The Start of Sore Feet
It was a strange thing, being back underground. In a way, it felt like home, and yet it was the return to a world even these people called foreign, but at the same time held a deep reverence for. Much like me they escaped the radiation of the surface when times were bad, and remember this. We would make it to Arlington before I truly understood the kind of life they had led.
Something about the idea of leaving a place had never really appealed to him. No matter the kind of place, being situated somewhere gave him a sense of belonging and stability, even if it was a chance that leaving it for somewhere else might be a betterment of things. As it was a saturday, Natalie was still fast asleep this early in the morning, leaving only the two of them up and about, though clearly, Piper liked it no more than him.
"I can't even see the sun out there yet..." she muttered, halfway asleep still; "I forgot caravaners don't believe in sleep."
From the small room behind the plywood wall, Natalie's snores could be faintly heard, discreet and quiet as befitted a child. It sadly only made Martin's own longing for his mattress even harder to overcome, having already rolled the entire thing up into its place in the closet. Light barely crossed the overhang windows, leaving much of the main room in a colorless, dawning atmosphere. It was cold, too, the end of september promising only colder mornings still, and colder days as well. When he came back from sealing up the clinic, the only real change was that Piper now nursed a cup of coffee, and the shotgun leaning against the couch, ammunition-boxes piled aside it.
"I have locked up the clinic," he reported, as if to a superior back at the Institute, though the difference being that said superiors would not have offered him coffee in turn for such reports. He accepted the steaming enamel mug with apprehensive greed, careful not to scald himself on the tin by clasping fingers 'round the handle; "You have prepared the food?"
The backpack he'd carried there was now fuller, stuffed with stimpacks, gauze, surgical equipment, radaway and eight small phials, each containing red, viscous liquid. It had struck him soon enough that, if these potions were to be ingested, it would be the better solution to make them readily dilutable. The entire reason his potion was off, or had seemed to be, was that it was already a concentrate, rather than the regular brand. Piper nodded towards the backpack slung on the sofa, brahmin leather and some other textile he could not place. There was a new package too, one he'd not seen before.
"Ten cans of cram, purified water and I'm bringing a thermo for the coffee."
"That is the can that keeps it warm, yes?"
"And a lifesaver it is," she hummed, smiling as if the metallic cylinder was some dear, old friend. Given its state of countless scratches, dents and only faint traces of its old paint, he could believe that it in fact was just so; "Out there, not like you're gonna stumble over anyone with real beans until you hit Bunker Hill, and they charge like it was copper."
It was strange, the value copper held in this land. Stranger still that it had not been turned into coin for it. At home, it was a common and base metal, but here, every bit of electric wiring, every machine, every automaton, every light, all depended on copper. And with the mines long-since lost, those who could scavenge copper from the ruins of what once was, could find themselves frightfully rich frightfully fast.
Gold, on the other hand, was barely mentioned. Beyond being shiny, it was apparently only really used in machines too complex for him - or anyone else here - to understand, much less build. It was a bizarre reversal of values. Before he could discuss the oddity of the value of metals, Piper nodded to the new package, still wrapped and a mystery to him.
"One of the guards came along with it while you were out," she explained; "I think it's the standard kit Sun used when he ventured out."
"Sun said he did not have time to get out," Martin noted, recalling his first conversation with the man, now so long ago that it seemed more like history than a recent memory. Maybe Sun had been exaggerating, stressed as he was. The metallic plate he fished out of the wrappings certainly would seem to betray some use, the edges worn from wind and weather; "This is... this is armor?"
"Looks like it," draining the last drops of coffee, Piper stood, examining the metal plate. It was a cuirass, of sorts, though it looked like it had once been part of something else. Steel plates had been welded together, forming the recognizable shape of a breastplate, though thin enough that he wondered what good such might do. It might fare well against arrows, but firearms had long-since put to rest his admiration for a well-strung bow, or the intricate workings of an arbalest. The letters 'D.C' were painted on with thick, white strokes; "Looks like the sort of thing the gate guards used to wear."
"Used to?" He had seen the men at the gate, wearing those odd, padded pieces. Even more odd, they were pre-War relics, armored suits used by the gladiators of the very arena they now inhabited. Neither seemed made for firearms.
"They found out the armor wasn't bulletproof," she shrugged, though with a sympathetic wince as she beheld the piece; "But it's better than nothing, definitely."
"Metal isn't great for mages," he'd never made the experience himself, of course, but there was a reason the Legion's battlemages and healers did not don the same steel plate as the soldiers; "Iron inhibits, somehow."
Piper, midway through donning her own coat, repaired and stitched, looked at him like she'd only now woken up, and seemed as if a renewed sense of curiosity had awoken as well.
"I don't know how."
Something in her eyes deflated at his words. Like an immense and genuine sense of disappointment at the missed opportunity at gaining knowledge.
Then she shook it off, and shoved the last boxes of ammunition into the backpack. Martin hefted his own, not quite as heavy as he'd worried. The extra weight, of course, came as he strapped the metal plate on. Though there was a strange sense of familial security in having metal strapped against his chest, it was heavy enough that he considered going without. The armor being effectively his credentials, however, put pause to that temptation. It went well enough on top of his blouse, the plate's own padding preventing it from immediately chafing. Finally, throwing on the weathered old coat he'd found in the tunnel, Martin felt... somewhat ready.
Piper pulled a pair of gloves on, thin brown leather, rolling her shoulders as if a final preparation was only then taken care of. She looked every part the adventurer he'd come to know her as, an indomitable spirit questing for the truth that was out there, or so she claimed. He was not certain what "truth" was out there, exactly, but trusted that she did. She left behind a note, glued to the fridge, and turned to him.
"So, ready to go?"
"As ready as I will be," he nodded, pulling the pack on. Heavy, until he tied the two straps around his waist, and much like a proper suit of mail, the weight was instantly redistributed, and much more easily handled.
