The Green Line
I remember seeing the 'inhabited stations' for the first time. In a strange way, it felt as if the civilisation that had been before the bombs was more alive down there, than up on the surface... with all that it entailed.
Well, here's hoping you're not claustrophobic.
He hadn't really understood what she meant until they rounded the final corner of the tunnel. Arlington was supposed to be just another station, no? That it was inhabited should not in so great a way change the station that he would feel claustrophobic from it. He imagined, at first before he saw it, that the platforms might be lined with tents, or ramshackled wooden hovels.
Instead, there was no platform. There was barely even a station opening up, rather than a continuation of the tunnel. The concrete tube vanished, and was almost immediately replaced with weathered, moldy brickwork and wooden planks. If anything the ceiling grew lower, rather than taller, now made from wood and metal, like bridging a river that flowed through their town. Humanity was all around, descending and ascending on stairs of pre-war timber and newly cast claywork bricks. Children ran, screaming and yelling, across rickety ramparts and gangways that seemed ready to break at the merest touch, much less a person's weight. The air grew warmer with such an intensity and suddenness that it felt as if he struck a wall of hot air, and the smells that came with betrayed the sheer amount of people and squalor of the place. Somewhere, a radio was playing a piece of guitar, scratchy and electric, and pre-war, by the sound of it.
Mixing with the endless sea of voices, muffled somewhat by the wooden skies, people cried out the prices of wares, pressing from every nook and cranny with visibly homemade crafts of wood, clay, glass and metal. Shoes, tools, paintings, food, drinks, weapons, clothes, trinkets, jewelry, baubles and trash, hands beyond counting, eager faces that saw the passing caravan as means of profit, and its travelers as probable prey. He'd seen something similar once at a fair.
"This place is station?" he muttered, almost aghast. If he'd not known, he could not have said for sure if they had even entered Arlington proper. For all intents and purposes, it bore greater resemblances to a shantytown or a slum poised above a small river. Ahead, the "river" seemed to widen, into what could almost be called a plaza, if only because it reached the actual width of the tracks between the platforms. A few square meters of open ground was enough for the guards of the station to have set up an internal watchpost, perhaps their equivalent of a toll-booth or a police station, with the smoldering embers of a campfire, and a small, blue kettle dangling on a metal frame above it. As they neared, he saw that the space above was widening as well, forming the first place so far that he could actually see the ceiling - the true ceiling - of the station; "More like shanty town..."
"And this is pretty prosperous, compared to how people lived back then," Piper hummed; "Supposedly anyway."
The chatter of the caravan died down as they came to a halt, one seemingly not expected by the guards, now keener than before on running fingers across their gunhilts. He couldn't quite make out what was going on at the front, as the voices were loud and rebounded off the uneven walls, but Torgue was waving hand gestures at a... at first he wasn't sure if it was a man or an automaton. A large, imposing frame of metal plates and wire mesh, standing at least a head above the solidly built caravaneer, with a gun resting in equally oversized gauntlets, that seemed less a firearm and more a genuine hand cannon.
"Is that a robot?" he asked, voice lowered despite the chatter. Piper raised herself up on toes to peek above the crowd. A problem he'd not had; "The large one, at the front?"
"Almost," she gave an appreciative hum, the sound strained by her effort to remain raised. He moved closer, just enough that when she wavered again, his shoulder offered the support she needed to stay up; "Power armor. Don't remember them having him last time I was here, gotta be a new acquisition."
"Power armor?" while the word did strike him as familiar, he couldn't place it. Even then, it was enough that he understood its nature, somewhat. Armor for a man, but fueled by some sort of power-source that let him perform tasks of monstrous strength; "Why is he arguing with the caravan leader?"
"Stations like these survive on tolls," she lowered herself again, brushing against him. Despite their surroundings, the sensation was nice and made his fingers itch, so close to her and yet, dared not. Piper carried on, not having noticed, maybe; "Subways are the safest way to get around, if the line's stable. Green Line from Diamond City to Bunker Hill is one of the safest, and the stations know it. It's one of the reasons they're still here, when you can actually breathe up above. Caravans are basically guaranteed income, because they're regular customers."
"Because they're bringing trade?"
"You're learning fast," she nodded, a brief grin his way; "Yeah, trade's one of the best insurances of not starving. Arlington and Boyleston are technically speaking independent stations, but they're so closely linked to GoodNeighbour they're practically client settlements."
"Not to Diamond City?" It seemed strange that the larger of the settlements would not hold overall sway, even if only though soft power. From what he understood, GoodNeighbour was little more than a rogue commune, a place of refuge for those with nowhere else to go. Ghouls, in particular; "Why not?"
"Proximity, mostly," she shrugged; "That and Diamond City's not gonna spend the few guards it has on outlying stations. GoodNeighbour, on the other hand, needs all the protection money it can scrounge up for imports. Those caps come from tolls and small trading, especially from Diamond City."
"Circle of life," Martin hummed. Or, at least circle of a basic financial system of trade; "You said the power armor was recent find?"
"Sure didn't see it last time I came through here," Piper stopped for a moment, as if something occurred to her in just that moment. Uncertain eyes locked onto Martin; "...right, so, that's... two months? Two-and-a-half? Time flies when you're having fun, you know?"
"Is it bad sign?" Torque had stopped his wild gesticulations, but seemed no more pleased than before. The power-armored figure, masked behind metal, shook his head and made a gesture to the side of the station, somewhere Martin couldn't ses; "He's telling Torques to go to the side, I think."
"Wait, is he..." Piper stood again, tall as she could, and once more he moved in as support. If she noticed, she said nothing of it, instead a bothered expression came upon her delicate features; "Oh, that's not good."
"What? What is not good?"
"He's standing in front of the main tunnel to Boylston," she muttered, slipping down again; "And waving the caravan boss off to the side tunnel. I knew this wasn't gonna be easy."
"I don't..." Martin pulled out the small, ancient map of the metro systems, squinting at it in the dim lights; "I don't see a side tunnel."
