A/N: Huge thanks to ScorpioSkies for helping with this chapter!
CW for animal injury in this chapter. Also the end of the chapter is darker than I usually go for, so you've been warned.
Of Staff Sergeant Nathaniel Prescott, soldier, Kaelyn knows only pieces. His crisp fatigues, the click of his boots, his straight back when he left on deployment. The sound of his bag dropping in the entry when he returned. The nightmares that left him shaking in the night. The time he came home for Christmas in '74 and couldn't stand the snow.
But now—now he stands before her, armed and alert, and his stance is utterly alien. Gone is her slouching husband and in his stead is a cool-eyed professional, despite there being no nearby threats to prompt this change in demeanor. Among the Minutemen, he stands out like a swan among geese.
Kaelyn had wandered into the courtyard to find Ronnie already working with the latest batch of recruits, showing them how to fire their laser muskets. And beside Ronnie, correcting the posture of one trainee was Nate. After weapons training, he and Ronnie both barked at the recruits while they did push ups under the baking sun. The recruits had groaned in relief when Nate had called for a break, and they staggered away to the shade.
Suddenly, Kaelyn feels grateful she joined when there was only one other Minuteman in the 'Wealth. "So the Minutemen have a new drill sergeant?"
Nate glances up at her and his eyes are—if not happy, then lighter than she's seen them since October 23. "Someone has to kick these kids' butts into shape. I'm gonna have to take one for the team." He leans on the wall beside her, folding his arms across his broad chest. Something of the soldier's influence recedes and he's her slouching, dorky husband again. "I now know why my old drill sergeant was such a hardass. The power's already going to my head."
"How are they?"
"Something of a mixed bag. Spirited, yes. Disciplined, no. They're obeying Ronnie out of fear, and they're obeying me because, what, I can bark an order? I'm just a lowly Minuteman like them. In all honesty I'm not clear what the chain of command is around here."
It's an excellent opportunity to ask, "Nate?"
"Mm?"
"I wanted to ask you for some advice. If you had the power, what would you change about the Minutemen?"
Nate drums his fingers on his knee while he considers. "A loose system works when you've got just a few guys working on their own, but not for an organization of this size. You need a visible chain of command that everyone knows to follow. No exceptions. You obey Preston, the rank-and-file obey the colonels, and so on. Another piece of advice: in front of other Minutemen, call Preston 'General'. Everyone knows you're close, but if you want people to respect the chain of command, you have to respect it too."
Kaelyn nods. "Thanks."
"So you're ready to take this on? It'll be a lot of hard work."
Hadn't Valentine teased her about much the same thing? Needing a cause to fight?
It seems too late when she's already tied up in the Minutemen again, but that now-familiar hesitation strikes again. The things she'd done to avenge Nate and find Shaun…
Nate notices. "Honey…"
"I just— after what happened last time I got involved in something like this, I'm afraid of jumping in again. But sitting back and doing nothing doesn't feel right, either."
Wrapping his arms around her waist, Nate pulls her against his side. His mouth finds her ear. "You are one of the most driven women I've ever met. If you really want to retire from everything and be a hermit in Sanctuary Hills, I'm all right with that. But I'd be damn surprised."
She rests her hands on top of his. "What about you? Could you be a hermit for the rest of your life? You've already made a difference around here. Ronnie actually likes you and I'm scared."
His chuckle expels a warm huff of air across her cheek. "If this can put my years of service to use, then it's worth it."
"I'm glad. You know," she eyes him sidelong with a sly smile, "with this chain of command, that means you have to obey my orders."
"Nothing out of the ordinary, then." He grins at her indignant noise and kisses the side of her neck.
They talk more that night, and in the nights that follow, then Kaelyn relays his suggestions to the war room. The official meetings are slow; Norman seems to be protesting her ideas on principle, seeing her suggestions as a threat to his settlement's independence.
"The Minutemen are an alliance of self-reliant settlements," he stresses. "We aren't the Brotherhood of Steel, and we don't want to be."
