Chapter 8. The Man from Quincy.

I thought, finally, that I could find some kind of rest with employment in Diamond City. Maybe I could find out more about this land, and in turn, how to escape it and return home. But I had barely been approved before news came in from the south, and with it, my first patient, who would be the unexpected catalyst to so much more...

Piper turned around to greet him, swirling on her chair when he entered the house again. Natalie was nowhere to be seen, likely in school. Its location and workings yet remained a mystery to him, as they didn't seem to be learning anything about the world that had once been, nor of the natural sciences.

Was it simply to learn to read and write, so as to carry on the traditions? Of course, if no one could read, what little knowledge had been preserved in the books that still survived - and they were few and far between, apparently - would be lost as well. That alone justified the school, even if it only served that one function.

"So?" Piper asked, hands folded before her like an expecting teacher apprising her student; "You were gone a while. Sun didn't kick you out?"

Martin hated this place. Truly, he hated this wasteland of rust and decay and barbarism. The complete destruction of civilisation and culture, leaving only its still twitching carcass. What did that make of its inhabitants then? Wriggling maggots scratching out a living between the sun-bleached bones of the corpse?

He couldn't identify that image with Piper. Something distorted when he tried fitting the picture together, like a contrast that didn't make sense. She was too... good, he supposed, for a place like this. Too bright, open and kind. She could never be a maggot, and now he even felt a foul taste for having broached the thought.

"I have entered his employ," he started, to which Piper's reaction seemed disbelieving; "But he needs me to hand in a certificate. Mine was...lost, when I came here."

"Wait, just like that?" she asked, blinking as if he'd delivered news of greater shock; "He just hired you? What, did you break and reset his arm or something?"

Martin was silent in the face of that, not entirely sure how to respond. He hadn't expected her to say that, and was taken aback, briefly. Piper, however, seemed to take that silence as confirmation. Her eyes widened.

"Oh God, you broke his arm..."

"Of course I didn't break his arm," Martin muttered, blinded as he palmed his face at the absurdity of the question; "But... I did demonstrate to him. He was... surprised."

"I'll bet," Piper snorted, shock giving way to amusement; "He didn't start raving about synths or stuff?"

"He started stuttering," though it was understandable, certainly. Being presented with a new force of nature, or a field of sciences never before uncovered, warranted disbelief; "And smoke. He started smoking."

"Never seen Sun stutter," she hummed, leaning back in the chair, arms stretched out behind her. It wasn't dissimilar to a cat, he noted. A Khajiit would stretch like that. Selfsatisfied and comfortable. Though far better than it could have been, Piper's home was... not. It was dry, warm and didn't have much in the way of draft, but still. And he knew it was because he was wont to better. But it was still her home; "Wish I had. Okay, so, a certificate? Shouldn't take too long, we'll write it up and print it out."

Something in Martin's mind screeched at the complete disregard for falsification and forgery. Simply printing out a healer's certificate like it was a theater proclamation... Not a week ago he would have screeched. Now he just nodded.

So far he'd done much Madame de Crue would approve of.

He doubted this counted amongst them.

"That was fast," Sun noted, receiving him in the door to the hospital with an expression of mild surprise. It was only the day after, but Piper had gone to work on the certificate with an uncanny gusto. The machine had stuttered and hacked like an elderly with tobacco addictions, but had in the end obeyed its master's will. The early morning was cold, despite the season, and Martin hugged himself for warmth as he waited for the door to open; "You have the certificate already?"

"I have it," he offered the parcel, wrapped up in brown paper; "Though I think my instructor would have disowned me if she ever saw that I wrote out my own journeyman's papers. It is a forgery, where I come from."

"Good," the older man nodded, apparently pleased; "At least you have some integrity. Useful in a business where you've access to all sorts of chems."

Sun beckoned, and Martin followed inside the office. The place was cleaner than yesterday, and smelled of something mildly acrid. This time, there was a chair for him, in front of the desk, though a mere stool. As he sat, Sun took his own seat across the desk and undid the wrappings. Though both understood the certificate for what it was, Martin found himself anxious as Sun read the paper. He'd been honest when writing it - more than he should be, in Piper's eyes - and it seemed now the doctor himself was pondering much written within.

"...certified by Magister Telmor Doro of the College of Whispers..." Sun muttered, a frown on his brow. He glanced up; "Magister?"