"It's for foot-traffic, not trains, that's why," he understood her annoyance now, then. That probably meant it was like the tunnel they had taken after finding the mirelurk carcass, narrow and small compared to the main tunnels; "Getting the Brahmin through there's gonna be a bitch. I wonder why they want us through it..."
"Maybe Boylston was attacked?"
Piper's face scrounged up for a moment, as if she was trying to find the right retort.
"I hope not," she finally said; "Boylston's on the other side of the old Common Park. It's way too close to GoodNeighbour for some random raider gang to dare it. Hancock's got enough mercs on his payroll to rival the D.C guards in number, and probably outgun them. Come on, let's move up, I'm gonna see if I can get closer to that armored guy."
Martin hadn't even noticed the pen and noteblock coming out. It had just... materialized, as if out of some conjuration spell. Piper moved ahead before he had the chance to speak his mind, though he doubted he could have stopped her even if not. Watching her disappear into the crowd, she almost seemed to swim rather than sidestep or move past those around her, flowing like water. Was this something 'reporters' could do? Considering he'd only ever met the one, he could not dismiss it. Maybe there had once been a guild of reporters, something like the thieves' guild, only more reputable. Veštinite na kradecot, mislam...
"Excuse me, excuse me!" Piper had already pressed her way to the front by the time he got into earshot, waving down the armored suit as the caravan leader watched her with clear annoyance; "Excuse me! Piper Wright, Publick Occurrences."
"I thought she looked familiar..." someone muttered, close enough that Martin could hear, though he moved past them.
There was no guessing the expression on the face of whomever wore the armored suit, for even up close at best Martin could see opaque glass where there should have been eyes in the helmet. Like the guards in Diamond City, and those of the caravan, here too, there was only a mask. Granted, this one seemed more for actual protection than anonymity. Up close the man was even more imposing, rising above like some dwemeri construct of arcane metal.
"That's that Diamond City newspaper thing, right?" it seemed almost bizarre that the terrifying goliath of steel was the first less-than hostile reception he'd heard Piper get so far; "You wanna know why we're holding back the caravan? Going somewhere?"
"Boylston and Arlington are widely considered one of the most vital lines of trade in the entire Commonwealth, binding Bunker Hill and Diamond City together, free from the dangers of super mutants and raiders from above," Piper almost seemed like she'd not heard the question, instead firing off words faster than he thought could be coherently done; "Now you're blocking off caravans from entering those very tunnels?"
"Mutant activity's picked up downtown recently, Hancock's beefed security on his turf," the armored form shrugged; "And folks in GoodNeighbour apparently don't seem keen on a tax raise. So, toll's going up."
"By almost double," Torgues grumbled; "Hancock can't expect caravans to keep using his stations if this continues."
"In the interest of the readers, how much is the toll now?" Piper asked.
"Twenty caps a head," Martin nearly choked on his own breath at those words. They had those, certainly, but the caps they had brought were for food and drinks as well. Hopefully the thermos was larger than it seemed; "Don't like it, take it up with the mayor."
"Now, you say mutant activity has picked up in the area. We have already seen security measures increasing around Diamond City, but GoodNeighbour is fairly vulnerable in its location, isn't it? What steps have Mayor Hancock taken to secure his community?"
"Rest assured miss, we're takin' all the precautions," as the armored mercenary spoke, Torques gave a signal that set his caravan in motion. Exclamations of open frustration broke out as the other tunnel guards started extracting their toll from the travelers, some evidently digging deep into purses and pockets to afford the passing; "GoodNeighbour's as safe as it's always been."
If memory served, GoodNeighbour had a very peculiar definition of 'safe'.
They paid the toll, exuberant as the price was. Martin tried his best not to feel at his pouch, now notably lighter than before. Though a single bottle cap had little enough weight on its own, twenty of them still carried their own kind of mass. Especially when departed.
"Locals sure know how to make you feel welcome, don't they?" Piper scoffed, kicking gravel as they left the station behind. The outer perimeter towards Boylston was not as heavily fortified as the one towards Copley, though there were still solid lines of sandbags and emplaced guns, belts of gleaming brass bullets dangling from their slits like the tongues of impossibly compact beasts; "Gotta say, I didn't think there'd be this level of security down here. Power armor's not exactly cheap."
"Maybe that's why they're raising the toll."
"Sure, but GoodNeighbour's not... exactly under one government, if you get what I mean," she shrugged, sour mood apparently lifted; "Hancock's the one they all pay homage to, yeah, but there's at least four different syndicates inside those walls, and who knows how many from gangs and tribes outside of Boston."
"There are more?" by the gods, how many kinds of raiders and gunners infested the Wasteland anyway? That it was a large place, he understood well enough, but even so, it felt as if he was to be continuously surprised by the sheer amount of people inhabiting the bones of the old world. Even if two centuries had passed, that couldn't be more than... what, four generations? Five? Even if every generation had doubled its number, he could not imagine a lack of hazards to children in this land.
"Tons," Piper snorted; "Lots of small tribes out there that went crazy, or mutated because they moved too far away from shelter and got caught in radstorms. I've seen people dressed up as robots, people dressed up as bugs, people dressed up as super mutants... And no two raider gangs are the same neither. I know for a fact there's a radchicken syndicate inside GoodNeighbour."
"The upper stands from Diamond City?"
"Nah, different one," had he expected there to be only the one? In all fairness, usually such organizations came to power by monopolizing the market, but if it had come when there had not yet been a market, as such? He could see that happening, though for all that was reasonable, it should not have; "Most large settlements have some sort of carel or guild running things, even if indirectly. Bunker Hill relies entirely on the traders' guild to survive, for example. Only allows caravans entrance and commerce if they have guild approval."
"Sounds familiar."
"Thought it might, Nat said you told her there were guilds in Cyrodiil too," she hummed; "Sounded like it was basically the same thing. Total monopoly on business."
"What guild controls Diamond City then?"
"The Upper Stands," Piper shrugged. Fair enough, he'd expected as much. There really was no one else he could imagine running things behind the screen, so to speak, though he liked it little more for it; "McDonough, for all he wants to, couldn't scratch himself without their approval. They're not a 'guild', like that, but more of a cartell of vital businesses. Without them, Diamond City dies, and they know it. Brag about it, too."