"We're all in this together," Preston says. "Anyone who's willing to defend themselves and their neighbors is welcome in the Minutemen."
Kaelyn holds her ground. "And when a colonel—or a general—gives an order they don't agree with? What do they do then? I've had two squad leaders insult me the moment I gave an order they didn't like. Surely nobody's forgotten Quincy already." Under the table she squeezes Preston's knee in mute apology for bringing it up.
Preston's face tightens, mostly around the eyes, but he soldiers through it. "The disaster at Quincy is never going to happen again."
"If we take steps to prevent it now," Kaelyn presses, but gently.
"What are you suggesting?" Bowen asks, his voice a touch sharp. "The Minutemen rely on volunteers. Always have. How can we impose outside rules on them when they just want to protect their homes?"
Oh, how times have changed. Kaelyn resists the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose.
"I'm saying a universal set of policies to govern our conduct and the conduct of our allied settlements could be helpful."
Faiza too says, "I think you overestimate the danger. Anyone would follow our General Garvey to hell and back."
Ronnie snorts at that one. "Too young to remember General Becker. People said that about him, too, and when he died the Minutemen fragmented."
The discussion circles and stalls like one of the Brotherhood's vertibirds, then moves to safer topics: the continuing threats to the Commonwealth's settlements, and what the Minutemen can do about them. County Crossing, Bowen's home settlement, has had a spate of recent raider attacks. Despite his best efforts, he hasn't found their lair.
"General," he says, "we need more people. We have to find these raider gangs and give 'em justice. Take back what they stole."
"If they were good at managing their food stores, they wouldn't have raided three times in two months," Faiza retorts. "Don't count on recovering anything."
Preston says, "So what I'm hearing is we need more crops and more people to guard them. It's been a hard year for everybody. If people don't have enough food now, winter will be bad."
Even without open war in the Commonwealth, raiders have capitalized on the unrest over the last year caused in part by the Brotherhood's campaign, not to mention the Institute's surface experiments—
That jogs Kaelyn's memory. She leans forward in her seat. "If we want a hope of stabilizing the Commonwealth, we need agriculture to support our population. Establishing further relations with Greygarden is one option. They may be robots, but there has to be something they need that we can trade."
"The moment we expand a farm, it paints a target for raiders," Faiza point out.
"So we ask for volunteers for a permanent garrison," Preston says. "We can't let fear of raiders stop us from trying. But I understand that most people want to live safely, so volunteers only."
"Then I'll put out the call, General," Ronnie says.
Kaelyn rests her palms on her thighs under the table and pretends to be casual, thoughtful, as if it were nothing more than idle speculation. "There's a farm south of here that has some incredible crops. I'm talking twice the size and yield of anything I've seen in the 'Wealth. We could establish trade relations with them. Or better yet, buy seeds from them to grow our own."
There's a certain irony to using the Institute's experiment to actually better humanity, and she's determined to exploit it for all it's worth.
Preston nods. "All we can ever do is try. If people don't have to farm all day, every day, they'll have time to build without risking starvation. If the Minutemen can help the Commonwealth this way, we can make a difference. Let's do this, people."
Nate catches up with Kaelyn for lunch in the mess hall. He says, "Ronnie asked me to help in the yard again. Says she wants someone to demonstrate moves on who won't bruise easily, so I told her I don't fit the bill." He flashes a quick smile that, like a cinder, extinguishes as quickly as it sparks. "But in all seriousness, I'm… glad to have something to do."
Her gaze softens. "I understand."
Unlike the army, talent and skill are snapped up and put to use regardless of how little time someone has been a part of the Minutemen. Ronnie's good word, sealed with Preston's approval, has granted Nate a position as a trainer at the Castle. Kaelyn keeps her distance through the whole thing, both out of respect for his ability to accomplish things on his own and so no one can make accusations of nepotism.
Over the next few days Preston hand picks a squad of diplomatically-minded Minutemen and asks Kaelyn to lead them. "You've already had contact with Warwick, and this was your idea besides," he says. "Offer them a place in the Minutemen, but don't burn any bridges if they say no. Though I doubt I need to tell you that."
