Games We Play: Bloodshed
Notes: Everything belongs to Bethesda and Obsidian, I'm just playing with their toys. We're diverging a bit from canon here, so everyone hang onto your hats.
I've rewritten this so many times I can't even remember and I'm still not happy with it, so here it's yours now and I can move on with my life.
bloodshed
noun
destruction of life, as in war or murder; slaughter
They're standing below the Old North Church when Deacon first hears the singing. It's faint; as they approach the door, the lyrics fade in and out with each waft of the breeze. He touches Charmer's hand and they stand for a moment, transfixed by the soft melody coming from the steeple.
Hold me close and hold me fast
The magic spell you cast
This is la vie en rose
Charmer steps forward and lays her head on Deacon's chest as they stand there in the dark, both entangled in the spell of the music. A few more lines come out, halting and beautiful; the woman singing misses a few of the high notes, but somehow that increases the poignant ache in Deacon's heart as the notes rise and fall. Charmer's cheek is warm against his chest through the thin fabric of his t-shirt, and he wants nothing more than for this moment to last.
It's like nothing he's ever heard before, and after the singing stops and he and Charmer step apart, he's stunned to see tears glittering in her eyes. He's about to ask her if she's okay but she merely takes his hand and opens the door.
As they enter the church there's a clatter from the stairs in the back. Moments later, Desdemona appears with a bottle of oil and a set of matches in her hands; she must have been re-lighting the lanterns in the steeple.
Suddenly Deacon is ashamed, nervous; he feels he's intruded on a private moment and - for once - he actually feels a little bad about it. But although she wears an expression of cautious surprise, she doesn't seem upset. One eyebrow quirks up as she spots Charmer's hand still nestled in Deacon's, but before he can drop it, a thin smile forms on her lips.
"Deacon. Charmer," she nods at them in turn and Deacon can feel his cheeks grow hot. Desdemona pulls a pack of cigarettes from her pocket and lights one, blowing the smoke up to the ceiling.
"That's one of my favorite songs," Charmer says and for a moment Deacon is astonished that she's addressed it. "My husband and I danced to that at our wedding. Before the war."
Desdemona looks gratified, or at least he thinks she does; it's hard to tell in the dark of the ruined church. "Thank you," she says after a moment, her voice softer than its usual strident pitch. "I used to sing it to my son. Every night, before bed."
"You have a son?"
A nod from Desdemona. "Sam. He loved it - he was...killed. Raiders. Everyone in our settlement was."
Charmer's face drops. She looks devastated. Deacon squeezes her hand lightly but she's a mother too. She knows.
"I'm so sorry."
"Well," Desdemona ashes her cigarette and looks back up, her eyes steady as she meets Charmer's gaze again. "It was a long time ago." She gestures at their hands. "How long has this been going on?"
Charmer's pink cheeks match Deacon's own. He thinks for a moment of dropping her hand but - well, if the cat's already out of the bag -
"It's new," he says.
Desdemona stares at them for what feels like ages but is probably only a few seconds before she nods. "You know I don't think it's the brightest idea to get involved with another agent. But I am - well, I suppose I'm happy for you." She sighs and then says softly, as if to herself, "We should all have some joy in this life."
Deacon lets out a nervous laugh and he's about to thank her for her blessing - however uncertain - when the door behind them bangs open and everything goes to hell.
After a battle is always the time to take stock. Their position has been compromised - for the second time in a year - and the casualties are overwhelming. They'll have to find a place to reassemble, a place to lick their wounds and regroup but all Deacon can do is stare at the carnage.
Bodies everywhere. Some of their own, others in power armor and wielding laser weapons. One Brotherhood soldier's head is pinned to the wall by a railroad spike and completely independent of his body, which lies six feet away. The smell of blood and ozone lie heavy in the air and laser scorches mark nearly every surface. Shrapnel from grenades litters the crypt; he has a burning wound on one arm that he can't even think about.
He can't think about any of it because before him lies Glory.
Glory.
