The Potioneer

I knew in my heart, perhaps, that the longer I remained in Diamond City, the longer I remained with... with Piper, and Natalie, the harder it would be for me to leave. I still regret nothing, from that time, except perhaps my own fear of the unknown, the untrodden borderlands. But scientific breakthroughs have a way of upsetting such balances. If only they were always changes for the better...

Warm sunlight bathed the streets of Diamond City.

Though autumn pressed on, and left its marks on the leaves of the trees, it was yet only the middle of Hearthfire - or September - and one would walk the streets in but a thin jacket. Mud caked the streets, crusting and hardening in the heat of the unforgiving sun and its ruined atmosphere. Though few now lived that remembered how it all worked, or how the world had once been.

Martin, for his part, had greater concerns than the sun, for he now dwelt in the darkness of the clinic. Though he desired the peace to work, he'd neither locked the door nor put a sign. Without Sun, he was a doctor first, potioneer second. The clinic's sole lightbulb dangled from the ceiling, casting the room in the pale light of its mercury shade. The smell of antiseptics and other purifying liquids was thick in the air, though he hardly noticed, for the smell of root and dirt mixed in.

Around his neck, a leather cord that had once been the skin of a Brahmin dangled, tied through the hole of his lodestone. Natalie had given it to him, something she'd gotten her hands on in crafts in school, though she'd not given a reason for the gift. He was, all the same, thankful. Keeping the stone like this, it felt more like an amulet than a research tool, and more so than that, it reminded him of home. It also gave him the impression that the lodestone, in this way, was not too dissimilar from Clements' cross.

Today, he would succeed.

Before him lay the reagents that caused him such grief. Roots and fruits and flowers, each all but pulsating with the perverted magicka of radiation. Each poison in its current form. Each, as he had come to understand from a theological point of view, filled with a darkness that only light could purge, replace. The latter was of greater concern, for merely purging would do little if he could not fill the void. To pour into each reagent the true magicka they would have held from nature's side at home. It was a strange notion, that he would play the part of divinity in this, a matter so small yet of such gravity and import that words could not express it.

Not for the first time, he wondered how it had come to this. That had had gone from a state of comfort and stability, to one of a decaying world where the mere idea of magic was laughed away.

Until it wasn't, and people saw for them for what they were. Saw him, for what he truly was. Saw magic, for what it was. Divine intervention, sent upon this world to set right what man had wrought. Injuries made in war, the terrible machinations of man and Mer, unmade by the touch of the arcane. Here, it was much the same, though man here had single handedly done what he doubted Mer ever could, and wrecked a bloody tallow through the very nature of their world. While it was true, that they had developed treatments most mages and healers would have slain to understand, at the same time, the moment those treatments ran out, there would be no more. A Healer could make due with just the food in his belly.

In hindsight the difference was rather stark.

Martin breathed in, a deep intake that filled lungs and body, with the warm air of the clinic. He exhaled, slowly, deliberately so, grasping his lodestone in one hand and the root in the other.

Time to start.

Like he had with the mutfruit, eyes closed he breathed in once more, and started searching for the vulgarities within the root. Where there had been some radiation in the mutfruit, the root almost felt a lantern by comparison. Its lights were a sickly green, radiating from its hardened flesh.

It was an exercise in willpower that he did not immediately hurl it at the wall.

Instead he breathed, deeper, faster, then exhaled and calmed himself. He would purge it, now, and be done with this mess. Lodestone in hand, he started guiding the trickle of pure, restorative magicka into the root. Like a tendril of light before the lids of his eyes, it snaked its way along his arm, then across his chest, and finally, seemed to branch out like newly formed fingers, each of whitest, golden light.

The root began convulsing.

It looked as if he was holding the beating heart of some monstrous animal, a beast whose organs were covered in brown and vegetive hide, tougher than skin. Each coiling of the lights brought a fresh beat. Martin did not open his eyes, but yet he could feel it all, see it all. The raw magicka, locked in a dance of mutual annihilation with the irradiated wrongness of the root. Each cell boiled, bloated with more energy than it should have been capable of containing, yet not a one burst. Warmer and warmer, the root grew hot to the touch until physical contact brought him pain.

But he did not open his eyes. Nor did he relent, for he knew this was his chance. This was where he pushed through, and purged the root. More and more, he pushed the lodestone to send its energies into the root. He pushed and pushed, and as the root grew hotter and hotter to the touch, the lodestone itself all but corresponded, cooling against the skin of his fingers.

He wrung it for its last scraps, and yet it was not enough. Not yet. Almost. He'd had less than a day since using it last, he'd known it would not be filled. The bucket had only just started gathering water, and not he'd spent those precious drops.

With the lodestone drained, a cold void took the stone, sticking to his fingers like glue. Martin scowled, tasting metal. He did not stop. Through the closed lids of his eyes, the root burned like a second sun, a tiny star in its own right. Something warm and wet trickled onto his lips. Iron. A furnace was opened onto him, its heat blazing out. Within, he could see every spark, every particle and mote of light and darkness. They danced before him, contained within a vegetive sack too small for their violence, a storm in a jar.

Suddenly, the darkness was gone. Pure golden light swam within the little sack of tissue, beating away like the heart of a dying beast, slower, slower again. Each beat took longer than the last, until, finally, it stopped altogether. It was done.

Martin allowed himself to breathe, once more. Then he opened his eyes, stepped back and vomited on the floor.

"Damnant ea-" another wave of nausea rolled in, and fresh bile painted the floorboards and his shoes. Desperate, he grabbed for the desk, but missed in his unbalanced state and fell instead to the floor.

Consciousness did not leave him, though the smell made him almost wish that it had. This was... he'd gone too far, again, and been struck down by the arcane fever. In the heat of it all, he'd thrown caution and sanity to the winds. He'd been... so close. Too close, to stop, for something as minor as limits.