It isn't an order, but refusing to go would raise more questions than Kaelyn would like. "I'll get it done."
Nate's new occupation is going to make it easier. She hopes. That night in the privacy of their quarters, she says, "South of here, there's a farm that has some incredible crops. Everyone—even the farm hands—thinks it's because they made a farm out of a sewerage plant, but it's really because the Institute genetically engineered crops that grow better in irradiated conditions. A group of Minutemen are going there to request some seeds. If we can spread those crops across the Commonwealth, set up some large-scale agriculture, then we secure our food supply. Since it was my idea, the squad asked me to join them."
"If you went, how long would you be gone for?"
"Just a few days. Warwick Homestead isn't that far."
Nate nods. "No problem. When do we leave?"
Dammit. "You just said you're committed to training the new guys."
"I did, but that doesn't mean plans can't change. You're more important to me."
Kaelyn cups his cheek, feeling his stubble prick her palm. "I know, and I thank you. But you're doing good work here, and we can survive a few days out of each other's company, right?"
He draws her against his chest and rests his chin on top of her head. "If this is what you felt like every time I was deployed, I suddenly understand why you were so worried."
She rests her chin on his shoulder. "And you understand why I'm not."
"That'll teach me," he mutters.
Nate's concession is a reluctant one, but it's a concession nonetheless. Before heading back to the war room, Kaelyn flags down Valentine and explains the situation.
He has the courtesy to not rub her inability to stay away in her face. He just asks, "So you're getting back into the swing of things, are you?"
She closes her eyes. Draws on her resolve. "If I'm to have a legacy in the Commonwealth, it will not be that I destroyed the Brotherhood of Steel and the Institute within days of each other."
"When are we heading out?"
"I'm leaving tomorrow. Nate's staying behind, and I need a favor from you."
Valentine looks her up and down. "Honeymoon's over, huh?"
"I want someone around who can stop him if he tries anything stupid."
"On a scale of zero to guaranteed, how likely is he to cause trouble?"
"If anyone's in danger? Highly likely. Just… keep Nate safe. Please."
"Will do." Valentine's expression turns thoughtful. "Who knows, maybe I'll get a sit-down with your better half. Exchange all those embarrassing tales about you. I'll bet he's got a decent number of 'em stored for safekeeping."
"Remind me who was the one trapped in a vault for two weeks?"
"You'll have to refresh the old memory circuits." Valentine taps his temple with a smile that soon fades, then he claps her shoulder. "Stay safe out there."
She reaches up to curl a hand around his elbow. "Will do."
Her history at Warwick Homestead isn't something she wants Nate to know. Or Valentine, for that matter.
At dawn a group of Minutemen, Kaelyn included, set out through the waterfront. How radstags made their way through the city to that one park on the esplanade, no one will ever know. By midmorning they get a call over the radio that ferals have been sighted around a nearby settlement, and Kaelyn quietly thanks the universe for this diversion. She insists the others go ahead to take care of the problem, pointing out that asking for some seeds does not require a full entourage and might in fact intimidate an independent settlement. The others agree to kill two birds with one stone, and they part ways.
A piece of her feels leaded, but another piece is growing lighter with every step. Dogmeat bounds ahead, the cracked sidewalk under his paws giving way to dirt and then to grass. After days spent in a crowded fort, the sudden return to her own company is—jarring. Reminds her of another time and another road, with only Dogmeat to alleviate the loneliness.
South of Quincy, she breaks from the road to traverse the mudflats, following the coastline that winds like a scarf in a gentle breeze. The sky is one continuous sheet of gray, deepening to a bruised lavender along the horizon by the time Kaelyn reaches Warwick Homestead.
The first sign she's close is the smell. Despite being two hundred years since the sewerage plant's last use, not even the salty bite of the coastal winds can alleviate the stench. The second sign is the green of crops peeking out above the screen of high plywood walls.
