He looked across into the pair of hazel eyes staring back at him, wide in shock.
"I can't believe it! You actually did it, you opened the door!" John looked at her, hearing, through the locked door next to them, muffled voices approaching.
"Come with me, Amata," he said, desperately, as the sound of a fist banging against the door echoed through the entrance chamber.
"I wish I could…but I can't. My place is here. Someone has to try to keep my father under control," she replied, sadness in her eyes. The sounds of more voices and yelling became clearer on the other side, as the security guards tried to force the lock and get to John. "Go, John. If they catch you, they'll kill you." John could hear squeaking, the sounds of the lock beginning to fail. He knew, of course, that he had to flee through the now open door and escape the Vault if he wanted to survive; but the thought of leaving her, the only woman he loved, at the mercy of her father was almost too much for him to bear. The sound of the door beginning to budge made him respond, almost instinctively.
"I love you, Amata," he said, desperately clutching her and pulling her towards him, their lips meeting in a passionate kiss; the sounds of the Vault fading for just a moment before they broke apart. She looked up at him, eyes wet.
"Go now, JJ. Run! Go!" she yelled, voice rising as the door gave and John turned, sprinting towards the exit. From behind him he could hear Amata, throwing herself between him and the guards to buy him time. Through the open, cog shaped door he ran, almost tripping over a skeleton that lay on the stairs leading up to it. From behind him he heard Amata cry out, forcing him to resist the urge to stop and turn back for her. A moment later, a pistol round impacted the rocks to his left; the guard's lack of training sparing his life. Behind him, he heard the klaxon begin sounding; the door squealing back into place. Before him, he saw a flimsy looking wooden door, rapidly approaching as he continued to sprint, bright light shining through it. His hands reached forward, bursting through the door and emerging into a wall of heat and light that blinded him…
His eyelids began fluttering open as the anesthetic wore off, before snapping open, the pupils dilating, the irises green, flecked with gold. And when they regained their focus, the Lone Wanderer was there.
Gale stepped out from the Tops and into the blistering heat of the Vegas strip, a thin bead of sweat almost immediately forming on her brow. She had been alone in the city for three days, Smith having left without an explanation and Fawkes having made his way to the super-mutant refuge in the mountains west of the city. For the first time in her life, she was truly alone. While on some level she missed her friends, and her mind went to them all frequently, she found the solitude liberating, in a way. Here, no one knew who she was; no one would run and tell her overbearing father if they saw her doing something they thought was inappropriate. Nobody knew her name at all. She was just a face in the crowds on the Strip. She had spent the previous two days amusing herself on the Strip, wandering the city, seeing the sights. Her destination for the day was Freeside; a place she had only seen while traveling with John. While she knew it was a slum, and had a pistol strapped to her leg in recognition of that, she had grown to feel secure in her ability to protect herself.
She made her way quickly down the Strip, passing the Securitrons guarding the gates, Securitrons whose faces had changed since the last time she had been in the city. The previous display, a picture of a police officer's face, had now been replaced by a grizzled looking soldier, a cigar hanging out of its mouth. She found it interesting, but doubted it was anything significant; they bid her a pleasant day as she left the Strip, the same as they always had. Walking through the gates, she exited into Freeside, the sounds of the city behind her fading and the sounds of the ghetto-of bottles smashing, raised voices, of low conversations that whispered of the war to come-replacing it. Gale had avoided being sucked into any conversations about the situation in the Mojave. She wasn't from there, the ultimate outcome would have no effect on her life; it was, as her grandmother had always said, "not her circus, not her monkeys."
It was as she walked, lost in her thoughts, that a young man, dressed in tattered clothes, waved to her from across the street; beckoning her before disappearing down an alleyway. Ignoring the feeling in her gut, and resting her hand on the butt of her pistol, Gale crossed the street to follow him.
The sound of two gunshots, in quick succession, caught the attention of Achilles as he walked down the streets of Freeside. Shooting a quick glance at the hooded woman next to him, they shared a nod; before setting off in the direction of the shots at a quick pace. As they approached they could hear sounds of a struggle, a woman's voice becoming clear. Unholstering his 5.56 pistol, Achilles rounded the corner to an alley. In front of him, towards the end of the alley, three men were struggling to restrain a woman, a fourth man lying to the side, clutching his leg and groaning in pain. None of the men had heard the approach of the Courier, as he drew a bead on the nearest man with his handgun and fired a single shot into his skull, killing him. A cry of alarm rose from the surviving men, releasing their hold on the girl; who immediately skittered back to the wall of the alley, pulling her partially lowered pants up as she did.
