Edit 5/17: minor change (not relevant to story)

Edit 5/25: A/N at end of chapter

~(:(Chapter Two):)~

"Rise and shine, little lady. The roosters' been crowin' for nigh on an hour, now," came Holliday's gruff southern drawl, slightly distorted by the robotic audio regulator.

I pried open one eye to see the faded blue Mr. Handy model hovering by my bed, two of his three visual sensors trained on my face. Groaning, I snuggled deeper into the blankets. It had been three days since my run-in with those raiders and my body still ached. Mostly, it was my legs and back.

After the hard jump down the stairs, I had sprinted for almost a mile to put some distance between the raiders and myself, all while carrying that over-filled pack. Red, the one who chased after me, was surprisingly quick for how large he was. His longer legs could have easily outpaced mine if he had decided to follow. The brief glance I had of him was enough to kick my butt into gear and dash away as fast as possible. He was a giant, like Jack, standing at least a foot over my head, shoulders almost twice as broad as mine. Definitely the biggest raider I'd ever seen.

"Holliday, we don't have any roosters," I grumbled, not ready to leave the warmth of my bed. A series of clicks and mechanical whirs sounded as the robot processed my response.

"Don't you be givin' me that sass, miss Sammy," he admonished lightly. "Ain't you got some preparations to make before you head on over to Goodneighbor?"

I blinked my eyes open with a frown. Was that today?

Usually, I made the trip to Goodneighbor every couple of weeks to trade in some supplies. Well, trade isn't really the correct word; I just hand over the supplies and it gets distributed to those that need it. I'd end up staying for a couple of days, handling maintenance requests to help keep the place running. Rufus did his best, but he was only one person.

Goodneighbor is a tough town, and I'm not talking about the people. Raiders, Gunners, supermutants and packs of ferals surround the city on all sides. To say the location isn't ideal is hilariously understated. There are only a few trade caravans that take the risk to do business and drifters that make it to the city alive usually stay for a long while.

Low stock with a high demand. Goodneighbor was my home for five years; if I could fill the gap, even just a little, then I would scavenge every day to do it. It was the only way I could contribute, the only thing I could do to prove myself.

Scavenging was one of the reasons I left to live on my own. I had to leave Boston; exploring the city alone was too dangerous for someone like me. I couldn't just have Jack or MacCready come with me, that would defeat the purpose. No, I had to do it myself and show them I wasn't completely useless.

"There's a strong cup of Arbuckle's waitin' for you in the mess."

I sat up, my back protesting dully.

"Coffee?" I mumbled, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.

"Yes, ma'am," Holliday drawled, his motorized limbs rotating as he turned to leave. "Now get them beetle-crushers a' stompin'."

I smiled after the bot as he glided out of the room. He had only been with me for a couple of months but I was already fond of him. When I found him just down the road from the water treatment plant, he was in pretty bad shape. One of his robotic arms was missing and his systems had shut down.

Originally, I had planned to use him for scrap but when I discovered his cognitive inhibitor chip was still intact I decided to try and fix him up. Robotics wasn't really my area of expertise; it was a step above your general tinkering and way more technical.

Through some trial and error, I managed to reboot his sensory and linguistic systems. At that point, he could talk but not move, his motor functions still down. That was when we officially met. He told me his name and that he came from Graygarden, a nursery run entirely by robots like him.

Ironically, he was their mechanic. Holliday had been sent to assess the treatment plant, something about the toxicity of the water and lowered pressure. The resident supermutants had chased him off before he could, though, and he had been too damaged to make it back to Graygarden.

With some spare parts, and Holliday's guidance, we were able to get him up and running again. I expected he would return to the nursery but he decided to stay for some reason. If he were a living person, I would say he did so out of gratitude for piecing him back together. I wasn't complaining. It could get lonely living on your own, something I didn't consider when I left Goodneighbor.

I slipped out of bed and padded across the room, the steel floor cold against my feet. I kept all my clothes on a bare shelving unit along with my everyday items and some knickknacks I had collected.

Rifling through the haphazard piles of clothing, I pulled on some loose athletic pants, a slightly ripped red tank-top with the Nuka Cola logo on it, and my arm coverings, which were just the cutoff sleeves of a black shirt. I had taken to wearing the coverings to prevent chafing from my armor when the sleeves of my favorite hoodie had been torn beyond saving.

