Her goals had been simple:
Kill Baldy in the worst way possible.
Get Shaun back.
And now a third had been added to her list, no less important and by no means last.
Seduce Nick Valentine.
If the debacle with Codsworth had taught her anything, it was to know the object of your affection before attempting to woo it, and even then, it was a balancing act: a game of push and pull, of lure and retreat.
Don't throw yourself at any man, said her mother long ago in their bathroom of sunny yellow tile and soft white rugs, the seaweed pills taking their final death swirl down the toilet. They had stood over the bowl as they would a coffin at a funeral, the water refilling, three years of misery spewed into the septic tank. Her mother had asked Peter's last name, and she had answered with averted eyes. Her mother had taken her shoulders, given her a gentle shake. "You don't do that again. Never again, you hear? You make him work for it. A man respects a woman he's chased and won, not the one who clings to him and weighs him down. There's a reason why they call it the ball and chain, honey."
In a different time and place, she stared into another toilet bowl, the rim cracked with age, the once sky blue now faded to a cloud. The walls, metal and concrete instead of checkered tile, a cement floor and a worn Welcome Home! mat instead of plush rugs. And a locker room shower, torn from its home and fastened to a new one. She had long since given up on forcing the noodles to vacate. She spat into the water and rested her head on the seat. Yeah, Ellie's pretty patootie had sat there, but so what? She needed to think, get herself in order, and let Takahashi's power noodles decide whether to continue on, or abort digestion all together.
On the floor next to her knee, a cherry-red inhaler. Her last puff of jet. She needed to get more, or make more, or…something. Just for today though, and tomorrow — okay, just until she and Valentine found Baldy and made him suffer. Then she'd give it up. Go cold turkey. She wasn't getting any visions anyway. Not even after ten or so doses. Maybe something was wrong with the stuff she'd found in that crazy woman's shack. Maybe it was bad; maybe it just didn't work for her. Or maybe all she needed was to find or buy a better batch. Preferably find. Even in the prewar days, chems were an expensive habit to maintain — but not only that, it was becoming a crutch. If she kept leaning on it, it'd soon have her hobbling around on perfectly healthy legs.
Her mother's voice stayed with her, that wise advice for men from a dear departed world. Oh, how the rules had changed. Can't play hard to get with a man — or in this case, a synth — who might not want you to begin with, and thought you were a psychopath.
She had almost blown it at the vault.
Top-knot's name had been Dino, and Dino had friends. A lot of them. Valentine had asked her: "How do you want to play this?" And she had played the same grisly tune she'd been playing ever since waking out of cryosleep. "Loud and hard, eh? Well, it gets the job done." A thread of disapproval in his voice, a glint of it in his yellow eyes. So he was a judgmental robot. Why was he angry? He'd been a prisoner to these goons, harassed and threatened. Sure he and Skinny went "way back" but that didn't excuse the last two weeks — two weeks that could've been more had she not bothered to find him.
Rather than remind him of this, she pulled her punches — her swings, anyway — and let Dogmeat and Valentine pick off the thugs as they chose. She laid off the jet too. If Valentine had an issue with her bashing heads in, he would probably have an issue with her puffing her way to victory. She was still riding the high anyway, the breezy mobility of her movements, the way the dullest color seemed to pulse with life.
Outside where Vault 114 met Park Street Station, Skinny Malone and his crew greeted them with machine guns and hard glares.
Two triggermen flanked Skinny: one ghoul, one human. Skinny motioned with his machine gun at the bullet holes in the walls, the bodies on the floor. "What the hell, Nicky," Skinny, said trying to sound tough, but it came off more like: Aww, come on Nicky. He was a walking mobster cliche. Pudgy in his clean and pressed black suit, matching bowtie snug under his doughy chin. The satin ribbon of his fedora gleamed under the construction lights. "You come in here, shoot up my guys? We gotta good thing goin' in this vault. Do you know how far this is gonna set me back?"
"I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for your two-timing dame, Skinny. You ought to tell her to write home more often," Valentine said.
Next to Skinny, Darla, a scraggly brunette clad in a sequined number that belonged more in a nightclub than in an underground vault, waggled her bat at Valentine. "Aww, poor little Valentine," Darla cooed, mocking. "Ashamed you got beat up by a girl?" Maybe miss mob queen should think about finding a wonderbra, give those baby B's a much needed lift in that dress. And that bat? Please. It didn't even have barbed wire. Darla continued to flap her beak, squawking this time at Skinny: "I told you we should have just killed him, but no, you had to get all sentimental!"
"Darla, I'm handling this." Again that plaintive whine, Aww honey, I told ya. "Skinny Malone's always got things under control." So Skinny talked about himself in third person. Yay, another nutball. Did he talk that way all the time? During sex? Skinny Malone's gonna give it to you hard, baby. Yeah, yeah, just like that, doll, show Skinny Malone some lovin.
Her giggle drew their attention: Darla, Skinny, the two thugs. They scowled at her vault suit, then sneered at her bat—except Skinny who seemed to note the blood caked on the wood and on the crushed skulls of his dead men. The dawn of realization bloomed across the bland expanse of his face. His sausage finger worried the trigger of his weapon. She flashed him her Mona Lisa smile, the one that always made Nate want to throw her into bed, or throw up his hands in frustration. Yeah, that's right, buddy boy, it's not Valentine you need to worry about.
Beside her and a growling Dogmeat, Valentine tensed as if sensing a turning point. Violence or diplomacy, he had her back. Rescuing him had guaranteed that, but what happened after this — after her case — depended on her choice.
And she chose wrong.
The bitch had wanted to kill Valentine, and Skinny hadn't let her. The fires were already smoldering between them. All it needed was a little stroking. "You know, Darla, Skinny here is never going to listen to you. Not now, not ever," she said sounding wise and resigned. Been here and done this, sister. "He'll always ignore your warnings. He'll always brush you off. It won't matter how right you are. He's always going to choose himself over you. So why not save yourself the trouble and give him a good whacking now, rather than later. You could take his place, lead his crew. What would your Daddy think then?"
