A/N: It took me a long time to write this one.
It was a muggy and hot day, the kind that made one sweat in an uncomfortable way even if hidden in the shade and limiting movement. The sounds of flies could be heard buzzing around his head, and he groaned as he tried to keep his eyes closed. It had been a long night, as the litany of bottles around his feet were any indication. Things were pretty boring up here, and the old man had convinced him that it was worth it to at least have a single night to enjoy himself before the General or somesuch radioed in and made them go off "to the ass-end of nowhere for stuff that they could have sent to us ages ago." Something like that.
Still, having to deal with a hangover of this magnitude made MacCready wonder if things were really worth the cost of listening to old man Rook.
He shuffled a little bit, and blearily and warily opened his eyes. He was sitting in an old lawn chair, perched up high in the church steeple in the center of Salem. He had a picture-perfect view of the entire city, and of course the house that was at the far end of the coast that he and Rook shared. It used to be just Rook, but now MacReady was one of the inhabitants. There were a few settlers that had come into the city of late, but he could count on one hand the number at this point. And they were not the type that were in the settling business: one was a hired freelancer, the kind that MacCready and Rook were able to afford with the small stipend that Danse gave them as "auxiliary to the Minutemen." Some days MacCready wondered if this wasn't just a dangling carrot to get him to sign an official contract with the Minutemen, but he was not in any state of mind to consider wearing those silly dress blues.
Two were reformed raiders, the kinds of assholes that were only with them because they were that afraid of the Quincy Boys, or at least thought that they were crossing a line of some sort. MacCready wasn't interested enough in either of them to ask what it was that was the "line" that the Quincy Boys had crossed, but either way it was better than nothing to have a few more bodies in Salem. Chibs and Gunny, which was what they called themselves. Chibs was fat and ugly, but was dedicated and seemed to have legitimately turned over a new leaf. Gunny was thin and reedy, with the kind of face that should not smile lest he risk getting punched.
The remaining three kept to themselves for the most part, situated in the small guardhouse at the front of the city and just next door to the Salem Museum of Witchcraft. Didn't surprise MacCready; Brotherhood of Steel might be on their side, but in the boonies the rank and file didn't have to pretend to be cordial to the Minutemen or the riffraff that they associated with. As far as MacCready was concerned, those three were there and did their job and they didn't have any relationship beyond that.
He felt a rumble in his chest, and let out the kind of burp that hurts the back of the throat. He groaned again. He should not have tried that stuff that Rook was brewing in his basement all the time: it was the absolute worst.
Rook was an interesting cat. Old, cranky, and quick to curse you out. But he was the only one that had as good (if not better) an aim as MacCready, and the two respected each other because of that. They also both thumbed their nose at the Minutemen in a sort of impotent way, refusing to officially join the rank and file even though the Minutemen could absorb them if they wanted to. But it was that illusion of freedom that kept things going, and neither of them had any plans of abandoning the cause of the Castle. What was the alternative?
Quincy? As if.
There was a buzzing in his ear, and MacCready frowned as he adjusted his walkie-talkie.
"Jesus, Rook, can you keep it down? That brew is still hitting me in the head."
"*BZZT* Well then you'd better drink some Joe and damn quick, boy! Got reports comin' in of action from *KSSSHHTTT* -log! It's bad, boy. BAD!"
"Say that again?" MacCready asked. "You're not really coming in that clear, old man…"
But the words died in MacCready's throat, because the next thing that caught his eye was the sight to the southwest, as he saw a titanic explosion and flame coming from The Slog.
…
"Jesus shit!" MacCready snarled, nearly falling out of his chair as he picked up his rifle. Totally sobered up, he peered down scope, and turned on his talkie.
"Chibs! Gunny! You see that?" He asked.
"Damn right, boss!" Chibs responded in that thick voice of his. It always sounded like he had something stuck to the roof of his mouth. "I think that came from the Slog! Can't see anything-wait, wait!"
MacCready looked through the scope. The Slog was a few miles away from where they were, so it wasn't like he could see everything perfectly. But getting closer and closer to where he stood, something else was coming into focus.
He could see ghouls running in abject fear from their home.
"Rook!" He barked into his walkie-talkie. "I think the Slog is overrun, I see ghouls coming towards Salem!"