"THE MAILMAN IS HERE!" Achilles screamed as he leapt forward, shooting the man furthest away from him as he tackled the nearest, placing his weight on the assailant's shoulders to restrain him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Veronica moving to the woman they had been attacking. Looking up from the squirming man beneath him, Achilles caught sight of the woman Veronica was now consoling, his heart skipping a beat as he did. It was her. The woman from his fever dreams, from when he was convalescing in Goodsprings.
"You….I know you." Achilles said. He was met with confused looks from the woman and Veronica. "I've seen your face before. Don't you know me?" he asked, desperation creeping into his voice. The woman stared for a moment before finally finding her voice.
"No…no. I'm from West Virginia. I've never been to New Vegas before, we've never met," she replied. Achilles looked at her, confusion swelling inside him. Under him, the man continued to futilely struggle against the weight of Achilles' knees. Regaining his focus, Achilles turned to Veronica.
"Take her to the Followers. I'll meet you back at the 38 tonight," he said. Veronica nodded in reply, before helping the woman to her feet and leading her away. Once they were gone, Achilles turned his attention back to the man, rage beginning to replace the confusion he felt. She doesn't know me. It was all just a dream.
"Time to die," he said, with an air of finality. The man attempted to cry out as Achilles took a commanding hold on the man's head and began slamming it, face first, into the concrete alleyway. As he did, he began singing, timing each slam of the head with the words.
"Row, row, row your boat…" he began, the man beginning to go limp as his face slammed against the ground.
"Gently down the stream…" he continued, the man's legs beginning to spasm as his brain suffered the massive damage of the repeated blows.
"Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily…" Achilles softly continued, the wet sound of the man's now ruined face splattering against the pavement almost drowning him out.
"Life…" Splat. "Is but…a dream," Achilles finished, slamming the man's head for the last time as the crimson blood pooled out onto the grimy pavement beneath them. Letting out a heavy breath, Achilles looked at his handiwork, before beginning to laugh to himself. Taking the man's body by the leg, he dragged him back out onto the streets of Freeside. An example of what happened to those who angered the Courier.
Elder Lyons had woken that morning with an unusual cough that worsened as the day progressed. For the third time that day, he was on his way to the infirmary to check on his wounded soldiers. It was Scribe Rothchild who intercepted him on his way.
"On your way to the infirmary again, Owyn?" he asked, stopping Lyons' progression.
"Yes," the Elder began, before Rothchild raised his hand to cut him off.
"There's been no change. Sarah is still there as well. McPherson remains in surgery. His wounds were more severe than we realized, Owyn. We may need to prepare for the possibility that he won't survive." Owyn grimly nodded, before breaking into another hacking fit, drawing a look of concern from Rothchild. "Perhaps you should go to the infirmary and be seen for that cough, though."
"No. The medics need to focus on our wounded. Who is now most senior from the Pride in the ruins?"
"Colvin. With Sarah and the rest of the Pride in, Colvin is ranking in the ruins. I've ordered him to take over mentorship of our young squire in her absence." Owyn nodded.
"Very well. Keep me posted on any developments, my friend," Lyons responded, before turning and returning to his quarters.
Colvin made his way through the outpost they had established in the ruins, his power armor filling almost the entire hallway as he walked to the mess hall to retrieve his charge. He had orders to lead a patrol tonight, and while his thoughts remained with McPherson and the rest of the Pride at the Citadel, Colvin had pushed his concern to the back of his mind to focus on the task at hand. Entering the mess hall, he was greeted by the sight of a small group of soldiers, gathered around a table and playing cards. Amongst them, he saw the figure he was looking for. Wearing a simple, solid black uniform; the skintight version that was designed to be worn under both power armor and the combat armor Brotherhood members wore, and with a wicked looking scar running down his face, it was easy to forget that the young man was only 14. Colvin had served alongside incredibly brave, skilled men in his time. In his mind, the finest two combatants he had fought with had been Knight Gallows and the Wanderer. And although only 14, and only still growing into being a man, Colvin would consider the boy that sat at the table, young Arthur Maxson, as nearly their peers. He felt sure that with continued training, if the boy could learn to curb his stubborn nature, he would be a legend of the Brotherhood, equal to any of his famed ancestors. Clearing his throat, he drew the attention of the assembled men at the table.
"Squire Maxson," he began, the boy standing as he was spoken to. "With me. We have patrol this evening, we need to receive the order." Maxson let out a low sigh, before throwing his cards onto the table.
"You're all lucky. No way were you beating my hand," he said, drawing snickers from the table as the boy grabbed his laser rifle and fell in behind Colvin. "Any idea what we have tonight, Colvin?" Maxson asked eagerly as they walked. Colvin couldn't help but smile slightly at the boy's enthusiasm.
"Standard patrol. If I had to guess, sweep and clear and marking any potential materials for the project up at Adams," he replied.