Her clue was the disappointed turn of Valentine's lips, the cracks in his skin deepening with his hardening expression, the way his eyes dimmed as if to say, Thought so, toots. Vault suit or not, you're just like the rest.
Shit, she had to fix this. Like right now. Darla teetered on the verge of agreement, her birdlike stance stiffening as she caught sight of new prey. Skinny took a step back from her, raising his gun — the equivalent of baring his throat — and that's what decided it. Darla's smile turned predatory. Valentine had been right: Darla did have a mean streak.
"Hey, hey, doll. You're gonna let some vault bitch tell ya how I am? She don't know me. She don't know you."
"You don't know me either, Skinny."
"I know you ain't gonna whack me with my guys standing here. You ain't that stupid."
"I bet a hundred caps they won't lift a finger to save your fat ass." Darla, saying it sweet, fluttering her lashes. Skinny's men looked at each other. Then at Darla. They shifted in place, uncertain.
Darla gripped the bat, knuckles white and popping. A trickle of sweat ran down the side of Skinny's plump cheek. He could shoot her, easy, but for some reason he didn't. He stood there, cringing, waiting for the strike.
Fuck, he 's in love.
"Wait." She commanded their attention again. Valentine raised an eyebrow with his entire body. "You see that, Skinny? See how easy she turned on you? And from a stranger's words." Darla paled, the hawk reverting to a harmless sparrow. "You're right, Mr. Malone," she said, using formality, giving him respect— and she hoped — some gumption. "I don't know you, but I know women like her. They'll tell you they love you, they'll say it's forever. And then they'll hurt you. Leave you. Kill you. You see what she is now. Save yourself, Mr. Malone. Send her back to Daddy and don't spare her another thought. You deserve better."
"I know, doll. I do, I do." Skinny loosed a weary sigh, jowls wobbling like his lips. Darla stammered and hid the bat behind her back — like that was going to make Skinny suddenly forget she had almost bashed his head in.
"Skinny, can't you see she's playing us?"
"Yeah, but you fell for it, Darla, head first. I always knew what kind of dame you were, but I didn't care. I shoulda cared. My mama always told me if you love, em, you gotta let em go, so I'm telling ya to leave. I'm not gonna sleep with one eye open all the time. Go home."
"Skinny!"
"Go on, Darla. Don't make me say it twice." And to Valentine he said, "You too, Nicky. Get the hell outta here. Consider us square for what happened at the quarry. If I ever see your ugly mugs back here again, I'm shooting you myself."
A part of her hadn't wanted to run. It had wanted to bash Skinny's brains all over the vault floor for his threat. But Valentine had pulled her along, Dogmeat running ahead of them, and when they exited Park Street Station, leaving a morose Skinny Malone and Vault 114 behind, Valentine had sighed at the "ominous" Commonwealth sky, grateful to be under it again. And then he grinned at her, saying:
"Gal, you sure got a way with words."
But was it enough to get back into his good graces? And did it matter? Because even if he didn't think she was a nutcase, there was another snag.
As if on cue, a timid knock on the bathroom door. "Sweetie? Are you okay?"
"Yes, fine…gimme a minute, please." She slumped to the floor and groaned, put her head on her knees.
Ellie, Valentine's adorable little secretary.
Ellie had practically thrown herself at Valentine when he had stepped into the office, calling her name. She had come flying down that rickety ladder from the loft, coiffed hair in disarray, her flower skirt twisted, and vest rumpled as if they had caught her taking a nap. He had swung her around once, laughing, and then plopped her back in her chair. "I take it you missed me," he'd said, and Ellie had burst into tears. Valentine stared at her in surprise, then broke into fond, heartbreaking smile. He knelt beside Ellie, his human hand covering her shaking one. "Oh, hey now, none of that. I'm alright, see? Not even a ding."
She idled near the door, an observer, a stranger. The green-eyed monster inside her spoke in Nate's voice.
Ah, the cliche. The dashing noir detective and his doe-eyed secretary. Looks like you 're too late, toots.
If that was true, they would've done more than just hug. When Nate had come home from the war, she had clung to him, her hands everywhere, taking his breath, his pain, giving her soul to fill the emptiness in his eyes — and she feared — in his heart. She hadn't let him go for days, her silent, brooding statue who refused to let her gaze into his eyes, as if she might turn to stone from the horrors there.
Valentine and Ellie looked at her then as if she had spoken, each wearing the same startled frown. How natural his expressions were, his voice, the way he moved. If she were blind she would've thought him a human man. Then her stomach rumbled again — louder to make sure she'd heard it this time. The ill-tempered gurgle rolled like thunder into every corner of Valentine's tiny office. Dogmeat blocked her attempt to escape, tail wagging and tongue hanging as if to say, nope you're not going anywhere. An exchange of smiles between her new hosts. Valentine steered her to the ripped cream-colored chair in front of Ellie's desk, telling her to stay put until he got back.
Fifteen minutes later of trying to keep a grateful Ellie from paying her caps and having no luck, Valentine returned carrying two plastic bags that had seen better days, the smell of meat and pasta sending her stomach into another growling fit.
Ellie reached for her meal with gimme gimme hands, and Valentine teased her, tugging the container away before her grasping fingers made contact, rewarding her only when she laughed his name. The other container he sat on the desk as he would a plate for a honored guest, a wrapped plastic fork laying on top of the dingy styrofoam.
"I didn't know how well you and chopsticks got along," he said, "so I pulled a few strings for ya. Takahashi only hands them out to the upper stand folks, but he and I worked out a deal."
A wrapped fork. Luxury. This world was insane.
