As usual, I'm hanging out by the entrance gate to Goodneighbor. This is my normal guard position, but I'm off today. I'm only here because there's really nothing else to do in this town. I mean, there's the Third Rail-the bar down in the old subway station-but I'm not in the mood or have enough caps-to drink, and I've heard every single one of Magnolia's songs at least a hundred times each. After a while, they start to grate on you. To top it all off, Whitechapel Charlie is being an ass... as usual.
The only interesting thing going on is that a drifter rolled in a week ago. A guy in a long, brown coat and an olive drab military-style hat, like the kind they used to wear in the olden days. He carried with him the meanest sniper rifle I've ever seen. I'd go talk to him if I wasn't scared he'd put a bullet between my eyes. Then, to make it even saucier, a day later, a couple more drifters came through. After questioning a few of the settlers, they headed over to the Third Rail. Only ten minutes later, they left.
A few days after all that, the goddamn Brotherhood of Steel showed up in a big-ass blimp, spotlights roaming the ground, proclaiming that they're here to help the Commonwealth.
And, I say that's a load of bullshit. I hope they don't come to Goodneighbor.
Besides the Brotherhood, the stranger is intriguing, with his weird hat and scary-looking vagrant friends. Maybe I'll stop by later on. Say hello. Unofficially welcome him to Goodneighbor-since he already got the official welcome from Mayor Hancock himself.
I sit on the wall for a while, looking up at the sky. From here, I can just barely hear the radio that is perpetually tuned to Diamond City Radio. One of my favorites plays.
"In olden days a glimpse of stocking was looked on as something shocking. But, now, God knows... Anything goes..."
I listen to the radio for a while, my back pressed against the useless lantern ornament stuck into the top of the wall. In the bright hour of noon, yet another drifter comes through the gate. This time, instead of a cute guy or a pair of creepy guys, a pretty woman in a bright blue, brand-new vault suit waltzes in. Along with the suit and the look of wonderment on her face, I can tell she's a vault dweller. Unmistakable. Her blond hair is pulled into a messy bun on the back of her head. On her wrist sits a relic: a brand-spanking-new Pip-Boy. At her heel is a dog unlike any other I've seen in the Commonwealth. Now, I've seen rabid mongrels, harmless mutts, even mutated dogs that look like skin wrapped around a skeleton. The one who is this woman's companion cannot be a purebred German shepherd. This woman is all kinds of odd.
She looks around, getting her bearings. She spots me almost right away, sitting on the low wall in front of the gate, and I immediately avert my eyes. I hope she doesn't think I'm some mannerless bumpkin because I was staring at her.
"Hey," she says, coming closer.
I glance up at the sky, heart pumping in my chest. She's going to knock me out. I know she is. I look at her, cracking an embarrassed smile. "Hi."
"What's your name?" she asks.
"Bug," I reply, wary.
She stares at me for a moment too long. "Well, hi, Bug. This is Goodneighbor, right?"
"Uh, yes." Didn't she see the bright-ass neon sign on the way in?
"And, the Memory Den is...?"
"Look, lady. A tour's gonna cost ya some bubblegum." Boy, if Hancock knew I was extorting this poor vault dweller, he'd make me clean his toilet for a month.
She narrows her eyes at me, then a slow grin splits her face. She digs into her pocket and tosses me an unopened pack of gum. "Are you my tour guide?"
"Sure am." I hop down from my perch and lead her to the shops. "These are the shops. KL-E-0's shop, Kill or Be Killed, sells weapons and ammo, and Daisy's Discounts sells-well, Daisy sells just about everything else." I take the vault dweller through the alley, and we pass by the Old State House. "This is the Old State House. Mayor Hancock lives here with about twenty personal guards." We turn a corner, and here's where the most people hang out. Loitering against buildings or cooking over the fire pits on the back end of the square. "The Memory Den's right there," I say, pointing at the unmissable red neon sign. "There's also the Third Rail over there-a bar. And, Hotel Rexford is right next to the Den. Questions?"