"With the way they've had us collecting steel, I don't think there will be any left in the Wasteland by the time the ship is completed," Maxson replied, drawing a grunt of agreement from Colvin. Ahead, Colvin saw their briefer, waiting for them to arrive. Drawing close, Colvin placed his fist over his chest, saluting him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Arthur do the same.
"Paladin Danse. Knight Colvin, reporting as ordered," he began, Danse smartly returning the salute before picking up a holotape.
"Afraid it may be a boring night, Colvin. Standard patrol looking for raider activity. Move to contact, report anything you find. Make note of any potential salvage for the airship project. Questions?"
"None. Ad Victoriam, Paladin," Colvin replied, saluting again.
"Ad Victoriam, Knight. Move your men out," Danse replied. As Danse left, Colvin turned to Maxson.
"Suit up in your combat armor. Tell the rest of the squad to fall in on me. How many will we have in power armor?"
"Three, including you," Maxson responded. Colvin nodded, pleased with Maxson's awareness. He took an active role in keeping track of their equipment and capabilities, preparing to continue his advance. For Colvin's part, he disagreed with the decision to not promote Maxson to Knight. While the boy had something of an ego, he was tactically competent and incredibly gifted in individual combat. Not many Brotherhood members could say they had killed a Deathclaw, let alone having done so single-handedly, at age 13. The scar down the side of the boy's face belied his young age and was a very visible display of his physical courage. Colvin knew, having spoken to Sarah, that they hadn't yet promoted the boy in hopes that he would learn a greater deal of humility; fearing that his incredible natural talent would lead to his ego inflating in the way the Wanderer's had, before he fell out with the Brotherhood.
Clover made her way back towards the Capital Wasteland alone, having split from Charon and his bodyguards the day previously. They had decided that they would come back on different routes, the better with which to confuse any Brotherhood scouts that may be on the lookout; particularly if Gallows was still tracking Clover. She had given the ghoul the lay of the land in the Capital Wasteland, as it were, with them agreeing to rendezvous at Megaton after they had both arrived and Charon had reconnected with Sheriff Simms.
It was as she walked that she became aware, on some level, that there was a presence. It was as she approached a ruined building, several decrepit cars in its parking lot, that she noticed it. Her pace came to a halt, as she slowly drew her handgun from its holster and edged forward. Rounding the corner of the building, she was greeted by a sight that was enough to give even her pause. Three skeletal, robotic figures, disconcerting in both how human and how alien they were, accompanied by a fourth figure, one that at first was utterly unremarkable, if she had not known better. Attired in a knee length, heavy trench coat of a deep purple shade, and an utterly impassive face. Courser. Fuck. I really pissed them off. The Courser cocked its head in an almost quizzical manner as it took her in.
"You're coming with me," it said, its voice monotone. Clover analyzed the situation before speaking, looking for any sort of advantage. She had seen how deadly a Courser could be. She wasn't as worried about the Gen 1 synths escorting it-she knew she could use them for target practice, but the hunter-killer Synth that was in front of her was the pinnacle of Institute technology.
"I don't know if it was Ayo or Kellogg that sent you for me, but you can go back and tell them that they can lick my ass. It'll be a cold day in Hell before I go back to that freak show," she responded, beginning to slowly edge her way towards cover to dive behind when the shooting started.
"I am authorized to use force," the Courser responded.
"I don't think you understand the situation here. We're not in the Commonwealth. You don't have any of your relay beacons to call for more of your tin cans to help you out. Down here you're just a fucking robot. So my offer stands: go back to the Commonwealth, and tell Ayo, or Kellogg; or really, tell both of them for all I care, that they can lick. My. Ass. I'll be nice about it. I'll wash before they do it." The Courser began drawing his rifle as she finished.
"Force, then. Very well," the Courser responded.
"Fine by me. When I'm done I'm going to sell all of you for scrap," Clover responded, her cybernetics coming roaring to life as she drew a bead on the nearest Gen 1, firing two shots from her .45 into its head as it collapsed into a heap. The crackle of energy weapons filled the air as she rolled behind cover, her hand reaching for a pulse grenade that she had taken to carrying. She knew, on some level, that this day had to be coming. After the cybernetic implants she had received, the knowledge she had of the Institute, there was no way they would let her walk away and not pursue her. She could hear the inane droning of the Gen 1s from where they continued firing at her, giving her a rough target as she threw the pulse grenade over the wall she hid behind. A moment later it detonated, her ears being met by the sound of the remaining Gen 1s being overloaded and collapsing. Only the Courser remained.
