Chapter 12. Doctor Martin
Meeting Nick Valentine for the first time was a new experience, and one I had thought relegated to the memories of my home. He was so obviously magical, even if he was mundane. Meeting him though, I hoped to learn more of this land. It's history before the bombs, and the ruination that poisoned every plant, tree and animal.
It is interesting to look back upon, and the things I should have asked him. 'Hindsight is a bitch', some here say.
The first atronach he'd ever seen was a year into his studies.
Mari had dragged him along - and in truth it was not much of an exaggeration to say that she had - to the grand display at the Institute of Thaumaturgy, the mages specializing in altering the state of matter. It had always befuddled him that the Institute was named as it was, considering atronachs were the area of conjuration, rather than thaumaturgy, but... once more, he had never fully understood if his own department was officially named the Institute of Restoration, or the College of Restoration. It depended entirely upon whom you asked, and he'd so far found people using both.
Much to his confusion.
The atronachs on display had been shown off, and directly conjured - again, it should have been called the Institute of Conjuration - on stage, in the central auditorium of the main building. The Imperial City's Colleges, technically one compound, was a gathering of such, smaller compounds of buildings, lecture halls, laboratories and offices, as well as the dormitories of its students, those who had no residences within the city walls. Much like his own field of study's home, the hallways and corridors of the Institute of Conjuration were clean and tidy, with only the occasional benches or gathering of chairs betraying the presence of human beings beneath its vaulted and vaunted domes and arching lofts.
He couldn't quite recall why he'd let her drag him along. At that point in time he'd not been particularly lonesome, nor had she ever seemed to express any sort of interest in him at the time, nor had she ever later done so. Yet, she'd dragged him along, somehow, and yet he was never quite sure if he minded it so much. Since leaving the farmstead, few if any people had ever expressed interest in him as a person, beyond what their salaries and stations demanded. It had been an act of probable kindness, and even if it was out of some sort of spite or frustration, it had been a good thing.
All the more reason he now regretted her face fading from memory. Remembering faces, that had been a thing he'd never quite mastered. Remembering textbooks, lyrics from songs, poems, equations and chemical formulas for poultices, this he could. But the faces of people slipped him away, much to his frustration.
Even more so, it was odd that now, as he thought back to that day, he didn't much remember the atronachs themselves. There had been grandeur, of course, the impressionable new students of that institute, gazing in wonder at... at what kind of atronachs? Much as he tried, the details slipped him, evading like smoke. He'd not been drinking much those days, and not at all that day in particular. Yet, beyond the spectacle itself, the impressions and emotions, the scene itself did not come to mind. Of course, he knew what atronachs looked like, provided he knew its type. There were only a few defined schools of conjurations, ranging from the simple, relatively speaking, to the advanced. He'd heard once that Bretons especially schooled their mages in conjuration, beyond what other fields were taught up in High Rock. Did it mean there were more Bretons than Imperials in the Institute, or fewer for being taught at home?
Still... He felt like he could have stated, with a degree of certainty, that whatever atronachs had been conjured on the stage that day, to the delight and bemusement of the assembled spectators, it had looked nothing like Nick Valentine.
Martin wasn't entirely certain how to regard this... individual. Bright, yellow eyes and unliving skin of some sort of leathery material. Plastic, it was called. Stranger still was that he'd thought such a fabric hard as wood, yet here it shifted and flexed as if genuinely the skin and flesh of a mortal man. Was this what a 'Dick' looked like here? Piper had explained the term, yet still it had seemed... Uncertain, he couldn't entirely say what it had seemed. A crude joke?
It had been two days since he woke up in Piper's bed, after his collapse in the clinic. Two days of delirium and sweating, headaches that seemed unperturbed by his applications of restorative spells. He was keenly aware that his state of mind was affected by this most recent of revelations, of the artificial man that was Diamond City's chief detective, as well as what was likely a delayed immunoreaction to the climate and - to him - foreign bacteria of the Commonwealth. In truth it was most likely the latter, though it should have affected him sooner, he felt, than it had. He'd thought himself safer than he ought, when people here spoke Common and used an alphabet similar enough to the Imperial one that he could read and write it well enough. And when he started discovering the upended magic, he'd thought that the worst of it. It still was, of course, as he had recovered from his ill humors, while two centuries had been not enough that this world could itself recover.
"Lookin' like he's seen a ghost, don't he?" Valentine, and it was yet perplexing to refer to a construct by name as such, said. The automaton was dressed as if it were a man, with wide-brimmed hat and a long, worn coat, pants and shoes. Only the face and hands betrayed its mechanical nature, though... it was easily done, with those eyes. And one side of the face, Martin found, the skin and flesh had peeled away, revealing cogs and gears within.
A "ghost" was perhaps not so terrible a thing to behold next to this very much so physical manifestation of arcotech.
"First synth, more so," he replied, standing to... at first he wasn't certain what he intended. Valentine watched him curiously, as did Piper, who brought up the drink she called "passes for coffee", though he still was not certain either as to its nature, or what "coffee" actually was. It seemed something everyone lamented on, though, the loss of it anyway; "You are... Nick Valentine, yes?"
"The same," Valentine nodded, extending a hand in greetings. Of the two hands, the machine seemed deliberate in extending the one that yet bore more of a resemblance to human skin, rather than the skeletal joints of the other. Martin shook it all the same, keenly aware that, had it not been for what he could see, the hand might have passed well enough for that of a human being. And this was supposedly a synth incapable of passing for human. What did the synths that could pass for human even look like? Had he already met some? Would he even be able to tell? "I take it you must be Martin then, Piper's tenant."
"What did..." he turned an eye on Piper, handing him a steaming mug. Though its nature was as unknown to him as Valentine's, he'd come to appreciate this black brew all the same, over these past weeks; "...what did you tell him?"
"To keep an open mind," she shrugged, smiling at the weathered automaton; "Luckily, Nick's got one of the few open ones left these days."
"It's something of a necessity in my line of business," the synthetic man chuckled, accepting his own mug. For a moment, Martin wished to ask, why even. For if Valentine was a machine, what use did he have for such things? Maybe it was more of a social gesture? "As I understand it, you're something of a newcomer to these parts?"
"It is... yes, I am."
"Must be your first time seeing something like me then, huh?" Valentine chuckled, tipping some of the brew down. Martin, unsure if it was a blessing or a curse that he'd sat down where he had, could see the black liquid wash down through transparent tubes through where the skin had peeled away. The sight was simultaneously disturbing and deeply enthralling.
"I've not seen such as you before, no," Martin shook his head, inhaling some steam from his mug. Like his own, Valentine's was still scalding, and yet the automaton had simply poured some down with nary a reaction to the heat; "In my homeland, we've not even automatons that can speak, let alone think and... be, like you."
"A land without synths?" Valentine hummed. The sound was only metallic if one knew to listen, or he'd have thought it a rough throat and not more; "Sounds like paradise. No boogeyman neither, I take it? No child-snatching creeps or neighbours getting replaced?"
"I think not, no," Piper had told Valentine nothing, or almost nothing. Martin could have scoffed at her for it, leaving him with the burden of explanation. He already did not enjoy speaking of himself, and now it was outright demanded; "This land, your world, it is not like mine at all."