It was still strange to consider that such people held the true reins of power in town. McDonough seemed like a man who did not broker argument if charisma alone could not get him his way. He'd seen some of them, no doubt, those heads of power, outside the mayor's office. How many of them had been there to make outright demands of McDonough? None of them had given off an air of caring overly much for those faceless masses in the commons below.
Was the title of mayor purely for show, then? What if McDonough was little more than a figurehead, and all the decisions were made before the man ever made a single statement? If so, that had to mean the Upper Stands had been the ones at the very least organizing the purge of the town's ghouls, rather than a plan of McDonough's own design, didn't it? He was still complicit, but it added something like a depth to the depravity that the supposed 'finer families' of the town had likely been the ones spawning the idea.
Piper had said though, that he'd actually run on the promise of cleaning up Diamond City. Had the Upper Stands latched on to that campaign promise, and twisted it to their own uses, or had they been behind the man from the very start?
"Wow, there he goes again, that dark, brooding face..." Piper whispered, so close that her sudden nearness jolted him from his thoughts. Deep, inquisitive eyes bored into his, almost as if she could suck the knowledge of his thoughts straight out his mind.
"What, sorry?"
"It's that thing you do, when there's a lot going on in there," she tapped her own forehead for show, one brow raised in wry amusement; "You get all quiet and frowned up, like a sundried mutfruit. All dark and mysterious like that."
"Just thinking," he could not quite put his thoughts to word, not yet. They were still unformed suspicions and presumptions, all resting on the existence of conspiracies he'd only just now thought up. If he started speaking of those to Piper... at best she would laugh. At worst, she would take it for the solid truth, and start delving deeper herself into those ideas. And already her family was likely under the eye of someone for the work she did. Was he? Though he lived with them, it was for the lack of available housing, yes?
Piper's hospitality - much as she had stated she wanted him to stay, he doubted she meant in her house - would one day reach its limits, especially if the mayor would find ways not to pay him. If he could not even offer rent... He was not family. He was their friend, her friend, and the last thing he wanted was for more troubles to find them. To find Piper, and Natalie. They both deserved better, and before he left, he wanted to make damn sure they had it, somehow, after everything they had done for him; "It is nothing."
"Mmmmm... nothing he says," she blew air with the sound of disappointed curiosity, unsated by his reluctance. Th crowd around them continued to move, crunching gravel under hundreds of feet. The sound was more akin to that of waves falling against the beach than of underground marching, exaggerated only ever more so by the rebounding echoes from the walls. Martin found the blackened concrete almost comforting at this point, a reminder of a sort of space between where man and monster might live. Here, the only life was those that went through, or those with nowhere else to go. Ghouls, for one, though in this place he could not imagine them getting in. If the air shafts that tied the tunnels to the surface were still sealed, like Piper said, then there should only be entrance from the main doors, and now they were even more heavily guarded than before; "You know, as a journalist, nothing sets me off more than a potential source who won't speak their mind."
"You already seem to know my mind more than I do, some times."
"Well, you're one of the few people that didn't run away at first chance," it was strange still to him, how she could say such things with a smile. Her desperation for friends had to be why she seemed to cling to him, yet she seemed not too bothered by her own admission of solitude; "Most folks wouldn't stick around as long as you have."
"They are idiots, then," he snorted; "Problem is them, not you."
Piper said nothing to that, instead suddenly no longer interested in staring at him. She watched the wall instead, and he worried if he'd made a mistake, or said something she misunderstood. Had it sounded like an insult of everyone she knew? Even if it had, he couldn't think of other ways to say it. Anyone who would not enjoy Piper's company was either a fool or had done something to earn her ire. And the latter likely counted as a fool too, in truth.
"You're a terrible liar, you know that?" she finally muttered, and the tone of her words made it to him as if all else in the tunnel was absolute silence. There was no teasing in her voice, no humor or mirth. Instead it was flat, and felt resigned to something he did not like to imagine.
"I am," he admitted, quietly hoping she was referring to his earlier denial that he really had no greater thoughts of rad-chicken magnates and upper stand conspiracies; "So I try not to lie."
Piper, once more, said nothing at first. Even as the people around them moved on and bantered with little care, she remained quiet. He couldn't read her, hard enough already made only more so by the shifting lights and noises. When finally she did speak, her words were hesitant and soft, yet still bore some note of resentment.
"Do you ever wonder why?" she asked, still her face cast away from him; "Why you don't exactly see me running around with crowds of friends like most people?"
"They are fools, or have earned your ire," it seemed like the right thing to say, straight from mind to mouth; "And are likely fools too for the latter, yes? It is not quantity, that makes worth in friends, I think. I hope. I had few enough at home. You have been better than most."
He left it unsaid that those friends, aside from Mari, had been little but acquaintances, people he had merely encountered along the way. Few had been the kind of friend to him that Piper had. Few had... made him do the things he had, here. Piper had brought him out of a shell he'd not even known encased him, her world had forced him out of anything even remotely resembling his comfort zones.
Piper watched him, her face now turned more towards him as if she were examining some strange phenomenon. She said nothing, but her gaze held enough intent that she needed not. Even if he couldn't quite tell what exactly the intent was, it was there, and had come a ways to push back the earlier resignation.
"You are a good person, Piper. Good friend," she did not flinch much when he took her hand, though the reaction was enough that he feared for a moment he had overstepped. He still was not sure of the social workings of this land, even now, with her; "No one has done as much for me as you have. If people do not like you, fuck them, they are fools."
"Fuck them?!" Piper sputtered, finally reacting openly. She stared at him, wide-eyed, as if he had grown horns. Then, in what resembled more a machine coming undone, her dour expression became an uncertain grin, finally cracking into a genuine smile of relief and apparent bewilderment; "Did- did you just swear?"
