The meeting – Part one
The sounds of a Vertabird moving closer from above, drew his gaze upwards, keen blue eyes narrowing behind worn sunglasses as the craft slowed it's decent and gently touched down in on the recently painted concrete and metal helipad that had been built on the narrow field between the Castle's northwestern gate, and the ruined diner at the edge of east Boston. The black and white markings denoting that, as expected, it was a Brotherhood Of Steel scout. Lookouts shouted back and forth from the wall, and the watchtowers that had been built up around the artillery positions. While not panicked, the men were excited, having no doubt watched the bird fly in from the Prydwen , it's escorts having already made a number of passes after taking off from the Airport below, and slaughtering a pack of feral ghouls that had dared get even a quarter mile closer to the Castle than the artillery had been allowing for the last week.
"Right on time." Garvy said as he shifted in his newly repainted powerarmor, the old but still sturdy T-45d rig almost gleamed in its fresh blue livery. Glancing over at the General, Preston adjusted the sling that held the customized Service Rifle and it's slender long bayonet in place for easy access across the middle of the chest plates. "Shall we go and greet our newest guests General?" he said, picking his helmet off of his belt and turning to face Nate, the wind from the aircraft buffeting his leather Minutemen hat.
Holding his own hat in place, Nathan smiled wolfishly; "I want to continue setting the proper tone for now. And prevent Danse from shooting Valentine or anyone else, so let's work our way down from here, and head for the meeting room directly." Allowing Garvy to walk down the wide scaffolding steps ahead of him, Nate called out to a ruddy faced young man in an only slightly rumpled looking uniform as he moved to the second level of reinforced wooden planking; "Corporal Delany!"
"Yessir!" the young man replied, snapping a quick if not properly sharp salute, his patched combat boots stamping into the dirt, heels almost touching.
Nate smiled at the young man as Preston stomped past; "You and Specialist Morgan are to open the Auxiliary Field gate, and grant entry to the Brotherhood Of Steel delegation, and escort them to the war room, by way of the security locker, where you and Sergeant Rios will ensure their kit is documented, and locked away."
"Copy that sir!" Delany lowered the salute and spun on his heel, pointing at an electrical switch on a wooden stand under the scaffolding frame that held up two levels of heavy wooden flooring behind a reinforced concrete wall, filling in the gap that had once been in Fort Independence's northwest wall: "Morgan! Unlock the door!"
"Copy"! a freckle faced Farm boy in cobbled together leather and combat armor, splashed in blue and white paint, pulled first one lever, and then another, before flipping a switch that allowed the reinforced sliding doors built into the double thick concrete to slide open with a loud clang, that almost drowned out the sounds of two dozen men and women of varying age, size and hygiene being drilled by a pair smirking but stern-faced Ranked Sergeant's with the extra stripes denoting one as a Master Sergeant, and the other as a Gunnery Sergeant.
"Unfuck your shite already! Get yer feet up! This is training an' exercise, not a harvest dance you stumble footed curs!" the throaty and almost shrill brogue cut like a barbed wire whip, as the redheaded, Master Sergeant Cait O'Toole, walked up and down the line of recruits and volunteers, her blue dyed baseball cap, square on her head, her hair pulled back into a small tight tail sticking out the back. "Feet UP I said!" she said pointing at a young and dirt faced woman with short blonde hair. "High stepping when you jump isn't impossible, you gotta be able to run through when not just your life, but someone else's depends upon it!"
She nodded to the General and Colonel as they walked past, Nate's seasoned eye already sizing up who he thought might make good leaders. They had been quietly forming up teams and squads, organizing them in such a way that for any outside observer, on the surface, nothing would seem too much out of the ordinary. Maybe the better or newer guns and the painted armor would stand out to the most eagle-eyed watcher, or spy following any number of the growing Militia patrols now walking the roads of the Commonwealth, but the real surprise was within the rebuilt and reinforced walls of the Castle itself. There had been a focused effort on the part of the Minuteman leadership over the last few months, and Nate could not think of a time since leaving the vault that he had been more proud or impressed. They were rapidly approaching the line between a rambling but competent Militia, into a truly powerful and well organized military force, and Nathan's efforts on bringing the many scattered settlements together under a common banner was a feat of logistics, diplomacy and uncanny tactics leveraged with brute force.
