I edited and proofread this so much, but I feel as if I still missed stuff. Oh well, here's hoping I got most of it!.
Dismemberments were bad, and the fact that she could reattach things did nothing to change that. It still hurt, and the food expenses were real, so yeah, dismemberments were pretty inarguably shitty. I mean, is there even such a thing as a good dismemberment? Not as far as she knew! After all, she'd been in hundreds of fights by now and not once had she heard someone be happy to lose a limb! No, it was always something like 'Oh god friend I'll save your mangled eye socket' or 'DOn't worry! We can try to sew your leg back on later!'
Still, while dismemberments were pretty terrible, they were also a lot like headshots, annoying when they happened to you, but cost effective when they happened to your enemies!
All in all, she didn't know how to feel about these particular dismemberments. Sure none of her party was injured, but it was only a matter of time! I mean, it wasn't that dangerous. Yet. But really? Exploding mole rats? Who comes up with this stuff?
Don't answer that.
Spontaneously explosive rodents aside, The Wanderer had never quite been in such a weird situation before. Sure, she'd done the sewers job for Moira, but even that seemed slightly more reasonable than whatever trippy shit was going on right now.
Trippy because they were some really big mole rats. It wasn't enough that they started off bigger than her dog and five times more terrifying, no, they also got bigger and bigger with every strike. No matter how big they got, the poor things never beat the stick though. Even when they were the size of a behemoth, one whack on the toes and suddenly they went from being an engine of destruction to a pile of giblets strewn across the room.
The fun didn't stop there though, because it wasn't just the mole rats that got bigger with every respawn. The explosions did too, and a little more visceral to boot. By the twelfth there was so much vertebrae and grey matter littering the floor that she could say with good certainty that if Butch were there, he'd have thrown up.
I guess I'm just glad that blood doesn't make me queasy anymore, she thought, she'd seen way too much of it by now. If she spent time complaining about it she'd be out all week. Or half a week, depended on whether the raiders got to her. Nah, better to keep moving and deal with it, in her humble opinion.
...Though it was apparently still weird to be as ok with the blood rain as she was. That was very much a Wanderer thing, as Butch would put it. (not that Butch was the best of sources. It's been established that he was kind of a sissy.)
Unfortunately, even after having had it for so long, she still didn't know what made the magic splodey stick work, only that involved drugs somehow, goodness knows it would've been one hell of a present to find out.
I'd kill for a human version, honestly, Moira's way too squeamish!
Finally, after what seemed like hours of high tension whack a mole blood sport with periodic interruptions by a deathclaw, three talon mercs and a wastelander in a mutfruit outfit, a weirdly familiar noise rang out with the explosion. It was high pitched and rattled around her ears for too long for comfort, and she could've sworn it sounded just like an alarm clock, fitting, considering how bothersome it was.
Maybe it ate one, mole rats can eat them, right?
Still seemed weird though, she'd assumed that metal didn't do well with them after their first encounter. Then again, trying to eat a loaded gun didn't do well with anyone, especially when there was still a gunner on the other end of the trigger.
But by now they were really big, like the marigold ant queen big, and although she might've come up with some projectile clock and mutagen theory for the alarms that were ringing out wherever she ran, deep down, in her heart of hearts, she felt that the truth was a lot simpler.
This better not be about sex.
As though the dream itself was recoiling with second hand embarrassment, the mole rats disappeared with a jolt and her eyes shot open to the cold grey of her room. Her alarm was going off shrilly in her ears, and dispelled any lingering fantasies floating around in her head as she rolled off the bed and attempted to turn it off.
It was harder than it looked, her room felt strangely foreign to her. She could swear it was smaller, more obstructed. Of course, that could always be her drowsy mind talking, she was like that every morning these days. No danger on the ship equalled no reason to wake up alert, so she didn't. While it may have left her stumbling around a bit, the extra sleep she managed to wrangle was honestly so worth it.
Her early morning sojourn had left her tired though, and seeing as she was still tired she decided to dedicate herself finding and deactivating that stupid alarm clock.
