Author's Note: This is my first published work of fanfic for anything ever and I'm writing this self-indulgent garbage. Spoilers ahead if you haven't finished the main story line of the game. So, I wasn't satisfied with the outcome of having to forcibly kill Kellogg in Angry Parent mode. Thus, I'm proposing this - What if the F!SS doesn't kill Kellogg? Cue the self-loathing, Not So Different trope, slow burning romance, what have you.
This series will contain some brief, out of order moments between my F!SS, Mia Weiss, Kellogg, and most of the game's companions.
Warnings: Drug mention and use, angst, some fluff, romance, hurt/comfort, slow burn, bad language, violence, friendship, alcohol mention and use, eventual sex (mostly consensual, but some dubcon because of drinking), racism mention, childbirth mention, and that's about it. Enjoy!
The roar of the world is sucked into a vacuum silence when Conrad Kellogg opens his eyes.
He's out of breath. He wheezes while trying to get his bearings, gloved hands gripping at the air for something solid. Damn... what happened? Confusion renders him paralyzed. The cold titanium walls surrounding him are unfamiliar for a moment. He doesn't remember how he got here. And where exactly is here, anyway?
Maintaining focus is difficult, almost impossible. It's like a literal barrier is preventing him from reaching into his memory for answers. He knows he's been here before, but when? How long has it been since he's come back to this place? Days? Weeks? Years? God, no. Everything is a distant, hazy dream. The sense of detachment he has from it all almost gives him a panic attack.
Okay, okay. Chill out. It's a good, long while before Kellogg can truly calm down. He doesn't know how long. Two minutes. Ten. Then all at once, it comes back to him.
He's back inside the Institute. Right.
The synths. The Old Man and his sycophants in white coats. And this cold cylindrical room he's standing in. It's practically a second home, the Relay Chamber. He's passed through it hundreds, perhaps thousands of times on his way out to do their bidding. It occurs to him how amazing it is that technology has come so far in such a broken world while thinking of every time he's been painlessly split into little particles and transported anywhere and everywhere.
Memories continue to come back to him in a steady stream now. Almost too quickly. Random thoughts buzz around Kellogg's brain like a colony of Bloatflies. Shoot. Shi. Shelter. San Francisco. Sarah. Synths. Sword. Shaun. He tries to let go of it all, tries not to fight against it like all those Old World psych books say to do. Leaning against the nearest wall and closing his eyes, Kellogg rides out the panic, pain and motion sickness that accompanies re-materialization.
Eventually, he's numb. He's himself again.
Bang!
Kellogg flinches at the sudden noise and draws out his .44 with unnatural speed. He gives the room beyond the transporter a once-over, his heart hammering inside his chest. A shadow in his peripheral causes him to whip around, ready to face whatever trap was set for him.
Except there isn't one.
Lowering his gun, Kellogg realizes with much embarrassment that he simply knocked into a crate behind him. Just a little jumpy, that's all, he mentally reassures himself. His attention shifts back to maintaining his own sanity. There's a pleasant humming noise coming from the terminal station nearby. He's always found terminals to be a source of frustration, opting for the lock-picking approach, but now it's presence is rather soothing. Something harmless and unvarying.
Holstering his weapon, the mercenary tries to loosen the muscle tension in his shoulders by stretching upwards. First his joints pop, then the tendons pull and unwind-
"Fuck!"
The pain hits Kellogg like a freight train. He clutches the nearest surface, preventing a total collapse. His heart is racing again from the adrenaline high that accompanies being hurt. In a moment of paranoia, he thinks he's been shot. But there's no one there, no sound of empty clips hitting the tiles or approaching footsteps.
Diagnosis? Well, it doesn't take a doctor to know his entire body is fubar. The worst of it is his left leg. Swollen with blood and feeling... wrong. Probably broken. There's a tightness in his chest and shortness of breath that suggests cracked ribs. Several deep chest wounds are hidden under a swath of dirty bandages. Upon further inspection, it appears that the wounds were once neatly stitched and have likely reopened from strain. Great.
He lets out a rasping cough, which only causes more blood to seep through his shirt. His favorite shirt. What a goddamn mess. The mercenary bites down on his tongue, almost losing it entirely. The very fact that out of everything that's happened to him he's mostly bothered by his only decent shirt being ruined lets him know he's not entirely in his right mind.
"But hey, look at the bright side. I'm still kicking," Kellogg consoles himself with a bone-dry laugh. "That should be of some consolation, right?
He's always used humor to take the edge off of a bad situation. But this time?
Kellogg isn't laughing.