Nick Valentine
Personal journal
January 11, 2293
In my journal entries, I've tended to emphasize the tender moments, perhaps because those are the ones I want to remember and dwell on. Truth is those moments are relatively rare… unlike people shooting at me, which is starting to become a theme lately. I think it's the company I keep. I do wonder if my partner has a death wish.
The people around her seem to want her to have a death wish, anyway. Sometimes I want to shake this eager beaver Garvey. Thanks to him, Sheila's the leader of the Minutemen. Despite their past issues, their goals remain good, and he rightfully recognized that he wasn't really fit to lead any kind of group. Every time we see him, though, he has another list of people for Sheila to help. He barely says thanks and seems to have no interest in giving her downtime and letting her breathe for a moment. Last time we were at the Castle, I pulled Preston aside and told him that while I'm a synth, she isn't. She'd never ask him for it, but she shouldn't have to ask: give the woman a damn break. He said he understood and would "only" give her one settlement to handle, one that had a kidnapping. He told me he couldn't trust anyone else to actually get the prisoner out alive, and I had to agree. But the packs of feral ghouls that emerge, the raiders that take up near settlements—dammit, it's supposed to be Minute men, not Minute one woman who takes just one early model synth with her. What if something happens to her? If these folks don't learn that they can fight for themselves, they'll fall apart. She's not immortal. One of these days, her life is going to catch up with her. One gunman gets one lucky shot, and she's gone.
Yeah, I keep reminding myself of that, too. Not sure it's working.
Sheila's one of the best snipers I've ever seen, and she sees people coming before they see her. It's how she's stayed alive. The gun she uses bears no resemblance to what it was when she first got her hands on it. It's like that old saw about great grandpa's hammer—it's been in the family for generations. Sure, it's had four new handles and two new heads, but it's still our great grandpa's hammer. And sure, that gun's the same gun she picked up from the vault when she woke up from deep freeze. It just has a new receiver, new barrel, new grip, new magazine, new muzzle, and new sights. And each one has been replaced at least twice. Same gun, though, right?
Yesterday, I asked her if she was sure Nate was the war veteran and she was the lawyer. See, we were rescuing that settler, and it was five raiders holding her hostage. With me watching her back, Sheila sneaked into their hideout and took out five raiders with five silenced shots before even one of them realized she was there. She admitted Nate had taught her to shoot, but she hadn't been very good at it.
"War never changes," she told me, "but war changes everything else." I disagree with both of those statements—as she knows. She was trying to start something, and I let her. We debated it all the way back to the Castle. She does in fact argue like a damn lawyer. I knew what she was doing. She's been avoiding things by playing Preston's gofer—and by things, I mean the Institute. And the Brotherhood and the Railroad.
We walked back, arguing the whole way. At least it was the good kind of argument, the kind that makes you feel more alive and brings you together even as you disagree on important matters. It's the kind of argument where you understand that the most important thing is that you respect each other enough to try to convince each other, believing that it's possible and worthwhile. The walk took over six hours. I thought about letting her get away with it. But just as the Castle came into view, I took her arm and stopped. "Hold up," I said.
"Yeah, Nick?"
"You can't avoid it all forever. Do you need to talk about it?"
As my words registered, I'd swear she aged about two decades. "Not yet," she said. She closed the eyes that suddenly looked tired. "I… we're building something here, the Minutemen. And they haven't asked me to kill anyone except raiders—and not just any raiders, but raiders actively threatening settlements of peaceful people. If this is me avoiding things, maybe I should avoid them. Forever." That means the Institute, the Brotherhood, the Railroad—they've all asked her to kill people who weren't actively harming other people.
"I'm here. I'll do whatever you need," I said. What else was there to say? I could've reminded her about Shaun, as if she didn't remind herself several times a day. No, no need for that.
Her eyes opened, and we looked at each other. "I know," she said. "And I'm grateful." Once again, I touched her face, as lightly as I could, almost not making contact at all. Almost. She turned her head and kissed my fingers as lightly as I touched her, then resumed walking to the Castle. "Preston!" she called, waving. "Rescued that settler!" He turned and waved back as we approached.
"You're a wonder," he said, smiling. "Great job."
"What's next?" she asked.
"Got something a little different for you this time," Garvey said, quickly looking at me before looking back at her. I started to grimace before he continued. "We need you here, at the Castle."
She blinked. "Surely no one's been kidnapped…"
"No, no, nothing like that. But the Minutemen need you here for a few days. For morale. And training."
"For morale and training?" she asked, obviously doubtful.
"Yes, and that look on your face tells me I haven't had you here enough. As the General of the Minutemen, you have a responsibility to the volunteers. That… ah… Paladin you left here has been trying to train the recruits, but he lacks a certain patience with them that you have. He also lacks the ability to inspire them that you have."
Danse walked up then. "Good, you're back. We need to talk about these recruits."
Danse annoys the hell out of me. His face annoys the hell out of me, so I spoke up. "Garvey says you've been terrorizing them?"
"Valentine, this doesn't concern you. Furthermore—" He was about to say more, but Sheila cut him off.
"All three of you, stand down." There was some humor in her voice as she shook her head. I took a little comfort knowing that what triggered her to take charge was Danse trying to order me around. "Nick, take a powder. Danse, I'll meet with you in an hour. Preston, let's go talk about exactly what you want me to do."
I waited for her to walk off with Garvey before I turned to Danse. "Did you want to say something to me?" I asked him. I am not taking guff from that self-hating synth.
He stared down at me before stomping away. At least, I think he was stomping. It's hard to tell in that enormous suit he wears. Bet he's compensating for something.