"Just one," she says, taking in the sights. "You ever heard of Vault One-Eleven?"
I squint at her. What a strange question. "Yeah. People say it's haunted. Other people talk about the Sole Survivor. Y'know. The only person whose stasis pod didn't fuck up. But, that's just a myth."
"A myth, right. Just curious. Thanks for the tour, kid." She walks past me, heading for the Memory Den. Underneath the machine gun strapped across her back, I see the bright yellow numbers on the back of her suit: 111.
"What the fuck?" I whisper to myself. As soon as she's in the building, I bolt back to the Old State House and tear into it without knocking. Hancock's guards ignore me as I run up the stairs. They're used to my barging in unannounced.
I see Fahrenheit, Hancock's head bodyguard first. She lounges on the couch, picking at her nails with a combat knife. She starts when I come in but settles back into her position when she sees that it's me.
The ghoul sits at his desk, dressed in his usual red frock coat and tricorn hat. An unlit cigarette sits between the first two fingers of his right hand. He holds a flip lighter in the other. "Bug? What's going on? You look like you've seen a ghost."
"Because I think I just did," I say, striding over to stand before his desk.
"What're you talking about?" His tone becomes stern. "You didn't dig into my stash of jet, did you?"
"What? No!" I brace my hands on the desktop. "You know those stories going around about Vault One-Eleven?"
"That it's haunted?" he says with a scoff. He clicks the lighter, a tiny flame popping to life. He lights the cigarette and takes a long drag before continuing. "That's just talk, Bug. You know as well as I do that there isn't such a thing as ghosts."
"But, there is such a thing as ghouls."
He barks out a laugh. "Alright, kiddo. What's the deal?"
"The Sole Survivor is real. I swear, I just saw her. She's in the Memory Den right now."
Hancock stands, the cigarette dangling from his thin bottom lip. "You don't say."
"I say."
"Well, let's mosey on over and have a look-see, shall we?" He moves toward the door with me right behind him. Fahrenheit makes to stand, but Hancock waves her back down. "Keep your shirt on. I'll be alright."
She stares hard at him, then nods once. "Just be careful."
"Will do." Hancock leads the way downstairs.
Out on the street, I accidentally run right into someone. A pair of strong hands steadies me, and I look up out of instinct. From the shade under the brim of the man's fedora, a pair of yellow eyes glow bright.
"Synth, huh?" Hancock asks, looking the trench-coated man up and down. Upon closer inspection, I notice his grayish skin is missing in some places, revealing a network of tubes and wires.
"Yes, sir. I am indeed," the synth says. "Is that going to be a problem?"
"None at all. Goodneighbor is of the people, for the people. And I mean any kind of people, my friend. I can promise you that. But, please. Allow me to officially welcome you to Goodneighbor." He offers his right hand to the synth. "Mayor Hancock."
The artificial skin of his right hand is missing completely. His spindly, metal fingers grasp Hancock's gnarled ones. "Well, thank you. It's a fine town you have here, Mayor. I'm Nick Valentine."
"Ah. The famous Diamond City detective. I should've known better. My apologies. Anything I can help you with?"
"No, no, thank you. I'm just on my way to the Memory Den."
"What a coincidence," I say. "I just sent-"
Hancock cuts me off with a smack on the shoulder. "Now, now, Buggy. Let the gentleman go on."
Nick Valentine tips his hat at us, then continues on his way.
Once the synth disappears into the Memory Den, I tilt my head back to glare at Hancock. "What was that for?"
"You nincompoop. They're obviously in cahoots."
"Nincompoop? Cahoots? What year were you born in, old man?"
He ignores that completely. "If that stranger is who you say she is, and Nick Valentine-of all people-is coming to meet her at the Memory Den-of all places... something strange indeed is going down."
"So, why couldn't I tell him about the woman?"
"I... Shut up." He punctuates by whacking me on the shoulder again.
I dance back a few steps before he can hit me again. "Hey, knock it off, grandpa."
