(Author's Note: My God...folks, this was supposed to be two separate chapters. But the further I got into it, the more interwoven the content became, and the harder it was to lop pieces from it. So eventually, the monstrosity you see before you is the end result. This is what happens when you spend too long brainstorming and not enough time outlining what's going to go into each individual chapter, folks.
Well, nothing else for it but to wish you all good reading, and hear what you think! Enjoy!)
An excerpt from 'Boston Reborn: the Commonwealth'
Regretfully, the Minutemen victory over the Institute during Operation Deliverance did not result in the peace so many had yearned for. On March 21st 2288, the General of the Minutemen delivered the definitive news, though many had seen the blast that destroyed the CIT ruins. The Institute was gone. With it, the fear of being abducted in the night, of constantly worrying that your settlement was going to be wiped out by a legion of manlike machines, ebbed. The fear was not gone, of course. There were still plenty of Institute infiltrators out and among the populace, after all. The Brotherhood of Steel and the Minutemen began a hunt for spies, trying to root out the Institute agents left behind. The human collaborators were found quickly. The synths, however, dug deep. For weeks, nothing. But when, on April 13th, it was revealed that none other than Mayor McDonough of Diamond City was himself a synth, shock and outrage spread like wildfire. The spy barricaded his office, holding his secretary hostage until General Grayson and two Minutemen stormed the place. In seconds, McDonough's double lay dead on the ground, having been personally executed by the General. Control was reestablished quickly by the city council, but the question was suddenly out there; who would unmask themselves next, now they had nowhere to go?
Pip-Boy Date 6.7.2288
New Awlins, the Gulf Zone
Old Louisiana had already been a vicious beast. Overgrown with marsh and swamp, a single hurricane away from flooding every city and town into ruination. Modern monsters had drifted through the wilds, and the locals were paranoid and spiritual, many legends haunting streets and graveyards on misty nights. It had only gotten worse after the bombs had struck. New Orleans itself had been wiped off the map, bombed and sunk and bombed and sunk until all that remained were the upper floors of the structures that still stood, like a grim tribute to times long forgotten. The entire city was one enormous graveyard now, a memorial of death that snared anyone who dared try to sail straight through.
The swamp barge chugging its way past the once great (now sunken) city was best compared to the paddlewheel boats of eons past, in a time that even two-hundred years ago would have been considered ancient. It was built of collected scrap, built up onto an old tug boat and two more she tailed. She had no name, such was her ugly charm, but she played an important role to the people who used her. Her pilot was a short, squat Swamper who grunted and gestured and growled. He was assisted by a mountain of a man, covered in scars and always bare from the waist up, though his face was covered by a leather mask and goggles, his long hair pulled back under a wide-brimmed swamp hat. The Mountain Swamper's body was coated in the coal dust he was constantly shoveling alongside the wood he threw into the engine to burn, and he never seemed to stop moving, or to ever speak. The two were odd, creepy, and everyone was content to leave them be.
The passengers were a mixed lot, of course. Local Swampers looking to scavenge the sunken ruins of New Awlins and the surrounding towns undersea, trappers trying to hunt massive gators and mirelurks, traders attempting to keep their wares and pack brahmin out of the reach of the freshwater sharks that hunted just below the surface. Mercenaries also lined the deck, some of them former Legionnaires attempting to escape the seven year long Legion Civil War raging across Arizona and parts of Texas. Some of them were locals, putting their hard-earned skills to feeding themselves. Some were from Texas as well, identified by clothing better suited to deserts than swamps. The towed barges were jam packed with travelers, of all ages. Livestock, too. Just a complete package of humanity moving on from one ruined area to another, a living mural of the southern wastes.
She stood against the railing, hat tilted at an angle, bent cigarette unlit between her lips. Caps were running low, so was ammo, food, meds and clean water. Everything, really. Meant she had to make the smokes last. The swamp breeze generated by both the Gulf and the barge moving tugged at her coat emblazoned with the Old World flag, and the smell of continual rot reach her nose. She ignored it. She'd smelled worse. Denver, Zion Canyon, New Reno, Camp Searchlight, Nipton, the Boneyard. They'd all smelled of fire and death and things far more sinister than some swamp, as full of monsters as it was. Swamps didn't give her nightmares. Deserts would, if she wasn't in them so much.
"Hey babe," said a voice nearby, and she turned her head to find the three standing there. They'd been watching her since she boarded the barge in Port Arthur. She knew their look. Predators. They weren't as bad as Legion assassins in the middle of the night on an empty plain, but they still looked at her like a hunk of prime rib.
Their 'leader' (she supposed) looked like a typical Raider, but his face was grimy, sooty. He stank of the city. A ganger, then, from somewhere like New Austin or Corpus Christi. Some street tough who though having a gun and a few scars made you the ultimate badass. He stepped forward, until he was right next to her. With that cocky grin and all the forwardness in the world, he reached up, snagging her cigarette and placing it between his lips, lighting it off a matchbook.
"Christ, if you ain't gonna use it, let someone else." He took a puff before leering over at her. "Only makes sense, right babe?" She wanted to murder him everytime he called her 'babe'. But she held back. She had a long way to ride for the package in her messenger bag. If the barge kicked her off, she'd be mucking it through that nightmare swamp. So she ignored him, staring at the water, auburn hair that had come loose from under her hat blowing into her eyes.
The punk didn't take the hint, and eyed her annoyingly, gesturing his two buddies closer. They wore leather jackets and not yet worn travel boots. They hadn't gone far. Might even have ridden this barge a few times to fleece who they could. They also carried expectation and lust in their eyes. No one on the barge looked in their direction. No one would come to her aid.
The Prick in charge leaned closer, grinning as he blew out a cloud of smoke (her smoke) and said "A bit shy, aren't you doll? Make up for it with this here cannon, then?" He tapped her Survivalist's Rifle, next to her on the rail. Out of wisdom, she'd wrapped the sling around a fixture, so it couldn't fall off into the water, but she could still grab it if need be. Bullets that large were hard to find away from military posts, and the killing she'd had to do across Texas had put a dent in her stock. She'd been relying more and more on her sidearm and hatchet, both of which were looking very attractive to her hands…
Then the jackass had to lean in and whisper "I bet you're wild between the sheets. Chicks like you who think they're hard, they break even harder after the first few rounds. I love making bitches like you beg for it."
She only spared him the lightest of glances, but it was enough for her to finally see the poorly covered bull tattoo on his cheek. Ah. Made sense why his outfit seemed out of place now.
The ex-Legionnaire reached out, tracing her cheek, and she braced up, trying not to tense too hard under his grimy fingers. She couldn't help but grit her teeth, however, as the scum ran his hand down her neck, over her back, under her jacket and winding around her waist. His hand angled downward, clearly about to exert his power over her by copping a feel, when he suddenly froze as a large, solid mass pressed up against his crotch. There was a click and a beep, and suddenly his eyes shot down. An absolutely massive handgun was pressed against him, not even out of its holster but shifted by her hand as she'd reached up and turned it towards him, finger on the trigger. He glanced back at his two cohorts, who seemed to pick up on their leader's panic, but before the two could react, a wailing series of beeps and whines rang out, followed by the hum of a charging energy coil.
She just loved hiding ED-E away to spring out when people tried to get the drop on her.
"I'd normally have just blown you away by now, Shit Brain," she said quietly, her voice low and husky, her eyes still fixed on the water. "The second you stole my smoke. But I need a ride north, and that cannon there," she wiggled the hand cannon she held purposefully. "Will blow your balls all over the deck of this nice, pleasant shitty boat." She considered for a moment with a small smile on her face, as if something below amused her. "But, for you bastards, it's worth it."
The first shot boomed, muffled slightly by the punk's crotch.
Listening Post Bravo
The hills and crags surrounding the hidden bunker were a boon to its occupant. They helped obscure him from curious eyes, and the dilapidated nature gave the appearance that no one had inhabited it in some serious time. The destroyed Protectron clearly visible from the door helped reinforce that. It all helped add to the illusion that this place was merely another empty and picked over site in the Commonwealth, like hundreds of others. Kirk Danse wasn't afraid of the local settlers, and the Brotherhood had been forced to move on weeks ago. But he stayed here regardless.
His boots crunched through the mud, carrying him up the hill before he'd start his drop towards the bunker's entrance. He'd decided to go without his armor today. The fusion reactor in the basement did a good job recharging his fusion cores, but this was supposed to be a short trek to Breakheart Homestead to purchase some scrap and supplies. Those farmers were mostly survivors from the Slog, the Finch family and those few that had gotten off Nordhagen Beach. Together, they'd formed a new community in the old Super Mutant base. With its size, no one recognized just another traveler like him, and it had become a primary point of supply for him. Caps were tough to come by, but odd jobs and selling weapons he'd scrounged in the bunker helped him get by. It was a tough life, but he was making do so far.
On the way back, he paused for a quick water break, checking his rifle as he did so. The summer's growth of foliage on the trees brought with it welcome shade, and he took the opportunity selfishly, sitting on a rock in a dried out riverbed to drop his backpack. June was looking to be rather warm, and July and August would only carry with it higher temperatures. He ran a hand over his brow, and marveled for a moment at the sweat on his brow. The fact this was produced artificially still amazed him, and at times the fact he was a synth came biting back hard, and he slipped into a state of sadness for the rest of the day. He was getting better, however. Coming to terms with his existence meant learning how to stop questioning his own memories, trying to figure out what was his own and how much of his life was a lie. He'd realized it was impossible to tell the difference, and he'd never find out when he was inserted into the Brotherhood, not with the destruction of the Institute. If his banishment had made him an exile, the War for the Commonwealth had made him an outlaw by simple affiliation. Should one settler remember his face, he was due for a bullet anywhere he went.
He heard a rustling in the brush nearby, and in an instant he was up, rifle in hand as he scanned his surroundings, down on one knee as he checked his six. Nothing. Unless a Chameleon Deathclaw had snuck up on him, but so far the monsters had yet to learn how to completely muffle quarter ton footsteps. After another minute or so, he rose, rifle held at the low ready, but he could hear birds in the near distance, and further away the whistling of wind through the pass. Even further away was the hum of the reclaimed Saugus Ironworks in the distance, near the burnt wreck of the Slog. The air was quiet.
Ex-Paladin Danse cursed, tucking his canteen away and stooping for his pack, resuming his course again. He needed to stop getting so wound up. For all of his life (he once more ignored the additive of 'that he was sure of') he had always been certain, straightforward and locked in. He always knew what he wanted and where he was going. Never a shred of doubt. Now, he could barely go an hour without being drawn into speculation. He needed to stop questioning himself. He was what he was, and nothing would change that. He needed to survive, and that was unlikely to change anytime soon. And he needed to plan for the future, because that was always changing.