"He... was head of the College," Martin explained; "The Institute of Restoration falls under him."

"I see."

Minutes passed, wherein Sun said nothing. Martin too, held his tongue. He wasn't even sure if he'd filled out the document as his own papers had been. He'd never looked at them for the purpose of remembering every single word. Now, he wished he had.

"Well," the older man finally sighed, putting the papers down. Martin expected something to follow, but for a long moment, nothing did. Sun merely sat there, rubbing his brows as if to chase off a headache. It did little for his own stress; "You've certainly given yourself quite the praiseworthy recommendations."

"I am no fraud." Martin said, his own expression hardening. He would not be accused of such, atop already having committed forgery. This at least, he could write off as copying his journeyman's papers. But he would not be accused of fraud; "Those statements are from my seniors and lectors."

"Of course, of course..." Sun nodded, a frown marring his face; "I wouldn't be hiring you if I thought you were. This will be a... trial period? I take it you have some familiarity with surgical instruments, or do you rely solely on magic over there?"

"Healers are taught all ways of attending to patients," True, he wasn't yet entirely certain of what kind of instruments they used here. Hopefully, they were not too alien; "I was educated appropriately."

"That's good to hear. Saves me having to train you," Sun paused, scratching his chin as it seemed he considered something else. He frowned; "However, you should refrain from using your... magic, unless the patient is in too dire straits. You said Wright told you of the Institute, but has she told you why people here fear them so much?"

Martin hesitated, for a moment. He had not expected such a question, and did not immediately know what to say. What had Piper told him, indeed, but that the Institute was the shadow over the Commonwealth? That people disappeared without a trace, or turned up and were no longer themselves? They sounded to him most of all like some cabal of rouge wizards, necromancers maybe. He knew the Legion had trouble with such groups in the old days, before the reign of Uriel the Seventh. Here, things were different. But it seemed they were the same, even then.

Sun, perhaps mistaking his expression for confirmation or no, continued.

"Fifty years ago, before my time, Diamond City wasn't as paranoid as it is today," Sun pulled his chair out and sat, plucking a cigarette from his chest; "Story's one every man, woman and child around here knows, though. Wright could probably tell you about it all in a much more exciting and enthralling way, I bet, but... I'm no reporter or... whatever she calls herself. DC has always been the bastion of civilisation in the Wasteland, and people come here from all over because of it. The Wall, the market, the school, this here clinic, it's a magnet to settlers and wastelanders," Holding the dancing flame of his lighter to the end of his cigarette, the doctor continued, a weary look in his eyes; "He called himself 'Mr. Carter', or so the story goes. Some trader in from outside the Commonwealth. Of course, that alone brought attention, and he apparently seemed friendly. So, people gathered, as they would. You've seen the market hub, right? The noodle-stand with the robot in it? Well, once upon a time, there wasn't a robot there. There was a human server there... I don't remember his name, not important. But after a few drinks, some smiles and jokes, 'Mr. Carter' pulls a gun on the server. He shot him, still smiling."

Martin winced as Sun pointed a finger at his forehead, mimicking one of the smaller firearms he'd seen here. It went against his understanding that so much destructive power could be contained by mundane means in such a small thing. Sun's expression was grim, devoid of mirth.

"Then he shot another person, and another. Numbers seem to change depending who you ask, and there's not a lot left to ask after fifty years, but," Martin realized he wasn't breathing, even as Sun dragged in and turned the end of his cigarette yellow with heat, ashes falling softly to the surface of his desk; "Between ten and twenty people, gunned down in their chairs or beaten to death with inhuman strength. When I took over this clinic, my predecessor left behind his notes on the autopsies. Some of the bones were pulverized more than just broken. One of the victims, a woman, 'Mr Carter' had broken her over his knee like some sort of-"

A fist pounded the door, and nearly sent Martin into the ceiling. Sun too, paused, eyes darting to his desk first, then the door. The pounding continued, shaking the door on its hinges. The force immediately made him think of Mr. Carter, though he'd been robbed of the story's lesson. A woman's desperate voice came from the other side;

"Anyone in there?! We need help!"

Sun was out of his chair before the last word had even been spoken, and reached the door at a speed faster than Martin had thought him capable of. Yanking the metal door open, a woman in dark, weathered leather coat and a wide-brimmed hat stood on the other side. Her face was a mess of soot and blood and wounds, though they did not seem the emergency.