"You're doing it again." Garvey said knowingly, a small smirk touching his lips as he saluted an outgoing six man patrol, leaving by the main gate.
"No I'm not." Nate said, grinning and taking his hat off tucking it under his arm, as he entered the medical area and barracks walking through to the "war room" where he knew Lieutenant Colonel Shaw was already waiting with the other "delegates" he had called here today.
"You sure? You were looking at the yard without really engaging with anyone or anything, other than Cait for a moment. Not that I'm judging mind you."
"Lock that down Preston," Nate said flatly, not anger, but neither humor in his voice; "I told you, Cait and I are not an item, we are friends who… Found some onetime comfort during a time of mutual hardship."
"Like I said," Garvey chuckled lightly; "I'm not judging. Not after you set me up with Piper, which I'm still trying to figure out if it was a really bad prank or the best thing that's happened to me in my life."
"She has that effect on… everyone really." Nate conceded as they stepped to the closed door of the war room and paused, sharing a good humored glance.
"I'd noticed." Garvey said before pushing the doors open and striding to a spot near the head of the table.
Nate followed and took the farthest chair, even as he heard another set of power armor marching down the corridor and to the now open doors, Paladin Danse, Proctor Ingram and Elder Maxson entered in a line, and stopped short of the long table looking at the others seated at the table. For just a moment, the tension could have strangled the whole room, as Danse visibly tensed and Maxson's nose flared and his eyes blazed, his gaze turning to Nate with confusion and anger; "Knight Reynolds, explain to me why I'm in a room with no less than two synths, a blood thirsty mercenary and a ghoul."
Smiling thinly, Nate saluted in the military fashion, his thumb tucked tightly under the angled blade of his fingers, almost but not quite touching his temple, in reply; "I'll be glad to Elder Maxson," the word was emphasized only slightly, but it's obvious yet underlying implications spoke volumes more; "Firstly because here it's 'Minutemen General Nathan Reynolds' and secondly gathered here in this room, you are the designated leaders and or representatives of the five major blocks of the dozen or so factions vying for power, position and in the end, long term dominance of the Commonwealth. Given how the last six months have been going for everyone, I would think that getting a better read on the terrain, and possibly finding a way to reconcile some things would be preferable to spending more resources and people on trying to wrestle things around as you'd like them, or maybe not?"
For his part, Maxson held a stony face, and Nate figured him to be one hell of a poker player, yet even so, the younger man's eyes were almost cowed in the presence of a fellow, and decidedly senior commanding officer, and solider. And given the disadvantage of location, the Brotherhood Elder was willing to admit to himself that he did not feel as invincible all but surrounded here on the ground as he might have on the Prydwen, which was of course he now realized, the point. "The artificial detective, he is not a leader; he represents no faction I am aware of." Arthur said, grasping for some ground to regain, knowing he could not afford to look any weaker in front of this gathering.
"Nick, defines his existence by selflessly helping others, he is under no selfish pretenses, and as such is the representative of the common person in the Commonwealth," Nate said casually, almost informally; "Or more to the point, an observer of the common person living in the Commonwealth," he held his hand up before anyone could interrupt him and then nodded towards Valentine; "Strictly speaking, as he has the memories of a prewar Police Detective as his base operating system, and has lived for the last fifty plus years in the wasteland now, he is one of the closest things to a truly neutral and dispassionate observer as we can get, aside from myself of course, but as I have my own biases, entanglements and vested interests that would needlessly complicate, I instead am here representing the Minutemen."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence." Nick grunted in amusement as Maxson held his tongue behind his teeth and groused softly before pulling the last empty chair out, and sat down with more dignity than he likely felt, before he tapped the table top loudly with his knuckles and demanded; "Very well, I'll listen, and then when I talk, you will all listen, and whatever the outcome of this… meeting is, know that the full weight of the Brotherhood's might hangs in the balance, ready to fall where it may most be needed."