Clover didn't have to look for the Courser. She leapt from behind her cover, being met by a barrage of blue beams from its rifle as it quickly closed the distance toward her. The loud report of her handgun firing back combined with the crackle of the Courser's weapons. The sound alone made Clover positively giddy. Two of her rounds had found their mark, the heavy trench coat that her enemy wore defeating the projectiles before they could tear through its body. Slinging his weapon to his side, the Courser swung a freakishly fast hook at Clover's head, her cybernetics allowing her to react just in time to roll under the punch, before responding with a wickedly fast kick of her own, driving into the machine's ribs. The lack of response to her kick was almost disconcerting to Clover. A normal man would have easily had a rib broken by her kick, would be a wheezing mess on the ground. The Courser simply took a short step back, before returning with a front kick that, though blocked by Clover, had enough force to knock her back several paces. She had never had cause to fight a Courser at all, let alone in hand-to-hand combat. It was by far the strongest thing she had ever fought, stronger than even Gallows in his power armor. She forced the thought from her mind as she sidestepped around the synth. As far as Clover knew, Coursers didn't fatigue in the manner that normal humans did. Wearing it out, one of her preferred strategies when fighting a more powerful opponent, was out. They have joints. Joints that are based on human joints. Think of that, sugar? She heard the voice of Conquest whisper in her head as she looked at her foe.
The Courser advanced at her slowly, facing her in a balanced fighting stance. Clover made a quick dash forward, feinting at his face with a left hand before shooting off at a 90 degree angle to the side, moving herself next to the Courser before quickly firing a low side kick at his knee. The machine quickly began to pivot to face her as she again darted forward, ducking low as her opponent swung a wide hook at her. The miss allowed Clover just enough room to angle off a shot with her handgun, the .45 round hitting the Courser's left knee and tearing through it. The Courser responded to that, his leg immediately buckling as he dropped to a knee, before quickly shooting back up. The Courser quickly struck out with his hand, managing to hit Clover in her forearm and force her second shot, one aimed directly at his face, wide. They spun to face each other again, the Courser now visibly off balance, his weight shifted backwards onto his right leg. Clover saw her opportunity, the predator in her coming to the front as she sized up her now wounded opponent. She dashed forward, feinting again to force the machine's weight onto its damaged leg before again striking low, lashing out at the Courser's wounded knee. The kick landed, forcing the machine down. Clover was relentless in her follow up, driving a powerful left hand into the machine's jaw, knocking it sideways and onto its back. Before the Courser could recover, Clover drove her boot into its face, knocking it flat onto its back, before pinning its throat under her boot; placing all her weight onto it to keep the synth down. Synthetic or not, the lack of oxygen began turning the Courser's face red. Hands grasping at Clover's ankle, it struggled to speak.
"There will be more. You are a dead woman," it rasped at her. Clover stared back impassively.
"Go fuck yourself," she responded, before leveling her handgun and shooting the synth in the face; blood and brain and its synth components splattering onto the concrete. Clover took a step back, looking around to confirm she was alone before turning back to the dead Courser. Take everything of value. She knelt down, taking the Courser's rifle for herself before rifling through his pockets, taking all the fusion cells she could find. Pausing for a moment to consider, she proceeded to strip the Courser of his trench coat. While it may not have been her style, it offered a high level of protection without being too heavy, as she had just witnessed by her handgun being ineffective against it. Pulling the trench coat over her shoulders, she moved on to loot the Gen 1s of their ammunition as well, before turning south and continuing for the Capital Wasteland; hoping, as much as she could, that the Courser she had dispatched would be her last contact with the Institute.
Achilles made his way down the Strip, not conscious of his destination. The dried blood of the man he had killed in Freeside was still on his hands. He walked past the Lucky 38, not ready to return to his suite or see his companions yet. Anger and confusion still pounded through his mind at the girl in Freeside not knowing him. Discovering the identity of the face that he had seen in his dreams had been one of his focuses since he had awoken, second only to killing Benny. Now he had found her, and she had no idea who he was. The Courier ambled down the street, becoming more aware of his surroundings, crowds of NCR soldiers on leave and tourists passing him by as evening fell and the lights of the Strip came on. In the distance, Achilles saw the lights of the Gomorrah, deciding then on his destination.
Joana was a prostitute that worked for the Omertas, and who had taken a liking to Achilles, enough to not charge him for his visits. He knew she had a boyfriend, someone that had crossed the Omertas and been forced into hiding. On one hand, Achilles almost felt a sense of guilt for sleeping with her, but on the other, she had one of the best bodies he had seen, and was less of a headache than Sarah Weintraub. Thoughts of Joana, and what he would be doing with her soon, crossed the Courier's mind as he walked through the front doors of Gomorrah. Taking several steps inside, Achilles scanned the room, meeting eyes with an Omerta guard, standing next to the front desk. Their eyes met for a moment before the Omerta spoke.
