CHAPTER 25
Roadmap
Three days. It had taken her three whole days to solve what—looking back on it—was pretty damn obvious. Initiate Clarke had been far too forthcoming from the moment Grey'd approached him about the missing supplies. She'd initially perceived that as a weakness to exploit, get him to confide in her, spill the metaphorical beans on the other officers' comings and goings. What she failed to remember was that compliance was a basic tactic to redirect suspicion. How she'd managed to forget that in the 12 months—or 211 years—since she'd left JAG Corps was a mystery. An utterly embarrassing one at that.
She and Danse had spent roughly two days interviewing the Logistics Division, or pissing them off, depending on your perspective. To Grey that was part and parcel of investigation, but she'd known many judge advocates and CID officers who'd struggled with that aspect of the job. They were taught to be a part of something bigger than themselves, to rely on the men and women they served with, and then expected to dissect and scrutinize the same lives they previously placed so much trust in. Perhaps that's why she was hesitant when Lancer-Captain Kells requested both she and Danse investigate the missing supplies. Not that she anticipated the Paladin would intentionally undermine her, but she did worry that the dialectic of brotherhood and suspicion would be tricky for him to bridge. How wrong she was.
Danse allowed her to take lead on all interviews, only interjecting when he sensed some resistance or hierarchical snobbery from senior officers. Even then, he wasn't forceful in how he pulled rank. More a silent reminder that respect was warranted no matter the line of questioning. That wasn't to say he was complicit in all her tactics. She'd waited until the sun had set and he'd retired to his quarters before she started riffling through the officers' footlockers and reviewing archived personal logs. While she knew Danse wouldn't reprimand her for her approach, she also knew it would provide too much of a moral dilemma for him to simply swallow and ignore. She could respect that; it would be uncouth of her otherwise. She'd learned that lesson before, after all, and she didn't want a repeat.
I was Knight Lucia's logs that put Clarke back in Grey's crosshairs. Even now she couldn't remember if it was her idea or Danse's to follow Clarke and see where he went after his shift. But goddamn did they bitch about it while trapped in the bowels of the airport terminal, steeped in darkness, and up to their navels in feral-infested water. They'd wandered for a solid five hours, trying to find a way back around to the baggage screening area Clarke conveniently had a keycard for. They'd encountered dead end after dead end, more than half of the lower levels having collapsed or flooded.
Their bickering had started lightheartedly enough, Grey smirking to herself while Danse assured her that his training prevented him from succumbing to basic fears. He'd barely said the words before spinning and training his rifle on a dripping pipe, barking, "What was that?" Grey would have laughed if a feral hadn't then grabbed her leg and pulled her backwards into blackened water.
By the time she and Danse made it to baggage claim, flight suits soaked through and stinking of ozone and rot, they'd agreed to disagree over whose bright idea the subterfuge had been. All of the previous tension was forgotten though as they approached the security screening area, soft artificial light cutting through the musty darkness like a beacon.
Danse knew that, whatever Clarke was involved with up ahead, the sight of a Paladin would likely induce instant panic. Grey, however, was barely a step above Initiate. And she was new, a relative nobody. She could talk Clarke down. And failing that? Danse made it clear he had her six, no matter what.
Grey still couldn't quite wrap her mind around Clarke's rationale for stealing the supplies. While she didn't have the vitriol Danse and other officers had for ghouls, she'd never confuse a feral with an actual ghoul. She also knew to take ghouls at their word when they said there was no going back once their minds started to turn. No amount of operant conditioning could tame a rabid dog. Even less could rehabilitate one.
But there Clarke was, feeding the damn ferals stolen Cram and Instamash, thinking it made them docile. Instead all he did was allow a horde of mindless monsters to amass beneath the unsuspecting fleet.
It was relatively easy to persuade Clarke to turn himself in. Grey didn't fully understand the Brotherhood's approach to jurisprudence, but it appeared the Elder was both judge and jury. She got the sense honesty and strength of conviction would earn Clarke brownie points with Maxson, more so than her throwing him under the bus.
Only once he'd agreed to the terms of his surrender did Danse reveal himself, reinforcing that Clarke had made the honourable choice and offering to escort him to Knight Sergeant Gavil to make his confession. That left Grey to report their findings to Kells, who was in a surprisingly gracious mood, going as far as filling her pockets with caps and setting aside some rather impressive power armour upgrades. It almost made up for their escapades in the sunken tunnels. Almost.