The fever, blessedly so, was at least only a milder one, and the dizziness left him eventually, though the headache, beating and persistent, remained. It soured his feeling of triumph as he finally stood again, holding onto the clinic desk for good measure. He'd only overstepped his limits by a slight margin, less than he'd feared, but still more than he should have. Had it been hubris, to think he was now as capable as he had been back home, for the mere possession of a lodestone?

The stone itself was now cold to the touch, and had to be picked from where he'd dropped it in his fall. Vomit and half-digested razorgrain oats stuck to it like slime, the smell enough that he'd no intention of putting it back on before it could be cleansed.

But...it was progress. Martin touched a hand to the root, its surface devoid of the heat that ought have been. It was as cold to the touch as it had been when he started, and only the lack of malignant energies within it betrayed he'd even done work. But it was a lack of malignant energies. He'd not brought Piper's measuring device, but he knew all the same that it had worked.

"Oh Mara, Oh Akatosh, O Stendarr meritissima, o Julianos iustissima..." his legs buckled, even as he spoke, and only the proximity to the desk chair saved him from a reunion with the floor. Trembling fingers interlaced in muttered prayer; "Orkízomai óti tha katharíso haec terra, ako mi pomogneš...Ego sanabo lug´eto. Ḱe najdam pat do doma, zatoa te molam, pomogni mi i ostavi go ova mesto podobro za moeto bitie ovde... Ḱe ja isčistam ovaa zemja. Ego erue korupcijata. Ḱe ja izlečam ovaa zemja, ako... ako me doneseš domus. Ḱe ja otkornam korupcijata..."

He moved slightly, back and forth, in the chair as he spoke, the silent prayer taking on a sincerity he'd not felt in years. The fervor of a healer's conviction, when at last the cure was found. He would destroy the disease. He would rip and tear and uproot its grasp on this land, and he would restore magick as it should be.

The trance left him then, a few minutes later, and he was left uncertain as to his earlier convictions. Much as he tried, Martin could not readily say what had made him swear, over and over again, to uproot and destroy 'the disease', being that it was radiation. The idea itself, of cleansing even just the city of Boston, was beyond ambition, and well into madness in its scope.

Despite the lingering nausea, his own arrogance, brought upon him by what now felt like a bout of religious zeal, brought out a low chuckle. He was not a religious man, he'd no need of fanaticism. The gods were real, the only question was whether they deigned to aid him, and in that, he could pray and ask much as he wanted, it would make no difference, come the end. Prayer was like asking a parent that only occasionally had the time to care.

Every soul who'd grown up under a thatched roof knew that.

He was in the process of cleaning up the vomit with a wet rag when the door creaked open, and Natalie made her entrance, head first as if to discern whether it was safe, though her eyes stopped on him, confused. He supposed the scene might be a confusing one indeed, given the "ease" with which he'd cleansed the mutfruit yesterday.

"Why's it smell like the Dugout in here?"

"Technical difficulties," he replied dryly. The smell persisted even though the floor now was clean. The rag was the worst of it, and he considered setting it on fire. The mere thought of using magic, however, brought on a fresh wave of nausea, and he was forced to still and breathe it away, lest the cleaning was for nought; "I was... keen."

"Keen?" she cocked a brow at his word, an expression much more fitting to one twice her age. It was not the first time Natalie deemed fit to remind him of her mindset, shrewd beyond her years; "Piper's gonna worry if she finds out you almost dropped dead again."

"I am hale," he muttered, standing. The rag he threw into one of the buckets, hoping to be rid of it, for now at least. He'd no desire to cause Piper further concerns than she likely already struggled with; "Is there not school?"

"It's tuesday, we get off at twelve," she shrugged, sauntering in. Before he could argue, she'd planted herself in the good chair, drawing up her feet until she nearly topped the thing. Sun's desk chair was not made for this; "So?"

Her eyes settled on the root, and he understood her question.

"It was...success, I think," he started, tapping a finger against the root's wrinkled hide. Truly, he felt no corruption within it now. It was as if the plant had come from Tamriel, not a world steeped in perverted magicks; "The reagent is purified."

"Cool," she nodded, waving a little back and forth. In a way it was similar to himself only minutes earlier. Wait, it was already twelve? High noon? How long had he toiled over the root, or had he actually collapsed, and merely woken unaware of it? He'd come in when it was only a little more than eight; "Cool. So, you can get to work on it now? Get all the mojo potions going?"

"It will be easier, yes," An understatement, to be sure, but the truth all the same. The next step would be to start testing it out in various combinations with oils and boiling mixtures. Water was great for general dissolution, but oils gave a substance to the potion needed for draughts. It would be interesting to work out the details now, rather than a source of eternal frustrations, and no longer need he fear the meeting with the mayor; "I take it you've come to spectate?"

"Well, Piper's working on some new story 'bout noodles, and Nina's visiting some relatives in Bunker Hill, so," Nat shrugged, a gesture of resignation if he read it right. Nina, that was the girl he'd healed, yes? It was good to hear she had recovered to the point of being able to travel. The decision to travel was beyond his authority, and so he pushed the doubts aside. The Wasteland was a dangerous place, but Arturo had seemed a level-headed fellow; "I came here."

"You make me sound like least appealing choice," he grunted, though it was good-natured. She was a child, she ought prefer the company of friends over his. Was he her friend? Martin frowned briefly at the question, for rightly he did not quite know what to call their relationship. He was Piper's friend, certainly, but Natalie he had met only through her. Was that friendship? "Though I understand, it is better to be with friends and family."

"Well, duh," she shrugged, picking some dirt from the tip of her shoe. More cleaning for later. She looked up, head moving like a bird's, an inquisitive look in her eyes; "So, you gonna start?"