After the attack on our settlement, Jack took us to The Slog. It was a settlement of ghouls at an old public recreation center and the only tarberry farm in the whole commonwealth.

When we got there, we had nothing but the clothes on our backs. Wiseman, the patriarch of the group, had given that hoodie to me shortly after we arrived. It was green with the outline of a dumb smiley face in yellow, printed on the front. It had been two sizes too big at the time but I had rarely taken it off; I even wore it to bed.

It was a bittersweet memory. Their kindness meant the world to me, how they took me in and treated me like one of their own, even if I was a "smooth-skin." They weren't just ghouls to me; they were aunts and uncles, brothers and sisters. It only made the truth more painful… the reason we had to leave, my weakness, and the resulting consequences.

No, don't think about that, I chided myself.

Tugging on my boots and latching the pip-boy, I headed towards the kitchen. The fluorescent lighting hummed softly in the hallway, tinting the concrete walls a light blue.

The abandoned dam was perfect as a safehouse. I had discovered it while exploring just southwest of Oberland Station. The aboveground entrance was small and misleading, the trapdoor to the rest of the facility hidden in a space under a low wall. It was safe, isolated, and in a decent location that would allow me to scavenge away from the city.

The first level down was only two rooms and the stairs leading below had been blocked with rubble. It had taken me two months to dig it all out and longer to repair the power systems. It was all worth it, though. I now had a near impenetrable bunker, three levels deep, with power, heat, plumbing and, most importantly, clean hot water for the showers. It was almost like my own personal vault.

The place wasn't very wide but it was long. I called the second level down the workshop, where I stored all the scavenged materials and tinkered. Over the last year I managed to almost fill it with junk. Scrap metal, copper, tools, nuts and bolts, anything I could drag down the hatch and even some things I couldn't, cutting them up with my handy blowtorch.

The third and last level was the commons. This area was a bit smaller than the second level and contained a locker room with two showers, a sizable kitchen, three small rooms and an open space that I had turned into a living room. There was a couch and chair set, the metal frames I had constructed myself. I couldn't fit the original frames past the trapdoor but I did manage to cram down some decent cushions.

After I chugged the black nectar, I decided to start my normal routine. Traveling the Wastes was always risky and you needed to "stay sharp," as Jack liked to say. My muscles were stiff and achy but I couldn't let that slow me down today.

I bent carefully into a stretch on the padded exercise mat. The far side of the living room was reserved for the few pieces of workout equipment I had, which was the mat, a low bench, one ten-pound weight with rope looped through the middle, and a pull-up bar that ran across the corner, bolted into the concrete walls about six feet high.

Jack had stressed the importance of daily exercise on several occasions. If he knew I had skipped the last couple of days I was sure he'd give me an earful. I smiled to myself, picturing the frown on his face. I was going to skip today, too, and just focus on loosening my muscles.

After twenty minutes of stretching, my body felt more fluid. Now, it was time to get to work. Climbing the stairs to the workshop I went over my mental list. I would be filling several bags and duct-taped boxes full of goodies to transport.

A few residents usually offered some type of payment in return. KLEO will give me a gun mod or upgrade my weapon herself. Daisy will have some scrap or clothes set aside for me. Hancock always gives me a nice stash of caps, even though I've told him many times I have no need for them.

Trading is more common than outright buying something and I have plenty of stuff to trade. I don't think I've spent one cap within the last year.

The hours passed as I gathered various items off the neatly arranged shelves. Holliday had taken it upon himself to organize the workshop, saying it was "messier than a pigsty after a rainstorm." He'd turned my random piles into manageable sections, utilizing dozens of shelves, crates, bins and anything else he could to make sense of the chaos.

I packed up the necessities first: booze, cigarettes and ammo. I counted ten full bottles and three partials, seven cartons with a dozen more single packs, and a whole bag dedicated to ammo, mostly .45's with some .44 for Jack and 5mm for Fahr. I tossed in several grenades, for safety.

Next on my list was medical supplies: Stimpaks, Rad-X and Rad Away. Most of it was going to Dr. Amari, but some would be handed out to any drifters that needed them. I also boxed up the empty syringes; they were reusable, once disinfected. Adding some Med-X, antiseptic and soap, lots and lots of soap, the medical items filled three boxes and one bag.

My eyes drifted to the wooden crate shoved into the corner. Holliday had appropriately labeled it "garbage," his laser burning the word into the side. It was where I put all the chems.