Kaelyn stands at the ajar gates and knocks. An unfamiliar farmhand takes one look at her laser musket and lets her straight in. He points her in June's direction and Dogmeat trots between plots of verdant plants with such thick, healthy foliage it's like looking at a pre-war painting. In the corner of the yard there's a rectangle of turned earth. Kaelyn refuses to look at it once she realizes what it is.
Dez and Glory, probably even Deacon, would have her head if they knew. But there's a world of difference between a synth seeking self-determination and an infiltrator with orders to destroy all evidence when the experiment is finished. Especially when 'evidence' includes the original's family.
June stands by the stairs to the treatment plant, watching the goings-on without really seeing them. Kaelyn clears her throat and she jumps. "Oh! I'm sorry, I didn't see you there. You're… that woman who talked down Bill. Was there something you needed?" She makes a brave attempt at a smile.
"I'm here on behalf of the Minutemen. We're expanding our farmland, and I remembered the remarkable crops you've cultivated here. So I'm here to ask if one, you might be interested in allying with the Minutemen and two, if I can buy some seeds from you."
The both turn to the field with its rows of mutfruit bushes—now better classified as mutfruit shrubs, standing taller than the average human—their branches heavily laden with fruit. Beside them is the tato plot, with supports wreathed in a thick network of vines. Their leaves are green, their trunks straight and healthy, and their fruit some of the largest Kaelyn has seen in the post-war world. And the gourd patch is still filled with dog-sized fruit. Farm hands move between the plants, harvesting ripe fruit.
"It was Roger's vision," she murmurs. Her gaze turns distant, misty. "Come inside and we'll talk more."
Despite the renovations, the settlement is at the end of the day still a sewerage treatment plant. The floors are cold concrete and the ceiling too high to retain heat. June leads her to an office and fusses about making drinks, a tangy homegrown tincture made from dried mutfruit that isn't half bad. They debate the benefits of formally allying with the Minutemen and June gives her a firm maybe. Kaelyn doesn't mind the evasion; the Minutemen aren't going anywhere, they aren't wanting for allies, and respecting Warwick's right to decide at their own pace paints the Minutemen in a better light than if she were more forceful.
June leans forward in her seat. "We've had people ask for seeds before, but I'll tell you the same thing I've told them: it's the soil."
Do you really believe that? Kaelyn has to wonder. "Even so, it's worth trying. It could do a world of good for the rest of the Commonwealth."
"Some might say we have an advantage with our crops."
"You're also a unique target if you're the only farm with these crops. Besides, are you in this to turn a profit at the cost of families' well-being, or to support them?"
"You haven't asked where Roger is," June notes. Almost accuses.
Kaelyn's blood runs cold. "I, uh, saw the grave on my way in. When I couldn't see him anywhere, I figured…"
June sets her mug down with a precise little clink. The tea trembles inside. "It was awful. I thought it was all over when you talked down Bill, but a few weeks later he— someone— I didn't see who shot him. No one did. Someone still thought he was a synth."
Turns out that kid from The Third Rail was worth every cap. And it turns out that now Kaelyn has won the universe's lottery and gotten her own husband back, witnessing June's grief is all the more painful.
Dammit.
"I'm so sorry." It feels like a cop-out when she's responsible for this, but she can't not say it.
"You know what the worst part is? He was a synth after all!" she chokes. "So I don't know whether to be angry that the Institute killed Roger, or angry that a machine made a better husband and father, or angry that some sonofabitch shot him."
Kaelyn covers June's hand with her own. "It's okay to be conflicted. This is an awful situation to be in, and you're allowed to be angry."
She slides her hand out from underneath Kaelyn's and dabs at her eyes. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't be dumping this on you."
"It's all right. I'll be gone in a day or two and we can pretend this never happened, if it makes you feel better."