It was light outside now, though the warmth did not yet accompany it. Cold of the night still hung in the air, morning dew glistening from tapards and wavy fabrics. It was the kind of humid cold that went through cloth and cotton, clammy and far more effective at awakening the spirit than any cup of coffee.
Merchants were already trickling through the otherwise empty streets, hauling their goods away in backpacks and on saddle-laden Brahmin, the hideous creatures bellowing drowsily at their handlers. Martin and Piper joined them in the stream, heading for the town gates. It felt strange, now leaving this place again. Among the throng, he knew, they likely stood out no more than any other pair of merchants or travelers, of which there were a few. As it turned out, people prefered traveling in groups, and caravans were by far the safest kind of group one was likely to find, already bristling with guns and armor to defend their cargo.
It was oddly reminiscent of home, like that.
A cold sun bathed the plaza, reflecting from the aged concrete floor as if it were snow, gleaming in the early morning. Where the streets went off in their miles away, he could only see a few hundred yards out, if that, before the morning fog utterly obscured them from his sight. It made the old city seem less real, almost as if he were gazing into the barriers suspended between Mundus and Oblivion, and any moment now a Daedric creature could emerge from within the mist.
Outside the gates, the caravan masters had their people gathered, clearly distinct from those who simply tagged along, like themselves, by their uniform clothes and attires, far less akin to what those who spent most of their time within the walls of Diamond City would sport. They bore greater resemblance to soldiers of fortune than tradesmen, clad in metal and leather, with large sidearms clasped to their hips, and rifles slung across their backs. It was to such a point that he could only tell them apart from their guards by the better quality of their gear. Several of the large, braying pack beasts were already assembled, tied one to the next by rope and harness, it served as a reminder of the bizarre fauna of this land. The Brahmin were less repulsive as one became accustomed to them, but even so, Martin found he was rather content if he never saw the process of turning one into beef. It was downright disconcerting, all the same, to see a single creature with two individual heads, each looking at different things.
But he made the conscious decision to never drink milk again, in this place. He'd seen healthier looking organs in plague victims than the udders on a Brahmin.
"Gather around, those who wish to accompany the caravan to Bunker Hill!"
The man who spoke wore a heavy set of metal and leather, clad in protective gear that looked more likely to survive a firefight than the metal sheet Martin had been handed. He was older than expected, gray hairs and a silvery mustache decorating a face scarred and weathered by years on the road. He carried a large rifle, with the ease of years of use. He did not shout, yet his voice carried clear and far, and the banter of the plaza subsided in expectation of what was to come.
" I am Angus Torgues, caravan master of this ensemble, and you will adhere to my word if you're tagging along, that clear?"
Some nodded, others offered murmurs of agreement. Most, likely, too tired still for much more.
"We're gonna be moving through the Green Line subways from here to Science Park. On the way, we will be stopping at Arlington, Boyleston and Park Street. If you're doing business there, inform the caravan guards before arrival. We will make an hour's rest at Park Street, then head for the Science Park/West End station, which is where we'll be emergin' back unto the surface."
Martin, as the man spoke, pulled out his small, browning map, trying to keep track of the station names. The Green Line was luckily easy to spot, and so far the route was the same as he had expected it to be. Piper leaned in, likewise studying the map, though drowsy as she still was, ended up leaning against him for support.
He did not mind, and meanwhile the apparent caravan master continued, drawing any unwanted attention away from them. It was strange, that of the two of them, she was the one less able to handle early mornings. He wagered it came from having to attend early lectures every morning, on his part.
He also did like how her warmth spread to him, the air around still biting cold.
"Guards from Bunker Hill will meet us on the other side o' the bridge, and we'll head through the highways from there. All goes well, we'll see Bunker Hill before twelve, and you can make your arrangements there."
The highways were not marked on the map, but Piper tapped a finger on a wide riverside road. It seemed to lead fairly close to Bunker Hill.
"This caravan will proceed from Bunker Hill after resupply, to Covenant, Greentop, the Finch Farm and the Slog. Any of you got business with the Nordhagen Farms, sorry to say it's delayed until the Super Mutants in the Satellite Array move on or get wiped out."
The crowd seemed to take the news with something like quiet resignation. Likely, some had hoped the route to Nordhagen was still open and traversed, and that they could do business there. Martin saw a merchant's shoulders slump, dragging his pack-beast away. Torques, meanwhile, gave a silent hint to his men, and with the crack of a leather whip above its heads, the frontmost of the brahmins sat into motion.
"Hope you enjoyed the softshell," Piper sighed, rubbing her eyes as she walked. He already missed the warmth she provided, though he tried not to let it show. Her sigh became a yawn, before she spoke again; "Sounds like it'll be a while before there's fresh seafood."
"Mmm."
"You're not tired at all?"
"Six years of lectures in early mornings," he chuckled; "You get used to it, I think."
"Ten years of reporting," Piper snorted, bumping him on the arm. His smile only widened at her drowsy expression, merged with an increasingly coy grin. They passed through the stockades, which he'd scarcely paid much attention to when they arrived. A wall of metallic frames and pipes, covered up with wooden planks and sandbags and barbed wire, enough to make up a presentable perimeter, through which all traffic from the north must pass. Even so, for all that he had not paid them much heed next to the towering Wall, he was certain they had been upgraded since then. Piper's voice, however, demanded his attention; "Early bird gets the worm, and I've been up and at it earlier than this. Doesn't change that you're not supposed to be up and at it before sunrise."
"Mmm."
The caravan led the way north, across the very bridge he and Piper had traversed when he'd first come to Diamond City. It was an odd sense of familiarity, seeing the same masonry, the same cracks in the asphalt and concrete. The same cars, down below, with the same skeletons seated behind the wheels of their cars, as if stuck in the worst traffic jam in history. He could not imagine one had existed before the war that could rival two centuries of stand-still. A crooked street-sign, the metal bar brown with rust, denoted the bridge as the 'David Ortiz' bridge, though the name meant him nothing, and likely would anyone else here have an idea of whomever that had been.