"What the sam hell are they thinking?" Rook snapped back. "Don't they know this is stingwing territory? Hell, if the Quincy Boys don't get them, the local fauna and flora sure as shit will!"
"Not if we shake a leg." MacCready said. He switched frequencies, and spoke into the walkie. "Hey, tincans! You there?"
There was a pause.
"This is sergeant Mattis of the Brotherhood of Steel, designation Pepper Squad. What do you want, wastelander?"
"We have civvies coming our way from the Slog, several klicks southwest of us." MacCready said. "Can you get your boys out of their cots and into their tin cans, and lay down some support?"
A pause.
"Several klicks southwest of us is that ghoul settlement, wastelander." Sergeant Mattis replied. "And this is the middle of stingwing territory. My men are not miracle-workers; I'm not about to send them out into the thick of it without good reason."
"How about saving innocent people from dying, you heartless prick?" MacCready barked back.
"Boss!" Chibs came in from another walkie talkie sitting next to MacCready. "Gunny and I can see some stingers stirring! And I think I see some Quincys runnin' after the ghouls!"
"Then you two need to get on the auto-turret system and set it to fend them off! And spool up the minigun!" MacCready said. "We're gonna get busy damn quick, you two!"
"Aw, how come we never get to use the RPGs? I wanna use the RPGs just once…" Gunny bitterly complained, but before long MacCready could see the turrets situated on the various rooftops coming to life and beginning their swivel-scans of the area. He hoped that Chibs and Gunny weren't stupid enough to accidentally paint the ghouls as enemies: he knew that Rook had set the guns to auto-scan for levels of irradiation…
"It sounds like your 'fireteam' has things under control, wastelander." Sergeant Mattis replied. There was just a trace of condescension in his voice that was detectable, and it infuriated MacCready. They hadn't met more than once in their lives, and this asshole thought that he was better than all of them. He looked through his scope again, and saw the first of the ghouls had entered into his firing range. He also saw that there were some stingwings that were dangerously close to the civilians, and a few of the crazier Quincy Boys that were nipping at their heels. The Quincy Boys were engaging with the stingwings, but he knew that that was a mometary distraction at best.
It was time to pull out all the stops.
"Sergeant Mattis, if you don't get your asses out of that guardhouse and give us some of that Brotherhood firepower, then you leave me no choice!" He flipped on the radio next to him. "Homebase, this is Salem! I need immediate fire support, coordinates alpha alpha bravo!"
"Say again, Salem?" The Minuteman artillery unit responded. "That's danger-close to your position, isn't it?"
"Stand-by!" MacCready barked.
"Are you insane?" Sergeant Mattis snarled on the separate line. "You cannot call an orbital strike on my position! I'll have you court-martialed and executed as a traitor to the cause!"
"How am I gonna get court-martialled, jackass?" MacCready snapped back. "I'm not a member of the Minutemen!" He paused, and then spoke again. "Your call, Mattis. Either you get out there and help us help these people, or we'll see how tough that armor really is."
There was a long and very tense silence.
"…Ensign Daniels and Cotter, suit up and begin perimeter sweeps. Anything that looks hostile, you have orders to terminate with extreme prejudice."
MacCready smiled, and then turned back to his Minutemen radio.
"Negative, home base. Abort launch coordinates."
"Understood, Salem." The artillery unit said. And then it spoke again. "FYI, MacCready, don't pull that crap. The General will skin you if he hears that you threatened your Brotherhood attaché."
MacCready paled as he realized that he'd forgotten to keep his conversations private. But then he nodded.
"Understood, base. Salem out."
…
MacCready looked down the scope, and saw that there was a pair of ghouls running from a stingwing that were all within his range. He saw that the bug was taking its time, lazily flying towards them as if engaging in a sense of sadism. They were stumbling over themselves to get away, and it was dangling its long probiscus like some sort of spear towards them. It clearly was savoring the moment.
But so was he.
He fired once.
The bullet cut the creature in half, vivisecting it in a messy vertical explosion. The bullet had whistled past the ghouls, who flinched in shock but continued quickly and continued running. MacCready ejected the spent round, and peered down the scope again.
There was a pair of Quincys, firing after a few ghouls.
BANG.