"Childish threats from a child with a gun." A masked woman in worn but sturdy clothes and light leather armor chortled out dourly, her arms crossing over her chest as a bald headed man in sunglasses and a greaser outfit smirked broadly. "If I had known this was the intent of this meeting, bringing all of this leadership here at once like this, I might had taken further precautions. Like not coming, or blowing a hole in that wall big enough to park a Vertabird in."
"This is why I told you what you wanted to hear, in order for you to come here." Nate said, looking at who he knew to be Desdemona, but has thus far only given out the name "Lamp Lighter" when asked by the others.
"If I may be so bold, the tactical analysis holds a less than thirty percent chance of success of any sort of violent moves made by anyone here, removing the threat of direct outside intervention of course, given that only the Militia forces here are in fact armed." The Institute Courser, X6-88 observed in an even and dry tone, as if resigned to whatever might happen next, no matter what that outcome might be.
"The machine has a point," Danse said plainly, his brow furrowed slightly as he looked to his onetime recruit; "Why are only the Minutemen armed here?"
"Can't believe I'm agreeing with the tin man over there," Handcock said as he lit a cigarette and then took a deep drag, blowing the smoke out as he continued, "But I don't like being so far apart from my shotgun or knife. Makes me nervous when I can't sort someone out the easy way. "
Nate sighed deeply and waved his hands around widely; "My house, my rules, my responsibility to protect it and keep all of my guests, safe. Any other questions or are we done fucking around here?" the tone he ended on might have been called condescending, if it had not been so commanding and lacking in arrogance.
Having earned silence from the gathered people of interest, Nate took a few quick beats to ensure he had everyone's attention before standing up, and speaking clearly, slowly, as if he was sharing a personal secret; "Mayor McDonough, how many active security guards do you have at Diamond City?"
"I, uh… I'm sure I don't have any hard numbers with me at this time," McDonough said hurriedly, confusion more clear on his face than anyone else's, his eyes darting back and forth for a moment before he regained his composure; "Besides the fact that I fail to see what kind of question that is, it's none of you or anyone else's worry, or business, and if it is meant as a threat, I would remind you all that we have our wall, and almost every citizen is armed, some far more than others, but as every Super Mutant in Boston knows well, any attack on Diamond City is doomed to fail!"
"Unless I told Lancer Capitan Kells to strafe the market a few times before dropping a platoon of Brotherhood Knights and Soldiers right on top of you." Maxson said before Nate could reply, but with that interjection, the General decided to flip his planned dialogue around, and let Maxson talk himself into trouble for him instead: "Oh yes, like you did at County Crossroads last week? That was spectacular." He said waiting for the younger mans pride to trip him up. It took only a heartbeat for that to happen…
"It is a sight to behold," Arthur said, almost beaming, "Power Armor falling from the sky, weapons directing death at foes, the glory of battle is enough to compete with our sacred duty, but we can do so much more. We just happen to be really good at fighting the plagues of humanity."
"Funny how one plague begets another." Nick said dryly as he picked at a damaged patch seam on his trench coat.
"Or how losing two Vertabirds and almost a half dozen troops to a one-eyed runt mutant with a bent fatman and degraded shells constitutes glory." Nate said darkly, drawing all attention back to himself, his eyes dark and piercing, daring anyone to contradict him as he spoke again, fixing McDonough with a hard look; "Twenty-four active Guards patrol within, and around DC, and you have barely half of that in semi-retired reserves and a hand full of volunteers you'd let strap on a helmet and pads." The surprise only covered about half of the room, and Nate pounced on it like a horny deathclaw in springtime: "Between what you can grow, your water, and what reserves you have, I say you could last six to ten weeks if you are smart about it from day one, and can get all of your troops pulled in and lock the front gate. Otherwise you'd have less than two days before a large enough force wipes you out, raids, rapes and razes Diamond City down to the bleachers, and then sets up shop themselves. Only three, no… Four groups have the manpower and resources to bother with that, a three of them are sitting right here, and two of them already knew this."