"World, huh?" Valentine put the mug down, pushing the brim of his hat up a little as he sat down. Somehow, he bore a resemblance to the strangers always seated in the lonely chairs in Cyrodiil's taverns and bars, though Martin had never seen them. Some towns had drunks or fools, others had highwaymen, game wardens, old mercenaries... Valentine reminded him the most of an old mercenary, grizzled and worn of the world; "Is this where the 'open mind' comes in?"
"Pretty much," Piper shrugged; "We're not pulling your legs, Nick."
"Should hope not, they're awfully hard to keep working half the time," Valentine muttered, though his eyes remained on Martin. Yellow, glowing orbs that seemed to not ever blink. In truth, all this time, Martin had yet to see the automaton blink so much as once; "Okay, I'm all ears."
"You remember the world before the war, yes?" Martin asked. When Valentine hesitated, as if taken aback by the question, he leaned forward; "Before the bombs dropped and made all this ruin and radiation?"
For a minute, Valentine did not speak. It was no metaphor, in truth, there went by at least a minute wherein the synth made not a sound. No spoken word, no grunt nor humm. Only the whirring of something mechanical behind his false skin. The eyes moved, though, even if they did not blink. Back, forth, up and down, as if a thousand thoughts and implications raced and fell behind them.
"I trust Piper has made you aware that I, personally, was not around before the war?"
"But your mind was," Martin pressed, as it was not a dismissal nor a no; "The...man, whose mind is yours, he was around, yes? So you know of the world before?"
"Well that's one way to put it," Valentine noted, his voice dry as he spoke; "Yes, if you want to put it like that, I was around before the war. I didn't think I'd be the one answering questions, coming here. Usually it's the other way around."
"It is how it is, yes," he muttered, scratching at his chin. Divines only knew how he would get answers from a machine with the mind of a long-dead man. Even if said machine seemed every bit as much a person as the man it impersonated. This land grows stranger and less reasonable by the day "Where I come from, we have... You will not take me seriously, Piper did not even when she'd seen it."
"Try me, bucko," Valentine leaned forward, his mug left to its own devices on the table. Piper made a sound of both amusement and offense, then dumped herself into the couch too. Martin almost thought there'd be no reprisals until she smacked him in the shoulder. Notably, with the arm he had healed. Was she making a point? "I've been around."
Rather than immediately speak, Martin instead clenched his open palm, and allowed the forces within to pulsate, surging outwards until, like a current of running water, sprang from his skin as living flame. The fires were weak, relative to what he'd thrown at the shadows in the tunnels, but still enough that there was no mistaking what they were, even as they flickered and danced.
Then he whisked them back out of existence, leaving the skin of his hand no warmer than before. Surgeons using flame when cauterizing wounds would be ill at rest, if their tools singed the skin from their fingertips. At worst, a few hairs on the back of his hand, those long enough that they protruded beyond the protective embrace of his body's energies - in truth no one really understood the exact workings of these things, to his knowledge at least - had been scorched at the tips.
"Nice trick," Valentine finally spoke, in a tone Martin wasn't able to read. It sounded almost deliberately void of such, wary; "How's it done? Tiny cables? inflammable film with igniter in your sleeve? There a bunny up there too?"
"It is common to my people, magic," Martin said, and he dared not break his eyes from the synth's as he spoke; "I come from a different land, I don't even know if it is the same world. The stars here are alien to me, the gods of my people unknown to yours, and the names of these lands, America, never spoken."
"Funny, a real laugh," Valentine shrugged, yellow orbs floating to Piper, who seemed unsure of how to respond to the synth's scepticism; "What's on here, Piper?"
"I am not making jests!" Martin shouted, then bit his knuckles once he realized what force he'd used to interrupt. His voice was yet hard when next he spoke again, but he had tempered it; "Piper said you would know of the past, so here you are, being asked. You said to try you, yet you display only scepticism when shown proof. I did not ask to be here, in this decaying rust-heap of a land, where mutants and ghouls and highwaymen butcher and raid. I need to know..." Valentine's eyes were now once more upon him, though the synthetic face displayed no more of its previous dismissiveness; "I need to know, in the world here, before the bombs, how much do you remember?"
"Much of it's hazy, but enough," the construct muttered, metallic fingers curling and uncurling before him, as if an absentminded reflex; "Okay, say I buy into the magic thing. What do you want to know?"
The fact alone that he spoke with such ignorance of it boded ill. Martin shoved away the pessimism, for once daring optimism in this hole. Was he being naive? The hope had seemed almost too good to be true, when Piper spoke of a friend who knew of the world that was, but seeing the artificial man, a construct or an atronach in all but name, and sentient too? It had given him some hope, he'd not lie. And almost as soon as it had taken root, Valentine seemed content on ripping it from the soil, iron hand already clasped around the stalk.
"Was magic prevalent in this world, before the bombs?" Already he regretted the wording, and spoke again before the synth had the chance; "I mean this, was there a force of nature in this world, before the bombs, capable of infusing people who sought it with a degree of control over the laws of nature? Could any spew flame, or like so with lightning bolts, or turn brass to gold? Could wounds be healed with the touch of a hand, or the mind influenced by a gesture and muttered word?"
Piper, to her credit, did not interrupt his rant, though he could tell she wanted to. Valentine, meanwhile, watched him. The yellow orbs never blinked, never wavered, and never averted. For all that they were glass and electric lights, there was an intensity behind that stare that, a mere month back, Martin would have shrunk from. Before he'd been beset by ghouls, held a gunpoint by strangers or seen Piper mutilate a raider. Before he'd had his hands buried in the warm body of a weeping guard.
By the gods, had it only been a month?
"Gotta admit, that's a lot of questions for one question," Valentine muttered, eyes finally flickering back down, resting on the table as he spoke; "I can't claim to know of any of that, though. Institute might have messed with my memories before they threw me out with the garbage, but there's not really anything in here," he tapped the side of his head, once more producing the soft, hollow noise; "about magic, safe for some stuff about kids and stories. Sorry, don't think you're much in luck there. At all, really."
"Perdant..." That was it then. He was out beyond where he could have ever even hoped to understand his situation. Martin groaned, palming his face as he sought answers - any answers - that could save him now. If someone who had been alive before to war, even as Valentine was, knew nothing of magic beyond... what, fairy tales? At that point magic could be anything and everything, and none of it even remotely helpful. Despair struck him, as the realization settled, that he'd have no way to make the potion, to understand the radiation and its ties to magic, than to recreate centuries - ages - worth of research, on his own. It couldn't be done; "Nunc... quid faciam nunc? Nescio quid faciam. Captus sum hic in hoc exiguo acervo, spurcus locus est carcer..."
"...I...didn't get any of that," Piper muttered, though she at least seemed to understand enough. By all the gods, what was he to do? The only one to know of the past world knew nothing of magic, and before him yet was a task he'd accepted out of arrogance, that now he could not fulfil; "Martin?"
"Yes"
"You...doing okay?"
"Yes," he breathed, shakily, aware that all eyes were on him. No. If he broke down... if he broke down, there was nothing left. He'd be left to linger here, to join the decay and rot away in this place. He had to keep working, even if it came to naught; "Yes, I am doing okay. I was merely once again punished by uncaring gods for the audacity of nurturing hope. Have no worry, I have refound my pessimist self."
