Under increasing pressure from his Council to select a suitor and marry, Elder Arthur Maxson of the Brotherhood of Steel is forced into participating in a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity of courting a number of high-standing Brotherhood women at once.
Desperate to avoid officially committing to any of the high-born suitors eager to become the next leading Lady of the Brotherhood of Steel, Maxson turns to the Commonwealth Expedition's latest recruit, a pre-war vault dweller under the sponsorship of his most trusted Paladin. Tasked with appearing as the front runner of Maxson's affections, Serena Howard rises to the occasion of sabotaging group dates and putting on a convincing display of romantic interest in Maxson to sufficiently deceive his order. With the assurance of being released from her promise to him once his peers have returned to the Citadel, Serena does her best to ensure that the High Elder is not entrapped into a courtship that he cannot get out of.
Shenanigans ensue.
[Inspired by the reality television show, The Bachelor]
After only a mere four years of leadership, scowling came quite unconsciously to the young High Elder of the Brotherhood of Steel. For as long as anyone currently serving within the Brotherhood could remember, Arthur Maxson had scowled. He was first consciously observed to have scowled the evening that the death of his mentor, Elder Owyn Lyons, had been announced to the stunned Citadel. He had scowled not very long after at the announcement that Lyon's successor, Elder Sarah Lyons, had fallen in battle. He had scowled the day that the Elders had elected him the next High Elder of the Brotherhood, and had scowled some more when he had disembarked from his personal Vertibird at Fort Independence to negotiate with the Outcasts. He had even scowled the first time that the Prydwen's engines roared to life, seemingly unfazed by the cheers and salutations of the ecstatic engineering crew surrounding him. Those who had not met the once-timid descendent of Roger Maxson prior to his ascension within the Brotherhood ranks might even say that he had even scowled from the moments following after his mother had pushed him into the world; others might say that the wind had changed direction as his face contorted while wrestling a deathclaw at the age of thirteen, successfully killing the beast by embedding the two mere combat knives he wielded into the creature's kidneys.
It could not be denied that there was something oddly charismatic about the demeanour Maxson radiated when his face was etched with a scowl, the premature lines of aging caused by stress and demands of leadership permanently wrinkled from his trademark expression.
What could only be described as the mother of all scowls currently donned Maxson's scarred and bearded features, his icy blue eye ablaze with annoyance. The thick manilla folder that Lancer Captain Kells had delivered to him, the object of his frustration, lay discarded on his desk beside an open bottle of vodka. The smell of the alcohol was sharp within the confines of the room. A feeble knock on the door of his quarters was barely audible as Maxson chugged away another shot glass of the acidic-like liquid, his pulse pounding in his ears, coughing a little as his throat burned. His thick battlecoat grew tight, his black flight suit straining as his broad chest heaved.
Maxson's door clanged open and the figures of two young squires emerged from the doorway, saluting the Elder and addressing him endearingly in squeaky, pre-pubescent voices. They both promptly scampered back out of the door after announcing the arrival of Paladin Danse, who had to bend forwards slightly to fit his massive hulk-like figure through the doorway of the Elder's quarters.
Danse straightened, the actuators in his power armor's knees creaking slightly as he saluted Maxson respectfully. His eyes travelled over to the half-empty bottle of vodka on Maxson's table and the used glass beside it before returning to the flustered face of his Elder. "You called for me, Sir?" he asked.
Maxson gestured at one of the seats beside his table. "Have a seat, if you would, Paladin."
The Paladin looked from the Elder to the small chair before inwardly cringing. With a hiss, his power armor opened and he stepped out of his steel frame, promptly seating himself at the table and folding his arms in an unconscious effort to make himself feel less naked without his armor. Danse blinked uncertainly as the Brotherhood leader squirmed uncomfortably before him, his scowl ever deep as he leaned his gloved hands against the backside of his unoccupied chair.
"Is something amiss, Arthur?" Danse asked, perturbed at the sight of his leader so unsettled before him.
Maxson gestured at the manilla folder atop of the table before them, his face remaining turned towards the floor as his fists curled harder on the back of his chair. His scarred knuckles turned white with the effort. Danse continued to blink uncertainly at the folder, looking increasingly confused.
