Got that delivery for you?” you lift up the metal box.

“Hmm. I don’t recall… that might have been before or after I had to vent out an awful lot of semi-toxic gas from the lab. Maybe if you were more specific…?”

“Uh, yeah, the field trip to get a bloatfly gland? You’d said you’d pay me a hundred and… seventy five caps for the delivery,” your heart races as you take a risk bumping up the price just a bit.

“Oh the field trip, of course! Wonderful. Let me just take that.”

You sigh in relief as she giddily trots over and starts counting out caps. She hands off the updated price without complaint, seeming to not remember the finer agreement details.

“These glands are definitely the result of adaptation to radioactive exposure. Maybe our own insides have adapted as well! Wouldn’t that be something. Here’s that reward for a fantastic junior-scientist!”

With a newfound pep in your step, you saunter over to the chem stand.

“Delivery for Solomon,” you announce, swinging your satchel forward and lifting the flap to reveal a pile of bulbs.

“No way, you really did it,” he whistles as he glances down.

“I have eighteen buds for you, so if my math’s correct, that is just under three thousand caps, sir.”

“No kidding? Say, that’s a bit steep—” he starts.

“Oh no, no, no, Solomon,” Piper surges forward, joining the discussion, “—you aren’t trying to back out of a contract, are you?”

“Piper! Wh-what are you doing here?” he smiles sheepishly, jolting off of his leaning spot.

“Looking for a new story. My last ones have gotten so much attention, wouldn’t you agree? So, I thought I’d return to my roots: making sure business is being run honestly,” she smiles viciously.

“Listen, our contract didn’t agree on how many flowers I’d buy—”

“Interesting. Can I quote that?” she asks, squinting at him.

“Hey—I didn’t say I wasn’t buying! Just, that’s a lot… more… than I intended to purchase,”

“I found this holotape out there that suggests otherwise, Sol,” she waves the tape you picked up mentioning the same Dale that he had referenced before.

“Lots of flowers means lots of chems, no? Sure you might be busy, but rad-x always sells well!” You smile at him widely, happy to take on the good-cop approach.

“Sheesh, yeah, let me just go to my safe. I don’t store that much up here on the regular…” he dejectedly steps off to the left, into the side door to his home.

A minute passes, and he returns with an ammo box that rattles as he walks. You start pulling out flowers, laying them on the small shelf, and Solomon’s shoulders sink a millimeter with each additional bulb. He counts out the caps by five-hundred at a time, then one hundred, pouring each pre-sectioned sachet into a paper bag.

“Two thousand, seven hundred caps,” he mutters, pained, as he hold the baggie out to you.

“Pleasure doing business with you!” you chime, grabbing the sack with white knuckles.

“Sure. Just. Just don’t come back with any more ferns for a few months, yeah?”

“Can do!” you practically skip with Piper in tow back to her house.

The radio buzzes as you section out your profit, bagging them up in a few sacks of two hundred, and the rest in fifties. You shove six piles of two hundred, and three bundles of fifties towards Piper.

“One thousand, three hundred, and fifty. That’s your cut, Miss Wright.”

“Ick, don’t call me miss,” she makes a face

“Pardon, Madam Reporter. Your pay,” you push it closer to her.

She grabs three of the larger sacks and leans back against the couch. You wait, staring up from your spot on the floor, but she doesn’t touch the rest.

“Piper?”

“Yeah, Blue?” she looks up, feigning nonchalance.

“That’s not even half your cut.”

“It’s enough.”

“What do you mean, you earned that—”

“It’s more than I’ve touched in a long time, Blue.”

“And you can touch the rest,” you push the bags to the edge of the coffee table.

“Sure,” she says, and picks up another large back to drop into her lap, and then sweeps the rest towards your side of the table, “—you bartered the deal, organized it.”

“But that’s…” you try to do the mental math but blank, “that’s like not even a 60-40 break, still.”

“So this,” she drops one of the heavier sacks into your lap, “—is your additional cut for finding the deal. And this,” she plucks another two-hundred off the table, “is for your organizing the trip and providing the majority of ammo. And then,” another bag added to your lap pile, “for your editing and creative direction guidance consultation. Lastly,” she knocks two of the three remaining bags of fifty caps into your lap, “for dinner and advice. With a slight deduction for the accounting services,” she smiles, dropping the last small bag onto the couch by her leg.

“Are you sure?” you ask, staring at your pool of money.

“If you don’t take it now, Nat’s liable to come by and help ease your burden.”

Your hands are shaking and you blink rapidly as you sweep the bags into your satchel.

“Thank you, Pipes.” your throat is tight.

“You’re gonna need it. I’m just printing papers, here. But you? You’re gearing up to take on the entire ‘Wealth. And noodles are getting expensive.”

“You good with a repeat on dinner?”

“I’ll let you buy tonight, Blue.” she muses and you laugh.

“I bought last night too, but sure.”

It’s nice. It’s almost… normal. Sitting on the couch slurping up your meal. Piper’s loud, pushy. Far more direct than Nora was, but there’s a moment. She’s smiling at Nat, and it’s familiar. A sororal glint to her eyes, a sisterly quirk to her smile as she talks to the girl, and there’s a wistfulness to it all that makes your throat clench. You try to tuck the growing bitterness away as you stretch.

“I’m gonna crash. Goodnight Wrights,” you flash a grin before stepping out into the cool autumn air.

You glance up at the stars above, and trudge back to your couch, focusing on the soft jazz coming from your wrist.

Chapter Text

You wake with a start; sweaty, cold, scared.

“I’d say good morning, but it doesn’t seem all that good,” you hear the robotic drawl from behind, but before you can quip back, your stomach somersaults and you rush to the toilet as acid springs upward.

It’s disgusting, but the porcelain bowl is cool against your cheek as you lean on your arm. The waves of nausea clear your mind of the nightmare that woke you.

“I was kidding before, but you really don’t look too hot, kid.” his voice is softer now as he leans on the door frame.

“Mhrrrrhhh,” a guttural response the only thing you can muster.

“Oh jeez,” Ellie peeks in through the doorway.

“El, you mind manning the fort while I haul our friend here over to the doc?”

“Go right on ahead, Nick,” she steps back, trying to avoid whatever germs you must be emanating.

“Caps,” you grumble, reaching for your bag as Nick hauls you up.

“Yeah, yeah, later, kid. The doc knows where he can find you for billing,” he guides you outside without stopping, and you lean on his shoulder, dragging your feet below.

Your head pounds as go, barely registering your own steps. Something’s wrong. Has the flu changed that much? You lift your arm to touch your forehead, but end up slapping yourself as you misjudge the weight of your bare arm. You hadn’t put your pipboy back on yet. Your hand slides across your face as you feel around. You’re definitely feverish. It’s been a while since a bug’s knocked you out, having gained some measure of an immune system after several years as a teacher, but this feels… different. Your mouth hurts. Nick sets you down on a bench as he speaks to a man in a lab coat.

That must be the doctor.

You’re not far from Publick Occurrences, here. What if Piper’s sick? Or Nat? You need to check, but when you try to stand, your vision fades. Hands catch you under your armpits and keep you from toppling. When your sight returns, a black-haired man is leaning in front of you. You sway as you try to turn.

“Nick?” you croak.

“Right here, kiddo,” his voice is so close. Oh. He’s the one holding you up.

“Piper,” you mumble as the doctor opens your lids, shining a light into your eyes and you pull back.

“What about her, kid?”

“Sick? Check Nat,” you try to turn again, but the man in front of you grabs your jaw and squeezes, and you open your mouth instinctually, trying to pull away.

“Definitely radiation poisoning,” he talks over you, “sit him down here, I’ll get an IV set up.”

“I don’t feel good,” you groan as you are brought up onto the concrete platform and laid upon another bench.

“I bet you don’t, Teddy. Sit tight, I’ll go check in with Piper,” he gives your shoulder a quick squeeze with his left hand.

“Stay still,” the dark-haired man commands, and then there’s a prick in your arm.

“Ow,” you moan, ceiling spinning.

“Don’t move. Just let the IV work.”

You watch him move away, but when you blink again, there’s someone else there. Bald? Goggles. Also in a lab coat.

“Not half-bad, you know,” he talks to himself, hovering over you, and your stomach lurches in another wave of nausea.

“Huh?”

“Your face. Hideous scar you’ve got going on, such a waste, but no matter. Easy enough to fix. It would be such a shame to not do something with a canvas like this. So fresh…” he’s muttering, and while you can’t see his eyes under the lenses, you don’t like how he’s looking at you.

“I don’t—”

“How’s he doing, Doc?” Nick’s voice nears, and the man scuttles away.

“It’s going to take some time for the radaway to take effect, but I think there might be an illness as well. His fever should have dropped already, but he’s still sweating. I won’t be able to diagnose him until after we drop his radiation level.” the dark-haired man speaks.

“Wanna go home,” you croak, throat raspy, “Mars soup and Jelly,” you whimper.

“Is he alright?”

“Hallucinations are uncommon with RadAway, usually restricted to severe cases. I didn’t think he was that irradiated, does he have any allergies?”

“Mars’ soup,” you groan, thirsty. Your mouth was a desert and with the nausea finally passing, you felt so hungry.

“You want some soup, bud?” the mechanical voice lulls.

“Please,” you whine.

“He allowed to eat while you’ve got the drip going?”

“He’ll be done in ten minutes, but hunger is a good sign that the radiation is dropping."

“Water?” you glance at the doctor, pleading.

“He can drink.” he responds, stepping away.

You manage to lean forward and lift the small cup of water up to your lips. It's a balm on your tongue, and succor down your throat. You lay back down and stare at the drip, willing it to run faster. When it is as empty as your stomach, the doctor picks up your arm and withdraws the needle, pressing a small square of gauze against the puncture. Your head no longer throbs, your mouth no longer burns, but you still feel warm and you are starving.

“Well? How are you feeling?” he asks brusquely. 

“Hungry.” you groan.

“Other than that.” he retorts.

“I don’t know, okay, I guess? Warm?” you're impatient.

“Hmm. Does it hurt if I press here?” his hands go to your abdomen and he pushes against you, and you squirm.

“No, ah, stop. It doesn’t hurt, but it felt weird.”

“And here?” he shift and presses again.

“Ah, weird but worse.”

“Here?”

“Ow, yeah that hurts,”

“I see. And how hungry are you?”

“I said I was fucking hungry—” you snap and exhale, “—sorry. Very, very, hungry, doctor.”

“Likely a parasite in the small intestine, then.”

“What?”

“Should pass quickly after treatment. Be grateful it’s not in your lower intestine. That can require manual removal for serious cases.”

“You’re joking, right?” you ask but the man's face shows no crack of humor.

“Take this vial. You need to drink this part way through a meal. You need at least a few bites of food in your stomach to start to soak up the medicine, and more food after to ensure you process it all. Something bready would be best, try to avoid too much liquid for the first two hours after the dose. If you can’t keep it down, come back. Otherwise it should pass with your next bowel. Are you regular?”

“Regular?” you blanch.

“Yes, how frequently do you pass stools?” oh, of course.

Fuck. That's going to come back, isn't it? How are you going to get supplies? You're staying at the agency, maybe Ellie's stored spares in the bathroom... later problem.

“Could be more often. Maybe once a day? Sometimes every other day.”

“And is that your typical frequency?”

“Close enough, yeah.”

“Well. If you haven’t passed a stool and the parasite by tomorrow evening, come back.”

“And what… what is it going to look like?” 

“You’ll know it when it passes. It’s exceedingly uncommon for more than one parasite to be present at a time, so once you pass something, you’ll be in the clear. Judging by your tenderness, it's decently sized, so more of a tape than string diameter. Likely gray. If it passes, it's dead, so off with the rest of the septic waste it goes.”

“Great. Can I go now?”

“Yes. That will be sixty caps.”

“I got it. Thanks Sun. Come on, kid,” Nick hands off the payment to the man, and helps guide you down from the stall.

“Are Piper and Nat okay?” you mumble, clutching your stomach, caught between hunger and disgust to think that something is inside of you.

“They’re fine, Ted. Little miss reporter told me about your deliveries. Not sure that juggling insect innards is the greatest health plan.”

“I am never eating fly.”

“Yeah, yeah. You say that but you look about hungry enough to, come on.”

You thought he would be leading you back to the office, but you wind up entering the Dugout, sitting back on the same couch as you had a few nights ago. A young woman walks up to you.

“Hello, welcome to the Dugout Inn, what can I get you?”

“Heya Scarlett,” Nick greets her and she smiles.

“Uh, what do you have?” you ask.

“We’re waiting on deliveries for a few supplies, but at the moment we’ve got most of the packaged goods. There’s salsbury steak, potato chips, instamash—”

“Do you have any bread?”

“No, sorry. The delays on supplies included wheat so we’re low on stock.” she gives an apologetic smile.

“I’ll take the mash, please,” you sigh.

As you wait, Nick wanders over to the bar to chat with Vadim. You tilt your head to try to listen in—desperate for a distraction from your hunger—impatient and curious.

“Valentine, please. This is not like Earl. Just take the key, take a look a-round.” the barkeep’s voice is low, but he sounds worried.

“Okay, Vad. I’ll check,” Nick shifts as he pockets something before stepping away to return to the couch.

“Something up?” you whisper to him as he sits.

“Nosy.” he coos.

“You’re the detective. Isn’t nosy like half of what you do?”

“Yeah, and discreetness is the other. Saw you perk up over here. So what’d you overhear?”

“Ah. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. It’s a good habit to get into to survive, but you’ve got to know when to hold it and when to fold it. And right now, hold it. You’ve got breakfast to deal with,” he says, and Scarlett appears with a bowl of re-hydrated potato puree. It smells fantastic, but it’s strongly yellow. A bit runny, but your first spoonful explains the color.

“Butter?” you moan.

“Damn, kid. You’re going to make me think I’m missing out on something, here.” Nick chuckles, “—now it’s no Martian soup, but I take it you like it?”

“Martian soup?” you ask between mouthfuls.

“Yeah, what you were babbling about earlier.”

“Oh! Mars’ soup,” your smile fades and you lower the bowl, “Martin, not Martian. That was… Mars was a dear friend. We lived together. Took care of each other. He didn’t bother cooking much, but when he did, it was superb. He made this unbelieveable chicken noodle soup whenever I got sick and… I was just missing it.”

“Ah,” his voice is gentle.

You push around the paste in the bowl, then remember the vial in your pocket. You twist it open and throw it back, trying to send the liquid as far down your throat as possible. The dregs of the bottle still wash over your tongue, metallic and bitter. You quickly return to your bowl and try to wash the taste out of your mouth. The rest of the meal is quick, and passes quietly.