He could at least wear his Brotherhood bomber jacket. In these parts, looted Brotherhood gear was constantly trading hands. While a lot of valuable pieces had been scooped up by the Minutemen, things like uniforms, supplies and smuggled weapons with Brotherhood paint was fresh on the market, and no one gave a second glance to the tall stranger in the t-shirt and jeans wearing a dead man's jacket he'd probably bought from a scavenger. It was small, but being able to wear the thing was a comfort.
He stepped past the protectron and into the elevator, pushing the button to head down. As the booth rumbled, he took a second to breathe deeply, considering his newfound safety for the time being. Saugus Ironworks had been cleaned out, mitigating much risk to the local area, but threats still wandered the landscape. Nowhere aside from a fortified bunker like this one was safe.
Then again, considering who he shared a room with now, one could consider him to always be in danger.
The elevator doors opened to a chorus of ragged swears from a tattered throat, and Danse sighed as he remembered his roommate. Danse stepped in, moving down the tunnel towards the rear portion. He'd left the Yao Guai's habitat as they'd found it, for the turn made a good defensive work, and the inner tunnel was perfect for booby traps. He stepped expertly around the landmines, the whole time listening to oaths and curses being hurled towards every being in existence.
"Goddammit all! Danse, where are you!"
"Calm down, Arthur. You're not dying today."
When the Prydwyn had gone down, Danse had been scavenging near Saugus. The fighting had been raging for some time, and as callous as it was, poking through the wreckage of the Slog and Finch farm would be the best chance he'd have to scrounge supplies. That had all gone out the window when he'd seen the shells landing on the airship. Gunfire in the near distance told him a direct attack had been mounted on Boston Airport. The Prydwyn was disappearing in a ball of flames, cascading down to the ground.
Danse had run. He didn't care about being spotted, didn't care that there was a firefight occurring just at the entrance of the airport, or that live mortar shells were shattering buildings around him. As he burst out of a parking garage, the structure he was in instantly collapsed in a tumble of shattered concrete and a ball of immolating fire. On the other side, Brotherhood positions were under constant attack, and if it wasn't shells from above it was missiles and bullets from the front. And behind them, the airship burned, having crashed straight into the terminal and Liberty Prime. Explosions rippled over her hull, underneath her bulk, across the runway. The next part was a blur to him, but Danse had made his way over to the wreckage, grabbing handfuls of burning scrap with both hands and digging, furiously.
Arthur Maxson was the only one he'd found. The observation deck had been directly above the bridge, and that had been crushed. If Arthur Maxson, bones broken, clothes on fire and skin lacerated by glass, had barely survived, there was no way the Lancers had. And as more explosions rang out, the Exile knew he had no time.
And so, they were here today. With Maxson laying in a bedframe and three mattresses Danse had scavenged, IV bags and monitors hooked up to the maimed Elder. Nearby, a tray with Med-X and stimpacks had been set up, and several bottles of water left within arms' reach. Danse had done his best needlework trying to apply stitches while picking the glass fragments out, but the broken bones had to heal on their own. Stimpacks were good for the burns and smaller cuts, but Maxson for all his will could not move from his bed. Without material for casts, Danse had been forced to put together braces from scrap to hold Maxson's limbs, a painful adaptation that the Elder had bitched about from the high heavens. Funny how he claimed to have killed a Deathclaw with nothing but his hands, but at this point he complained about everything.
"You left me here alone again," Maxson huffed, doing his best not to shift as he glowered at Danse. Full of tubes and restrained by his own broken bones, he no longer seemed quite so imposing. The Exile remembered that the Elder was at most twenty one years old, and he looked it. A gangly kid, covered in bruises and blisters, most of his hair and beard burned away and leaving behind bare, scarred cheeks.
Danse unslung the ruck, dropping it near his workstation.
"I had to get more food. We were down to a day or two left. You were fine."
He checked Maxson's medical monitors, from the computer watching his vitals to the IV bag to the bedpan under the cot. Until the Elder could move around on his own, Danse was responsible for everything in his patient's life. He checked Maxson's painkillers and rummaged around for another dose, but only came up with empty IV bags. Sighing, he pulled out the carton of Med-X syringes, aiming for a vein and injecting steadily. He'd have to keep an eye out for Doc Weather next time he was around. The Breakheart chem dealer only had stimpacks, and Danse couldn't remember what they had left in the cabinet, so he'd crossed his fingers. Obviously, no luck.
After a quick meal (this time Danse had brought back some fresh fruit, so they'd lucked out on that one) the Exile stripped off his coat, cracked open a protein bar and a Nuka-Cola Victory, stepping over to his workbench, where a servo array for a power armor frame's arm lay. He'd been meaning to do some serious maintenance on his suit for some time, and now they'd been resupplied that was all he felt like doing the rest of the day. Now he had parts, too. He pulled out a piston, checking the hydraulic pump before he installed the new valve. That done, he removed the broken seal, laying a new one in before reinstalling the plates, his screwdriver flying. The finger servos in the wrist had been giving him trouble, but he had a new circuit board for that, and the mechanical hand finally moved fluidly. Excellent. The arm done at last, he brought the whole assembly over to his armor stand, taking note of the fusion core charging nearby.
As Danse returned to his work, Maxson fell silent. The painkillers were enough to put a normal man to sleep, but Arthur insisted on remaining awake during daylight hours as much as he could. Something about retaining his schedule as much as he could. During this time, he would stare at the ceiling, either muttering something to himself or attempting to recall an item from memory. Other times, he would watch the medical monitor, seeing his own vitals on screen. For his age, Maxson was a rapid learner, and in the last few weeks he had learned how to read his medical signs closely, which meant he needed Danse to come check on him less. Which satisfied the Elder immensely. Not a day went by he reminded Danse he was a soulless abomination.
A few days ago, it had suddenly started sounding a bit hollow. A little less earnest
"Danse," Maxson said suddenly. The Exile turned, glancing over his shoulder as he paused in his work. He didn't say anything back, but Arthur hadn't said anything to try and engage him without it being an insult or necessity. He wondered what Maxson could want, and held his tongue.
"You confuse me."
Now Danse was the one a little stumped. He bolted the X-01's arm onto the frame, locking the actuators in place. "I'm going to need a little more than that to work with."
Maxson turned to Danse, and for the first time Danse saw a flash of the vulnerable, lost and undoubtedly broken twenty-one year old he was. Without the beard, and with the vicious burns and lacerations, Arthur Danse could have been anyone, not the leader of the almighty Brotherhood of Steel. Could have just been some kid rent apart by the wasteland.
"You...are an abomination. This I know. A marriage of flesh and steel that is not supposed to exist, and an affront to everything we know. A danger to humanity."
"Given up on that diplomacy concept, I see," Danse deadpanned, turning back to work on his armor, checking the computer screen to make sure the operating systems were patching correctly.
"I'm serious," Maxson retorted, shifting slightly and wincing as he did so. "You are an Exile, dead to the Brotherhood. And yet you were nearby, close enough to save me. Wandering that close is dangerous...why did you save me? I don't understand."
Danse paused, fingers over keys, protein bar in his mouth, Nuka-Cola in hand. For a moment, only the beeping of Maxson's vitals monitor, coupled with ambient noise from the computers and the hum of the generator filled the bunker, as the ex-Paladin considered his answer. It had been a topic that had troubled him greatly too. General Grayson used to come visit periodically, and had asked the question of why he still felt such loyalty to the order that had banned him. But when war had broken out between the Minutemen and the Brotherhood, he had ceased. The General had found an answer and it was most likely true.
"I may no longer be a part of the Brotherhood, Arthur. I may no longer even be human. But," he set the bottle and the food down, taking a second to double check his updates before he continued. "I still believe in our...their mission. Protect humanity from its own foolishness. Stop the abuse of technology that led to the Great War. Annihilate any enemies to either of those two goals." He tugged his chair over to Maxson's bed, wiping greasy hands on an equally greasy work rag. "And I still believe in that mission. Whether you wish to have me or not."
A silence between them again. Maxson stared up at Danse, and where before the Exile would have seen a terrifying presence, here he saw a scarred and scared young man.
"I...need your help," Maxson finally admitted quietly. There was power in those words, power he was handing over to Danse. Maxson never asked for help from anyone. He ordered compliance, or requested assistance. But here, ex-Paladin Danse could see the artificial age peeled off. He'd been serving even before Maxson had, and he'd helped out many soldiers in need, just like the young Elder before him.
"I know, Arthur. That's why I'm here."
Another pause. A silent acceptance.
"This isn't going to gain you any mercy, though. Synth."
"I know that too, Arthur."
South Boston Military Zone, The Castle, the Canteen
Shaun Grayson wasn't like a lot of kids in the Commonwealth. Most took what solace they could in their few toys and the games they could play with others, always aware that their lives could change in an instant. Even as safe as it was now, the Commonwealth was still a dangerous place, settlements only affording perhaps the illusion of safety.
Shaun didn't have many friends aside from Nat Wright, and his toys mostly consisted of the gadgets he played with. He'd reassembled radios, done work on laser rifles, restored terminals and even started on his own robotics project with input from Sturges and Kasumi (Isabel didn't feel safe teaching an eleven year old how to build warbots). Here at the Castle, where it was safest, he often sketched his plans and fiddled with scrap to make parts for this eventual project, though he still wasn't sure how it would end up. His father had restored the sentry bot SARGE, labeling him the successor mark of 2.0 (Shaun admitted the extra armor and additional firepower were a boon, but had to shake his head at his dad's shoddy coding skills), but Shaun wanted to leave his endgoal open, given how long it would take him.
Back to the present. Shaun had taken up the habit of occupying the far corner of the Castle's bar, a rickety wooden shack on the pier tucked against the Castle's east side. Boats from Minutemen patrols and supply barges to places like Taffington, Kingsport and Warwick (formerly Croup Manor as well) came through the Castle in a regular buzz, and with them a constant flow of merchants, sailors and haulers. This flow, as well as the Castle garrison, made the Canteen a tasty profit. The owner, a civilian named Mick Hayder who had originally tried his hand as a traveling merchant, but found much better business tying himself to a military post inside a secured zone with a constant customer base. Most people in the Commonwealth didn't care what age you started drinking (turned out the concept of ID cards didn't exist anymore, to Shaun's humiliation in Diamond City) so Hayder let Shaun hang out in the bar with the other soldiers and sailors, taking up a corner table to himself and paging through recovered textbooks and Tesla magazines. His drafting wasn't professional, but it made sense to him, and he could work off it.