By the side of her chair, Dogmeat gnawed on the brahmin thigh bone Valentine had given him. His contented growls challenged her stomach for who was loudest. Her power noodle bowl vanished in minutes, as did Ellie's. Valentine vanished into a corner room with no door. Mattress springs squeaked with weight. A heavy sigh. Chewing quieter didn't help her eavesdrop better because Ellie decided that moment would be a swell time for small talk — AKA twenty useless questions about where she was from, where she'd been staying, where she'd met Dogmeat, what she thought of Diamond City, and had she met Piper yet? During this, no commentary from the other room, Valentine either eavesdropping himself, or reading, or performing maintenance, or whatever else synths did alone.
A different kind of grumbling began in her stomach; Takahashi's noodles had sunk to the bottom, souring, curdling. Saliva pooled in her mouth.
"Bathroom?" The word came out desperate, queasy. Ellie pointed at a small door hidden behind a short row of cabinets, her round eyes widening.
And she'd been bowing to the porcelain king ever since.
Past the bathroom door, a murmur of voices, Valentine's welcome baritone.
"She alright?"
"I think so, she said she was."
"Which in dame-speak means she isn't."
"Leave her be for now. I'll keep checking on her...the poor thing. She probably isn't used to our food, and she looks so exhausted. Can you imagine what it must have been like coming out of that vault, seeing this world for the first time? She must have been terrified."
"I...can more than relate."
"Oh...that's right. Damn, I'm sorry, Nick. I always forget there was a different Nick before that old hat and trenchcoat."
She side-scooted to the door and pressed her ear against it. Valentine's voice swelled on the other side.
"Don't fret about it, Ellie. The past is the past. She's a tough gal, though, from what I've seen so far. Brains and brawn, not a combination you find often these days."
There was no mistaking his tone of admiration. She grinned at the door like an idiot. So she hadn't completely screwed her chances. And the fact Valentine hadn't stolen a moment alone with his secretary — that she knew of anyway — signaled that they were co-workers and friends, not lovers. She'd ask later to be sure. Didn't want to be what her mother used to call a cannonball, a relationship wrecker. Her moral compass may be askew, but it wasn't broken.
"I'll give her another five minutes. After that I'm fetching her myself." Valentine's threat got her moving.
She sat on the toilet seat and inhaled her last hit of jet. She braced herself, hands grasping the seat rim as if preparing to fly away on the Porcelain King Airlines. Everything whooshed past her in a roar of sound. Colors popped behind her eyes. For fifteen seconds…euphoria. Then the free-fall of the crash, the tremor in her hand—a tremor that hadn't been there before—but she was awake, ready to go, ready for anything, even a interview that would force her to relive the worst moments of her life. Bring. It. On.
Standing didn't bring retching; so far so good. The Jet had propelled (no pun intended, har har) the power noodle lump to move forward. Probably would pay for that later in another way, but it was her own damn fault for eating too much, too fast.
She made a fist and opened it. Over and over. The trembling stopped.
She flushed the toilet, signaling to a certain someone that she was finishing up. In the smudged mirror with a jagged crack splitting a corner, a pallid specter stared back, eyes bloodshot and encircled by purple. Jet got the neurons firing again, but it sure did a number on her face. Even her bags had bags. Cold water brought back some color, and biting her lips brought back more. A bag of cosmetics would have been wonderful right about now, but all she found inside the mirror were a box of bobby pins, two clean but tattered dishrags, a hairbrush, some lint, a pink toothbrush with a third of its bristles missing, and a half-rolled tube of two-hundred-year-old toothpaste.
A bit of that on her finger, and the bitterness washed away—as did the dried blood around her face she'd missed during a hasty scrub down in Vault 114's bathroom, Valentine outside the sliding door, his exasperated words: "Doll yourself up later, doll. It won't matter to Malone how pretty your corpse is."
How many minutes had passed? She slicked back her hair in a bun, then in a ponytail — but no, that brought too much attention to her reddened eyes — so she let it down again. Fluffed it — dammit, was that blood? Back up it went, this time softened by tendrils at her temples. The dark of her hair accentuated the unhealthy paleness of her skin, but it'll have to do.
Footsteps coming. Heavy. Male. Ellie called: "Nick, just give her another minute." Shit, shit, hurry up. She shoved the empty jet into her suit pocket, flipped her ponytail, smoothed her vault suit over her hips, threw open the door —
And ran right into Valentine.
He grunted. She yelped. One glorious moment of fumbling against him — a whiff of bittersweetness and copper, of ancient cloth and tobacco — before coming apart.
"I, uh, pardon me, was just about to knock —"
"No no, it's fine, I should've let you know, wiggled the doorhandle, or…something."
Ellie stood behind the gun-metal desk, clipboard hiding her face and a suspicious titter.
Valentine straightened his hat and pulled the white chair out for her. "So, I suppose we've all dawdled long enough. Ready to tell me about your case?"
No, she wasn't, but she sat anyway, her hands folded in her lap. The pads of her thumbs wouldn't stop twitching. Far too many knickknacks within reach: pens, pencils, magazines, folders filled with case files, a cup of paperclips that once had been different colors, but now bore the same shade of gray. One of those in her hands and it'd be a twisted knot by the end.
Dogmeat curled at her feet, offering his support in doggy snores.
Valentine took the seat behind the desk, all business now. Ellie remained standing, pencil poised and ready. All eyes on her then. No pressure.
"Tell me everything," Valentine said, eyes like lambent wicks of flame. "No matter…how painful."
And so she did, going as far back as the day itself, that morning like no other. They needed to hear it. All they had to compare was this world, its drab brown and grays, like the molted skin of a dead thing. They had never beheld the golden splendor of autumn, the bold green of fresh-cut grass, the scarlet petals of a blooming rose. The luxury of new cars, and television, and all the shiny prewar toys. Describing this loss of comfort, of peace, made the hole in her heart widen a little more. She had taken so much for granted. What was that old adage?