“I also said Jelly,” you mutter as you walk back to the agency.

“I take it that’s not the food?”

“Technically. Jellybean. Named after a food, or a candy really.”

“So a person, not a planet, and a name not a spread?”

“It’s silly. Jellybean was my… Jelly was my teddy bear.”

“A teddy bear? Really?” he smirks at you and you brace yourself, defiant.

“Yes. A teddy bear. He was pink and blue and yellow and soft and I slept with a teddy bear as an adult,” you feel your cheeks warming but you stare at him daring a disparaging comment.

“Sounds like a good name for him. Just thought it was funny you had a teddy bear considering your name. Makes sense.”

“I’ll choose to take that as a compliment,” you squint at him.

“It was,” he smiles and opens the door for you.

You rearrange some of your pack, and change into some fresh clothes after cleaning up. Back in the office, you decide it’s a better time to ask about the conversation from earlier.

“So what’s wrong with ‘Earl’? Isn’t he one of the bartenders?”

“That’s right,” Nick replies, waving you over to his desk and laying a file out, “—But he hasn’t shown up for his past few shifts, and hasn’t been seen around town, either. Vadim tried knocking on his door, but he didn’t answer. It’s been a couple days and security hasn’t done a thing. Unofficial word is that the Institute snatched him, but that doesn’t make much sense. What would the big bad boogeyman have to do with a second-rate bartender?”

“Vadim sounded worried.”

“He’s the closest thing to a friend Earl has. The guy was a bit of a loner, but Vad searched through his locker at the bar and found a spare key.”

“Are you going there now?”

“Why? You wanna come with?”

“Can I?”

“Why not? I’ve already dragged you around half the town today, might as well keep it up. Let’s go,”

You’re worried a moment that maybe he doesn’t want you there. But he has kept you company, and he sounded worried about you this morning. You remember the brief hand on your shoulder at the clinic, and try to push down the negative mental chatter. Valentine doesn’t seem like the type who would be afraid to tell someone to buzz-off. Sarcastic, sure. But willingly stick around someone he didn’t like without extenuating circumstances? No.

Entering Earl’s home, you’re at least relieved that there isn’t a corpse. Truly a missing persons case. It’s relatively stocked, too. Some suitcases to hold plenty of clothes, a med-box with a few odds-and-ends, cooler with some stale food, jet inhalers and bottles of beer. It was clearly lived in, but not turned over. Routing through his desk, you find a caps stash. Another off in a trunk.

“It doesn’t seem like he up and went of his own accord. Plenty of goodies here he could have sold or taken with,” you call out.

“I agree. I don’t see any signs of a scuffle, either.”

“So he probably vanished from someplace else?”

“Seems like. See if you can find anything that points to a visit outside of the workplace,” he murmurs, shifting through papers on the desk.

The man had a decent set up: t.v., couch, plenty of room thanks to the loft sleeping situation. The t.v. stand was an long cabinet drawer, and it screeched as you pulled it open, wincing at the noise. Given how unused the drawer tracks sounded, it was unlikely that he opened it frequently, and that seemed to be confirmed by the dusty junk inside. You push the drawer back closed and turn, when you notice the slip of paper just to the side of the couch. It’s a receipt, and not an old one either.

“Hey, Val. I think I got something,” you hold out the receipt to him.

“The surgery center…”

“Who’s Crocker? Wasn’t the doctor named Sun?”

“There’s two of them. Crocker’s bald.”

“Wait, was he the creep in the goggles?”

“Huh?”

“Yeah, when you went to check on the Wrights, this other guy in a lab coat came over. Said some weird stuff.”

“What kind of weird?”

“Called the wee scar on my nose 'hideous', that it was 'a shame for a canvas so fresh', shit like that, but it happened so fast and I was more concerned with how uncomfortable I was physically to react. He was gone by the time you came back,”

“Never been a big fan of doctors, but I think the clinic deserves another visit.”

"We have to start eating some apples."

It’s a quick walk over back to the clinic, and Doctor Sun is still out, watching you as you approach.

“Back already? Good news, I would hope?”

“Oh, no news on that front yet, sorry.” 

“We’re here on a separate matter, Doc. Is the surgeon in?” Nick steps forward.

“Yes, I believe he is, he’s been busy in the surgery center.”

“You don’t say. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

“Doctor-patient confidentiality, Detective.” Sun replies stoically. 

“I can respect that, Doc, but we’ve got a receipt here for Earl Sterling. Would you be able to tell us anything about this?”

“Earl? Yes... he had planned for aesthetic surgery a while ago. Earl wasn’t a regular patient of mine, why don’t you check in with my colleague?”

You step over to the door and peek inside the interior room, but it’s empty.

“He’s not currently in surgery, is he?” Nick asks.

“No I don’t believe so, no one else has gone down other than him today.” he says, pointing to the hatch that leads to the surgery center below.

Nick takes that as permission to try the hatch, but as he pulls, the door doesn’t budge.

“Why’s it locked?” Nick asks, stepping back.

“I don’t know, knock. You two are the ones interested, not me.” Sun turns to his chemistry station, busying himself.

You lean down and rap on the door. A minute passes without response. You knock again, louder, and try to speak at the crack of the door.

“Excuse me, Doctor Crocker? It’s Theodore. I’d like to talk to you about some aesthetic surgery,” you call out.

A bit more time passes, without response, but you hear the clatter of something fall on the otherside.

“Doctor Sun, do you have a key to enter the surgery center?” you turn to him.

“Of course.” he responds blithely, still facing his chemistry station.

“Can we… use it?” you talk to his back.

“Why don’t you simply come back later? He’s clearly busy down there with something.” he replies merely glancing over his shoulder, unbothered.

“Why do you think we’re worried, doc? He’s busy. With something.” Nick juts in.

“I don’t appreciate your tone, Detective.” He returns to his station.

“Doctor Sun, I don’t want this to sound callous, but Earl Sterling has been missing for a few days. He wasn’t at home, no one has seen him around town, and the last information we have about him is that he got facial surgery, and the surgeon is refusing to respond. Can you see how we might be concerned?” you try to keep a neutral tone.

“Doctor Crocker is a highly accomplished surgeon. Perhaps Earl had a complete reconstruction done, and people have simply not recognized him,” he says tightly, but he places his beaker down.

“Please Doctor. Let us just make sure that your colleague is alright down there. I heard something fall, what if he is hurt?”

“I—it’s possible. He hasn’t come up for much longer than usual…” he taps his fingers on his thighs anxiously, wearing down.

“And there isn’t a patient down there, so no confidentiality is at risk.” you add.

“I suppose it couldn’t hurt…” he digs out the key from his pocket and steps up to unlock the hatch.

“Thank you Doctor Sun,” you tell him, and step onto the ladder below.

Stepping down, you are on rock, but the space is well lit at the center of the room, and as you turn from the ladder to look around, that lighting shines off of the blood that is splattered and pooled about. Blood isn’t necessarily unexpected, it is a surgery center… but the quantity is wrong. Further into the caved space where the light dims, there is a figure, hunched over, muttering. 

“Doctor Crocker?” you call out, regretting not bringing your pistol as the figure in the dim light stiffens and turns from the shadows.

“Doctor? Are you alright?” you call out again, and the dim light is on his face now, and his jaw is tense.

“We just wanna ask you a few questions, doc,” Nick says from behind you and you think you hear the click of his fingers on his revolver handle.

“Patients only down here, don’t you have any respect for privacy?” the doctor mumbles, turning away again and you want to see where his hands are.

“Doctor, we wanted to ask about one of your patients, a mister Earl Sterling?” you call out and the man stills again.

“I didn’t mean to do it. Doc Crocker is a brilliant surgeon,” he mutters, and turns around again.

“Didn’t mean to do what Doctor? Let’s talk, tell us what happened, we can help.”

“No one dies under Doc Crocker’s care! No one ever dies! They walk away happy, happy with my work.” he’s kicking at something on the ground and the sound of the impact is making you sweat.

“Take it easy Doc,” Nick calls out.

“Happy with their new face. Not screaming. Not bleeding out on the floor,” you hear an inhaler press, and Crocker breathes deeply.

“Earl. He just didn’t want to be happy. That must have been it.”

“Where is Earl, Doc?” Nick asks, taking a step to your side.

“Doc Crocker never makes mistakes, no, no it was Earl who was wrong. Bad patient. Bad patients bleed all over the floor because they want to screw up their surgeon’s life!” he’s turned to face you again, and he’s trembling, voice raising with each word.

“It sounds like there was an accident, Doctor, is that right? You were performing surgery, and Earl didn’t make it?” you raise your hands, trying to settle him.

“Accident! Yes. Accidents happen… I might have had just a bit of Jet before operating. So I nipped a few arteries I shouldn’t have? Who hasn’t?” the man sways and takes a step to the side, unbalanced, and you can see what he was standing over now.

“Is that Earl?” you whisper, eyes wide at the small pile of limbs on the dirt floor.

“He won’t stop bleeding… but I’m a problem solver, see? I knew if Earl ‘disappeared’ everyone would just think the Institute took him,” Crocker twitches, and reaches towards his waist.

“No quick movements, doc.” Nick calls out, stepping to the side and aiming at him, and the man pauses.

“No one can find out,” he says, staring at you, “As long as there’s no bodies, everyone just assumes,”

“Where is the rest of Earl, Doctor?” you pale.

“Too big. Couldn’t hide all of him in the butcher’s trash in one go. But who was going to notice an extra box of rotten meat every now and then? No one looks too closely, but metal parts? How to get rid of metal parts? People are going to notice,” he glances at Nick.

“People have already noticed, Doctor. You made a mistake. You can still do the right thing, just think this through,” you plead and his shoulders lower just a fraction.

“I… I did it, didn’t I? I killed a man. Oh god. There’s so much blood. So much blood all over me!” he sways, patting at his face, and his coat shifts and you see a glint and leather on the side of his belt; he's armed.

“Malpractice is different than murder, doctor, a trial can sort this out—” you need to calm him down.

“Sort out… yes,” he exhales, calming slightly, “Yes. Doctor Crocker can correct anything,” he slows.

“That’s right doc, let’s go back upstairs,"

“You’re… you’re right.” his voice settles and you release some of the air you’ve been holding, “—Only one thing’s going to make this all better.”

He moves with surprising speed, his arm jerking out to the table. Nick shouts, raising his pitol, but before he can shoot, Crocker grabs a syringe and stabs it into his own neck, injecting it in one fell swoop. Nick rushes forward, and grabs the syringe from his hands, catching the man as his legs give out. He pulls the gun away, out of reach. 

“I can fix… anything,” he mumbles, falling limp.

“DOCTOR SUN! COME DOWN,” you clamber towards the ladder, “CROCKER DRUGGED HIMSELF, HELP!”

It’s a blur of movement as you rush to the body and try to take a pulse. There is none.

“Nick, lay him down, on his back!” you drag him away and kneel next to him.

“Kid,” he whispers, but Sun is there now.

“What the hell is going on?!” he shouts, panicked.

“He injected himself, I don’t know what that is! What do we do?”

“Oh god,” he mutters.

“Sun!” you shout but he doesn’t reply.

No pulse. Chest still. Whatever he injected its in him now, no way to stop something that direct, can't tourniquet the neck. If it was poison, Sun needs to figure out an antidote. But it has to be at least something paralytic. No pulse, no blood flow, brain death, so chest compressions. You can do that. You lace your hands and shove down onto his chest.

No noise, not hard enough.

You shove down harder, and there is a crack as you break his sternum. Your fingers ache as you pump, and you’re only a few compressions in but you’re panting already. Push, get a pulse. He needs a pulse or he's dead.

“Kid,” Nick is above you, hand on your shoulder, “—kid. That’s enough,”

“Sun!” you bark, not stopping.

“It won't help,” you hear the man mumble and you turn to look at him, and you know.

You sit back onto your heels, and feel a wave of numbness.

“Doc, why don’t you go call security.”

You hear feet on the metal ladder rungs, and the hatch opens and slams closed, and you flinch at the noise.

“Come on, kid. You don’t have to be down here any longer.”

Crocker lies still, and his dark goggles hide his eyes. You shift, and lean closer, and lift those goggles slightly. You shimmy your fingers below the lenses, and drag his eyelids closed, letting the goggles snap back down. You push off of your knees, and stand. The rungs ring out at you climb, and you push open the hatch. Nick climbs up, and the hatch is closed softly behind you.

Security guards are rushing towards the clinic. In the commotion, Piper approaches.

“What’s going on, Nicky?”

“Take Theo to my office, have Ellie keep him company.”

“What happened—”

“Piper. After.”

“Sorry. C’mon Blue,” her hand around your arm pulls you away as Nick turns to talk with a guard, and another heads down the ladder.

You don’t speak as she guides you. The agency couch is below you, and you feel tired and so painfully awake. Ellie whispers with Piper in the doorway, then she walks by and you feel fabric on your shoulders. You pull the blanket around you.

A mug appears on the table, steamy. You reach out and hold the ceramic, and it’s hot. Your skin tingles, and your palms burn, but you just hold it tighter. You didn’t pull the trigger this time, but another person has died in front of you in this city in mere days. Death is always in your proximity. Preston should arrive tomorrow. You’re ready to get out of the city. Your stomach rumbles, hungry, but you push it down.

Time passes, and Nick returns. He pats your shoulder. Eventually, you can no longer sit still, and you grab your affairs and start unpacking and repacking, desperate for a distraction until your innards contract and you cramp up. Your trip to the bathroom is unpleasant, but the medicine worked. The horrors from the clinic dull the feeling of embarrassment as you pass the tapeworm. You scrub your hands until it aches, forcing yourself to stop before you break skin.

“You need to eat, kid.”

“Not hungry.” your voice is dull, flat.

“Doubt it.”

“I don’t want to eat,” you mumble.

“Come on, you need to have something.”

“I had noodles and then shot down a man in the market. The Dugout had one of their employees killed and I don’t. I don’t want to deal with going there. And the butcher’s? Where Crocker was dumping pieces of Earl? What other options are there, Val? Stale stag jerky from my pack? I’d rather go to bed hungry tonight, okay?” you curl up onto the couch.

“You liked the mash from earlier, yeah?”

“I don’t want to go outside,” you reply, turning towards the back of the couch.

“Alright.” Nick stands and walks further in to talk with Ellie, then steps out, leaving you to stare into the fabric and imagine patterns, begging for tiredness to come.

Eventually, the front door opens and shuts once more, and then the smell of butter hits you.

“Soup’s on,” Nick calls out, dumping containers onto the coffee table, and you hear Ellie scurry towards the couch.

“Budge up,” he pokes you and you turn over and sit up, Ellie taking a seat on the other half of the sofa.