Shaun's memory of the past ten years of his life was fuzzy at best. While he remembered he grew up in the Institute under Father, details escaped him. The names of people he interacted with, what specific rooms looked like, even the reason he was there in the first place evaded him, though someone had to have said it at some point. But the invasion was still clear in his mind. He'd escaped his cell and fled to the teleporter nexus, ducking through the fighting and finding a party of Minutemen...and his real father. Shaun had to admit, his father both fit his mental image of the man perfectly and poorly at the same time. While seemingly impossible, it was the truth. He'd pictured a tall man with dark hair, tanned skin and well armed. What he saw that day was a hulking mass of thick blue combat armor, covered by a duster, a rifle and lightning bolt crossed over the breastplate. A huge laser rifle was held in one hand, and his face obscured by a mask. The reluctance and hesitation to take the boy had hurt, but in the end Shaun was still here, still out of the Institute.
But since then, the General had been isolated. If he wasn't busy or traveling, he shut himself away in his quarters. The Minuteman-Brotherhood War had raged, and then ended. Still nothing from his father. Shaun saw him rarely, heard from him less than that. For the most part, Piper had been his more constant companion, watching out for him the same as she did for Nat. When Diamond City Security escorted them back to the Publick or Home Plate after some escapade, Piper was always ready with a stern word, but would also come home with a Nuka-Cola or two for them both after she'd been gone all day. Shaun had never had a mother figure, and he knew his birth mom was dead for some time. Piper, for all intents and purposes, had taken it upon herself to take up that role, and Shaun had needed it without even knowing it.
The thumping of boots on floorboards cut through the noise of the crowd. To Shaun's mind, that either meant the footsteps themselves were extremely loud or, more likely, the chatter had died off somewhat. Shaun glanced up to find himself looking up at the very man he'd been thinking about, standing over him with an unreadable expression on his face. Nearby, several Minutemen were watching quietly, sipping their beers to seem busy. Shaun was apprehensive. His few interactions with his father hadn't exactly set much of a standard for him. It was hard to get the measure of a man in short, five minutes talks.
He realized, oddly, he didn't even know his own dad's first name.
The General nodded down, glancing at Shaun's drawings and books. Behind him, Dogmeat sat and panted, tilting his head as he watched his master.
"You look busy," he stated, and Shaun noticed that he barely had to raise his voice to be audible.
"It's just a hobby," the boy replied, suddenly defensive. He apparently hadn't heard about his close encounter with the mongrel in the ruins. Or maybe he had, and that's why his dad was here. But the General's mouth quirked, a corner turning up.
"Oh? Quite a hobby. I didn't learn about robotics myself until I was twice your age." He leaned in, studying the rough schematics, and Shaun suddenly felt under inspection. He gulped quietly.
General Grayson took only a minute, frowning as his eyes followed the drawn circuits.
"What's it supposed to be? Looks like you started with a Protectron, but these hardened transistors are from a sentry bot. Is that an auxiliary processor? That's from an Assaultron."
Shaun shifted a little, uneasily. "I started simple. I'm adding where I think I can improve the design. It's...sorta just becoming its own thing."
Grayson nodded, straightening as he stepped around the table, tugging out the chair and taking a seat. He reached up, sliding his officer's cap off and running a hand over his short hair (apparently, the General had gotten a haircut recently) before simply tossing the hat on the table and signaling to Hayder for a drink. The bartender stepped over, setting down a bottle of Gwinnett and taking the caps from the General before disappearing once more. Grayson started with a gulp before edging closer to the table, and it suddenly occurred to Shaun that the man may have felt just as awkward as he did.
They were quiet for a time, neither one looking at each other. Shaun read at the same page of Tesla Science over and over again, while Grayson was reading the words in an article of the Publick posted on the nearby bulletin board. Neither of them tried to restart an interaction. Neither knew the first step to take. How do you connect with someone you've been apart from for a decade?
At last, however, it was the General who made the bridge.
"You've been doing okay in school?"
Shaun jerked his head up with a start. Given that the Castle and Diamond City were separated by less than a day's journey, he'd come to visit quite often. Sometimes Shaun stayed here a few days, sometimes he went back almost the next day. It made little difference to him, since the chance to pick through sites along the route was the main source of most of his parts, but the fact his father was asking about his class performance was surprising given he'd barely given the boy a handful of glances this trip.
"Uh...yeah. Mister Zwicky says I've got a good grips on...well, everything. Mrs. Edna says I could probably teach the class." A slight exaggeration, but it neatly summarized a lot of conversations. Shaun didn't have any trouble with the class content, his problem was mostly with the other kids. Gavin Everitts specifically thought him a rival and Pete Pembroke made fun of Shaun for being absent frequently. Shaun wasn't used to this kind of treatment. He couldn't fathom why they teased him like that, but at least he had Nat around to watch his back.
Grayson merely chuckled, taking another swig of his beer before replying "Good. Won't get you out of going to school, though."
Damn, Shaun thought.
The General continued. "Doing better than I was. I didn't do too well in school. If I hadn't enlisted, I probably wouldn't have done so well." A pause. From what Shaun had heard, his father had survived the Great War through a series of good luck occurrences. If one thing had been different, he'd never have lived through to 2287. A scary thought indeed. "You get good shooting practice from Colonel Shaw?"
An involuntary glance to the corner at this point, at the comfy red armchair and ottoman there. On one side was a side table with an ashtray and mounted on the wall above was a stuffed deathclaw head next to a gun rack holding an extensively customized laser musket. The chair held a small sign that said 'Reserved'. No one dared to sit in Colonel Shaw's VIP spot.
"Yeah. She says I'm a bit small for the bigger weapons. But I've been doing okay on the range."
The General nodded, seeming to consider this for a moment before he leaned back, picking up a package Shaun hadn't noticed he'd set against the wall. He gently set it down on the table, on top of the schematics and books but not in an invasive way...there just wasn't much room on the surface. His gloved hands quickly undid the wrappings, and the whole of it fell away to reveal a compact bolt-action rifle inside, with a small magazine and a scope mounted on top. Shaun blinked, looking the weapon over. It was just the right size for him.
"Wanna go hunting?" his father asked, with the first honest smile Shaun had ever seen.
Curie didn't think herself a shopkeeper. The fact she sold medical supplies and services from the Castle was not the same as making a profit. She was more than happy to help travellers and civilians who came stumbling through the gates, and the caps she made went into the Castle's vault. She had little use for profit herself, and nothing to spend it on outside of what the Minutemen needed. Curie had dedicated herself to the one organization that, it seemed, was trying to fix the Commonwealth. Such a shame, when everyone had so much potential. The Institute had access to directories full of pre-war information with which they could have finally helped heal the world, the Brotherhood of Steel had drive and manpower, the Railroad was able to exploit information to their benefit. But all three were so deeply flawed, and now all that was left was for the Minutemen to pick up the pieces.
She sighed as she viewed her clipboard, taking a moment to lament. What kind of future was there for the world?
After giving herself a moment to think that over (and another second to wonder at how she was so distracted by sentiment lately) she returned to her patient, a Minuteman with a bullet wound from a Raider during an attack on Libertalia the other day. With Croup Manor destroyed and Minutemen East still regrouping at County Crossing, most of the wounded from countryside patrols were either coming here or going to Starlight, whichever was closer. The Castle's medical ward was substantial, but the influx was beginning to overwhelm her medics. They were not doctors, after all.
Fortunately, Weathers had kept a tight shift while she'd been in Diamond City. Three patients had even been discharged, freeing up space. She just wished she had more time to teach additional personnel. Medical minds were in desperate shortage in this city.
"Ma'am," said Corporal Finch, calling her over from the entrance to the infirmary. "Message for you."
"Oui, Jake?" Curie asked, settling her clipboard down on her desk.
"Training room just went through a big spell. They've got a bunch of bruises, strained muscles and bloody noses."
"Ah. Well, at least there are no fatalities," Curie joked, taking up her medical bag. A few bandages, some med-x, some stimpacks and a little buffout for those strained muscles. She liked taking on the training accidents personally. It was good practice on actual injuries. When she had the personnel and reach for it, she might start bringing trainees in for some real hands on experience. Alas, a lack of medical universities meant each combat medic had to be personally brought up, or innately familiar with keeping people alive. She had to one day find out where the various doctors of the wasteland got their certifications...perhaps she could refound a center of education herself.
This happened to Curie a lot. At times, her train of thought would go stringing off into the horizon, and she would find herself in a completely different place than she had been before she had begun, in the middle of a task she hadn't realized she'd picked up.
Lately, she'd found that her thoughts were locked on a certain scarred General…
Her shoulder exploded in pain, and she realized she was passing down a hallway, after having just been knocked into by a Minuteman. She mumbled an apology, but the soldier was already gone, and there was the traffic here in the tunnels to deal with. Quickly, she pressed to the side, letting the line by. The Castle wasn't as large as it seemed, despite everything packed into it. Plans were already being made to begin construction of additional facilities across the new Military Zone with the reclaimed structures, all to take the strain off the already packed fortress.
Curie finally merged into the line after a moment or two, following the tunnels until she came to the underground fighting ring, where hand to hand combat training was drilled in by bloody trial. This is where Cait did most of her work, walking Minutemen trainees through the use of their blades and fists. A rack of serrated machetes stood against a wall, their blades dulled to reduce the chance of injury. Combat knives were mounted on dummy rifles to be used as bayonets, but the place that saw the most use was the fighting ring in the center, Cait temple and place of rule. Six Minutemen in various states of injury sat on the benches around the ring, several hunched over in pain. In the ring, Cait was duking it out with a large, tough bruiser. While not a small woman, Cait's new muscle mass put her on par with the soldier a head taller than her, and Curie was having a difficult time tracking their movements.
Finally, the redhead caught the soldier's limb in an arm bar, pulling all the way through and delivering a sharp elbow strike to the ribs. The man dropped, and Cait backed away, arms raised in victory, whooping in the small room. She glanced over at her injured trainees, leaning against the ropes as she surveyed the damage, perhaps deciding enough was enough for the day.
"Okay, ye all look like ye've learned a couple a' tings. Go on and get patched up, c'mon back when yer ready for another round. I'll be waitin' ta educate ye."
She turned back, offering her last victim a hand to haul him back to his feet, to which the soldier limped his way out between the ropes, hobbling over to the bench. Curie immediately stepped forward, checking him for permanent injury, worried about potential arm or rib fracture. Luckily, he was merely suffering severe bruising and the effects of hyperextension on his elbow joint. She quickly wrote up a small note, slipping it to the soldier so he could get looked at in the infirmary, while also dispensing two 800mg painkiller tablets, rare in this world but fortunately making a comeback.