"Soon." he nodded, tapping a finger to the lodestone. Cold to the touch, still; "Root was more... radiated? It was worse than fruit, yes, so... I must wait, a little, until lodestone is recharged."

"Oh," Natalie muttered, something akin to disappointment in her tone. Had she come hoping to see him dancing around, swirling potions and arcane energies like some alchemist? "Okay, that's cool too, I guess."

"You seem disappointed, I think," he noted, seating himself on one of the wooden chairs. The idea of receiving a salary was more and more tantalizing, if nothing else then for the sake of buying better furniture for the clinic. He wondered if Sun had ever furnished it at all, or if the furniture predated even him; "I am sorry, if so."

"What? No, no, it's not... I mean, I'm not disappointed!" the volume of her words took him aback, afeared was he that he had caused her to be upset. It seemed like such an outburst came from nowhere, and yet... clearly something more than boredom nagged her; "I'm just... just been thinking, you know."

"Ah," he understood then; "Your teacher, they give you much work, yes?"

"No. Well, yes, but..." she squirmed in her seat, face almost buried behind her knees. Martin watched her, completely unable to make sense of her sudden change of mood. A mere minute ago she'd seemed fine, bored perhaps but fine. Now... he could not tell; "You... uhm, you are a good guy, you know? Piper likes you, and... me too, I guess..."

Martin blinked. Repeatedly. His former question, of whether Natalie saw him as a friend or not, came back. It seemed, for all he could tell, that she had perhaps pondered the same, and decided to clarify it for all to hear. Or, at least for the two of them.

The gesture made him smile, and brought forth a warmth within that once he'd have tied purely to the days of visiting home when the lecture halls lay closed and dark.

"Your word is... are kind, yes," his smile widened a little, feeling the previous doubts and nausea vanish. Much like Clements had said, darkness was purged best with light. Natalie was no mage, but seemed competent in her own kind of magic. In truth he felt some heat reaching neck and ears, unaccustomed to such unexpected praise; "I appreciate."

"Well, uhm... yeah, that's just..." whatever else she said, he did not hear, for her face burrowed deeper and deeper into her dress, until only muffled sounds came forth. The times which Natalie acted her age were few and far between, and all the more appreciated for it, for they betrayed a sweetness neither the wasteland nor her upbringing could destroy. Only her apparent reluctance to speak was an oddity, for there was no shame in what she had said.

Unless he was missing something. It was, of course, entirely likely that he was, and he knew it. He had improved in reading people, true, and Piper and Natalie more so than most, for all the time he had spent with them. But still, he was not blind to his own lackluster social skills. He knew there was more to it, but did not know how to ask.

The uncertainty did gnaw at him.

"Do you want to help?" The question was easier than many he could have posed, but still seemed like it might be a good one. She perked up at it, too, an immediate expression of brief confusion on her face before she understood his meaning.

"I don't have magicks," she muttered.

"Magicks are not required," he replied, omitting that potioneers usually were mages for a reason, and that magicka did indeed help the process along. Plenty of apothecaries however were utterly mundane, and brewed just as well as any mage in his tower; "With cleansed reagents, anyone can make potions."

She slid from the chair at that, though slowly enough that it betrayed some hesitation. As she did so, Martin pulled out the trays and knives and glass he'd thought to use weeks ago. Before the realization that radiation would poison the reagents and turn his potions lethal. They had all laid unmoved and untouched since his collapse.

From one of the dressers along the back wall of the clinic, he then pulled out white aprons of some synthetic material. White, originally, but since stained by time and wear enough that at best they could be called beige. One still wore the red, dulled spatter from when Sun had worn it during the surgery on the Minuteman, Josh. He never washed it?

Martin picked that one for himself.

Natalie's apron was much too large for her, covering her shoes once it was tied in place. The sight was somewhere between comical and endearing, and in truth he was split between them. Still, she seemed ready.

"Tell me what to do," she declared, almost a tone of pride in her voice. Had she wanted to partake in his work all along, and he'd simply missed the signs? Martin pushed the doubts aside and pondered his first steps. He'd never worked with an assistant before. He'd been the assistant, usually, throughout his learning of the arts, but never himself been the tutor.

The simplest way, he supposed, was a crash-course version of just that, his own education. Using one of the scalpels, he sliced a piece from the root, white flesh standing in contrast to its beige, brown skin. He smelled it, just to be sure, and found no trace of corruption.

"Step one, for any budding potioneer," he explained, handing her the piece, no larger than a thumbnail, and only scant thicker; "is sampling."

"That's the part where you taste the ingredients, right?" she asked, curiosity rather than disgust in her eyes. He nodded, pleased that she'd either paid attention or simply figured it out on her own. Either was commendable; "And you can tell what it does?"

"With practice, yes," he explained; "The first time, you may notice nothing but the taste itself. Even a dozen times later, you still might notice nothing. Making it a little easier, I will tell you what to notice, before you take it. This root, whose name I still do not know, has certain regenerative traits that can be discerned through its taste, being both bitter and filling at the same time, and yet the trait itself is not tied to the taste, but... a feeling, yes?"

"If you get a feeling from just tasting it, that it's special, why's no one used it yet?"

"No one I've spoken to here knows what the root is," he admitted; "But someone delivered it here, after Piper helped me put up the posters, so... someone knows, just not from here? I've come to no answer that gives me any rest more so than simple ignorance."

"So, it might be from somewhere far away then?" she eyed the piece with greater suspicion now, though also a keen interest; "Maybe it's from all the way across the country?"

"...what is across the country?" it struck him that he still had no real idea of the sheer size or shape of this land, beyond the wasteland. And even then, he knew only what was on the community board by the market, an old, faded map of the Boston cityscape and suburbs.

"Dunno, raiders probably," Natalie shrugged; "There's almost never any word from outside the Wasteland."

