AN: Thanks for the reviews and forgive this late chapter! I've been struggling with work and a stubborn writer's block. I ultimately decided to split this chapter in two because I'm trying to keep them relatively short for those who have a rather limited attention span. Like myself, for instance. The second part should be up in not too long.
PS; this chapter contains rather explicit violence. Let me know if you think the rating should be changed.
Chapter three: Escape, Part One
The Pip-Boy is gone.
You can handle that all of the other equipment has vanished and been replaced by some rough sack clothing, but the absence of the Pip-Boy – your Pip-Boy, goddammit – is surprisingly painful. Crippling, almost. Well, maybe not so surprising as it has been a part of your body for nine long years, but for all this time you have taken it for granted.
Three Dog must be playing some nice music now. Or sharing news from the Wasteland. Oh, how you wish you could tune into Galaxy News Radio, typically more than you ever have before now that you can't. His voice sounds gloriously clear and lighthearted in your mind as you imagine him mocking the Enclave radio station, howling into the microphone and praising you to the skies and above for all of your good deeds.
You brush your thumb forlornly along the naked skin of your left wrist, an activity which occupies all of your attention, and you gasp in sudden fright as you promptly crash into a back of steel. Glenroy grunts in surprise, swiveling to face you. "Keep your distance, prisoner," he growls crossly and shoves you roughly backwards, shooting you a menacing glare before continuing after the Emperor and his guards.
The skin between your brows furrows in an annoyed scowl. Even though you can respect his distrust towards strangers, there's no need for him to be such an ass about it. You haven't done anything to peg you as an assassin.
Yet. You decide it's best to keep a safe distance from the Emperor and his men. If they turn on you, you won't stand a chance against them, outnumbered and dressed like a beggar as you are while they're well protected and armed. Not armed with guns, though. Swords. Special kind of swords, single-edged and slightly curved, strongly reminiscent of the weapons of the samurais, from what you remember of the historical entries you've so vigorously been reading in the Vault computers.
Hey, Butch didn't call you a no-life bookworm for no reason. Then again, you didn't call him a good-for-nothing, alcoholic pissneck for no reason either. You had to spend three hours inside a locker once, for saying that to his face.
Chewing on a fingernail, you wonder if this is not some sort of a simulation of an historical event in ancient Japan or something. But that doesn't make sense. None of these people are Asian, for starters, and you highly doubt the samurais spoke English.
The straps on your sandals gnaw into the skin between your toes as you trot further into the catacombs, moving your gaze over the shadows that envelop large portions of the area. A sudden ripple of adrenaline surges through you as your eyes catch a movement in the darkness and out of an alcove peeks an unfamiliar figure. Dressed in red garbs and a black armor, the man discharges a triumphant howl upon seeing the Emperor, and four swords immediately fly out of their scabbards with loud hisses as he jumps down from his hiding place.
"Here they come!" the female guard hollers, her fingers tight around the hilt of her blade, "Protect the Emperor!"
Apparently they weren't joking about the assassins. As the first one charges towards the woman, four more neatly leaps out of the dim alcove and scurries to encircle the group of guards who stand as shields for their Emperor. The woman thrusts her sword at the aggressor's throat, his larynx crushing at the impact, and the blade exits in a sweeping horizontal line, ripping muscles and tendons with a flurry of crimson. Sore, muffled gurgling sounds from behind his mask as the assassin falls backwards, sprawling lifelessly on the ground.
Your heart hammers wildly in your chest and you can feel the rapid pulse in your gum as you instinctively grope for a weapon. After being the target for attacks for so many times, every fiber of your being screams for you to protect yourself, even though none of the combatants pay half a mind to your presence. A loud clank sounds as a mace slams into the guardswoman's helmet and she disappears from view, feral growling, weapons clashing against armor, a glint of blade followed by a piercing shriek – and then, in one distracted moment, the Emperor stands unguarded.
An assassin seizes the opportunity and rushes towards him, his mace hovering perilously over his shoulder as he lifts it back to strike. A quizzical "huh?" emits hollowly from his mask and he turns his head, locking eyes with you. Before you even knew what you were doing, you had stormed after him to thwart his assassination attempt, and now your hands are firmly closed around his right wrist, the mace uncomfortably close to your head. Not giving him a chance to react, you brutally jerk his arm backwards and he flails desperately as his body tilts out of balance, swiftly falling before hitting the ground with a resounding thud. The mace slips from his grip, clattering against the stone floor and you kick it away with the sandal-clad part of your foot.
Hisses and a stream of curses and death threats come from the figure at your feet while he clumsily scrambles to his feet, and you instinctively step back from the sheer murderous fury radiating from his narrow stare. Now standing fully erect, the man grasps for your throat, but suddenly flinches. Something clanks against the assassin's back, his torso is swiftly thrust forwards and a small spot on his chest plate bulges for a split second before the tip of a blade rupture the metal in a loose spray of blood that spatters onto your face and clothes.
