There was the holotape, still intact even after two hundred odd years….and it had the message on it. Raina slipped it into her pocket and went back to Nick. His guard had nodded off thanks to the medications he was on, which was fine with her, as she found him intensely unlikable. Since she didn't want to rouse the man, she beckoned for Nick to join her on the back stairs, where they sat down. King curled up on her feet, as usual.
"Didya find it?" he asked.
"Got it," She patted the pocket. "Nick, I—." Ever since he had told her how he came to be, the memories of a pre-war cop loaded into an electronic brain housed in a synthetic body, a Frankensteinian combination if ever there was one, she had been trying to come up with a way to explain him to himself.
"What's up?" Yellow eyes, brighter than a cat's, regarded her.
"I may get this wrong. I probably will, because I've never said anything like this to anyone, but…"
She paused a moment before she plunged in. "Fruit trees in the wild, that is, truly in the wild, not trees someone planted a long time ago—they're mostly awful. Their fruit is small, hard, sour, and almost inedible. Cultivated trees like pears, bananas, and apricots—they are what they are because a hybridizer took pollen from a tree with slightly bigger fruit and put it on the flowers of a tree with slightly sweeter fruit, and so on. It took thousands of years to turn a wild banana with more seeds than flesh, a banana that had to be cooked before you could bite into it, into a soft, sweet fruit that was easy to peel."
"Uh—you say things like that all the time," Nick pointed out.
"True," she said. "But there's more. A really good fruit tree is practically a miracle, so when a hybridizer breeds one, then they propagate it by cutting—that is, they cut off branches and root them so they'll grow into trees with fruit exactly like the parent tree. Except that it doesn't always work right, because maybe the original tree only flourishes in a certain kind of soil, or it's prone to root rot, so they take a tougher variety and graft the cutting onto the rootstock of that tree. The rootstock is tough and vigorous, the cutting bears fruit that's better and more abundant, and together they make a better tree than either would be on its own. Nobody can say that tree isn't really a tree, or that its fruit isn't really its fruit.
"And that's you, Nick. You're like a grafted tree. This synth body is the rootstock, and the original Nick Valentine's memory is the cutting. If not for the synth part of you, all of him would be gone and lost, or just so many ones and zeros in a database. If not for his memories, you'd be just…well, whatever a synth becomes when the Institute sees them as things and not people. I have no point of comparison, there.
"You aren't him any more than the grafted tree is the parent tree, but the things that were good about him live on in you. And those things are as rare and worth keeping alive as…the Moorpark apricot. It's probably the best apricot tree ever bred. Anyway, that was what I wanted to say."
He looked at her, and his eye-lights flickered a lot. For a long moment he was silent, then, "Damn …For somebody who says they never say things like that, you sure hit it out of the ballpark."
"That wasn't what I was going for. I just wanted to try and help you find understanding."
"Well, I can tell you that right now, I wouldn't want to be anyone else, anywhere else," he said, and smiled. "You make me glad I am what I am."
His smile made her feel warm. None of her sisters had had a father or a brother, of course: they had to go all the way back to Theodosia herself for that, and Theodosia's personal memories were difficult to pin down. Nick was someone who was there when you needed him, someone who gave you good advice and had your back and worried about your health and wellbeing. Like a father or a brother, at least as she imagined they might be.
"But if I'm a grafted tree, what does that make you? If you don't mind a sappy remark, I'd say you have to be a sugar maple, you're so sweet," the synth quipped.
"Ohhh," she groaned. "That was terrible. No, I'm sourdough bread starter. The reason is—."
The sound of a booted foot scraping against the stair silenced her. Looking up, she saw the commanding officer, the big one in the power armor, looming over them, except he wasn't in power armor at the moment. He was still big and broad-shouldered, but he looked much less sure of himself. He had a can of purified water in one hand.
"Uh—hello," he scratched the back of his neck with the hand that wasn't holding the water. "Did you get the info you needed?"
"Yes, thank you. As soon as it's light or as soon as the storm ends, we'll be on our way," she assured him, not bothering to get up. She did not like him, but somehow he made her feel flustered.
"Oh. Well, before that…I wanted to apologize. I think we got off on the wrong foot. I'm Paladin Danse. I'm sorry I shouted at you the way I did when you appeared. I'd been expecting the local militia or someone like them."
"As it happens, I'm part of the local militia, the Minutemen," she told him. "So you got what you were expecting, even if it didn't take the exact form you thought it would."
"You are…? Then this is a double apology. Also, uhhh," He walked down the stairs until he was at a level with their eyes. "I…My experiences with synths up until now have been with Gen 1 and 2s. I've never encountered a synth like you before. I reacted like I would to any other synth. I…want to apologize." It sounded like he had to force the words past his lips, but they made it out into the open air.
Raina looked to Nick. "Apology accepted," the sleuth said. "I've never encountered a synth like me either."
"Thank you," Danse said, before he focused his attention on Raina. "So…" he held out the water, "Peace?"
She glanced at Nick, who gave her a single blink, their code for yes. Two quick blinks was the code for 'no', of course. At her request, they had worked out a system for discreet nonverbal communication. That way, he could help her out in social situations, steering her past potential blunders and out of difficulties.
"Peace," she said, and accepted the water.
"So," Danse took that as an invitation to sit down on the stairs with them, a couple of steps below theirs. "That's a good looking dog. What's his name?"
"King," Raina actually was thirsty, so she popped open the canister and sipped from it.
"King," he repeated, and reached out to pet him. King accepted the attention readily enough, but he didn't get excited about it. "I grew up in the Capitol Wasteland. There were dogs there, but not like him. Yellow, ribs showing like slats, narrow heads… Not that it's important. So, you're with the Minutemen? I guess that means you're a settler, then."