Dogmeat found Grey in the showers as she attempted to scrub away the terminal's stretch. She and Danse had left him behind on the Prydwen earlier, agreeing that even though the dog could track, he wasn't exactly discrete. That and he was becoming something of a known quantity on the base, all the Brotherhood officers curious to see the unmutated Commonwealth mutt that hadn't yet eaten Quinlan's cat. Grey was pretty sure some of the Knights had placed bets on the cat's welfare. She was also pretty sure Teagan had his grimy little hands all over it and that he was poised to make bank either way.
Dogmeat bounded through bubbles as Grey scrubbed her flesh raw. The ferals had gotten in close a few too many times, leaving Grey with scratches and nicks along her biceps and thighs. One had managed to latch its teeth into her forearm, her flight suit preventing it from getting a good enough grip to rip flesh, but it did leave a nasty mark. She injected the wound with a small dose of RadAway as she dressed, also smearing it with antibacterial salve once she'd pulled on a white tank. There wasn't enough damage to justify use of a Stimpak. Even with the Brotherhood's ample resources, Stimpaks were still items of immense value. She'd rather save hers for the next time someone decided to take a shot at her, which, noting her recent track record, would likely be tomorrow.
The Prydwen was oddly quiet for sundown. Although the mess hall was self-serve, a majority of the soldiers and scribes ate at approximately 5 PM each day. Some remnant of basic training she imagined. That kind of conditioning was hard to kick, especially after years of service. The amount of times she and Nate had argued about eating by the clock near nauseated her. Toward the latter end of her pregnancy, she'd avoided eating supper anytime before 8 PM just to spite him. Petty as fuck, sure, but neither of them were in the Army anymore and she damn well wasn't about to live like she was. She'd sacrificed enough to get out, as had Nate. And that life? Those reminders? They didn't deserve a place in her life. She'd wanted so badly to pretend those years—those horrors—were behind them. But she couldn't. And not because of dinner time or framed medals or veteran's hall invites. But because every time she looked at her husband, she saw that pain deep below the surface. The pain that came with learning that everything you fought for and believed in was a lie. That the lives you took, sacrifices you made, might not have been for the greater good. And that the woman you loved, that exposed you to all those truths, the woman you'd sacrificed everything for? Maybe she didn't really love you, not the way you deserved.
Grey willed her thoughts away as she picked her way through the mess. She flicked a chunk of molerat meat at Dogmeat and grabbed herself a bowl of stew. At least she assumed it was a stew. She lifted a spoonful after finding a seat, bits of tato and corn swimming in a thick, brown liquid. It smelled more of earth than anything and somehow tasted even worse. By the time she got half the bowl down, she couldn't taste anything anymore. She wasn't sure if that was a worry or a blessing.
"Well, well. Wondered when I'd see you again."
An older gentleman seated himself across from her, his face freshly shaven and silver hair trimmed, sides shaved and fringe slicked back. His green eyes were warm, crows feet deepening as he smiled. Grey barely recognized him.
"Welcome back, Paladin. Or should I say welcome home."
Brandis chuckled. "Glad to hear someone say that." He gave her stew a glance. "Food isn't quite what I remembered."
"Better?"
"Worse."
Grey choked down a laugh.
"Listen," Brandis said, "I didn't have a chance to properly thank you before. For finding me and my squad, and…"
"That's not necessary, Paladin."
"Paladin." He scoffed. "Not sure if I deserve that rank anymore. Not sure I even have a place here. I've been away for too long. Maybe I'm not cut out for the Brotherhood anymore—" He raised a hand as she opened her mouth to protest. "—but I'll give it time. I owe it to you, and to my team."
She nodded. "How are you feeling?"
"Still a bit—what's that word Scribe Farrah used—depersonalized? Derealized? Things still don't feel real, if that makes sense. Like I know who I am and where I am, but it feels… strange. Like the colour's been drained." He shook his head, bitter smile on his lips. "Sorry, I'm just an old man mumbling now."
Grey frowned. "It's a bit premature to write yourself off, don't you think? What you've been through, not many could have survived that and held out for so long. And hell, it's been only a few days and you already look like you could single handedly take on a Super Mutant horde."
He laughed. "Remind me to tell you some stories about the Capital Wasteland someday. Gives the word 'horde' a whole new meaning."
"I have time now."