In their common ignorance of the past, these people were just as foreign to this land as he was, and the realization struck him as rather...sad. It was a reminder of just how much had been lost.
Kenmore Station was another familiar sight, though he'd not much looked at it from the outside before, as they were leaving it the last time he saw it. Now, it opened up like a maw in the grass, a cracked, ruined block of masonry with its name proudly declared in faded iron. It resembled more a cave entrance branching off from the main road, surrounded by red tiles and overgrowth. The entrance was as cracked and weathered as the rest of the structure, flanked by two Diamond City guards in their customary garb. He glanced at the brahmin. There was no way cattle would agree to be led underground.
Surprisingly, the two-headed beasts of burden did not at all object to the experience. Torgues led the first beast down by a strap, then the rest simply followed behind, bellowing as they left the sun behind. The guards next to the entrance did not appear overly interested, in itself an indication of just how commonplace such a sight must have been.
Piper hesitated at the entrance, allowing others to pass her by. When he too paused next to her, she put on a smile both forced and awkward, almost embarrassed;
"Back into it, huh?"
"It is not so bad, I think," though he understood well why she was not keen on going back into the tunnels. Safe as they were, from radstorms at least, it was as if a different world existed down there, bound by different rules and laws than the one up here. Still, doubt did gnaw at him; "Are there any dead stations on the way?"
"No, no, all the stations from here to the and rest of the way are green," she shook her head and sighed; "Just not... super keen on tunnels, I think."
"Should I not be more worried?"
"Mmmm, probably," Piper nodded, a small smile creeping its way out, arms dangling at her sides in abject defeat; "Sorry, just... feeling a bit on edge since last time."
He took her hand, then, in a movement that caught him as much off guard as it seemed to do her. Then, he did not let go, which surprised him even further. Martin gave her a squeeze, light enough that it simply conveyed, he hoped, support. He had no idea if it worked.
"We're going north though," he reminded her, and as he took a step forward, now almost at the back of the caravan, she mirrored it. One step at a time, they descended down the concrete ramp, into the metal maw of the station's entrance. Already the front of the caravan had descended through and down, and the braying of brahmin echoed out like from a haunted tomb; "It's a safe route."
"Yeah," she muttered, and something in him almost ceased to work as she gave his hand a squeeze in turn, tighter than the first. Then, to his great disappointment, broke contact and wrung her hands out, fingers cracking; "Yeah, it is. Alright let's go, before I grow any wiser and back out of this."
Martin did not mention how it had been her idea to come along in the first place. Already he was much happier that she had, indeed, decided to come. Adjusting his own rucksack, he made the passing through the metal gate, and into the underworld once again.
It was a strange thing, how nostalgic he felt at the sight of the blue-colored ceramic tiles, that covered the pillars of the subway's top floor. For some reason they spoke to him of safety, of a comfort he knew they did not offer. Perhaps it had more to do with the fact that, as opposed to the other stations he and Piper had visited on their trek from the west, this one was lived-in, if only by its guards.
The caravan had slowed down, up ahead, as the drivers had to force their charges down the stairs and into the underground proper. Electric lights shone from the ceiling and the walls, casting the corridors in dancing shadows as dozens of people crammed their way through. The guards here, much like the ones on the surface, seemed at most mildly interested, if even that, as they watched the parade of man and beast marching past.
It was evident that something had changed since they had come through here the first time, however. He'd suspected something already as they left Diamond City, but now it was growing more and more apparent. Much like the stockades outside of the Wall, here as well the defenses had been reinforced. Sandbags, barbed wire and floodlights faced the tunnel west, with firing steps and doubled layers of the old, yellowed bags stacked higher than a man was tall. Machineguns too, both nestled in turrets that hummed and shook with sputtering engines, and those that even now rested against their firing positions. Bullet holes still marred some of the walls, where cracked masonry bore witness of old firefights.
"Security's been beefed up," Piper noted.
"The stockades too, earlier," he nodded, eyes wandering about; "Because of Quincy?"
Some of the guards down here even wore metal plates over their usual uniforms, though they looked significantly better able to withstand bullets than what he had been given. Some of them even resembled knights, at a glance, with heavy metal visors that could be pushed down on their helmets. Most of them sat around a fire on the tracks, a kettle of steaming water dangling above it on a spindly-looking stand.
"Probably, yeah."
"The mayor takes the threat serious, then."
"McDonough's a lot of things, few of them good," Piper scoffed; "But he's not stupid. It's hard to be self-serving if raiders or Gunners overrun your source of income, you know? Gotta keep Diamond City safe...ish, to keep the caps flowing. He wouldn't last a day out in the Commonwealth."
He could not argue against that. Few indeed were the people who could make a living and thrive in the wasteland, outside the relative safety of their settlements. Raiders, he decided, did not count in this, as they did not so much make a living as they robbed others of theirs. He hummed, nodded but otherwise did not comment. Piper's grudge against the mayor was well-settled and would not be budged, and in truth he grew less and less assured that it was not irrational. The man was highly charismatic, that much was undeniable, and he seemed to have a sound grasp on what his city needed. But at the same time, slippery. History, especially the purges, left a foul taste in his mouth, and the mayor seemed not at all regretful. It was like a mask, and to his shame it was one he could not really see past.
Piper could, however. It wasn't until they were well and truly past the perimeters of the station and its guards, and now walked on the rails towards Hynes Convention, that he found a way to break the silence. A relative term, for all around them, chatter and banter amongst the other travelers rebounded and echoed off the walls, creating the illusion that thousands, rather than dozens, walked this path. Overhead, electric mercury lamps lit their path, like artificial stars on an otherwise black ceiling.
"You don't like the mayor," it was perhaps a too-mild way of phrasing it, judging from the raised brow Piper sent him, rather than a response, so he continued; "I can't blame you. I know history of Diamond City, I think. Some of it, the purges. Have you ever spoken out against him?"
His question seemed to take her aback, a little at least, and it was a dozen meters more of silent walking until she found a reply.