"What the fuck are you looking at?" the man asked. His words didn't hit Achilles immediately, as he took another step forward. The Omerta pushed off of the desk he was leaning on, sighing and standing upright. It was then that what the man had said hit Achilles, as well as the tone he had said it in. Who the fuck do you think you are, you jumped up little shit?
"I'm looking at a fucking dead man," Achilles responded, reaching behind himself and unsheathing his machete. The man's eyes went wide as he quickly began raising his gun. Achilles was faster with his reactions.
"RARRR!" Achilles screamed, swinging his machete downward and into the Omerta's skull, splitting it open and spraying blood on Achilles, and the receptionist behind the desk, looking on with an utterly stunned look on her face. The gun clattered to the floor as the man's limbs began spasming, dropping to his knees, shock still in his eyes. Achilles planted his boot in the man's chest and violently kicked him backwards, while wrenching his machete from his head and spinning to face the nearest Omerta, rushing towards the scene.
"YOU WANT A PIECE OF ME TOO?!" Achilles screamed at the man, stopping him in his tracks as the Omerta looked at the scene in horror. Achilles took a quick step backwards, before looking down at the dying man on the floor. "YOU WOULD STILL BE ALIVE IF YOU HADN'T FUCKED WITH ME!" Breath coming in seething heaves, Achilles turned and burst out of the doors of the Gomorrah, back onto the Strip. In the distance, he saw a group of three Securitrons rushing towards the scene. It meant nothing to Achilles. He knew he was untouchable on the Strip, that his killing of the Omerta would have no repercussions.
Sarah had been sitting in the infirmary all day. Her back hurt. Her eyes were heavy, she was utterly spent, emotionally and physically. The sound of a door opening drew her eyes up, the two medics she had spoken to throughout the day walking in. Sarah popped to her feet, suddenly wide awake as they entered.
"McPherson is stabilized. He lost a lot of blood, but his condition is stable. He'll be coming out from anesthesia soon, if you want to go in," the first medic said. Sarah nodded, her body sagging in relief as the tension she had felt throughout the day left her body. Sarah walked through the doors that the medics had come through, making her way back to the recovery room. Entering, she saw McPherson lying on his back, covered up to his chest in a blanket. The sight broke her heart. Liam was one of the strongest men she knew. Even the use of stimpaks on him weren't enough to replace the sheer amount of fluids he had lost. His skin was blanched, an IV running into his arm. Sarah sat next to the bed, reaching out to lightly hold McPherson's hand. His skin was cool and clammy. They sat there in silence for what felt like an eternity before McPherson's eyes began to flutter open. Sarah leaned forward as they did, pulling McPherson's hand toward her face and kissing the back of it as they made eye contact.
"Hey, you," she whispered, eyes beginning to tear up as she looked at her lover.
"My men?" he whispered to her. The question hit harder than Sarah had anticipated.
"You saved a lot of them. It could have been a lot worse. Just rest now," she replied. McPherson nodded at her, a weak smile crossing her face.
"We gonna go after them?" he asked. Sarah's eyes hardened at the question.
"You're God damn right we are." McPherson smiled again at the answer, eyes closing as he fell back into sleep.
Colvin led his patrol through the ruins, the light mounted on his helmet shining into the inky darkness ahead of them. He was leading a well-armed squad, with a Gatling Laser and Minigun at his disposal, being carried by the two other men in the patrol mounted in power armor. The rest of the patrol was heavily attired in combat armor, all carrying energy weapons. The Brotherhood had effectively increased their arsenal in the aftermath of the war with the Enclave, enough to arm all its members with energy weapons. Colvin spun backwards quickly, looking at the staggered column behind him, his men alternating what side of the road they moved down. The inexperienced members of the Brotherhood had been forced to learn quickly from the renewed fighting that was engulfing the Wasteland. Towards the middle of the patrol, Colvin spotted the figure of Squire Maxson, notable by being smaller and less heavily built than the fully grown men around him. He almost looked lost in his combat armor, but the way he carried his laser rifle was in the manner of someone who was comfortable with his weapon and what it could do.
The wind lightly whistling through the ruins around them was the only sound breaking the silence of the night. The silence was unsettling to Colvin in how preternatural it was. He had learned over the years that there were different kinds of silence. There was the normal silence of the night, one where, despite the quiet, the distant sounds of life and the city carried on the wind. The silence surrounding the patrol now gave off the sense of being forced. As if they weren't alone and another presence was trying too hard to maintain the silence around them.