Danse looked stricken as he blurted out, "The Brotherhood—"
"Would never do that?" Preston cut him off and arched his eyebrows, before tilting his head towards Handcock; "But what about Goodneighbor? I'm actually kind of surprised you've not made a play for it yet, it's in a decent location, easy to defend, and with no aerial defenses to speak of, you could drop your shock troops in on their heads and make it good and messy in no time."
"Ahh Garvy," Handcock sighed, "Now, why'd you have to go and put that idea into their heads?"
"Because it's true, and they've already planned it." General Reynolds said flatly, looking to the Mayor in red with challenge on his face.
Handcock didn't rise to the bait, showing surprisingly good judgment in reading what was happening; "We got only half again more guns guarding my town than McDonough, but while everyone in Goodneighbor armed, the big deal is that it's smaller, and tighter fighting. We'd make anyone who tried pay a hefty bill prying it from our hands." The ghoul crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back, eyeing Nate closely, a thought occurring to him just then, as Ingram at last spoke up.
"Say what you want," the power frame clad woman said matter-of-factly; "But between our air power, power armor, weapons, training and some other tricks we're working on, I know I can speak for the Paladin and Elder when I say, if you are going to ask about the Brotherhood, the simple answer is; more and better than any of you." Danse seemed pleased enough with that reply, but Maxson was incised: "If I thought it necessary, I could order every settlement, strafed, bombed and burned to ash, and within the month, all who survived would be in flight, in chains, or in fatigues, getting the stupidity of the wasteland flogged from them. If I am forced to marshal the full might of the Brotherhood of Steel, I could have reinforcements from the Capitol Wasteland here within two weeks, while the fullness of three hundred strong and willing warriors marching and flying into pitched battle drove forward, killing everything that raises a weapon."
"Only three hundred?" Nate asked, chidingly; "Now, I know you only have enough power armor for about a third of that, and that's a seventy thirty split between the old T-45's, and the upgraded T-60's, plus whatever T-51's you have hidden away, or whatever else you have salvaged for spare parts, which is still three times the number that the Railroad can muster on a good day, am I right, Lamp Lighter?"
Desdemona's masked face didn't betray any emotion, but the clear tension in her shoulders and the pensive expression on Deacon's sunglassed face looked more than a little uncomfortable.
"We have hundreds of contacts and people we can call on for a wide range of actions, but you are correct that in a stand up fight, we couldn't do more than inconvenience any or all of you here. Which is why when we fight, we don't fight fair."
Nate held his hand up and waved her off before she or Deacon could say more, as he looked to the Courser and Doctor Ayro, smiling softly; "But no guerrilla force has ever been able to decisively beat a professional army by itself in the recorded history of warfare, not without help from another professional army… This brings us to the Institute, the only obvious faction able to rival or surpass the Brotherhood in any meaningful way, strategically speaking that is."
Ayro finally spoke, the disdain in his voice only matched by the shock on his face; "As if we would ever help the Railroad! They are misguided thieves and ideologues who have done nothing but make an already tenuous situation worse with their meddling!"
"On that at the very least we can agree." Maxson said dismissively as McDonough squirmed in his seat and eyed Danse nervously.
"Doctor Ayro," Reynolds said, matter-of-factly, "Tell me, besides the Coursers, how many combat capable synths could you bring to bear if you had to? I mean, if for some reason you needed to launch a full scale assault upon a location, and you threw everything but the kitchen sink at it, what sort of numbers might we see?" the amused expression on his face was faint, but clear as the scientist sputtered for a moment then sighed; "I get the impression that you are trying to make some sort of point." Nate now smiled in reply; "You would be only partly correct, if you please sir?"
Ayro frowned slightly then shrugged; "Very well, if we activated all of our current deployment ready Synth's including the small catch of decommissioned Gen one security models, The Institute would be fielding some four hundred and fifty units."
"Four hundred and fifty-seven to be exact." X6-88 offered helpfully, before he made a confused face, and Doctor Ayro snapped at him to be silent.