"Enough with the name-calling, alright? Jeez."
"Don't you mean something like 'golly gee wilickers'? Or, 'criminy'?"
"I oughta knock you out, kid."
"If you can catch me first." With that, I run away, weaving through the back alleys until I make a complete circle back to where we stood in front of the Old State House. By then, Hancock has gone back to his office, where he glares down at me through a window. Like the mature adult I am, I stick my tongue out at him. He drops the moth-eaten curtains, obscuring his face.
No matter how much he hates me, he's got to admit it: He loves me like the daughter he never had.
I look back toward the entrance gate, wondering if maybe I should take up my position again. Then, I figure I might as well just bite the bullet and introduce myself to the cute homeless guy.
I hop down the steps to the subway and yank open the rusty door. I'm greeted by the sound of Magnolia's voice and the tuxedo-clad bouncer, a ghoul called Ham. He welcomes me with a sharp nod. I give him a little smile before going down even more steps. Though he's a man of very few words, I really like him for some reason.
Successfully navigating the crowded tables, I sidle up to the bar, where the foul-mouthed Mr. Handy, Whitechapel Charlie, serves his patrons. To my left, Magnolia, barely covered up in a red-sequined cocktail dress, croons into a microphone.
"Hey, Charlie," I say, leaning on the bar.
The robot focuses his camera-lens eyes on me. "And, what do you want?"
"The guy who came to town a few days ago. The one in the green hat. Is he here?"
"Ah, yes. That one. Should be in the VIP room."
"One more thing," I say. "Do you know anything about him?" I want to know exactly what I'm getting into when I go in there, though I already have an inkling.
"Seems to be a mercenary. Now, are you going to order something, or are you going to just clutter up my bar all day?"
"Thanks, Charlie." I move deeper into the bar. The back room-the so-called "VIP room"-is unguarded, which makes me question why it's called the VIP room in the first place.
I stop just outside the threshold and peer into the room.
It isn't much different than the main seating area of the bar, really. A few tables and chairs. The only real differences are that there are a few wingback chairs and couches situated into intimate clusters and that the furniture is in slightly better condition.
The man sits in one of the wingback chairs. His rifle stands alone against the wall next to him. He has a cigarette in one hand and a beer bottle in the other. Ah, these must be his vices. Much less worse than Hancock's, though.
This close, I notice the left sleeve of his coat is missing, revealing the green sleeve of his shirt underneath. Strapped to his right thigh is a small satchel. Strapped to his left thigh are two lines of bullets. A pair of a binoculars is tied to his belt. Two bullets are bound to the left side of his hat by a length of green fabric.
I step into the room, and he looks up from whatever he was staring at. He sits up a little straighter.
"Hi," I say, "I'm Bug."
He raises an eyebrow at me. "MacCready. Nice to meet you."
"Likewise."
We stare at each other for an awkward moment before he takes a long drag on his cigarette. A cloud of smoke covers his face when he exhales, but it quickly dissipates. "Was there something you wanted?"
"Oh, right. I just wanted to, um, welcome you to Goodneighbor, is all. So, welcome."
"Oh. I've already been welcomed by the mayor, but... thanks, I guess. Is that all?"
"Uh, yeah, I guess."
"Alright." He slumps back down, going back to staring into space.
"Are you okay?" I ask, a little worried.
He nods, and that's it. Disappointing, to say the least. I leave him to his beer and his thoughts.
Hancock is a fucking stalker. I can clearly see him staring out of his window at the Memory Den, and I know he's waiting for the Vault 111 ghost to come out with Nick. And, well, I'm a fucking stalker, too, because I'm staring at Hancock just as hard as he's staring at that door.
Eventually, something flickers in the corner of my vision-the ghost, Nick Valentine, and the dog coming out of the building-and it draws my eye to them. They stand together on the sidewalk, and Nick is talking to a goddamn ghost. Oh, my goodness, he really is. I can't believe it.