The sound of concrete sliding against concrete behind a pile of rubble confirmed Colvin's suspicions. Colvin turned to face the sound, a warning in his voice rising simultaneously with a barrage of gunfire directed at them. Another ambush, but unlike the one that had engulfed McPherson's patrol, this appeared to be all low caliber small arms fire; a round uselessly pinging off Colvin's hulking T-45D armor as his men immediately began returning fire.
"Hold position! Form a firing line, maintain spacing!" Colvin yelled over the sounds of the fire. In the distance he could hear the whirring sound of the Gatling Laser coming to life, spraying in the direction of the muzzle flashes as the Knight carrying it began moving forward towards the enemy. Over the sounds of the fire Colvin made out the sound of rushing air, followed by a shriek. He immediately realized what it was, as the missile detonated at the foot of the man carrying the Gatling, sending him flying and ending his life. There was at least one missile launcher. Shit. Colvin's first instinct was to break contact, but the order was preempted by a shadowy figure, racing forward and emptying his laser rifle at the enemy positions as he neared the fallen Knight. Colvin could make out the slight figure of Arthur Maxson, exposed to the fire on both sides, and partially impairing the ability of his men to return fire.
"MAXSON! GET BACK ON LINE!" Colvin yelled, his order lost as the young Squire picked up the Gatling Laser from the dead man and began using it to spray energy beams at the enemy positions. Colvin saw the young man stagger backward quickly, a round slamming into the young man's chest armor as he moved forward. The injury seemed only to anger Maxson, as he directed his fire towards where the bullet had come from. The Squire's actions had forced Colvin's hand, as the boy continued to assault forward towards the enemy line, becoming dangerously exposed. "Assault through!" Colvin yelled, racing forward. Besides being his subordinate, besides being a friend, Colvin was all too aware that Arthur was the last scion of the Maxson line, a descendant of the very founders of the Brotherhood of Steel. If anything happened to Arthur while under his command, Colvin would be a pariah for the rest of his life. As if able to hear his thoughts, one of the enemy, a man Colvin could clearly see was a raider, popped out of a ruined building at Maxson's back and took aim at the boy. Colvin increased his pace to a dead sprint, the thumping of his armor drawing the raider's attention as his eyes went wide and he swung to face Colvin. The move was too late, with the Brotherhood man lowering his shoulder and putting all his weight into a backhanded strike that snapped the raider's neck as it sent him flying into a wall, dead before he hit the ground. Around them, the sound of small arms fire slacked off, his men victorious. Colvin turned to find Maxson on top of a pile of rubble, holding the Gatling Laser at his side and scanning for any more threats. In that moment, the Knight felt a mixture of pride and anger. Pride at his young squire's bravery and decisive action. Anger that he had both disobeyed orders and nearly gotten himself killed through carelessness. Colvin walked towards the younger man, Arthur turning to face him.
"You nearly got shot in the back. That's why we stay on line, Maxson." The boy looked confused.
"But Colvin, we…" he began, Colvin raising a hand to silence him.
"No more. We'll speak at the Citadel. Fall in with the men and search the bodies while I report this." Without a further word, Colvin turned and opened a channel to the Citadel.
Veronica had taken to wandering the Presidential Suite in the Lucky 38 at night. The group already kept odd hours, and she was a night owl to begin with. Cass was out on the Strip, probably a bottle in, and Boone was already asleep. Veronica enjoyed the quiet stillness of their suite at night, the solitude that allowed her to think. She made her way to the kitchen, with the thought of perhaps preparing food and sitting down to read. The sight that greeted her in the kitchen was unexpected. On the far wall, near a corner, Achilles sat, knees pulled up to his chest and arms wrapped around them. The expression he wore was one Veronica had never seen on him before. One of…fear. Fear and sorrow. It was alarming to her, as she made her way to the man and knelt alongside him.
"Hey, you ok?" she softly asked, putting a hand on top of his. He looked up from the floor, his blue eyes meeting her soft, brown eyes, and for the first time she saw behind the mask the man wore. Beyond the legend of the Courier, past the façade he put on. For the first time she felt like she was seeing Achilles' soul. And it was that of a scared, lost person.
"She didn't know me, Ronnie," Achilles responded. He almost never used her nickname, although she had given him permission to.
"I know. I talked to her on the way to the Followers and stayed with her while she was being checked out. She came here on a caravan from West Virginia. If the face you saw in your dreams was a real one, it wasn't Gale," Veronica explained.
"It felt so real, so important. How do I accept that it wasn't?" he plaintively asked. Veronica thought for a second.
"Remember when you came stumbling into the 188? After the Sierra Madre, after Elijah, what you kept saying to me? Do you remember what you told me you learned in the Sierra Madre?" Achilles paused for a moment before responding.
"To begin again, learn to let go," he answered. Veronica nodded.