I wasn't sure why I kept grabbing them, it's not like I used. Then again, I didn't drink or smoke either. Most of the residents used chems, but it was kind of hard not to when the mayor himself handed them out like candy.

Living in Goodneighbor, I'd seen junkies do all sorts of things just for a hit of Jet. Being controlled by an addiction wasn't a risk I could take. It would be all too easy to get hooked and I couldn't afford another weakness. Chems didn't seem to affect the ghouls as much, though; something about a high resistance to harmful substances. It took a lot to get them loaded and the most I've seen Hancock suffer in terms of side effects was a nasty migraine the next morning—which he cured with a shot of Med-X, of course.

Grumbling, I snatched up the box and angrily dumped the contents into another one. Sealing it with a strip of duct tape, I took my marker and scribbled Hancock's name in jagged lettering. It got kicked over to the other boxes.

It was two in the afternoon, according to my pip-boy, when I decided to take a break. Everything was packed and sitting by the stairs, ready to be taken to the surface. A grand total of eleven boxes and six bags. My backpack was also ready, filled with the usual necessities: my personal tool kit, a change of clothes and a few special items that I wanted to give to certain people myself.

"Brake, brake. This is callsign Ghost requesting response from designation delta-four-one-eight. Do you copy?"

The voice crackled over the intercom, echoing through the shop. I smiled at Jack's radio lingo. When we set up the Ham radios, he had insisted we use callsigns and designations instead of our real names and location. The frequencies weren't exactly secure; anyone in range could be listening in, he'd said.

The radios were our compromise. Jack didn't like the idea of me leaving and fought with me for weeks about it. He finally agreed on the conditions of setting up communications to keep in contact and limiting my scavenging north of the river. The first one was fairly easy; we already had radios set up with Nick Valentine in Diamond City. The second one… well.

I bounded up the stairs to the first level. The radio was kept as close to the surface as possible to receive the best signal, further boosted by the relay tower up the hill. Because it was so far from where I usually was, either the shop or common area, I had hooked it up to the existing intercom system so I would hear it.

"I repeat, this is Ghost requesting response from delta-four-one-eight. Do you copy? Over," he said again just as I entered the small room. I waited for him to finish before I hit the PTT.

"Affirmative, Ghost. This is callsign River Rat, responding," I replied, grinning ruefully at the name.

It was a rule you couldn't pick your own callsign. When the others found out I was living in the dam, they dubbed me River Rat and it stuck. Jack was named Ghost for his stealth tactics. He could disappear in the middle of a fight only to reappear behind you and take you out. Hancock was Switch for his fondness of switchblades. Fahrenheit was Mini for her preference towards miniguns and MacCready was Hotshot for his quick temper and skill with a sniper rifle.

"Ah, there you are," Jack said, slipping into casual talk. His voice was deep and gravelly, like most ghouls, rumbling through the speaker.

"I was just about to call you," I replied. "How's it going over there?"

"Could be worse. You know how it is," he grumbled. "How about you? Still keeping up with your training?"

I snorted, not surprised that's the first thing he asked about.

"Actually, I ran into some trouble a few days ago. Still a little worn out."

"Trouble? That doesn't sound like you at all, sunshine," a new voice came over the radio, this one a bit smoother and higher pitched.

Hancock.

"Hey Switch, how's it hangin'?" I asked, my lips curling into a grin.

"A little to the left, at the moment."

"Gross!" I laughed, missing the ghoul's sense of humor.

"What kind of trouble are we talking about?" Jack asked, getting back on point.

"The kind with guns and claws. I'll tell you about it when I see you tonight."

"Sounds good," Jack replied, understanding that the whole story would give too much away over the radio. "So, you walking or swimming?"

I leaned back in the desk chair, pulling the microphone with me. "Swimming, of course. And I'm bringing some friends."

"Ooh, how many friends?" Hancock asked, picking up on the code.

"Seventeen," I stated, adding up all the boxes and bags of supplies.

He let out a low whistle, the sound carrying oddly over the speaker. "Sounds like a party."

"It sure is," I chirped, glad that Hancock sounded pleased. "I'll be expecting a big welcome."

"You got it, sunshine."

"We'll set it up for you," Jack agreed. "Same time and place?"

"Affirmative," I replied.

"Roger that. See you tonight."