Sadly, her zombie like state had left that task a mite difficult, so she took the logical course of action and hit her head on something. Impacts woke people up, it was a fact, everything was going to plan, definitely not her tripping over. She never trips over, it's just that your feeble mortal minds that are incapable of grasping her technique- Oh who was she kidding. No really, there was no one else here, was she going insane? Wasn't talking to yourself supposed to be the first sign of insanity?
...whether or not she was insane, she could at least make out the numbers on the dial now, and it was… 7… Welp, at least she was already dressed, that meant she'd be able to spend the five remaining minutes getting ready as she'd already hidden all her political paraphernalia-
Her eyes then fell to the radio tangled around her feet.
Oh f*ck Natalia.
Okay, so she'd hidden most of her political paraphernalia. She still had time. I mean, sure, she'd look like a disheveled homeless person if she didn't brush herself up soon. But looking homeless was preferable to looking like a criminal- well, more of a criminal, anyway.
And so it happened that The Scout applied herself to the masterful art of shoving a five piece radio-set with way too many wires into an already full footlocker without damaging either it or her precious, little memories.
Seriously though, why were there so many cords? How did this thing even work? Did Natalia only associate with tech that was as hard to work with as her? Or was this originally supposed to be some kind of weird bonding activity with Natalia slowly telling her how to put two and two cables together.
Okay that last one's a bit unlikely.
Whatever it was it was really screwing her in the ass now. Congratulations Natalia, your preoccupation with ridiculous machinery is going to get your pet rebel court martialed.
Eventually, she somehow managed to get the thing in- probably could've been a bit more careful with it- but with her current time limit, there was no way she was gonna be able min max the radio in with the rest of her stuff in the next five minutes. So instead of worrying about it she punted the burst open box under her bed and desperately tried to wrangle her hair into some semblance of neatness before inspections got here. True, good impressions made barely any difference with her, but she had to take everything she got nowadays.
She'd just barely gotten her hair into a messy ponytail when she heard the door screeching open. Leaping of her bed with the grace of a charging yao guai- no, too graceful, more like a mirelurk out of water- she swept into a grand salute, greeting her inspector with all the poise of a good scout.
Hopefully, if she was poised enough, he'd overlook the messy hair and minor uniform infraction, and from there she could keep him from looking under her bed and seeing one more footlocker than a sister usually had.
It turned out she didn't have to, her hair was the last thing the inspector in question was worried about. In fact, he didn't seem worried about much at all, a trait that is generally frowned upon in inspectors but hey! She wasn't complaining.
Yup, not complaining at all. Massive lucky break after all. Spend half a day just dying to meet a vault dweller and then he just waltzes right in! Sure, it might've been so he could dig up dirt and end your career, but those were just details, minor details.
The real problem was how exactly she was supposed to befriend him. She assumed it would be kind of like begging for cafeteria scraps, except a lot more pleasant and dignified. Unfortunately, when it came to begging for food, The Scout was often left empty stomached on the side of the hall.
It was unavoidable really, considering how she was a murderer and all. As that specific career path tended not to leave the right sort of skillset for talking. Not that talking wasn't great and all, she'd love to do more of it! Really! But shooting was just so much less time consuming. Didn't have to watch out for getting backstabbed either.
Back then she hadn't given a second thought to words. It was really shooting her in face now.
...That wasn't to say that there was an actual chance of death, though that was probably obvious. But considering her brilliant track record at talking people down… well, lets just say that she wouldn't be surprised if she somehow messed up bad enough for dying to become an option.
On the other hand, social suicide was definitely a thing, but the fact that she was already a undead horse in terms of social relations did nothing to change the fact that she wanted to know this person. Taking that resolution to heart, The Scout boldly took the first step in transforming this awkward inspection into a totally not awkward two person circletime
"Hi."
"What is it."
Freaking fantastic.
"So, you're the latest inspector?" She stated casually, scuffing her shoes on the metal floor.
"Yup"
Well, The Scout thought, he's not much of a talker is he? That's certainly not going to make this much easier. Thankfully, as she inwardly deliberated over the best way to resuscitate this dead fish of a conversation Vaultie cleared his throat and asserted himself.