There is a bowl of insta-mash, some meat dish, and a tin of peas, with a few smaller bowls and mismatched utensils scattered around by Ellie.

“How much did this cost?” you ask, glancing at the spread.

“Your part of the case fee covered it,” he waves you off, “now eat up so your money doesn’t go to waste.”

On cue, your stomach rumbles, and you cave. You grab a bowl and ladle in a mixture of a bit of it all, going in for thirds before you start to finally feel sated. You and Ellie manage to clear each dish, and you lean back, stuffed.

“Thanks for dinner, Theo,” Ellie smiles, “I’m going to turn in for the night.”

“Night, El,” you call out as she heads up the stairs and through to the room.

“I got something else with your part of the case fee, kid.”

“I’m full, Val, I hope it can keep for later,” you tilt your head back to look at him.

“Well, it’s no multicolored candy, but it’s the best the surplus has to offer. Had to wait until Percy took over for the evening seeing as Myrna won’t sell to me directly.”

He held out a stuffed teddy bear, one of it’s arms limp, and an eye button missing.

“Toast,” you whisper looking at the tan and beige toy, a singed ear.

“It’s not that bad, he’s got all his pieces... mostly,” he lowers it slightly, but you smile.

“No, that’s his name. Toast.”

“You got a rule about food names or something?”

“Consider it a quirk of mine,” you smile and reach out for the toy, pulling it in and hugging it, “thank you, Nick.”

“Don’t mention it. I figured you could use a little comfort.”

“Really. Thank you,” you feel your eyes watering and curl around the bear.

“I’ll be in the office back there, alright? And El is just upstairs, you hear?”

“Yeah.”

“Why don’t you try to get some sleep.”

“Okay. Goodnight, Nick.”

“Goodnight, Teddy and teddy.” you huff a laugh, and wipe the wetness from your face before heading off to the bathroom.

Back on the couch, you cradle the bear against your chest, and let the night take you.

Chapter Text

You lean over the body, white lab coat dusty and stained, and pull the goggles off of the face. Your Uncle stares up blindly, cataract-dull and rotting, and his skin fades. In his breathlessness, he moves, eyes turning to look at you, through you, and you jump away, falling backwards, backwards, landing with a thud into a coffin.

No.

The coffin flickers, and then it is the decontamination pod again, sealing shut over you.

NO!

You shove forward, pushing the door open, falling out onto the dirt floor.

Not there, not there.

But you can hear the release of a pod door opening, and the dirt turns to concrete under your palms, and you can’t stop as you look up, and she’s there, a statue of your sister, tilting forward, falling, and she crashes, shattering against the ground—

You wake with a gasp, heart racing. Your pipboy reads five in the morning. That has to be good enough. Even if you somehow managed to fall back asleep, you fear returning to the same nightmare. You sigh and take out your green notebook.

Preston should arrive today, and he’ll inform you about how many new settlers there are. I’ve still got nearly two thousand caps, and they’re going to need help until they can build up the alley to produce their own. I can set out a portion for them and hand it off to Preston… And Piper had mentioned the work it took financing the paper. She won’t take more of my money, but maybe I can do something that helps her indirectly… Travis runs ads, said he wanted to be a part of ‘the good fight’… And then I ought to stock up on ammunition. The silenced pistol was useful, maybe Arturo has a suppressed sniper. That’s likely to cost a good fortune. Then bulk up the first aid kit. After the shitshow of yesterday, perhaps Sun will be a bit more charitable on prices. And I need to stock up on dry rations and water…

You scribble out a bit of math, budgeting what you have. The vendors don’t set up for another… two hours still. You sigh, and fish out the remains of your pack jerky. You’re chewing it slowly as you try to clean your guns when Nick joins.

“Hey,” you greet, switching your grip on your pistol.

“You know what you’re doing there, bucko?” he asks, pulling the chair closer to the coffee table where you’ve spread out.

“Not terribly. Sturg and Codsworth tried to explain it all to me, but I only cleaned a regular 10mm. Not sure if the suppressor changes it much, or if it’s a different model or something.”

“No, that’s a standard 10 still. The attachment is here,” he points it out, and starts guiding you on how to disassemble and clean the piece, going slow as you follow.

“So like this?” you ask as you’re finishing up.

“Exactly. Quick learner,” he praises and you smile softly.

“Do you also happen to know much about laser weaponry?” you glance over at your rifle.

“Sorry, more of a classics guy.” 

You sigh. At least the laser rifle is in working order, the boys back at the hill had tinkered with it, so it should be good for a while without worry.

“Can’t fault style. Market opens at eight, yeah?”

“Around then. Vendors with little ones tend to start on time, but some of the others have more of a rolling window.”

“I’m going to check in with the weapons dealer, see if he’s got a silenced sniper.”

“See if Arturo’s got spare parts. The guy’s a whiz with mods, and he’ll let you use that workbench for free. It’ll be cheaper to buy something basic and kit it out.”

“Yeah?”

“Plus, gun business is pretty slow in the morning, so I bet you could ask for some pointers on how to piece it together, too.”

“Thanks, I'll do that.”

You head into the market a few minutes before the hour, waiting outside of Commonwealth Weaponry, when you see the door open. Arturo steps out, propping the door as a young girl drags her feet, following.

“Apúratei, mi chiquita, you’re going to be late.”

“Ugh, we aren’t even doing anything today, it’s just review,” the girl whines.

“Review is important, you need to remember what you learn. Now, I don’t want to see you and your little güey running around here before school’s out,”

“Whatever,” she mutters.

“¿Qué dijiste?” his voice is stern, but the girl starts jogging off.

“¡Te veo! Besos,” she calls out behind her as she leaves.

“¿Neta? Aiiiie,” Arturo pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales.

“Your hija giving you trouble?” You smile, and he jerks his head up.

“Espera. ¿Usted habla Español?”

“Ah, yo no lo hablo, lo siento. I can understand bits of it, but I never really learned it proper.” he loosens up even though you stumble through your response.

“Still, gringo, not bad,” he leans towards you, resting his elbows on the counter, “—And hey, thanks for taking care of that madman the other day. I guess it’s madmen now. You in need of new protection while you’re cleaning up the city?”

“Actually, I am.”

“Well you’ve come to the right place. Quality hand-tooled goods. What are you looking for?”

“I’d like to know if you have a sniper rifle, and I’d like a suppressor to put on it as well.”

“I have options. How much are you looking to invest? We’ve got pipe, your standard .305, or if you have the funds and the need, .50 cal to really take out the nasties.”

“Something standard,” you reply, and he starts pulling out rifles.

“Alright, here are my options for the .305, and I think I’ve got some spare mods tucked away…”

. . .

You finish upgrading your new sniper, and Arturo gives you the thumbs up on his once-over to confirm it’s in working order. You’ve dropped more than you intended to, but you’re loaded on ammo and even got a backup silenced pistol to hand over to Nick when you head out. Arturo even threw in a set of military fatigues for the large purchase.

“Muchas gracias, Arturo.”

“A la orden, my friend. You come back soon, you hear? Te cuidas.”

“Hasta pronto.” you give him a nod, hands full as you carry your gear back to the agency.

After a brief deposit and under-armor clothing swap, your next stop is the clinic. Doctor Sun looks worse for wear, his hair going greasy, and his face rapidly shuffles through a few brief expressions before he greets you simply.

“Morning, Doctor Sun. How… how are you holding up?” you ask, sharing in his sense of exhaustion.

“I’m not sure how to answer that. But I don’t suppose it would be fair to blame you for any of that,” he jerks his head towards the hatch-door, “—Actually. I should thank you.”

“There’s no need,” you try to sweep it under the rug.

“There is. I..." his shoulders fall, "I should have paid more attention. He was asking for more and more supplies, claiming he had patients that didn’t want their names on the schedule, and I simply believed him because it was easier. Had I just been more aware maybe Earl wouldn’t...”

“Maybe’s are a nasty game, Doc. Maybe if I had said the right words, Crocker would still be alive, too.”

“I don’t know if he would deserve to. But you tried. You tried to save him even after all that. Tried a hell of a lot harder than I did,” you roll your shoulder as he speaks, sore.

“He did a bad thing. But I didn't know him, so I can't judge who he was in totality. But you knew him. Worked with him. So whoever he was, I am sorry for your loss.”

“That’s… kind of you. Ahem. What has brought you here this time?”

“Supplies, thankfully. The medicine seems to have run its course, but I need to stock up for a trip. Not sure where it will lead me, so I’m looking to cover all my bases.”

“A full medical kit, spare stimpaks. Assuredly a course of antibiotics for the next time you manage to catch something,” he mutters to himself as he sorts through his drawers, pulling out goods.

“I can only budget two hundred caps on this, doc,” you tell him as he builds a pile on his workbench.

“That will do,” he replies, but adds a few more stims on top before organizing them all into a small medical pouch, “—here you are.”

He holds out the pouch, and you decide to not look a gift horse in the mouth, and fish out his payment—thanking him as you store the supplies and turn towards outfield. Sheng must still be sleeping as he isn’t out yet, so you turn to the radio station first, and knock.

“Oh! G-good morning?” Travis stares at you in confusion.

“Hey Trav, could I come in? I’ve got a business proposition for you…”

. . .

As you close the door of the detective agency’s front door, you lay your freshly purchased bottles of water down next to your new-to-you backpack. It’s nearing ten a.m. as you finish, trying to strike a balance somewhere between lightweight and over-prepared. You shove a sachet of a hundred caps into the backpack in case of an emergency while traveling, and pocket a larger sack of two hundred to pass onto Preston for funding the alley. The remaining four-hundred-odd caps go into your old duffel bag along with any spare supplies and junk to leave in the care of Ellie.

“Hey, Theo, you should head over to the gate. Preston’s just sent a message that he’s bringing Dogmeat over, he should be here in twenty minutes.”

“Thanks, El. Do you mind if I leave this here, or would you rather I store it in Kellogg’s old place?” you gesture to the bag.

“Here’s fine, Theo. I can move it upstairs later.”

“Thanks. Hey Val!” you shout out, and the man appears from his office, “—Showtime.”

You aren’t lingering long; Preston comes jogging up after ten minutes of downtime, Dogmeat at his heels trotting along. You step towards him as Nick stays back, waiting inside the shade of the entrance.

“General,” he begins to greet, but you pull him into a hug.

“Lieutenant. Glad to see you’re alright.” you release him and he smiles slightly, and you drop down to greet Dogmeat.

“The feeling’s mutual,” he replies to you.

“Report, how are things?” you look up while petting the dog.

“Sanctuary is good, there was a worry for a minute with an influx of settlers joining, but the new people brought more supplies and happily bought ASAMs to start building. We had to add another two generators, and we’ve got a large scale purifier under construction off the bridge.”

“That’s good to hear. How are the people?” you scratch behind the dog’s ears.

“Fair. We’ve got some interesting new faces, but people are getting along, or staying out of the way if they don’t. We’ve got some repair stations to add to scrapping. A trader named Carla stopped by, so word is getting out, and we’re starting to actually make some caps instead of just spending them, though what you sent me out with was used up with getting Starlight established.”

“And what about Sturges? Codsworth?” you stand, brushing off your fatigues.

“Good. Actually, I hope it’s alright that I've named Sturges a Sergeant. Most settlers out there support the minutemen now, but they aren’t all looking to be enlisted, just volunteers. Since he was willing, I thought it would be best to have an official face there while upper leadership was away.”

“Sergeant Sturges. It’s got a certain ring to it,” you admit.

“Oh, he agrees,” Preston chuckles.

“And Codsy?”

“Is doing fine. Asked me for updates on your mission but… well, I let him know that things were still ongoing.”

“Yeah. Thank you. You mentioned Starlight?”

“Yes, we’ve been sending overflow settlers that way, and it’s being industrialized. There’s better dirt at Sanctuary, so we’ve focused more of the agricultural efforts with the greenhouses there, and we’re putting the industrial plots to the test at the drive-in. With Drumlin Diner just nearby, any spare caps we can pull from Sanctuary are used for to trading to build up both settlements. Anyone not focused on scrapping, farming, or building, has been given drills and patrols.”

“How many people are we talking about?”

“Officially in our ranks, four at Sanctuary, and nine at Starlight,”

“Thirteen enlisted?” you lean closer, brows rising.

“And the remainder of our able settlers have agreed to provide any volunteer support they can.”

“How many more is that?”

“Another six, not including the four people who’ve agreed to come down to the Alley here.”

“Christ,” you exhale, flabbergasted.

“There also seem to be people moving into Concord, though I haven’t had the chance to meet the locals. I’d suggest heading out that way when you can and checking in with Evans. I know you two are working together on the ASAM front, but I don’t think he’s interested in the Minuteman side of things outside of the boost in his sales,” Preston sounds a touch judgmental on the topic.

“He’s allowed to not want a part of that, his hands are full enough with those machines it seems. And it sounds like we’ve got enough hands and heads to juggle around in the meantime.”

“So what did you need Dogmeat for?” he asks, nodding down to the mutt.

“Tracking a lead.”

“Will we be heading out?” he glances at your pack.

“Actually, Pres, I’ll be going with Valentine,” you gesture for him to follow as you walk back towards the stadium.

“Detective, good to see you again.” Preston extends his hand.

“Pleasure’s mine, Garvey,” Nick returns the shake, “Sounds like you’re doing the Commonwealth proud out there.”

“Just trying to do my best.” he humbly replies.

“I’d say you’re succeeding.” Nick adds, and Preston seems to beam.

“Nick and I are going to follow Dogmeat once he scents the trail. Oh, here,” you pull out the sack of two hundred caps, “—Ellie got your radio message from Hangman’s Alley, but I’m sure they could use some help until they get off the ground. It’s not a spacious area, but it’s defensible. I don’t know how long the trail will be or what is going to be at the end of it… So once you feel like they’ve got it handled at Hangman’s, you can head back to Starlight and keep doing what you’re doing there.” he is slow to take your money, but accepts the donation.

“Is there anything else I can do to assist, General?” it isn’t a questioning of your orders, but you sense a hint of concern, nonetheless.

“Not that I’m aware of. Keep training and bringing people in. If we can stabilize and continue growing, maybe we’ll have the numbers for patrols between settlements, get a supply chain formalized. But until you can find a candidate to train and promote to stay stationed at Starlight, I think it’s best that you be present there. I want someone I can trust at each of our settlements.”

While having more people to track and potentially take down Kellogg might be preferrable, you don’t know where the trail will lead, and Preston would be another mouth to feed along the way. Keeping him focused on the Minutemen while you can’t would be more prudent.

“Before you head back to the alley, come with me to see Piper,” you tell him, walking into the city.