You never know what you have until it 's gone.
"You're telling me you're prewar?" His tone, hollow with awe, with disbelief, and with some other emotion that eluded pinning down. Ellie gaped like the Diamond City guard had. Suddenly she wasn't a client anymore. She was mythical.
"Oh my God, I thought you were just from a vault—not from before, before…How—"
"She's getting there, Ellie," Valentine said, scolding without the bite. "How about we let her?"
Ellie retreated behind her clipboard again. Valentine's attention returned, pinned her in place. Her hands wished for a paper clip, a pencil, anything that would bend and break. The twitch in her thumbs traveled to the heel of her palms. She sandwiched her hands between the cushion and the armrests, and inched forward in her tale like a train grinding along on its emergency brakes.
Vault Tec and their betrayal. The phony show of concern. Valentine straightened in his chair at their mention, mouth drawn into a reproving line. No love lost there, it seemed. She pressed onward, her train groaning on the tracks, urged faster toward its dark destination. How do you describe the passage of frozen time? An ocean of ice that spanned forever, measured only by the glittering tips of glaciers, spikes of awareness that rose and dissolved into white. There was only one moment when the ice thawed, when she stirred, limbs petrified, frost covering the window of her pod, her suit, her flesh. She was an ice queen, and her king was out of reach, imprisoned in his own crystal tomb, their little prince dozing in his arms. Helpless, all of them. Like insects who had been surprised by winter. The few feet of space between them might as well have been an abyss.
And then him.
Leather jacket creased with age and grime, rolled into cuffs at his elbows. The color of his pants could have been brown or gray or green—the crusted window of her prison prevented her from knowing. A gun holster crossed his chest, the holster itself, empty. Some sort of armor covering his shoulder, metal and discolored. Tactical gloves, one whole, the other fingerless.
His clothing didn't matter though (it does matter, Nora. Details, give me all of 'em), it was the way he moved, that casual arrogance. No one would oppose him — least of all the woman who accompanied him, or escorted him, or employed him — anonymous in her shapeless hazard suit, the visor a black mirror that gave away nothing. No badges. No distinguishing logos. (A hazard suit you say? Hm, not many in the Commonwealth have access to high-tech gear like that). The woman had spoken in calm, pleasant tones. No trace of accent, but educated. Cultured.
"Here, this is the one," the woman said, pointing to Nate's cryopod.
(so they knew where and what to look for. This wasn't random)
The man shrugged, indifferent. "Open it up."
All she could do was pound on her ice cage. The man didn't even look at her.
"Is…is it over?" Nate said, bewildered, blinking against the stark light. In his arms, Shaun yawned and jerked, waking from his enchanted sleep.
"Everything's all right now. You're safe," said the man. Professional and calm. "We just need to see your boy a minute."
"Yes, we need to run some tests, make sure he's healthy." The woman reached for Shaun even as she said it, eagerness rushing her words, washing away the fake sincerity. Nate, damn him, had always been too perceptive.
He recoiled, hugging Shaun tight. Startled and squeezed, Shaun began to wail."No, you're not Vault Tec. Get away from us! Nora? Nora! Where's my wife?"
I'm here...I'm here. Like a ghost whispering through a wall, punching at it with weak, numbed fists.
The man stepped in, gun already pointed at Nate's head. "I said, give us the boy." Reasonable, like he was asking for the time, or the weather. "I'm not asking twice."
Nate didn't see the gun. He saw her. Their eyes met and locked. In her mind, their life played out: All the first times. When they made love, when they married, when he left for the war, when he returned. When he held Shaun for the first time — and now for the last.
The man fired. Nate's head slammed into the padding of the headrest, leaving behind a dark red smear. The woman caught Shaun as he slipped from Nate's slackened grip. Shaun, not wailing now, but screaming, little fists and legs lashing out. Nate's eyes gazed at the ceiling, seeing nothing, blood streaming from the hole in his temple and the back of his head. The woman bounced Shaun to calm him, but Shaun didn't like to be bounced. He liked to be rocked. Nate and Codsworth had taught her how to calm him those few precious times she'd bothered to be a mother. Rock him, honey…good...yeah, like that. Slow and gentle. Be a tree limb swaying in the wind. Then Nate would kiss her cheek, his voice husky in her ear. See, not so hard after all.
And now he was dead.
She kicked the pod door until her legs buckled, pounded on the glass until her fists ached. She screamed for her husband, for her son. No! No! Don't take him! He's all I have left!
He turned to her as if he'd just noticed her flailing there, hysterical with grief and fury.
And smiled.
(Nora...Nora, you don't have to say anymore)
Oh no, she did. He had the audacity to come up to her. This balding son-of-a-bitch with a jagged scar over his left eye. His gaze like corroded steel: none of the shine, all of the hardness.
"At least we still have the backup."
Those words haunted her dreams still. There would be no peace until he was dead.
A fan rattled on the filing cabinet, yarn streamers fluttering: pink and red, like a valentine. Ellie's touch, a bit of color and humor to brighten the room. Valentine rose, stiff not from lack of movement, but from anger. Ellie sighed as he lit a cigarette and began pacing: oh no, here he goes.
"Bald and a scar over his left eye," Valentine mused between drags, smoke curling from his exposed cheek. "Sounds like a certain merc I've had my eye on for a while. Ellie, what notes do we have on the Kellogg case?"
"Off the top of my head, I know the description matches. Conrad Kellogg. He has a reputation for dangerous mercenary work," Ellie said, digging through a filing cabinet. "But no one knows who his employer is."