"My superiors seem to think that you have something in here".
"by superiors, you mean Danse and Maxson?"
"Who else would I mean?"
The Scout resisted the urge to sigh at that, while it was definitely disheartening to hear he was already referring to Danse and Maxson as his superiors, it wasn't worth showing open disillusionment over it. If anything else, he at least hadn't balked at her not using titles, it was a little weird, usually low ranked members like her would get yelled at for that, too many sergeants were in it for the glory these days, she hoped he wasn't one of them.
"No titles needed?"
"Danse doesn't seem the type to worry over that, he eats with the soldiers after all,"
While it wasn't the answer she was hoping for, The Scout was glad that he had answered at all. If he was an easygoing person who freely answered questions like that during inspections then he'd be possible to deal with, even for her.
Deciding that now was as good a time as ever, The Scout continued on,"From me though?" She asked.
"Why would it be any different for you?" he replied quizzically,
He doesn't know? She thought, blinking, That's a shocker, you'd assume that word would get around. But now what do I do? Lie, or tell the truth?
Ever the terrible liar believer in honesty being the best policy, The Scout went on to explain why exactly the thousand killer Lyons loyalist could possibly be seen as a ticking traitorous time bomb. Sans the history lesson.
As she spoke, she got the sense that, somewhere, somehow, a Scribe was crying, said Scribe always cried when she insisted on bring this up, The Scout maintained that it was better her than a bigot though, and even Natalia saw the logic in that.
So long as I… What was it again? Oh right! Use the opportunity to twist the stories to suit my needs and slander my enemies!
This counted right? She'd been pretty honest, it might not have painted the best picture but she'd at least left out all the gory details. Granted it was mainly because she could hardly be expected to remember everything she'd done, but at least it left a good impression. Hopefully.
Vaultie, however, refused to show, his countenance as neutral as ever, surprising, considering his commander. Any usual man of Danse's would be narrowing their eyes already. Maybe she wasn't giving the paladin enough credit.
There was a moment of silence, as Vaultie contemplated what she'd said.
"Do you plan on going traitor?" He asked, finally.
"Course not!" She exclaimed. She was kind of insulted that he'd even considered it! And even if she had, why on earth would she ever tell a person who was so obviously suspicious of her! Not that she'd lie or anything! Undaunted, The Vault Dweller continued in his line of questioning.
"Are you helping?"
"Sort of…"
"Then maybe they don't want you wasting their time" he sighed. The Scout bristled, indignant, she worked as hard as anyone else, at… Things.
"Like it's my fault that they won't give me a mission, I've been up here for years!"
"So that isn't your fault?"
"Why would it be!" She grumbled, almost throwing her arms to the air, "If I had my way, I'd be down there running missions for the settlements! Lord knows they need it, why am I sitting around being miserable up here when I could be helping them!"
"Helping them?" The man asked, eyebrow quirking. She was about to go on another tirade when she realized she was talking to a brotherhood knight, and here to inspect her no less.
Damage control damage control damage control
"To prepare them for...uh… taxations?" She tried.
The Scout could've sworn that his eyes widened at the last word. She was a little confused at the reaction before realizing that, considering how new the brotherhood was to the commonwealth, it was entirely possible he hadn't been aware of their feudalistic policies.
Thinking that maybe she could turn this to her advantage, The Scout prepared to elaborate, but before she got the chance to say anything, Vaultie pressed on,"Help them with what?". He asked, clearly not buying her story about the taxations, not that she could really blame him, it'd been pretty flimsy.
Mind turning from the lost opportunity, The Scout raced to find any way she could answer the query, eventually settling on "Killing wildlife."
"But you don't."
"Because they won't let me!"
"Maybe you should do something here then."
"I do do stuff up here!"
"Like?"
"I help with the cargo, and uhh, clean the toilets."
"Irreplaceable." he deadpanned.
The Scout's shoulders sagged, it was obvious that this wasn't going anywhere, and yet, when she looked at Vaultie's eyes, he wasn't upset, he wasn't even neutral, instead he looked- understanding?