First shot caught the Quincy on the left, jackknifing the bastard with a direct hit to the sternum.
Expend round. Pull back. Steady aim.
BANG.
The second Quincy got caught in the right temple.
Expend round. Pull back. Steady aim.
BANG.
This round punched through the back of one stingwing that was literally about to prey on a fallen ghoul, and nicked one behind it. Two for the price of one.
This was Robert Joseph MacCready's element. It never took him long, but when he disappeared into the tunnel vision that his scope provided everything was so much more simple. So much more defined. And so much more in control. The wasteland had no power over him. Death itself could not faze him. When Robert MacCready had something in his sights, he ceased to be a man and instead became an instrument of the end.
BANG.
Another one down.
But far too many to go.
The ghouls managed to reach the city limits of Quincy, which brought them within the protective range of Salem's auto-turrets. Immediately, the machines began to whine as they registered the level of radiation in the ghoul bodies. But while Chibs and Gunny were dumb muscle, they were not completely stupid. They did their job, wired the guns properly, and no ghoul was caught in the crossfire.
The same could not be said of the stingwings.
As the natural danger began to disappear, dissuaded from their prey by the irritating guns, the new danger shifted towards the approaching Quincy contingent. MacCready looked away from his scope, reloading as he did, and nearly dropped his gun as he saw the sheer size of the advancing force. There were so many of them. How had they slipped past the patrols of the Minutemen? Had they been moving all this time in the cover of the dark, so that they were invisible to even the best of the trackers? Or were there simply this many of the Quincy Boys, and even the General had underestimated the number of his enemy? None of those questions had inviting answers.
There was a flash of green, and a pair of Quincy Boys were disintegrated into grey piles of goo. The trio of Brotherhood soldiers had entered the battlefield, their plasma miniguns spooled up and raining a hellish blitz on the Quincy Boys that were dumb enough to stay out in the open. Those that did were cut down. The smarter ones got to cover, and started to lay suppressing fire.
"Wastelander MacCready, this is sergeant Mattis. We are engaging the enemy. We will be able to force them back outside of the town, but we only have the ammunition for a limited engagement. Would appreciate some covering fire so that we can get out of the open."
MacCready watched as the rounds from some of the Quincy guns seemed to just bounce off of the sturdy Brotherhood armor, and raised his rifle towards the closest Quincy boy he could see. That one was big, covered in leather armor, and had his face painted bright. Probably one of the leaders. But that paint made him a pretty big target.
Pretty stupid, in retrospect.
BANG.
…
Chibs took a deep breath as he punched in a few codes into the auto-turrets, and watched as the one on the roof across from his house jerked awake and began to fire. He looked over at Gunny, who was busy fidgeting with the RPG.
"Gunny! Maybe use that RPG on a big group of Quincy boys when those ghoulies get out of the way, yeah?"
"Shit, they don't pay us enough to save ghoulies, bro." Gunny said. He shrugged. "Fuckin' whatever. This beats getting hanged at the Castle." He peeked out the window of the house, and aimed his RPG. "Might wanna get the old man notified. I see a few of the ghoulies are running down our street."
He fired the RPG.
There was an explosion in the distance.
"Son of a goddamn whorin' fool, who's the damned bastard that shot that RPG?" Barney Rook growled over the walkie talkie line. "You dummies nearly cleaved the ghouls!"
"Sorry, sir!" Chibs said. He wiped the sweat off his brow as he turned off the walkie-talkie, and then looked over towards Gunny. "Jesus, you stupid fuck! Watch where you're aiming that thing!"
"It's a fucking RPG, you don't aim shit!" Gunny said, raising his voice for once.
"Well, fuck you man, I'm gonna go get the ghoulies in here." Chibs said, picking up the stimpaks and running down the stairs to the first floor. He kicked open the door, and waved down the ghouls that were in eyesight. "Get in here, you freaks! We're on your side!"
He held the door open as the first of them, a family of crying ghouls, ran inside. One of them was bleeding profusely.
"Shit, clear the table and get that guy on it!" Chibs said. One of the ghouls swept the table clean, and laid the bleeding ghoul on it like a makeshift surgeon's table. "Anyone a doctor?"
"The doctor from the Slog is dead!" One of the ghouls that just entered the house said. "None of us have any training!"
