Games We Play: Homecoming
Notes: Everything belongs to Bethesda and Obsidian, I'm just playing with their toys.
homecoming
noun
the return of a group of people usually on a special occasion to a place formerly frequented or regarded as home
Deacon doesn't kiss her goodbye. He wants to, desperately, and now that Desdemona and Tom know now what's been happening between him and Charmer, it's a given that the rest of the Railroad probably does, too. The anguished look she gives him in that moment before she relays out of Covenant is anxious and longing and he wants to console her, to run his hands through her black hair and cradle her small body in his arms.
But there's something too that reminds him of Glory, of the terror of saying good-bye. The finality of a "last kiss" before they go into battle makes his skin crawl.
He's already decided that they're coming out of this together; if he kisses her goodbye he'll be admitting to himself that there's a chance they aren't. He's always been a good liar, even to himself; just because he's started telling the truth sometimes is no reason he has to do it all the time.
Sometimes lies are easier than the truth.
When it's time for the rest of them to relay in, Deacon's in the first group. There's the weightlessness he remembers from his earlier trip, when he fled; there's tugging and pulling, the sensation of all his molecules ricocheting into each other, through each other, before snapping back into place. There's a moment before he can see anything other than blinding blue-white light, then he and Tom and Des are standing together in the relay room. Both of them look as nauseated as he feels, his stomach not just turned into knots but possibly mixed up with a kidney or his heart.
He urges the other two out of the relay so that Charmer, fiddling with the controls, can beam in the next small group. Tom runs to the trashcan next to the main terminal and he can hear the man heaving and the wet sounds of something landing in the bin.
Charmer's beautiful, focused as she is over the controls at the massive relay terminal. Around her are corpses, a couple scientists bleeding out next to several gen-2s leaking some sort of oil onto the floor. He wants to grasp her hand but doesn't dare do more than brush her arm gently. If he holds her too close, he'll never let go.
Though he'd always known what this would mean, he can't look at the faces of the scientists on the ground; he's sure he'll know them. He probably grew up with them.
Now he's helped to kill them.
Going home is never easy, less so when everyone's shooting at you. Deacon follows Charmer through Bioscience and into a large atrium, trying not to let his mouth drop open at the clear glass and polished steel surfaces, trying not to get hit by stray laser fire, trying to make sure no one gets to her. Was it always like this? He's been gone so long he can't really be sure.
He remembers an atrium, remembers small saplings planted when he was a boy that must have grown into these lush and beautiful trees. His memories of it are smaller, dimmer, less imposing but just as sterile.
"He asked me to be the next Director," Charmer had told him the evening before. She'd had one short leg slung casually over his waist. He'd been tracing his hand over the network of faint white stretch marks that scored her pale skin like tiger stripes, and she'd shivered at his touch, leaning her face into his neck.
"Are you going to be able to -"
She'd propped herself up on one elbow and the sudden motion had made him quiet. Her eyes had been dark, her expression unreadable through her black lashes.
"He's my son. I'll never be okay with this. But...I have to do this." He knew that tone, knew the way she stilled her face so he couldn't translate her thoughts meant that the topic wasn't open for discussion, and so he'd kissed her instead, twining his rough fingers in with hers, gently thumbing the callous of her trigger finger, and pulled her down on top of him.
He shouldn't be thinking of that now, not with the intense scorch of laser fire whipping over his shoulder, but he looks at her, at the way her hair flips over one shoulder when she turns to fire at a gen-1 blocking the stairwell. She darts forward, head low, body almost hugging the floor, and when the beam hits her he's not sure who he hears yelling; it could be her, or could be his own voice, and he races recklessly to her, the ghost of Glory on his tail.
Deacon helps her up, guides her to cover at the foot of the spiraling staircase that leads to the Director's Quarters, and examines her. She's panting, her breath coming in pained gasps, and her blood blooms scarlet and burgundy through the singed fabric on her shoulder. It was a direct hit, but it doesn't look fatal and he lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding.
"Is it bad?" Her eyes are trained on his, not on her wound. He rifles through his pockets to find something, anything, to use as a bandage and comes up with a handkerchief. He pushes it against the wound and Charmer lets out a hot puff of breath and bites her bottom lip. He presses down gently, not wanting to hurt her but just wanting to stop her bleeding and oh, fuck, there's just so much blood seeping from her now. She lets out another gasp and then sits up partway, sliding her hand under his to apply more pressure to the wound. Her hand is steady under his, and he realizes that he's shaking, and not just his hand; his knees have gone wobbly and his teeth are chattering.
"Thought I lost you there for a moment," Deacon says softly, and Charmer lets out a pained laugh. The fingers on her hand are spattered with blood, but he can't focus on that now. All he can see is her wide dark eyes.
"I still have work to do, you know that. It's not like me to die when there's still something I need to cross off my to-do list."
If she's joking she must be feeling a little better already, but just to be sure, Deacon pulls the emergency stimpak from his pocket and takes the plastic cap off the syringe. He's ready to inject it into her shoulder when she puts her hand over his, shaking her head back and forth in a silent no.
"But -"
"You might need it later."
Charmer puts her blood-stained hand over his and curls her fingers shut. When he's put it back in his pocket she uses his hand to steady herself and slides up the wall to standing. They pause there for a moment, a moment of calm in the melee beyond them and for a moment he thinks of kissing her again, but then Desdemona is darting up to them with a grim look on her face.