"Let go. Achilles, I didn't know you before you got shot. And obviously there's a lot of your life that you don't remember anymore, either. But you're here now, and that counts for something. And I feel like out of all of us here, you have the least reason to hide from me. You're a good person, whether you want to admit it or not. You just have to find a way to accept that whoever, whatever you were before you were shot? It doesn't matter anymore. What matters is who you are and what you do now."
"But what if I don't know what that is? How can I be something without any past?"
"That's the silver lining, Achilles. You get to decide. Not many of us can have a clean break from our past. No matter where I go, the shadow of the Brotherhood will always hang over me. But not you. You can be whatever you want and whoever you want. It's a gift very few people ever receive." Achilles nodded, processing her words.
"You know, Ronnie, out of all the places I've been, the people I've met…I think you're the closest thing I have to a friend," he replied, looking into her eyes. She smiled back at him.
"I don't know about that. But I am your friend, Achilles. I always will be." He smiled back at her.
"Will you stay with me?" he whispered. She nodded.
"I was just going to make some food. Do you want some?" Achilles squeezed her hand before responding.
"Yeah, that would be nice."
It didn't take Veronica long to cook. Silently, she ladled the food onto two plates. She carried one to Achilles, and slowly sat down next to him, backs against the wall. Together, they quietly ate. And for the first time in his life, Achilles felt something resembling belonging.
Lost Hills, California
The Chosen One stood before the Council of Elders, an honor almost never accorded to an outsider. Such was the strength of his reputation with the Brotherhood of Steel. He had just finished explaining the situation of the Brotherhood of Steel in the Capital Wasteland to them. While they had received communications from both Elder Lyons and the Outcasts, this was the first that the Elders had received an evaluation from a neutral observer.
"Your words still carry great weight in these halls, Chosen One," the High Elder began. Yudhajit nodded his head in recognition of the Elder's words. "After receiving your report, I believe we shall grant your request. We are assigning you an escort for your return to the Capital Wasteland. Tell me, Yudhajit, have you heard of the Circle of Steel?" Yudhajit's eyebrows rose slightly at that.
"Only in whispers. They are the innermost core of the Brotherhood, those most loyal to the Codex."
"Precisely. They are granted great leeway in their investigations and operations. When you return East, you will be accompanied by a member of the Circle of Steel. He will assess the situation, speak to all parties involved, and issue a final judgment on the matter there."
"Thank you, High Elder," Yudhajit responded. The Chosen One bowed to the council, before turning and leaving the hall.
Despite its 200 years of use, the basketball court in Vault 101 was surprisingly well maintained. Amata and John had it to themselves, which was their preference. They almost never competed against one another, instead opting to simply shoot baskets. It was a way for the two of them to talk while still doing something they both liked. John had the ball, dribbling it comfortably before stopping and putting up a shot from just inside the three-point line. The shot bounced off the backboard, Amata commentating as it did.
"Ooooh! Another brick by Thompson! Clearly not as good from the field as Almodovar," she crowed, picking up the ball and dribbling it back to midcourt before turning around. John couldn't help but laugh at Amata's constant ribbing when they played together. Normally, she was the straight-laced Overseer's daughter. Her letting her guard down enough to be silly was something he had always loved. Amata moved back down the court, skillfully dribbling the ball between her legs. Despite only being 5'3, Amata was a talented basketball player, possessing excellent reflexes and hand-eye coordination. And she was a natural leader on the court. Amata turned her back to the rim, just beyond the three-point line, before quickly pivoting and launching an arcing jump shot that sank beautifully. Bouncing, she turned towards John, sticking her arms out to her side and puffing out her chest before waving a hand in front of her face.
"You can't see this, Thompson! And what?!" She said, bumping off of him before bursting out in raucous laughter. He held a hand up, which she met with a high five, following through and meeting hands again at their hips. John grabbed her hand there and pulled her in close, kissing her on the forehead. She wrinkled her nose before looking up at him.
"I must smell terrible," she said.
"Not at all," he replied, smiling. "Are we hanging out tonight?" he asked. It was a Friday night, so the question was rather superfluous. They always hung out on Friday nights.
"Of course. Just let me clean up, then do you want to go get dinner?" He smiled.
"Sounds good, babe," he replied, as Amata picked up the ball and they turned to leave the court. As they reached the point where they had to go separate ways, they quickly embraced.
"I love you," she whispered in his ear.
"I love you too," John replied, before kissing her on the cheek.
John looked up from where he sat at the counselor that he had been speaking to.
"It sounds like you two really have quite a lot of history," the counselor said. John nodded.
"19 years," he replied simply.
"19 years," the counselor echoed. "The conflict you discuss has to do with something that happened…three years ago? Am I right?"
"Four, now," John replied.