"I think I gotta pretty good idea." Valentine paused and took the file that Ellie found, leafed through it, grunted in disgust, and tossed it back on the desk. "It makes sense finally. How he gets in and out. Neat and clean. Then the woman — hazard suit, educated. That alone rules out raiders, gunners, and super mutants. The latter can't even string more than four words together."
Super mutants? The mean greens? She liked her name better.
"So that leaves one player left. The Institute. And that means we're gonna be rattling a mighty big cage here. No one knows who they are, or where they come from. Not even me, and they made me."
And a hell of a job they'd done. Ever since they'd met, she'd wondered who could create a robot so sophisticated and sapient — and who would have had the balls to do so. Given what Piper had said and the various snippets of gossip around Diamond City, the two and two made sense.
Restless in the chair, sitting on her hands now. "You don't remember anything about them? Nothing?"
"No, none of us do. Doesn't matter the make or model, once a synth escapes, or gets cut loose, there's nothing but memories of static. White noise. Some sort of failsafe, I guess. Makes sense. If they're smart enough to build something like me, then they're smart enough to cover their tracks. But Kellogg, he's not as smart as he thinks he is." Valentine stabbed the file with his metal finger. "He lived here not too far back. Had a kid with him."
A kid? Already the possibility burned. Even her hands had stopped shaking. "How old was he?"
"Around nine or ten," said Ellie, wincing when she realized she crushed whatever hope had started to blossom. "But yes, a boy, maybe his son, or another kidnapped child."
"Either isn't too comforting," Valentine muttered.
"It could be him," she said, and before Valentine could deliver a predictable "now now you don't know that" speech, she pressed on, "Who knows how long I was in that vault. It felt like hours, but it could have been months - years. I didn't even know that it'd been two hundred years until Codsworth told me."
"Codsworth?" Valentine glanced at Dogmeat snoozing away still.
"My Mister Handy. He survived the war...still tends our house. Waters the brown garden." Her voice faded to a whisper. Her hands were misbehaving again.
"Why isn't he with you?" A note of accusation. Valentine frowned at Dogmeat. "A Mister Handy would be...handier as a companion. Teeth and fur only go so far in the Commonwealth. One bullet can kill Dogmeat. One bullet to a Mister Handy and he whips out a flamethrower."
"Codsworth's confused. Doesn't really understand what's happened to us. He wouldn't leave."
"I...see. Well, guess some help is better than nothin'. Least now you have me. Kellogg disappeared a short time ago. The boy too. No one knows to where. His house is in the abandoned West Stands. We'll go there first thing in the morning —"
"Why not now?"
He shot her an indecipherable look. "'cause if I blow too hard you're gonna fall over. You need rest, Nora, not a field trip across town."
"He's right, sweetie, you're ready to collapse. You can sleep here for the night," Ellie said. "You can clean up and shower, borrow one of my jerseys—"
"No." Dogmeat opened his eyes as if sensing her urgency, and a second later was up on all fours, tail wagging, ready to go. "Now that I know his name and where he lived, how can you expect me to wait? If that boy was Shaun, I need to know. I won't be able to sleep not knowing. Don't you understand? What if he was your child?" she said to Ellie, who gave Valentine a helpless, "what the hell do I say to that?" look.
Valentine shrugged in reply, "not a damn thing". "All right, Nora. But if you make me carry ya back, I'm gonna charge ya extra. Let's go." Valentine opened the door, Dogmeat trotting out with a low bark, and her soon after, losing her balance as the blood rushed back into her legs.
He steadied her, his sigh bordering on impatient. It said: see, you can barely walk.
As much as it pained her, she shrugged him off. Maybe he was used to coddling humans, but she would crawl there if she had to.
The West Stands loomed above Diamond City like a neglected sculpture, shacks jutting like limbs unfinished, stadium chairs like broken twigs shoved inside piles of scrap metal and trash. Metal paneling tinged with russet, deepened to a blood orange in the setting sun. Kellogg's "house" was the biggest shack buried inside one of Fenway Park's entry points, had its own catwalk with two scratched-to-hell stop signs warning away any potential visitors.
Valentine gave the lock a thorough jimmying, dexterous metal fingers sliding in and out of the opening, twisting this way and that — the motion so blatantly sexual, all she could do was stare and fantasize.
"Yeah, yeah, grin all ya want," he said. "I know what it looks like."
If those fingers were that gentle in stroking a lock, what would they be like inside her?
An explosive spark jolted her mind out of the gutter, and Valentine jumped back, cursing, shaking his framework hand as if was on fire. And it was, in a sense. Sizzling blue electricity roped around his fingers and tangled them together — then yanked them apart. His fingers tried to claw the air; tried to tear themselves free from his wrist.
"Damn you, Kellogg, I'd just calibrated this! You bastard. You son-of-a —" He clutched his spasming hand to his chest and staggered to the catwalk railing. He hunched over it, gasping.
"Oh my god! M-mister Valentine, are you okay?" Oh fuck, oh fuck he was hurt and it was all her fault.
He laughed as if breathless, protecting his hand, and maybe himself, from her prying gaze. "Still Mister Valentine, eh? We're aways past formality here, Nora. Call me Nick from now on, or I won't answer ya."
Nick...he wanted her to call him Nick. "Are you hurt, Nick?" She edged nearer and he scooted further away. A flash of Nate, how he'd hidden his pain with distance. He may be synthetic, but Nick wasn't above wounded pride.
"No, not hurt. Not permanently anyway. Guess Kellogg left a little fuck you present for yours truly. Must have known I'd come snooping around eventually. Had the lock modified, probably cost him a fair amount of caps, too. Don't bother with your bobby pins, the mechanism's too deep. Only the key will work without getting zapped again, and only the Mayor has it."
"Okay, I'll go get it then. Be right back."
"No! Nora, the office is closed by now. We can do this tomor—"
But she was down the stairs before he could finish, Dogmeat in tow. She hurried through the marketplace, stopping at the glowing CHEM-I-CARE sign that had distracted her from Nick's nimble fingers.