"That's not at all disconcerting," Valentine muttered; "So, what exactly is going on here? Gotta admit, you managed to get me interested."
"Martin's not from here. At all," Piper sighed, seemingly as deflated as he felt, though less despairing of it. He'd not expected her to be, either. Empathy only went so far, even between friends; "You could say he literally fell out of the skies. You know that article I published, 'bout a month back?"
"Terror in the Tunnels?" Valentine hummed, some kind of amusement leaking into his synthetic voice. His yellow eyes widened, slightly, glancing to Martin; "I see. That's your traveling companion, then. Makes sense now, you met out in the wastes and went back here together, right?"
"I was out there to look into the weird weather, see if I could catch anything," she nodded. Martin, to his shame - if he'd felt any - hadn't read the article when it came out. He felt no desire to revisit the tunnels, nor the stations where the dead still lingered; "I was about a hundred meters out from where lightning literally struck from a blue sky. Super Mutant surprised me, almost caught me. Martin stepped out of thin air like a knight in shining armor, hurling ice at the damn thing. Ice, Nick."
"Sure there wasn't a cryogun lying around?" Martin met the construct's eyes, best as he could, for even now they gave him a sense of wrongness. That sentience could lie behind glass and metal; "Look, this is a lot to take in. I figure that's the open-minded thing there, alright. So, you're from somewhere not here, that about right?"
For a moment, he didn't understand the question, sprung with the suddenness it was. Then he nodded, refinding his voice.
"Yes," he said, feeling also a sort of... was it relief? Valentine was a sceptic, though likely he'd have acted much the same if someone had stepped into his apartment at home, speaking of foreign lands and alien stars. His resentment at the machine man bubbled away, fizzling out as he came to the realization that the scepticism was warranted, especially in a place such as this, where strange and arcane technology yet was strewn about, and machines that resembled people infiltrated towns; "I came here as a result, I think, of my work. But the only correlating factor is that it was simultaneous. For all I know, it is unrelated, and I dread such."
"And you wanted to ask me because of your work, right?" Valentine nodded, mostly, it seemed, to himself; "Right, yeah I guess I can see the pickle you're in. Never met a wizard or some such, far as I know. And there ain't no memories or bells ringing of magic being a thing," For a moment, those yellow lights flickered downwards, to where Martin now rested his hands, laced together to keep from scratching. He'd only make wounds; "Clearly, you've got some of it, though. What, want more?"
"Of my own kind, if you offer," Martin snorted, shaking his head. Already he was tired. Tired of meeting yet another wall, or yet another disappointment. Of yet more stress, as every moment brought nearer a deadline he knew for certain now could not be reached; "I need to understand radiation, it is..." he sought the word, but it was one he did not remember the common for. Only the Nibenese; "deprauatum, it is wrong, foreign. To me it is like opposite of magic, like if you would breathe under water. Your body, it tells you it is wrong, but there is still air in the water, yes? There is still magic in the radiation, but it is like breathing,"
"Water, yes, I get the picture," Valentine hummed gruffly. Martin shook his head at it;
"Out, when you need to breathe in," he said instead; "I am a doctor and a potioneer, though when I attempt here to work, the ingredients go against me. I cannot make potions. It leaves me... I cannot fulfil what your Lord Mayor has commissioned."
"McDonough's commissioned work from you?" Valentine's metallic eyebrow rose, a sight strange enough that it proved a brief distraction; "Man's not exactly fond of outsiders, or people who aren't 'Diamond City Material', as he calls it"
"Martin may or may not have promised McDonough he could make a potion as good as stimpacks," Piper muttered, little humor to her tone. Martin, for his part, appreciated that she at least regarded that with the same gravity he did; "So the mayor threw caps into the project. And Martin's not a citizen, not protected by the law."
"An unenviable situation," the artificial man nodded; "Sorry, I couldn't be of much help. Though, just curious, but what'd happen if you tried?"
"The ingredients are irradiated, "Martin grumbled; "If I try, at best the results will be invalid, impotent. At worst I'll brew poison when I tried to heal."
"And you can't just try brewing poison instead?" Piper asked, though she almost instantly seemed to regret the question. Martin, for his part, forgave it. He was a doctor. Making poison was... beyond him, of skill and desire both; "Sorry, what I meant was, you can't just reverse the reversed?"
"Was my first attempt," he admitted, with some shame. It had been a failure, producing little but a foul-smelling gruel; "It was not successful."
"You say radiation's the problem, right?" Valentine said, skeletal fingers of steel tapping against his brown coat. Each joint seemed smooth and oiled, for it only produced the dull thuds of impacts; "Now, I'm the first to admit I couldn't tell a mentat from an ergotamine tablet, but have you considered Radaway? Not sure exactly how your "potioneering" works, but it does the job for people. Might for you too?"
"Radaway," he knew what it was. Though he'd not yet administered it, for none had come who asked for it, he'd seen the black parcels in the clinic storeroom. Sun had never actually taken the time to show him its use, so in truth it was luck that none had needed it; "It cures the poisoning, yes? I've not used it yet, Sun never instructed me in how."
"And the good doctor is nowhere to be found, of course," Piper grumbled. She turned a glance to Valentine; "Looks like another missing person to the list, huh?"
"Not like it's growing any shorter," the synth hummed; "Still, I hope I was of any help. Sorry I can't be of much with the... your thing."
"Magic, Nick," Piper offered a small grin, despite it all. Martin could offer none, too deep in thought. If only Sun had taught him about Radaway, he would know if it was a viable option; "I've seen stuff I can't even put in the paper, or I'd be laughed out of town."
Valentine seemed about to reply, when fast, hard knocks on the door broke him off. Martin glanced to the entrance, though Piper had already risen, making for it. The knocks were not of the kind Natalie would use, much to insistent and fierce. The house frames all but trembled at their impacts.
Outside was a man. Martin at first thought him a Redguard, the notion passed fast as it came. His eyes were frantic, wide and searching. Immediately Martin's went to the girl in his arms, limp and unmoving, with pale and clammy skin. She didn't seem to breathe right.
"The new doctor, he is here!?" the man demanded, desperation filling every word. The man was somewhat familiar, yet the name was one one Martin knew.
"I am, " Martin replied, shoving past Piper who'd yet to move nor speak, blocking the doorway. The man's eyes immediately sought him, something approaching cautious relief in his eyes; "Get her to the clinic."
"She would not wake from bed, I though she just slept in, with the weekend," the father told him, running alongside as they crossed the street. It still vaguely bothered Martin that he did not recognize the man, for he knew he'd seem him somewhere before. Familiarity could help, if this was a hereditary disease. Martin all but ripped the door open when they came to it, and hauled out one of the clinic's beds to the center of the room. The cleanest he could find; "I went here first, but it-"
"Locked, I know," Martin bit back the curse, useless as it was; "My fault. I should have gone back to the clinic the moment I was capable. I forgot- Put her here, careful!"
The father, in-between trance and feverish despair, placed his daughter on the bed, so gently and cautiously it bordered on the hesitant. Martin felt his skin itch with stress at the pace of it, but held his tongue. Instead he tore his jacket off and pulled out the tool-tray from its place, up close and next to the girl. He wasn't even aware if Piper had followed along or not.