"I can swear," for some reason it felt as the words of his mouth were a defense, though she'd not really accused him, so much as... inquired? Demanded? "When I need, yes. If people do not like you, they are fools. Fuck them, yes. You do not need friends that do not like you. You don't need people who don't like you, just because you write truth."
Two months ago, Piper would have been the one spouting declaration after declaration, bringing him to silence through sheer bombastic character or the incredibility of her statements. Now, somehow, the role was his, and Piper the one to be silenced from the audacity of his words. Unless it was because his words were simply stupid. In truth that was just as likely a cause.
"I don't need pity-points, Martin, or some sort of confidence man, you know?"
"I know," he nodded, though he did not understand the first part; "What is pitypoint?"
"It's like..." for a moment it seemed an actual explanation was forthcoming, but deflated into nothingness. A smile came forth then instead, though it was small and tentative. It was still a smile once more, like before, and he felt this time it might just stay; "You really are something, you know that?"
"I try?"
He attempted a smile of his own, though he did not quite understand entirely what he had done that earned such praise. Was this not common among friends? Support and encouragement? Piper should have known he would offer at least that much, if not more, when he could. Martin adjusted his rucksack and said no more, mostly for lack of anything intelligent to say. If he actually spoke his mind... it would not be fitting, even he knew as much. This was not the time, not even had he had the confidence. It was ironic that Piper spoke of confidence men, when he was the one more in need of one.
"Well, always nice to know someone is," her laughter, soft and low, mixed with the crunching of gravel underfoot. It rebounded weakly off the walls, before becoming lost in the sea of voices of the caravan; "Around here that's a rare commodity."
"Not thát rare," Martin grinned, genuine at her rising mood. It was still so very strange, how the good mood of someone else could so easily affect his own. It stirred his chest at the sight and sound of her relief, and the companionship they shared. The idea of mutually desired companionship was still such a novelty to him, he treasured every moment that he could. It was something he knew he would come to miss; "Two of us, yes?"
"Two of us, huh..." she hummed, her smile softening; "I think I can live with that. A reporter and a doctor, braving the Commonwealth and all its evils, bringing truth and hope to the downtrodden, eh? Right, pretty pair of vigilanties we'd make."
She was teasing, he knew that, but even still the mental image of the two of them, like some pair of forest-hiding highwaymen, fighting oppressive lords in the name of the downtrodden peasantry, to him was genuinely funny.
"I think I am happier with medicine though, than guns," he admitted sheepishly. They were loud, kicked when he fired even a small pistol, and the risks of unwanted destruction in the hands of the untrained - such as him - were greater than he cared for. Piper, on the other hand, seemed the picture of confidence when it came to their handling, and he was more than happy letting her handle such instruments of death. He had his own, too, though the ammunition was far less easily come by. He touched a finger to the lodestone dangling from his neck, its warmth a kind reminder of the sun above, and the energies from Aetherius reaching even here.
"Mmm, got that stone too," Piper had seen where his hand wandered, clearly, a small spark of lingering curiosity yet evident in her eyes. It was not hidden from him that she wanted to know more of the stone, of magic, than even he could tell her. Not that he could blame her; "It work alright underground?"
"It is charged enough for Greentop, I think yes," he nodded; "But I will not use it if I can avoid. Less people know, the better."
"And folks call me paranoid," she grinned, rolling shoulders under the strain of her rucksack; "It's good. You're learning. Or, well, remembering, I guess. You know, when I got started with the newspaper, people didn't always like what I wrote, or agreed with me, but they listened. 'course, that means people I usually talked to, listened, and some of them didn't like the idea of their secrets getting out."
He could see that. It was never the most popular to be the one broadcasting the secrets of others, and rarely would it garner friends, even if for the good of the community as a whole. Public servants often were disliked by the very public they served. Executioners wore hoods for a reason, though... the mental image of Piper was far less that of an axe-wielding figure, and more than of the local lord's deputy.
"It is rough life, being town crier."
"It is, or was," her grin lessened a little, growing softer instead, her tone becoming almost wistful; "Used to be I only had Nat, no real friends after I got the paper started. Now though? Life's certainly gotten-"
"INCOMING TRAM! MOVE TO THE SIDES!"
Whatever she had meant to say, it was deafened by the call from up ahead. Already the crowd rushed to the sides of the tunnel, clearing away from the iron tracks. Piper, interrupted, grabbed him and hauled him away from the center, ere he even had a chance to see what exactly was causing the sudden upheaval.
It came in on wheels, running the tracks like some sort of minecart, though with a sputtering engine and people rather than metal ore and rocks as its cargo. A large wooden platform seemed to almost float above the ground, bumbling and rustling its passengers and cargo with every meter, the old tracks uneven and worn from centuries of use. Piper had told him of the trolley's before, those electrical or diesel-fueled engines of commerce in the underground, but this... it was somehow more, and somehow less, than he had imagined. A massive, rumbling and bellowing beast whose sheer violence of presence made the brahmin seem puny.
Crates upon crates were stacked atop, insignias visible in stark painting even as the beast rumbled past, faster than a man could run.
It was the same insignia as was printed upon Piper's shotgun. A large, stylized 'S'.
"That's Stockton's men," Piper gestured at the second wagon, pulled behind the first on the same shrieking wheels. Each and every one they were clad in metal plate and leather, faces obscured behind visors and helmets that seemed far more intricate and advanced than what was worn by the guards of their own caravan. Their weapons too, clearly were of higher grades and make, gleaming in the lamplight and black as night; "Means those crates are full of guns and ammo."
"For Diamond City?"
"Who else?" she shrugged, standing out from the concrete wall as the last wagon passed; "Looks like McDonough's upgrading the city guards. Might even get some proper body armor."
"Their guards did seem..." the right words briefly escaped him; "...much protected?"
"Stockton's guards are probably the single-most heavily armed and armored people you're likely to find in the Commonwealth, aside from the Gunners," Piper cast a last glance at the trolley as it rounded the corner, leaving little sign of its passing but the still echoing sound of wheels grinding on the ancient tracks; "Not really surprising, given what he sells. Don't be too surprised if security's been beefed even more by the time we get home."