"People have been disappearing, recently," she started, voice lowered. No one around seemed to care what they spoke of though, all engrossed in their own lives. It suited him well enough, and he nudged for her to continue. He did not know this; "Just, you know, here and there. One day there's a street bum gone missing, no one minds it. Then it's one of the gardeners, then one of Nat's classmates stopped coming in... I asked Nick to look into it, see if they just moved or something. But, no, their homes were just left like that, like they went out to get water, and never came back. Last week, security confiscated the brahmin of a merchant who'd just up and vanished."
"Abductions?"
"Mmm," Piper glanced about, slowing her step a little. Folks passed them by, some giving weird or questioning looks. Soon enough they were at the back of the caravan, trailing some meters behind the rearmost guard; "Strangest thing though, is the guards won't investigate it. It's like a brick wall, there's simply no response, nothing. Like they've got orders not to bother."
"Mayor's orders?"
"Who else?" she scoffed, but nodded; "McDonough's up to something, and I don't think it's just good-old sweeping under the rug. Something's up. I've got an article, literally finished it last night. Left Nat with instructions on printing and publishing it, should be done when we're back."
"An article about the abductions?"
"Mmm," again, she only made a non-committal hum, at first, as if trying to find out if speaking aloud was safe. The tunnel walls alone bore witness, them and the trailing guard. For all intents and purposes though, he did not seem to care. Or maybe he could not hear them, muffled through his helmet; "Was working on it for a while now, trying to find an angle for it. Institute infiltrations, yeah, but I can't go around accusing people of being synths, or working with them. But McDonough's clearly trying to suppress news of the abductions, and if they're done by the Institute..."
It was a disconcerting implication. From what little he - and anyone else it seemed - knew of the Institute, it was more akin to some manmade, Daedric prince, hiding away in the Commonwealth like its own plane of Oblivion. Those who served such an entity, by extension, likely had little regard for their fellows. The idea that the mayor was counted among them did not do him well.
"I hope I'm wrong though," Piper muttered, her voice now quieter for a different reason than before. It seemed more like worry, a deep-seated unrest in her as well as it was in him now; "I hope I didn't make a massive mistake."
"Meaning?" he inquired, slowing down further as she did. Here, it seemed safe enough to put some distance to the caravan, the tunnel illuminated and without side-passages or holes from where all kinds of crap could crawl. Piper frowned, at first, without speaking, until something like resignation came upon her face.
"I left Nat with it," she muttered, and it became clear to him that the distone to her voice was shame; "I don't... usually do that, you know. Just sometimes, and... it seemed like a good enough idea when I did it, but now, I fear what if I'm onto something, and they pay her a visit before I get back?"
He'd not thought of that, and now that he did, all his previous joy at having Piper accompany him felt as if it turned to ashes in his mouth, dry as parchment. His gut sank and squirmed at the idea of Natalie alone against... against whatever indeed paid her a visit. She was armed, he knew that, and sharp. But wit and a pistol only went so far if someone sent actual thugs after her.
"Do you want to turn back?" he loathed himself a little for even making it a question. His mind desperately tried coming up with solutions, ideas on how Piper did not need to turn back anyway. Telling himself it was an attempt for reassurances did not lessen the gnawing sensation of shame; "If someone does come... where could she go? Before, where did she go when you were away?"
"The Dugout," Piper breathed, and it loosened the cold grip on his own heart as he recalled the Barbrovs. Both struck him as genuinely good men, but still rough enough that few would dare to mess with them. And they evidently cared a great deal for Natalie; "Vadim knows I'm out of town."
"You trust him, them," it was no question, he'd seen enough to know 'Uncle' Vadim was in all but blood; "Vadim and Yefir, they are good people, yes."
"They are."
"You can still go back, we are not far in yet," he offered, wondering if she could tell how little he wanted her to. And hoping that she couldn't; "Go and make sure she is safe?"
Piper stopped in her tracks entirely now, face scrounged up in a mask of frustrated indecision. He said nothing, knowing now was not his place to speak. Piper deciding to accompany him had to be her own decision, for he knew if he spoke now, for the rest of this tour he would feel but gnawing doubt, and if something did happen to Natalie, indescribable guilt.
"No, no I..." she stopped herself again, shifting on her feet as she threw a glance back the way they had come. The station lights were still visible in the distance. For a moment longer she fidgeted, then breathed and seemed of one mind; "I have to stop letting my paranoia get the best of me like this. Nat's a smart girl, she knows where to run and what to do if someone comes after her. It's not the first time. Won't be last time, either, probably."
Martin just watched her, waiting. Much as he wanted to ask, he held his tongue. Much as this felt like a crossroads to be crossed, he would not interfere with her decision. He would not even be worthy of her friendship if he did.
Then, a wry smile, and a scoff of resignation, and something the weight of a boulder lifted from his stomach, as Piper trotted up and past him, beckoning;
"Come on," she said, her tone insisting as she grabbed him by the arm, hauling him just a few feet until he too got going once again; "We're going to Greentop, aren't we?"
Her change in mood was likely forced, for his sake, but Martin found he could live with that. He'd not interfered in her decision to accompany him, and that really was all he needed to feel pretty good about the outcome. He wasn't sure if that made him a hypocrite. Piper had made the decision, not he, and that meant she had found it an okay outcome too.
Gravel crunching underfoot, they caught back up with the rest of the caravan. The rear guard glanced back as they approached, rifle raised a little more than at rest, but lowered it once they came into proper view. He did seem to find something amusing, though the helmet meant Martin could only guess. Not that he cared much, in truth. Strangest thing about the Commonwealth, and being so surrounded by those much more accustomed to its dealings of death, is that the disregard for others had a way of rubbing off on one, even if just mildly so. At least, for those one did not know. It was made easier still by the apparent insistence of guards that they covered themselves wholly, that one could entirely forget it was even a person behind the mask.