"She is warm, a fever."
"Yes, since last night, but I thought..." Even as the father spoke, Martin started his work, hands aglow. It was bad to shock the father even further, he knew, but there was no time for preparatory speeches. A sensation, knotting in his stomach, told him of urgency. The skin was warm, yes, very. A high fever. Dangerous then, to employ too much restorative magics, or the body might increase the temperature. By the gods, he wanted a proper workplace, one with the ingredients he knew, and the material to make the potions needed here.
"Did anything happen to her yesterday?" he demanded, the force of his voice one he'd not intended, but enough that it shocked the pacing father into reacting; "Anything? Any interaction with sick people?"
"No, no none... none of her classmates have been sick, they...they..."
"Breathe," Martin said. Though he addressed the girl mostly, halfway conscious as she was, it seemed the father followed his words too, and forced a breath of air before he spoke again. Martin's attention was on the girl however, though he kept an open ear; "Breathe."
"During recess, Miss Edna, she said Nina fell, from a fence," The threat of panicking parents had been the lesser evil, back during entrance exams. It had seemed less of a worry than panicking soldiers, for the army healers. But he was starting to regret that confidence; "There was a bruise, but she's a tough girl, she's my girl, she said it wasn't-"
"Where?" Though he'd already found it. The abdomen was bruised, and he could see discoloring further up, where the ribs started. Likely fractures. The dread gnawed him as he went through a mental list of what could cause a fever from a bruised abdomen. In the region was... the kidneys, the spleen, intestines... "Any soreness? Any pain beyond the bruise yesterday?"
"She- her neck, Nina said her neck was sore, and the shoulder" the man exclaimed, all but punching himself in the mouth as he bit down on the knuckles. Martin almost wanted to do the same. Tension and soreness in the neck, a bruised abdomen and high fever. The list of suspects shrank to one, and it was one he had never before attempted. Not without a lot of magic.
"Which shoulder?"
"T- the left," the father stammered; "Why, is this because of her fall?"
"Yes," Martin nodded; "Abdomen's bruised, I'm seeing one... two fractures in the lower ribs. Left shoulder hurt?"
"Yes, yes, what is wrong with her?"
"Ruptured spleen," the words tasted foul. The question was, stimpacks, could they deal with this? If the only damage was a bruised organ, he'd have argued yes. From what he understood they were regenerative, something with the cells of the wounded regions. But if the spleen was ruptured, that meant internal bleeding. Stimpacks and restorative spells risked the organ sealing up, but with leftover blood still inside the body. Sun had never shown him where the sedatives were, and he'd yet to find them on his own. Too much attention on his own little projects, not enough to prepare for actual patients. Self-loathing merged with dread. But more so than that, he also blamed Sun. Unless the man had been snatched away in the night, he more than Martin had abandoned his patients. Examining hands further felt on warm, clammy skin, and within he could sense the unsettled humors, liquids where they should not be; "There's internal bleeding."
"Dios Mio..." the father whispered, his skin paler now than Martin's own; "You will give her a stimpack, yes? Give her a stimpack!"
"I can't risk coagulating the lost blood inside the organs," the question before, whether or not he could risk restorative spells, was one he'd just unknowingly; "I have to seal the spleen before I can give her a stimpack."
"Padr..." the girl, Nina, spoke. Her voice was little beyond a whisper, strained and weak. Her eyes didn't seem entirely focused, though the hand she meekly raised was quickly taken by her father. She said nothing further, her consciousness having slipped away. Martin raised a scalpel, taken from its tray, and gave its blade a disinfecting touch of flame. The father said nothing at first, then his eyes locked on the instrument.
"What...will you do?"
"I must apply a cut, to drain the pooled blood," as he spoke, Martin touched the tip of the scalpel to the girl's skin. It was strange, in this moment, for he recalled the last time he'd stood here. The last time he'd held a scalpel to skin.
He'd still been but an apprentice back then, fresh-faced and starry-eyed at the towering heights of the Imperial City. It's blocks of stone and metal, pristine marble and discolored copper roofs. The sandstone and granite street tiles and iron-wrought street lanterna, casting the illumination of civilisation against the dark of night.
The Institute of Restoration had yet been new to him, in those days. Its sights and smells of septics and blood so foreign and enrapturing to the mind. The rows and rows of distillation apparati, vials and flasks in countless numbers, its stone-clad floors gleaming in the lights of glass-framed candle flame.
In those days, of course, he'd not yet practiced his craft on people. Dummies, yes, conjured to resemble the anatomy of people in what ways were deemed to matter. It had been unsettling the first time he cut the leathery skin of a fabricated torso, finding within it organs, blood and intestine.
It was only later, when he had shown he would not do needless harm, that Madame de Crue had graduated him to bodies. Human bodies, donated by the morgues of the Imperial City. Beggars, prostitutes and orphans, those unwanted by the world, or simply missed by none once snuffed like a tallow-light. Elves too, though far fewer in-between those had come, for oft it was the case that their families abroad demanded them home, intact. Those few he had cut, however, he had found them like to men, for all their talk of being the better.
Only the orphans had unnerved him, enough that at first he'd not dared to lay a cut. He had grown up with the reality of child mortality close, being a farmer from birth. More were born than lived to see their tenth nameday, even with the charities of the temples and wandering healers. Winters too were hard, and he'd been blessed in life that his family had never truly starved, that he had never truly starved. Others had, this he knew, and it was not uncommon for farmhouses further from the cities to have gravemarkers near the home. Parents never truly recovered from such losses, he knew this too, though they oft had half a score of children that lived.
There had been no parents to mourn the children on the tables of the Institute. He never knew why they were orphans, and who could have known anyways? Who was there to ask, when they by their very nature had no families to speak of? He'd never asked, either, except for that first time when he saw a smaller body on the desk before him. Madame de Crue had said nothing, nothing to answer him at least, merely that it was the day's task. Did she know, or was it to save him the heartache?
This time, there was a parent. This time, the little body before him was very much alive, loved and cared for. There was no Madame de Crue, no supervisors but himself, and the ever present knowledge that failure here was not a mark down in his grades, but a life, a family ruined for all time. It made him fear failure, more than he ever had before. Piper had been in...stable...condition, when he healed her, and the young guard, Sullivan, there had been no risk at applying healing magics once the bullet was removed. Josh, likewise, the Minuteman requiring only that Martin stopped the bleeding.
Untrembling, his fingers applied pressure. The force was accurate, measured. He knew what he was doing, there was no uncertainty. He knew how to do this, where to cut, how to heal, where to seal and suture. In theory. Bodies of the dead had the distinct advantage that they didn't spurt blood the moment the skin was breached. Here, as he cut through skin, fat and flesh, the point was measured and calculated. Still, the first, forceful shower of blood, spattering across his face and shirt, made him pause. It made him worry, for a moment, that he had cut the wrong place. That an artery he hadn't known about was there, that these people had a slightly different anatomy to what he knew.