Shit.
Chibs looked at the bleeding ghoul on the table, and then upstairs. And then at the stimpaks in his hand.
Shit, shit, shit.
"Shit. Okay!" He said. He pointed to a few of them. "You! And you! Get upstairs and grab a gun and start shooting back if you can. Someone else, help me with this guy." He reached into his pocket, and pulled out a hankerchief. He looked around. "Uh, get this wrapped around his arm right above where it's bleeding. That should help."
One of the older ghouls grabbed the hankerchief, and fastened it tightly. The ghoul on the table howled in pain. Chibs reached for the nearest and fullest stimpak that he had, and hastily jammed it into the spot where he figured the ghoul's veins were. He pulled the plunger, ignoring the ghoul's wailing. But then the wailing subsided, at least a little bit.
"I think that went in." The ghoul helping him said. "Now we can check the other wounds and bandage them up."
Chibs felt a wave of relief. That was the first time he'd ever had to play medic. And it seemed like he did okay. But then he had to be a fool and open his mouth.
"Anyone need a doctor?" He asked.
He was soon swarmed by the frightened and injured ghouls.
"I'm gonna need more stimpaks." He said.
…
MacCready fired again, and watched as yet another Quincy boy died. He looked over, and saw that the Brotherhood men were falling back to a safer location. The initial push by the Quincy boys was dying down, but that didn't change the fact that there were still so many of them hiding in the trees and the ravine just to the west of the city.
He heard footsteps behind him, and turned around to see Barney Rook had appeared.
"The hell have you been?" MacCready asked.
"I'm the man that heard about this shit, so really you should be thanking me that we even did this good!" The old man growled back. He tugged on his knitted cap. "Heard reports late last night that there was some movement to the north of the Jamaica line, but I sure as shit didn't expect them to go after the fucking Slog."
"They hate ghouls, Barney." MacCready said. "That shouldn't surprise you that much."
"Well, yeah. I mean the nuttiness of going this far north. Don't they realize what they're getting themselves into? I mean, they've got three Brotherhood men who –while total and complete assholes – are some of the best soldiers in the whole contingent. Chibs is stupid but does his jobs well when he is told, and Gunny blows things up. And then there's you and I, and that's enough to take down at least a couple dozen men just like that. They just can't win this one. They have to be insane."
"Or maybe they just really fucking hate us." MacCready said. He just shook his head, and watched as the Quincy boys outside the city began to dig in for the siege.
…
"This geo-cacheing mission of yours important?"
Cait resisted the urge to roll her eyes. This Olympus guy sure liked to run his mouth. Not that the General didn't; the difference here was that the General could back his mouth up with action. As far as she knew, this Olympus guy was just talk and a big hammer.
"Yes." Cait said.
"Jeez, lady. Just makin' conversation."
"Uh, captain Cait isn't really one for conversation." Private Rivia said. Olympus looked back at him.
"What's your name, new meat?"
"Uh…Rivia."
"That's your name?"
"It's my last name, sir."
"I'm no sir, son. Just a guy looking to make his way in the wastes. Well, at least we're on last name basis. That's a start. What do you think, Crow?"
No answer.
"That means she likes you." He said.
"Arsehole." Cait said.
"It's part of my charm."
They had been walking along the shores to the south of the Castle for some time now. Something about the lack of enemies was unnerving, but all the same Cait wasn't about to complain. It meant that their job was comparatively easy. So far, they'd laid down a few geo-trackers, and by her estimate they'd be in visual sight of Quincy within a day or two. And then she could just go home and wait for them to finish this damned thing.
Cait stopped and looked down at the shoreline in front of them.
"This is probably a good spot." She said. "Move to cover."
The three soldiers around her got into position, and set up a defensive perimeter. As Crow scanned the horizon with her sniper rifle, Olympus turned towards Rivia.
"So…you ever been laid, kid?"
"Excuse me?" Rivia asked, blushing furiously.
"Shut the fuck up!" Cait hissed.
"Just wondering." Olympus said. "I was just thinking that the whole awkward, bumbling routine was some sort of ploy to get into many a lady's bed. What do you think, Crow?"
"I've had worse."
"Christ will you two shut up?" Cait asked, as she finished putting the geo-tracker in the dirt.
