The Good Fight


Lucy hobbled through the halls of the Citadel. Her leg was giving her trouble still. It had nearly killed her the night of the raid on Centreville – as it turned out, the damage done was a lot worse than she had initially thought and she'd nearly collapsed after making it back to the Citadel. While the doctors there saved her, they said she'd probably never walk right again.

It was such bullshit.

She'd survived two bullets to the head. She'd had major organs removed. She'd been given cybernetic implants.

And some guy with a knife was enough to turn her into a cripple?

And then it turns out that same assailant might have been Enclave?

She walked into the brig.

"Ma'am?" the guard on duty said as she entered.

"I just want to talk to them," she said. He shrugged.

"I'll be watching," he said. She didn't know him, but she didn't really particularly care.

She found her assailant. He glanced up.

"I'm the Inquisitor that captured you," she said. She pointed to her leg. To the bandage, and the crutch under her arm. "You did this."

"It's war, bud," he said. "You knew what you were getting into when you got involved."

"The Grand Inquisitor said you were Enclave. That true?"

The guy laughed.

"I am a mercenary," he said, "if your boss sent you to try to get a confession out of me, don't bother. If I was going to confess I'd have done it hours ago."

"I'm asking because I was born into the Enclave. Years ago," Lucy said. "I barely remember anything about that time and I was hoping I could find somebody to shed some light on them. Better light than the old remnants back west." She pulled a handgun from her hip, and showed it to the merc. It was the same model gun with the same engravings. "A vertibird pilot gave me this," she said, "as a keepsake."


Riley was shocked that this woman had an Enclave officer's pistol. And yet it was meaningless. She could have looted it off of a corpse. He wasn't sure if she was old enough to have participated in the Battle of Adams Air Force Base, but she could've still participated in one of the cleanup operations.

But he wouldn't let her know of the internal surprise. He kept his face neutral, breath metered, just as he always had. She furrowed her brow and her frown grew significantly as he stared at her. Eventually she silently reholstered her handgun and hobbled off.

As she exited from one end, the head honcho of the Brotherhood of Steel himself entered – flanked on either side by knights. It was the first time that Riley had seen him since the day him and John had been imprisoned. Arthur Maxson and his goons.

They marched over and stopped in front of the Lone Wanderer's cell.

"John," Maxson said. He was standing at ease, staring down his nose at the Lone Wanderer bound before him.

"Is it time?" John said. He tilted his head up. He tried his best to stand, struggling to overcome the malnourishment and the injuries the Brotherhood had given them. His teeth were gritted hard enough he thought he might crack them. Pain emanated from his distended and battered limbs. But he managed. He stood a slight taller than Maxson and he would not give the boy the opportunity to treat him like a lesser man.

"I must admit, I'm surprised," Maxson said. "I thought we could break you like this. Make you see the error of your ways. You were once an excellent asset, John – an excellent ally." He let out a huff of air, and shook his head. "Paladin Danse, let's take our friend on a walk."


The paladin unlocked the cage, and him and the other knight grabbed John by the biceps. He had to fight back the urge to yelp.

They were virtually dragging him. Through the halls of the Citadel, parading the Lone Wanderer around like a trophy. Knights, paladins, and squires stared at him. Recognized him. He could practically see the heavy hearts in their eyes – or perhaps it was hate.

In the central plaza of the Citadel, up on a platform they'd erected, they threw him down. A crowd of Brotherhood troops had gathered – at least a hundred, if not more, that John could see from the corner of his vision.

So many familiar faces.

"Stand him up and lash him to the post," Maxson shouted. He was standing a few paces away. Danse hefted John up and pressed him against the post before tying him in place with a rope. It was tightly tied, looping through John's still-bound arms and denying him of any kind of mobility.

John looked out over the assembled crowd. They all had the same unsure look on their faces.