“Uh, sure?” you hear his footsteps following uncertainly.

“Any reason you want to lead the lad into the lion’s den, kid?” Valentine sidles up to you, loud enough to be overheard by Preston as you walk down the ramp.

“You can stay outside if you so desire, Val.”

“And miss a show?” he steps out of your way as you know on the door.

“Piper?” you call, entering.

“Blue! Oh, and your little lieutenant, too. To what do I owe the pleasure?” she smiles mischievously.

“Dogmeat, go say hi to Nat,” you wave the dog inside, “—I figure you would like to stay up to date on what’s been going on outside the city, and Lieutenant Garvey has a lot of news. I would like for him to report to you with that information before getting back to Hangman’s Alley.”

“A gift of knowledge, for little old me?” She pulls out a notepad, plopping down on the couch, “And what have I done to earn such a reward?”

“Think of it more of a reimbursement for some work of your own. I stopped by to see Travis earlier—”

“Ugh, don’t tell me you have the patience of a saint along with everything else. I don't know how you can deal with him,” she groans.

“You know they say exposure therapy has great results…” you trail off.

“What did you do, Blue?” she squints at you.

“Hey, he’s not so bad, Pipes.” you raise your hands, trying to appease her.

“The guy looks like he’s going to piss himself or pass out whenever I’m near!” she snorts.

“As if you don’t like scaring the kid,” Nick juts in.

“A prank or two never hurt anybody,” she picks at her nails, smirking.

“Look, you’re both running businesses that serve your city, and you both want to do the right thing. You’ve heard him try to share updates on things. He could use a little help. I paid him two hundred caps as an investment to announce info you give him. Think of it like another ad-read. I’m letting you choose what flavor that takes; if you want to focus on tips, events, or headlines. But he’s paid, and I want you to work with him on this. And be nice.”

“I’m plenty nice,” she rolls her eyes, “—but I guess I can see the benefit.”

“Thank you. Pres, why don’t you share with Pipes what you told me, answer any questions she’s got. And Pipes, the same to you. We’re trying to build communities out there, and you’ve seen what makes and breaks them first hand. Your opinions and advice could do us a lot of good. And maybe give it a go practicing what you preach afterwards with Trav?”

“As you say, chief.” she gives a dopey, half-hearted salute.

“Dogmeat, time to go, buddy.” you call, and claws come clacking closer.

“Good luck out there, General.” Preston nods at you.

“Back atcha,” you give a wave to the room and exit.

The walk up to Kellogg’s house has your stomach landing complex routines of gymnastics. This has to work. Please let this work. Nick unlocks the door and once more, you enter. You wave Dogmeat inside, and he pads around, sniffing heavily as he wanders. Once he’s sniffed the duffel bag, you grab it and sort the goods into your backpack, folding the bag up for spare storage. You pick up the cigars and hold them out for Dogmeat to focus on.

“Can you find him, boy? Follow? Track?” the dog sniffs and sniffs, tail still.

“Fetch?” you try and he looks up into your eyes and barks.

“Yeah? Go get ‘em boy,” you open the door, and Dogmeat starts to trot towards the gate.

Nick locks the house, and jogs to catch up. You’re out of the city, and Dogmeat runs ahead, pausing to wait for you to trail along, southbound. You scan as you go, hand hovering over your holster. Dogmeat turns slightly, and you see a pond. You swap over to your rifle. Ponds mean skeeters, flies, lurks. It remains quiet as you scan, the dog waiting for you to advance. Soon enough you follow him to a small chair, finding another San Fransico Sunlights cigar. It’s small, but it’s hope.

Dogmeat sniffs again, and starts to veer northwest. Soon enough, you’re back on the railroad tracks that you’d taken before to the marsh, but you detour to cross over the roadway, sniping off two feral dogs from above before walking down the concrete stairs. There are rotting corpses here, and your eyes water as you pass, holding your breath, but Dogmeat barks and runs up to a bloodied rag caught on the railing. You yank it from the metal, and once you're up the second set of stairs and back on open ground, Dogmeat sniffs at the rag, continuing onwards.

You’ve been going for a while now, and you got a late start. You might have two hours left of daylight before you’ll need to camp, but your thoughts are interrupted when Dogmeat stops, hackles rising. You pull out your rifle, and note movement off near the trees.

“Dogmeat, shh, come,” you whisper, begging for the dog to return.

He’s barring his teeth while he inches backwards, but it’s too late. A roar, and a mangy bear comes barreling forward. You swing your sniper up, and shoot, missing once, and the beast gains ground, rushing towards Dogmeat.

Crack, you see fur ripple as bullets connects, your one to Nick’s many as he fires his pistol. Dogmeat rushes forward, dodging the bear’s swipe, and it spins to snap at him. You throw down your rifle, it’s too slow and the beast is too close, and rip your pistol from the holster. You pour half a clip into the bear before it manages to land a blow on the dog, swatting him to the side with a yelp.

“NO!” you scream, terror and heartbreak, and the noise draws the bear’s attention and it begins to move again.

“HEY!” Nick shouts as he fires, trying to split it’s attention, “OVER HERE! HEY!”

But he detective’s noises draw no interest. It staggers from another bullet to the skull before it can leap on you, giving you the time to dodge as it tries to snap. You stumble, and fall onto the ground, rolling over with your pack to face the bear and continue shooting, unloading the remainder of your clip into its chest and head. As your trigger clicks, empty, you shuck your bag off, and pull out the medicine kit, scrambling over to where Dogmeat landed. He’s wet with red, shuddering breaths and sickening whimpers. But he’s alive. He’s flesh and blood, like you, so a stimpak should help him, too, right?

You line up a stim to the deepest of the gashes and push, push, push it in until it clicks and the syringe injects. You grab another and inject it into Dogmeat’s neck.

“You’re okay, boy, it’s okay,” your voice trembles just as badly as your hands do as you grab the gauze and the alcohol, pressing against him.

You apologize repeatedly as you try to treat his wounds. There’s so much blood. You’re reaching for a third stimpak when Nick’s hand stops you.

“Wait. I think two is enough for him. Don’t want him to O.D.”

“Can he? Can we? On stims? And I can’t just give him med-x for the pain, I don’t know dosing for a dog, it’s gotta be so much less, right?” you’re starting to hyperventilate, you need to fix this but you aren’t sure how.

“He’s alright, kid, look. The bleeding’s stopped,” he pulls off a piece of gauze on the shallower slash, and below is a thin layer of pink skin.

The dog is whimpering, but he is breathing more steadily. He should be stabilizing. Focus. What are your problems now. Are you safe? The bear is dead. Good. Shelter? Dogmeat might be able to move, but he shouldn’t go far. You’re going to have to camp for the night, and nearby to give him time to recover. A bit further down the tracks, you can see a shack. That could do. Has to be better than out in the open, but you can’t move yet. Give Dogmeat a bit more time for the wounds to seal before you try to carry him that way.

“Nick,” you look up towards him.

“Yeah, I see it. Are you good here while I scout it out?”

“Yeah.” You stand, and step back over to where you dropped your rifle to bring it and your bag closer to the dog as Nick walks ahead.

You track him through the scope, but he makes it to the building and through the door without interruption. He enters, and your pulse quickens when you can no longer see what’s happening, but after a few agonizing minutes, he returns and waves an all-clear. You exhale and lower your rifle. As Nick nears, you wipe your bloody hands on the dirt and stand.

“Should I carry him, or your gear?” Nick asks.

“You’ll likely be more stable as you walk,” you swing your pack onto your back and reload your rifle as Nick bends down and gently scoops up the dog.

“Sorry, bud,” he whispers as Dogmeat yelps.

It’s a short walk over. You hold open the door while Nick brings Dogmeat inside.

“The stairs lead down, there’s a tunnel with a little camping set-up,” Nick juts his chin forward and you lead the way.

You hold the the can chimes out of the way, and you spot an abandoned sleeping bag at the end of the utility tunnel, a fire pit out in the connected street tunnel. This will be good enough. You gesture for Nick to lay Dogmeat down on the bag. You sling down your pack, and start to set up camp as Nick steps into the street tunnel, scanning.

“Clear out there, yeah, Nicky?” you call out as he walks a bit further.

“Yeah. I think we’re on the right track, too.”

You join him outside and see the chair. An ashtray, a beer, and another Californian cigar.

“Can you get a fire going?” You ask him.

“Yeah,”

“I’m going to head back to that bear and try to cut out some meat.”

“You good solo?”

“Yeah. It’s not far. I’ve got my guns and lungs.”

“Scream or shout, I’ll come running.”

You return to your pack and approach the dog, giving him a slight pat on the head before pulling out your canteen, a bowl, tarp, and soap. You fill the bowl with some water and place it near Dogmeat, lifting his head up slightly so he can lap a few mouthfuls up. You wash your hands next, and then head out with the tarp and your weapons.

You’re not well-versed on preparing meat, but you can understand the basics. Avoid organs. Most of the gunfire had been centered toward the bear’s head and chest, but it had massive haunches, so thigh meat it would be. You lay out the tarp, and unsheathe your combat knife. The fur is disgusting, but you slice in and are able to cut away the skin from muscle easily enough. It’s a shame to waste this much food, but with a pile of at least 10 pounds worth of meat, if Nick doesn’t mind tending to a fire overnight, you can renew your pack jerky supplies. You wrap the tarp up and haul the meat back to camp. You cut off some slices for Dogmeat and add them to his bowl, and he is able to shift and eat them on his own. Nick has some skewers roasting for you by the time you’ve cleaned up again.

“Do you mind making jerky while I sleep?” you ask between mouthfuls of roast bear.

“Would you believe it’s my favorite hobby?”

“No. That’s gotta go to paper-mâché or something. But thank you.”

“I don’t need the shut-eye. You want me to go cut off some more meat while you eat?”

“If you don’t mind. You might have to carry some of it tomorrow if you do, but I have a duffle folded up in my pack if you don't want loose jerky pockets. So if you don’t mind, I’d hate to waste it.”

“I’ll be back,” he grabs the bloodied tarp and knife.

Once he returns, you wander a bit aways to piss, then ready yourself for bed. You have two sleeping bags of your own, but the second will have to serve as padding and floor cover tonight. You’ll have to invest in a second tarp. You hadn’t planned for hunting and processing meat when you were packing. An oversight. The concrete was cold, but you asked Nick to swap out a few of the cinderblocks around the fire’s edge to bring into the tunnel for some ambient heating. Dogmeat was asleep, exhausted by the healing process, and you watched his chest rise and fall. You fall asleep clutching your teddy and listening to the alternating crackles of fire and huffs of dogs-breath.

Chapter Text

You wake to fur tickling your face as you breathe. Dogmeat has moved in the night to lay snuggled up against you. As you lift your head, blinking in the soft daylight, the dog rustles and stands up to look down at you.

“Heya, buddy. You feeling better?” you ask as you sit up.

The dog barks happily, and you reach out to touch him. After a brief pet, you run your hands along his side, and though he leans away initially, your cursory check yields neither wet blood nor yelp. Though his fur is worse for wear, the stimpaks seemed to have worked splendidly. You refill his water bowl and begin to pack up. You pull out the spare duffel bag for Nick to use, and shove Toast into the backpack last, his little head peeking out of the top. It’s foolhardily optimistic, but you want the teddy readily accessible if you do find Shaun at the end of this trail. You might not be able to spare your nephew from watching a man get murdered once you get Kellogg in firing range, but at least you can try to comfort him. You’d give up making that man suffer if it meant getting Shaun away from him quicker. Besides. You can always desecrate the corpse a little once Shaun is out of there.

You find Nick around the now extinguished fire pit, smoking along with the embers.

“Morning,” you call out and he waves in response.

Dogmeat gets fed a piece of bear jerky—taking one for yourself—and once the others are packed away, the hunt can continue. The dog sniffs at the cigars, around the chair and the beer bottle, before picking up the scent and continuing west. You’ve only managed a hundred yards of distance from the campsite when you hear voices further into the thicket, and drop to pull out your rifle. It’s a small group, three. Two people standing, arguing? And a man kneeling on the ground. He’s got his arms up, and you can just make out some of the words as you inch closer.

“Please, I’ll go,” the kneeling man begs.

“And send them after us, next?” the woman shouts at him.

“No, I’m running from them, Angie, I swear—”

“You LIED to us!” the other standing figure hollers.

“Fred, please, I was scared, you have to believe me—”

“Shut it, synth!” Angie shouts.

It’s escalating, and while you aren’t sure what’s really going on, someone is going to get hurt, and soon. Dogmeat barks, and the woman with the gun turns towards your direction.

“Who’s there?” she’s even more on edge, and she snaps at the kneeling man, “some of your Institute buddies already?”

Fuck. Guess you’re in this now, at any rate.

“Travelers, just trying to pass through,” you stow your gun and raise your hands, standing.

“Another synth? I knew it—” Fred reaches for his gun but you call out to him before he pulls it.

“This is Diamond City’s Detective Nick Valentine. He is a synth, but he is helping me track down my nephew, we don’t mean you any harm and we are not with the Institute.”

“Sure,” Angie snarls, but she returns her gun towards the kneeling man, “you come too close and we’re going to shoot. This is our business, here.”

“Please,” the man on the ground begs, “I don’t want to die,”

“Shut it,” Fred barks at him.

“Look, I don’t know what’s happening here, but what I see is an unarmed man being held at gunpoint, begging for his life. Do you mind explaining what that’s about?” you try to keep cordial even as your heart rate spikes.

“He ain’t a man, he’s a synth. Told us so this morning.” Fred spits.

“Been lying to us for weeks,” Angie adds.

“Lying? Didn’t he just admit it to you?” you ask.

“Doesn’t change the fact he ain’t a person. Spyin' on us and sending word back to wherever he was put together,” Fred sneers.

“No, I haven’t, I told you, I escaped. I’m not with the Institute,” the man is crying, his hands trembling as he explains.

“Bullshit, they made you,” Angie hisses.

“You said he’s been traveling with you for weeks? Has he done anything before now to make you unsafe?” 

“No, but you can’t trust them—” you cut her off.

“Do you think maybe he hid that information because he was worried about a result like this? Being held at gunpoint by people he thought he could trust?”

“That’s—that’s different—” Fred says, but he's wavering.

“Don’t you think that if he wanted to hurt you, he’s had plenty of time to do it already?” you offer.

“I—” Fred pauses.

“Please, mercy. I’ll go, you’ll never see me again. I’m just trying to survive, I don’t want to hurt anyone,” the kneeling man sobs.

“Angie… c’mon. Grab our stuff.” Fred's shoulders lower.

