Chapter one: Ghosts
Maxson glanced over files on his desk, a tumbler of whiskey glistening next to the intimidating pile of paperwork. His reluctance to do any real work was glaringly obvious. He tossed open a file. Paladin Danse's new recruit, Iliana Lynn Anderson. He thumbed through the pages that he had nearly memorized, widow, mother, well versed in prewar law, educated, resourceful, and a vault dweller. He had only met one other vault dweller in his life, when he was a child at the Citadel, training under Sarah Lyons' watchful and caring eyes. The lone wanderer of those days proved to be an asset to the brotherhood. In her short time with them in the Citadel, she had left her mark on him. It was a curious coincidence that another living, breathing vault tech remnant should show up.
So far Knight Anderson had proved to be somewhat of a stubborn thorn in his side. But Danse's glowing recommendation had him pushing his annoyance to the side, maybe in time his feelings would subside. And maybe in time her defiance would as well. He could only hope.
Closing the file Maxson stood, he felt restless at this late hour. He decided to escape to the one place on the ship he could find peace. Throwing on his heavy coat he began towards the foredeck of the Prydwen. His boots heavy on the metal deck as he sauntered through the silence of the sleeping ship.
In the doorway he saw her, legs dangling over the rail of the foredeck sitting alone in the blackness of the Commonwealth night. Truth is he had always seen her since the day Paladin Danse brought her aboard the Prydwen, his home away from home. But now, sitting here in the night, unaware of his company, she didn't look like the hardened woman she did when they first met. Instead, Maxson mused, she looked like a woman lost, a woman not just at war with the world, but at war with herself. So much of her was still a mystery, but one thing was certain to him, she had proven to be invaluable to the brotherhood thus far, no matter how stubborn she was.
He cleared his throat, making his presence known, "Perhaps you have not been informed, Knight Anderson, but this area is off limits after lights out."
She looked up; hardly shaken by is presence, or his words. "Oh." Was all the slipped from her lips, but she didn't move, only looked back out towards the Commonwealth.
He grew agitated, had she even heard what he said? "What business do you have out here?"
"Ghosts, sir." She continued to stare outward.
"I'm sorry, did you just say ghosts? That's preposterous, Knight." Arthur was shocked, surely this mystery woman didn't believe in silly childhood superstitions.
"My ghosts. At night, they haunt me. I have found myself in a world where everyone I have known and loved has been dead and gone for hundreds of years. Surely you have yours too. Perhaps yours roar like lions." Her last statement had his mind whirling, surely she wasn't referring to... no, she couldn't be, she had no way of knowing. Her eyes locked onto him, hollow and piercing blue seas that rivaled his own.
"Well, perhaps. As Elder I have had my share of loss, but we must push forward for the good of the Brotherhood." He hated spewing this unfeeling rhetoric, but it was a safe response.
"Of course. Well my apologies, I was unaware this area was restricted. I will retire to my bunk, sir." She began to stand, the wind catching her wild, blonde curls in a flurry about her now noticeably tear streaked face.
She turned for the door, Maxson grabbed her shoulder before she could exit, "It is understandable if you need a moment of peace, Anderson. If this is where you find it, then so be it. The foredeck has proven to be a great place to escape ghosts." He couldn't deny her need for escape, as he had retreated here to do the same thing.
A small smile played briefly on her lips, "Thank you, Elder." She muttered nearly inaudibly against the wind, her hair still blowing about madly as she opened the door.
"Rest well, soldier." He said in a dismissal.
She turned in the doorway, "The wicked never rest, so why should we?" Fire in her eyes as she pushed the door closed and left him alone.
Arthur rubbed his temples tentatively, she was a peculiar women. The words she spoke poetic and strange, like a prewar tome. Much like a prewar book, she was worn and battered, but her words held true. The wicked never rest, so why should he?
And rest seemed to constantly elude him, which is why he found himself roaming the deck of his airship at night, pacing holes into the floor. So much weight bore down on his shoulders, so many heavy concerns for a twenty year old man. Concerns that his peers at the Citadel, which he had once trained with a lifetime ago, would never know.
He looked down, noticing a small metallic object by the edge of the deck. A gold plated flip lighter, the initials I.L.A. carved in an intricate print scrawled flawlessly on its surface. Pulling a cigar out of his coat pocket he made note to return the object to Knight Anderson.