He never even got an opportunity to escape. To come out on top. Maxson was aware of how he'd broken out of Raven Rock, of course; he wasn't about to allow him a similar opportunity to escape. John lamented this. Lamented that he hadn't tried harder, but it was now the eleventh hour and the fifty-ninth minute. It was over, all over, for him. And he recognized that.

He thought about his daughter. About Liza, who he'd abandoned to start another war.

It will be worth it.

He repeated this simple sentence over and over. Maxson was doing this as an intimidation tactic. Not just for the Compact, but for his own people and allies as well. To make a lesson of John. This is what will happen if you cross the Brotherhood.

It will be worth it.

The people of the Capitol Wasteland were far stronger than Maxson believed. He was blinded by the fanaticism of his own people so much that he could not see the forest for the trees.

It will be worth it.

Yet despite John's own insistence, he was having difficulty maintaining his broader outlook. The Compact could win. And if it wins the world will be so much better off than if the Brotherhood had been allowed to grow unfettered. But so many will have to die, so many will have to live and grow old with the absence of their loved ones.

It will be worth it.

Maxson was speaking, but John was not listening. He knew what he was saying – that John was a traitor. Selflessness and bravery, the will to defy the brutality of the world, it had been replaced in the Brotherhood. Replaced by wicked self-interest and cold, calculated utilitarianism.

John breathed in deeply. Maxson finished his tirade. He unholstered a simple 10mm pistol.

"For that, you have hereby been sentenced to death," Maxson said. "Any last words, John?"

"I am Alpha, and Omega. The beginning, and the end. I shall give unto him that is athirst of the fountain of the water of life… freely."


Riley could hear the report. He glanced at the guard, who seemed to be staring at the wall with a pale face. A harsh silence filled the air. There was no cheering, no reaction of any kind.

The door opened, and the distinctive sound of a suppressed weapon broke the silence. Riley watched as the guard suddenly fell to the ground, his body spasming as blood seeped onto the tile. A Brotherhood scribe retrieved the keys from the guard and opened Riley's cage.

"Who the hell are you?" He asked as the scribe undid Riley's bindings.

"None of your concern," the scribe said. He handed a stick covered in cloth to Riley. "Bite."

Riley did as instructed but was shocked when his savior shot him in the right shoulder. He let out a muffled groan and clutched at the wound.

"What the fuck!" Riley managed after several long seconds.

The scribe had arranged the guard on the ground like he'd been tackled. He took the plasma pistol the guard had on his hip, removed the suppressor from his own 10mm pistol, and pressed the gun into Riley's hand before arranging the spent casings in a convincing way.

"I've temporarily frozen the security feed, but I have to re-enable it before all the knights come back," the scribe said. "There's a drainpipe in the far north of the second basement level that leads directly out into the Potomac. You know how to swim?"

"May I ask what the fuck is happening?" Riley demanded at last.

"It's not your concern," the scribe said. "You have ten minutes, tops, so you better get moving."

Riley spent several seconds staring at his savior before he started to make his way out, clutching at his new wound.

"Hey," the scribe said, "God bless America."


Galaxy News Radio had become more or less a propaganda arm for the Brotherhood following the onset of the Brotherhood-Compact War. Milo had not heard the host, Three Dog, before he had begun broadcasting anti-Compact propaganda – so he noticed no difference. But all the others in town mentioned it. Mentioned they felt betrayed by him, because he was once a voice of hope in a wasteland that had never really known hope before.

"…and in other news," he said, droning on like he did. "John Cerdicson… the Lone Wanderer… was executed earlier today in the Citadel courtyard." He was silent for several long seconds as everybody in the town seemed to perk up.

Milo grimaced. Another life lost because of him.