"Civilisation really did go down the drains..." Martin muttered, frowning with distaste. A nation that had once spanned...however large this land was, now reduced to counties, if even that; "The root's origins must remain a mystery, in any case. Taste it."

Tentatively, she did so, gums working as the small piece was reduced to naught. The tiny portion meant swallowing would pose no risk of any real effects, but should still give off enough of a sensation to prove his point.

"It's got a funny taste."

"It does."

"Kinda itches, in my fingers," she mused, holding her hands up as if anything would be visibly happening. Martin could see nothing, but... sense, there was something going on. The most miniscule of miniscule effects, barely a whisper in the arcane. Natalie started rubbing her fingertips together, then shook her hands; "Feels funny. Like, my fingers's asleep kinda funny. You know, that weird stuff after it's asleep but it's waking up and all crawling?"

"Not good?"

"Weird, is like," she glanced up, uncertainty and some kind of glee in her eyes; "That's supposed to mean there's something to it, right?"

He supposed so. The sensations she described were not quite what he had expected, but the fact that she sense something already, at her first try, was interesting. It actually completely defied his expectations. Himself, he'd only started noticing effects at his fifth try, back home. She could never be a mage, but... an alchemist, maybe?

"I suppose," he decided not to speak of this idea. It bore little merrit for the time being; "When an alchemist or a potioneer starts out, sampling is one of most crucial aspects to work, yes. They can feel the properties of the reagents, and often become immune to poisons through this."

"What, like if you get stung by a bloatfly, nothing happens?"

"I don't know bloatfly, but... yes? Probably, I think," he would ask Piper later what exactly a bloatfly was. The name alone did not indicate a pleasant creature. Then, few creatures in this land could be called any pleasant word. At best, the Brahmin were like cows, only... hideous, to behold. It struck him, there was still so much about the Wasteland he did not know. Natalie was a child, yet compared to her he was the infant, ignorant and clueless in the vast and unforgiving hell that was the ruin of a decaying world. What manner of creatures lurked beyond the wall, too horrible or fantastical for him to even contemplate? What if there were bugs the size of bears, or birds that ate people?

What if the very crows he saw perched on the street-lights were like ants, a hivemind with some bloated, monstrous queen underground?

"Alright, what's next then?" Natalie spoke up, snapping him from his thoughts. All well the same, for they were entering uncomfortable grounds; "We've tasted the root. It's got the right stuff, right?"

The next step would ordinarily require the use of a tome of recipes, or simple memory. Here, he worked with unknown reagents, and so had neither. The only reagent in Diamond City he could rely on with some degree of certainty was razorgrain as a replacement for wheat. As the town's supply of produce was relatively free of radiation, it should prove a smaller strain to completely purify than the root had.

"I am working with unknowns here, which may complicate matters, yes... Natalie, you know of where razorgrain might be bought?"

"What, cereal?" she asked, expression incredulous; "It's in the kitchen."

"Unprocessed. Preferably," he muttered; "In my homeland we have wheat, which is similar enough to razorgrain that I dare risk it as a substitute. To brew a proper potion, you need both reactive reagent and base binder. The root, here, is the reactive reagent, but we require the binder. Flour, I suppose, could work."

"We've got that," she nodded, now more eager; "I'll go grab a pack!"

Martin had thrown a single glance at the chemistry table, then promptly scoffed and abandoned it as a viable tool. The glass bowl was too large to lift if filled with water, too close to the table for any heating to be placed underneath, and all but impossible manage in any reasonable manner. A wide manner of tubes and pipes ran from the top of the large flask into several smaller containers, strung up on wooden racks like were they for show. It simply was not a practical arrangement.

The clinic backroom, fortunately, held within its seemingly endless bounty, also a crate of supplies for the more alchemically minded. Most of it seemed replacements for the chemistry table, phials, plastic and time-worn rubber tubes, but also glass pipes, flasks, beakers, mortar and pestle. It felt almost as if a sliver of divine providence touched upon his shoulders then, the realization that he had what he needed. When Natalie had returned with the razorgrain oats, she found him already organizing the new equipment into a setup that was far more viable, and much more manageable than massive bowls and metal tubes.

Root, flash-dried and ground into powder, was mixed into the waters therein. Razorgrain flour would work well enough, he hoped, but until he knew the concentrations of each in a potion, he would not simply mix and stir like there was no end to supplies. He knew there was, and knew not from where his had originally come.

"People usually have a recipe when doing this stuff?"

"As rule of thumb, yes," Martin nodded, eyes on the flask as Natalie poured water in the first of the new flasks, held aloft on in the clasp of metallic clamps, then sealed off the flask with a rubber plug. Beneath it they placed a gas-powered flame, something Natalie called a Bunsen. He marked a line with red pen where memory argued the limit should be. Two liters of water, to each a portion of reagents. Six doses, twelve liters, ten minute boil for first stage, transfer to still, introduce biological agent, ten minute boil; "But usually, people know their reagents, and there are books."

The process, in theory, was simple. Frustration still lingered, however, at the amateurish setup he had been left to deal with. It made him wonder if Sun had seen the same thing, but simply neglected to ever sort out the station. Or had Sun been so inept a chemist that he'd seen no flaw in the design? Or so brilliant that he made it work? At least there were spares.

"So we try and see?"

"Essentially, yes," he nodded again, though a small smile peeked through. He quite enjoyed this banter; "I have good idea though, to first dosage. A potioneer must have feeling for this thing, yes? Cup of each, left to boil, then we see what comes."

For a moment, he felt like he'd said something odd. Natalie looked at him in a way that wasn't quite normal, but also not one he'd not seen before. It seemed a cue to whenever he said something off in the common tongue. Had he?