It was the man carried between two others, similarly dressed, that clearly was. Martin nearly heaved when he saw him. Below the left knee, what was left held on only by what looked like scraps. The bone protruded, shattered and jagged, from the thigh, and his trousers were soaked through with blood. The men carrying him likewise bore visible injuries, but none to such an extent. They both carried long, foreign-looking weapons in their free hands.

"Christ..." Sun swore, stubbing out his cigarette; "Put him on the bed! Martin! Time for your first patient. Get him stabilized, I'll bring out the chems."

The two men brought their wounded friend to the sole bed in the clinic, gingerly laying him down on the old mattress. Martin bit back a wince as the motion still caused fresh squirts of blood from the wound. The patient was getting paler already, sweating and his eyes moved about seeing little.

He was just glad Sun had not had them place him on the chair out in front. There was no way he could stabilize this man without the use of magic. He was just glad he hadn't used any today. Likely, this alone would scrape him to the bottom of the barrel.

"Where...we home?"

"Josh, we're fine," the woman insisted, her voice gentle but firm. Desperation seeping into her words. She was on her knees next to the bed, blocking Martin from accessing the dying man.

And dying he was, already now paler than when Sun had opened the door. Martin steeled himself.

"Move," he told her, voice hard with dread. He'd thrown off his outer jacket, leaving him in little but pants and the shirt Piper had bought him. The woman did as told, scurrying out of the way almost as fast as Martin moved in, shoving her aside when she stumbled; "Close the door."

"Sun worked alone last time I was here." a brown-skinned man he hadn't noticed yet, though dressed like the others, noted. The coat he wore was beaten and torn, holed and with the smell of blackpowder smoke clinging to it. His voice bore less of the desperation of the others, and instead seemed suspicious; "You a doctor?"

"Certificate's on the desk," Martin jabbed a finger at the paper in question, then turned to the patient again. The eyes were less active now, and the skin paler. When he spoke, it was mostly to himself. A soft glow enveloped his hands and allowed him greater examination of the man's wounds; "Tibial artery shredded, he's lost a lot of blood. Several metallic fragments in the knee and thigh. Laceration of muscles. Severe trauma to the entire leg."

"He stepped on a mine," the brown-skinned man, seemingly the leader, said. Of them all, he was the only one who had not winced when Martin started his examination; "In Jamaica Plains."

Martin didn't know what that meant, or where that was. But whatever a mine was, it had removed almost the entirety of the man - Josh's - shin. Only the foot remained, and some shreds of meat between it and the knee. There was nothing left worthy of name from the tibia or fibula, only shredded scraps of white amongst the mess of red and pink. The mattress that had been white when they entered was now already stained a deep, dark red. There was no way he could save the man's foot, no matter how much magic he poured into the wound. The body couldn't regenerate this kind of trauma, no more than it could grow a new head.

But Sun had only said to stabilize him. Martin found at least some relief there, that he wasn't alone in this work. Somehow, it even brought him comfort. An unexpected, almost bizarre feeling of doing what he was meant to be doing.

"Stimpack, sedatives and anaesthetics," Sun returned to his field of view, thrusting the needle of a syringe into the patient's leg, then another in his arm. Martin did not speak, focusing as best he could on the wound; "Grim one. Can you save the foot?"

"No," the word brought him shame, and visible horror on the faces of the others around him; "Too much damage has been done."

"We'll have to amputate then," Sun nodded, wiping his brow. Martin noticed that the doctor was differently dressed now, half his face concealed behind a mask. A large saw came into view, and Josh began thrashing on the bed. His movements were weak, however, sluggish and betrayed his critical state; "Do what you can to staunch the bleeding. The rest of you, make sure your friend doesn't move about until the sedatives kick in."

"You can't wait until they do!?" the woman demanded, eyes wide with fright.

"Might as well not operate on him then, he'll bleed out by then." Sun snapped back, holding the saw to Josh's mangled skin, just below the knee. Martin, meanwhile, found gauze in the box Sun had taken the saw from, and started tying it around the ruined leg, above the knee. Until his superior - and he'd not even yet given thought to Sun's new role as such - had amputated the shin, he couldn't start actively healing the wound; "Starting now."

It was the first time Martin had truly heard a man scream. Even as the leader of these people shoved a cloth into his gaping mouth, the screams penetrated the room, echoing off the walls like the howls of some inhuman monster. Sun kept sawing, spilling blood and flesh with each stroke, though his rapid progress demonstrated his experience. It was less than a minute before the tibia and fibula both were cut, sawed through like a rotten branch. He tightened the knot, fighting against the body's need to pump blood into the open air.