His frustration reaching boiling point, Maxson practically threw a folder across the table at Danse. Black and white photographs spilled from the folder onto the table and floor. Danse tentatively picked the folder up and flicked it open, his eyebrows raised in surprise. His scarred brows disappeared further into his hood as he quickly scanned the papers within, his mouth agape.
"This…they cannot be serious, Sir," Danse finally stuttered.
"You know them as well as I do, Danse," Maxson sighed, pouring himself another shot of vodka. "They are perfectly serious."
"But Sir… dating five women at the same time? Why?"
"The Citadel Elders have been on my back for a while about courting and choosing a wife so that the Maxson bloodline can continue," Maxson sighed, rubbing at his bloodshot eyes. "I was too preoccupied with organising the Prydwen's journey to the Commonwealth and declaring war on the Institute to take their requests seriously. I promised that I would consider it in a number of months. It seems that those number of months have passed and they have become… impatient."
"Pushy is the word I think you meant, Arthur."
"… Impatient. Lancer Captain Kells has been tasked with arranging to have the suitors brought from the Citadel here to the Prydwen to commence the courtship proceedings-"
Danse snorted uncharacteristically.
"- to commence the courtship proceedings, and for me to choose a suitable wife before the month's end."
There was silence for a moment, Danse's stunned face reflecting what Maxson had felt before he began to submerge himself in vodka. "Surely you do not have to agree to this, Arthur?"
"I don't think I have a choice, Danse," Maxson sighed. "If I do not agree to this, they will not relent. According to them, I should have been married and siring Maxson children once I turned eighteen. It is my… duty… as a High Elder, and a Maxson."
"But to make you choose a wife in such a process? Group dates? Single dates? Competing for one on one time with you? Chaperones? This… Steel Ceremony? What on Earth is that nonsense?"
Maxson shrugged.
"And these names, Sir… the suitors are all either daughters or related to the Elders back at the Citadel!"
"Officially their choices are because these women do not serve to me directly, so there will be no opportunity for per-conceived bias or previously placed affections. You know as well as I do that these women would wed me because they only care for my name and my title," Maxson drawled. "If I were to choose any of these women to court as my wife, there would be no going back on my choice either. I would be obligated to marry them or risk infuriating the other Elders and gaining disapproval of the troops back on the East Coast. Not to mention that the relation of the woman I wed would be able to sink their claws even further into my leadership, indirectly through her." The Elder paused, the depth of his agitation at his current situation darkening his features further. If looks could kill, Maxson's face of thunder could have slain an entire army of deathclaws.
"There are only four pictures here, Sir," Danse observed, turning the photographs over in his hand as he scrutinized the faces of the Brotherhood women staring back at him.
"The Elders have been kind enough to suggest that Captain Kells, yourself and the Proctors choose the fifth woman for me to court," Maxson huffed.
"From the Prydwen's crew?" Danse was surprised. "Even if that is considered fraternization and biased?"
"Particularly from the Prydwen's crew," Maxson's frown lines deepened, if it were possible. "Were this not concerning me, I would commend them for their tactics. They know that I personally selected each and every member of the crew to travel to the Commonwealth, and consider them my true brothers and sisters. I wouldn't dream of entering a courtship and fraternizing with any one of the crew. They are using that to their advantage. They want to appear to the Commonwealth Expedition and the other Brotherhood Chapters that they are giving me a choice, but in actual fact are cementing their goals into making one of their relations the next Lady Maxson."
Silence fell in the Elder's quarters as the leader of the Brotherhood began to pace, his legs restless in his agitation, and his Paladin continued to look as though he had been bowled over by a Brahmin. Around them, the Prydwen rumbled and tugged at her moorings in the afternoon breeze, oblivious to the distress that her astute leader was under.
"Call me a romantic Danse, but I always envisioned one day that I would marry for love," Maxson sighed, his features softening as he deposited himself heavily into his chair. The now empty bottle of vodka keeled over onto the floor with a loud smash as the table shook. Shards of glass flew around the steel floor of his quarters. "And here I am, being pressured into marrying a woman who only wants to wed me for my name and title. I have never admitted this to anyone beforehand Danse, but… I often curse that I was born a Maxson."
Danse remained silent, carefully returning the photographs to the folder and sliding it back onto the table between them. "If I might… make a suggestion, Sir?" he dared asked slowly.