Before Curie could move on to the other injured trainees, Cait finally noticed her, and called out "Oi, egghead!" The redheaded cage fighter was leaning against the ropes, a canteen held lazily in one hand as she took a few slow gulps. "Was wondering if they'd send ye down. Been wantin' to talk to ya."
Curie shot her a confused look, but before she could say anything Cait had already vaulted the ropes, taking Curie by the arm and yanking her away.
"Ah! My patients!"
"Eh, don' worry about 'em. They'll be fine a few minutes while you an' I have some girl chat," Cait replied flippantly. She put an elbow out, pushing the door to the locker room open. It slammed into the opposite wall, slamming loudly. Curie was yanked inside, her while coat fluttering as she stumbled, barely avoiding tripping over the bench. The door slammed shut behind them.
"Really, Mademoiselle Cait! This is rather-"
"Why'd ye do it, ye little robobitch," Cait delivered coldly, and it was only now that Curie noticed her wrapped knuckles were covered in blood, and clenched tightly. She thought to how muscled and big those Minutemen were that Cait had so effortlessly floored, and realized the Irish lass would have no trouble snapping Curie over knee like a broomstick.
"Do...I don't understand."
"Bullshite," Cait spat, looming ever closer. She was just an inch over Curie, but now she seemed to dominate the entire locker room, eyes dark and locked on, her very presence taking up every spare inch. Curie has felt fear plenty since becoming human, but this was simply terrifying, coming from one she saw as a friend. "Ye went right in an' snapped Grayson up, right in front of me. An' after I gave ye the damned suggestion!"
She froze, and Curie swore she saw a flash of fear and rage across Cait's face. The redhead slowly raised a curled fist, her eyes narrowed as she focused in on her target, which Curie suddenly realized was her own face.
"Ye...did you-"
It seemed Cait was so furious she couldn't even vocalize her rage, but if the doctor synthette didn't do something, she felt she might just be an ugly smear across the backwall. Or that might be the fear coursing through her, but the danger of physical harm was indeed real.
"Non! He...he turned me down!"
That immediately put out the fire in Cait's eyes, and the lass dropped her fist partway, haltingly, her face screwed up in confusion, still trying to process what she'd just heard. Cait's workout shirt was a white tank top (with the words "Suns Out Guns Out") and the sweat soaked into it had seemed to be pouring out of her in fury. Now, as she deflated from being a Mad Titan, her shirt seemed dry, her shoulders slumped. She no longer seemed to fill up the room, and the sheer and utter astoundment rolling off Cait was palpable.
When she could finally speak again, it was in a much less aggressive tone, quieter but firm as she slowly asked "He...he did what?"
"He pushed me away. Told me he was taken by surprise. Apparently, I...what is the word...blindsided him?"
"Blindsided all of us really," Cait quipped drily, but there was no vinegar behind the comment as she tried to think through this news. That had clearly not been in her planned offensive, and now the redhead had to withdraw and think through her new plan of attack. Cait was good at killing things, preferably with her bare hands or some kind of blunt instrument. She was also good at backtalk, drinking and weightlifting. But having to think on the fly outside of combat wasn't her forte, and she was suffering for it by not being able to properly process this new piece of information.
Finally, she realized Curie was still looking up at her expectantly, and her fist fell all the way down now. She thought through the situation for a moment before sighing, taking a seat on the bench and tugging at her boxing straps.
"Well...shite. Now here I am, made a whole fuckin' fool a' myself fer nothin'. He tell ya what was wrong with ya?"
Curie shook her head, normally calm face twinged with a bit of remorse.
"Er...no. He merely pushed me away and said he 'must think things over'. I have not seen him since. And everytime I think about it myself, my chest gets tight, and my eyes begin to leak. I am...not sure why. For some reason…" Here, Curie paused. She herself was having a difficult time vocalizing her thoughts, though not out of inability to speak. Normally, if she thought or felt something, she just said it. She had not yet learned social customs or mores, and was only just becoming aware of the term 'blunt.' But she soldiered on. "For some reason, though he has turned away my advances, I find the General is on my mind even more. I have trouble focusing. I cannot work, I lose track of time. I thought telling him how I felt would make things better, like in the old films from before the war. But now..."
Again, a loss for words, Curie merely shrugged, tugging at the hem of her white coat awkwardly as she stared at the floor, noting the old stonework beneath their feet. The locker room was clearly meant for some other purpose, but what it could be was lost on her. She was not familiar with sensations like embarrassment or awkwardness, but lately it had washed over her in waves. When men flirted with her, she had taken quite a long time to understand what they were doing, and still she was unable to completely follow along with their intent. But after being rejected, she was suddenly intimately familiar with the ashen taste of an intent lost.
Cait glanced up again, her straps now completely unbound. Her hair had been tugged back into a messy ponytail, but a few sweaty locks had come loose and dangled into her face. She pushed it back, watching Curie carefully. Honestly, the girl was blushing fiercely and fidgeting nervously, practically on the verge of fainting it seemed. Cait groaned in aggravation. She'd seen this sort of naivety on women before, and she had to head it off now. It sort of was her and Piper's fault for causing this situation, giving the poor girl the advice they had. The General was a hot mess of emotions, always had been. Cait could understand anger and hurt and fear, but General Grayson had been utterly crushed since the Prydwyn had gone down. Now he seemed to be getting back into the warrior spirit Cait had...known for so long. Cait may not know much about stupid shit like romance or dating, but she knew you give someone their space.
"Listen, Egghead. Ye put yer heart out there an it got turned back. Now...it don' sound like an actual rejection, I guess. Mebbe some hope dere." She bit back the threat behind her teeth. She was in lecture mode right now, and it wouldn't be right if she cut the girl down.
Curie, however, tilted her head to the side, gazing down at Cait inquisitively. She didn't like it, and she narrowed her eyes in return.
"What?"
"...why are you so interested, Mademoiselle Cait?"
Out in the training room, the soldiers were checking each other over. By now, strained ligaments had healed to the point of at least movement, bloody noses had staunched and slowed, and with no sign of their instructor or medic they decided it was time to hike off to the barracks.
But as the Minutemen hobbled out, a ruckus abruptly seemed to break out from the locker room. The regulars, wisely, decided to stay away from that door, as it sounded like Cait was hauling off on something else again. It didn't concern them, she hauled off all the time. That said, they weren't stupid enough to approach that door.
That rule didn't apply to the woman sitting on the bench next to the locker room door, who had paused in scribbling on her notepad.
Piper Wright had walked in a few minutes ago, looking for a certain Irish lass. And she could now hear Cait's embarrassed yelling as she tried in vain to drown out Curie's questions.
And suddenly the situation was now even more complicated.
Southern Commonwealth
Near Jamaica Plain
Normally, this part of the Commonwealth was horrifically dangerous. Technically every part was, but in the far south the wilderness of the frontier blended with the war for the city. Super Mutant raiding parties, Gunner recon teams, wandering feral ghouls, roving raider parties and Minuteman squads on their way to clear out another area. But it was also the best place to go looking for possible game. North Boston was too far for a walk from the Castle, and the city proper too dangerous to simply stroll through.
The South had seen some pacification, after all. Ghoul packs had been culled, the Super Mutants keeping their heads down and the Gunners had forted up after the Battle of Boston Commons. Now might be the best time to try this sort of venture.
Shaun had changed into slightly more appropriate field clothes. A rough shirt and jacket as well as a kid's pair of boots. He also wore a red ballcap, which he was quite grateful for as the June sun beat down on his head. He was still getting used to sun, after all. The Institute had been sterile, white and clean. Even now he could forget how bright it could be to simply step out of a door. He'd experienced how rough the terrain could get, but here Shaun was struggling to keep up with Dogmeat, who just seemed to melt through the landscape, in and out of buildings in mere seconds.
Just behind, his father trudged behind him through the muck. South Boston commonly flooded, and no one went out without expecting to pick up an inch of grime. He'd taken up a combat shotgun from the armory one that Shaun had noticed he'd loaded with solid slugs. When he'd asked why his father had opted for something like that when they were supposed to hunt from a longer distance, his dad had replied "because Deathclaws are ambush predators."
He looked intimidating. His dark duster helped him blend into his surroundings, while the chalk blue armor he wore underneath promised he was well protected. Gone was the captain's cap, in its place a Minuteman wide-brimmed hat. His scars were visible in this light, and Shaun suppressed a light shudder. Not only at how his father's iron gaze seemed to be made all the more hard by the marks of violence on him, but also by the thoughts they inspired in him. About how he'd acquired every single one.
The General nodded to his son, shooting him what Shaun was certain was supposed to be a reassuring smile, but came out looking like an uncomfortable grimace. The boy turned back, staring out at the horizon. He'd never walked this far outside of a settlement before. To him, this whole area was hostile and wild, and to him even buildings might hold something they could eat. His walks from Diamond City to the Castle had only been slightly more contained. Still, he needed some direction, at least.
"Uh...which way?" he asked, scanning the plains before him, trying to peer past the loosely clustered trees.
"Your hunt. Make your best guess."
Shaun glanced back. The trees here had started sprouting summer green, resisting the radiation infused muck (which only made sense. After two-hundred years, foliage would have recovered by now in low rad areas) and breaking up the view ahead. Shaun wasn't completely certain where he was going at this point, but he'd heard from hunting parties that the best place to find radstags (a much easier kill than mirelurks, which were at least simple to find) was as far from the city as one could get.
"South?" he suggested. The General raised an eyebrow, which Shaun noticed made half of the large burn scar on his father's cheek stretch slightly, giving the effect that his entire face had moved.
"Are you asking, or telling?"
"Uh…" Suddenly, Shaun wasn't so sure. What would happen if they went out into the wild and didn't bring back anything? Was this a test, or just his father making an attempt to reach out to his son? He felt the pressure almost choking him with panic, and couldn't tell if it wasn't all in his head. He tried again, swallowing down his uncertainty. "Yeah, south."
The General simply nodded wordlessly, tilting his chin in the direction described. Now committed, Shaun took a breath, gritting his teeth as he turned, hoping at the very least he might bag a mole rat or something.
They walked quietly for a few minutes, Dogmeat sniffing the way ahead. The ground became solid, then street, then back to wild terrain again. Shaun sniffed, glancing around at the building in the distance once more. He could see the empty flooded district of Hyde Park from here, a former Raider hideout before turf fights between the Minutemen, Super Mutants and Gunners had torn through the place. Now Hyde Park was useless and abandoned. No one wanted to be caught between all that fighting.
