Chapter 3: Sleepless
Sleep never came easily to Arthur Maxson anymore. Night had a way of tearing open old figurative wounds, of making Maxson pick and dissect every action and inaction of the day and days past. He did his best to stifle such second guessing in his waking hours, but now angst flooded his senses.
This is her fault, he grumbled. As far as which 'her'-Knight Nora, the Lone Wanderer, or Sarah Lyons- he couldn't say. All of them, maybe.
He exhaled an exaggerated, guttural sigh, and arose. The whiskey he slogged earlier had not prevented sleep from eluding him; in fact, the lowering of his inhibitions only made his demons grow bolder. He eventually resigned himself to his now semi-normal nocturnal activity- he dressed himself to roam the Prydwyn.
The airborne beast hummed and hawed as the Elder's boots clanged along the metal railways. A skeleton crew of nightshift soldiers saluted silently as he passed. They were used to his walks by now.
His steps were curt and purposeful, but his direction was aimless. He strode up one deck then down the other. These times were the closest he came to feeling out his subordinates. Night brought with it an ounce more relaxation for the crew, many of whom were off duty. Most were sleeping by 2200, but a few small groups clustered near the armory or mess hall, jesting and teasing and laughing.
Occasionally, Arthur wished he were one of them.
Two lights beckoned in the distance; that of the infirmary and the office of Proctor Quinlan. The presence of neither light was unusual, but he was drawn to both.
Quinlan was at his desk, carefully adjusting his glasses and he slowly typed on his computer, each key meticulously pushed with slow deliberate purpose. Proctor Quinlan was one of the oldest members aboard, and one of the few soldiers who was not intimidated or humbled by Maxson's presence. As Quinlan's eyes slowly creeped up to meet the Elder, he did not immediately shoot up to greet him. Instead, he received the Elder almost casually, nodding while he remained seated.
"Ah, Elder Maxson," he drawled slowly. "Just the man I wished to see."
Both men seemed to ignore the hour, as Maxson curtly replied "What about, Proctor?"
The older man did not immediately respond, instead grabbing a small stack of papers and skimming them over. Maxson crossed his arms. Sometimes Quinlan could be irritatingly slow, especially when he had uncovered something particularly interesting. It was as if Quinlan savored those minutes when he knew something his superior officers did not.
Finally, the Proctor continued. "I've had my scribes do some digging into our newest recruit." Another damned pause.
The Elder's brow's furrowed. "I did not order you to do so."
Quinlan almost betrayed a clever smile. "I know, sir, but I thought it would be a wise precaution. This outsider managed to ingratiate herself with the Brotherhood unusually quickly." Quinlan frowned, disapproval tensely crackling in the air.
Maxson balled one hand into a fist. He did not appreciate Quinlan's independent investigation, but couldn't deny the prudence in doing so. He only wished he, the Elder, had thought of it first. The fact that such a sensible action never crossed his mind irked him. Nostalgic childhood memories were blocking his better judgement. "What did you find?" he attempted to ask levelly.
"Oh, well…" Quinlan said coyly. "The good news is that she hasn't joined any gangs or mercenary groups and has actively fought institute synths. It may also be worth noting that she has built, supplied, and protected several Commonwealth settlements, which has made her popular with many of the traders and colonizers in the area. Certainly the Brotherhood of Owen Lyon's time would have approved." The last sentence dripped with condemnation. A decade earlier, Elder Owen Lyons, Sarah's father, shifted the goals of the Brotherhood towards protecting innocents and away from the hoarding of advanced technology. Maxson had promptly swung his organization's goals back towards the latter objective, to Quinlan's apparent agreement.
Quinlans's eyes narrowed as he continued. "However, she has also been actively helping two other major organizations in the area, neither of which is associated with the Brotherhood in any capacity. She is even the purported leader of one of them."
Maxson hastily snatched the documents from Quinlan's wrinkled hands. "Which factions?" he barked.
"Well…" the older man drawled again, "she is the general of the Minutemen. They were thought to be all but extinct, but she has apparently helped revive them." He shrugged casually. "They are nothing notable, sir, just a small group of militia members who claim to help coordinate, build, and protect Commonwealth settlements."
Maxson tapped his foot impatiently. "And the other group?"
"They are called 'The Railroad', sir. They appear hostile towards The Institute, but… they also facilitate the in the escape of rogue synths."
Maxson clenched his jaw. He had been too lenient with the vault dweller, and he knew it. But what could he do? He had already promoted her to Knight, and she had thus far completed all mission swiftly and effectively. To reverse the promotion or banish her from the Brotherhood for actions she performed prior to joining might cause unease within the ranks, and would risk weakening his leadership.
"Continue monitoring her," he said curtly, and turned heel to leave. Quinlan always managed to get under Maxson' skin.
Maxson quickly strode across the hallway, thoughtlessly led to the other light beckoning across the hallway. He had no aim as he strode, save for the strong repellant force of Quinlan and his report.
Quinlan wasn't wrong. He should have looked into the woman, this stranger. He allowed his boyhood adulation of Sarah and the Lone Wanderer affect his judgement. Quinlan, damn him, was never wrong.
A crumped mass interrupted his thoughts.
He had stormed into the infirmary, where the very source of his frustration lay in a bandaged ball atop the bed.
He halted suddenly.
Knight Nora was out cold, huddled in a fetal position facing Maxson. She was enveloped in blankets and bandages. The Elder knew her condition looked worse than it was; she was still very much functional when he had sent her to the infirmary. The Stimpacks and RadAway would work quickly and Knight-Captain Cade had a habit of over-bandaging and over-medicating any soldier who complained of naught more than a headache.
But it wasn't the condition of Nora herself which halted Maxson in place- it was the memory it violently dredged up:
It was mere days after many of the Brotherhood soldiers had left the Citadel to cleanse the waters of the Capital Wasteland and defeat the Enclave; many had returned, glowing at their success. But Sarah and the Lone Wanderer were not among them.
Eventually, Maxson's endless whining and anxious pestering prompted Sarah's father to bring the boy to visit the two missing women. As the boy entered the Brotherhood hospital room, he saw two crippled forms curled into fetal balls, engulfed with lotions and stitches and gauze. Neither stirred. They barely breathed.
Maxson had cried, he remembered, and insisted on staying in that interminable hospital room with them. Sarah's father, Elder Owen Lyons, allowed Maxson to periodically drop his duties and visit, too distracted himself to keep the young boy away.
Maxson would sit in a horribly uncomfortable metal chair and watch the two dying women for hours, as if rousing them could only be accomplished by his own sheer willpower. That awful routine continued for two weeks.
Eventually both women did recover, only to disappear from Arthur's life not long after.
As he had done before, the now adult Maxson seated himself in a hard metallic chair at the foot of Knight Nora's bed. The weight of the day had finally sunk him. He fell asleep.