"But," Nate said smirking, "you only ever have twenty-four active and operational Coursers," he pointed out, his tone sliding from humorous and conversational, into hard bitten and judgmental: "And frankly Doctor, given what I've seen, as impressive as they can be, the Institute's overall strategic plan is practically nonexistent, and the tactical doctrine is, if I may be brutally honest and blunt here, fucking retarded."
The venom behind the end of that sentence brought out a mild collective gasp from all assembled there ratcheted up the tension in the room, if only because so few of the assembled leaders had ever heard Nate swear. Nick on the other hand just chuckled as he lit a cigarette and leaned back in his seat and mused aloud; "There's that brash and ballsy Bostonian honesty I've missed so much."
Nate smirked after a moment then turned his head to the still open doors and nodded to the Gunnery Sergeant; "MacReady, bring in the box." A nod in reply confirmed the request, a few moments before the Gunnery Sergeant walked in carrying a green and blue foot locker in his arms. Walking over, he set it down in the middle of the table, saluted and then walked to the doors, shutting them before standing in front of them as if guarding.
Opening the lid, Nate started to pull out armor, crude but sturdy radios, a backpack, and other such items, passing them to his right, for inspection. "As you can see," he said curtly, his eyes sweeping the table as he spoke; "This is all the sort of kit a professional solider would need in the field, everything but a weapon with ammo, and of course, food and water, but as you can see, this is all matched, refined, and as well appointed as we can manage." The first pieces of armor had been studded, hardened and doubled layered leather, fairly light, flexible and sturdy, but now light weight and reinforced Combat Armor, painted blue and emblazoned with the Minutemen symbol was being passed around while he spoke; "This is far from the first set we have made, as of this last Monday, every single Minuteman stationed here, and at every major settlement we either control, or are aligned with, has one of these two armor sets equipped, a lightened version has been handed out to our caravans and provisioners alongside the guards assigned to them."
As the armor made its way around, Danse spoke once more, the impressed tone of his voice was not lost on the assembled; "This is rather good armor, pre-war salvage or not, it's on par with anything the Field Scribes or Lancers wear at the least." Maxson grunted almost absently as he turned a leather helmet over in his hands, then set it down, as if something had just occurred to him, his eyes narrowed at Reynolds; "You're not feeling us out, you know what each faction can bring to bear, you've been involved to one level or another for weeks and months now… And we know next to nothing about what actual numbers the Minutemen can bring about." Maxson stood at the end of his statement, his gaze riveted on the General as the older man's smile suddenly broadened in humorous glee.
"Oh of course, how stupid of me." Doctor Ayro fumed at last realizing the gravity of what Reynolds had done, once The Brotherhood Elder had voiced it out loud, "This was never about working out any sort of truce or surrender of one faction to another, this was all about you… Well, making us reveal what kind of fight each might put up against you, but—"
"That would be pointless because as Elder Maxson already pointed out, Nate here has been in the know for a while now." Valentine commented as he stubbed out the last of his smoke, and then took a drink from a whiskey bottle, a small smirk on his worn and damaged rubberized foam lips.
"Which means," Handcock said admonishingly, "He's forced us all to lay our cards, such as they may be, all on the table, without letting us collaborate or deduce what his own might be."
"Thirty-seven." Nate said flatly, sweeping his gaze over the room as he stood up, his arms crossing over his chest; "Thirty-seven settlements across the Commonwealth, from Far Harbor in the north, down to Vault eighty-eight, from here on the coast, back to Sanctuary near Vault one-eleven, and all the way to Nukaworld, the Minutemen have either established or allied with settlements across the sum of the greater Boston area, and now provide patrols and escorts along the roads, and we run over twice than many trade routes between them all, and as some of you might have noticed, food and clean water has been much more plentiful recently, thanks to our farms and major settlements, and we have the means to protect them thanks to the Brotherhood's negligence and the Institute's tactical waste."