"No…I wouldn't say that I have." Rivia said. "I'm just…me…"
"Oh?" Olympus said. "So this whole wimpy routine isn't just a routine, but is actually you?" He turned around to face them all. His smile was gone. "Then do me a favor, kid. You need to harden the fuck up. I can practically smell the piss between your legs, and you will assuredly die before we return back to your base if you don't start acting like you're supposed to be here."
"But I-"
"Shut the fuck up. That's the first thing." Olympus said. "The first step to survival here? Don't be so kindly. Friendly? Sure. But don't tell me that you don't have a plan to kill everyone you meet or see. I already know, off the top of my head, at least two ways to get all three of you right now from this position. And if you can't name one for me, then you're fucked."
There was a silence.
"Jesus." Cait said. "Could you maybe not be so damned harsh on the kid?"
"It's for his own good." Olympus said. "I've worked with plenty like him. Hell, I've been him. It's only gonna get him killed. There's no room for crying in war."
Cait finished covering the geo-tracker.
"Done." She turned on her radio. "Base, this is…what?"
It was her tone of voice. Her tone of voice caused them all to look at her. The sun was setting, but they could clearly see the look of shock on her face.
"…Say that again…what? No. No, fuck you you're lying!"
She threw the radio kit away, and fell to her knees. She covered her face in her hands, and began to sob.
As Crow and Olympus walked over to her, Private Rivia walked over to the radio kit and picked it up.
"Baseplate? This is, uh, this is private Rivia. Captain Cait is with our mercenaries right now. What happened, sir?"
The voice on the other end was eerily devoid of emotion.
"You might want to sit down, son."
…
ONE HOUR EARLIER
"So tell me, how's the squad looking?"
"Pretty good, reporter lady. I'd say that we're the baddest bunch in Colonel Garvey's unit."
"If that's the truth, then why on earth are you guys stuck here on the ass-end of the line?" Piper Wright asked, raising an eyebrow. She knew that she needed to get in a story before the end of the night, but all the same she wasn't sure that she wanted to get it byinterviewing these meatheads. "Maybe if you guys start thinking with your heads instead of your dicks, you might give me something actually worth putting in the Publick." She stood up, and brushed some dust off of her coat. "Anyway, I'm headed back to the command post. Send a runner if anything interesting happens."
She left the deflated pool of testosterone behind, and walked away.
The command tent was snug and safe at the far reachs of the line, but all the same Piper never felt that secure there. Even though Preston Garvey was perhaps the perfect person to run that place, Piper was always slightly ill at ease. Perhaps that was for the best. Perhaps that was what kept her alive. She might good with a pistol, but that was when she was with Blue. Something about being with him made her stay alive and luck out in crazy, balls-to-the-wall situations. But she wasn't a professional soldier. And this was a situation where a professional soldier's mindset was needed.
"Everything okay, Piper?"
Speaking of professional soldiers…
"Yeah, yeah I'm okay Preston." Piper said. She watched as the leader of the contingent of the Minutemen and Blue's best soldier walked over and took a seat on a crate next to her. "Just stressing out about this story that I have to write."
"Do you really need to write a story every night that you're out here?" Preston asked, a wry smile on his face. "That's exhausting, and I barely get any sleep myself."
"It's my job, Preston."
"No, it's your life. And you're going to burn out if you aren't careful, Piper." Preston said. "Besides, who are you trying to talk to all the time? Aren't you getting tired of haring the same jargon from us military grunts?"
"A little." Piper admitted. "Maybe I need better interviewees…" She trailed off, and looked at him.
"Me?" Preston asked.
"You're the only one I haven't talked to." Piper said. "Perhaps the people will better appreciate things if they hear it from the field commander how things are going?"
Preston sighed.
"I was never good at speaking on these sorts of things." He said.
"Just talk, I guess." Piper said, turning on the recorder.
"Well, things are tough. That much is the truth." Preston said. "I talk to the General every day. I just spoke to him a little bit before I walked in here, actually. He and I didn't really talk as soldiers. I think he just needed to hear from a friend. And I consider him one. But that's important for soldiers; we need that reminder that we're human, too. Keeps you from cracking up."