"See you soon. Over and out."

Placing the microphone back on the desk, I checked my pip-boy again for the time. There were still six hours before the sun went down, giving me the cover of darkness that I needed. It was enough time to work on my latest project and take a nice, long shower.

I left the room and headed down stairs, excitement putting a hop in my step.

~0~

Red completed his third lap around the compound as he finished the perimeter check. The Federal Ration Stockpile was a good place to make base. It was large but easily defendable, already stocked with food and supplies, and even had an escape tunnel that led out an old church up the hill.

It was discreet, too. Well, it will be once they tear down the shitty huts.

The raiders that occupied the Stockpile had slapped together rickety shacks around the entrance and those god-awful tents. It stuck out like a sore thumb, but it did make it fairly easy to take them out.

Red and his team had swept through the maze-like compound, using the clutter as cover to pick them off. The fight was over pretty quickly but that's expected when raiders go up against Gunners.

Ex-Gunners, Red thought, glaring down at the armor he was wearing.

They had stripped the raiders of their gear before disposing of the bodies, using what they could to replace their own armor. Even if they covered up the Gunner's symbol, five people outfitted in combat armor was too obvious and right now they needed to lay low. He was sure that word had spread by now and the Gunners would be watching for them.

If Red had left on his own like he planned then it would have been easier. The higher-ups would be pissed, sure, but they would have let it go. He planned to make it on his own, maybe become a hired gun or find a private contractor that needed a bodyguard. He planned for a lot of things, but he didn't expect his team to leave with him. One person would have been ignored, but a whole squad deserting… it just didn't happen.

As a Commander, he was allotted his own hand-picked crew, up to five members that were lower in rank than himself. Red didn't make his choices randomly. He chose his team tactically, picking them for their individual skills.

Lieutenant Cal was a computer and robotics expert. He was a bit of a snap case, his temper making him run his mouth at times, but a genius hacker. Sergeant Leah was a gunsmith, able to modify any rifle, pistol and laser to optimal capacity. She was also pretty good at putting people back together, serving as the team's medic.

Corporal Pyotr, or Pete, was a heavy weapons specialist. The Russian bear was a tank, favoring a frontal assault so he could mow down enemies with his minigun. Even though it weighed nearly forty pounds, he insisted on carrying it strapped to his back and rarely left it out of reach. Private Andrew, Andy for short, was obsessed with explosives, and that was putting it lightly. The former triggerman could make a bomb with nothing but an old lunchbox and some fertilizer in under five minutes. It was impressive, especially since he only had nine fingers.

The only thing they were lacking was a sniper.

Red had his eye on a promising recruit a few years back. Apparently, he had impressed the higher-ups with his marksman skills so he was conscripted. He wanted him on his team, badly, but Winlock claimed him first.

That bastard was stubborn, too, refusing to let the kid go even after he offered three months of his pay. When Winlock suggested trading the conscript for Leah, that disgusting leer on his face, Red finally dropped the issue. There was no way he would give up any of his teammates, especially not to that asshole.

Instead, he picked up another conscript, a scrappy kid named Jay. He was seventeen, the same age as Red when he joined the Gunners. Over the last two years, Jay turned out to be a jack-of-all-trades, balancing the team well. He made a nice addition, at least he did. Jay died during the Quincy takeover.

Quincy, what a cluster-fuck that had been.

Red scowled as he walked into the bunker. He had been displeased with the way the Gunners were operating for a while, now. Ever since Captain Wes took command, the Gunners ran more like raiders than the military they were supposed to be. Quincy was a prime example.

It was a fucking massacre. The settlers there were unprepared for the attack, women and children gunned down in the streets like dogs. The brutality was unnecessary; they would have left, if given the option. It didn't have to be like that, it shouldn't have been like that.

When the Minutemen arrived, it looked like they would hold their own, until Clint betrayed them. Then Wes conscripted the former Minuteman and put him in charge of the Quincy post, completely ignoring the chain of command.

Things used to be different. The Gunners would have never broken the chain of command, never conscripted a traitor like Clint. Red had thought about leaving before, but Quincy and Jay's resulting death was the last straw. Alone, he would have put it all behind him, started over. Now that his team, most of his team, was with him, the plan had changed.

They were going to take the Gunners out. All of them. He wasn't exactly sure on the how yet, but he had a good idea where to start.