He gestured to Garvey who nodded, and then picked up a rifle from a shelf on the wall, and explained; "This is a standard issue, Minuteman rebuilt model fifteen, Service Rifle. Chambered in standard five fifty-six, this semi-automatic rifle was part of a massive salvage operation we completed a month ago at the National Guard Armory near County Crossing, along with other National Guard outposts and catches, and from the Revere Radar Station." Preston manipulated it deftly in his power armor, showing that the mag well was empty, and the chamber clear, the recently refinished wood, and cleaned metal, along with the stenciled in Minuteman logo, set it apart from the typical salvaged and improvised weapon that was sometimes common: "With it, your typical Minuteman, after our four weeks mandated training, is able to lay down consistent, focused and accurate fire at almost any range, on the order of twenty rounds in as many seconds, while other members move to engage with other now standardized weapons like, Laser Muskets, Assault Rifles, bolt action Rifles, and our new Ion Rifles." Laying the Service Rifle on the table, he pulled down what was clearly a repainted and modified Institute Rifle, which he then loaded, powered on, and then fired a single blinding white bolt at a wooden silhouette propped up against the far wall near the door. It broke in half, and smoldered on the ground, a scorch mark on the stonework behind.
Nate smiled at that, everyone else having jumped slightly when the shot had been taken. Clearing his throat, he nodded to Doctor Ayro; "Given the fact that Gen two and three synths in the field tend to have a short life span, or are prone to dropping their weapons and running when too damaged, we've been able to gather more than a few of these, and thanks to the simple and logical design, we've been able to refit and upgrade them with surprising ease. Keeping our men in power cells is the only major issue at this point." Looking back to Elder Maxson, he then hefted the Service Rifle and gave it a once over himself before laying back down; "The Brotherhood's fixation on the ARE nine, laser platform and its derivatives, means you lost out on a surprisingly intact stockpile of standard issue National Guard Service Rifle's, and even a small but almost perfectly preserved shipment of R ninty-one's. Hell, we even managed to scrounge a few crates of ancient M one Garand's to use."
"We have the means to recycle and produce our own power cells," Ingram said hotly, her face guarded and wary even as she spoke, her gaze drifting to Doctor Ayro and the Courser, "As clearly does the Institute, something I'm sure you struggle with." Her tone was wary, and unconvinced, and she eyed Nate closely as he sat back down.
After a long moment's pause, General Reynolds spoke almost softly, "I served in the Seventh Army Group, 2nd Battalion, 108th Infantry Regiment, Third Platoon, Bravo Company, under General Chase" His gaze drifted away from the room for a moment, before he brought his eyes back to the table; "For you who may not be fully up on your Sino-American War history, the one oh eight was made up of both rotating National Guard units, and the leftovers of the third and fourth battalions of the same army group, that is to say, the forces that had been fighting in and around Japan and the Red-Chinese coastline after Anchorage was occupied, we were also part of the force that was pulled back and made the overland march on Anchorage, striking out as part of the second push on the city once the T51's were deployed after a commando drop behind enemy lines. We fought for three months straight right alongside the fifth and seventh shock infantry in the power armor, hell, it's where I learned how to wear and fight in it, and how to fix it. This situation is only complicated because there are more than two sides fighting, but it's also more simple because there is only really one side worth fighting for."
Nate stood up, having captured everyone's attention with his tone and volume; "I'm not here to try and broker some kind of ceasefire or fan the flames of conflict, I'm here to force each of you to look me in the eye, and tell me why you think your faction deserves my support. Because I'm here to tell you, none of you is getting anywhere else without me, or the Minutemen, the people of the commonwealth will see to that. If in the end, you manage to broker some sort of peace or agreement with the other factions, then all the better, and if not, all you will have done is confirmed my reasons for wanting to kick your ass out of Boston, permanently."
A/N: This started as a oneshot idea, built around my biggest single hangup with Fallout 4: you can't broker any alliances between any of the factions besides the Minutemen and whomever you pick to get you to the end of the main story line.
I then took a few hints and cues from Kirbilius Clausius and their unfinished saga "War Never Ends" but stayed true to my own playthrough and ideas.
I have at least two other parts in mind, and have no idea if this will snowball into something bigger, or just be a short blurb of an idea.
Please read, review, follow and favorite if you enjoyed this and wantmore!