The rupture was bared to his sight, though less so his eyes than the keen senses of a healer. He could see the damage, where the blunt trauma had carried through, causing the organ to rupture like a cyst. The area was small, maybe the size of a thumb, though that alone was enough that, without intervention, the girl would die. Already the blood that had leaked from it was starting to gather in a puddle of sickly crimson on the floor - a concern for later - and allowed him a clearer sight of the damages. Beyond the spleen, it appeared the girl was unharmed, and he allowed himself a moment of relief's breath. What damage was wrought to the surrounding bloodvessels he could heal with but a touch. Gently, softly, he brought back life to disrupted tissue, and coaxed with restorative energies the ruptures to close in the spleen. Withdrawing his hand from the wound, he ran a finger 'long the cut, releasing a trickle of restorative energies. The bruise would remain, but the wound itself would seal before their very eyes.
"The rupture is sealed," he leaned back, standing straight, and allowed himself a second breath. The father stared at him, transfixed, as if he had grown horns or an extra head. Martin knew what he would demand, and acted before the words could be spoken; "I have healed the worst of the damages. I will apply a stimpack, if you wish, though she needs now to rest."
"Dio mio..." the whisper this time was more borne of reverence than fear, and the father had yet to release the hold of his daughter's hand. The girl had not regained consciousness, but her breathing was stable now, calmer and with evident ease. Martin felt proud of himself, maybe more than he should. He would apply the stimpack, to be safe, once the girl had fully stabilized and slipped into a more natural sleep; "My child, my... how can this be? How can you do this?"
"She ought remain here, for some hours," it was easier to speak than to answer questions, and he did not know if the European story would remain valid. Not as more and more saw him work; "I will too. You may, though she likely will not wake soon."
Finally, it seemed some sort of realization dawned on the man. He glanced to his daughter's hand, so small and pale in his. Silent tears filled his eyes, though the smile on his lips betrayed their cause. Warmth filled his own chest, at the sight of it. Martin knew he could not be accused of being good with people, but he emphasised well enough for it, he thought.
"I will remain, yes," the father nodded. Martin, likewise, gestured for one of the spare chairs, the same he himself had used when Sun had yet been here. Bloody mess, to have left him here alone with the clinic. A reunion would be half relief, and half Martin throwing the man back out the door. The father, however, took his attention by not yet sitting, instead lingering on his feet, an uncertain look in his eyes; "You are, how to say, not the kind of doctor Signore Sun was... I should know your name."
"Martin."
"It is... great pleasure, to meet you, Doctor Martin," The man's voice was a mess of teary relief and stress, though the words rang genuine. He extended a hand, calloused and with the smell of oils wafting from his skin; "I am Arturo, I... run arms business at the market, you may have seen."
"Better circumstances would have been good though, yes?" Martin sighed, touching a finger to the girl's neck. Pulse was steady, rhythmic and calm. Her breathing likewise, and he dared to inject a small amount of the readied stimpack into the veins of her arm. A twitch, likely the nerves responding to the intrusion, but nothing more; "I... am sorry, I was not present here, when you needed. I had worked overtime, and fell sick."
"You still saved my girl," Arturo said, sinking down on the chair. His eyes never truly left his daughter; "I did not know it was closed. Where is Signor Sun?"
"The gods only know," Martin shook the curse from his lip. If Sun had killed himself, or been killed, speaking ill of the man was an undeserved smear; "I came here only last month. Sun hired me, when he saw I am doctor, like him."
"So, it is...just you then, yes?"
"It seems so," Martin nodded, frowning. Once more his eyes sought the girl, to ensure she had not worsened for the wear. He was fairly certain that was the expression; "I've not yet been given residence here, so..."
"You stay a guest at the Wright house, yes, I know," the man seemed to have regained some color. There was a small smile on his lips as he beheld his daughter, now saved. Martin knew she would likely need further treatment to eliminate the risks of reopening fresh tissue. He would do so, later, once the father had left. Better to have him at ease now.
And because he still did not know himself how much magic he could practice in short spans of time here. It once more served an unwelcome reminder of his arcane frailty. Of just how depending he would be on his more mundane education;
"Nina, my girl, she is in class with Natalie. She... does not talk with many people, yes, but..." his attention was torn back to Arturo, fumbling for a cigarette out of a breast-pocket. The man's fingers yet trembled; "She and Natalie, they seem to, to work, yes. It is mostly Natalie, I think, who does it. Force of personality."
"She is persistent," Martin nodded. He spoke again, finding it hard to determine why he felt like it here, with this complete stranger. Maybe it was because he'd had his hands in the man's daughter mere minutes ago. It...he felt as if it removed a barrier; "When I arrived she thought me one of those artificial people, the...synths, yes. Like Valentine."
"All know what Valentine is, we like him," Arturo nodded, understanding it seemed. He held a half-rusted, seemingly homemade lighter to the tip of the cigarette. When no flame would spring from his feeble rolls of the steel, Martin offered his own. Wide-eyed, Arturo all the same held still, and waited for the tiny flame to dissipate. He inhaled, the embers burning brighter for a moment, before he spoke; "Is it because of the...your hands?"
"My...skills, yes," he nodded; "It is as common where I am from as stimpacks are here. I did not know at first, and then I thought I should keep them a...secret, when Natalie thought me a synth. But without Sun..." he paused, as Arturo offered him the cigarette. The man seemed to have calmed from it, an effect Martin still did not understand. Pipeweed had a similar effect, it was true, but was of an entirely different nature.
"My girl will get better now, because of you," he said, smiling wider than before. He was pale still, beads of sweat lingering on his face. Tears too. But he was smiling, and calm. It made Martin feel better as well, a reassurance that he'd not been thought a freak. He would add Arturo to the list of people he liked here. The father frowned for a moment, eyes once more seeking his daughter. As if she would have deteriorated in the seconds that had went since last; "She... will get better, yes?"
"The new tissue will need some hours to...harden? No, strengthen, yes," Martin inhaled. The smoke brought with it a strange confidence he could not explain. A sense of being, even as it scratched at his windpipe. A better man than he, a better healer, would have rejected the cigarette. As he spoke, the clinic door creaked open; "In the morning, she will be well. Until then, she should not move about."
"I understand, Doctor Martin," Arturo nodded, breathing deep; "You have done my family a service. Please, if... I know we do not pay for the clinic, but... if you come to my store or... if you ever need help, come to me. My family does not forget a debt."
"Hey, it's all quiet in here now," Piper's face appeared, pensive and hesitant at first, till she saw them, relaxed; "How's Nina?"
"Recovering," Martin sighed, handing the cigarette back to Arturo; "A ruptured spleen, from a fall. It was...simpler than I thought. I am a doctor, Arturo, ser. I help people, it is not something you need reward me for."
He left out that the procedure had once more reminded him of the urgency of finding some method to increase his magicka regeneration, or avoid its necessity altogether. If he found none, he knew it would mean a resignation from much of what he had been taught. A healer who could not practice magic, who could not work with the ingredients on hand to form even the most meager potion or poultice? What healer was he then, if so? He would be no more suited for his task than a common surgeon, a field-barber wielding syringe and scalpel, not blessed magicks.
"Thank God," Piper sighed, though hers was one of relief, not resignation to a fate awaiting, with the quiet dread of all its inevitability. He felt a little better when she smiled, however. The trust, genuine as it was, he appreciated; "Uhm, did you use...you know?"
At first, he didn't understand entirely the chance in her demeanor, till he noticed her eyes. Between him and Arturo, they danced ever so slightly, an uncertain flicker that seemed almost random, though he understood it well enough once he noticed. Magic. Yes, it came down to that once more. Magic, in this accursed land, so sporadically useless and unknown, likely misunderstood and to be feared by most.