Cal sat hunched over the control board, the front plate pulled down and a jumble of wires spilling out. He shifted irritably in the chair, his bruised ribs from the deathclaw attack making each breath he took painfully noticeable. He was trying to fix the radio communications but stopped when he saw Red enter.

"Nice face," Cal said, noting the sour look. "What's wrong, you step in some brahmin shit, or something?"

Red snapped out of his thoughts, giving the lieutenant a smirk. "Nothing, just thinking."

"Yeah? I thought that was my job?" he said, grinning back.

"Okay, smartass," Red deadpanned, "I suppose that means the radio is fixed, right?"

Cal made a face and turned back to the board, grabbing his soldering gun.

"Almost. I just gotta… there!"

The radio crackled to life, blaring static through the speakers. Both men cringed and Cal slapped the panel shut to fiddle with the knobs. The static died down and a voice could be heard coming through. It was distorted and faded in and out.

"Can you clean that up?" Red asked, curious about the voice.

Cal didn't reply, just turned a knob right and left slightly, trying to find the right frequency.

"…ran into…trouble a few days ago. Still…worn out."

"Trouble…doesn't sound like you..."

The first voice sounded feminine and still had that touch of softness you could hear in young women. The second voice was rough, obviously male.

"…Switch, how's it hangin'?"

"A little…left, at the moment."

"Gross!"

Cal gave a short chuckle. "Good one."

The girl's laughter rang out clearly and Red could feel the corner of his mouth lift. It was the kind of laugh that made you want to join in.

"Is this a recording?" he asked the lieutenant.

Cal's eyes flicked to a meter on the board. "No, it's live."

"…kind of trouble…we talking about?"

"The kind with guns and claws. I'll tell you…when I see you tonight."

The two men shared a look. Guns and claws, a few days ago…that sounded really familiar. And the woman did sound pretty young, even with the distortion through the speakers. It couldn't be a coincidence, right?

"…you walking or swimming?"

"Swimming…And I'm bringing some friends."

"Ooh, how many friends?"

"Seventeen."

Red smirked, catching the emphasis the girl put on "friends." He could also tell it was actually two different male voices. They sounded so similar he almost didn't notice.

"The fuck they talking about, Commander?" Cal asked with a frown. Red put a hand up, signaling for silence.

"…I'll be expecting…big welcome."

"…got it, sunshine."

"We'll set it up…Same time and place?"

"Affirmative."

"Roger that."

His eyebrow rose at the official lingo. Normal settlers didn't talk like that, only people with some kind of military training did. Training like the Gunners had. Training that let you take out a deathclaw with one bullet. It confirmed his theory.

"It's a code," Red explained. "So, they can share information without worrying about someone listening in."

"You mean, like us," Cal stated. "Well, obviously eighteen people aren't going for a midnight dip."

The commander grunted in agreement. "Friends must be a code word for something."

Red grabbed the Commonwealth map from his back pocket, unfolding it on the desk carefully. "We don't know their locations, but apparently they can travel between the two by either walking or swimming. Assuming that means traveling overland or by water…"

He looked over the map. It didn't really narrow it down much.

"They could be anywhere on the coast, or maybe along a river."

"Not the coast," Cal said confidently. "Their signal wouldn't reach us from that far away."

"Can you pinpoint their location by the signal?"

Cal shook his head. "Negative. I can only determine the strength of the signal, not the direction it's coming from."

Red thought for a moment. "What about distance?"

"That's a bit tricky," the lieutenant said with a grimace. "It depends on what kind of radio they are using and if they have a signal booster or not."

"Give me the min-max," Red ordered, searching through the desk for something to write with. He found a pen and picked up a discarded bit of wire on the ground.

"Okay, well, if they are using a basic radio with no booster, the minimum would be…two miles from our location," Cal explained, crossing his arms over his chest.

Red measured two miles with the wire and drew a circle around the FRS.

"With a higher-end setup and signal booster that could be as far as twelve miles."

The commander remeasured and drew the second circle, part of it going off the map. Red looked at the marks, searching the section between the two circles. Almost the entire southern part was taken up by the Charles River.

That had to be it. The river was the largest waterway within the marked area. Red grinned. He had a good feeling about this and his instincts were almost always right. He looked towards his lieutenant.

"Feel up for some nighttime recon?"

A/N: This chapter dragged on a bit. There was a lot of information to get out, but the story will pick up in the following chapters.