"Martin, the moment I'm through, I want you to start stopping the bleeding entirely. I don't much care how," Sun growled, sweat dripping from his forehead. It ran in streams down his cheeks, diluting blood where it had spattered on him. A sizable pool of blood had already started forming where it dripped onto the floor; "Preferably resulting in a clean stump, if you can, easier to fit a prosthetic."

"Josh, hold on a bit more."

"He's out cold, Emma," the leader said, putting a hand on the woman's shoulder. It was a small blessing, at least, that the trauma and sedatives had finally rendered him unconscious. It was strange, he idly noted, that none of them had yet commented on his role in this, or how he was supposed to leave Josh with a 'clean stump'. Likely the stress had simply made them forget he was even there.

Sun was through in that very moment, a wet snap and a metallic clang against the bedframe enough to jolt Martin from his daze. He focused again, in that moment, and pressed his naked palm against the raw meat of the crippled limb. If not for the warmth and sticky, pulsating and living sensations, he could have sworn it was little but a sponge. The bone, sawed over in a clean line, protruded just a little from the bloody mess, pricking his hand. He pushed the sensations to the back of his mind, pushing instead forward energies of restoration. No one in the room reacted, verbally at least, when his palm lit up like a small sun. It produced no heat, though.

Martin knew he had to remove the metallic splinters from the man's leg, but pushed it to a lower priority. Now, he needed only to concentrate on the task at hand. Slowly, carefully, he nudged and prodded the flesh, urging the body into action. Perhaps because of the stimpack, it went faster than he had expected such a wound to heal. It required less of him than he'd expected, and allowed him to divert some attention to the fragments. There was bone too, he realized, fragments of the tibia likely, mixed in with it. It made him appreciate all the more the times he had practiced on bodies on loan from the crematoria, back home. None had ever been this mangled, but still, it had been a valuable experience.

"How's it looking?" Sun asked. He sounded exhausted, more so than Martin had thought him to be. Experience or not, sawing through a man's leg would drain any doctor, it seemed. He nudged out the first fragment before he replied, guiding it through the flesh like a fish through water. When it came out, it emerged like a zit, gleaming white bone dropping to the floor with barely a sound.

"I can manage," Another fragment, metal this time, appeared from the marred flesh, joining the first on the ground. Sun started picking them up; "The stimpack really accelerates the process."

"Never this fast, though." the older man noted, plucking yet another freshly appeared fragment from the floor. Some were little more than crumbs, while others were almost the length of his thumb; "And they can't do this."

It seemed at least, that magic was not yet overcome by mundane means. He wasn't sure if he felt pride or not from that realization, but weariness was starting to overcome him, all the same. Though the stimpack helped, he was still approaching his limits.

"The bleeding seems to have stopped," Sun said.

"Yes."

"Good work, Martin."

"Yes," he took the praise for what it was, but did not relent in his task. It was not until all the fragments were out, removed, that he allowed himself to breathe. It allowed him to take perspective of the situation, and find some relief. The bleeding had indeed stopped, though Josh was pale. He breathed more easily now, though. A steady rhythm of exhalation and inhalation. It was a good sign; "He's outside danger now."

"Thank God Almighty..." the leader whispered.

"Little late for him to get involved, Preston." one of the other men grumbled, though the relief was palpable on his face.

"Josh'll be okay?" the woman asked. The leader, Preston, he'd referred to her as Emma. Names here were strange to him. Martin realized with a start the question had been directed at him, not Sun.

"He's out of danger, and stable," he replied, wiping salt, stinging sweat from his eyes; "It would still be best not to move him, I think."

"We'll keep him for the night, make sure nothing opens up again," Sun said. The leader, Preston, took off his hat and wiped his face with it. It seemed the only piece of cloth on him that wasn't smeared in blood or grime; "Preston...?"

"Garvey," the leader said, nodding; "Commonwealth Minutemen... what's left of us anyway. How much do we owe you?"

"Nothing," Sun shook his head; "Minutemen don't pay. Company policy."

"Well," Garvey nodded, putting his hat back on. He pushed the shade of it down a little further, almost hiding his eyes when stood across from; "We appreciate it."