Brandis gave her a cautious once over, searching her face for that telltale sign of insincerity, to confirm that she was merely paying him lip service. Only when he failed to find it did he relax and settle back into his chair. "Alright then, Knight. So back when we first arrived in DC—"
Brandis regaled her with tales and history long past lights out. Grey didn't mind. He was a wonderful storyteller, possessing that perfect balance of dry wit and earnest reflection. That and she always enjoyed hearing about other people's lives and experiences. It provided context, on multiple levels, which was more important than ever in such a foreign landscape. That, and it also saved her from having to talk about herself. She never liked that topic. Too… unsafe.
She hadn't appreciated Maxson's Brotherhood was merely a chapter of a much larger and much older organization. Brandis described himself as a hot-shot Initiate when their chapter had left California in 2254 under the guidance of a Paladin named Lyons. She'd recognized the name from one of Quinlan's terminals; Elder Lyons as he would eventually be called. Their chapter had been sent east in search of dangerous technologies to either confiscate or destroy. There were no other orders. But something changed in Lyons the further they journeyed. Brandis attributed the cementing of it to Pittsburgh.
"I look back on it," he said, "and I can't even remember Lyons giving the order. The Pitt residents, they'd just… beat people to death for no reason. Rape women, men, children in broad daylight—right in front of us, like it was some challenge or game. And then there were the people being traded as casually as one would trade a box of scrap. It was…" He shook his head. "I can't remember who shot first, but we became a plague, sweeping through that city and putting down anything that so much as moved. By the time we left, I think there may have been more dead than living. And even now, looking back, I don't think any one of us would've done things differently. That was the beginning of it for Lyons I think—where he started to stray from the path."
Which Grey found ironic of course. Straying from the path? Code for "helping civilians". Which for her confirmed almost every negative appraisal she had of militaristic groups. Protect their own, their agenda, their mandate, all for the greater good. But people? Somehow the people got forgotten along the way. It didn't matter to her that this Roger Maxson deserted the Army and established the Brotherhood to safeguard US denizens. Somehow, somewhere, the message was distilled such that the people were again forgotten. Sad that it took a city of slavers and rapists to get a Brotherhood Elder to see that their mandate had once again become too singular. Even worse, from what Brandis described in the years following their settlement in DC, Lyons' compassion was perceived as treason. For the Brotherhood, he was the problem.
Brandis continued his tales, something about an AI posing as the President of the former United States and group called the Enclave, but Grey's attention was starting to wane, something pulling her back to a fragmented memory.
She'd woken in the dead of night, not sure from what, and went to her parents' bedroom only to find it empty. Peering over the banister, she saw a faint light coming from the parlour below. Her parents were inside, flanked by five others, two of whom she knew taught with her mother at the university. They huddled in close, voices barely a whisper.
"The Americans won't be placated for long," one said. "Their people don't know it yet, but they're staving. They drained their own lands and now they've sucked the Middle East dry. So what do you think prevents them from coming up here? Taking what they need?"
"They wouldn't," her father protested. "We're allies, Mark, they wouldn't—"
"Your Yankee husband isn't really that naive, is he, Danielle?"
Grey's mother frowned. "Stop it, both of you. We need to—"
"You're a vault dweller, aren't you?"
Grey blinked, Brandis's face coming back into focus.
"I'm sorry?"
"I heard some of the Scribes talking about Danse's new recruit being from a local vault. And as you're the only person I've seen him acknowledge since my return, I assumed it was you."
She smirked. "Fancy deduction skills you have there, Paladin."
"You aren't the only one, you know. Only vault dweller I mean. First was a spitfire of a girl in 2277, came from Vault 101 in the Capital Wasteland, looking to save her father. Others joined after the Enclave invaded Vault 101 later that year. More after we took the Enclave down."
Grey frowned. "And why are you telling me this?"
Brandis shrugged. "Good question. Maybe I can see that you haven't quite found your place here yet. And maybe I can only see that because I feel like I've lost mine. Scribe Farrah would call it projection, but let's skip the psycho-mumbo-jumbo and call it simple human intuition. That and I do find myself wondering not only why a Commonwealth vault dweller would join the Brotherhood, but why she and a very well-respected Paladin would team up and activate a low-priority op to go hunting for squad presumed KIA three years prior whilst the rest of their brethren prepared for war with the biggest threat the East Coast has faced since the Enclave itself."