"Hey, lovebirds," she says breathlessly, her chest heaving, "You need to get moving."
As they head up the stairs, Deacon looks back at Des, at the fight below, at the darkening smear of blood that travels up the sterile steel wall left where Charmer was standing only a moment before.
She goes in to see her son alone. Deacon doesn't want to see the old man, or maybe he does; he can't decide and either way, it doesn't matter. They may have lived here together but Father isn't his family.
He waits outside the door, standing watch with his back to the wall, watching the stairs for trouble, gun drawn and trying not to listen, trying not to look at the smears of her blood on his hands. The time crawls, or maybe it passes so fast it trips over itself; it seems like his brain can't process all the stimulation it's receiving at once, the deluge of raw data and the contradictory feelings hitting him all at once.
Eventually he hears the evacuation order blasting through the building, and for a moment, Deacon is dizzy with the memory of the drills they ran when he was a child, the way everyone would take orderly routes up to the relay room and pretend to go out before returning to their duties. The calm looks on the adults' faces were so reassuring as a child, so out of line with the blaring warning, and he'd never thought, growing up, that the Institute would come crashing down. He'd never though the evacuation order would actually be used.
When Charmer comes out, she looks smaller, sadder. There are pale tracks down her cheeks and a single tear still glitters from one corner eyelash. He reaches up and cups her chin in his hand, thinking distractedly of how small her head is, and thumbs the water away, letting it sink into his skin. She leans her face into his palm and for a moment he thinks of the moment he discovered that she existed, that there was a person being kept frozen "just in case." The horror of it, even though it was so minimal compared to all the other crimes they committed daily - a lie not even snuffed out but just put permanently into storage.
And now she stands before, now she nuzzles him, softly, and he closes his eyes for a moment, leans against the cool wall, and wonders at the improbability of her.
There's the clatter of footsteps from above and they separate, eyes meeting and guns drawn, but it's two families fearfully herding their children down the stairs, barely sparing a glance for Deacon and Charmer pressed against the wall. They watch them go, Charmer's gaze wistful as she looks at the children, and then she stands up straight, stifling a grimace. Her good hand is still pressing the bandage to her shoulder and she winces as she draws her gun, holding it in her left hand uncomfortably. The idea of her using her bad hand, her non-dominant hand, to shoot makes Deacon nervous, but he knows better than to say anything when she has that look on her face.
"We have to the reactor," she says then, heading down the stairs.
Deacon spares a glance at the door, wonders what exactly happened in there; secrets make him crazy when they're not his own, but she'll tell him when she's ready.
If she's ever ready.
The reactor room is hot with radiation and laser fire. There's a large number of synths there with weapons, the ones assigned to go down with the ship, and again, Deacon thinks of Glory, of the promise Charmer made to her.
Promise me you'll free them.
He blinks as he takes aim, wishing he could, but he knows there's no way they'll ever stop fighting. They're programmed to keep going, to keep defending their home and their masters until they're dead. He hates himself for every shot he takes, and when any of them fall, the the debt he owes Glory grows. By the time they're all down, the yawning chasm of grief in his chest threatens to swallow him whole.
Charmer pauses, peeks out from behind the desk she's been using as a shield, and looks around the floor at the bodies before them. Her mouth is drawn into a thin line, and Deacon wonders if he looks as shell-shocked as she does.
"So much death," she says, voice flat, as she straightens and checks her weapon. Deacon follows her lead, standing and stretching and trying not to think.
"We did what we had to."
A nod from her, even though her face is unconvinced.
He gestures to the reactor. "I guess it's time to…"
Charmer nods again and begins walking towards the catwalk. There's the sound of footsteps from the hall, and Deacon turns, wondering if it's Des catching up with them, why she's down here when she's supposed to be at the relay. When he sees the phalanx of skeletal gen-1s approaching, time slows. He turns back to Charmer, sees the way her face stiffens as she registers what's happening, as she scrambles to ready her .44. She's slow with her blood-stained fingers, her alternate hand clumsy and his heart drops into his stomach.
In the next heartbeat he looks back at the door and lifts his pistol. Fires, taking down one of the gen-1s in the second row with a perfect shot to the head, one that he'd be proud of if he wasn't so despondent and sick of the violence.
Another heartbeat and he's aiming again, but the synth in the front has Charmer in its line of fire. She's still fumbling with her weapon, a quiet curse coming from her mouth.
Before Deacon can think about what he's doing he's abandoned shooting and he leaps, high in the air, directly in the path of the laser.
It sears everything it touches, and he can feel pain blossoming from the center of his chest. His ribs ache, his skin crackling like meat on a spit. For a long moment, he's airborne and then he comes crashing back down, landing on his side and his shoulder aches where it connects with the floor. The sharp, hot agony in his chest smolders, and he dimly registers the smell of cooking meat; he skids across the floor and crashes into something - the stairs? A desk? Whatever it is, it's hard and metal and cold and oh, fuck fuck fuck, this hurts.
The last things he hears before he passes out are a woman screaming and his own voice, as if from miles away.
"I'm sorry."
Then a blast so loud it makes everything else silent, and everything goes black.