After a long silence, he dropped the icy persona for a split second, quietly asking, "Do you really want to help the wastelanders?"
"Well of course," she said, almost without realizing it. The words leaving her mouth before she could ponder them. It had always been that way, really, you can take The Scout out of justice, but you can never take justice out of The Scout.
She was glad that that, at least, hadn't changed.
Evidently Vaultie thought that too. Nodding slightly, he turned towards the door to leave, "in that case," he sighed, "I'll trust you."
Relief promptly spread through The Scouts bones. Catching herself before she fell over, she did the only thing that she could think of and thanked the man. She'd've hugged him too, but hugging was unprofessional, probably the reason why the professional brothers tended to have a stick up their asses. Just couldn't hug their problems away.
As for Vaultie, he accepted her thanks, he seemed nice like that, which was why he probably ought to know the truth. hurrying herself before he left, The Scout called out to the man."Oi, vaultie!"
Halting halfway out the door and staring at her with a gaze equal parts confusion and offense, he responded "Vaultie!?"
She rolled her eyes at his scandalised tone,"yes Vaultie, there's something I need to tell you"
Dragging him back inside and bolting the door, The Scout turned to him and revealed her secret foot locker. He looked at it silently, the lights slowly dying in his eyes.
"There better be a good explanation for this" he demanded stoically.
Hearing the suspicion in the mans voice, The Scout stared down at the locker in silence, mind racing against her will.
Oh god I hope he understands, what am I even supposed to do if he doesn't!? Murder him!? Like I'd get away with that! where would I even hide the corpse- actually I could probably just throw it off the side of the ship- but that's not the point here!
God I really did not think this through at all, did I.
"Well it's not that bad is it, I mean, it's just a-."
"A radio," He said, cutting her off, " it's a radio."
The accusation was implicit, "I didn't steal it."
"Then where did you get it?"
"I… Found it. In the wasteland."
It was a terrible lie and she knew it.
"Is that so?" Looks like he knew it too.
"Yes."
"Then why are you hiding it?"
She bit her lip as she considered what to say. There was a host of options to choose from, but this was shallow ground, good for crashing and burning and bringing it all. Eventually she decided it had gone far enough to throw caution to the wind and try honesty. It had worked last time, and trusting partnerships like she needed generally weren't built on lies.
So just wear my heart on my sleeve for five seconds, then, she chuckled, this'll be fun.
"Don't you know?" She started, words edged with bitterness she couldn't quite hide,"Brotherhoods got some really sticky fingers on them, tend to take things that ain't theirs.
Why yes, she was still bitter about them taking her pip boy and power armour. What gave it away?
"Besides the only thing else in there is photos." She shrugged, "Brotherhoods too hardass to let people keep some me-"
"It's fine," Vaultie sighed, cutting off her rant as he focused on a picture he'd noticed, "I get that."
Curious, she looked over the man's shoulder at the photo, it was an old one, seven people lined up, a motley crew of races, robots, animals and mutants, none of them giving a shit about photogenesis.
It'd been after she'd set up Amata at overseer, she'd taken the opportunity to snag a working camera or three. As the ones in the wasteland were all broken and colourless. None of the vault dwellers had been particularly skilled with art, so she'd taken it as a reward for her hard work.
Exiles pretty shitty on its own, after all.
Then, when Butch had almost gotten the camera broken, Mary had suggested that they splurge on pictures now before it got smashed, hence why there were nine of them.
Swept up in the sentimentality of the images, The Scout took a short look at Vaultie, noticing the ring on his finger.
"Yes," she said quietly, recalling the story of his dead wife, "I'm sure you do,".
Nodding, the man hid his ring behind his back and coughed his agreement.
"Anyway, you better get to drills" he said, pausing for a moment to glance at his pip boy time, before opening the door and gesturing for her to get through. Ever the lady, The Scout graciously exited her room and ruminated over the last few minutes of her day.
All in all, she thought it had gone well.
"Also that radio will break in under five weeks like that."
Very, very well.