"Nina recovers," he replied, uncertain if it would be too much to even utter the word; "I will keep her here for a few hours, to monitor. Should... be fine, yes?"
He'd turned the last words to Arturo, who yet stood where he was, watching Piper with what seemed like newfound appreciation. Or simply interest. Had she said too much even still? Yet again, the secrecy made less and less sense, even to him. What would it matter if people knew? They seemed accepting of Valentine, did they not? A sentient machine, with a face only half-concealing of wires and mechanical joints that lay underneath.
Arturo nodded, his eyes shifting to where Nina lay, asleep and now untroubled. Martin found himself taking some small form of satisfaction in it. Not only that he had performed well enough to save the girl's life, but also that once more, his worries of rejection or outright persecution from the locals, at seeing his abilities, had been proven for naught.
Awake, Martin glared at the ceiling. Time never seemed to flow as it ought, when one awoke late-night or early morn, and was left to simply stare at nothing til sleep came once more. Light snoring came from both above and the side, as Natalie's room was separated from the main room merely with plywood, and did little to mask sound.
Still. He rather liked such sounds. Sounds of... people. The walls of his apartment had been stone, and muffled all sound but what came from its sole, opened window. It had been comfortable, clean and his, but... solitary, too, yes. Solitude brokered little room for interruption, disruptions in his work and reading. Studies took precedence, if one wished to remain within the quarters of the Institute's complexes. Strangely, it was something he missed less and less by the day, the solitude. True, he'd give much to return home, once more, to where the laws of nature made sense, and bandits did not roam the roads, or monsters plied the sewers and tunnels... Though, is it really so different? At least home was clean, and progressing.
But here, if the wasteland had any saving graces, it was that it had forced him together with people. It had forced him into a home, amongst human beings who, for all that they managed to survive in a hostile ruin-scape, had retained a sense of decency and good-natured willpower that seemed wholly out of place. He felt... strangely tied to them, even if there was neither law nor blood between he, Piper or Natalie. They made his existence here... tolerable, yes. But, it was more so than just... How could he even explain it, if his own mind could not piece such people together? At home, everyone strove for advancement, for higher and higher positions, ensuring their comfortable seats at the tables of the Empire, however far down the table it might be.
Here, people living from day to day, in a mockery of a society, somehow made them far more... something. How many hours passed in such thought, he could not say. Keeping a measure of time was beyond him, though he attempted so for a while by counting the snores from above. Piper's were more regular than Natalie's. And he was left, yet still, with his thoughts.
Saving Arturo's daughter had left him with a sense of satisfaction and restored confidence in his skills as a healer by trade. Arturo had reacted with naught but praise and gratitude, barely even questioning the how's of the matter, once it was clear that Martin acted in good faith and will. Piper had never doubted him. Valentine... remained sceptical, at worst, it seemed, though otherwise wholly uninterested in the deeper mystery that was the nature of Martin even being here. The guard... Sullivan? He'd reacted with initial fright, but then gratitude. The Minutemen leader, Garvey, he'd seemed appreciative, to the point of extending an invitation of outright companionship. But the way he had asked, it had seemed to Martin more as if the man wanted an extra guarantee for the safety of his own people, rather than offering Martin an escort. Even so, it had implied a degree of trust.
Was it a mistake then, to conceal the breadth of his abilities?
More and more, it seemed his fears were baseless, much as he understood why Piper held them. He'd never seen the persecution she had, of the ghouls of Diamond City. He could not - and in truth, wanted not - imagined which of the seemingly rational, sensible people he'd so far met, could have partaken in the wholesale eviction and no-doubt death-sentencing of their neighbours.
It was that knowledge, the reminder of the lingering threat, that yet ensured he did not simply announce himself far and wide. Better to simply be the 'European' healer, than attempt a revelation on the very nature of magic itself. For, if he could simply pass himself off as a doctor from Europe, whatever it truly was, the ignorance of the populace here, the very same that robbed him of a deeper backstory if inquired, was the very same that ensured none - or at least a select very few indeed - could bring doubts onto him.
Amongst other problems, a lingering, gnawing dread crept up upon his mind. He had none to ask who knew of the magic of this world, and so none who could be of aid in his main task. Alchemy, if at home, was simple. Alchemy here, however, like casting a net upon dry land and expecting fish to fill it. He was growing nearer the deadline, with as of yet no results to show for it. And how could he explain to the Lord Mayor, expecting understanding, that the experiment simply would not work because of reversed magic or some such? At best, the man would laugh it off, maybe demand a return on whatever funds had been poured into the project already - himself he had no idea what kind of investments the mayor's office had actually made - while at worst... Frauds and charlatans were rarely treated with kindness by the populace they had exploited, and he already knew what had happened to genuine citizens of this place, if they somehow 'voked the ire of the ruling class.
If he could not find a way to make the potions he knew, with ingredients he did not... He needed an alternative. Something to offer that made up for the lost investment. He did not have Sun's knowledge of the medicines and drugs the clinic boasted, in truth he'd scarcely taken full stock of the inventory yet. The scalpels, the knives, scissors, needles, he understood these. Surgical equipment here was remarkably akin to what he had been familiar with from home, only with syringes was there doubt, though their purpose was obvious. It was, he suspected, the degree of finesse with which the glass and metal was wrought, which had prevented the Empire from ever developing such instruments. But still, it left him little better than the common barber if he could only boast knowledge of how to use surgical instruments. When it came to the medicine here, dosages, ailments, the likes, he had not yet an understanding thereof.
If he had magic. If he only had magic, then none of this would be an issue. Then he could simply ply his trade as he'd been taught, and usher in an age of scientific understanding, heralding a new dawn for mysticism and the arcane in a world that thought it the stuff of fiction and fairytales. He was already, for all that it held little worth, the greatest mage in the world. In this world, notably, by worth of simply, apparently, being the only mage in the world.
The irony would have made him laugh, if not for the creek of shit it still left him in, deprived of oars and sail and rudder. He needed Divine intervention, but for all he knew they didn't even exist here, much less did he dare to hope they would care for a mere mortal. And if Valentine had been genuine... Gods, help me.
Something Martin had missed when moving to the Imperial City was the sound of cocks in the morning. Most farmsteads in the countryside kept chickens, for the simple fact that they required so very little, but provided so very much.
And roosters. Roosters were a boon to the small-folks, for they provided both safety for the coop, and a way to wake in the early hours. During winter time most of all, when the sun would not rise 'til late in the noon. He'd had his mornings, beyond counting, when the moon yet shone as he was forced from the straws.
Diamond City did not have roosters, in truth, but they had the radio. He still found it a peculiar thing, but had come to appreciate it almost more so than he had the roosters. For not only would the radio rouse him, but also bring news from across the town and Commonwealth. Oftentimes, of course, the delight he took in this contraption was somehow tampered by the toe-curling induced by its far-from confident speaker.