Her chair scrapes on the floor. "I'll give you those seeds you were after. I don't know if it'll do any good but if you want to try…"
They haggle over a sum of caps; Kaelyn makes only the most perfunctory of attempts to lower the price. Grieving or not, June can still drive a hard bargain. A few extra caps are poor reparation for orchestrating the assassination of the infiltrator that replaced her husband, but it's better than nothing.
The afternoon dies quietly, sinking into the black mattress of the horizon and pulling indigo sheets over its head with a tired sigh. Another sum of caps buys permission for Kaelyn to sleep in the bunkhouse with the other transient workers. One of the farmhands protests Dogmeat's presence, but his puppy dog eyes worm into the others' hearts and their affection drowns out any objections.
In the morning, Kaelyn and Dogmeat leave Warwick Homestead laden with a satchel full of seeds. Containers of tiny tato seeds, jars of hard black mutfruit seeds, tins of gourd husks, and written instructions on how best to cultivate them. Kaelyn reads over the document and files the information away just in case, but farming is not her forte.
It's another cloudy day, and the ocean winds, fresh and fierce, offer a further chill. A fog rolled in during the night and doesn't quite concede to the day, protected by its sky-bound cousins. At the first opportunity she drifts inland to the sandbanks sculpted by the elements, fleeing the rising tide that swallows the mudflats. Loose slopes of sand shift beneath her, hissing with the voice of a thousand snakes, inconstant and so very treacherous before softening to sucking mud.
The grass has netted itself over the sandy hills in thick thatches, stretching high enough to brush Kaelyn's thighs. An impressive amount of sand has been sculpted into a hill, large enough to swallow a beach shack, and the sea-facing side has collapsed under eroding forces. Kaelyn's legs burn as she works her way up, using the grassroots as footholds. A rustling in the grass captures Dogmeat's attention and he bounds ahead to investigate.
The silence shatters like glass.
A gun barks and Dogmeat yelps. Someone lunges out of the grass, swearing, aiming his pistol at Dogmeat.
Whipping out Deliverer, Kaelyn empties her magazine into the raider and he topples. Except there's movement in the corner of her eye: at the top of the hill, a half-dozen raiders spring up from the grass.
No cover and a height disadvantage. This is bad.
Kaelyn drops to one knee in the grass, and the raiders charge. She wastes precious second fumbling for a fresh magazine. Fires wildly, and they scatter. Two of them launch a net, its ropes splayed in the air like a spider's web. Kaelyn dives to the side but it tangles around her calves. She drops heavily.
Dogmeat plants himself in front of her and snarls at the approaching enemies, ears pinned back, saliva dripping from his maw. He lunges, latching onto a man's wrist, and the snap of bone is punctuated by a scream.
"Shit! Shoot it! Shoot it!"
"Dogmeat!"
But raiders aren't known for their camaraderie and let him struggle. He lands a punch to Dogmeat's ribs, dislodging him. A kick from the raider sends Dogmeat skidding across the sand, claws raking for purchase, and over the edge of the dropoff.
"Dogmeat!" she screams, straining for a bark, a whine, anything.
A boot connects with her ribs and she topples forward. The raiders circle her, like a pack of animals, snarling and jeering.
The muzzle of a gun touches her hair, and she waits.
And waits.
The final shot doesn't come. Her nerves coil tighter with every moment the trigger is not pulled.
"Got her!"
Her blood runs cold.
Her weapons are stripped away, as is her shoulder guard. Sounds of a tussle behind her—lay off, I got her first! and mine now!—and Kaelyn tries to crawl away only for a boot to slam down on her wrist.
"I don't think so, sweetie," the raider coos, her eyes alight with malice. "You're not going anywhere."
As it turns out, that isn't quite true. That raider straddles Kaelyn's hips as she binds her wrists behind her back and shoves a bag over her head. The fabric is thick and scratchy and the humidity immediately climbs in the sudden darkness. Tiny dots of gray light shine through gaps in the weave, succeeding only in confusing her eyes. Thus bound, she's hauled to her feet, kicked again when she takes too long, and the bag saves her from eating a face full of sand.
"Move it!"