Grey liked Brandis. This Brandis. Easy going, earnest, direct. She'd had an uncle like him, smart and observant but never one to mince words. Her father often accused him of having little tact. But her uncle had tact. What he didn't have was time for bullshit. After all, why wonder when you can ask.
Grey also knew that while she liked Brandis, she didn't like his questions. Or any questions really. Her base instinct was always to lie, misdirect, charm. But what for? She needed something from Brandis, and she also knew her best chance of getting it from him was by asking. She could ask without providing context, of course. Claim it was for a priority mission, which was true. She could ask Danse to intervene and pull rank. But that seemed cruel and unnecessary. It also wouldn't earn her any goodwill with the man who just regaled her with tales of his own life for several hours.
She could practically hear her old handler in her head, his brow furrowed and eyes cold. "You're going soft, girl," he'd growl. Like it was an insult or something. But that's how she would have perceived it back then. Because any and all weakness had to be purged. Because the weak didn't survive in that business, in that life.
But was she still that person? Or was she merely clinging to old habits?
"The Institute kidnapped my son," she said bluntly. "And I want him back. Which, ironically, is both the reason why I joined the Brotherhood and why I went looking for you and your squad."
"Shit," Brandis muttered under his breath. "Look, I'm sorry but… I'm not tracking. How did you think my squad could help? Our mission had nothing to do with the Institute, and the number of times I've encountered one of their synths, even after all these years stranded here, I can count on one hand."
"Before I joined, I tracked down one of their agents, the same one who stole my son. But even he only worked through proxies and he forced me to put him down before I could learn much more. What I did discover though was that an Institute scientist recently defected and they want him dead. Likely because he's the only threat to their best defence: their obscurity."
"Goddamn." Brandis shook his head. "We could actually figure out where they're holed up and shut them down for good."
"Exactly, but Virgil hasn't made locating him easy. Hence why Danse and I went looking for you. Well, not you specifically, but…"
"Still not sure how I can be of use here."
"Danse said that, in addition to your primary directive to investigate and acquire advanced tech, Artemis was also tasked with mapping the Commonwealth and identifying locations of strategic interest. Including the Glowing Sea."
Brandis leaned back, massaging his jaw. "So he's in the Sea. Clever, providing this Virgil found a way to combat the radiation. Which we're assuming he did, otherwise we wouldn't be having this conversation." He met her gaze. "You do realize my squad was attacked very shortly after arriving in the Commonwealth? Didn't exactly allow us ample opportunity to play cartographer."
"I appreciate that," Grey said, with a little more urgency than intended, "but if you have any leads, any—"
"I wasn't finished, Knight," he interjected lightly. "Although we barely had boots on the ground before scuttling our armour, we did have contacts and targets that were identified prior to our departure from the Capital Wasteland. In some cases, we sent correspondence ahead, arranging for items and intel to be deposited at various drop points and settlements both in the Commonwealth and the surrounding areas."
Again he massaged his jaw. "There's one, I think, who may be of use to you. Providing he's still alive."
—
Danse woke to the pounding of metal. Sweat slithered down his neck, heart shuddering beneath the skin. He couldn't remember his dream, but he didn't have to. It was always the same. Same nightmare, same memory.
Fists continued to bang as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. He breathed deep to bring his heart rate down. He didn't hear an alarm, knew he wasn't scheduled on the overnight roster. He flicked on a lamp, ignoring the momentary sting, and caught sight of the time. 00:47. He listened then, to the ship, to the sounds beyond the knocking. There was nothing. Which meant there was no emergency, at least nothing publicly known.
Danse pushed himself to his feet and pressed a hand to his bare, clammy chest, feeling his heart settle with each breath. He opened the door to find Grey, her eyes wide and chest rising and falling erratically. Panic initially gripped him, his hands grabbing her shoulders and instinctively pulling her inside. Pulling her to safety.
"Are you all right, did someone—"
But then he saw it. What she was trying to suppress between laboured breaths and quivering limbs. She pursed her lips, willing herself to be settled, but it kept creeping in. Hope.
"We have a lead," she whispered as if she didn't trust herself to say the words aloud. Her lips again pressed, eyes softening. "Danse, we—" She dropped her head and he felt the weight of her against his palms, his arms still gripping her shoulders.
He didn't know how long they stood like that, her regulating her breathing, mouth pursing and curving, his grip like a tether to something real and containing. Only when she could again meet his gaze did he speak.
"Grab your gear and meet me on the hanger. You can tell me en route."