It struck him that the sheer amount of arms and armor that had just passed through likely held greater value than anything in their own, far less impressive caravan could lay claim to. If every single crate held firearms and ammo of superior quality, then the worth of the entire cargo...
"It is a lot of money," he finally said.
"It is," Piper nodded; "A lot. Probably why water prices have gone up recently. More caps means more guns. And Stockton's the only one making the really good ones, unless you come across some undiscovered pre-war cache."
"Two-hundred year old weapons still work?" the idea seemed outlandish, given the complexity of the firearms he'd seen so far. He'd even seen some of the guards maintaining theirs in the shaded corners of Diamond City. If such was needed, and done, regularly, how much use could a weapon two centuries without maintenance be?
"Well, not without a lot of grease and care, they don't."
"So Stockton's are the best," strangely this was the first time it really seemed real, that someone could have so much power, a magnate of weapons. Whomever Stockton was, it was clearer now than ever before that he stood to gain wealth beyond measure from whatever was coming; "Does he make the weapons in Bunker Hill?"
"There's gunsmiths in Bunker Hill, sure, but I don't know if that's where the high grade stuff comes from," so, people like Arturo then. Only, he suspected the scale was grander than a single man selling arms at the D.C market. Especially if Stockton could afford such security, and the first self-propelled cart Martin had yet seen in this land. The only one too, if he remembered right; "Some say he's using one of the old stations as the primary site, or maybe even a vault no one else knows about, but..."
"No one knows about it."
"Yep," Piper hummed, sidestepping where one of the brahmin had relieved itself. Of all the things in the Commonwealth, in what had to be some deity's idea of a jest, only the smell of cattle dung was truly like home. Here as well as back home, cows would eat grasses, and the results were as such. Not even world-ending bombs and mutations could change that; "Wouldn't mind finding one of those vaults, one day. There's Vault 81 sure, west of downtown, but folks in there do enough trading with the rest of us that they aren't really that special anymore."
The talk of vaults made him think back, for it was familiar even if they had never talked of such in Diamond City. It came to him, memories of their first day meeting, wandering the tunnels. Piper had mentioned vaults, but it had been with so little importance that he'd all but forgotten. People had sought safety, either in the vaults or in the tunnels, but that had been all.
"What are vaults?" he asked, when she did not speak more; "I mean, I know they are a shelter or some sort, you said when we met, I think, yes? People either went to subways or vaults?"
Piper seemed surprised at his question, if her expression was a hint, though it faded fast as it came, instead taken over by contemplation. Was this one of those rare cases, where she knew as little as him? Or had he simply struck upon a subject so esoteric, she knew not how to explain it?
Minutes passed before she spoke, time in which Martin tried his best to think of anything she could have already said, or that others might have said and he overheard, of vaults. Not only was he now genuinely curious, but if Piper did not know, then it would be an actual mystery. Another piece of the old world, lost to time and neglect. Another piece of ignorance shared between them.
"It's a bit sketchy," finally she did speak, though not with her previous confidence. She rubbed her neck with clear frustration, something he had come to recognize whenever she stood before a problem that could not be solved with snark or inquisitiveness. Surprisingly rare, actually. Up ahead, the tunnel began another turn, this time to the right. It was a soft enough curve that only the appearing and disappearing lights in the ceiling gave it away; "Supposedly, they are some sort of super secret, high-tech bomb shelters built back before the war, and you had to be some sort of nobility or military to get in. There's only really the one, Vault 81, that people actually have any kind of contact with. There's one in Park Street, on the Red Line level, but it's sealed up and far as I know, no one's been able to get in. There's supposed there be one up north somewhere, but furthest I've ever been is Concord, didn't see one there."
"If there is one opened and trading with people outside, why so mysterious?" It sounded like the old world had had the same sort of blue-blooded elites he'd grown up with, though he wondered if Piper's definition of 'nobility' was the same as his; "The one in Park Street, why not open it? There are not people inside who want to trade?"
"No idea," Piper shrugged, and it seemed her lack of a better answer bothered her almost more than it did him; "You can't open them without a Pip-Boy, and only Vault-dwellers have those."
"What is Pib-boy, then? A weapon? A tool of some sort?"
"It's like a handheld terminal, strapped to the arm of the user," she explained; "Very rare, and very expensive. I don't think anyone in the D.C Market could actually afford to buy it off you if you found one. Only ever saw pictures, but they can do all kinds of stuff. Maps, codes, programs, supposedly even slow time. Pre-War technology, you know. Sometimes it's scary how much we forgot."
"I think it is better some things were lost," the claims of the Pip-Boy were incredible, and so he was incredulous to them. Maps, codes and programs, he could understand, but the ability to slow time? Even with all he had seen and come to understand of the technology of this world, he could see no way in which electrical wiring could make possible such a feat; "It sounds more like..."
"Magic, yeah, I know," Piper mused, looking ahead. She was seemingly entirely nonchalant at mentioning such words in their current company; "You know, I think there's a saying that any technology too advanced to understand is kinda like magic. So, maybe magic, in turn, is just some sort of... I dunno, biotechnology? Like synths?"
It was still one of those words he did not fully understand, biotechnology. The idea of artificially engineering life, without the arcane, he could not comprehend. Creating life from nothing, literally, was magic. It had to be, there simply was no other way. And yet Piper spoke of it like it was just another tool in the Institute's hand, yet claimed that for all that it was the terror of the Commonwealth, the Institute itself was not magical either. Half of the things he had heard so far, of the Institute and the Old World both, often seemed like it bordered on the outright arcane, yet refused the term. Synths, Lasers, handheld terminals that could slow time, weapons capable of perverting magic itself...
As the tunnel straightened out once more, and the overhead lights stretched into an almost unbroken line of dimmed white, its end too came into view. Far ahead still, yes, but already from where they wandered in the back of the crowd, he could see the signs of the station nearing. It was just another station on the way, yet itself it probably held a history as rich as any city in the Imperial Heartlands. People had lived here for two centuries, making it likely a settlement for more time than it had been a place of mere commute.