In the laboratorium in the Institute, there had been a very precise and ornate hourglass, mounted on a swivel with different stages of locks. It was an old thing, older even than most people in the College of Whispers - a lofty standard amongst mages. It was used primarily to measure exact durations of time when potioneers plied their crafts, and could even be made to magically snuff the flame of any alchemical experiments. It was a precious thing, and not merely when measured in coin. The hourglass had, in its own way, become a symbol of the very art of potion-making, almost more so than the flask.

There was no hourglass here, but a small mechanical clock from Natalie's bedroll would serve instead. It was, in many ways, remarkably similar to the larger tower-clocks decorating the squares in many Imperial cities. Only, there was no counterweight here to keep suspension and a constant source of drag. This, at least, was a kind of scientific advancement he could actually understand, once introduced to the concept. Terminals yet escaped his understanding.

He dropped in the measured reagents, and set the Bunsen alight, producing a flame of unrivaled purity in its heat and color. It made his own small heater at home, in his study, pale by comparison.

Natalie drew up and released the clock, and a slow, steady ticking began its march. The proximity of the flame to the glass resulted in bubbles soon enough pushing their way to the surface. Each was followed more rapidly than before, until barely a minute had passed and the waters were in upheaval, a constant roiling mess where no calm surface existed. Root and flour both disappeared within, almost as if they were completely dissolved. The texture of the water seemed to gain a higher viscosity, from the ground razorgrain, while growing increasingly opaque with an almost greenish hue. The layman would have likely thought it a sort of stamina-enhancing potion, rather than its true nature.

Natalie looked up at him, as the waters boiled away. In her oversized apron, she gave off a highly bizarre, yet endearing impression. Like a child who'd followed her father to work. The thought made his smile die, if for a moment, as the question struck him. Did Natalie, young as she was, even remember her father? Piper had said it was a long time ago, when they had left the settlement, but...how long exactly?

"How does a finished potion look?"

"Red, usually," Martin muttered, hesitating almost, as her question brought him back to the present; "Cheap ones might be transparent, or like milk. But the potent ones, the potions that can knit back your arm if chopped, they are red."

"I don't think Stimpacks can grow back an arm," Natalie grinned; "That's so cool. Why red though? Is it like Nuka Cola where the black's just artificial colors? Piper says it depends on the brand, but I've never even seen one that's not."

He paused, hesitating for a moment. This was where there was a sort of line drawn between mundane and the arcane, at least at home. There was generally a reason potioneers tended to have greater magical aptitudes than not, and the greater the aptitude, generally the better the product.

"Potent potions are, as a rule, laced with a biological agent," he explained, though he could tell it did little for her; "The biological agent is a drop of blood, to ensure the potion can bind itself to the host. It also brings about the red color."

"What, like prick the finger and let one down the witch-cauldron?"

"Well..." he was, for a moment, taken aback once more. Not that she had stated it in such terms, but that there was not a hint of recoil or reluctance behind them; "Yes. You do not seem bothered?"

"Kidding me?" the girl grinned; "That's so cool. It's like some real Salem stories. People do this stuff all the time in your place?"

"There are not many potioneers," shaking his head, the disappointment on Natalie's face was palpable. Her words of 'Salem' struck a bell, though in the exact moment, he did not recall the source; "The education is hard, and few apply."

"Because of the blood?"

"The tuition-fee near bankrupted my family," Martin sighed. Natalie blanched a little at the words, but said nothing; "It also is not a very profitable career."

"That's dumb," she muttered, arms crossed. Then, it seemed she realized there was no one here but them, and thus no one against whom she could level such ire, and it dissipated in the blink of an eye; "How don't everyone want to do this?"

"Tuition-fee, it means coin," he explained, and it seemed something like understanding dawned upon her; "School is free here, yes?"

"We pay tax," Natalie shrugged. She turned her eyes back on the bubbling and boiling mixture then, irritation seemingly gone; "What's next"?

"When it is done boiling, we add the blood," He would use a scalpel for that, and prick his finger. For some reason, cultists and those unaware of the human body would always cut their palms, drawing blood in the worst way he could think of. Too many nerves and tendons nested in the palm. A cut there risked damage only truly proficient healers could treat. He pointed to the second container, a slightly smaller, more bulbous flask than the first; "Then we boil again, and attach the glass tube. When mixture boils, it becomes... vapors, yes? Steam. Steam then condenses in cooler glass tube, which runs down to collection flask, here."

"That's kinda like when Vadim makes moonshine," she grinned, excitement painted on her face. Martin did not immediately recognize the word, but knew Vadim was the one of the brothers who made much of the alchohol served in the Dugout. Moonshine... was that what he called it? "He showed me once, but said I couldn't touch because 'is very delicate setup'."

"It does follow much of same principle as alcohol distillation, yes."

Still, in the future he did need something that could hold water. Running the clinic sink would fast become more costly than any potion was worth, but a barrel or... or a bowl... Realization dawned as he looked to the discarded chemistry table. He now started understanding the intended use of the bizarre parts. It was a still, of sorts, though several parts were missing and the arrangements were off. The coiled metallic tube was actually a condensation-tube, and the arrayed bottles and cans were the collection flasks. How did I not see this?

"Hey, uhm... what's wrong?"

It was as if a child had been given most of the right parts for a distillation setup, but no guidance as to how it should be made, and then simply started connecting them. He turned to Natalie with a somewhat self-deprecating smile.

"No thing is wrong," he hummed, feeling... lighter, somehow. Today, even if it had involved throwing up his breakfast, was a good day. Next time, he would take apart the mismanaged distillery and build something actually worthy of a potioneer. For now, however, the setup he had arranged would do the job, if barely. He knew it would be better with an active supply of cold waters around the glass tube, but he had nothing on hand - short of magic - that could supply it. He needed a mundane method, one the people of this place could rely on, that did not require the presence of...perhaps the only mage in this world.