Up ahead, brighter lights shone than what the caravan carried. The two of them made their way up through the crowds, a more determined, almost relieved step to Piper's gait, as if a burden had been lifted from her shoulders by that one, simple decision. He had no idea exactly what thoughts might cross her mind, in that moment, or in this. He did not ask, either. Hynes Convention Center was coming up, at least he assumed it to be, as the tunnel started widening and growing taller. The overhead lights disappeared into a higher ceiling, and the concrete walls vanished to the sides. Dim, flickering lights hung from the ceiling, evidently the work of those who had come since the war, as they were strung between the pillars in a height no train could have reliably passed beneath.
Strangely it seemed more like a camp for the passersby than anyone actually living there. The platform itself was clean, much as it could be, and bereft of much but the occasional bedroll. Sleepy-looking vagrants and scavengers sat in the corners or among the stone pillar, peddling cheap-looking wares or simply observing the caravan. Some were cooking food over makeshift campfires, boiling kettles of herbal-smelling tea in white pots.
"Hynes isn't really one of the inhabited stations," Piper explained, perhaps catching his expression. He did not miss how her fingers brushed against the stock of her shotgun. These were scavengers, then, the kind she had warned him about? He'd seen their like in the market, but mostly they were lined before Myrna's shop. This was the first he'd seen them in the field, and the change was noticeable; "Still, some folks come through here, or spend the night if they can't get into Diamond City before nightfall. Safer to sleep between two guarded stations than on the street outside the gates."
"Mmm," though he had no firearm of his own, his hand did stray for the large knife fastened to his belt. It was the same Piper had given him, almost the first day they had met. Strange still, that so much had happened in a mere dozen hours, back then; "Scavengers?"
"Some of them, sure," she nodded; "Others might be wanderers, hermits... hard to say, and... probably best not to, you know?"
"We're continuing," Martin noted, recalling the caravan master's words; "We're not stopping until... Arlington?"
"Then Boyleston, and Park Street," Piper hummed, eyes going back and forth around the platform as they moved through. The guards likely did the same, but once again had the benefit of masks, letting them scrutinize every vagrant and flea-ridden scavenger; "Not sure how long we're stopping. Park Street's the closest to GoodNeighbour, with all it entails."
"That is where the ghouls from Diamond City went, yes?" it was only rarely brought up, even in Piper's household, and he knew little of it. A supposed safe space for the persecuted, those who had been unjustly hurled out the gates of Diamond City. But, also a drug-den, a nest of criminals and assorted scum. Raiders in all but name some of them, and led by a mob boss who ruled his people through drugs and charisma. Honestly, it was not too dissimilar to McDonough, the more he came to know of the mayor.
"It's shunned by a lot of folks, not all of them for the wrong reasons either," she explained, casting a last glance at the hermits and vagrants in Hynes before they once again delved into the tunnel north, following the caravan's lead. Not that there were a lot of options, as the few side-tunnels he could spot here, and there indeed were only a few, had been walled off; "It's got its own mayor, guy named Hancock, a ghoul. Not a lot of people know this, but..." for a moment she paused, glancing about as if to see if some might be paying overt attention, then she continued, her voice a conspiratorial hush; "...apparently he's actually McDonough's brother. Estranged, like, really estranged. Weirdest part is, he wasn't a ghoul back then, I think. People say he turned into one."
Martin was about to ask if one even could turn into a ghoul. But, then, of course, that was how all ghouls had been made in the first place. Back when the world ended. It was just that he found the idea strange, that today such could still take place. Was there really a place left where the kind of borderline arcane radiation existed that could turn people into ghouls?
"Did he stand too long in the radstorms?"
He didn't really understand why Piper started biting her knuckle, sounding like she was choking down on a laugh that might not be entirely appropriate. He'd not meant it as a joke, or to be in poor taste. It had seemed a reasonable question.
"No, no, he... did drugs," she coughed, clearing her throat; "Like, a lot of drugs, and then something he took turned him into a ghoul. That's the story anyway."
"You doubt it."
"There's a lot of drugs out there," Piper hummed; "But, never quite heard of something capable of turning you into a ghoul. The amount of radiation would... yeah, I just dunno, you know? But that's the story, and I've never been able to get an interview, so it'll probably be that way."
"If it is such a bad place..."
"Why does Diamond City trade with them?" though he'd have worded it differently, Piper hit the nail on the head, so to speak, and he could but nod as she snorted with vague amusement; "Because Diamond City gets most of its high-end drugs, weapons and alcohol from GoodNeighbour. You think the Upper Stands lower themselves to Vadim's moonshine?"
He'd seen the people from the Upper Stands, and no, he did not imagine them partaking in the beverages of the Dugout, no matter how much he himself had come to enjoy the place and its brews. The air about had seemed to utterly indignant at his mere presence by the mayor's office, entering the Dugout might just cause a corrosive effect.
"I imagined they made their own."
"Most of them are old money," it was clear from her tone what she thought of such, and Martin decided not to speak of the nobility of his homeland. There were too many overlaps for such to be a pleasant subject; "Remember when I said people had become rich in the weirdest ways, back when we returned to the surface? Radchicken magnates, Water-barons, Brahmin-cartels... These days, their great-great grandkids still grow fat and rich, but now they've got others to do the actual work for them, you know?"
"Sounds familiar," Martin snorted. The East Empire Trading Company might have once been founded by crafty sailors and daring merchants, but today its monopoly was so utterly entrenched that those who sat at the top made no greater risks than when crossing the street. It was guaranteed wealth; "I saw some of them at the Mayor's office last week. I think pH of the room dropped."
"Pee-eigh?" Piper gave him a strange look. Martin paused, for he was damn sure he'd seen the term used in one of Sun's medical books, so it was known here. Then again, Piper had likely never delved into chemistry.
"It means, how acidic or basic something is," describing it felt a bit as if the metaphor had already died, and with it his attempt at a pun; "Like, it is corrosive, if pH is too great or low value, yes? A medium value, it is seven, and different liquids or gas, they have different values? Like, sulphuric acid, you know this one? It has low pH value, and will corrode other material until equalized to neutral value of seven..."