"- have left Diamond City now and, I uh, guess we'll see them again? Maybe. Their leader said they were going north so uhm, at least they're not going back to Quincy, I guess. Speaking of north-"
"Not sure if going north's much better," Piper said, approaching from the part of the living room made a kitchen. It was much like the farmhouse he'd grown up in, in this way, where a pre-war stove and hard-wood tables made up a small area of the room. A large, weathered plastic sheet had been placed 'neath it all, to stop spills. Martin was folding up his mattress as she came with breakfast; coffee, insta-noodles and what mutated fruits. "They'll have to get through Lexington South. Raiders love the bridges, and last I heard, College Square was a Raider setup too."
"Garvey wanted me to come with them," he accepted the offered plastic cup of steaming noodles, and the coffee. The fruits were a shared bowl, into which Natalie, home from school - it was something called a 'weekend' - dug greedily; "He offered it as an escort, but I think it was as much for the sake of his own people."
"Why didn't you?" Natalie scrounged up her face. It was the fruit though, not he, who caused it. Mutfruits were sweet and sour, like a grapefruit, but full enough of sugar to make up for it, somehow. Apparently it had once been apples, but mutated and deformed to the point of now being an entirely different species "Not like you'd get a better offer of an armed escort anyway. And you can't make those potion-things right? McDonough's gonna rake you over the-"
"Nat," Piper gave a sister a kick on the foot, silencing the girl; "We're not pessimists here, we're realists."
"She is not wrong," Martin grumbled, frowning into his food. The steam was nice, at least, almost an alternative to a shower. With Hearthfire creeping in... September, they called it here, mornings were growing a little colder already. Apparently Boston was rather north on this planet, and autumn hit harder, earlier, for it; "I cannot make them. I thought I could, and helping Arturo's daughter, I grew confident in myself once more, but..."
"Then tell McDonough to eat a bag of-"
"Table-manners, Nat."
"-ducks," the girl snorted at her sister, shrugging. A month ago, maybe, such behavior would have shocked him. To see children speak so openly with such spite of their township lords. Now, it barely elicited a blink; "You can't just wave a wand and make stuff go poof... right?"
"No, Healers generally aren't considered for stave-training," he shrugged, though the idea had appeal. A staff, a genuine mage-staff would solve his problems. A rod of concentrated aether, channeling all the magicka he could ever need. A shame then, that to even make such a thing, you needed a plenty of infused and tuned instruments. He had nothing of the sort, and even if he had, he'd no knowledge of how to actually craft and infuse a staff. Natalie's suggestion still merited a smile though; "I have no idea, nor the materials, to make such a thing either. But, the idea is sound."
"So, anything else you could use?" the girl dragged her feet up unto the couch and hugged her legs, curled up and curious, staring at him; "Like, what about a magical amulet, or an enchanted book?"
He raised a brow at her. It still honestly boggled his mind that, all at once, Valentine could claim to have no knowledge of magic from before the ruination of the world, and at the same time, a girl like Natalie knew of spellbooks and amulets. It was a self-contradicting irritation, offering just enough hope with every morsel, only to snatch it away with the label of "fairy tales" stamped upon it with the cruel hand of reality.
"Miss. Edna is an old 'Miss Nanny' type," Piper explained. He knew the name, but not that the woman in question was not of flesh and blood. Martin nodded. He supposed it went a way to explain why people were so nonchalant about Valentine. He was so obviously mechanic, they likely placed him mentally alongside 'Miss Edna', then; "She came programmed with all sorts of childrens' tales and stories. Most of them are fairy tales, with knights and dragons and wizards, you know, the usual."
"Dragons aside, that would be the usual," Martin snorted, drinking down the last of his noodles. His coffee still steamed, black and acrid, but he managed to grab a single, remaining Mutfruit before Natalie inhaled it too; "In my home, that is. Here, the nearest I've seen to either is what you would consider usual."
"Fair, it's a bit of a leap from swords and sandals to machine-guns," Piper hummed, leaning back in her chair, coffee in hand; "Speaking of which, Martin, I think it's time you had a bloody day off."
"Healers don't take days off."
"This one does," faster than he could prevent it, Piper reached out and took the key to the clinic from where it rested on the table. It was a full moment before he even understood what she was doing, and still did not know how to react; "You're not getting this back until you've gone a round on the market - unless of course someone needs help."
"Piper," Martin sighed, feeling irritation mount. By the gods, this was too early in the morning for these things. The problem was, he didn't know how to argue that she was wrong, for... well, in truth she wasn't. The closest he'd taken to a day off was when he collapsed in the clinic; "Give me the key."
"Of course," she smiled, an innocent and sweet smile so genuine he'd almost reached out before he noticed her pocketing the key; "Once you've taken the stroll. Actually," sharp eyes shifted to her sister. Natalie seemed like a rabbit, suddenly perking at the sign of a threat; "Since it's weekend, why don't you take Nat with you?"
"I don't need a guide."
"He doesn't need a guide, Piper," Natalie frowned; "Right?"
"A chaperone then," Piper sighed; "Just, to make sure he actually goes shopping, and doesn't break into the clinic."
"I am no addi-"
"No, but I know you're gonna try anyway," she said, shaking her head at him. Her face took a gentler, yet still serious hue; "Martin, I know you're mad stressed about the potion job, and you'd rather just work twenty-four-seven until you find something. But, for once just, just take a breather. The time you take out for this isn't enough to set you back anyway, and it'll help clear your head. Believe me, I've needed it more than once."
He'd been to the market before, of course.
Diamond City was, if nothing else, prospering as a direct result of its market. More so now, it seemed, as traders that would have once gone on south to Quincy would instead now aim to sell all their produce in the town, profits be damned. With no alternative outside of Bunker Hill, Diamond City held a monopoly most market towns in Cyrodiil would have hired entire mercenary companies to obtain. It was difficult to imagine the kind of product unobtainable at this market, barring anything simply unknown to these people. Horses, swords, bows, arrows, alchemical ingredients?
True, these were by and large entirely absent, but even then, their counterparts in this land were readily available for sale. Where horses were gone, two-headed cattle bellowed from cramped pens, some even for sale with saddles. Where swords had been, crude sabers, axes, exoctic blades and clubs dangled from hooks and holsters. Where bow and arrow had been for sale in Cyrodiil, these people purchased blackpowder-weaponry, even the simplest one making a crossbow seem paltry by compare. The crafts on display ranged from home-wrought barrels fastened to wooden stocks, to pre-war weapons of unreasonable power, accuracy and cost. Even as he grew somewhat accustomed to the very idea of firearms, some of what Martin saw displayed by the traders made him think of Dwemeri artifacts or daedric machinations. Bulbous, thin and sleek designs that seemed like anything but a weapon, and yet they radiated a kind of power he'd rarely seen displayed even by senior mages.
"You could just buy one, you know," Natalie drawled, kicking a pebble away; "Nina's dad would give you a discount, I bet."
Martin felt at his pocket, where a stack of flat-pressed caps rested in their cylinder. Apparently Diamond City ran its own mint, of sorts, where bottlecaps were pressed flat to accommodate their worth. They technically still retained the value of unpressed caps, to his understanding, but were far easier to carry around. Still, he found them inferior to coin. At least a Septim could carry its own worth, being gold. Caps were only worth what they were worth, as long as people agreed on that worth. Inflation must be a poorly understood concept, or maybe these people were just plain fortunate that their trading networks hadn't grown to spark such, yet.