"Are you cracking up?" Piper asked, raising an eyebrow playfully. Preston chuckled.
"No. But not from lack of trying! Truthfully, I think that if this were any other situation, I would have cracked up a long time ago and bought a retirement home in Sanctuary."
"Any other situation?" Piper asked. "You do realize what we're fighting in, right?"
"I do." Preston said. "But that is actually what brings me back. That's what keeps me out here." He paused, and looked off towards Jamaica Plains.
"History is full of wars that were fought for hundreds of different reasons. But this war? Our war? I want to believe…I have to believe…that every step across this plain, every man that's wounded, every man that I lose…that it's all worthwhile because our cause is just."
Piper sat there in silence, realizing that she hadn't asked a follow-up question. She cleared her throat.
"Do you believe that this is a just cause?"
"A chance for the Commonwealth to decide its own fate, and not be beholden to tyrants or tyranny or the dangers and death that lurk around every corner?" Preston asked. "For a chance for our kids and their kdis to rebuild the United States of America, and everything that it stood for in our faded memories?...Yeah. Yeah, that's a pretty fucking just cause." He paused. "Maybe I shouldn't have cursed."
Piper laughed. Preston joined her. They laughed for a few moments. And then when the laughter subsided, Preston stood up.
"I think maybe you can use my quotes…edited, perhaps, but good all the same. Should at least help out a little bit…but make sure you get my men in first. They're the ones fighting on the frontlines. I'm just there for them."
"Preston, don't make it seem like you're not doing anything." Piper said. "You're doing so much. You're doing too much. If ever the Minutemen had an exemplar, it'd be you."
"You're flattering me, Piper." Preston said. "But thank you. I'm pretty lucky that we both met the General. We're gonna build a damn good world with him at our side, aren't we?"
"Yeah…" Piper said. She smiled, somewhat dreamily. "I think we will."
"I'm sure you two will be very close." Preston said, a twinkle in his eye.
"What? We're not dating-I mean, we're just friends, Preston. You ass! Don't put words in my mouth!"
"I never said anything." Preston said. His smile was only brighter. "You're fun to be around, Piper."
"And you're a good guy, Preston." Piper said, shaking her head with a smile.
He doffed his hat, and walked off.
As soon as he was out of her eyeline, she started to scribble in her notepad.
What is the motivation of soldiers? Is it the thrill of combat? Or is it something more? Something greater?...
She stopped. She wasn't sure, but maybe she might as well take a break. Maybe Preston was right.
Maybe sometimes you just needed to rest.
…
Some time passed. Piper was sitting next to the crate, penciling in her notes before she prepared for the dictation that she was going to recite to Jethro back at the Publick, when a single gunshot rang out. That was, in and of itself, odd. Usually, shots were fired in torrents in Jamaica Plains. A single shot was odd.
There was a pregnant pause. And then she heard it.
"M-m-m-m-mm-mmm-muh-muh-muhh-MEEEDDDIIICCCCC!"
That scream was enough to get everyone in the vicinity to look over in the direction of the soldier's scream. A few medics did rush over. By now, a confused crowd was looking over in the direction of the shout. Piper put her notes down, and walked over to the edge of the tent. She saw that there was a confused crowd of soldiers around her. But then she heard chatter on the radio, and saw two more medics rush past them all. They were devoid of emotion, and ran with a purpose.
Something tingled in Piper's gut. Something had happened.
There was an agonizing wait of a few moments. And then one of the soldiers who had been down the line ran back towards the command tent. Just from the look of him, the frightened look in his eyes and the shrunken look in his posture, Piper knew that this was the boy who had called for the medics. He started to speak, but then he fainted outright. A few soldiers rushed over to him, cradling him as he came to and started to blubber a little bit. One of the older soldiers shushed quietly in his ear, the way a father might calm a crying child, and waited for the man to calm himself.
Even then, the poor boy looked like he couldn't speak. His eyes were red, and he was puffy-cheeked. He knew he had to speak, but he knew that he didn't want to.
"What the hell is it, son?" The old soldier who had succeeded in calming him said.
The boy spoke, just barely managing to get through it all before bursting into tears. His voice was barely above a whisper.
But everyone heard him.
And each word fell like an anvil.
"Sniper got the skipper. Colonel Garvey's dead."