"Do you think they take toll too?" he asked, half in jest as they passed by the first outer perimeter. Sandbags, a few machineguns, and a spotlight covered over with cloth. The guards seemed bored, leaning against the walls or entertaining themselves with cards over an old metal table that had once been green. Time and wear had reduced its colors to only a scant few flakes of its old tones, the rest a dull, metallic gray; "We will not get to Bunker Hill at this rate I think."
"You pay the toll for crossing through Hancock's stations, not for going from one to the other," Piper explained. Up ahead, along with the widening tunnel, the walls on the right side simply disappeared, opening up for a second set of tracks. Confused, Martin checked his map again, but found no line heading south. Was the map incomplete, or was this perhaps a set of tracks leading to some secret place, where commoners like themselves could not go? Maybe they led to where Stockton made his weapons, a secret station or as-of-yet undiscovered vault? Piper seemed to realize his confusion, adding; "That's the storage tracks. Used to be there was a second line that way, but they closed it down and just used the southbound tracks to store trains. Nick says it used to lead somewhere called 'Pleasant Street'."
"So, no secret tunnels."
"No secret tunnels," she nodded sagely, making a small skip as the underfoot gravel shifted to an old, weathered platform, with indents for the tracks. Ahead of them still was the first entrance to the surface, old and weathered escalators that had likely not moved since the day of the bombs. It was a curious shift from the usual masonry; "'Least not here. That's the exit up to Tremont Street. Close enough to the Combat Zone that you don't really wanna go up there. Most of the station guards are around that staircase, up above."
"Combat Zone?" he asked; "There is a battlefield above us?"
"An amphitheater, more like," Piper scoffed; "Last time I tried getting in there for a headliner, they threw me into the ring. Apparently it was funny throwing two women against each other, you know?"
The image of Piper as some sort of gladiator was a strange one. He had a hard time imagining her as clad in armor, with a sword or spear in one hand, net in the other. He'd heard some Breton members of the Fighter's Guild, the women, would fight in... questionable suits of armor. The question passed his lips before he knew it;
"Was it?"
As the tracks and the tunnel took a sharp swing leftwards, the station opened up into an almost complete opposite to Arlington. Boylston was much more open in its design, with several tracks laid into the ground, treated here as genuine streets. Shacks of metal and wood lined the sides, in several stories sometimes, and traders bartered their wares out from makeshift stands, some screened behind metallic wire mesh.
Here, children ran about like in Arlington, but they also seemed more demure, almost well-behaved, as they stood with mothers and fathers amongst the throngs. There were cages at some of the stalls, inside which hideously mutated chickens scraped about. At other stands, roaches the size of large rodents skittered inside their cells, watching perhaps in horror as a fellow of theirs rotated on a spit above smoldering embers.
Piper's laugh drew his eyes back on her, even as they followed the caravan along the "street". He'd half worried the question would offend her, or draw on bad memories, but instead seemed more... he couldn't put a finger on it.
"Wasn't too bad," she shrugged; "They threw me against some redhead with an accent, and a real mean right hook, and I threw the fight as soon as it was safe. Still got a black eye from it, of course, but considering how the clientele's devolved since then, I like to think I got out of there pretty much scott-free."
"Devolved?"
"Used to be it was just the local ruffians going there, right? A chance to get some frustrations out, or have fun watching others get beat up," it did sound a lot like the Fighter's Guild, though with far fewer restrictions; "Time passed, eventually raiders started moving in. Regular folks stopped, and these days it's raider-town."
"Mmm."
The smell of food, roast food, was not one he would have affiliated with an underground station, yet for all that this place had once been a mere transportation hub, now it more resembled a genuine town. Though he could not see the sky, and the street was metal, it still very much bore every sign of a lived-in settlement. And this place was a small station, according to Piper. How much larger was Park Street, then? People lived in these stations as naturally as they inhabited the metal shacks in Diamond City, and in ways seemed almost better off. Certainly, they need not worry much for the threat of a radstorm, down here, and the risks of being assaulted by ghouls, mutants or raiders seemed likewise lowered for it.
"Hard to imagine this place could once transport thousands of people, every single day," Piper hummed; "They took apart the trains first, once people got fed up sleeping on the seats inside, I think. First twenty years wasn't exactly this urbanized, if you get my drift."
"That is why Dead Station did not have so many huts?"
"Mmm," she nodded; "Radiation had to go down before people could go back upstairs, gather all the stuff they used to build this. In the beginning they mostly brought back the important stuff, like books, or guns. Especially guns. Ghouls were pretty much a problem from day one, stories go. Luckily, Boston was pretty militarized before the bombs dropped. Easy to find guns."
"I remember," still the idea of books being prioritized on line with firearms did make him more appreciative of Piper's ancestors. To have understood the need to preserve knowledge, even when the world had seemingly ended, was praiseworthy. Those very ancestors had preserved enough of their culture to ensure the survival of these very people. The station that had once likely felt like all that was left, and already now they were leaving it again, passing by the last of its hovels; "There is library nearby, then?"
"Sure, the Boston Public Library," Piper seemed surprised at his question. Was he supposed to have known? There had not been mention of it when they were in Diamond City, to his memory, and it was not marked on Sun's map of the tunnels; "You never questioned where the school got its books?"
"I did wonder," he admitted; "But no one ever speaks of it. Is it destroyed?"
"Close enough, it's taken over by super mutants."
"Super mutants can read?" he ventured, though the question was half in jest. They could speak, in a sense, so it was not impossible to imagine them capable of literacy. Piper snickered, though batted him on the arm.
"The library is an old structure. Thick walls, strong doors, large corridors. Prime real estate for big, dumb and ugly."
"So, is fortress then," that made more sense, considering the green brutes reminded him more of a sort of primitive orc, though even with the 'primitive' label, it still felt as if he were insulting the latter; "But is close to Diamond City? It cannot be cleared out?"