The General pulled out a set of field glasses, scanning the view to the south. It was quiet here. Early afternoon was beginning to fade, and the sun to the west was slowly descending through the sky. Shaun blinked, turning away and glancing back where they'd come. He'd heard plenty of stories of men and monsters that would follow lone parties into the wastes, waiting until their guard was down before springing the trap. His recent brush with the mutant dog in South Boston had gotten his mind racing, and now he wondered which of those shadows held a Ghoul ready to devour him, which Overpass was home to a sniper scoped in on him. Whereas before it just seemed hazardous, the Commonwealth had changed in his view to lethal.
"Looks clear," the General finally said, reaching over and squeezing Shaun's shoulder. "C'mon. Let's bag something before it gets dark."
They set out again, Shaun taking point once more. Though the quiet was probably preferable for the hunt and their surroundings, the boy suddenly found himself bubbling with questions. A hundred burned through his brain, but the first that finally came out was "Are you sure this gun can down a radstag? I mean...they're kinda big."
"Sure," his father said offhandedly. "I used to take deer down all the time with two-two-three rounds in Texas. That's chambered in good old Army issue five-point-five-six, and Radstags don't have much meat on them. Get a good shot in a thin place, you'll drop it."
Shaun's ears perked up, and he turned his head. "You're from Texas?"
The General's response was to frown in return. "You know what Texas is?"
"Yeah. Biggest state in the Union. Well, aside from Alaska, of course. Center of the Texas Commonwealth."
General Grayson nodded, looking genuinely pleased for once. "Very good. They teach you a lot in that school, yeah? I'm from a small town called Seguin, outside Austin. I'll...tell you more about it later. Long story."
The silence returned, but less obtrusive this time. There wasn't as much tension, and Shaun felt like he had actually got through to his father. It was only a few minutes before he spoke again.
"Sir, can I ask you a question?"
"No sir."
"Huh?"
"I'm not one of those fathers that makes his own son call him 'sir'. My father did that to me, my grandfather did that to him. I hated it. So I'm not going to make you do it."
Shaun glanced up, a frown on his face. He wasn't even aware he'd called his father that. The Institute scientists insisted on proper respect, and even Father had instructed Shaun to maintain proper etiquette. But calling his own father 'dad' hadn't really set in yet. It hadn't felt right before, a little forced. But now, 'sir' wasn't right either.
The General continued. "So what were you going to ask?"
Shaun hesitated, suddenly no longer sure. He felt like he'd gotten somewhere, he didn't want to make things weird again with a question that would get on his dad's bad side. But his dad seemed to value decisiveness, and they needed to break the tension somehow.
"Do you like Miss Curie?"
The General paused, considering the question as he observed his son. Shaun suddenly felt very small. Finally, a response.
"We're not talking about that."
"But she kissed you." The words were out of Shaun's mouth, blunt and direct, before he could stop them. And now here the General stopped walking, looking down at Shaun with a strange expression on his scarred face.
"Heard about that, did you?"
Shaun shrugged. "The whole base was talking about it. Then everyone shut up."
"Then they know better to move on to something else." General Grayson seemed to ponder the issue, chewing on his bottom lip, lost in thought, and Shaun held his breath.
"Curie is...important to me. I consider her a good friend. It's complicated."
"So you don't want to be with her?"
"Nat is a gossiper," Grayson said, partially to remind himself as to confirm the fact out loud. "Look, Shaun. It's not that easy to consider, okay? I've never thought of her that way. Now I have to consider the fact that she sees me like that."
"Miss Wright likes you."
Now that got the General's attention. He let the shotgun drop, propping the stock in the mud as he leaned forward, an intense look on his face. "Piper? Really? Nat tell you that too?"
Shaun nodded. "Miss Wright also talks in her sleep."
Grayson flinched, a look of horror on his face as he straightened up, groaning in irritation. "Of course. Dammit. Now I got that to deal with. Look, Shaun…". Grayson stopped again, trying to figure out a way to explain to the eleven year old. "There's a lot going on. I've got the Minutemen to run, trying stay on good terms with the settlements, keep track of the Railroad, pun unintended. I'm just...not really ready for anyone else in my life, see? Now, we should-"
"Is it cause of what happened to mom?"
If Shaun had ever made a tragic mistake in his short life, that was it right there. For a moment, his father disappeared, and in his place came the General of the Minutemen, full bore. He felt so small compared to this man, this titan of military might who had torn apart two all-powerful entities with sweat and blood. For a moment, Shaun felt like he was in the most danger in his life, as Grayson glared down at him silently, fuming with deadly intent. Behind him, Dogmeat whined, ears pinned back.
Almost a full minute went by before the older man finally responded "We're not talking about this." Wordlessly, Shaun simply nodded, and Grayson took point, not looking back as he declared "Let's get back to it."
For nearly a half hour, they walked in silence. Moreso than when they had first set out. South became southwest, and they found themselves out in the marshes on the route to Quincy. Ruined houses and abandoned cars dotted the landscape, and Shaun suddenly felt exposed here, as if something was about to leap out at them from nearby. The setting sun didn't help that, and the summer heat was beginning to leach out of the humid air, leaving instead a chill to the breath. They couldn't stay here.
Just when Shaun was beginning to wonder if it might be a better idea to ask to turn back, Dogmeat gave a quiet yip, and the General tugged out his field glasses, gazing at something on the horizon. He hummed quietly, gesturing Shaun forward.
"Got one! Over there, by that stand of trees on the hill ahead."
Now caught up in the moment, Shaun moved to his father's side, squinting into the distance. He couldn't see anything at first, but after raising his rifle scope to his eye and searching for a moment, he finally saw the shifting, mottled form in the trees. A radstag of course, sniffing across the mud and searching for greens to consume. The second head sort of wobbled a little, aimless as if it wasn't sure what it was doing. Given that the form of a radstag was awkward and unnatural, that didn't come as much of a surprise. The General tugged on Shaun's arm, pulling him over to a small rise. A fallen log was astride this rise, and it was here that his father indicated, so Shaun laid down, using the log as a prone rest, adjusting his rifle until it sat naturally and he was comfortable, just like Colonel Shaw taught him on the range. Grayson grunted in approval, taking a knee next to him and turning his field glasses downrange again. Dogmeat lay down next to Shaun, hiding in the tall, dark grass, panting quietly.
"Okay, your target's about a hundred meters away. Wind's blowing towards us. He isn't moving towards us. Damn, he's skinny. Still, means less mass to stop your shot...see his ribcage? And the upper part of his leg? See if you can plant your shot between them, right in that little valley." Shaun quietly adjusted his aim, remembering to account for bullet drop and the wind. Colonel Shaw had only addressed those once, but he had personally gone back through a few physics textbooks to try and understand the concept.
"I...I think I have the shot," he whispered, still unsure of how good a radstag's hearing was. Were they far enough away? The breeze was light, but what if it changed direction suddenly?
What if he missed?
"Right. Squeeze the trigger when you're lined up. Don't pull it, and don't rush yourself. You 'll jerk your shot. You want the shot to surprise you. All the time in the world right now...just gently squeeze. Keep adding pressure every few seconds, a bit at a time." Shaun's finger, curled against the cold steel, began pulling ever so slightly. In his sights, the radstag paused, glancing around with both heads, sniffing the air with a nose and licking it with a tongue. Shaun's crosshairs were dead on target, and with his dad quietly encouraging him right next to him and the silence of the air around him, Shaun could almost believe he could hit a fly at that moment.
"There we go...you're doing good. Squeeze at your time, not his. Just give it a-" A pause. "Wait…"
But Shaun was in the zone right now. He felt like he was reaching out towards this creature, so far away but so close through a simple glass optic. Right now, the mutated deer's life (lives?) was held in Shaun's hand, whether he followed through and fired, or missed and the animal escaped. He just had to…
The varmint rifle bucked against his shoulder, and the round flew as a crack split the air. Shaun could almost could the second between the gunshot and when the round landed, but as he watched the radstag's side suddenly rippled, a dark hole appearing right in the perfect spot, the animal staggering and yelping in pain as it ran a few yards and then collapsed.
"Yes!" he cried, looking up from his scope at his father. He expected to see a proud face, or a smile behind the field glasses as he watched his son's first kill go so well.
"SHAUN!"
What he saw instead was the Chameleon Deathclaw, originally grey as the house it had been lurking behind, lunging towards him as its skin turned blood red. For a moment, Shaun's blood ran cold as the vicious predator seemed to close the distance between them in a heartbeat. Everything was moving in slow motion...he could see the claws, long and capable of skewering a man each, the toothy maw wide, oh so wide almost as if it could swallow him whole, the beady yellow eyes full of hate and viciousness and hunger. Shaun was paralyzed by this monster as it closed in on him.
In that moment, he was dead. Nowhere to run, no time to move.
Until General Grayson stepped between Shaun and the beast, reaching up and somehow grabbing the creature's horns. Trying to stop this thing was like trying to hold back a diving Vertibird, however, and in a moment the man was sent flying end over end, back towards the ruined house where he smashed through a wall. Before Shaun could process the horror of the situation, however, Dogmeat was on the creature, baying and growling, taking a scaly wrist in his teeth and digging in hard. The deathclaw roared, more out of annoyance, and grabbed the dog with his other hand, tossing Dogmeat away before continuing to advance on Shaun, resuming its reach towards him.
"Hey, You ugly motherfucker!"
BOOM
Abruptly, blood and viscera flew from the Deathclaw's side, and the creature turned only to get a similar result as something small and swift smashed into its face, destroying part of its jaw.
"C'mon you fucking bitch! I'm right here!
BOOM
And again, as the Deathclaw tried to blow whatever was coming at it, holding an arm up even as another geyser of blood fountained on the limb, roaring in pain and rage as it stepped back, away from the boy.
"You want a fight, get your ass over here you bastard!"
BOOM
Emerging from the house, battered but still definitely alive, General Grayson advanced, shotgun to his shoulder as he squeezed off carefully lined up shots, letting out curses and insults with every breath. Everytime he pulled the trigger more holes stitched up the creature, and the Deathclaw slowly began to back off. Dogmeat renewed the attack, jumping in and out between shots, gnawing and biting and leaping. It looked like they were really going to bring it down.
Until Grayson's shotgun suddenly went clack. The bolt locked open.
The General turned to Shaun, dropping the empty drum magazine, fingers reaching for a new one.
"RUN!"
Shaun ran. He ran faster than he ever had before. He dashed around the wrecked building, and took off down the ruined street, dodging past ruined cars. In the distant, he heard the cracking of the shotgun again, Dogmeat barking and the snarls of the Deathclaw as the battle raged behind him. His boots splashed into marsh and he stumbled, but he didn't care as he stood again and continued running. He didn't know how far he ran, or for how long, but when he finally stopped it was because he fell to his knees in some abandoned, overgrown yard, coughing and wheezing as spittle dripped from his mouth. He drew ragged breaths, struggling just to suck down oxygen. This went on for at least a few minutes.