I look back up at Hancock's window, but he's disappeared-only to reappear as he exits his house. He strides over to the ghost and Nick, stopping short a few yards away. I hustle over, giving in to my nosiness.
I've never seen Hancock so... struck. It's like he's-well, it's like he's seen a ghost.
"H... hi," he rasps, giving a pathetic little wave.
The ghost of Vault 111 looks at him, her eyebrows up. Nick watches without saying a word. I stare at Hancock dumbly, my mouth hanging open. All his usual confidence and swagger just went whoosh right out the door.
"Hello," she says. "I'm assuming you're Mayor Hancock...?"
Hancock composes himself in a flash, and then he's all mayoral again. "Yes, I am. Good to meet you. Welcome to Goodneighbor." He holds out his hand to her.
She takes it. "Thank you." Her eyes graze over me, and she drops me a wink.
I'm paralyzed with what I think might be fear or nausea or a horrific combination of both.
Hancock notices the wink. Of course he does. Nothing ever gets past him. "What was that?"
"Hm?" The ghost feigns ignorance. I think I like her.
He narrows his eyes at her, then at me, then back at her, then at the dog. "Alright. Well... bye." He turns an about-face and heads for his house.
"Hold on a second!" the ghost calls out after him.
He turns back again.
"Don't you want to know my name?"
"Oh, my, yes. How rude of me." He comes back, transforming our square back into a pentagram.
"Vivian," she says, "from Vault One-Eleven."
Hancock goes completely still. Eerily still. I can't really tell if he's breathing or not. Then, he says, "Oh. Oh, wow."
"Told ya I was right," I mutter to him, which he ignores.
"One-One-Eleven, you say?" he inquires. Once again: Whoosh.
"Yes. I believe I'm the one they call the Sole Survivor," she says.
I feel my eyes pop open as wide as they can go. "Holy shit, you're real."
The Survivor looks at me with a faint smile. "Real as real can get, kid."
Hancock clears his throat. Her attention shifts back to him as he says, "So, Vault One-Eleven... That's a long ways away. What brings you here?"
"We're working on a special case," Nick cuts in. "Confidential, I'm afraid."
"A special case?" I ask, curiosity piqued. That bit of information certainly makes MacCready's appearance boring as all hell.
"Top secret," Nick reiterates.
"Well, perhaps I could help," Hancock offers. "I'm quite knowledgeable."
"Knowledgeable about what?" the Survivor asks.
"Quite."
She cracks a smile. "Alright, Einstein. You ever hear of the Institute?"
Hancock's bravado falters again. "Everyone's heard of the Institute."
"You know where it is?"
"No one does."
"Then, sorry to waste your time." She gestures for Nick to follow her, and the dog follows behind them.
"Now, hold on a second," Hancock says, turning her earlier words against her. "I'd really like to help you out."
"Why's that?"
"I like to help people. Don't you?"
"I do." She looks him up and down. "We're looking for my son, Shaun. He was taken from my husband and me in the vault."
Hancock opens his mouth, then closes it again, then opens it to say the most idiotic thing he could say in this moment: "You're married?"
The Survivor pauses, a familiar sadness in her eye. She subconsciously twists the gold ring on her left ring finger as she replies, "Not anymore."
The silence following is brief but full of static charge.
"Well, how can I help?" Hancock asks.
"The Institute has him, so help me find the Institute."
"Bug and I can do that."
I look at him like he's lost his marbles, which I'm almost positive he has. He's volunteering me? What gives him the right?
"Is that right?" The Survivor looks at me again. "I'd be glad to have you both."
Well, if I'm going down, I'm bringing someone else with me.
"Oh, if you're looking for more security, Whitechapel Charlie told me there's a mercenary hanging out down in the Third Rail," I say.
"Well, let's go meet 'em," she says. "If you'd be so kind as to lead the way."
"Sure. Right this way." I lead the group to the bar, where we move through the front room to get to the VIP room. When I look in, he's still sitting in the same spot, looking sullen.
Without any kind of warning, the Survivor struts in.