"What the Hell was that back there?" one of the other men asked, eyes on Martin now; "Did he just...start glowing? I didn't think Atom-folks were welcome in DC."

"Martin is my new employee." Sun stepped in, his tone half a warning and half reassuring. Martin struggled to remember what Atom was, though he knew Piper had brought it up at least once; "He's a European Healer."

"All the same, we appreciate it."

Martin found he liked Garvey. At least, he liked the man's reaction to something as unexpected as his abilities. Even if Sun did not use the word 'magic', likely that very word was going through the man's head. He looked back down, to Josh, now unconscious and steadily breathing. The stump of his left leg was nicely healed already, the skin showing little sign of scarring. If he'd not known better he would have guessed the man had just tugged the rest of his leg behind his back, or something like that.

It was a successful operation, if anything.

"I didn't know we had any Minutemen patrols in the area, though," Sun muttered, fishing a cigarette from his chest pocket. The man was a spectacle of red and white, his worn but washed apron now dotted with specks and sprays of red. Martin knew he was little better, but hadn't even had the time to find an apron, and now had blood-stains in his clothes for it. The older doctor paused, brows furrowed as if he remembered something he did not understand; "Jamaica Plains? That's way south of here. Why not Quincy? They have a hospital too, don't they?"

"They did, yes," Garvey nodded. Suddenly, Martin thought he looked very tired. Older, too, as if the mere question had aged him years; "They're gone now."

Sun halted in a drag on his cigarette, eyes narrowed. Martin looked between them, not fully understanding what was going on. Quincy, was that a people, or a fortress, or something else? And Jamaica plains, what was that? It was not the first time he was struck with frustration over knowing nothing of this place. Even Diamond City was largely a mystery to him, and he'd been here a full week now.

"The entire settlement?" when his superior next spoke, his voice was low, and held a tone he'd not heard from him before. It was shock, but not the kind expressed when Martin had displayed his magic. It was darker. The other Minutemen watched too, though their expressions were dulled, as if they had already seen enough horror that nothing new could shake them.

He'd heard about that, from senior healers at the College. Those who had treated Legionaries. Even if most citizens never knew, there was always fighting going on, somewhere. The Legion always had to go there, put down a rebellion of a budding necromancer cult, or Daedric worshippers trying to bring some heinous malice into the world. At least, that was what he'd heard. He'd never truly seen it though, the state of those who survived fighting it.

Mari had apprenticed for field medic once, he recalled. She had gotten as far as being allowed to perform surgery on soldiers coming back from... the name escaped him, but it was somewhere north, in the mountains. Not a week later, she reapplied for laboratory work. He hadn't understood then, what she had seen on those men when they came back.

Now, seeing the deadened faces of these men, he understood.

"How?" Sun almost demanded, his voice little more than a whisper; "Q-Quincy had walls, didn't it? Who?"

"We were called to protect the settlement, and arrived in time to scatter some Gunner scouts. They hadn't seen us coming," Garvey motioned for his subordinates to vacate, leaving only Martin, Sun, Garvey and the patient, Josh, in the room; "Colonel Hollis led our group. When we realized how many were coming, he sent out a call for reinforcements."

"...Clint... the cunt..." Martin turned his face, being the closest, to Josh. The wounded man was only halfway conscious, but had still woken up earlier than he'd expected. When he tried to rise, Martin nudged him back down in the mattress. The skin of his stump was fresh, and too much pressure could cause a leak.

Garvey nodded, his face hard;

"A veteran Minuteman, Clint, stabbed us in the back," he muttered. Josh spat on the floor at the name. Martin gave the patient a glare for it; "He showed up at the gates with men, Hollis thought he was the reinforcements. Then it turned out he'd joined the Gunners, and tried making Hollis surrender the town. Refused, of course, because we still thought reinforcements would come," Garvey chuckled, but there was no mirth to it; "Next thing we knew, Clint blew down the highway supports and the Gunners sacked the town. I lost sight of Hollis, and had to get as many people out as I could."

Martin wanted to ask. There was so much of the conversation he didn't understand, so much context he didn't have. And asking now, he felt, would interrupt or be outright disrespectful. His hands felt numb, in a different way than when he had healed Piper or Sulivan. Was it the blood?