He plucked a scalpel from the table. Razorsharp, it was almost identical to the ones he had used in the Imperial City. At home, the design was not as thin, or light, and the metal not as pure. But all the same, almost the same.

"You can turn off Bunsen now," he did not much like this part, but years of practice had taught him a way to dull the sting of a blade. The school of Restoration also dulled the nerves, when needed, soothing mind and flesh alike. Even then, a multitude of faded scars still decorated the tip of his thumb, where the instructors had taught them to draw blood. It was a point of pride, a mark of one's experience, that these were allowed to linger and heal naturally, for all to see how much had been endured.

Removing the rubber plug from the flask, some steam wafted from its insides, where the sickly-looking liquids roiled and foamed. Animal oils would have been better for this than mere water, but... he had a slight suspicion such could not be found easily here. Alternatively, strong spirits tended to improve potency of potions, but shortened the time in which they would be viable once unsealed.

Hand extended, a quick cut saw the opening of the newest addition to his many scars. Though his full attention was on the flask before him, he was not deaf to the soft gasp elicited from his assistant. Three drops of blood, the standard, struck the mixture like tiny pebbles thrown into a lake. Each, they caused the tiniest of splashes before vanishing from the world, striking a swirl and kicking the premature potion into motion. Green and red danced about at unnatural speeds, spiraling and forming clouds of contrasting colors.

"It's moving all weird..." the excitement had died from her voice, instead replaced by quiet bafflement. There was nothing flashy or overtly arcane about this, and yet, in its own way it was quite disturbing. Perhaps it was exactly because it so lacked the arcane traits of glowing lights and colors, that it unsettled Natalie so. It was simply mundane liquids, moving in less than mundane ways; "Did you use magicks? I didn't see anything."

"No magicks," he muttered, himself enraptured by the swirling dance. Warm blood yet seeped from the fresh wound, the stinging sensation dulling his enthusiasm; "This part is entirely... mundane. Mageblood is best, yes, but those with no aptitude can still make potions, only not quite so strong."

"I can make it too?"

"Of course," and he appreciated the apparent relief in her voice. Though Piper might want her sister to take up the same career, he knew he could make a proper potioneer out of the girl. And the first potioneer in this land would make a great deal more impact than yet another scribe. Not that... Piper's work was unimportant, quite the opposite. He held great respect and admiration for the fact that she made it her calling to keep the people informed of the world's events, such as they were. It was a crucial task, and one often met with distaste, he had gathered.

"Even though I don't have magicks?" she still seemed in disbelief, perhaps afeared of it all being some sort of ruse, or that he would let her down with a not-yet mentioned part in it all. Though, to his knowledge at least, there really was no thing stopping a mundane from brewing potions. Only the profits, but there was no competition from other mages here, so that in itself was a moot concern; "Why haven't anyone done this yet then?"

"I suspect the same reason none of my people ever invented those hand-carried firearms," it seemed a reasonable comparison, he thought; "One day the idea appears. Until then it does not. The world was different before the War, yes? Maybe people did this before the bombs, and you simply do not know?"

"Maybe..." Natalie's attention shifted to the flask, as did his own, where the contents had now changed into a more characteristic, dull red. Martin did his best to not let his emotions show. He felt his throat tighten, thickening with both grief and rejoice. Grief, for what he now beheld was the clear demonstration of what he had lost, what he had left behind in Tamriel. And he felt rejoice, for what he had left behind, what he had... lost, it was now here, before him, within the reach of a hand. Something once thought so utterly commonplace, yet now it was more precious than any amount of coin or caps.

Once distilled... he would have it, in full and earnest truth. He would have completed a restorative potion, from absolute scratch, with reagents he'd only guessed at. He knew even Mari would have been impressed.

"So...how do we test it?"

Natalie's question much mirrored his own thinking now, as the last drops of red fell into the smaller phial, each droplet a promise of greatness and innovation in its own right. Even so, red colors alone meant little, if anything at all. The only significance was that it indicated a successful binding of the biological agent to the potion. The actual, final nature of the potion itself was still an unknown. For all he knew, it might a complete dud, and a waste of reagents.

"How are stimpacks tested?" Even as he posed the question, Martin plucked the scalpel he'd used before from its place on the desk tray. Natalie watched him with rapidly dawning understanding, though her expression did not convey much in the way of agreement. Instead she seemed disturbed; "I will make small cut, not dangerous."

"You're way too eager when it comes to cutting yourself, you know?" she frowned; "Piper told me to stay away from boys if they started pulling out knives."

He could offer naught but agreement to that. Piper might have been thrust into the role of pseudo-parent for her sister, but for all the gods to see, she'd done a decent job of raising her. Natalie Wright was no less sharp for it, and seemed to share her sister's upbeat character, even in the face of the hellhole that was their world. He could admire that.

"I pulled out knife, but you don't flee," he noted, a small grin forming; "You do not listen much to her, as you should, no? Should. Piper is one of the brighter women I have met."

Natalie said nothing to that, though her expression changed. He could not read it, only... the disapproval did not linger. He took that as enough sign that his intentions no longer bothered her. With the precision taught by years of practice, he laid down a cut along his left forearm, from elbow to the first of the wrist bones. It was not deep, and hurt much less than it looked.

"You said small cut?!" Natalie yelled, grabbing for his right hand. He had no intentions of cutting again, and allowed her to take hold of the scalpel. He worried for a moment, seeing the shock on her face. Had he misread her?

"It is small," he argued, prodding at the reddening line with a free finger. Slowly, the entire cut filled with blood, though he had only penetrated at most a hair's breath. The outer cells were cut, but no more. He only needed the blood as a firm indicator of success; "It is not deep at all."

She did not seem to agree.

Martin took the phial out from under the still, no longer dripping, and held the glass up against the ceiling lamp. The dispersal of the light seemed to fit what he remembered, but the memory was vague, too much for him to put trust in.