MacCready looks up at her.
"Hey," she says. "You looking for work?"
He appraises her with a quick up-down. "Two-fifty a week."
"A little steep. How about two even?"
Is she fucking bargaining with a mercenary? She is definitely not from here.
"Two twenty-five," he says.
"Done." She stoops to dig around in the satchel the dog strapped to the dog's back. I try not to be nosy, but it's exceedingly difficult. She just has the standard traveling stuff: snacks, stimpaks, and caps, which appear to be separated into neat, cloth-wrapped bundles. She fishes out four of the bundles and deposits them into MacCready's waiting hands. "Two hundred."
"I'll need to count these," he says as he starts on the first bundle.
"No problem. There should be fifty in each," the Survivor tells him. "I really wouldn't want to short you." I expected sarcasm, but she seems genuine.
Once MacCready has finished counting, he stands and pockets the caps. "Alright. What're we doing?"
"Finding the Institute," she says.
MacCready stares at her for a moment-then starts taking the caps out of his pockets. "Hell, no. I'm not taking caps from a crazy person."
"Hey, now," Nick pipes up, striding into the room. "She's serious, son."
MacCready takes in Nick but doesn't seem affected by the synth's appearance. He looks back to the Survivor. "What do you want with the Institute?"
"I'm trying to find my son," she tells him, "and I know they have him."
"How-?"
"It's a long story. You just have to trust me." She pauses. "I'm sorry. I didn't catch your name."
"Robert MacCready," he says, holding out his hand to her. They shake. I can't help but feel a prick of jealousy. I didn't get that kind of introduction from him. I got him grunting his last name at me without so much as a handshake.
"Glad to meet you," she says. "Vivian, the-uh, the Sole Survivor of Vault One-Eleven."
The mercenary doesn't seem to be affected by that, either. "Okay, cool."
The Survivor grins, then turns back to us. "Alright, people, let's go."
"Where are we going?" Hancock asks as we head back out to the main room. I walk at the back of the group, just behind MacCready.
"I'd like to head northwest, back to Sanctuary," the Survivor says. "We need to set up the settlers there with some accommodations first. I promised 'em I would help them out."
We're on the surface now, aiming for the entrance to Goodneighbor. It's been a long time since I've left. A couple of months, at least. Hancock quietly breaks away, probably going to let Fahrenheit know he's leaving.
"And, what's my part in this?" MacCready asks.
"Look, I can use all the help I can get," the Survivor says.
"Help with what, exactly?"
"Setting up the settlement. There are a few people I met along the way that need help, and I'm slowly working on those things, too."
"Maybe we should split up," I suggest. "We'd solve problems faster so we can get on track to find the Institute."
"Good idea, Bug!" the Survivor says. "We'll split up." When we're outside the gate, in the glow of the Goodneighbor sign, she turns to look us over-just as Hancock rejoins us. She taps her bottom lip with her finger. "I think... MacCready and Bug-you guys should be able to clear out the Starlight Drive-In. Bunch of mole rats there, and Preston Garvey-oh, the leader of the Minutemen-he's planning to set up another settlement there soon."
I've heard of the Minutemen, the self-appointed guardians of the Commonwealth. Good people. Heard they all got slaughtered in Concord. So, the news of their leader surviving is quite a relief, considering what a pile of shit this part of the country has become. We seriously need some kind of supervision.
"Hold it, sister," Hancock says. "I'm not letting Bug go off with some thug."
"Thug?" MacCready bristles. "Says the guy who killed a guy yesterday for trying to squeeze a few caps out of a newcomer."
"Hey, nobody extorts anybody in Goodneighbor," Hancock says, jabbing a finger at MacCready. "I had good reason to kill him."
"And, I'm not 'some thug,' Mr. Mayor. I'm good at what I do, and I know how to control myself, I can promise you that."
Hancock sizes up the mercenary for a long, tense moment. "We'll talk about it once we get to the drive-in."
I'm the only one who sees MacCready roll his eyes.