"Didn't the shovel give that away?" she teased him a little. "Yes, I'm a settler. My place is to the northwest of Concord."
"It's relatively safe out that way, isn't it? But it still must be hard, grubbing a living out of the ground."
"Nothing worth doing is easy," she pointed out. "I do all right."
"Still, it's living hand to mouth, isn't it? Have you ever thought of joining up with an established organization? One with real resources, where you wouldn't have to worry about where your next meal is coming from."
"Are you...trying to recruit me?" she asked.
"No! Well, maybe-Sorry. I don't often converse with civilians. Especially not ones like you. Uh. I'm not very good at this," he confessed.
"I can see that, but I'm not very good at this sort of thing either, so it's okay. The answer is, no. I already have quite a lot going on, I don't need to add to it. Also, I have only so many years when I can hope to have a healthy baby, and I want to have a family. Once I have one, I want to be there to raise them. The Brotherhood would find that inconvenient, I'm sure. Besides, I know what I'm supposed to do with my life, and that is to grow things. Do you have a family?"
"No. It's not something I've ever considered. Maybe I will one day, but right now, the Brotherhood is my life." He rubbed the back of his neck again, looking around. His eyes lit on her syringer. "Say, what do you have loaded in your darts, anyway? From what I saw, it's quite effective."
Nick blinked twice. No, don't tell him.
All right, she would have to make something up. "I'm not sure. I got them from one of the caravaners. There are two kinds going around, one for game and one for things you aren't going to eat."
"Which caravan?" Danse asked.
"Ummm...Nick, was it the armor dealer, or the girl with the strange name?" Raina looked to her friend.
"Neither," Nick said. "It was one of the traveling doctors."
"That makes sense, but which one?" she asked him.
"I dunno," the detective shrugged. "It's not like I need them. So, what's the Brotherhood of Steel doing in the Commonwealth?"
"That's classified-," Danse began, but then deflated a little. "Reconnaissance, mainly. Our objective was to locate and extract any survivors from the last squad that came here, and to locate certain items of pre-war tech. However, at this point, I've lost several members of my own squad. We're hanging on until reinforcements arrive."
"Just a squad or two? Not planning anything bigger?" Nick pressed.
"If anything more substantial is underway, it would be on a need to know basis. Why do you ask?" Danse transfixed Nick with a sharp and suspicious stare.
"Because the Brotherhood of Steel, as an organization, has a way of descending on a community like a plague of locusts-not that anybody knows what that is, anymore. They go where they please, make an effort at eradicating any nests of supermutants or ferals while killing locals with 'friendly fire', 'requisition' supplies from the locals-by which I mean, they descend on some poor settler and demand he turn over whatever his family's grown, whether for their own use or for trade. Without offering compensation, either. Just like Gunners are basically just better organized, armed and armored raiders, the BoS are better organized, armed and armored Gunners."
Raina looked at Danse, horrified. "Is that true?"
"He's oversimplifying and distorting matters," the soldier said curtly. "I'll thank you not to compare the Brotherhood to those packs of chem addicts and mercenaries. We have a long and honorable history and a tradition of discipline and order. The Brotherhood takes young people with potential and gives them the means to achieve it. There is always the risk of friendly fire-but it isn't greater than the risk of being killed by those same supermutants and ghouls we target."
"Understood," Nick returned, "and if the mutants and ferals were gone for good, it might be worth it. But they're never gone for long, and when they do come back, they're angrier and hungrier."
"But demanding people give up their crops without compensation, that's morally unsupportable," Raina said. "So many people barely get by. One bad growing season, and they'll starve."
"You think I don't understand hunger? Before I joined the Brotherhood, I barely scratched out a living in an area at least as bad as the Commonwealth. I have no idea how the Brotherhood gets its provisions. It's not my job-but I do know that that they would never stoop to what you're describing." He stomped away, only to return a moment later with a massive laser pistol. "Here. In trade for whatever syringes you have with you. This and a hundred fusion cells."
"What? Why do you want my syringes?" Raina asked.
"The Brotherhood could use ammo that can bring down a rampaging ghoul with one shot. I want some to take back. At least that way I'll have salvaged something from this mission."
"But this has to be worth a lot more than a dozen syringes," she said.
"If I'm taking all you have, you'll need protection. Besides, underneath the mods it's a basic model. I'm always tinkering."
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Nick blink, once, slowly. He thought it would be a good idea? Well, she could always make more syringes.
"Thank you." She took the weapon with as much care as she would a mirelurk egg from its nest. You never knew when it would hatch.
He nodded curtly. "You're welcome-but you might want to think twice about the company you keep."
A/N: A very bad week. Classes, work, and then my 16 + year old cat died. He'd been ailing for a few months, since late October, so it wasn't like I wasn't prepared, but still. He was nothing but skin and bones by the end, he smelled terrible and I had to put newspaper down all around the box because he wasn't able to aim like he used to, but he still loved being brushed and cuddling and being in my lap. On his last morning, I woke up and he was there, I stroked him for a while and he purred. Then he ate a little before he wanted to go out. So I let him out. He never came back. He went back behind the shed in the yard, where he went when he wanted to hide, and that was where I found him when I came home. We got him when I was in elementary school and he was just four months old then. He was there for so much of my life, and I miss my little guy something awful.
Anyhow: Guestman, I have someone in mind for the Minutemen, but I'm not spilling the beans now. Ah, such wonderful botanical mischief and mayhem! Yes, yes, definitely, and lots. Thank you to all my readers and reviewers. I'm just kind of down right now.