"Right," Piper nodded, sounding for all the world as if she completely understood. And yet, he had the suspicion she was as confused as before; "But, yeah, most of them probably cheered on when McDonough threw the ghouls out, but they'll happily chug GoodNeighbour swill. For all they know it's 'imported from the northern vineyards' or something like that."
"I thought GoodNeighbour was inside the city?" Martin frowned as he tried piecing it all together. How could a place within the ruins of a place as vast as Boston have the soil to produce grapes fit for wine? Unless, of course, wine was something entirely different here. He'd not yet actually seen any;" How can they have vineyards?"
"They can't," she laughed, a short sound that bounced off the concrete walls, mixing in with the nose of hundreds of chattering mouths; "GoodNeighbour's got a bar, like the Dugout. The 'fine, imported brews' the Upper Stands drink is just WhiteChapel Charlie's own moonshine."
"I imagine they will not like to know," Martin quirped, grinning himself at the idea of the upper class drinking the same swill, but at doubtlessly much higher prices than them. It felt as if there was, even here, a small sense of justice in the world. Maybe. Likely they were so rich that the heightened prices did not at all face them; "Is Charlie a ghoul?"
"A Mr. Handy, actually," the robot sort? It was funny to imagine such an automaton in the role of brewmaster, but then, he'd already seen one serving noodles, manning a storefront and playing at lawbringer; "Different sort though, apparently it's a European model. Got some kind of flag, and a bowler hat too. Nice place if you're going for a drink, way I hear it."
"You've not been there, then."
"Can't afford it," she scoffed. Martin was about to answer, as a rat squeaked in anger at having nearly been stepped on, and darted across the tracks into some unseen hole, vanishing into the darkness of dancing shadows; "Real attraction though, that's the singer, Magnolia. Supposed to be a real beauty, with a voice that'll melt the heart of a robot."
"A bard?"
"Not sure if that'd be praise or not. Never seen one," Nor had he, in truth. Supposedly they oft frequented the more well-off taverns and inns, but the College bar had never been much to speak of, and the only songs heard in that hall had been the drunken rants of cooped-up youths; "What's a bard?"
"It's... like performer, they sing stories, I think..."
"You've never seen one either, have you?" Piper chuckled, and when he did not respond but with a scoff of his own, knocked him on the shoulder. He caught sight of her grin in the dim lights of the overhead lamps, old and weathered by time and use. Some flickered, casting uneven shadows on the ground; "One day, Martin. Then we'll go in there, drink expensive booze and get our hearts broken, how's that sound?"
One day. There was absolute confidence in her voice, as far as he could tell at least. Absolute confidence in that he would still be here for them to do it, and that they both would return hale and hearty from this venture. The metal plate on his chest gave him some confidence in the latter, though it was still the former, Piper's seemingly assured promise, that made him stall. If for the shortest of moments.
He had made the promise of giving this land a chance. He'd promised that much, and he would keep to it. Piper, for her part, seemed convinced the choice was already made, and that he had decided to stay, forsaking his homeland for hers. But why? What made her so confident? Had she seen something in him that he himself had not, or was it mere wishful thinking. If the latter, then... why? He understood well the value of friendship, and that she had few beyond him. Was that it? Was she so starved for friends that someone like him would be so highly valued? The notion still refused to find its purchase in him. No one at home, beyond his family, had ever valued his company to the degree she seemed to do. He'd not changed, as far as he knew, so why? What had?
Piper was not like him, even if she had few meaningful relations. She was smart, sharp and genuinely enjoyable to be around. She was warm and hospitable, never failing for words or deeds. All of those traits that he could not lay claim to, she had in spades. It would be hubris to think them alike, and yet he wanted to, deep down. He wanted to think he could be like her.
"That's an amazingly dour look you got all of a sudden," Piper noted, having apparently watched him as his mind went away. It was only now that he noticed, and was reminded of the proximity of her presence. Close enough that he could hear the breath escaping her lips when she scoffed, and the gravel crunching underfoot, even in the cacophony of nose brought about by the rest of the caravan. The dancing shadows cast her face in a half-hidden light, reflecting back from hazel orbs; "What?"
Something warm stuck to his boot in that moment, wet and muddy, rather than the crunch of gravel. Martin did not need to glance down to know what he had stepped in, but at least it afforded him an excuse for his apparently evident change of mood.
"I stepped in something," he muttered, and hoped she would find no more meaning behind his dourness than that open disgust.
"Eww," she made a face of revolt as he started scraping the liquid dung off against the gravel, smearing blackish brown across the rocks. They began sticking to his boot, forming almost a scaly layer; "Yeah, that's a mood-killer if I've ever seen one."
"Boots are waterproof," he muttered, though it was only a hope, more so than certain knowledge. These would need cleaning later. Hopefully the sunlight and use would dry out the shit and he could scrape it off properly. The dankness and dampness of the tunnels, and the cold, did little to further thát particular agenda. It was the clothes stick to his body, and the cold metal press against what felt as if it was his naked skin; "I wish clothes were too. The tunnels are... wet?"
"Humid," she noted; "Well, yeah, wet too, probably. Ton of condensation, nowhere to go. I don't think the airshafts were ever unblocked in these tunnels, even after we could live on the surface again. People need somewhere to shelter from radstorms."
"How is there enough air then?"
"Draft," he did not understand what she meant, and it seemed to dawn on her as she saw the way he frowned at her simple answer; "Tunnel entrances, at the stations, are generally open unless there's radstorms or raiders nearby. There's always a draft through. That and some of the old ventilation systems still work."
"Ah," that made enough sense for him to feel more at ease, and the air he breathed felt less thick than before; "Impressive."
"I know, right?" she huffed; "Hotplate's on the fritz every other day, but these things still work, somehow."
"Wonders of the Old World."