"Close enough that the guards sometimes have to deal with mutants sneaking around. Patrolling outside the Wall is something done in squads, never alone," Piper frowned; "The supers aren't quiet, you'll always hear him coming before you see 'em, but they've got hounds. Big, beefy monsters that'll rip your leg off like that," she made a sound somewhere between ripping paper and a weird gurgle, the combination somehow sending a shiver down his spine; "Those can be quiet. Like, real quiet. For something that big. And they take a lot to put down. Saw that power armor dude, with the big gun? You need something that size to put down those things before they get too close."
"Your shotgun would not work?"
"Maybe, if I stuck it down its throat and pulled the trigger, sure," Piper shrugged, with an almost unsettling indifference to the admission. Would he be able to fight off such beasts? He had killed its master, would the hound be any harder? "Hide's tough enough that dead ones are usually skinned for it."
"Charming," Martin snorted; "There are no adorable things in this world, are there? Nothing that will not eat hand that pets it?"
"Well, Brahmins won't, unless they think you're made of grass," she chuckled, and the flat sardonicism was a little infectious, enough that his own lips creased a little; "Though, I guess you wouldn't call those 'adorable'..."
"The super mutants have hounds, why don't you?" if cattle had survived the end of civilisation, surely dogs had too. He'd seen cats already, and Piper had mentioned feral mongrels before. But actual dogs, he'd not yet seen; "Man's best friend, yes? Loyal, furry, good with children?"
"Dogs?" Piper hummed, eying him curiously; "Sure. Arturo got Nina a puppy last year, Nat told me. There's dogs. Tame ones are cute. Wild ones? Look like something that came out of an oven. Not really sure why there's a difference. You like dogs, Martin?"
"I grew up with dogs," and those were among the sweeter memories of home. Few kinds of love were stronger than that between a child and his hounds. Even as he grew older, the farmstead wolfhounds had been as members of the family. He was fond of them yet, and could not help the smile; "Yes. I like dogs."
"Mmm, always figured you for a dog person too," something in her voice, perhaps the small note of relief or satisfaction, did stirr his chest in manners hard to put to word; "We had a dog, back out there, Nat and me. Scrawny thing, not a lot of fur on him. Flea-ridden stray, you know? Wasn't even really ours, Nat and me... well, mostly me, brought scraps out when dad wasn't looking. Water too."
He had seen no signs of a dog in their home here, and the conclusions were easy enough to draw. There was no need to ask, and Piper seemed happier for leaving the memories at their happier times. He had no trouble imagining Piper, a little kid with scabbed knees and pigtails, in some sort of oversized clothes, feeding table-scraps to a mangy street dog.
"What's with the grin?" Piper asked, leaning in.
"Did you have pigtails, as child?"
"I... I mean, most girls do, don't they?" she sputtered, suddenly taken aback it seemed; "Why? What's wrong with pigtails?"
"I just think of you as kid, yes? and I see pigtails." Martin chuckled at her sudden expression of what could only be embarrassment. It was the good sort, the sort that came when recalling the foolishness of youth. Much better than those who recalled youth with regret, for the chances never taken; "It is cute, I think."
"You do remember I'm older than you, right?"
"Yes, an old woman you are," he noted, and received a slap on the shoulder. More likely it was for his teasing grin than his actual words. Piper did not seem offended at all though, just amused, and he added with little thought to his words; "But you keep very well, yes."
Piper said nothing to that, though she did make a strange noise, then sped up her pace and walked ahead, pointedly averting her face from his sight. This time, at least, Martin could take some relief in knowing he'd simply managed to outwit and embarrass her, rather than cause offense. It was strange to him still that doing so would prove this easy.
The tunnel stretched out for another few hundred meters, though keeping track was all but impossible when all around was nothing but concrete rings. At first he'd tried counting them, each being a little more than a meter between, but as he had passed fifty, they had slipped from his sight and so had the numbers. It had no notable side-passages, or at least if it did, Martin did not see them, hidden away in the darkness as they were. Despite the tunnel likely being the most well-traveled in the Commonwealth, not all of the route was equally well maintained, and in some sections the overhead lights were flickering, or had failed entirely. These places, the ground was cast away in darkness, and one had to pay special attention to his footing. Some of the people in the caravan, especially the guards, brought along their own flashlights. The guards had theirs tied to the barrels of their guns, kept low to light up the ground ahead of them.
Piper had brought along the headband they had found in the western tunnels. The light was weak though, compared to what they had around them, and they walked closer together now than before, to better see. She still had not said a word since he'd teased her on her age, though her expression was far from one that could have been upset or offended. She still did not meet his eyes, but at least did not avert her face. It was more difficult for him, still, to attempt to understand what might go on inside her head. What she was thinking was, in truth, entirely a mystery to him. Maybe it was because already on this tour so far, they had been able to talk far more freely and openly than would have been possible in Diamond City. It was more so ironic, given the amount of people around them, but the crowd itself provided a kind of anonymity that could not be explained, but that could be exploited.
"You said Park Street is the biggest station, before, that it has many levels?"
"Just two, but yeah, it's pretty big," Piper nodded, something in her tone betraying a sort of relief at the new subject; "Top level's the most frequented by people. It's the Green Line, where the caravans go through and the exits to the surface are. It's also almost exclusively full of shops. Like, almost anything you can think of, you can buy there. Only reason it hasn't sparked a trade-war with Bunker Hill is because Hancock apparently keeps a tighter leash on his people than most realize. Park Street trades stuff Bunker Hill doesn't, and the other way around. It's... not really competition, just different trade posts, you know? Downstairs, it's a mix of rad-shelters and industry. A lot of GoodNeighbour's stuff is pretty underground, literally. Used to be the guns and ammo they sell was made in one of the other hub stations, back when people still mostly lived down here. These days it's more or less all moved into Park Street, since most people prefer living on the surface. Keeps the industry out of sight, too."
"It sounds more like a city, in layers."
"Kinda is?" she shrugged, marching on; "Diamond City has it too, with the underbelly, but of course it's nowhere near as deep or extensive as Park Street. GoodNeighbour technically is closer to the Government Center Station, but half of that place was exposed to the surface because of its fancy glass ceiling, so no one could even live there for the first decade or so after the bombs dropped. Then there's State Street, which is directly underneath GoodNeighbour. Place got so popular, that's where they ended up with the Third Rail."