"Four. So you have to ask yourself, does what happened four years ago overshadow the 19 years you spent together? Think about that before we meet next," the counselor said, standing to show John out. John nodded in response, shaking the man's hand before leaving the room. He looked at his Pip-Boy to check the time. 11:50. He had an appointment with Emily and the surgeon for a checkup at noon. He had had MRIs done again the previous day, just a week removed from his surgery. Already, there was no pain in his knee, he walked without a limp again, although he was discovering he had to retrain his muscles to move normally after compensating for the injury for so long.
John arrived early, finding Emily and the surgeon already waiting for him, quietly looking at the imagery that had been done to his knee. Emily turned to face him with a smile.
"Looks like we've got some good news," she began, a look of consternation on the doctor's face as he stood next to her.
"This shouldn't be physically possible," the doctor began, looking again at the image. "When we repaired your knee, we replaced your ACL with an artificial one from Vault City. Normally, that traumatic of an event takes months to heal. But yours…the tendon is already completely healed in place. The incisions are gone. The biggest thing you have to do now is regain strength and relearn your gait," the doctor explained. John thought for a moment.
"That must have been it. If the tendon was totally destroyed, that explains why my mutation never healed it. It couldn't just reconnect the tendon to knit it back together. Huh," he said, the look on the doctor's face growing more perturbed.
"Whatever it is, you're a very lucky man. Continue with your physical therapy program, but you should be good to resume normal activity on the knee. Don't kill yourself, though," the doctor replied. John laughed.
"Wasn't planning on it."
Colvin stood across from Sarah in the confines of the Lyons Den, deep in the Citadel, after returning from the ruins the night before. The Sentinel's mood seemed drastically improved with the positive news about McPherson's condition. He felt bad that he was probably about to spoil it.
"Can you report to all the leadership, Colvin? I'm apparently running the briefing this morning. My father went to the infirmary to have a cough checked on," she said. Colvin nodded, before following Sarah out and toward the Great Hall. The Citadel was quiet in the early morning hours, with most still asleep. The duo arrived to find the rest of the leadership already waiting in the Hall. They stood as Sarah entered.
"Knight Colvin will be opening the briefing with a report on last night," Sarah began, as everyone took seats; save Colvin, who remained standing. Nodding at the man, Colvin took his cue to begin.
"We were ambushed last night by raiders while on patrol. We suffered one KIA, a knight. The soldiers under my command performed most admirably. I would like to take this moment to single out Squire Maxson for both praise and reprimand," he began, Sarah's eyes narrowing. The mention of Maxson's name drew the attention of the assembly.
"Elaborate," Sarah said.
"Squire Maxson quickly and decisively reacted to contact when we came under fire. He fearlessly exposed himself to retrieve the Gatling Laser and helped turn the tide of the attack against us," Colvin began.
"And the reason for reprimand?" Sarah asked.
"He broke ranks in doing so. He ignored my order to form a line and hold ground. He was careless and needlessly exposed himself to danger," Colvin explained, a murmur going through the crowd as Sarah clenched her jaw.
"And what do you recommend, Colvin?"
"For reprimand, a private counseling, perhaps extra duty, would suffice," he began. Sarah nodded.
"Any positive recommendations?" Colvin paused a moment before responding.
"The time has come, Sarah. We've taken casualties. Arthur is impetuous and stubborn, but he is one of the most gifted soldiers I've ever seen. I recommend that he be promoted to the rank of Knight," Colvin said, his recommendation being met with much of the assembled group banging their fists on the table, applauding the idea. Sarah raised her hand to silence the crowd.
"We have a recommendation that a Squire be made a full Knight. Will anyone second this nomination?" Sarah asked. Paladin Danse stood in response.
"It would be my honor to second the nomination and stand for Squire Maxson," he said, prompting another round of fists banging on the table. Sarah nodded.
"So be it. There will be an awards and promotion ceremony shortly. Knight McPherson is being promoted, as well as awarded the Order of Maxson," Sarah said, the room drawing a breath at that. The Order of Maxson was one of the highest honors that could be awarded to a member of the Brotherhood, reserved for extreme heroism in combat.
"Anything else?" Sarah asked as Colvin took a seat. There was silence. "Very well," she continued, standing. "Steel be with you all. Ad Victoriam."
"Ad Victoriam," the room responded, in one voice.
So...sorry that basically this entire year got away from me. 2015 was a really bad year. But hey, since the last time I updated, Fallout 4 was announced and released!
So bear with me. Because 4 just added a ton of stuff, as well as forcing me to actually change some of what I'm doing on the fly here. Assume, for the purposes of the story, that a lot of the mechanics seen in 4-the way Power Armor works, etc. is how it works here. Anyway, if you've stuck with it, thanks for reading! Let me know what you think.