"Boys and girls," Three Dog said. He stopped again, and let out a long sigh. "I knew John. I met him when he had just come out of the Vault, and we became friends over the course of the weeks and months that we were working together." He paused again. "I'm supposed to tell you that it's a warning. A lesson to those who'd opposed the Brotherhood. But I'm not gonna do that," He quickened his speech. "Boys and girls, this may be my last transmission so… let me leave you with an apology – and a request. My friends in the Compact, I am sorry. I have failed you. I didn't see the writing on the wall. I didn't see that the Brotherhood has become the very thing we all fought against so hard to defeat seven short years ago." There was a crash, and other voices could be heard shouting in the background of the broadcast. "My friends – keep fighting the good fight! Three Dog, out."

The broadcast went to static.

It was surprising how quiet Megaton had suddenly become. Generally there was an ambient murmur, a background of people talking almost constantly, even at night. Even the Children of Atom preacher had stopped talking.

Harden Simms approached Milo.

"Sir? My father wants a word," he said. He guided Milo back to the Simms house. Lucas Simms was sitting on the outer steps, and waved as he approached.

"I assume you heard the broadcast," Lucas said. Milo nodded. "We need to talk about the way this war has been going."

"Lucas, if you want to give up – broker a peace with the Brotherhood – I'd –" Milo began. Lucas cut him off quickly.

"No, no," Lucas said. "I've been watching you. Been watching the way the people here look at you." He drew on the cigarette perched between his lips. "I wasn't really close to the Lone Wanderer, not the way some of the others here were. But he was a local, almost legendary to the people here."

"I know. I fai –"

"Again, that's not what I'm getting at, son," Lucas stood up. "They've been looking to you the way they once looked to John. These people are depending on you. And I know, you feel responsible for the deaths of our people. But we are committed to this war, you understand? And if you let it get you down, and cloud your judgment, and you end up making mistakes because of that, it's going to cost even more lives."

Milo nodded.

"Now, before John was captured, he sent word to the Pitt. The ruins of Pittsburgh. Its steel mills are still up and running, and between what Rockville's been mining and their steel mills – well," he gestured for Milo to follow, "why don't we go see what they've sent?"

Stockholm, that sniper perched above the main entrance to Megaton, opened up the front gate of the city as Lucas and Milo approached. A Brahmin caravan, twenty pack Brahmin or so strong, waited outside, guarded by a lot of tough-looking fellows mixed in with some of the Megaton militiamen. A force at least fifty strong. After exchanging greetings with the caravaneers, the caravan was allowed to enter, and the gate closed behind them.

One of the guards handed Milo the caravan manifest, which he briefly looked over. His eyebrows raised – he could scarcely believe anything in the post-apocalyptic hellscape had that kind of manufacturing capacity.

Hundreds of brand new rifles, battle rifles chambered in .308 to replace the M199 that most of the militia were using at that point. Along with tens of thousands of .308 ammunition to go with them. They had also produced and sent over a thousand machetes, and thousands of spare parts for power armor and robots, and more besides.

"Is this – is this real?" Milo asked. "I can barely believe what I'm reading."

"Pull down some examples," Lucas instructed, and the guards pulled crates from the Brahmins for Lucas and Milo to inspect.

Sure enough, there was at least a small portion of everything listed on the manifest.

"How the hell much are we supposed to be paying for this?"

"Ashur told us to give you a discount, since you provided the raw materials," one of the guards explained. "One cap per rifle and machete, one cap for twenty rounds of ammunition, and two-thousand for the spare parts." Milo did the math in his head as he read through the manifest again.

"That's gotta be at least seven thousand caps," Milo said. "Lucas? Please tell me you have some way to pay for all this."

"John had actually left me with the funds – actually a little more than what they're asking. Sam, Kyle! Get the crates," he shouted, and a number of militia man came out dragging crates that were filled to the brim with caps.

Milo felt like it might make a difference in the war effort. The 5.56s, they were just… inadequate for the task at hand. Riley McAllister had clued the Compact into that, but they didn't have enough high-powered rifles to distribute to the troops.

The only thing left to do was start distributing the new equipment out to the frontline troops still clinging on around Reston and McLean.


Symmetrymaster: Been busy the last few months, unfortunately. I want to finish this, though.