There, an older man leaned against the poster-covered wall, his blue visor fraying white along the edges, the word Timlist scrawled across the band. Yellowed t-shirt, ripped jeans, his smile unassuming and friendly. His gaze roamed over her suit, her body, liking what he saw.
"Hey there, blue bird. What can I do for ya?"
Not sure how long later, but she was riding the platform — and the jet — to the Mayor's office. How Diamond City sparkled now, finally earning its namesake, a beautiful and festive sight for the eyes. Strings of fairy lights crisscrossed the Power Noodles stand, glowing under the crimson canopy that billowed with the wind. The sounds of laughter and music, the Diamond City Radio eyebot passing beneath the grated floor of the platform, its speakers blaring: "I'm a wanderer, yeah I'm a wanderer. I go around around around..."
It was like a fairground without the rides. How could she have thought this place a shanty town? It was magical.
The meeting with the secretary went well, a woman with ash-blond hair and a pinched expression, like she had a mouthful of sour mutfruit the entire time. Mayor McDonough had left for the day, and his secretary (whatever her name was) was on her way out. It hadn't taken much to convince her. In fact, the secretary had practically thrown Kellogg's keys in her face, telling her to get out and get that son-of-a-bitch. See, nothing to it. Easy breezy.
Piper met her at the bottom of the platform, looking like she planned to spank someone. Then her brain kicked in, showing her the last ten minutes in jet-fueled slow motion. Oh yeah, Piper had been there, hadn't she? Wow, she'd forgotten all about that. Yelling as usual. Mayor...something about...something, something. She giggled and pressed the red button of the lift, stumbled out and kept going. Piper grabbed her, swearing.
"Damn it, Blue. Watch yourself. What the hell are you on?"
"Nothing," she said, pouting. Then: "Jet."
"Fuck, are you serious?" Piper glanced around and pulled her closer to the entrance of Publick Occurrences. Dogmeat trailed after, sniffing at the pallet where Nat had stood earlier that day. "You can't be doing that stuff, Blue. It'll mess you up bad with a capital B. And I know Valentine has a zero-tolerance policy against chems. Oh hell...your eyes. You can't see him like this. Let's get some coffee or something. Give you time to come down."
"Nope, can't. Gotta go back 'cause Nick's waiting for the key. Kellogg shocked him." She sobered a bit, remembering, "The fucker."
"Jesus! This Kellogg guy attacked Valentine?"
"Oh, no no no. His lock attacked Nick. It was a special lock that needed a special key." She waved it in the air. "See?"
"Yeah, I was there, Blue, remember? You got in Geneva's face and threatened to turn it inside out. You're gonna be lucky that doesn't get back to McDonough, or Valentine."
"What?" The brightness was waning, as was her giddiness. Jet fumes going…going…gone. Her hand began to twitch. "I don't remember saying that. She was nice. She told me to get that bastard."
"She was fucking terrified of you." Piper crossed her arms, all stern and motherly. "Hell, I was terrified of you. I would have said anything too to get you out of my face."
"Shit...I-I'm sorry. I didn't — "
"Look, you need to clean up. And sleep. And then...go sleep some more. See Doc Sun in the morning, or get some addictol if you can afford it. Solomon has it at the Chem-I — "
"I know where it is," she said, petting Dogmeat who wagged his unconditional love. At least someone here didn't judge her.
"Right, I bet you do." Piper's hands fell on her shoulders. An affectionate squeeze. It was supposed to make her feel all warm and fuzzy, but it made her feel like shit. Everything was normal ten minutes ago, and now reality had to go fuck up her night. Her hand spasmed like Nick's, jolted by her own stupidity. "It'll be okay, Blue. Everyone messes up. If it were Nat, I'd be doing every crazy thing possible to get her back. But not that kind of crazy. Chems are bad news. Some people can't handle them, they die the first hit. And some…well," Piper gave her a little shake as her mother had all those years ago, in that yellow bathroom with white rugs. "I don't want to see you dead. Valentine doesn't wanna see you dead either. Promise me you'll stay away from the chems. Promise me."
"I promise," she said, needing to get away before she started bawling.
But she couldn't see Nick just yet. She had one more stop to make.
When she asked Solomon for addictol, he gave her an airy shrug. "Sorry, blue bird, but I think that's a little outta your price range, but I'll sell ya some more jet though, if ya like. Half off."
She had argued. Begged even. But he smiled in his sunny, blithe way, giving apologies in his aw shucks, babe tone of voice until she gave up, fists and teeth clenched as she made her way back to the West Stands.
Nick was smoking when she reached the top of the stairs, flinging the ashes between the catwalk grating. "Well, look who it is. Thought for a minute I'd be adding your name to Diamond City's mountain-pile of missing persons. Got the key, I take it?"
She nodded, using the key to motion at his hand, saying shyly: "It's okay, right? Not damaged?"
"Don't worry, doll, I've had worse. Nothing that a little motor oil and screwdriver can't fix. Now, let's get this door open. I wanna know what Kellogg's been hiding in there."
It wasn't much from the look of the dinky two-bedroom apartment. A dim ceiling light illuminated the grand remains of a dusty table, battered chair, and dirty concrete floor. The loft — if you could even call it that — revealed a stained mattress and a broken lantern. A page from a Grognak comic book peeked from under the mattress, a treasure that had been in the boy's hands. She couldn't bring herself to fold it, so Nick took it from her, rolled and tucked it into his front pocket.
"This place is too small. Something's off." Nick walked in a circle and fiddled with the golden flip-lighter he'd found, the flame sputtering and dying. Sputtering and dying. She clasped her hands behind her back, playing the part of gumshoe sidekick — and hiding the increasing violence of her tremors. They were in her arms now, coiling upwards, like something burrowing under her skin. "You boobytrap your home, Kellogg, and for what?" She might as well be invisible. Nick was in La La Detective Land, talking to Kellogg as if he was in the room.