"Hey, where the fuck did he come from?"
A massive hand suddenly wrapped around Shaun's throat, lifting the boy up out of the grass. Already air deprived, he could feel his mind starting to black out, his vision fading as he tried to look down at his captor. But all he could make out was a skull with an X on its forehead.
Ticonderoga Safehouse, Railroad HQ
When Desdemona finally emerged (after two days of full sleep, full meals, little caffeine and two-hundred year old crossword puzzles) she was supposed to be in isolation another week. Carrington had ordered that anyone who saw her return her back to her quarters. But she'd played along, and as a result when she came out with a copy of the Publick in one hand and a coffee in the other she looked far healthier, far more like she had been before. As a result, the heavy standing guard in the command room merely glanced her way, smiled and nodded, tilting his head towards her three senior agents, heads bowed and voices low in discussion, poring over an old map of Boston, heavily annotated.
She smiled. Another day in the Railroad.
Ticonderoga was empty, strangely. Headquarters had been so badly mauled by the Institute and the Brotherhood that even with rooms handed out like crazy, the operations center was quiet. Another reminder of the loss. Desdemona's eye caught the board of lost agents, and while it certainly hurt, for once she could live with the pain.
As she stepped over to the table Bullseye, Carrington and Tinker Tom all looked up. While Carrington remained silent but glared at her, Tinker Tom began quietly reading through his notes regarding his suspicions over alien augmentation on people, Bullseye grunted and stepped in front of her.
"Dez…" the one-eyed marksman growled, crossing his arms over his chest. Roland Moore wasn't a large man by any means, whiplike and average height, but often it was his mere presence that made him seem larger than life. Despite the reputation of all snipers as cold and calculating, he had quite a temper on him if he let it get away. As their last remaining Alpha Heavy, he'd been running more and more interception ops before the Institute was taken out, and afterwards had waged a one-man war against the Brotherhood leading up to the Battle of Boston Commons. If not for the damage he'd inflicted on Maxson's Knights, HQ never would have made it to Ticonderoga. After the Minutemen got involved, of course, it was a different matter.
Bullseye swore that watching something as horrific as open battle tear apart an entire neighborhood was among one of the most terrifying things he'd ever seen through his scope.
Desdemona, however, waved him off.
"Bullseye, if I stay in there another minute, I'm going to go insane."
"Everyone insists it's a bad thing, but it really ain't so bad," Tom muttered without looking up, drawing stares from the others. Carrington sighed before stepping over to Desdemona, giving her a quick cursory check.
"At least you actually look like you got some rest. How are you feeling?"
"Cooped up and pissed off," she fired back instantly, and Carrington sighed as Bullseye chortled.
"Sounds like Dez on a normal day, alright."
Carrington shook his head, throwing his hands up. "Sure, let's just let -everyone- ignore my medical advice. Not like I studied hard to get my expertise. Should we just use tampons to plug bullet wounds now?"
A sharp slap over the head was his reward, while Bullseyes' chuckles turned to guffaws. Inappropriate jokes finally done with, Des took her former spot behind the map, staring at the situation of Boston and the surrounding towns. Information about each spot was written on the map itself and several dozen small notes taped onto the paper, written in various agents' recognizable scrawl. Deacon had come through here at one point, adding more information about Bunker Hill. There was Mary May about Outpost Zimonja. Another report from Caretaker was tossed to the side, and she ignored it for now. If Bullseye thought Mercer Safehouse and Salem Outpost were fine, they most likely didn't need her attention. But she started noticing other things. New info posted about various goings on and reports from across the Commonwealth, most of it not pertaining to synths at all. Shifts in supplies, new faces coming into the area, strange activity around Covenant, Raider hideouts purged by the Minutemen, movement off Spectacle Island.
This was a far more complete net than they needed. Someone had been busy doing a little extra study. She immediately focused on Carrington, but he simply shook his head. Her view next went to Bullseye, who stared back completely innocently.
"I didn't know there were synths being moved into the National Guard Training Yard," she said airily, taking a sip of her coffee (quite good, actually. When had she regained her sense of taste? When had she lost it?) before she gestured to the map. "Otherwise, why would it be vital that its becoming the new Minuteman East?"
Bullseye cleared his throat before he carefully replied "Ma'am, we decided keeping an eye on possible new routes is absolutely vital. Taking the road from Bunker Hill straight through County Crossing means passing the Yard. The Minutemen are setting up there, so watching them is-"
"Bullshit," Desdemona replied. "There's a reason we take that road. Because it's the place our people are least likely to stand out. They just look like another trade route, and there's a reduced chance of creature attacks so close to a Minuteman camp. Care to try again?"
Silence. Tom still hadn't looked up from his notepad, flipping through various pages. Carrington looked very much uncomfortable, though smug at the same time. And Bullseye, of course, grit his teeth and turned a bit red.
"You've been retasking agents," she said flatly, narrowing her eyes. "I'm guessing...the ones that don't work the roads or at Mercer, Cottage and Salem. We do have a dedicated intel team, Bullseye."
"And half of them are dead," the heavy retorted. "The other half, the one we still have hold on, don't dare go near settlements anymore. We can't fully rely on Tourists anymore, and Grayson's warned us about disguising as his soldiers. So I sent out a few more scouts...according to P.A.M. the algorithm is more stable now than in years."
"The algorithm is stable because the Minutemen blew up the Institute," Desdemona reminded him. "No more Coursers. No more synth response team teleporting into our rest areas. And with McDonough unmasked and executed, no more influence on the politicians. Let Diamond City and Goodneighbor freak out about synths in their ranks. Any that were actively serving the Institute are keeping their heads down, and they'll be a good smokescreen while we shelter the others. It's the operation model we agreed on. Right now, the Railroad's purpose is to find Institute survivors wandering the Commonwealth and safeguard synths in the settlements."
"Is it?" Bullseye asked, and Desdemona suddenly felt the weight of the armor-piercing question. It had been tossed around since the blast in Cambridge that the Railroad had won. Eventually, there would be no more synths in danger. The L&L Gang was steadily being picked off by precision Railroad assassins and Minutemen bludgeoning. Soon it might not even be safe for the Gunners to operate anymore, or so one could dream. Would the Railroad find a way to stay relevant?
The Brotherhood raid on the Church had put a pin in that question, but now they were in a better position to answer that question. And Desdemona wasn't sure she had an answer. So she settled for a tactic that had never failed her. Tactical aggression.
"You have an alternative? What should we be doing aside from safeguarding synths, which I might remind you is our founding purpose."
Bullseye raised an eyebrow, but knew the bluster was a front. There was no point to padding words or passive aggressiveness here, and they all knew it. They could all read each other too well, kept their cards too close to the chest at the same time and there were too few people here for it to have much effect. But to his credit, he let the comment slide as he quickly recovered, stepping over to the table.
"We just learned Hancock is heading to Diamond City."
"So what? He meets with the General in a lot of Minutemen outposts. Hangman's Alley is a bit out of his way, but I hear he likes to get out and about." Desdemona shrugged, prepared to put the issue to rest, but Bullseye held up a hand. The one-eyed bastard looked way to smug for his own good, and she was immediately suspicious.
"I didn't say Hangman's Alley."
And suddenly it clicked. Desdemona's eyes widened, and her coffee froze halfway to her lips. Her eyes flickered over to where Goodneighbor was on the map, where several notes and question marks had been scribbled down. Triggerman movements now that Sinjin and the local Raiders had been purged. The Super Mutants in Trinity Tower had forted up, though were being slowly forced out towards Hammer's group in West Everett. The Gunners had pulled back, and their new perimeter almost impossible to get through, but their own forays had ceased. Minutemen patrols and scavenging parties were constantly pushing through the Commons. Swan was dead, killed by an Enforcer patrol and several well-placed shells out of Minuteman-occupied Bunker Hill. If the Commons could ever be called 'safe' this was something close to it. Not a coincidence.
"Deacon get you this info?" Bullseye simply nodded, and she leaned against the table, staring down at the map as another agent stepped over, handing a document to Bullseye, who merely glanced at it and then nodded. The action was so automatic that the Railroad Alpha was thrown. Bullseye didn't appear to need much help in taking charge of Ticonderoga, and the feeling sat uneasy in her gut, that maybe her breakdown had caused a shift in power.
She looked down at the map, trying to piece things together. Why Diamond City? He'd be skinned alive there, if he made it through the gate. She checked several other settlements, searching for a pattern. Bullseye was asking her to see if his information was important enough to facilitate a purpose shift in the entire Railroad. They would go from an underground liberation movement to a black ops organization that rescued synths as a hobby (she mentally spat that word out. Did all those people on the wall die for nothing?).
And then, as she looked between Starlight and Vault 81, she spotted the connection. Mayor Huey Reed and Overseer Gwen McNamara respectively were beginning to close up business and make preparations for armed escorts to travel to Diamond City as well, in a week's time. She checked Bunker Hill. There was a note about Kessler denoting a deputy in charge during her leave. Sanctuary said Mayor Jun Long was already on his way out. There were a handful of others. County Crossing, Vault 88, Spectacle Island.
"Representatives from any settlement large enough to control an area with influence," she noted. "Where's that been seen before." It wasn't even a question, really. "So, he did it then. Grayson got the 2nd CPG up. Looks like they'll be meeting in Diamond City in a week to hash out the details. Good for them. Do we know when the Castle will send a Minuteman rep?"
Silence. Desdemona glanced up to find Bullseye glaring at the map, Tinker Tom finally pulled away from his notepad (after taking six more pages of notes and sketches, of course) and Carrington quietly urging another agent away with another report. This, apparently, was what Bullseye had wanted her to reach.
Finally, the heavy replied "Deacon says there is absolutely no indication that the Minutemen are receiving an invitation. In fact, at the orders of one Clarence Codman there is to be all attempts to ensure no Minutemen are made aware that they haven't been invited."
That was bad. Under the old Commonwealth, having the settlements disorganized and settlers constantly on the move was good for the Railroad. It helped to disguise their movements and keep people distracted, too busy staying alive to focus on those strange people creeping around ruined churches at night. Now, with the Commonwealth becoming more pacified every day, a new trend was emerging. Desdemona and Bullseye had known they needed to either work with the General or cut him out entirely. Seeing as he was one of the few outsiders who knew about Ticonderoga and how the Railroad operated, she'd opted for strengthening their alliance, but Bullseye had pointed out they didn't have much to bargain with.
Now they did.
"Get Deacon to Diamond City," she said immediately, gesturing an agent with a report forward. "And someone get a line to the Castle. They're going to want to hear this before it's too late."
They'd still safeguard the synths. But with the Institute and Brotherhood gone, it was time the Railroad did some good for the humans in the Commonwealth.