When she'd gone down in the middle of the battle, still shooting her minigun at anything in power armor, he'd been on the other side of the room, hiding behind a desk and sniping whenever he had a clear shot. In a t-shirt and jeans he was dead meat if he stepped out into the line of fire, even with the ballistic weave reinforcement. He'd heard her yell, but Charmer was there, with her overpowered combat rifle and a line of grenades on her belt. He'd thought they'd be fine.
And now she's dead.
He's seen so many people die and yet - it's never felt like this. He was there and yet he wasn't - he couldn't - Across the room, he may as well have been miles away. He wasn't there to speak to her one last time, or to somehow bully her into not dying. No matter what angle he approaches it from, it doesn't feel real.
If he looks over, he can see Charmer's hand on his wounded arm. Dimly he can hear her little gasp of worry at the sight of his battered skin. But his world has shrunk to this one thing, to the image of his friend on the ground, her blood leaking sluggishly into a dark pond on the ground.
She deserved better, he thinks. So few people grow old in this world, especially in their line of work and yet - if anyone deserved that chance, it was her.
His body feels cold, numb, but he looks at her carefully, trying to memorize the way she looks when she doesn't breathe; it's strange to see someone whose body doesn't move, but her chest doesn't rise and fall the way it did just ten minutes ago. He looks at the unnatural stillness and he thinks of how she wanted to get a boat and sail south, to see the rest of the world.
All she saw is this one, the Institute and the Commonwealth. All she knew was subjugation and violence.
He looks at her, at the body of his friend, and he knows what has to happen next.
There's too many of them to go to Mercer or Dayton or Marshall, or any of the other safehouses, not without splitting up. They debate heading back to Randolph but the thought of seeing that man again, the one they left alone in that cage to starve to death, is overwhelming in the face of so much death.
Charmer finally suggests Covenant and Desdemona laughs humorlessly at that. The irony of going there - of all places! - shouldn't be funny in the face of such devastation, but somehow after that everything seems easier. The trip takes the better part of the night and when the survivors arrive, the weakest of them seem likely to collapse. Inside the walls, though, with the turrets clicking along, everyone seems to relax a little. Beds are assigned; Carrington starts bandaging the wounded.
When everyone's settled in and dawn pinks the horizon, Deacon finds Tinker Tom sitting outside the workshop, anxiously tapping a screwdriver against the peeling red enamel of the workbench.
"Hey Tom," he says this from nearly ten feet away, his voice pitched quietly so as not to startle the other man, but Tom still drops the screwdriver and jumps in the air, landing back on the stool with a thump.
"Hey man, didn't see ya there." Deacon can't tell if Tom is more skittish than usual; the man is so paranoid it can be impossible to get a good read on him. He puts his hands out in front of him in a placating motion to make it clear that he comes in peace.
"That's cool, no worries," Deacon modulates his voice; there's no need to make Tom even jumpier than he already is, right? "So, I have this, like, idea."
Tom's eyebrows raise; he's already interested.
"To stop the Institute?"
"Well, no, not yet," Deacon admits. "We've got other problems we need to handle before we can really take them on."
"So the Brotherhood then."
"Bingo." Deacon snaps his fingers and gives Tom a set of grade-A finger guns. Tom smiles and climbs off his stool, taking a few steps closer to Deacon. This close he smells of unwashed socks and something else, something unpleasant and metallic, like sucking on old-world pennies.
"What's the plan?"
"Do you think you could fly a vertibird?"
The plan, such as it is, isn't particularly complicated - they'll take some charges Tom's squirrelled away for a special occasion, flatten the Brotherhood stronghold in Cambridge, steal some uniforms and the vertibird on the roof, and fly to the Prydwen. Once there, they'll bomb the shit out of their battle blimp and, hopefully, make it out alive.
Simple.
They don't tell anyone what they're doing; Desdemona is focused on destroying the Institute and doesn't seem to see that their threats are multiplying. Maybe it's his own fault; maybe the intel he's been giving her isn't detailed enough, doesn't show her why they Brotherhood is so dangerous, even after this.