Dogmeat had curled into a corner, bored into sleeping again. She wandered to Kellogg's desk, opened the drawers for the third time. Dust balls and paper clips. A torn notebook with blank pages. Power Noodle receipts. This place should have his stink, his mark. Aside from the comic book page, there was nothing to give away the previous owner. It was like he'd never existed.
Then Nick passed behind her, the flame dancing wildly. She turned on her Pip-Boy light, making herself useful. Something red and round winked from under the desk. "Oh, Nick," she breathed. "Here."
The button revealed a merc's paradise, a secret room with guns and more guns. A dufflebag full of ammo and melee weapons — none like her bat, though, so she left those alone. Nick helped himself to the ammo, saying Arturo would have to do without his business this week. Plenty of food and purified water on the shelves. And two bottles of Nuka-Cola Quantum lighting their corner of the shelf like eerie blue lamps. Then the chems in a mottled fiberglass container, the familiar color of jet among the psycho, mentats, buffout, medX and stimpaks. The tremors were so bad by then she couldn't even hold the brown bottle of imported root beer: Sunlight Sarsaparilla. Nick, so far and thank God, hadn't noticed. Too busy studying the box of cigars Kellogg favored: San Fransisco Sunlights.
"Hm, an unusual brand. Not many folks around here use it. I bet Dogmeat can sniff these out. That dog can track a scent for miles. How about we give him a whiff in the morning and see where he takes us."
"In the morning?" She sat in Kellogg's armchair, the scent of leather and tobacco-infused sweat enveloping her. She breathed it in, letting her rising nausea quiet the tremors, force them to stop. The jet called to her from the shelf, nestled on top of a heap that Nick had deemed "trash".
"Yeah. The morning. It's past midnight and I gotta feeling this is your second round going on your third. We find Kellogg now, and all you're gonna do is faint at his feet. Don't make it easy for him, Nora. Even desperate parents need some shut eye."
She didn't have the strength to argue and flapped her hand in agreement. Dogmeat nudged her palm, whining. Nick whistled low and Dogmeat padded over with a hopeful woof. "Hey, boy, need some 'me' time?" To her, he said: "I'll take him out to do his business. Sleep if you want, I was only kidding about charging ya."
"You chivalrous metal knight, you mean you'd really carry me all the way back?" Even exhausted and strung out, she could flirt. Sometimes she amazed herself.
"Sure, like a tender sack of tatos." He winked a bright yellow eye and strode out the door.
Alone inside a murder's hideaway, his scent all over her, his weapons and chems now hers for the taking. One in particular, a siren song that promised to ease the pain, make it all go away. But another voice nagged her, a promise given at the spur of a moment.
I don 't want to see you dead…
She squirmed, counting seconds. How long would Dogmeat take? Would she have enough time?
Her craving had that answer, and her hand as it wrapped around the jet, its capsule the color of candied apples and its contents like the softened warmth of fall sunshine.
There ya go, honey. Nate, the devil on her shoulder — or herself. She'd lost track of where he ended and she began. Get that day back for minute or two. Pretend the war never happened and that I'm not dead. Pretend Shaun is in the other room, snoozing away, thumb in his mouth, dreaming sweet baby dreams. Go on, one more hit couldn't hurt.
Trembling now, but not with withdrawal. Anticipation.
And then it was gone.
Those same nimble fingers that had entranced her so, plucked the jet away before her lips could even graze it. She spun around, her throat seizing. How had she not heard him? She shrank from his unblinking glare, sputtering: "You're supposed to be outside."
"Didn't want to miss this trip." Nick held the jet like a piece of rotting meat he could barely tolerate touching. He seemed to fill the doorway of the secret room, his presence a terrible, tangible thing.
"W-where's Dogmeat?"
"Sent him along. Didn't know how long this heart-to-heart was gonna take." Between his metal fingers, the jet turned in place like a spit, methodical and rhythmic. "You think I couldn't figure it out?" he said, his voice like gliding oil. It poured over her, melting away her defenses. She pressed her thighs together, her breath quickening. She focused on his scuffed oxfords, the ragged hem of his pants. If he saw her eyes, he'd see too much, and she wasn't ready to show him yet. No, no, not yet. "Hey, look at me, Nora. You don't owe me much, but you owe me that."
She did as he bade, but shrouded that part of herself under a veil of lowered lashes and welling tears.
"Your wits, your bat, and your dog," he said. "That's it. That's how you did it. All those men and all those machine guns. No…don't think so. I knew you were using something, and I'd thought — I'd hoped — it was only a one time deal. But…it never is, is it?"
"I'm sorry, Nick. I am."
"Said you don't owe me, so don't apologize. Part of this is my doing anyway. I shoulda been here for you, not holed up in a vault. You pegged Darla for what she was the moment ya saw her. I got a bat in the face before I figured it out, and two weeks of that harpy screaming for my head. And it takes some tiny gal from two-hundred years ago to spring me from the pot. It's a miracle you even made it to me at all, jet or no jet — and I'm grateful, Nora. If it hadn't been for you, I'd still be buried in that vault, waiting for Skinny to give in to his moll and knock me off." He closed his eyes as he sighed, releasing her, letting her breathe.
The tremors spread through her entire body, denied the relief that spun lazily in Nick's hands. She would never be quick enough. Not with his reflexes.
"You want it even now, don't you?" He caught her with his glare again. "Do you even know what this is made from?" The jet jiggled between his fingers. "Well, do you?"
"No…Mama Murphy didn't tell me."
"Mama Murphy…that name's familiar. Where'd ya meet her?"
"She was with Preston and those other settlers I'd helped in Concord. They moved into Sanctuary, where Vault 111 is, where I lived before."