Holding a finger to the opening, he turned the phial upside down, a mere second to wet the skin, then returned the small flask to the table. He smeared the red liquids over the still-bleeding cut, and allowed himself to finally breathe. He hadn't even realized he'd held it in.

Natalie frowned, eyes narrowing as she inspected the cut. It was clear from her expression that she could see no change.

Martin, however, struggled to contain himself. He could feel it, like a fire against his skin, a warm, balming effect that seemed like it crept across and through him. The cut tickled, too much so for him to contain his grin, which broke into open laughter as the wound started sealing itself up. Not a minute had passed from applying the liquid, and now only a thin, darkening crust remained from where blood had seeped.

"Holy shit..." Natalie's coarse tongue he gave no thought, even as she whispered slurs no child ought know. He was beyond such things. Beyond himself even, overcome with joy, relief, utter and absolute happiness.

He'd done it.

Today, the Commonwealth had begun its path to rebirth. Even if he would have to drag it by the hair.

Warm winds blew across the walled town, even as the sun had long-since disappeared behind its western barrier. Those so unfortunate as to live outside the Wall, at least had the small blessing of a few more minutes of sunlight, before complete darkness settled in.

Martin found himself on the roof once more, staring at the skies. Heavy clouds raced above, allowing only an occasional glimpse of the moon. It felt bizarre to him, even now, to see only a single celestial body illuminating the skies. And, it was so much smaller than Secundus too. Or, perhaps it was merely a much greater distance removed.

What was the story behind it? Was there some long-forgotten religion that held it to be the body of a god? Was it even a god? Maybe moons here were completely different than at home. But, it looked so very much alike to the moons he knew from home.

Would he ever see Masser and Secunda again?

Would he ever see his parents?

Despite himself, he was starting to wonder. He had made progress today. Great progress. More progress than he had made in the entire time he had been here. It had been... almost two months now, had it not? Two months, and how much closer had he come to finding a way home? Have I even tried? When was the last time I tried?

He wanted to go home. He wanted to get away from this pit of decay and ruin, where barbarism held sway and only the archaic walls of an old arena kept safe what remained of civilization. He really did want to go home. But then, the doubts came back, like maggots crawling through his brain, infesting and infecting him with thoughts that should not be. Temptations and ambition in equal measure, of how much he could achieve here, how much he could do and be. At home, he was no greater mage than any other trained in the Institute of Restoration. But here, he was the greatest mage alive. The most powerful mage to walk the land. Not that there is competition. I am also the weakest mage, in that.

Tomorrow, he would inform the Lord Mayor of his success. He would have accomplished what he needed, and with time to spare. He could stand tall, proud of his work, rewarded by merit. People would come to know a new kind of medicine.

And... then what? A breeze across the roof gave him fresh air and fresh thoughts, though they brought little comfort or assurance. What would he do, once the project was completed? Sun had been gone for a near a month now, and unlikely to return soon, if at all. Far as Martin knew, that left him the only qualified doctor in Diamond City. But he could not remain. He knew, he could not remain. This place wasn't his home, no matter all the kindness Piper had shown him, the friendship he had forged with Natalie, and the genuine admiration he had for people like Clements, who persevered and maintained a sense of morality despite the cruelty of the world.

"You're looking pretty down for someone who just invented a new kind of medicine."

He hadn't heard the latch open, though he supposed he'd somehow expected that it would. Martin remained seated, but turned his head to regard Piper as she closed the latch again behind her, bottles in hand. His host was... honestly at this point he couldn't tell. Piper was beyond his capacity for a rational explanation, a criteria for what usually brought him little but frustration. Yet, he could find nothing ill of what to say when he thought of her, or just looked at her. Instead it was emotions he did not need, potential complications he did not dare face. He liked the way things were, and had not the courage to risk upsetting it.

"Natalie helped," he muttered, trying to steer the subject away from his mood. Piper was sharp, too sharp for the distraction to work if he left it at that; "I was thinking of making her my assistant. Apologies if you were grooming for the new reporter."

"Mmm."

He was all too aware of her proximity as she dumped herself down next to him, bottle extended.

It was much too dark for him to tell what it was, but the smell from hers, already opened, spoke of Diamond City beer. There were few sounds this evening, no music from the Dugout, and the shops below were closed up. It was warm, and quiet, and the beer in his hand promised coolness and relaxation, after all the stress he had endured.

He could hear her breathing. A low, soft sound that only registered now because of the silence and their proximity. It was completely unique, a sound that... he did not know what to do with. In a way it made his skin crawl, but in manners which he could scarcely put to words. He'd not had such closeness with another for years, not even with Mari. He simply did not know how to handle it.

"So, what lies on the horizon now?" Her voice was genuinely friendly, warm. He could barely make out her expression, but her tone betrayed the smile. Only, he wasn't sure how to respond, and instead put the bottle to his lips, which prompted her to speak again; "The great wizard of Oz... or Boston, I guess. You have made a magic potion, McDonough's gonna be pleased, I bet."

"I hope he will," Martin sighed, for he recognized the change in tone as she spoke the mayor's name; "Until now I feared I would have been evicted from the town if I could not produce it."

"But you did," her tone brightened, and he could see the gleam of her bottle rise to meet his, clicking them together; "You defined what should and shouldn't be possible. Again. Honestly, one day I'll write a story about you, and no one's gonna believe it."

"I thought people they normally take your articles with grain of salt?" he countered, then met the bottle once more. For a beverage brewed after the death of civilization, it was not of poor quality. Already his fingers buzzed.

"I'll think of something," Piper hummed, a pleasant sound to his ears. She was close. So close, and he... wanted to reach out, to touch her. Maybe just lightly, like a hand on her shoulder. And yet he dared not, not yet. The bottle tempted again, promising courage and a disregard for inhibitions; "In the meantime, you," she drawled lightly, poking his shoulder; "didn't answer my question. You can't out-sly me, Martin, it's how I get the bread and tatos home."