"I don't think I've enough for that, even if he would," he muttered, glancing at some of the prices. There was a shotgun, of the same make and model he and Piper had found in the tunnels. It even bore the same stylized 'S' on the barrel. A hundred caps, for such a piece, and he carried only twenty; "And I don't need weapons."
"Everyone needs weapons."
"Do you have a weapon?" he looked to her, his expression becoming something like a frown when the girl simply nodded; "I mean a firearm."
"In my bedroll, at home," she said, her tone as genuine as ever; "In case the Institute decided to pay a visit."
He wasn't sure if the answer surprised him. He wasn't even sure if it should have. Being armed in a world where bandits and monsters both carried firepower, it seemed the most reasonable thing. Still, he'd somewhat hoped at least the children were spared of that reality.
"I didn't need a weapon to save Piper," he finally retorted. It was a lower blow than he'd intended for it to be, and he knew it the moment Natalie didn't have a counter ready. It was one of the few things that really seemed to get through to the girl, how close she'd been to losing her sister. He also knew she both blamed and thanked him for it, since it was only his arrival that had drawn Piper to the spot, and then subsequently saved her; "Come, the faster we make the round, the faster I can get back to work."
Of alchemical ingredients, of course, there was nothing of neither use nor note. The closest one was to purchasing such were the chem-dealers, each of less repute than the other. Martin recognized soon enough that they were little better than the Skooma-dealers littering street corners in the Imperial City. It seemed the only real source of medicine was the clinic, unless he'd simply missed the signs of another medicine-shop. It was strange. At home, even if they were neither healers nor alchemists, pharmacies would still be readily found on the busier streets, offering herbal remedies and mundane treatments. Here, it simply did not seem to exist outside of the clinic.
The only place that seemed at all as if it could hold anything of use in his work, Diamond City Surplus, was also the only shop that did not have a throng of people around it. He knew, of course, of the owner, if only because Natalie and Piper both had been less than flattering about her. Myrna regarded him warily as he approached, but did not seem overtly warranting of her monicker. As far as he understood it, she sold things traders couldn't offload anywhere else.
He wasn't certain what made him approach, but... it felt like he should.
"Yes?" Myrna regarded him again as he stopped before her. One eye blinked more than it should, maybe the truer source of her monicker than her fear of synths; "You're the new doctor, right? That guy from Europe," she glanced to Natalie, who didn't seem all that impressed; "Hmm, the Wrights are better than most at spotting synths, so I'll give you the benefit of the doubt. How can I help you?"
How could she? Martin still wasn't even aware of why his feet had carried him here, only that they had, and now refused to carry him away again. Something had drawn him here, but hadn't deigned to be more specific as to why.
"What do... you sell? Today, I mean, anything special?"
"Hmm, well, there's not been as much trade from down south as usual, thanks to those toss-pot Gunners," she spat the last word, figuratively and literally. Martin retreated a step; "Still, I had a trader in from Salem, up north. Funny thing is, I could have sworn that settlement was dead and gone, but lo and behold, here he comes, backpack full of stuff no one else would buy."
"Yeah no kidding," Natalie scoffed; "Salem's bad mojo, everyone knows that. There's Atom nuts, mirelurks and gunners, and ghosts and ghouls and-"
"Well so he comes by my shop in the evening. I was out back and Percy had the shift, so I didn't exactly see him, but Percy said he was an odd sort of fella, like shifty odd sort," Myrna continued, silencing Natalie by sheer force of indifference; "Percy's seen his share of odd fellas though, he trades and the fella goes away. Bought stuff mostly, metal scrap, random ammo, fabrics, but he sold some stuff too."
Martin said nothing, mostly as he was still trying to process the conversation. Myrna seemed to take his silence as consent, and hauled out an old suitcase. The design was pre-war, but the leather didn't seem worn enough for it. The sight of it instilled him with a sense of familiarity, though he couldn't put a finger on it. Something about the suitcase felt as if he was supposed to touch it.
It genuinely creeped him out.
Myrna unclasped the brass seals and opened the suitcase. Inside was nothing of immediately spectacular value. Rolls of clothing, a rock, carved wood, empty bottles, a gasmask and several filters. Martin felt something like disappointment, only not. The tugging sensation persisted, yet there was nothing in the suitcase that seemed to warrant it. What, was he supposed to buy the gasmask?
"Only cost me five caps, apparently he was real eager to get rid of it," Myrna chuckled; "Bloody fool, gasmask is intact, filters not even used. It's worth at least twenty. Bottles are clean, made of plastic so they won't even crack if you drop them. Rest? Eh, it's nice, I guess. Local produce."
"Shouldn't a trader be more eager to sell?" Natalie prodded, eying the contents with disinterest. Myrna scoffed.
"I'm an honest trader, girl," she shook her head; "I don't kid people on what I sell. Also means, the things I sell are worth what I say they're worth."
"That's fair," Martin muttered, unaware himself that he'd said it until Natalie gave him a light kick on the foot. He reached a hand for the cloth-bundles; "May I...?"
"Browse? Go ahead. But you break it, buy it."
He picked up the cloth first, weighing it. It seemed like nothing more than a simple roll of rough-spun cloth, likely a local product, like Myrna said. It didn't weigh much, and didn't feel special. It wasn't even particularly soft, or warm. Putting it down, he plucked one of the wooden figurines from the container. It was dry, and light, and felt like what he imagined it would. The carvings depicted some sort of woman with a broom. But still, it gave off nothing like what he felt. The gasmask then. He had twenty caps, and Myrna had called the price.
True enough, the gasmask felt like it was genuinely of good quality. The visage reminded him more of a plague-doctor than anything, but he understood its worth. If anything, twenty caps for it and the filters was underselling it. Was Myrna trying to get rid of the suitcase too? Even so, the gasmask didn't feel right either.
That left just the rock - and an increasingly impatient Natalie.
It didn't seem like anything out of the ordinary. It bore a hole, naturally carved by running water, as far as he could tell. It was smooth to behold, almost like glass, being all but green in gleam. He picked it up.
And nearly threw it into Myrna's face.
At least, it felt as such. The electric surge he felt, touching skin to the smooth surface of the rock buckled his knees, as if he had indeed been struck by electricity. He'd tried that already, touching Piper's hotplate incorrectly. This was... the same, and yet so very, very different. Hot, cold, pleasant, unpleasant, all at once. It hurts. It doesn't hurt!
Slowly, the sensation started subsiding. Like holding his hand under hot water, eventually it no longer scalded the skin, even though the temperature was much the same as ever. He felt... drained, a little. Lightheaded. The stone, before merely possessing a dull gleam, seemed to now glow, if only faintly.
"Lookin' kinda funny there," Myrna said, and with her voice it felt as if a bubble burst, and the world, before grey, suddenly once more took on color. How long had he been entranced? "I checked that rock, it's not radioactive. Like... at all, not even background radiation. Wish I could use that, or sell them like it, but what's the use of a rock, even if it's not radioactive?"
"How... how much?" he was aware of his voice, hoarse and dry, but...didn't care. If need be he'd take out a loan from Piper or... or anyone!
"Well, since you're the first to even give a damn, two caps for the pretty rock?"
Martin all but threw the caps at her, and more too. He'd have sold her his shoes if she'd asked.
Anything for a lodestone.