Knuckles jab into Kaelyn's kidney, and she takes a step forward to alleviate the pressure. Only it doesn't relent; more hands join in to push and shove and pinch. Without sight, her every step is uncertain. More than once she stumbles, sticking her foot in a pothole or on a rock. The raiders just jeer and shove her more.
The bag reflects her breath, hot and humid, back in her face.
Why are they taking me alive?
Kaelyn listens for Dogmeat, but hears nothing.
She doesn't know how long they walk for. Hours, possibly, and then her knee is kicked out and she lands in the dirt. The temperature drops, then the sound of a fire crackles like snapping bones. Without sight, she can only piece together muffled sounds to make sense of the world: approaching footsteps, someone roughly grabbing her wrists, the thunk of a hammer close by. She tugs on her restraints and determines a spike has been driven into the ground to keep her in place.
Someone kicks her in the gut. "Move and say bye-bye to your legs."
"Watch it," someone else hisses. "One piece or no payment."
The night is cold and loud and hard. Kaelyn is too afraid to squirm lest she catch the attention of her captors, but the rocky ground grows unbearable. As carefully as she can, she probes at her bindings. They're tight enough to cut into her wrists even before she starts twisting this way and that, trying to ease them off. But her damn hand bones are too big and she only rubs her wrists raw in the attempt.
Dawn is heralded by chirruping from some Wasteland creature and pinpricks of gray light weaseling into her hood. Somebody clatters around the fire making breakfast, and Kaelyn's stomach twists at the smell of greasy meat.
Not long after that, Kaelyn is dragged to her feet and forced to move again. Her back and shoulders scream from bad sleeping conditions. The terrain changes from rough and uneven to smooth and flat. Concrete. Cheers go up nearby and someone shouts to get the boss!
Funny how sackcloth can distort sound. Kaelyn thinks they might be inside. The air is warm and smoky, and there's concrete under her feet.
As abruptly as she's shoved to move, she's yanked to a halt.
The bag is torn off her head and she hisses as a chunk of hair is torn out with it. Blinking away tears, she realizes she's face-to-face with what has to be the boss. His bloodshot eyes glare out from under heavy brows, slashes with twin scars. Under all the blood and grime his skin might be white.
"Whaddaya think, boss?" The man who so eagerly crowed his victory earlier is now wary, almost humble, as he slinks around Kaelyn to stand near the ringleader—but out of arm's reach. "Brown woman with a pip-boy and sniper rifle. Matches the description, doncha think?"
Description?
Kaelyn bites back any sound, trying not to give them the satisfaction. Tries to school her expression, but her mouth feels too wide and tight, like a wire drawn across open flames.
The raider boss snaps an arm out to snare her chin, his fingers digging into her jaw as he forces her face up. At the motion, a pungent waft of sweat and old blood assaults her nose. This close, she can count every pore and pimple marring his nose and cheeks. In his eyes she sees her own reflection: small and afraid.
He smiles, then, and she knows she's lost.
"That's the one. Or close enough to." He tightens his grip before stepping away, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. "Put her in the pen."
She's swept away by a mob of cheering raiders, up the stairs to the catwalk, to the nearby offices that have been renovated to become prisons. On the rattling walkway, the tidal wave of bodies shoving and shouting, bootsteps thudding, make the world shudder dangerously. Three raiders yank her to a halt. At least one paws at her.
Kaelyn looks through the bars of the cell. A ghostly face stares back, the whites of his eyes bright in the dark. He's a settler, based on his simple attire.
The raider working at the lock purrs, "Only got room for one prisoner."
That earns him a chorus of cheers.
The prisoner's eyes bug when he understands. "No! No, please! Wait!"
Kaelyn can only watch as they drag him out, realization like a blade of ice between her ribs. He kicks and screams and swears, but it only amuses their captors. There's no escape.
A final shove to her back and she pitches forward into the cell. Despite the ruckus, the click of the lock is so very loud.
Kaelyn can only curl in the corner with her hands over her ears and try not to listen until the screams die.