"Yeah, right, 'come and see the grand spectacles of the still-functional ventilation systems'" Piper exclaimed, drawing some stares as she spread her arms wide like some merchant at the market, proclaiming wares of fantastical abilities. Like a lightweight mortar that would not crack at the first strike of the pestle. The only fantastical ability was the man's gift at being gone by the time Martin returned; "Somehow I don't think it'll draw as many tourists as you'd like."
"In Tamriel, there is field of study, Dwemerology," though he knew little enough of it, the study of the Dwemer had never interested him much beyond surface-level curiosity. Expeditions into ancient holds often led fewer members out than had walked in; "It is like, archeology, but old Dwemer contraptions they still work. Especially their automatons."
"Sounds neat, what're they like?"
"Dangerous," Piper raised a brow at his reply; "Robots but, not like synths or Mr. Handies. More like weapons, and they can think and attack, as if their masters not long, long dead. No one really knows how, I think."
"So, long-lost civilisation with more advanced tech that you don't really understand?" she mused, and he could well enough tell where her trail of thoughts was leading; "Sounds kinda, I dunno, like you'd have experience with that sort of thing?"
Martin snorted.
"Dwemer disappeared... thousand years ago? I do not know. Long ago, certainly. They are ancient history, a mystery. Their machines linger, some still working," the hows of it, he never understood. Unless the Dwemer had somehow cracked the same technology as these people had, before the Great War; "I do not think they did it like your ancestors. I have heard of steam pistons and gemstones, but no electricity or wires."
"And that's strange, in your land?"
"I think so?"
"I mean, you know..." Piper seemed to remember where they were, as the word 'magicks' did not pass her lips, though her gestures did well enough in implying it; "...I thought there wasn't really a limit."
"When a flame is made, you can tell where the energy comes from," he explained, voice lowered but still somewhat certain others would just mistake his words for a chemistry lesson. The lessened attention he noticed from their fellow travelers seemed a reward; "But I have never heard anyone tell how they did it."
"That's... unsettling."
Up ahead, the ribboned walls of the tunnel were giving away once more. Martin paused in what he was about to say, realizing with a start that they had already reached the next station. It felt like minutes at most since they had laid Hynes Convention Center and its hermits behind them. For a caravan of men and cattle, it was moving fast. That, or the distance had been a great deal shorter than he'd thought it would be.
A sign with old, faded letters danged from the tunnel's mouth, declaring the station to be Copley. If anything, it was even less impressive than Hynes, for here not even the scavengers seemed interested in remaining for long. There were no fires, no cans of food or pots of boiling tea. Faded artworks on the wall betrayed the age of the place, and its neglect was evident.
From the shadows, weary faces watched them pass, the caravan leader making no signs to halt. This place was smaller too, than Hynes, barely half its size in total, with cheaper columns and masonry that had long-since cracked and peeled away from time and abuse. A large doorway was its only feature of any real interest, a side-tunnel from the looks of it, leading south. Thick metallic rods and bars had been jammed across it, a latticework of iron, judging from the rust, with no seeming way of opening it. It was less of a door and more a reinforced barrier, keeping whatever was to the south, well, south. There was writing above it, though he could not make out the letters. They seemed more chiseled into the masonry than written. Something about the sight filled him with a sense of dread, even though he could not discern their meaning. The Brahmin bellowed and snorted, tearing at their reins until brought to order by whip and rod, and the banter of the group seemed to grow quiet.
"That doorway, where does it lead?"
Piper must have been watching either it or him, for her expression seemed to have soured at his question. It did little for his optimism that the metal bars were merely for show.
"That's the thirty-nith line," she muttered, her voice lowered now, as if not to invite the wrath of whatever was beyond the door; "On the other side of that door is another tunnel system, a tramline. Used to be, before the bombs, it took people all the way to the southern suburbs. After the bombs, when people came down here to live, a lot of folks had sought refuge in it, but there's no stations along it, and it just opens up to the surface with a ramp. They couldn't get far enough in before the bombs dropped... and the radiation eventually reached even those that did. Used to be there was a door, but... people here, on this side of it? They sealed it tight when the alarms went off."
The despair of the tale was yet another appalling note in the story of the suffering the Great War had brought upon this land. He could scarcely imagine how many people might have been trapped in the tunnel. And the promise of safety had been a falsehood, betrayed by their own countrymen at the end of a sealed tunnel. What horrors had befallen them, in their final hours? The details of Piper's story made him wonder if it was yet another legend, passed down from the survivors of the apocalypse.
"There was something written above it, it did not look like numbers."
"They're not," her tone was no lighter for it, even as they passed the doorway by, and followed the rest of the caravan back out from the station, into the almost welcoming embrace of the tunnel, with all its sense of security from the ghosts of the past; "It's something those who made it down here wrote, way back when. Two centuries later, and people regard it as a curse upon the station, and the tunnel beyond it. It's why no one lives here, and even the scavengers don't stay for long..."
Dread and curiosity in equal measure ate at him, each pulling their way. Curiosity, however, won out just long enough that he could utter the words;
"What does it say?"
Piper did not respond until they were well out of the station, and out of sight of its entrance even, as the tunnel made a slight turn to the left, just enough that the lights from Copley vanished around the corner.
"It's a warning, and a lament for those that were left on the other side of it," she spoke with less gloom now, as if the presence of the station itself had marred her way of speaking, and now instead it seemed more like she spoke of a note in history, rather than something that was a somber, dreadful memory; "The tunnel is barred. It is filled with those who could not die, and we let them keep it. The way is shut..."
He wondered if those words had been made out of shame or as a warning the most. If those who had made it all the way to the doors had been alive still, they no doubt would have yelled and pleaded for those in the station to throw open the door. Had those inside listened to their pleads for days? How long until one became numb to such horror? To the sounds of thousands of people dying? He could find no words, and they sank into an uncomfortable silence.
"I hate coming this way..." Piper finally muttered, as unspoken minutes had gone past; "The station, I mean. I hate going past it. Feels like the Dead Station, same kind of... pressure, I guess."
"A place where a great many people died in horrible way, yes?"