Shaw High School
Grayson cursed, feeling his bruised ribs. Deathclaws smashed like trucks, and the armor had only protected him from being skewered. He hunkered further down in the shadowy corner, bandaging his wounds and injecting another stimpack. He didn't have Med-X on him right now, but the pain he could just ignore. Rage was a hell of an anesthetic, and right now he had plenty to burn..
"Son of a motherfucking bitch," he grunted as he tugged a new magazine out. When he'd gone on this hunt, he'd packed two drums full of slugs, and he had burned through those already on top of the mags of regular shells. Now he only had two more drums of buckshot left. He winced again but pushed on, slapping the magazine in place and racking the bolt.
Dogmeat leaned up against him, licking at Grayson's hand with a bloody muzzle. The General smiled, reaching over and gently scratching his faithful companion behind the ears, reward with several tail wags. This would be their only time to recover from the Deathclaw ambush, but neither wanted to wait. With Dogmeat's help, Grayson had tracked Shaun back here after the spot where he'd been abducted. Shaw High School, and by extension most of this area, had been Super Mutant territory just a few months back, but continued bombardment and purges of the area had convinced the greenskins it was time to move on. The area was slated for resettlement, but most felt who came to the area felt safer in the incomplete and now overpopulated Vault 88. Shocker. Regardless, Shaw High School was actually a great fortification. Few entrances, a defensible second story and plenty of places to turn into killzones. So it was little wonder Grayson had found a Gunner skull painted on the door.
The Gunners. Many people called them mercenaries. Others called them Raiders with good guns. But Grayson knew military tactics when he saw them. The Gunners were an organized force, taking orders with an agenda. The mercenary jobs were just to buy ammo.
And now they had stolen his son.
There were only a few things that had truly triggered General Grayson's "rage" as it was. The news that Kellogg was at Fort Hagen. Seeing the Mirelurk Queen while retaking the Castle. The Battle of Bunker Hill. Hearing of the Brotherhood raid on the Old North Church. The reports of the Brotherhood burning down farms. And now, when these Gunners had made the all too stupid mistake of laying hands on Shaun, whom he'd only just gotten back.
He checked his sidearm, his melee weapon and his armor plating. Then, he glanced towards the west, where the sun had just slipped down over the horizon, the streets darkening rapidly. Soon, night would truly settle in. Visibility would slip and the big bad predators would come out on the hunt. Grayson had done plenty of hunting at night, both game and men. Recently, machines had been added to that list. He cursed the fact that he hadn't thought to bring his laser rifle, but he really honestly hadn't thought a Deathclaw would attack. The odds had been more likely of a pack of mongrels, some ghoul stragglers or a few wandering Super Mutants. Minutemen patrols were constant because the net was completely foolproof, after all. Now, he was out here seriously undergunned, up against at least a dozen hostiles inside of a fortification they had taken time to fort up.
But in the end, that didn't matter. He wasn't leaving without Shaun.
He glanced down at Dogmeat as he checked his shotgun. As ready as he was going to be. He looked his companion dead in the eye.
"Ready to fuck some shit up?"
Dogmeat wagged his tail and woofed quietly.
When Shaun came to, it was gloomy and dark. The air, while cold, was no longer wet. He couldn't hear the outside world, no birds in the distance or the rattle of gunfire from downtown. No military orders, generators or rumble of troops on the move. No sounds of Vertibirds or the ocean. That all ruled out where he had fallen, the Castle or Spectacle Island. That didn't bode well at all.
"Where's the Sarge?"
"Said some shit about a terminal. She's coming."
Shaun's eyes cracked open, and he turned his head slightly, trying his best to get a view. He must have been dumped in a corner somewhere, because he could feel himself leaning against a wall. Nearby, a counter blocked off his view of the rest of the room, but he could see scrap, ruin and rust all around in the low light. Nearby, standing next to a hanging lantern, was a man in rags and a green shirt, wearing mismatched body armor. Just a chest plate and a thigh piece. He had a laser rifle slung over one shoulder, and from the glow and smoke emanating from his face he was currently puffing on a cigarette of some kind. Grimy hair and a belt with microfusion cells completed the look. The laser rifle was painted black and dark green, with tally marks in white across the barrel. And a skull with an X in the center.
A Gunner.
The merc was talking with another nearby, this one even worse equipped, wearing an old National Guard helmet and some kind of harness with his pants, his shotgun leaning against the wall next to him. These two must have been his guards, and they were talking about at least one other person, a Gunner sergeant. He racked his brain, trying to remember what Colonel Shaw had taught him about military tactics, what he'd read and what he'd heard about the Gunners, but knew it was pointless. Their own organization wasn't really comparable to others, even the Minutemen. All that mattered was they were far more dangerous than they looked.
He opened his eyes more, straining his ears and trying to limit his movement. He could hear others moving around near him, and the shadows on the wall told of a fire of some kind. Which meant he was in a Gunner camp inside a structure. In short, helpless. His rifle was gone, lost at some point he couldn't remember, whether it was during his mad dash or after he'd been captured. Fat lot of good the thing would do him now against a building of hardened mercenaries.
He listened for a few more minutes as he pretended to still be out of it, trying to map out where his captors were. His guards didn't seem so attentive. Maybe he'd get the chance to slip away. But he really didn't want to get shot, and fear caused him to lock up in, trying to decide what to do. He was eleven years old, trying to force past these men and women would just wind up in him getting hurt, or killed. He felt tears well up under his eyelids.
He wanted his dad. He wanted to go home.
Suddenly, a door opened in the room, and insistent footsteps came in.
"Shit's sake! What the fuck is wrong with you idiots!" The sound of several blows rang out, with shouts of protests. "Are the walls sealed up? Is the perimeter set? Are the turrets online? No the fuck they are not! So why the hell are you retards sitting in here like a bunch of jagoffs! Move, limpdick!"
That was definitely a firm kick, and three or four voices grumbling as they left the room, muttering curses at their abuse. The other occupants had fallen silent, likely grateful they hadn't been pulled for this detail. The footsteps stomped across the room, until the gruff woman was close to Shan's guards, both of whom had straightened up so they looked more attentive, weapons in hand and watching whoever she was carefully.
"So what's the story here?"
"Ma'am, Syler and Davies caught this kid outside. He looked like he was being chased by something, but whatever it was must have lost him."
"Boy looked like he was damn near gonna piss himself, Sarge. Put up a bit of a fight, so I just choked him out and dragged him in. Maybe we can find out who he's with and get some ransom?"
The guards parted, allowing the grimy woman through. Gunners differed from Minutemen and Raiders in that as they went up in rank they were awarded better gear befitting their skill and station. Minutemen Regulars received standard equipment, while Raiders either stole from each other or dealt with what they could scavenge. Judging from her full plates and the modern combat helmet hanging off her belt, this Sergeant must have been a capable fighter. The letter B- was tattooed onto her face, and she wore commando stripes under each eye. She shoved past, looming over Shaun's limp form as she stared down menacingly, her gaze narrowed.
"Get up. You're not fooling anyone."
Shaun slowly lifted his head, glancing up sheepishly (behind the Sergeant, the two guards looked at each other in bemusement) as he sat up, adjusting his hat. He couldn't meet the eye of such a fearsome woman. Compared to Colonel Shaw, Cait and several of the other female Minutemen he'd met, she had all the fire mixed in with triple the vinegar and spite. He was afraid of her, yes, but these Gunners just reeked of grease and callousness. They couldn't be trusted, and they didn't see others as people. He wasn't going to let them see him beg, if he could help it.
The Sergeant loomed over him, reaching out with a grubby hand and grabbing the brim of Shaun's cap, twisting viciously. Suddenly that internal promise didn't seem so realistic, more like a kid trying to play the tough guy card. Even Nat was made of sterner stuff than him, and she lived in Diamond City…
The Sergeant froze as she saw Shaun's face. Then she leaned down, grabbed Shaun's chin and turned his head, looking at him from multiple angles.
"Ah, shit…" she let him go and stepped back, pointing at Shaun with the cap. "He look like anyone to you morons?"
The guards stared down at Shaun for a minute before both simply shrugged, shaking their heads. Before they could ask, the Sergeant was smacking one over the head with the ballcap, punching the other in the jaw.
"HE'S. THE. GENERAL'S. KID. YOU. FUCKTARDS!" she hollered, enunciating her words with blows, bludgeoning her subordinates for their mistake. "Did you stop to wonder who just happens to wander around out here? Fuck's sake, if he was any other Minuteman's kid I'd still be freaking out, but you had to grab the General's son you idiots!" She tossed Shaun's cap back at him at this point, following it up with a grubby finger jabbing his way as she continued to bawl her men out. "I don't care how far away you gotta go, or if you find a goddamn Behemoth out there, you take him back where you found him and you leave him there!"
"Shit Sarge, we didn't know he was Grayson's boy! Fuck, we'll take him back."
"Do it now, you idiot! If Grayson even catches a whiff of this boy being here, he'll-"
Shaun didn't learn what the Gunners feared the General would do to them, as from within the building a muffled cry rang out, followed by the crack of a single laser shot and a distant gunshot, large caliber. The room went silent, everyone staring at the door. The air was completely still, the only noise being the crackle of the fire and the occasional creak of the building's rusted walls. Shaun slowly stood, peering over the counter. The other Gunners were slowly rising, picking up their weapons as they did so. There were more of them than he'd thought, and they were far better equipped than the two idiots left guarding him. Laser rifles, 9mm SMGs, shotguns and an LMG. Everyone wore armor of varying coverage, and he spotted more than a few grenades. Even among these hardened savage killers, the fear in the air was both sudden and palpable.
The Sergeant drew her sidearm, gesturing to a soldier nearby. The merc nodded, crossing the room and tapping a buddy on the shoulder. The two crossed to the door, followed by a third. They waited, glancing at each other before the third man pulled on the handle, yanking the door wide open to let the other two rush out, weapons up.
Which was when the two charges of C4 attached to the outside of the door went off, reducing the two Gunners in the hallway to a fine red mist, knocking the third one to the floor.
Up above, the sound of glass shattering on the second floor had several mercs turn and glance up, but four small objects clattered to the ground. Shaun's eyes widened, and he ducked just in time. One of the Gunners had a second to scream "GRENA-"
Two of them were frags, of course. But the other two were flashbangs. The bouquet detonated spectacularly in a cacophony of blasts, bangs and bright flashes. Shaun had remembered to look away, but the percussion deafened him, and all he heard was a loud ringing in his ears. It felt like his skull had just been grabbed and shaken up. He staggered back to his feet in time to see Dogmeat lunge through the open door, tackling a Gunner and going straight for the throat. To Shaun, the man died silently in a spray of blood as he struggled against the massive dog to no avail, his throat shredded by vicious fangs. And then the Dog was on another Gunner, taking her down to the floor.