"Josh, Emma, Tommy, Frank and Joe, and myself, are all the Minutemen who got out. Rest are civilians from Quincy," Garvey continued, growing increasingly agitated. Sun had gone silent, though the cigarette in his mouth did not come beneath a fiery glow; "Anyone who didn't get captured or killed just... scattered to the winds. Minutemen reinforcements never came. What are we then? What are the Minutemen if we just...betray each other like that?"

Sun didn't have a reply, and neither did Martin nor the bedridden Josh.

"Hollis trusted us, trusted them," the atmosphere had never been pleasant since these people arrived, but now Martin started feeling it becoming outright dark; "Clint stabbed us in the back, but he at least showed up to do it. The others? There were hundreds of Minutemen who could have helped us... They all just...turned away...They betrayed us, betrayed the Minutemen, the Cause, they- "

"Where are the rest of your people?" Sun asked, putting a hand on Garvey's shoulder. It broke the man from his curses; "We can tend to any wounded you have, and I'm sure we can find you lodgings. Martin, there are more mattresses in the back room. Fetch all of them and stack them next to this one."

Martin obeyed, knowing little he could do but that. He understood at least that something terrible had happened, that someone had betrayed the Minutemen, and that they had lost themselves. But he still didn't understand the scale of it. Piper would know, he wagered, and made his mind to ask her later.

The mattresses were old and browned with age, but they seemed at least clean enough that he could haul them out with good conscience. When he came back, Sun and Garvey were still in talks, but quieter now, amongst themselves. Martin stacked the last of the mattresses and checked up on Josh. The man was still halfway between sleep and consciousness, and was still pale. But the heartbeat was steady, and his pupils not dilated beyond reason. He was stable, at least.

"I will see to the others," he said, standing from the bedside. Sun gave him a short nod, then resumed his conversation with the Minutemen leader. Life seemed to have fled the older doctor, his eyes sunken in. It was a reaction Martin had never seen before, aside from the very people now waiting outside the door. What was Garvey telling him, to shake him like this?

Emma, and who he assumed to be Tommy, Frank and Joe, awaited outside, ears all but pressed to the door. Emma seemed the senior of them, after Garvey, and the only one who seemed prepared to talk when he came out. She was, like the others, dirty and disheveled, short, black hair a mess over her face. She wiped it away and straightened her posture.

"Do you have any more wounded?" he asked her.

"Josh was...the worst," though she stood straight, her voice betrayed the trauma. She herself did not seem injured, but cradled her firearm with the look of one who had come too close to death if not for it; "We fought a running retreat, emphasis on the running. The rest of the group just needs a rest, and something to eat."

"There's mattresses for eight people inside," he told her, gambling that he even had the authority to offer; "and we have medicine for those who need it."

Behind her, and the Minutemen, Martin recognized what had to be the civilians from Quincy. There was an old woman in a chair fixed with wheels, pushed by a man of sturdy built and combed hair in overalls. Of the entire group of civilians, maybe fifteen or so, for some reason his eyes went to the old woman every time. There was something about her that drew his attention, and he could not fathom what. But she seemed uninjured, at least.

They stood out clear enough from the Diamond City people, already now starting to gather in loose crowds around the hospital.

Piper, of course, was among them.

Martin didn't quite know what to expect from her presence. Was she here because she was curious, or worried? She'd explained her work enough for him to understand it, and that probably she would be asking people here questions. The question facing him, however, was whether she would be a hindrance to his work. Paradoxical as it seemed, she could prevent him from paying her back.

"There's a lot of people here," he muttered to Emma, hoping her authority could sidestep his own. It could save him having to speak up; "Are yours okay?"

"The other Minutemen and me, we're okay with people. We've dealt with people all the time," the filthy, short-haired woman muttered. Her eye seemed to linger on Piper, as she pressed her way through the crowds; "Been in Diamond City before too. I know that woman, the one edging closer. She's bad news..."

"Piper?" He hadn't expected the words to offend him, not as much as they did at least. He shoved that offense aside, pushing to the forefront instead his need to help. He was given no further chance to inquire before aforementioned, the very same and one and only, Piper, had pushed her way to the front. One of the Minutemen, one of those Martin didn't yet know the name of, intercepted her before she reached the Quincy civilians.

"Ma'am, I have to ask you to not interfere with or harass the refugees."

"Piper Wright, I'm with Publick-"

"We know you, miss Wright," his voice was flat, neither friendly nor outright hostile. But Martin still did not like it; "I'll make this short. Gunners took Quincy, massacred its citizens and routed the Minutemen. We're done. Now go away."