“We can’t trust it. You think some strangers just show up for no reason to help?” she glances back at you, wary.

"Ange. They’re right. He’s kept late watch for us so many times… just. Just let him go,” the woman hesitates, but finally puts down her gun.

“Jules, if we ever see you again…” she threatens, but turns away grabbing her bag, and the two walk off.

“Hey,” you whisper, approaching Jules slowly, “they’re leaving. You’re alright.”

He’s wide-eyed as he looks up at you, disheveled. He slowly lowers his arms, bracing himself against the ground as he gasps, shaking. You place a hand on his back, rubbing small circles as his breathing slowly evens out.

“Thank you. I owe you my life,” his voice is hoarse.

“Were you being honest? You’re a runaway?” you look at him gently.

“Yes. I thought—I thought they’d understand. They were my friends…” he trails off.

“I’m sorry. What will you do now?” you ask as he sits back onto his heels.

“I don’t… I don’t know. We were moving west, but now. Now I guess I can’t head that way.”

“Where did you leave from, if you don't mind me asking?”

“We came up from out east, met in a settlement called County Crossing. We had to go south to avoid Lexington as we moved.”

“Okay,” you check your map, Lexington was there, they probably stayed above the Charles river... “—look, if you don’t have anywhere else to go... do you know how to get to Diamond City?”

“I mean I know abouts where it is, but I don’t have the money for that, and if word got out about me—” if they knew, it would be a repeat of today, but a different ending.

“No. I know a place nearby, here,” you zoom into your map and show him the path you’ve followed to get here, “there’s a place called Hangman’s Alley. It’s within a day's walk. I want you to go there, and ask for 'Lieutenant Gravy'. Tell him Teddy sent you. I’m hoping the way will still be clear, we just came that way yesterday but had to call it an early night. You’ll know you’re on the right path if you see a dead bear. Take some of our spare jerky, too. I’m not sure if synths need to eat, but have it anyway. Pass the rest of it on as a welcoming gift to the Alley.”

You tear out a page from your notebook.

Pres,

I found Jules here on the road. He needed help, and somewhere to go.

I’m sending him to the Alley with some bear jerky.

Make sure he’s welcomed.

-Theo

“—You give this to the Lieutenant, that’ll be the guy with the laser musket and the big silly militia hat. He’s nice. He’ll get you sorted. The Alley is just getting set up, so they can use all the help they can get. There’ll be room for you there if you want it.”

“You don’t know what this means to me,” he whispers, taking the note gingerly.

“I’m sorry you have to hide. I hope that can change one day.”

“I do to. Thank you.” Jules picks up his rucksack and tucks the paper and food away, and gives you one last nod before setting out.

“I hope he makes it.” you whisper as he goes.

“He’s got a better chance now thanks to that.” Nick says, and you sigh.

“Kyle in the market... these people out here... I don’t get it. They’re just trying to survive like the rest of us.”

“You say that, but those people have a reason to be scared. The Institute is a real threat,”

"I know. But he's still a person. I don't care if the circuits in his head are artificial, that was real fear, real heartbreak. So what if he is a synth? We don't know if Riley was or wasn't a synth, and if he wasn't, and his own brother shot him down? No. That level of suspicion can't exists without catching innocent people in the crossfire. Diamond City isn’t safe for Jules, but maybe the Alley can be.”

“Well I know where to turn to if the mayor ever kicks me out, then.” Nick pats your shoulder.

“I don’t think even the mayor would be daft enough to risk the wrath of Misses Perkins and Wright if he tried that.” 

“Fair enough.”

“C’mon. Let’s go,” you wave at Dogmeat to keep searching.

. . .

There’s a bridge up ahead, cluttered with crashed vehicles, and Dogmeat looks like he wants to cross it. You whistle to bring him further back as you scan the area with your rifle. There are bodies on the ground, but you’re unsure whether they are corpse or ghoul, but risking a firefight next to that many vehicles is asking for trouble. You don’t have many, but you did purchase a few grenades…

“How do you feel about explosions, Nicky?”

. . .

It’s a beautiful cascade of booms, and your chest rumbles with each impact as you watch from the distance. You’d shoved some fabric into your ears held in place by a shirt-turned-headband as you cover Dogmeat’s ears. As the fires eventually fade, you remove your makeshift ear protection and scan the scene once more before heading out. It is warm but quiet as you cross the wreckage, following the path north until you see the remains of another battle. Amidst it all is a robot, sprawled on the ground, its head detached and resting on a nearby crate. As you near, you can hear a message repeating.

“...al signs. Alert: Critical… Known Mercenary Exercise Extr…”

”What happened here?” you mutter, surveying the scene, and the robot updates its message.

“Error: Operator deceased. Threat level Omega. He killed us.”

“He?” you turn to Nick, worry and hope mixing.

“A broken assaultron; that’s impressive. Kellogg could have managed it,” he hums.

“Signature confirmed. Assailant: Kellogg. Assailant route tracked. Pursuit possible to Northwest,”the assaultron’s speaker crackles, and it’s the first proof you have.

“We have to follow him,” you rush, starting to move away, but Nick stops you.

“What do we do here?” he gestures at the bot.

“Error. System corrupt. I can’t feel my legs. Alert: Critical condition… Known Mercenary…” the assaultron resumes its initial message.

“Who do you think sent it? I don’t know how to fix a machine that complex,” you look it over.

“Probably someone just as nasty as Kellogg. I wouldn’t recommend turning your back on one of these. Some real vicious programming.”

“Alright. Let’s back up,”

A safe distance away, you snipe down the machine, a few rounds in the head and a few more in the chest out of caution. A short hike continuing northwest, you near a wire fence, and Dogmeat skirts it, finding another patch of bloody rags. This is a military installation, one of the forts in the area. If pre-war security systems are still online, you’re going to need to be careful approaching.

It’s an agonizingly slow process skirting the fence and sniping down the turrets you can spot, but when you finally think the coast is clear and no one has exited to investigate, you pass through the break in the fence line. Dogmeat leads the way towards the front entrance, sniffing and scratching at the boarded up doorway. Cinder blocks and wood paneling: someone doesn’t want visitors. There was a fire escape on the side of the building, there should be a way inside from the roof; someone would have needed access to maintain the turrets.

The roof hatch is locked, but you manage to pick it with time. Nick drops down first, and holds up a palm to wait. He’s not alone down there. You gesture for Dogmeat to sit. He’s going to have to wait up here, you don’t want to risk him getting hurt again, and you can’t carry him down the ladder and remain stealthy.

Down with Nick, you drop your main pack, keeping your smaller satchel with your medpack and a few supplies, as you both switch over to the silenced pistols. You hear footfalls in a steady rhythm, but it doesn’t sound like boots. You catch a peek of a robotic body in the distance, and duck back into cover. These must be some of the models that came before Nick. You’d say they were skin and bones, if only that applied to metal. They’re skeletal and haunting. You figure they can’t be well armored if they seem that exposed, but that also means less surface area to land a shot. You exhale and glance to Nick, counting down.

3...2…1… You lean back out and shoot, your quiet bullets joined by Nick’s, and the machine turns but crumples before it can return fire. The clatter of it hitting the ground garners some attention, as another bot elsewhere calls out in a tinny voice.

“I am detecting stealth activity.” more steps, “Sensors indicating concealed organic lifeform.”

Shit. You wave Nick to advance into the corridor. It said organic, perhaps it can’t pick up another synth. He seems to be thinking the same as he pushes forward. You see him from the doorway, and watch him fire three bullets, but before you can decide on whether to join, he gives a thumbs up. The sound of another fallen synth seems to pull some attention away from you.

“The sensitivity of my sensors clearly needs adjustment,” the unit’s steps recede, turning the corner to head towards the sound in the distance.

You take the chance to push up into the next room, splitting from Nick, trying to move as quickly and quietly as you can. You make it to the next doorway, and take the chance of having another unit’s back turned, shooting it down in two. You hear more of whizzing of suppressed fire, and then what sounds like some kind of laser weaponry.

“Fort Hagen is under Institute authority. Terminating intruder,” another tinny voice announces.

Nick’s been spotted. You rush towards the hallway as more of the lasers echo.

“Destruction of fellow synth verified,” you hear as you open a hallway door, pulling the attention of one of the units.

You lift your pistol and fire, and the unit returns the gesture, and you feel pressure and heat against your chest as your finger curls. The bot collapses, and you look down, patting your armor, but while the leather is seared, it holds.

“Nick? Eyes?” you call out, entering the hallway.

“Up here,” he shouts from further in and you jog to join, “—Hold up, there’s a turret up ahead.”

You still, and you can hear the rattle of its motors from around the corner of the doorway. Before spending another of your frags, you try circling around. The rest of the units are down, and you can see a terminal in an open room up ahead. There are wires leading from the computer up to the ceiling.

“You think they set up ceiling turrets too?” you point to the red wire in the distance.

“Safe bet. Get your rifle, I’ll push up,”

“Be careful,”

You step to the side to take cover and steady your sniper on a desk as you scan the ceiling, noticing the black bump. You whistle to Nick to let him know you’ve got eyes on one. He fires at it, and the machine wakes so you’re able to pierce the protective shell. Nick shuffles further, then whistles. There’s another somewhere, but you can’t see it from your current vantage point. You advance to the next desk, glancing at where Nick points. If you move up to the bannister, you can line up a shot.

You rush, but you hear a beep halfway across the space, and when you slam your back against the pillar, the turret is active. Nick shoots blindly, pulling fire and giving you a chance. You lean out and shoot, missing. Another round of waiting and distraction, and you take down the ceiling guns.

From this side of the room, you can aim through a hole in the wall and destroy the hidden ground turret, and finally, the room is clear. You head back to the hatch, and manage to get Dogmeat inside. You aren’t thrilled having him closer to more fighting, but neither did you want him isolated on the roof.

There's an elevator in here. You press the button, surprised when it lights up, and step back as you wait for the car to arrive. The doors open, and it is calm, empty. It's a risk to take, but you decide to enter. The three of you descend and manage to sneak forward, disarming a few tripwires and grabbing a few fusion cells from the lower floor's first hallway, but your hopes of infiltration are shattered when an announcement rings through the building’s intercom.

“If it isn’t my old friend, the frozen TV dinner. Last time we met, you were cozying up to the peas and apple cobbler. Never expected you to come knocking on my door," it’s grainy through the old speakers, but that’s the same voice that you heard that day, "—Gave you 50/50 odds of making it to Diamond City. Figured the Commonwealth would chew you up like jerky.” 

“Come out you fucking coward. Tell me where you took Shaun,” you shout.

“Look. You’re pissed off. I get it. I do. But whatever you hope to accomplish in here? It is not going to go your way.” Nick drags you to the side, as more synths approach.

Another of your few grenades, a successful fire fight, and you’re storming forward.

“You’ve got guts and determination, and that’s admirable. But you are in over your head in ways you can’t possibly comprehend,” his voice echoes in the halls, and it sets your teeth on edge.

“FUCK YOU,” you seethe.

“It’s not too late. Turn around and leave. You have that option. Not a lot of people can say that,” arrogant bastard.

“YOU KILLED MY SISTER,” if he wants you to leave, he’s going to have to send you to her himself.

“Your sister? So that trash reporter wasn’t lying in her play-pretend paper… Father’s going to be interested in this.”

You don’t understand. You don’t care. You’re here for Shaun and to kill Kellogg. Turrets and locks can’t stop you as you push closer. Through hallways, over smoking shells of downed synths, past security gates and cafeterias and tunnels until you arrive at a furnished room, staring down your next door.

“Okay,” the speaker crackles, “you made it. I’m just up ahead. My synths are standing down. Let’s talk.”

There are a few supplies that you’ve picked up battling to get here, namely, a shotgun. Your grip on it is white as you stalk into the control room and you see him. He looks… the same. Maybe… Maybe you haven’t missed so much time, maybe it was another child in the city.

“Where is Shaun.” you hiss.

“Right to it then, huh? Okay. Fine,” he shrugs, “—your nephew, Shaun. Great kid. A little older than you may have expected, but I’m guessing you figured that out by now.”

Your stomach drops. So it was him. They took him and raised him, stole him away from you. Stole his time. Your time.

“—But if you’re hoping for a happy reunion? Ain’t gonna happen, pal. Your boy’s not here.”

“Tell me where he is, damn it!” you snarl at him, vibrating with loss. 

“Pal, I’m just a puppet. Like you. My stage is just a little bigger, that’s all. But don’t worry, he’s doing great. He’s with the people pulling the strings.”

“Tell me how I get to him,” you feel lightheaded; keep it together, you have to figure out what he knows.

“You don’t. Don’t you get it? Your boy is in a place where nobody can reach. So you can die knowing he’s safe and happy in the loving arms of the Institute.”

“Murderers and kidnappers, yeah, loved I’m sure. Take me there, now,” you lift up the shotgun.

“Haven’t you been paying attention? You don’t find the Institute. The institute finds you. But I give you credit for the dedication. Surprising to know he isn't your son; you're acting like a real father here. I’m actually kind of sorry you wasted your time—” you can't stand to listen any further.

You pull the trigger, launching buckshot into his chest and he stumbles back, but doesn’t fall. You shoot again, as the synths draw their weapons, but Kellogg vanishes.

“NO!” you scream and turn, searching for him as one of the bots jumps forward, wrestling for your weapon.

Nick is firing on the other, and you let go of the shotgun as the synth gets tackled by Dogmeat. You shoot the bot in the head with your pistol, unloading half a clip before it stills. Dogmeat bristles, scanning the room, and you rush to Nick.

You latch onto the other synth, yanking its arms back from behind, but instead of being restrained, it slams its skull back into your own, and you stumble, losing your hold on it. But the distraction is enough for Nick to gain ground. The synth kicks out, connecting with your knee and you topple in pain, but look up to see the bot follow your trajectory ground-ward, headless.  Nick extends a hand, hauling you up, and you scan around the room. The doors are all still closed.

“Cover the rear exit,” you spit blood and grab the shotgun from the other synth, reloading it.

Dogmeat barks, and you see a shimmer of movement, then hear a grunt as the dog leaps forward, biting into air. The shimmer of light flickers, and for a moment, you see the blurry form of a man, leg caught in the dog’s jaws. You sprint clumsily on your injured leg, and hear the shot. It's the same earsplitting echo as it was before. Dogmeat is still attached to Kellogg’s leg, but he loses ground, back leg flopping, limp. You aren’t breathing as you point the shotgun at where the man’s chest should be. This time, the pellets send him falling. You cock it, and see the shimmery outline and aim at his head, and the stealth field shatters. Blood pools out below him, his face half eviscerated by scattershot. You slam the heel of the gun into his temple. His arms raise up, and you thrust the gun against his neck. He claws at you, digging in bruises on your arms, but you only press harder, feeling a crunch as you shatter his windpipe. His one remaining eye glances down, then his left arm reaches out to grab at the knife on your thigh, grasping for the handle. You shift your knee to pin his bicep down as he knocks the knife out of the sheath, grunting in pain as your kneecap shifts. You feel warmth erupt in your leg, as Kellogg manages to twist his wrist to slice your leg. He only gets the one swipe before the knife clatters to the ground, his grip failing as his face goes from red to purple, his eye bulging.