"Remember catching that bit between you and Ellie, but not much after. Was running diagnostics and calibrating a few things. You talking about Preston…Garvey? The Minuteman? Hm, these settlers weren't from Quincy were they?"
"Yes, the raiders wouldn't leave them alone."
"It was the gunners, first," Nick said, grim. "But that's besides the point. I know of Garvey. Chatted him up once or twice when cases took me to Quincy. He and I have the same opinion about chems."
"He didn't know."
"Of course he didn't. And I bet this Mama Murphy didn't bother sharing the recipe with you."
"No…" Tears slipped down her face. Steady and slow like a leaky faucet. "She was making it for herself, for the sight."
"The…what?"
"The sight. It doesn't work without chems, Mama Murphy said." How gullible she sounded, like Jack and his magic bean. "She wasn't lying, Nick. After she took it, she saw your sign, told me to follow it to Shaun. That you would help. She also knew things about Shaun. About me. Where I came from — when I came from. I never told her anything. She just knew. There's something to it, Nick. It's not a lie. It's not."
"And you'd thought if ya took enough jet, you'd see the same." When she nodded, he sighed again, lifting his fedora to rub the hairline cracks of his forehead. "Now, I'm not saying your Mama Murphy doesn't have this sight…thing. I've witnessed plenty of weird in this world to know better. It's possible she's telling the truth, but if she is, it's her truth. Not yours. The only thing chems are gonna show ya is an early grave."
"I was careful about it. Only a little bit."
"And now look at you. The shakin's a bad sign. You're going downhill, and fast. Dunno if it's because you're prewar or what, but you don't have the stamina for it, probably never will."
"Nick, I was going to quit—"
"If I had a cap for every time I heard that, I'd retire. You can't quit chems unless you get help. And out of all the ones you had to pick, it had to be jet, the worst of the lot. And ya wanna know why? It's feces, Nora," he said it like a blunt force. "You've been sucking down brahmin shit into your lungs — yeah, that's right. Feces, scat, whatever ya want to call it, it's shit. Sure, there's some other odds and ends in there, depending on the maker, but cow poo's that extra special ingredient. That's what gets you high."
How…fucking…mortifying.
Her stomach lurched into full revolt. She grabbed a metal bucket just in time to vomit into it, Kellogg's tiny hidey-hole amplifying every moan and hurl. Oh god, what he must think of her now. She balled herself on the floor, her head glued to her knees, a bucket full of digested power noodles sloshing next to her. She shook there, spitting saliva that just wouldn't quit, trying to get control, trying not to think about Nick witnessing her puking like that — a disgusting human who had addicted herself to cow shit.
"If you were any other client, I'd cut you loose," he said, adding to her misery. Unlike her, there was no pulling punches with him. "Let you go on alone. I've done my part, as promised. We're even-stephen now. Dogmeat has Kellogg's scent. You could find him easy enough. But any other client would know what jet was. What chems were. They'd understand this world and the dangers that come with it. They'd know the risks. You — " He stunned her with his touch, his hand on her back, a comforting pressure she would curl into like a kitten if she could. "Are all brand new. Naive and ignorant, like a little girl in the middle of a Yao Guai den, trying to pet the cute cuddly bears."
Her noise of confusion made him chuckle. "Yao Guai, you'll see 'em soon enough. And then you'll wish you hadn't. Can you stand?"
He helped her to her feet, but she evaded his attempts to catch her eye. He gave her purified water and a clean towel from Kellogg's secret linen stash. The merc seemed to have everything in this room. After she drank and wiped her face, the jet hovered under her nose, demanding her attention.
"I'm giving you a choice," he said, the gravitas in his voice mesmerizing. "You can go after Kellogg on your own, and I pray, take him down, find your boy. Or, we can go…together. Face him as a team, as…partners. We'll get some addictol in the morning, give you twenty-four hours or so to purge that garbage from your system. And don't worry about that inflated price tag, either. Good old Solomon owes me a favor or two. He'll be more than happy to donate as much addictol as you need." He paused, his human fingers under her chin, lifting it so she couldn't avoid him anymore. "I'll do it for you, Nora…if you're willing."
Stay alone, or be his partner. It was a no-brainer, the easiest decision in the world to make, but her hand seemed to disagree. Her fingers reached for the jet, not touching, not yet, not ready to give up that promise of bliss even though the real promise of bliss offered it freely — with a price. The point of no return. She didn't dare look at him now because he would see her soul, and maybe he would turn to stone from the horrors there.
She inhaled a shaky breath and nodded, her decision made.
The jet crunched in his fist, red pieces of plastic falling through framework fingers — like her life, in a sense, ever since waking from cryosleep.
She covered her face with her hands. All the death, the blood she had spilled in Nate's name, in Shaun's name, in her name — all had been excuses to numb the pain. To fill the void of loss. And the jet had been a window into the beyond, one that hadn't opened for her.
And now, it never would.
"Hey…hey, now," he said when she started to cry. She'd always been an ugly crier, not like Vera Keyes who had made crying into an art form on screen. No glistening silver tears or voluptuous quivering lips for her. It was all hitching and snuffling, mewling noises like a beaten animal, and wiping the snot pouring out of her nose with the sleeve of her vault suit.
He hugged her anyway, hesitant and clumsy, giving her every opportunity to refuse him. She buried her face in his coat, this synth who had shown more compassion to her in the last day than most humans she'd known all her life. Nothing mattered beyond the nicotine and the ozone musk of his synthetic skin, like smoking after a thunderstorm, the charge still in the air, the damp heat of sun-warmed metal pressing against her. His words hummed in her ear.
"You're stronger than you think, Nora. Anyone else out of that vault, and they wouldn't have lasted a day in the Commonwealth. You've made it this far on your own, and you'll make it farther still. But you're not alone in this now. Not anymore.