Despite himself, he chuckled at her words. Trying to meet her eyes, or at least where he assumed them to be, left him with a sinking sensation in his stomach, and so instead he looked up, back to the racing clouds.

With such winds, it was warmer than it should have been. Still, he was left at the spot of not knowing what to say. The honest answer was that he would go back to seeking a way home, but... he did not want to say those words. Rather, he did not want to say them to her.

He drained the last of the bottle, hoping to find wisdom at its bottom.

"I don't know."

It wasn't a lie, for he truly had no idea where or how to proceed from here. To say he was seeking a way home was useless anyways, as there was no way obvious to him. He still knew of no spell, had found no magical tome, no kindred mage who could show him the way. There were no texts he could study, no work he could do that would bring him closer. He could as well have been tasked with setting foot on the moon of this world, and the work would have been no more clear.

He would persist in seeking for the way, all the same, but until he found a clue, or a sign... Instead he found another bottle handed his way, procured from somewhere beyond his understanding, as he'd only seen her arrive with the original two. More so was his confusion when he realized Piper too, was on her second bottle. He felt a little itchy already, as if this stuff was stronger than yesterday's.

"Well, you'll come up with something," Piper said, though her voice was more quiet now, softer still than before. It still did not prepare him for her next move, as she shifted closer still and leaned against him, her slighter frame suddenly pressed against his shoulder. It made his breathing halt, for a moment, but he dared not move, nor speak. It brought back memories of the tunnel, when they had hidden away in the boat, pressed together. A sense of euphoria came upon him. Only a soft voice broke off whatever his intoxicated mind was about to unleash of images and ideas. Soft, comfortable and utterly for him and him alone; "Hey, Martin..."

"Mmm?"

"How's it going with the... other stuff? I mean, trying to find a way back to..."

"Tamriel?"

"Mmm..." he felt her nod, chin brushing on his shoulder. Every touch spread new warmth, leaving him none the wiser yet how to respond; "I know you miss it. Miss home. Tamriel sounds like a fairy tale..."

"I do miss home, yes," he muttered, and was for a long minute not sure what else to say. It was clear, all the same, that Piper expected him to say more. Maybe, wanted him to say more. He said the next words with a smile he himself was not certain whether was forced or not; "I've made no progress. It is... calmer than here, certainly. But not fairy tale, I think. There are highwaymen, bandits, beasts, poverty... It is much like here, actually, just less noisy. No guns."

"Well, until you do, I guess I could stand sharing the house with you," Piper mused, then snorted in a way that betrayed her intoxication. It was a nice sound, though less soft and far more amusing than her sighs; "Can't have the Wasteland Magick-Man get snagged up by some raider gang, right?"

"...is that supposed to be me?"

"Mmm," there was a bemused sort of determination to her tone, much as it sounded just as addled by alcohol; "Nat came up with it. I thought it sounded pretty cool."

"You make me sound like a shaman," he chuckled. Despite himself, the silly title held some appeal, if only because it was Natalie who had come up with it. Piper hummed, a sound like she was quietly laughing along. It made something in his gut churn, in a warm and pleasant way. As she lifted her bottle, so did he, and touched them together in another unspoken toast.

"Well you kind of are one of a kind, you know?" she mused.

Leaning against him, she drank from the bottle in a manner that only drunken people could, the angle awkward and inelegant. Martin's own discomfort lessened by the minute as they sat together, sipping his own beer with somewhat greater restraint. It was strong, and he was not wont to heavy alcohol. Still, her words made him happy, more so than he'd expected. The appreciation was genuine, and mutual. When Piper had emptied her bottle, she tried leaning forward to put it down next to the first, but started slipping. He steadied her, hand on her far shoulder, before he even recognized it himself.

It wasn't until the empty bottle touched down, the clink bringing him back, that he realized what he had done, and where his hand was. Something akin to fear, or just anxiety, briefly took hold, until Piper responded by leaning back into him, humming softly.

"...always got my back, don't you?"

"I...try," he did not know how else to respond. He didn't even think he deserved such words. For all intents, Piper was the one who had taken him in, sheltered and fed him. Even in the tunnels she had been the leader, the one who knew where and how to go. What had he done, that she thought so highly of him? It is the drink that talks. She is even lighter weight than me; "Are you okay?"

"Very..." his heartbeat skipped a bit at her tone. Certainly from drunkenness, Piper pressed a little more against his side, resting her head against his. Words utterly failed him, as did actions, leaving him stuck in a sort of defaulting state where he could do naught but remain as he was, one hand around her, the other with his beer. Should he drink? Would that help? "This is... very nice, you know..."

He would answer, reply in kind that he felt the same, only for his tongue to still and his throat dry up, unable to pass neither words nor merest sound. Instead, as Piper's breathing slowly turned to the steadier, slower rhythm of sleep, Martin found himself perfectly content. He felt more at ease here, in this moment now, than he had since the day he arrived.

"Toa e mnogu udobno..." he whispered, almost afraid that if he spoke too loudly, she would wake. The night was warm, and he was in good company. Light snoring made for an acceptable replacement for the silent crickets, and the warmth from her body, pressed to his; "Utre ḱe ve boli glava, Piper..."

Today had been a good day.

I like writing mushy scenes shut-up...

Ah. This one was an absolute pain to write. The Chemistry Table/Station is clearly meant to be a distillery, of sorts, but lacks the components that would actually make it viable. I rewrote the alchemy scene almost ten times, trying to get the balance between in-game and functionality down. It's kinda meh, but it works for now.

Given Nibenese culture being what it is, the language is a bit of a bastardization of Macedonian, Greek and Latin. In case you were wondering what the hell Martin is saying half the time.