You stare at the mess of his face until finally, finally, the lid droops. You shove down once more against his throat before reaching back to pick up your knife, and drag it across his throat. His blood flows out slowly, evenly, without the pumping of his heart to spray. There are no thoughts as you turn around and grab a stimpak to inject into Dogmeat. It is an automatic motions as you grab a second for yourself, slamming it into your thigh.

No thoughts in your head as you walk over to where his pistol lies, all the emptier for the ghostly echo to ring in your mind.

No thoughts as you pick it up.

But there is one thought as you aim it at his head and pull the trigger.

“For Nora,”

Chapter Text

You kick at Kellogg’s corpse, sending blood flinging as you strike and pull back, kicking at him because if you stop, you don’t know what to do, and so you just keep kicking him until your standing leg gives out and you stumble forward, catching yourself on a desk. You need to move, you can’t stop or it’s over. You shove the things off the desk and onto the floor, tearing out the drawers and flinging them away into the room. You scream as you move around, throwing what you can lift, shoving what you can’t, breaking.

Shaun. Shaun isn’t here. Shaun isn’t here, and you don’t know where to find him. He’s ten years old, and he doesn’t know you, and he doesn’t know her, and you’re lost and this man was the only chance you had at finding him and he’s dead but he isn’t dead enough and you want to tear him to pieces and rip him apart because that’s what he did to you.

You stumble onto the floor, heaving for air but not breathing, you can’t breathe.  

“Sturg,” you gasp spinning, your last moment of clarity, but he isn’t there either. No one is.

Thumping, hitting, slapping. Cold floor meets you as the hands come down on your head, impacts thudding as you press against the concrete. There’s pressure on your wrist, and your shoulder jerks as you try to pull away, turning sideways splayed on the ground and Nick is there. His mouth opens, there’s noise.

“Calm down—”

More noise but not from him, animalistic, and your throat hurts.

You try to pull your arm away, curl up, sink, but fur finds you. Your arm is released as the dog climbs over you, and you wrap around him pulling him down to lie on you. The weight, the warmth, your tiredness… you settle and go limp.

You stare past the ceiling above you, seeing nothing for a long time.

“Hey kid,” Valentine speaks, and appears above you.

You look at him, giving no further response.

“You ready to get up?” he asks, but there’s a softness there.

Why? Why bother? You return you sights to the sky, staring past the ceiling tiles.

“There’s information on the terminal here,” he calls out, walking away.

“A log here from Kellogg. ‘Notes: The boy, Shaun, successfully delivered back to the Institute, payment received. New orders to track down renegade, gathered reinforcements, cleared out and secured Fort Hagen. We move out soon.’”

It’s nothing.

“I know it doesn’t sound like much, but I have a crazy idea…” you hear squelching noises, and your curiosity grants you an inch of movement, tilting your chin back to see Nick hunched over something.

You pat Dogmeat to stand so that you can move, and the Dog stands infront of you so you can lean over his back as you sit, watching Nick as he sinks his fingers into Kellogg’s face. He pulls out a chunk of something, bloody wires and metal, from his skull. You watch him limply, wordlessly.

“The guy was half tech. I’m not saying it wasn’t… upsetting to watch, understandable I’ll say, but if you hadn’t shot his skull open, we wouldn’t have known,” he waves the tech around, but when you don’t reply, he continues, “—If we can hook up to this, maybe we can figure out more. Maybe who this renegade was, or how the Institute contacted Kellogg for assignments.”

“How,” your voice is raspy, monotone, but you’re responding.

“The Memory Den. If anyone can figure out tech that deals with the brain, it’s Doctor Amari.”

It’s weak. Flimsy. A long-shot. But it’s all you have. And you need to hold onto something right now. You hang your head.

“Yeah,” you sigh, and when you look up, he’s back, hand outstretched to you.

Heavily, you stand. You ache. You back track and pick up your bag, stowing your new shotgun and adjusting the straps as they dig into your shoulders, weighted down by the growing pile of weapons. You stop over Kellogg’s pistol, staring down at it. Shaun’s still out there. You’ve lost time, but he’s still out there. The metal is cool to the touch, but your hand burns to hold it. You walk to Kellogg’s corpse and take his holster off, latching it to your left leg and stowing his pistol. You feel sick. It’s a leaded anchor as you walk, but it is a reminder. Nora can’t rest yet. Kellogg was sent to take Shaun. The man who pulled the trigger is dead, but the person who bought the bullet was still out there.

“Where’s the Memory Den,” you stare at Nick.

“Goodneighbor.”

You nod, and walk to the security gates, opening them, walking towards the elevator down the hall. Nick and Dogmeat follow, and soon enough you are stepping out, into the evening sun. You stare out from the rooftop, orienting yourself, when you spot something in the sky.

It can’t be a plane, it’s huge. Even at this distance, it must be the largest blimp you’ve ever seen, and there are flies around it… no—vertibirds. Active vertibirds. Launching out from the blimp and flying ahead, nearing.

“People of the Commonwealth. Do not interfere. Our intentions are peaceful. We are the Brotherhood of Steel.”

The announcement blares out from the flagship, ringing out intermittently as it floats nearer and passes, eastbound. You turn to Valentine, looking for answers.

“Blowhards. I wouldn’t trust their definition of peaceful,” he grumbles and you quirk your brow.

“—Let’s say they wouldn’t have helped out your friend Jules from earlier. Not fans of ghouls, either. Whether or not they’re feral.”

You stare at the ship as it flies. It does not fill you with hope, but it does perhaps present an option. The Institute wasn’t going to be easy to find, and this Brotherhood of Steel looks like they have a trove of resources.

You descend from the roof, and start the trek back towards the city. You arrive at the camp you stayed at the night prior, and Nick pauses in the dusklight.

“Sun’s not gone, yet,” you say, and move to continue on.

“I don’t have much of a problem operating in the dark, Slick, but I can’t say the same for you.”

“It’s a half moon. There’ll be light.”

“It’s a good spot here. If we get an early start, we can make it to Goodneighbor by midday if you want to push it, then.”

“Or you can just lead the way if it starts getting dark,” you hiss, losing patience.

“A night isn’t going to make a big difference,” he starts.

“You don’t know that. What if that tech stops without being attached to his brain?”

“Then it’s already useless and one night will not change that. But you’re injured. The dog’s injured. We picked up a cold trail once, we’ll do it again.”

You don’t reply, just stand there. Angry. Exhausted. But the ‘we’ stops you from bursting. You force yourself to exhale, and walk back to the utility tunnel, dropping your bag and pulling out your rifle before heading up the stairs.

Besides the shack, with your legs dangling over the overpass ledge, your look out in the distance with your rifle. There’s a tree off in the distance, jagged branches clawing the sky. You haven’t been practicing your aiming since leaving Sanctuary, and the kickback on the larger gun is stronger. You aim at one of the branches, firing.

You miss.

Reload and aim.

Miss.

Reload.

Aim.

Miss.

You waste the rest of your clip and put the gun down, laying your arms over the railing to stare out into the now-nightsky. You hear footstep coming up the stairs, and when the shack door opens, you tilt your head, cheek resting on the rusty railing.

“I’m not quite done sulking, Val,” you mutter.

“At least you admit it. You want me to go?” he offers, waiting.

“No,” and he nears.

“You wanna talk?” he leans against the railing, watching you.

“Hmph.”

“You want me to talk?” he asks.

“Tell me about Goodneighbor.”

“Hmm. Not the cheeriest subject, you sure?”

You nod slightly, and he starts to recount stories from his time there, who he worked with, how life ran there, who the big players were, are. It gives you something to focus on. He’s been around a long time, knows a lot of people.

“Do you know who the Railroad is, Nicky?” you mumble.

“I’ve heard of ‘em, yeah. I’d be careful even asking about them, kid. They aren’t well liked.”

“I found a tape mentioning them. Said they’d find you if you agreed with them. So we’ve got the super secret badguys, the super secret goodguys? And the not at all secret middle ground flying a fucking blimp into Boston.”

“I think you forgot the Minutemen in that,” he nudges your leg with his foot.

“Fuck,” you flop onto the railing.

“Sounds about right.”

“I didn’t sign up for this, Nicky. I don’t know what I’m doing,” your voice is low, fragile.

“And yet, here you are.”

“I just wanted to get my family back,” strained.

“I know.”

“This isn’t going to get any easier, is it?” tight.

“No.” he says softly.

“I’m tired, Nicky.” your voice cracks and your face floods.

“I know, kid. I know,” he hushes you, kneeling down to your level.

“I killed him, Val. I killed the man that murdered her, and it didn’t even matter. Nothing’s changed,” you sob.

“Come here,” he pulls you in, “he’s dead. She can rest that much easier. You’re still fighting. I’m not going to stop, kid, so you can’t either. You hear me now? We’re going to get to Goodneighbor, and we’re going to figure out what’s next, and we’re just going to keep doing that until we find your boy.”

“What if… what if Kellogg was right?” your throat aches.

“No, come on. You said it yourself, those murdering, kidnapping eggheads don’t love him.”

“We don’t know that. Years, Val. They’ve had him for years. Raised him.”

“Stole him.”

“But what if it is better there? He’s safe. Away from mutated bears, giant crabs, fucking huge bugs. It’s awful out here, Val.”

“That’s why you’re making it better. For Shaun. For Sturges. For Jules.”

“What if he doesn’t want to leave?”

“He deserves to know you’re looking for him.”

“What if… what if he doesn’t want… me?”

“Oh, kiddo…” he rubs circles on your back.

“I’m not. I’m not her. I’m not cut out for this. He deserves to be safe… what if he’s better off with them?”

“I can’t say that it’s just peachy out here. But those people have killed, stolen so many lives. You can’t tell me you believe that’s truly a safe place for him, can you?”

“No,” you whimper through your tears.

“Then you still have a reason to fight,” he pulls away and stands, holding out a hand, “—let’s get you some sleep.”

You sniffle, accept his hand to stand, and wipe your nose on your sleeve as you follow him back through the shack to the camp. Your head throbs from crying, and each tic of facial movement sends another pulse of discomfort as you lay out your bedding. The arrangement is better tonight, able to settle yourself next to Dogmeat. The image of Kellogg’s mutilated face stains the back of your eyelids. You glance at Nick each time he walks by to check on you as the night grows darker, until eventually you sleep.

You wake with a start. The nightmare that had felt so real just seconds prior blurs. Faces blending and melting into the next, each screaming, bleeding, dying. Shaun was there. He had no distinguishable features, but you knew it was him. Hair, eyes, face all mutating; flickering possibilities. But your heart grieved as the figure disintegrated into ash. The images fade in your mind’s eye, but the feeling remains.

You slip out of your sleeping bag. The autumn morning is brisk, and you hate it. You hate the chill, the frost, the threat of ice once more. It is early, but you are awake. Dogmeat stretches as you pack, and Nick does not sleep.

It is time.

The radio humms as you walk, the items in your pack jingling and clanking when you readjust. The path remains calm, and with good time, you are nearing Diamond City. You lead on, wanting to pass the Alley and the stadium gates. You know vaguely where Goodneighbor is, and Nick can redirect you if you venture in the wrong sense, but you do not intend for detours.

Nick seems to understand.

The path you had taken to Park Street Station is mostly still, only a few lone ghouls and the odd mongrel, and you find yourself unconcerned by it. That surprises you; your adaptation to this world. Nick takes the lead. It’s a short, but tenuous venture. The last leg of the journey weaves through a popular section of ruins, and you see gore bags decorating a fair few balconies.

Turning the corner, you can see Jersey barriers with skulls down the street, but Nick guides you to the side, stopping just before the decorated gate to Goodneighbor, and you nod to him. A knock, and then the gate is opened from the other side, allowing entrance.

“Well, well, it’s the detective. Tracking down another wayward husband to his mistress?” A bald man dressed in leather leaves his bench to bark at him.

“Why, someone stand you up?” Nick retorts.

“Tryin’ that, what d’ya call it? Evasive language, on me?” The man squints, then turns to you, “—And who the hell are you? Valentine’s new dick-in-training?”

“We’re working together, yeah.” you reply dully.

“Really? Well you’re in luck. I got a special offer on some insurance for partners of the great gumshoe here,” he smiles sinisterly, connivingly, on par with the expectations Nick set-out for you in his recounting of the standards here.

“Unless it’s ‘keep-dumb-assholes-away-from-me’ insurance, I’m not interested,” you lift your chin.

You might not have a commanding presence, but you’re not alone. Wanting to win such a little play for dominance isn’t worth those odds—if the man’s pride doesn’t blind him from realizing it.

“Now don’t be like that. I think you’re going to like what I have on offer. You hand over everything you got in them pockets, or ‘accidents’ start happenin’ to ya. Big, bloody, ‘accidents’,”  he sneers.

“Whoa, whoa,” a new voice calls out, and a man in a long red coat steps forward, “—Time out. Nick Valentine makes a rare visit to town, and you're hassling his friend here with that extortion crap? Good to see you again, Nick."

“Hancock” Nick replies, the hint of a smirk on his lips.

“What d’you care? He ain’t one of us,” the con stares daggers at Hancock.

“No love for your mayor, Finn? I said let ‘em go,” the ghoul’s voice dips dangerously low.

“You’re soft, Hancock. You keep letting outsiders walk all over us, one day there’ll be a new mayor.”

“Come on, man. This is me we’re talking about. Let me tell you something,” Hancock smiles peaceably as he approaches and drapes an arm over Finn’s shoulders, before he pitches back in a gravelly tone, “—Now why’d you have to go and say that, huh? Breaking my heart over here.”

You hear the thwip of a switchblade, and the red coated arm is jabbing viciously into Finn’s chest, with only thumps of the impact sounding; the man unable to voice more than a whisper as his breath escapes frontward rather than past his lips. Dropped unceremoniously onto the cobbles, Hancock wipes off his blade and stows the knife, stepping over the corpse and up to you. He momentarily extends his bloodied hand before sighing and shaking it off, pulling back and reaching out with his clean left for a handshake.

“You all right, brother?” he asks, smile back on his face.

“I’m fine. Thanks for taking care of him,” you reply tightly, taking his hand and shaking it.