Piper stood there for a moment, expression locked in something between shock and... something else. He couldn't tell, and it wasn't the fault of distance, more so his own inability to read people. She still noted something down in her small book, nodding to herself. He caught her eyes when she glanced about, perhaps seeking a new target. Like a predator seeking out the weakest sheep in the flock, ready to pounce.

"She's not going away," Emma muttered.

"She's not."

"I hate dealing with the press."

Martin had scant few seconds to consider. Piper's occupation was, primarily, the town's printer. That alone kept her above water with coin - or caps, in this case - and yet she pursued this path of news-making and spreading. It wasn't gossip, per se, but of far greater import. He still wasn't sure exactly what Quincy's significance was - or had been - but it seemed grave enough that it had Sun on the heel.

Didn't that make it worth alerting others?

"We're treating your people with no cost," he muttered; "I don't know what Quincy is, or was, entirely. But a lot of people here might. If the Minutemen protect the people, shouldn't you let them know what has happened? Speak to her?"

Emma gave him a glare for that, the former respect gone like a candlelight snuffed. He winced at those eyes, deep and hollow. He wasn't used to people glaring at him with such vitriol, especially as he thought he'd done nothing wrong. Certainly nothing to earn it. Did Mari have to deal with this around the soldiers too, I wonder?

"Hi, Piper Wright, Publick Occurrences -"

"No comments," Emma turned away and stepped back amongst the Quincy crowd, leaving Martin momentarily stunned. Wasn't this supposed to be the hardened veterans of this land? The protectors of the people? Was he too much of an idealist, or perhaps an optimist, when he'd imagined them of sterner stuff, akin to the Legions of home? And it's rude.

"They...seem tense," he tried, when it was only the two of them in the open-air surgery room. A strange notion, for they were surrounded, but no one seemed to particularly care about either of them, in this moment. He scratched at his neck in frustration, of everything and nothing, finding only that his right hand refused to do much else but shake. That's... not right.

"People don't much like to talk to me, especially when there's big news on the line," Piper shrugged, seemingly oblivious as he hid the trembling hand behind his back. She was smiling, but it looked forced, or just strained. Was that the same thing? Her expression changed, like a cloud going before the sun, suddenly colder and more grim; "The Minuteman, he said Quincy's fallen. What's going on?"

"...I don't know," he admitted, and it grated him to say it. He hated being without the context of a situation, and even more so when others then relied on him to know it. Today had gone from terrific to terrible, and the blood of a patient was still wet on his hands. He hoped, truly, that there were no more. Even though a success, seeing the damage wrought to human flesh on Josh had been a harrowing thing; "They're saying a town called Quincy was overwhelmed by 'Gunners', but I... don't really understand what they mean. They're the Minutemen you told me of?"

"...afraid so," she muttered, glancing back to the forms of the Minutemen survivors, not a one of them standing straight. Even he could tell they were leached of spirit, that the fight was gone from them; "Don't look like they're up for much now, huh? This all of them?"

"There's two more inside the clinic," Martin gestured to the door, his right hand still clenched behind his back. It hadn't settled down yet; "A man named Josh, his leg was... mostly blown off below the knee so we amputated and sealed up the wound. Sun did the sawing, I... did the rest. He's not doing well."

"Sun?"

"Josh," but then, neither was, it seemed; "Sun too, I think. Their leader, Garvey, he's in there. When he told us about Quincy it was..." for a moment he couldn't think of a word to describe Sun's reaction. Horror? Disgust? It looked like the man had stopped, more than anything. Just, stopped. It wasn't a conscious action, but when he rubbed at the bridge of his nose, the fingers of his left hand were sticky and warm, and dark to look at. Blood, of course. He'd forgotten the blood; "Bad. I think. Not good, he looked grey... what is Quincy?"

"One of the major settlements down south of DC, near the coast. It's got walls, barricades, gate and its own militia," Piper grimaced; "Gunners, though... they're bad news. Mercenaries, cold ones too. I don't think they've ever turned down a job if the caps were good, doesn't matter how ugly it was, but... I've never heard of them targeting settlements like this..."

"Garvey said someone named Clint sold them out."

"Prick," she frowned; "Not surprising though. Minutemen have been..." she caught herself, it seemed, given the crowd, and lowered her voice; "...been on a real decline since they lost the Castle. One of the few good ones left would be Hollis, I think."