The General came in at that instant. The window on the second floor that had been broken by the grenades was smashed inward as three-hundred pounds of man, armor and weapons tore through like resistance was just a suggestion, and from the second floor he turned his shotgun on the mercs below. The AA-25 combat shotgun normally operates on semi-automatic, for ammunition conservation. But the AA-25A1 model was fitted with an automatic fire mode as well, for urban combat situations where combatants were facing superior numbers. The General had taken a base model weapon and swapped out the receiver.
The resulting hailstorm of buckshot was astounding as it filled the air. A thirty-two round drum magazine was emptied in the course of about four seconds, though to Shaun it extended on for hours. Men were ripped to shreds, and in the poor light the muzzle flashes acted like cameras, illuminating individual moments as still frames that burned into the boy's eyes. Blood sprayed, flesh was torn away in chunks, armor dented under punishment, cloth ripped away with skin as both were torn away. The General walked his fire back and forth from target to target, gunning down those who survived with impunity. One drum mag turned into two, and the cycle repeated until the gun ran dry. But some Gunners, including the Sergeant and Shaun's two guards, were still alive, and they were recovering from the assault on their senses.
So the General leapt over the rail to join Dogmeat on the floor.
He landed on top of one merc, boots driving the man down into the floor, undoubtedly breaking bones. The Gunner yelled in pain a second before a massive fist wrapped in black smashed down, rebounding his skull off the floor. Another Gunner swept up from the side, yelling and swinging his rifle to buttstroke the man in blue, but a bull barrel lifted into his eyes and with a report that shot into Shaun's very soul took off half of the man's skull.
Dogmeat leapt at another, his muzzle and front drenched in blood and gore. This merc struggled against the German Shepherd, managing to hold him off but his arm still in the hound's teeth. The General merely stood, cocking the revolver again and blowing the man's throat out. The Gunner fell. As the tall man turned, Shaun got a look at his father's face. Or, at least, at the gas mask he wore. This was the man Shaun had feared. Those who had seen Grayson in combat swore the man was little more than a machine, killing and moving and killing over and over again with engineered precision. Few knew he'd been a decorated Army veteran before the bombs dropped. Those who did suddenly had an explanation. For Shaun, he'd had the explanation before seeing the source. Now he was witnessing the source for himself. And it was absolutely horrifying.
Another Gunner rushed the General from the side, a Ripper in hand as he screamed on approach. In response, the General ducked under the first blow, then reached out and grabbed the man's wrist, twisting savagely and slamming his revolver into the Gunner's face. As the merc stumbled, Grayson pulled the limb into an armbar before striking straight down on the joint. The arm snapped, jagged white bone tearing through skin in a spray of red. The merc screamed in agony before the revolver snapped up again, and another shot at point-blank range took off everything above the man's nose.
Abruptly, return fire range out, and Shaun saw several rounds spark as they struck into the General's chestplate and shoulderpad. Grayson stumbled a half step before turning, spotting one of Shaun's guard stepping out, racking his shotgun as he approached. In a heartbeat, a hand flashed up and drew the Assaultron sword from the sheath on his back, thumbing the power button and lunging forward. There was a flash of electric light in the dim room, and the merc's head popped off, the rest of his body attempting to finish its last instruction and finish the last step before collapsing.
The Sergeant let off a burst of fire as she approached, and more shots glanced off the General's armor. Some of them found purchase, burying into flesh in a spray of blood as Grayson staggered. He recovered in an instant, and was across the room in a moment, swinging his sword in a brutal chop that tore into the Sergeant's weapon, knocking it away after wrecking the barrel and frame. But the Sergeant lunged back, punching low in the gut before striking across the jaw. Or attempting to, at least. If he was affected by the blows at all, the General didn't show it, as he clotheslined her, slamming the merc to the floor and burying his sword into her gut.
The last of Shaun's guards lunged in, knife in hand as he struck downwards. With no time to extract the sword, Grayson stood, bringing his wrist up and blocking the first blow, grabbing the goon by his belt and lifting him up off his feet, slamming the Gunner back down to earth. The merc struggled to stand, but screamed as Dogmeat lunged in from the side.
Shaun couldn't help himself. At this point, he let out a small gasp, barely audible in the chaos, but the air was suddenly so still after the carnage that he must have been louder than he'd imagined. Because in spite of undoubtedly being deafened and his blood being up, the General heard. He spun, revolver drawn and halfway up before he paused, realizing who he was about to target next. He faltered, and in that moment Shaun could see Grayson's eyes. For a second, the General had faded away, and his father was back again.
"Shaun!" he called.
And then the first Gunner Grayson had taken down was on his back, burying a combat knife straight down, in the soft spot between breastplate and shoulderpad.
Grayson fell, struggling as he tried to unseat his assailant. The merc's bloodied scalp told of a serious head injury, but someone he was pushing on, giggling his insane fool head off as he put more force into the blade, trying to force it past Grayson's collarbone and find his heart or lung. Caught in this position, with a knee in his back pinning him to the floor, Shaun's dad was having trouble fending off the attack. Dogmeat lunged in howling, but was swift boot delivered to the canine's jaw put an end to that plan for at least a moment, and the Gunner doubled down on trying his best to kill the General, shouting his head off.
"Fuck you bitch! Imma kill you right here and now! And then I'll kill your dog, your goddamn brat! Then we're gonna go burn down you're fucking Castle!"
The man was clearly deranged, but his intent (and apparent ability to follow through) were clear, and he punched Grayson in the back of the head, knocking away the hat as he pushed even harder. He was going to kill him, Shaun had to do something. Anything. But what?
He glanced to the side, and suddenly had his answer.
The Gunner shoved again, trying his hardest to bury the knife into the General's clavicle. But all that armor was getting in the way, and Grayson's thrashing was making it tough to get enough force behind the blow. The General bucked again, throwing a wild punch, but it just bounced off the Gunner's thigh. He giggled, his head swimming. But he didn't care. Even if he died right here, right now, he'd still be known as the man who finally defeated the General of the Minutemen. Fuck anyone who came after him, no one would get a glory like that.
"Hey!" The goon looked up to spot the brat they'd captured earlier, just a few feet away, raising the .44 magnum revolver in both hands. "Get off my dad!"
The shot wasn't anything fancy. Shaun wasn't trying to get anything over the top, flashy or amazing. Just one round, center of mass, like he'd been trained. But at that range, even power armor wouldn't have been much help. The round tore through the Gunner's plate, just above the painted skull. The entry hole was the size of a man's thumb. The exit wound was the size of a melon.
As the man fell, silence returned. Shaun let the weapon drop, panting heavily as if he'd just been out running again. He felt empty inside, staring at the man he'd just shot point blank range. His legs were suddenly weak, and he fell to his knees as exhaustion settled over him. He let the revolver go, his head spinning. He'd taken another man's life. Just like that. Raise the gun, pull the trigger. He'd only meant to threaten him. Make him move. But the second Shaun had his attention, he'd pulled the trigger on reflex. Then he'd watched the merc's life leave his eyes as he fell, now just a husk of meat.
Just as he felt like he'd fall over, Shaun felt a hand wrap around his shoulder, and he leaned against something solid. He glanced up, watching as his father tugged the gas mask off. That was him, for sure. His father. His dad. The scarred man looked down with panic, concern, sadness and, of all things, relief in his eyes.
"Shaun," he said quietly. "Are you okay?"
"You came for me," Shaun said quietly, to which Grayson froze. "You got me back. Again."
A pause. Shaun had only known this man a few weeks, compared to the ten years they'd been separated. For all intents, they were complete strangers. He no more knew this man was really his father than the old man named Father had been. There was a whole lifetime of absence in their way. But then Grayson leaned in, wrapping his other arm around Shaun in a tight hug.
"The last time I lost you, I didn't get you back for ten years. That's never going to happen again."
And as Shaun leaned into it, he believed it. He hugged his dad back, and Dogmeat stepped over, nosing in to start sniffing and licking Shaun's neck, just as concerned. The three of them stayed like that for a few minutes, amongst the piles of corpses and sea of blood, just the crackle of fire to fill the air.
Then, his dad stood, setting Shaun onto his feet. He scooped up his revolver, holstering it before checking his son up and down. Once he'd ascertained they were all okay, he retrieved his sword and shotgun, finding Shaun's rifle stashed nearby. He handed it back, and Shaun worked the bolt, chambering a fresh round.
"C'mon, let's see if anything's left of your radstag. We'll make camp, then head for home in the morning."
(Parting Shot: here we are, at the end of the actual prologue! From here on, the story will split into stories such as 'the Great Hunt' and 'the 2nd CPG' Occasionally, we'll look into 'Railroaded', 'Shattered Steel' and other such stories. Just remember, Cold Comfort Commonwealth is a constantly evolving world in progress. Unlike in the game, things are vastly more interconnected here. The lack of player choice in Fallout 4 really did bug me a little, but the power to change things in print like I think they naturally would or should is a gift, and I thank you all for your valuable reviews and opinions.
We'll return to the story in a shorter amount of time if I can, but in the meantime, let's read some reviews!
The Titan's Shadow: thanks for the feedback, would love to hear more of your thoughts!
Paladin Bailey: given the fact that a lot of information we know about previous Fallout topics has been rendered noncanon (Fallout Tactics and Brotherhood, for example and the Fallout Bible has been called into question recently) that leaves quite a few holes open where once true facts were stored. Now, we're never going to be able to get those previous facts out of our heads, so I choose to let myself be influenced by said entries. I always wondered why the Enclave kept getting beaten...as for Alaska, that's a little out of the way, but a peek up there might be interesting. And for Ronto...well...I reserve the author's right to tease his audience.
MASTER-OF-SUPRISE: thank you so much for taking the time to leave reviews for -every- chapter, it means the world to me! As for other topics...I've never written romantic conflict before. Oh, sure I've written romance and someone leaving for someone else, but I always considered the idea of multiple potentials arguing over a lover to simply be a teenager's fantasy. Until recently, that is, when I found myself having a tough time choosing between Piper, Cait and Curie. I had really wished they had more interaction, as it might have made the potential situation more interesting, but my friend then suggested letting it play out. Hence, my first love triangle. Er...square. As for Acadia, DiMA's passing always kind of left that question open to me personally. Who takes charge after he's gone? Did the colony really lose anything with his death? How much was he actually running? Fortunately, there's speculative fiction like this.
Like always people, leave a review, ask a question, make a suggestion, I'm open to it all! And we'll see you guys next time, on Cold Comfort Commonwealth!)