Maybe it's her own way of dealing with the grief.
There's a bottle of vodka in what used to be the town store here; it speaks the Deacon all through the day and he has trouble sleeping, but he denies it. He keeps hearing Glory in his head, the annoyed tone she had that morning he woke up from his blackout.
Get your shit together, man.
It rings through his head throughout the day. It's an echo; it's a mantra.
It's an order.
They're just east of Lexington when he hears Charmer's voice cut through the dark. She's sitting on the walkway in front of an old nursing home, her face lit by a small fire that flickers in a barrel. He's not sure how he missed her. Perhaps he's too distracted by his mission, although what a dangerous and embarrassing mistake to make.
"Out for a stroll?" She's calm, her face still. Unreadable.
There's no point in pretending with her; if the last few months have taught him anything, it's that Charmer always knows when he's lying.
"We're going to Cambridge to the police station. We're going to kill the Brotherhood soldiers there and take their vertibird and then we're going to fly to their blimp and blow it up." The way Tinker Tom nods his head along with this makes him realize how crazy it all sounds, but he doesn't care. All he can think about is Glory.
All he can think about is justice, retaliation.
Get your shit together, man.
He owes her.
Charmer seems unfazed. "I thought it might be something like that," is all she says.
Tom is fidgety at his side, nervous. "We really should be getting going. We want to hit the big-ass blimp at breakfast and that's in just a few hours." He scans the sky around them.
Charmer doesn't even look at him; her laser-like gaze is focused entirely on Deacon.
"Is it because you want them eliminated - or because of Glory?"
No point in lying, he reminds himself.
"Can't it be both?"
Charmer nods. "I guess it can, yeah. Why - why didn't you ask me to come along?"
Deacon's surprised. "It didn't occur to me." It didn't; he's been so consumed with rage and grief and a thousand other frustrations that it never occurred to him she might want to come along for the ride.
"Really?" She smiles faintly. "Even though I'm technically one of them? I can set the charges on the Prydwen without arousing suspicion."
There's a twist in Deacon's stomach at the thought of Charmer, dressed in an orange jumpsuit, risking herself for his revenge. And yet -
It's also entirely logical. It makes perfect sense for her to be the one to go on the ship, to set the charges in the best possible places. He might blend well in most places, but he's been anxious about trying to adapt to the Brotherhood look, to their general vibe while on the ship. He's been actively afraid of arousing suspicion.
It sounds so easy; it sounds too easy.
She stands patiently, waiting for him to work through it, to figure out his feelings about the matter. Tinker Tom is down the road aways, wincing at the brilliant stars above him and murmuring something about terraforming.
He hates it; he loves it. It's the right thing to do, but the thought of losing her -
"I need to do this," Charmer breaks through his thoughts in that way she has. He understands it now - it's not just that she sees through his bullshit, it's that she sees through it all. She can process things in a detached way that he's only ever dreamed of but never quite mastered. She's the most logical choice to go to the Prydwen, and so of course she has to be the one to go.
Clear. Simple.
"Glory - before she died," she starts, then stops again. "She made me promise that we'd save them. All of them, all of her people." For the second time in a few days, he can see the glistening of tears in her eyes, and the pain in her face is an intricately forlorn thing.
"I need to do this," Charmer repeats. Her hand is in his own, small and strong and insistent.
He can't deny her this, even though it throws the entire mission against the Institute into jeopardy. He can't.
He loves her too much.
"Then we go in together," he says.
A tear twinkles as it finally falls from her eye and makes its way down her cheek, leaving a pale track as it goes. He wants to kiss her, wonders if this will be the last time because what are the three of them going to do against the entire goddamn Brotherhood of fucking Steel? He wants to turn around and go back to Covenant, to hide his head in the ground and pretend none of it has ever happened.
But his hand is in hers, and she gives a strong squeeze that brings him back to earth. When she begins walking, he follows, and they make their way to the police station, where the path to their revenge waits.