Hollis. Wasn't that a name Garvey had mentioned? It sounded familiar.

"That's all I heard..."

"It's more than I got from them..." Piper nodded at the Minutemen who'd told her to be gone, discreetly so. She turned her eyes back on Martin, and seemed to soften; "Hey, you're...not looking super great. You okay?"

Was he? Honestly it was hard to say yes or no. Physically, he was fine. Emotionally he should be too. He'd healed up Josh's leg well and removed the metallic fragments, and those of bone. There shouldn't be any side-effects. It was a clean operation. But the sight still stuck with him, and the smells and the sounds. Sun sawing through the ruined leg was one of them.

"There was a... a lot of blood," he muttered, a realization more than a reply. He tried shaking it off; "He lost a lot of blood. More than Sulivan did..."

Piper didn't respond. She did look at him though, in a way that spoke of concern as much as her question had. It was nice, he supposed, that someone cared. He wondered if anyone would care about these people though, the Quincy people. A destitute and ragged flock. They had lost their homes and were on their own now, in a world that did not care beyond if they could be robbed or eaten, and with scant protection too.

It reminded him of his own entrance into this realm, which he still could not explain.

"What will happen to them?"

He hadn't meant to ask, and didn't know why he had once the words were out. He didn't know these people, had no reason to care for them. No more than any others here, at least. And they had been rude too, barely even thanked him. But he was still an Imperial, he still possessed a degree of human decency, even if this place was trying to strip him of it.

"Who knows?" Piper shrugged. Her notebook disappeared into a pocket, and she rolled her shoulders, free of its burden; "Hopefully they'll find somewhere better to settle, or join one of the settlements. I can't imagine McDonough would want to let them stay, not at the risk of people seeing homeless folks in the streets, and all..."

"...cold."

"It's the way of the Wasteland," she hummed, a quieter tone than before. She leaned against the wall, quiet for a moment. It reminded him of when they'd traveled the tunnels, though he couldn't say why; "But yes. It is cold. Diamond City can fool ya, make you think there's a piece of civilized behavior to be found. But there's not. Nothing like that anymore, or what you're used to from home. Average life expectancy isn't forty for nothing. It's not that..."

The door behind him opened then, cutting off whatever Piper meant to say next. Garvey came out, head bare and hat in hand. Martin watched him pass, followed by Sun who no longer had his cigarette. He did not look good. Garvey stopped, almost as if an afterthought, and turned around to regard him instead.

"I don't know what you did with Josh," he said, voice low and devoid of life; "But thank you."

"Mister Garvey, sir..." Piper spoke up, but her tone held a deference and respect now it had not held before; "If you... don't mind, I'm Piper Wright, I run the town's press. Is there something you would like to tell the people, about what's happened?"

Garvey looked like the question alone aged him another five years. Martin couldn't even begin to imagine what went through the man's head. Regret and guilt, if he had to guess, but would probably only scratch at the surface.

"...the Minutemen apologize for the inconvenience of having tried making the Commonwealth a better place," his voice was thick with grief and anger, it made Martin step back with the sheer intensity of it; "I hope... I hope you'll do better without us..."

Sun, who still stood there, said nothing. Martin looked at him, and saw his eyes were red.

"I...see," Piper muttered, eyes downcast from the ruined man; "Thank you."

Garvey left them there, herding his people down the street and through the crowds and, soon enough, out of sight from the clinic. With the spectacle over, the guards - and Martin had not noticed them before - eventually started getting the crowd dispersed. None of them seemed keen on stepping up, to investigate, and merely went on their ways as well.

"I..." Sun broke the silence, his voice thick and uneven; "I am closing down for the day, Martin. I've... got some...family matters to attend."

Then he too, left them there, locking the door behind him as he went inside. Martin didn't even have the chance to mention his jacket was still within the clinic. He didn't say anything, nor, at first, did Piper. She seemed as shaken by the events as he, though probably for different reasons. She lived here, knew the place and the people. Maybe she even knew people in Quincy, though he hoped not.

"Hey," she finally broke the silence, though not by much. Piper stood out from the wall and took him by the shoulder; "Come on. We'd better get a drink before the Dugout's too crowded. My treat. Let's at least... celebrate your first official surgery."

He didn't feel like celebrating.

But he did feel like drinking.

The Commonwealth is not a nice place, not even inside the walls of Diamond City.