"The expensive bar?"
"Yep."
"And GoodNeighbour controls all that?" it sounded like too much, to much for it to make sense. If Hancock controlled so much territory, and essentially controlled trade, how was GoodNeighbour not a much richer place than Diamond City; "Three stations?"
"Four, actually," Piper hummed, amused or perhaps pleased that he was picking up on things; "There's Downtown Crossing too, bit more to the south. Those four used to be the hub, though now State and Downtown are little more than outposts. Real power's in Park and Government Street. Amount of caps flowing through those stations could buy you half the Commonwealth."
"But then GoodNeighbour is richer than Diamond City?"
"Sure, if it worked like Diamond City," her amused demeanor changed a bit, somewhat less pleased than before. She made a grimace as if he had reminded her of something unpleasant; "One of my first stints as a reporter was blowing the lid on a trade cartel pumping up food prices. Article went over real well, people paid attention and I even got boycuts going. Went down to the Dugout for a victory drink, right? But, something was... off, you know? Beer tasted off, and Vadim wasn't at the bar. I dunno what he slipped me, but had to get it out."
"Vadim poisoned you?" she had mentioned poisoning before, it was true, but never to this detail. And suddenly the thought of Natalie alone with Vadim did not sit so well with him at all.
"What?" for a moment, Piper seemed confused at his question; "What, no, the cartel did. Bartender was one of their 'specialists', apparently. Well, long story short, I found my salvation in the still, and started just, chugging moonshine."
A mere glass of the stuff upset his stomach, and his head. The idea alone of actively draining whatever spawned the liquor almost matched the sensation. Piper apparent guessed his thoughts, laughing.
"Yeah I had the same reaction. Puked out everything and passed out on the floor," though he appreciated the sound-effects as Piper made a barfing noise, drawing the eyes of those around them, it was not immediately clear to him yet the relevance of the story to Park Street; "Security napped the bartender while I was out, and he ratted out his bosses pretty quickly."
"What happened then?"
"Well, usually attempted murder's a pretty hefty jail sentence, and if it'd just been that they'd just been sharing some time in the pen," Piper's expression grew a little more neutral as she spoke, as did her tone; "Food prices though, that's the lifeblood of everything. Dogson, the mayor back then, had them dangling from ropes out in front of the gate."
"Racketeering is harder crime than murder?" Piper just gave him a look, somewhere between resigned and bemused. He could not think of a way to properly ask, for though it was a far throw from the laws of the Empire, it also made sense. Profiteering from artificial starvation was like profitering from murder, even if it was indirect. Especially if you were the one instigating it; "Mmm."
"Not a lot of crimes carry that kind of penalty these days," she went on; "But anything that threatens entire settlements? Collaborating with raiders, large-scale theft of emergency supplies..."
"And what is the connection to GoodNeighbour?" his curiosity finally won out. Piper seemed to have something of an 'oh' moment, halting in her step for the briefest of moments.
"Ah, yeah, that," she nodded; "Well, basically I told you how there's a lot of cartels in GoodNeighbour, right? That was one of them. GoodNeighbour didn't just emerge out of the aether when Diamond City threw out the ghouls. Hancock was just the first one able to force the gangs and cartels to the table, and make them not shoot up the street every other hour. That trading cartel I mentioned? Used to run out of GoodNeighbour. It's also why I don't really have a deadline for that interview with their mayor. You never know when some old remnant might still be poking around, ready to avenge their old boss."
"Sensible."
"I didn't get this far being blind to the risks," Piper huffed, then paused as if stopping herself; "Okay after the poisoning, I mean. I guess that was my first real taste of the downside to being the local truthteller, but..."
Park Street Station came into view then, cutting off whatever more Piper had meant to say. The first sign was that the wall to their left simply vanished, opening up to reveal a parallel set of tracks. The tunnel now widened, the caravan quickly spread itself out as well, and Martin for one welcomed the sudden breathing room. Rather than the concrete wall, metal pillars now took up the center. Green paint, applied centuries ago, somehow still held well enough that one could tell it apart from the dull, metallic gray. Martin tapped his fingers against them as they walked, pondering idly, if they were all that held the ceiling from collapsing now, or if they were merely for show. As a contrast to Arlington, here there was no tall ceiling, but instead it was flat and only a few meters above, little more than thrice his height, and then suddenly they were in amongst the station proper, and for a moment he was confused, for it seemed as if any signs of the metro station had been cast to the winds.
Where Boylston had seemed a proper settlement compared to Arlington, Park Street was a genuine, underground town. Three main tracks split the station like were they streets, with market stalls, stands and booths crammed together with an utter greed for even an extra centimeter's worth of space to flaunt their wares on what had once been the pedestrian platforms. In places, the stands were solid structures, with an additional floor on top, in what seemed like a bizarre mockery of a merchant's house as Martin remembered them from home. Wooden beams that seemed older than any of the people around supported entire apartment complexes, and laundry flew between these towers of amalgamated wood like in some Cyrodiilic back alley, while artists in the streets performed their crafts with guitar and harmonica, the latter an instrument he had never seen before coming to the Wasteland. Buildings had large, flashing lights of neon tubes, bent and organized to spell out wares on offer, some more imaginative than others.
The brothel, for one, was easily identified by the outline of a woman's body wrought in red lights, shifting around as power went from one to the other, to make it appear as if she performed some sensuous dance. Addicts and drunks huddled where the lights did not fall, seeking maybe the warmth of the neon lights. There was not a single actual fire to be seen. From other huts, the smells of food wafted out, none of which were familiar to him, beyond the scent of roast meat.
The smell made his stomach churn, an audible growl he could not quite suppress. Piper coughed back a laugh, though he doubted she was much better off. She fished one of the cans of cram from her rucksack and glanced about.
"Time for some travel fuel, eh?" she mused, tapping an opener against the metallic lid; "Come on, let's find somewhere to eat."