"Mmm..." she nodded, adding only further to the grinding cogs of his mind. The Dead Station was haunted, because of the sheer scale of slaughter that had taken place there. If this place was so too, though maybe in a different way, it would be a start for him to understand the ghosts of this world. The only question then, was why the surface was not haunted too. Far more people had perished above ground when the bombs fell, had they not? Or maybe it was because their deaths had been fast, painless, while those devoured by rats or radiation had suffered? Was agony the key? Even then, it felt as if he was missing pieces of a puzzle, one he'd notably never intended to set together; "There's a lot of those in the Commonwealth. College Square station up north was locked when the bombs fell. Story goes, the first time people went upstairs again, skeletons were just piled against the doors, rotten clothes and all.."
"Are there no... haunted places above ground?"
Piper gave him an odd look, as if he'd said something far beyond what she'd expected. It was no more than that though, likely that she remembered the difference in what he and she could actually see in these places. Where she felt 'pressure', for all he knew he might see shadows, or hear voices. The chuckle that came forth was more one of sardonic resignation than true humor;
"It's weird how easy it is to forget, you know..." she gestured vaguely at the air itself, though he caught her meaning well enough; "...the moment you're not brewing up potions or closing wounds with your bare hands."
"That stings," he muttered, though with good humor. The dread spell seemed to have lifted as fast as it had descended; "I am more than my work."
"Yeah, you are," something to her tone of voice made him look again, but whatever expression might have been on her face when she spoke, it was just as quickly gone, a far more neutral one instead meeting him; "I mean, aren't we all? Like, I'm not just the only reporter in Diamond City..."
"Doesn't the radio do reporting?"
"Investigative reporter, in Diamond City," she snorted, giving him a light shove; "Who do you think pays half my income? Sure isn't the Mayor's office, like some other lucky bastard I could mention."
"If it is consolation, I haven't yet been paid, actually," and, really, he needed to find out how that worked. Sun had never really explained it before he up and vanished into the wastes. That left him with a somewhat dwindling economy, and if not for Piper he'd be surviving on the single salary Sun gave him before he disappeared; "Not by mayor, at least."
"Sounds about right, McDonough won't give you a single cap until you can actually deliver proof of residence or employment," another snort, far more derisive this time than before, and it was clearly aimed at the mayor; "And residence is only granted to those who can provide for themselves inside the Wall. I don't suppose Sun actually wrote you up a contract?" A moment's thought, and he came up empty. Sun might have intended on it, but had never actually presented him with such a document. Piper sighed, patting him on the back; "Cruel world"
It was. It struck him as an ingeniously vicious design, brilliantly granting absolute control of who would be allowed within the Wall on a permanent basis, to the mayor's office. It struck him even more, however, just how effective the man's charisma was, that so far Martin had been the one delivering all the results, essentially for free. The investment of medical supplies the mayor had distributed would pay back in dividends, once a proper source of reagents was found. And left at the mercy of said mayor, Martin would count himself lucky if he was awarded citizenship, or at least a paycheck. It was maybe ten minutes of his grumblings, until he finally came to a conclusion that, considering his hostess, really ought have come at least a month sooner.
"All politicians really are the same," he uttered, annoyed more than anything at his own naivety. Piper chuckled;
"Finally you're speaking my language," she seemed amused, or maybe relieved, so at least he could take some pride in having bettered her mood; "Shame we're not home, or I'd take you to the Dugout to celebrate the opening of your eyes, but hey, we can find somewhere else to get a drink, right?"
"You said GoodNeighbour sells alcohol?"
"Yeah, the kind neither of us could afford," he'd expected as much. She'd made it pretty clear that they sold it dearly, because Diamond City bought it dearly. The lights of Copley station were long past them now, and any sounds the place might have made too, had passed away into the fading of memory and tunnel both; "We'd have better luck in Bunker Hill. There's a cozy place there, actually, real charming. Even got beds for rent if we don't make it back before nightfall."
"A tavern?"
"The Savoldi Bar," he wasn't sure if she corrected or explained with that one; "Barkeep's nowhere near as personable as Vadim, but his drinks are affordable, food's decent and lodgings... okay... ish, I guess. You'll think your mattress in the living room is a palace afterwards, but compared to a lot of other places, it's good."
"You have been this way many times before."
He had meant to voice it as a question, but even as he spoke, a great many details of the walk already started piling up. Piper was a great deal more traveled than he'd first gotten the impression, given that she had been somewhat sedentary during his own stay in Diamond City. At the same time though, she was evidently familiar with this route, its characteristics and peculiarities, and thus likely also what still lay before them.
"Bunker Hill's usually got some good gossip," Piper hummed; "I can't be everywhere when everything happens, gotta rely on the rabevine sometimes, and the safest way to get there is with the caravans though the subways. So, yeah? I've been around."
He was about to ask, exactly, what a rabevine, was, but the caravan in that moment turned a corner, and what he had at first thought merely the reflected lights from the guards' flashlights mixing with the overhead lamps, instead turned out to be quite the different sight.
Floodlights and sandbags, barbed wire, machineguns and metal spikes, sputtering sentry-guns and oddly domestic, wandering robots with clawed hands. All of them, they guarded a blue metal sign, hammered into the concrete wall. And somehow managed to not block the Brahmin, as the bellowing beasts of burden trundled past, their handlers having shown the correct pieces of browned paper to the armed guards manning those sandbags and machineguns.
The sheer amount of electric lights made the tunnels behind them look positively black by comparison, even with the overhead lamps. This was something completely different. Up ahead, the voices of hundreds of people, if not more mixed and merged like a sea of humanity, an almost physical wall of warmth greeting them along with all the noises and sounds of a human society, crammed into the confines of a subway station. Piper made an amused face next to him, perhaps seeing his expression.
"Ah, right, you've never seen an inhabited station before," it sounded like a genuine realization more than a jest, the way she said it; "Well, here's hoping you're not claustrophobic."
See? I can put out a new chapter within a month. Also 'rabevine' is not a typo.