“Good. Now don’t let this incident taint your view of our little community. Goodneighbor’s of the people, for the people, you feel me? Everyone’s welcome.”

“Good to hear.”

“Enjoy your stay, newbie.”

He saunters off, and you approach Finn’s body and pat his pockets down. A small cap-pouch that you take, and a shitty pipe pistol that you don’t. But his boots look like a good fit. Once the corpse is barefooted, you follow Nick as he walks down the brick alleyways.

The Scollay Square sign above, you pass through into the Olympia Theatre’s dim entryway. A worn dark carpet leads through into the main room, but instead of seats, there are strange pods, some occupied, some not. Nick continues ahead, passing under a chandelier towards the stage where a blonde woman rests, draped on a chaise.

“Well, well. Mister Valentine. I thought you had forgotten about little ole’ me,” she coos.

“May have walked out of the Den, Irma, but I’d never walk out on you,” he replies.

“Yeah, yeah, you big flirt. Who’s your friend here? We aren’t accepting new clients right now, sweetheart,” she looks at you kindly.

“Here on business,” Nick adds and she nods.

“Don’t let Nick spend too much time with Amari down in that lab of hers. I’ll start to get jealous,” she calls out to you as Nick heads to a door leading downstairs.

“Doctor Amari?” Nick chimes as he steps in.

“Yes?” she turns and glances over at you, “I take it this isn’t a social call.”

“We need your help, doctor.”

“Well. What is this about?” you glance at Nick, it’s his idea.

“We need a deep dig, Amari, but it’s not gonna be easy. The perp, Kellogg, is already cold on the floor.”

“Are you two mad?!” she stares daggers at you both.

“I know it’s asking for a miracle, Amari, but you’ve pulled off the impossible before,” he begins.

“Putting aside the fact that you’re asking me to defile a corpse, you do realize that the memory simulators require intact, LIVING brains to function?” even from her short stature, you can tell she's looking down on the detective.

“This dead brain had inside knowledge of the Institute, Amari. The biggest scientific secret of the Commonwealth. You need this, and so do we.” her arms uncross as he speaks, and she sighs.

“Fine. I’ll take a look, but no guarantees. Do you… have it with you?”

“Here’s… what we have,” Nick pulls out the component. 

“What’s this? This isn’t a brain! This is… wait… That’s the hippocampus under a neural interface?” she turns the piece over in her hands, eyes wide.

“Those circuits look awfully familiar,” Nick muses.

“This is a bit out of my typical wheelhouse…” she mutters, moving the specimen to a tray, “this is going to take some time.”

“How much time?” you ask, heart sinking.

“I don’t know. There’s no sign of decay to the tissue, so the tech must be preserving it. Even after I get the hippocampus stabilized, there’s no way to access the memories inside without a compatible port…” she glances at the detective.

“You’re talking about me, aren’t you? I’m an old synth, but if the Institute built me out of similar parts, we might have an in, right?”

“That’s exactly what I was thinking. If we’re lucky, it should hook right in, but that’s… an incredible risk to take. We’re talking about wiring something to your brain.”

“Nick?” you look at him and he nods.

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take. This is a chance we can’t miss. How long will it take to stabilize?”

“A while, but even after, I’m out of my depth here on the technicals,” she rubs her temple and sighs, “I’ll reach out to a trusted contact who can advise me on the mechanical side. But I’m not sure how long this is going to take. A few days at the minimum.”

It’s a gut punch.

“I can send word to your secretary at the agency when I have an update.”

Days. At least.

“That’s appreciated, doc.” Nick turns, starting to walk out but you haven't moved, “—C’mon kid. Let’s give her some space to work.”

You follow him out, numb, but once you’re in the lobby you stop once more.

“I’m going to stay,” you whisper.

“Are you sure? They aren't keen on dogs at the Rexford,” he turns to look at you.

“Figures... Sorry bud. Just for a few nights, at least. I can afford it with what I brought."

“You’ve always got a place at mine, you know," Nick says as Dogmeat whines.

“I need to be close. In case... anything comes up,” you stare at the floor.

“Alright, I won’t stop you. You know where I’ll be. I won’t take on any work that gets me out of the city until Amari gets in touch."

“Thanks,” you look at the dog, "bye buddy."

Nick leaves and you wait, focusing on your breathing. After a few minutes, you step back into the street. It’s early, still, but you ought to check-in with the hotel. You’ve got your small emergency fund. A hundred should be more than enough to work with for a few days. You walk over, slowly approaching the front desk.

“Welcome to the Rexford. What do you want.” the old woman behind the counter is gruff, her dark skin wrinkled and short curls fully white.

“One room, two nights, please."

“Twenty caps. Top floor, last door on your right. Renter assumes no expectation of privacy or safety for you or your belongings,” she recites blandly.

You nod, and fish out the payment, trading it for the key. You head up to scope out the room, and drop at least some of your stuff. Your clothes and camping supplies can stay, though most of your weapons you keep strapped to you. Your canteen and satchel are full, and as you lock your door, you turn to face another guest.

“What? No, it can’t… It… It’s… it’s YOU!” you take a step back, bumping into the closed door, “—From Sanctuary Hills, right!?” his voice is raised, but with what emotion, you’re unsure.

“Yeah, I’m from Sanctuary,” you reply warily, glancing over the ghoul to see whether he’s armed.

“But you. Look at you. Two hundred years and you’re still perfect! How? How’s that possible?”

“How do you know that?” you ask, your hand creeping towards your pistol.

“What? You don’t remember me? I sold you that space in the Vault! But then I wasn’t on the list to get in,” and oh—the trenchcoat, the hat.

“You’re the salesman,” you whisper.

“Not anymore,” he mumbles, “Just Clark the ghoul now. Why are you still normal?” he glares at you, jealousy clear on his face.

“It was an experiment. They froze us. I only thawed out recently,” you don’t want to get into this now.

“What? Vault-Tec never told me that! Unbelieveable!” he steps back yanking his hat off of his head, “Well, I had to get to the future the hard way. Living through the… filth! The… decay! And the bloodshed! Look at me! I’m a Ghoul! A freak!” his grip on his hat crumples the brim.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know this would happen,” you mutter, your numbness fading as the tension rises.

“It’s not fair! Do you know what I’ve been through these past 200 years? They just… left me there… after all my years of service… nothing. And here you are, untouched,” and rage pokes its head back in.

“Untouched? Look Clark, hate to fucking break it to you but if you hadn’t noticed, your shitty company didn’t fucking care about you, what the hell makes you think they cared about me? Untouched? That’s a fucking laugh. Yeah, I got out of there untouched. I’m the only damned one,” you seethe but your eyes are already watering.

“What do you mean you’re the only one?” he looks taken aback by the force of your outburst.

“Look around, Clark. All of us who went inside that vault were no more than lab rats. Everyone else is dead,” your voice cracks and the tears come.

“You—they—” he stutters, confused, “I didn’t know… I’m sorry,” he mumbles.

“No... I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have… I shouldn’t have shouted at you. Just. No one’s had it easy out here.”

“No, you’re right.” he lingers awkwardly.

“Did anyone else… survive?” you ask him, softly.

“From the neighborhood? There were a few of us after the bomb, but after a week, I was all that was left. Except for that damned bucket of bolts. He just kept trimming those fucking hedges like nothing had happened,” he pauses, pulling back his rage.

“Yeah… Codsworth has a few… personality quirks,” you concede.

“'Welcome to our happy home, sir. Can I get you a drink? Cheerio!’ Over and over again. He was the only one that I could talk to. A year went by before I couldn’t take it anymore,” he begins to shake, his already gravelly voice quaking, “I’ve been so alone! No Commonwealth settlement wants a Ghoul with 200 years of Vault-Tec sales experience!” he’s crying now, and you can’t imagine how horrible it’s been.

“But there are ghouls here, you aren’t alone. There’s got to be a few people from… before, too, right?” you try to console him.

“Oh yeah, crazy Kent and ‘nothing bothers me’ Daisy. Yeah there’s a couple of us pre-war freaks around, but you’re… You’re the only other person I met from before I…” he stares at his discolored hands, dropping them with disgust.

Two hundred years… to have survived so long… the toll that would take. You cautiously step forward and bring your arms around him gently. He freezes, before melting into the hug, sobbing into your shoulder as you pat his back, tears of your own falling for you both.

“Would you want to go back to Sanctuary, Clark?” you ask when you finally part.

“What do you mean?”

“There’s a settlement there, now. People. Not just Codsworth.”

“Why would they want me,” he mumbles.

“Because I say you’re welcome there,” you offer.

“What?”

“The settlement. I helped build it. It’s protected by the Minutemen, and if I say you can go there, you can go there. But I understand if you don’t want to. There are other places we’re building if you don’t want to be in Goodneighbor anymore.”

“And they’d just… accept a ghoul?”

You hadn’t noticed any ghoul settlers yet, but you hadn’t been around to see new faces. And a pair of hands are helpful, whether they’re wrinkled or not. You damned well weren’t going to turn away someone because of what they looked like.

“Of course they would. And I’ll make sure of it. Have you got a holotape?”

. . .

“This is General Theodore Berwick. The Minutemen protect the people of the Commonwealth, and that means all people. Our communities welcome all those in need, regardless of where you come from or what you look like: ghoulified or not. If you are willing to work with us towards a better future, there will be a home for you with the Minutemen and at our settlements. Prejudice serves none but the oppressors who wish to keep us divided and weak. Together, we thrive.”

It might not be safe yet to openly welcome synths, but the message should be clear enough to those who need to hear it. Kellogg was working for the Institute. That makes them your enemy. The runaways are fleeing that same enemy, fighting to survive. And who fights harder than an underdog? There will likely be consequences to this, but better to make your stand clear before the Minutemen grow too big. You might loose ranks, but then again, they would be ranks worth losing. Preston will stand with you on this, you’re sure of it.

“Do you know where I can use a radio here?” Clark looks up, cradling the tape to his chest.

“Uhm. Yes. Daisy has one in her shop,” he leads you out of the hotel and over to the storefront.

“Hey, Clark,” Daisy greets, glancing your way curiously, “who’s your buddy here?”

“An old client, turned friend,” he smiles and she quickly hides her surprise.

“Hi Daisy, nice to meet you. I’m Theo. I was hoping to use a ham radio, and Clark said you had one.”

“I do. Don’t go breaking anything and you’re welcome to use it,” she waves you to the back with a hint of suspicion.

“Thank you.”

You switch to the right frequency band, and send out a message, waiting for Ellie to respond.

“Theo? Is everything okay? Over.”

“Affirmative, Ellie. Nick should be arriving back soon and he can fill you in on the details. But I need you to pass along a message to the Alley; I’m hoping the lieutenant is still there. Would you be willing to do that? Over.”

“Yeah, let me get a pen… okay go ahead. Over.”

“Garvey, I have an old friend coming to the Alley. His name is Clark. He has a holotape I need you to listen to and then share with our settlements. I told Clark he’s welcomed to travel back north with you if he’d like. Over.”

“Got it. I’ll send that out and let you know if he’s got it. Over and out.”

You turn back to Clark, and bring up your pipboy.

“Nick and I went this way, it should be clear enough,” you point on your map, “Once you give him that tape, you don’t have to go back to Sanctuary unless you want to, you could stay in the Alley. Or our other base is up here, at Starlight Drive-in. They’re all options for you.”

“Really? You’d do that for me?” he whispers.

“Yeah, it might not be too sales-focused, but there’s work for you if you want it. Clark… I am sorry, you know. I know nothing out here is how it should be, but the Minutemen are trying,” you only half believe it yourself, but it seems to be enough for him.

“I won’t let you down,” he smiles and rushes back towards the Rexford to gather his things.

The radio crackles and Ellie speaks up again.

“Message passed along, Theo. He’ll wait there for your friend, and someone named Jules says hello. Over.”

“Thanks a mil, Ellie. Over and out.”

You turn off the radio and step back to the store front, where Daisy regards you curiously.

“You gonna buy anything?” she asks leaning onto the countertop.

“Yeah, I’ll check your wares. What have you got for food?”

“Take a look.” she pulls out a bin of prepackaged goods, and you peruse, “—how are you such old friends with Clark?”

“He signed me up for the Vault,” you reply plainly, bracing yourself.

“Ah. The Man Out of Time, huh. Lucky little me, having a famous newspaper star in my shop. It isn’t as grand as the good old days, but let me know what you want,” at least some folks here got the news it seems.

“Not sure how good those old days really were. I’ll take the deviled eggs and a tin of beans,” you point to the items in the bin.

“Brave choice on the eggs. Seventeen caps. And you’re not wrong. There was shit back then too. But there were a few good things,” she says as you route around in your satchel for the change.

“Yeah,” it’s… nice to talk about the simpler things, “—I miss hot showers.”

“Oh don’t get me started. I’d pay a pretty penny for some decent water pressure around here even if it was cold. But you wanna know something I really miss?”

“Hmm?” you watch her.

“The library,” she murmurs, wistful.

“Huh. I guess they aren’t popular nowadays, are they?”

“Not with the regular crowd. Super Mutants have taken over the old Boston Public Library. I got a lot of fond memories of that place from when I was a girl… and… human.”

“It was a nice library… shame the new tenants probably aren’t literate,” you muse.

“Say, if you get those lumbering brutes out of there, I’ll pay you 200 caps,” she’s got a sharp look in her eye, hiding more than just a simple wish.

“Two hundred? For clearing the entire library? That place is huge,” you balk.

“You got a good point. And since you treated Clark so nicely… how about 300 caps when it’s done. Deal?”

“I’ve got some business in town still, but I’ll check out the library if I get the chance,” you say hesitantly; you haven't fought mutants yet, let alone solo.

“Sure. But if someone else comes along and takes me up on the job—”

“Then they get to the pay first.”

“Good to know you’ve still got a head attached after all those years.”

From the street you hear a voice call out.

“Hey, everyone! Gather ‘round! Let’s kick the breeze back… shoot the fat…” Hancock is shouting.

“Huh,” Daisy mutters as you walk over to check out what is going on.

“No rush… everyone just take your time…” he says as a small crowd begins to form below the balcony, “—Now, I know you all are doing your own thing. But I don’t want anyone here to forget what matters.”

“Hey Daisy, glad you could make it. How’s my favorite girl doing? Didn’t I see you on a date with Marowski the other day?” he calls out as you and Daisy round the corner.

“He wishes!” she shouts back with a smile.

“All right, all right. We’re getting off track. What was I saying? Oh, that’s right! What matters. We freaks gotta stick together! And the best way to stick together is to keep an eye out for what drives us apart, you feel me?”

“Yeah, you tell it like it is, Hancock!”

“Now what out there in our big, friendly Commonwealth would want to drive us apart?” he leans over the balcony, “—What kind of twisted, un-neighborly boogeyman would want to hurt our peaceful community?”

“The Institute,” you call back, staring at him.

“That’s right! Come on up to my office, later. You’ve earned yourself some Jet. The Institute! They’re the real enemy! Not the Raiders, not the Super Mutants, and not even those tools over in Diamond City.”

“I don’t know, Hancock. I’d sure love to give McDonough a kick in the ass!” someone in the crowd hollers.

“Hey, we all know I got my own personal beef with that lard-head, but stay focused! Now, I want everyone to keep the Institute in mind. When someone starts acting funny. When people are doing things they don’t normally do. When family starts pushing you away for no reason. We all know who’s behind that kind of shit. And the only way to stop it is to stick together. They can’t control us if we’re not afraid! Now who’s scared of the Institute?”

“Not us!” the residents shout out, and you join in with the late-followers.

“And which town in the Commonwealth should the Institute not fuck with?”

“Goodneighbor!”

“And who’s in charge of Goodneighbor?”

“Hancock!”

“Of the people! For the people!”

. . .

Chapter Text

There’s a lively atmosphere as Hancock parts the balcony, a rally that fizzles out as the crowd dwindles. The shopkeeps return to their stations, and you decide to go claim your reward. The State House is a narrow building, though long. Likely you’ll need to head upstairs if Hancock’s office is just inside of the balcony. A woman stands by the door, half shaved head and a mean glare, looking down at you.

“That Hancock’s office?” you ask, pointing at the door to her side.

“Office? Hah. Yeah that’s his room,” she runs her eyes over you, head to toe and back up again, apparently unimpressed, “So, a new player in Goodneighbor? Hello little Pawn. Welcome to our fun and games,” she opens the door and ushers you inside, closing it with a slam from behind.

There are two couches in the center of the room here. This must be the opposite end from the balcony, getting turned around from taking the spiral staircase. But Hancock is here, lounging on the white couch, a coffee table in front of him with Jet inhalers and bottles.

“Ah, the pal of the detective. Knew you would be a smart one. You like my little speech? I do it every once and a while, in case they’re listening in,” he gestures to the couch across from him.

“It was good. You know how to get your crowd motivated,” you say, sitting.

“Well it’s easier to do with a real message. I want those Synth-makers to know that Goodneighbor is off limits. No one gets ‘replaced’ in my town,” he says sternly.

“Good to know.”

“I’d take it you’d agree?” he grabs one of the inhalers for himself off the table and gesture at the rest; an open offer.

“The Institute is the biggest threat out here,” you watch him spin the canister around, leaned against the back of the couch.

“You’re damned right. Biggest threat and yet somehow no one knows where they are, what kind of people they are, or why they’ve decided to engineer their own slaves, but there it is. And just to be clear, everyone’s welcome in Goodneighbor. I don’t care if you’re a Synth, Ghoul, or even a Super Mutant. So long as you play nice. And lemme tell ya. Synths still under the Institute’s control don’t play nice,” he holds up the inhaler to his lips, and breathes deeply.

He tosses the empty back, clattering against the wall and cracks his neck, smiling, pupils wide. 

“Well you showed up, so you weren’t too good for the offer, but you aren’t partaking. I take it Jet isn’t your cup of tea?”

“Tastes like shit,” you reply, disinterested.

“The shitty ones do. But I’ve got plenty other indulgences to wet your whistle. What’s your sin of choice?” he grabs the small cooler off to the side of the table, rustling around in it.

“Gluttony, usually,” you muse, “though my last indulgences have been wrath.”

“That’s a fun one. I’d like to see you angry. Personally, I’m a big fan of lust, but I was speaking of the chemical-variety. Med-x, psycho, calmex, booze… for a friend of the clockwork dick I might even part with some day-tripper,”

“You’ve got day-tripper?” you ask, interested.

“Looking to kill the rest of the day, are ya? If you’re dead set on finding other ways to waste your time, I’ve got a job you could do,” he says, tossing you a bottle.

It’s a high dosage. Prescription grade. You’d tried a half-dose at a house party years ago. It was a pleasant high, partial muscle relaxant and major mood booster. And you could really use a fucking mood booster. Fuck it. You unscrew the cap and shake out two tablets, throwing them back quickly before you can reevaluate the decision.

“Yeah? And what would that be?” you toss him back the rest; better not to have the temptation of ready-access.

“Something that’ll clearly have to wait a while,” he pops one himself before tossing the bottle further into the room, “I could tell you were a freak when you walked in here.”

“Could you, now? What made you think that?” you say around the dissolving tablets, the zing of artificial apricot coating your tongue.

“What, is the sexy king-of-the-zombies look not enough? It’s a big hit with the ladies.”

“It must be. What else could get them to hang around someone dresses like a museum relic? I never trusted a guy that was too into history, but I guess that’s gotta change now that my contemporary is rather retrospective. I do try to not be hypocritical so ostentatiously,” it feels nice to relax a little; you aren’t a General here, you’re just another weirdo looking to get by.

“Anachronistic, shmanachronist. People love a throw-back. I bet your little popsicle is fighting off suitors and suitresses left and right,”he grins down at you and you quirk a brow; it seems that his definition of freaks welcomes homosexuality.

“Little popsicle? I’m hurt,” you flutter your eyelashes facetiously, “—I take it you’ve read Publick Occurrences, then?”

“Big fan. Little miss reporter always saves a stack to sell to us. Not the worst toilet paper I’ve used.”

“She’s trying to do the right thing,” you reply, trying to stay guarded, but the day-tripper is kicking in, and your head starts to swim.

“Yeah. And I heard she almost got kicked out for it, too, huh? At least McDonough is consistent.”

“He’s a peach all right. A real fucking moldy one,” you respond in a sing-song, a lax smile working its way onto your face.

“Preach, brother. But I’ll kill any rotten bastard that tries to do the same here. Goodneighbor’s about the people. All the freaks, misfits, and troublemakers. Everyone here lives their own life, their own way. No judgments.”

“All the freaks? Seems like a pretty inclusive statement, there,” you stare at him, curious.

“Aw, you worried you won’t make the cut?” he purrs.

“You tell me. Do I fall under ‘freak,’ or ‘misfit’?” you gesture to yourself.

He doesn’t reply right away, instead standing and walking around the coffee table, taking a seat on the cushion next to you, staring you down. He’s quiet as he drags his eyes over you, and you find yourself feeling warm from the prolonged eye-contact until he finally laughs and leans back.

“Shame. You don’t think you’re a naughty little troublemaker instead?” his voice drops and you flush.

“It is a new world, out here… but you know what they say. Old dog, new tricks,” you shrug and twist on the cushion to face him.

You feel… good. Your head is blissfully quiet, the worries in your head pushed to the side just like you wanted. Just like you needed. You’re giddy with the high, and it feels nice just to have a body. And flirting? It makes you think of other ways that a body can feel good.

“Oh you seem like you know plenty of tricks,” he murmurs, watching you.

“Including how to lie down,” you whisper, the warmth in your core sinking lower.

“You don’t say,” he leans forward and a wave of heat flourished between your legs.

“You ever sleep with a man with a cunt before?” you stare him down, waiting to see how he'll react.

“‘Fuck, you’re direct.”

“It’s been 213 years, and I just really want to stop having to think for a while,"

“I guess two centuries of blue balls is what it takes to stomach a ghoul,” he jokes, but there's a delicateness there.

“You’re funny. You’re flirty. We’re high. I’m horny. The world is fucked, so why can’t I be, too?” you stare at him, flushing, but not backing down.

“You sure about this, doll?” he asks, hesitant.

“You haven’t got like rad-chlamydia or something, have you?” you glance down towards his lap.

“Clean as a freak can get out here, toots. Believe it or not, not many people look to fool around with us wrinkly-types.”

“I’d still go for a condom if those still exist, but if you’re clean, we’re good. My last test might be out of date, but I’m clear,” you scoot forward, “—Besides: their loss. You seem like a well-educated man, I'd say you know more than the average Joe on how to please a fellow in bed,"

You straddle him, his black eyes rolling back as you grind down.

“Oh, I’m anything but average,” he rumbles, rolling up against you.

Looking at him from up-close, his skin wasn’t so bad. A little gross, sure, but fascinating. The color and shading was different from regular skin, the texture tough, with muscles and tendons visible through the thinner patches—but it was intact. You wondered what he looked like before. He struts around like he was a sight to behold; like you should be grateful to get to glance upon him. His theatricality does it for you. He pulls your head down to lay on his shoulder, breaking your gaze on his face. You thought he was going to go for a kiss, but you’re a bit relieved that he didn’t. This isn’t about romance, this is about forgetting, if only for a moment. You grip onto the back of the couch as he rubs against you, pressing your hips down and you both groan.

“I want to see,” he grunts, pulling at your shirt hem, “want to see your skin,”

You pull back and yank off your sweater, your undershirt riding up, but a gentle hand on your arm stops the shirt from following suit.

“Let me,” he whispers.

His fingers brush against your hips, under the hem of your shirt and onto your stomach. He sucks in a breath and your stomach flutters as his dick twitches underneath you. His rough fingers tickle as they climb up, up around your ribs, and you lift your arms as he takes your shirt off, your hair falling back down onto your shoulders.

“Christ,” he whispers.

His hand reach out to trace the faint scars below your nipples.

“That’s clean work, that,” he admires, “not many scars out here that pretty.”

He takes your left nipple into his mouth and the surprise startles a gasp out of you, but the following is just a dull sensation.

“I don’t have much feeling in that one—” you mutter.

You’d heard of people regaining sensitivity even years after the surgery, but so far you’d only gotten half of it back in your right. It’d be nice, but top surgery was worth it even if they'd stayed numb bits of skin. He switches immediately to the other, and you moan. His teeth press against you slightly, and you reward him with a circle of your hips, and you hiss as his exhale feels cold against the saliva-slicked skin.

“What do you need, what do you want,” he rasps as his hands dip below your belt-line.

“I’m always tight. Are your hands clean? Don't want Finn's blood getting in on any of the fun."

He gently pushes you back, and you stand. You return back to the couch as he walks over to his desk. He pulls out a drawer and laughs.

“Didn’t think these would actually get used,” he says, and pulls out a few foil squares.

He drops them on the coffee table as you watch, floaty on the couch. He swaggers over to the small door on the side of the room, and you hear a tap running. After a while, the tap goes off, and then you hear movement, and then brushing?

“Hancock?” you murmur, shifting your head to look more intently at the door.

He opens it, and you see him with a toothbrush, palming himself over his pants with his other hand. Your face screws up a moment in confusion, wondering what he was doing and then it hits you and your face feels like you’re stood over a steam bath.

He just stares at you and smiles, leans back into the bathroom and you hear the tap again. Shyness floods you as he stares down, leaning over you and he smells like mint.

“Take your shoes off, and lean back," his command is nearly a suggestion; tone soft.

Your head is heavy as you lean forward, clumsily unlacing your boots before kicking them off.

“Would you take those pants off, for me, darling. Nice and slow,” he sounds entranced.

It’s strange. You’ve never really done this like this. You’ve tried to put on a show before, sure, but to just be the show? Just as you are, a treat for someone? He’s the one doing you the favor, and here he is, acting like just seeing you undress is a holy right of passage.

You’re flush with embarrassment, but you move in spite of it. He shoves the table away, kneeling down to the floor, and you hear his breath hitch as he touches your bare thigh. His skin isn’t soft, but it slides over you nonetheless, gentle as he traces his fingertips towards your center.

It’s your turn to react as he brushes delicately over your briefs.

“Not a boxers guy, huh?” he whispers, the air rushing over your covered cunt.

He leans forward and kisses you softly over the material and you shudder. His hat covers most of your view, but he’s stayed clothed until now, and during your musings on whether or not to take his hat off, his fingers snake up. He pulls at your underwear, and you shift to let him remove them.

“It’s a good day to be mayor,” he mutters as he stares down at your naked crotch, hairy and wet.

You swallow in anticipation, and cry out when he dives forward, his leathery lips directly around your engorged clit, tongue rolling it around behind his teeth. He sucks, and you growl in appreciation, and you need more.

“In, please, please—” you grab at his forearm, gripping the fabric of his coat.

He leans back and looks up at you with a smirk.

“What was that, doll? How can your mayor serve you?”

You swallow again, and fight the shyness as you speak, staring into his eyes.

“Finger me, Hancock.”

His black eyes widen at that, smirk temporarily erased by a blank jaw. Then he smiles and dives forward, back onto you, and shortly after you feel a digit swirling against your front entrance. You sob out in relief as he slides in, rutting down onto his face as he blows you.

“Thank you, thank you, oh god,”

He slurps and you squeal as a second finger joins the mix.

“Where am I stationed, General?” he jokes, twisting and curling his fingers forward.

“There! Right there! Ahh—” you moan.

His other hand grabs at your ass.

“Any other deployments requested, General?” he asks, palming your cheek.

“No, just—just the front,” you gasp.

“More than happy with my assignment,” he chirps, and returns his face to your folds, scissoring his fingers, and you erupt with a hoarse cry.

His fingers slowly pulse as you ride out the orgasm, but he doesn’t pull out.

“Not to look a gift-horse in the cunt, but I am hoping that you’re not a one-and-done typa guy,” he says, curling his fingers again, causing you to grind down.

He smiles.

“Good. I’ve always been greedy,” he says, and starts working you again, slipping a third finger in.

Your second orgasm comes quickly, and you jerk forward. His other hand pressing your knee down as you shake, his shoulder keeping you in place.

“Hoping I can hitch a ride on the next one, chief,” he rumbles, standing, and you glance down to see the tented fabric at his front.

You swallow and nod. He grabs one of the foil squares and tears it open with his teeth. You watch as he unbuttons the front of his pants, and grabs onto the base to roll the condom down. It snaps and breaks.

“Damn. Two to go.”

He goes to grab another one from the coffee table, but you lean forward and take it yourself. His eyes are on you again, intrigued.

“Let me,” you say, and tear the pack open.

The condom feels pliable, still. You pinch the top, and line it up over his tip, and you hear him swallow. His eyes are hungry as you look up. Watching you. Well. You ought to put on at least a bit of a show for what he’s done so far. You roll the condom down just an inch, enough that it covers his head, and lean forward to place your mouth over him, sliding onto his cock and rolling the condom halfway down his shaft. Hands latch themselves gently onto your head and he moans.

You pull back slightly before sliding further down, working the condom towards his base, but feel his hands pull you back, off of him.

“Jesus Christ, that almost got me—”

You smile up at him, pleased.