Your eyes follow the attacker as he crumples into a lifeless heap, and looking up, your jaw nearly falls off your head when you see that it's the old Emperor himself who has come to your aid. He gives you a worried look as he sheathes his crimson-coated sword. "Are you alright?"
"Yeah!" your eager tone does nothing to hide your admiration. "Dude, that was awesome! For your age, you're a real badass!"
The Emperor cocks a puzzled brow, perhaps wondering whether this was an insult or a compliment, but must have found confirmation on the latter as a small smile tugs at his lips.
"Sire." One of the Emperor's men, a rather handsome African-American man, approaches, the blood stains on his armor already starting to dry along the edges. "We're clear for now, Sire. But we shouldn't dally, there might be more of them nearby."
"Where is Captain Renault?" the Emperor queries. The man's facial expression hardens.
"She's dead. I'm sorry, Sire, but we have to get moving."
The Emperor sighs. "Alright, Baurus. Let's continue." He casts you a sideways glance, warily, as if he's worried that you're suddenly going to drop dead as well. "Take care of yourself," is all he has to say, before looking away and following Baurus. You're about to go after him when you notice Glenroy mourning his comrade as he stands with an arched back over her broken, lifeless body. This has become personal for him, and he's probably seething with vengeful hatred towards the assassins, which he would be more than glad to take out on you should he put you in the same box as them. He is more dangerous than ever, and it is only after you watch him and the rest of the group disappear through a door that you feel safe to rummage the area for useful items.
Rats, fucking rats.
You have never seen them in real life before, only their far less attractive hybrid brethren, the molerats, and they had definitely not made a very good first impression. Lacerations from their sharp claws run in jagged red lines over your bare arms and calves, occasionally interrupted by thick, short gashes that dig deeply into your flesh. The bastards have sharp teeth as well, and the wounds itch and burn like hell.
At this moment, you have completely lost track of the Emperor and his men. Someone – probably Glenroy – locked the door out of the hallway, forcing you to take a side passage into a cave. The cave must be at least partially human made as there are a lot of support pillars, and it seems like a damned rat is hiding behind every single one.
It has become very clear to you that things here don't quite work the same as they do in the wasteland, from discovering that the assassins' armor and weaponry had just vanished somehow, to finding strange bottles with labels like "weak potion of sorcery". Right now you are kneeling by a chest and suspiciously scrutinizing a couple of pink ones that are apparently "weak potions of healing", though not specifying exactly what they heal, or if you're supposed to drink them or apply them directly to a wound. Only God knows how long these have been lying around and trying to heal anything with them might do more damage than good, but you are not fond of pain and you don't want to endure more of it than necessary.
So, with that in mind, you apply a little of the bottle's strangely bitterly scented, sap-thick liquid onto your wrist and smear it over a long cut with your cleanest finger. The effect is immediate; the shallow gash rapidly shrinks and fades, taking its irritation with it, and the rest of the potion is promptly slapped on the rest of the injured skin on your legs and arms. Only a few small gashes from the teeth marks are left when the remedy has done its job and you're now completely ache-free, though smelling a bit weird.
Despite not being able to find anything useful on the assassins, Captain Renault had carried two swords, her trademark blade and a shorter, double-edged one. You took the shorter one – she certainly doesn't need two, and as a dead woman she doesn't need any, but you would rather run naked into the Talon Company's HQ than bumping into Glenroy again with his dead comrade's uniform weapon. It's not that you're effectively scared of him, you have experienced much worse and come out of it in one piece, but he is in his element and knows this place, whatever it is, infinitely better than you do. Besides, you don't want to fight him if you can avoid it given that he seems like a good guy, despite being a bit of an asshole, a description that fits an overwhelming majority of the people you've met in the wastes come to think of it.
You continue through the uneven cave, not meeting any other life forms save from the occasional rat until you stumble upon a humanoid creature that is far more reminiscent of zombies in an old monster flick than any of the Ghouls you've ever met. Though contrary to the zombies that are easily stopped with a bullet in the brain, this one still moves even after you've hacked its head off.
"What the hell?" you splutter, delivering seven more stabs at its torso, cringing ever so slightly at how spongy its muscle tissue is and how easily its ribs splinters under the force of the blows. When it finally falls over, as dead as it looks, you're not sure what's higher up on the grossness scale – that clumps of decayed zombie meat is stuck in your hair, or the remarkably putrid stench they emit.
You focus on breathing through your mouth only as you proceed further in, scrounging for items in various wooden chests, your pockets soon filling up with strange golden coins that you assume to be used as currency. None of the bottles with healing potion will fit, though, and you decide that they're too impractical to carry around with your hands. A decision you soon regret when you're attacked by yet another rat and your sword misses the rodent, striking your thigh instead.
"Fucking hell!" and many other colorful curses burst from your dry lips as you press your sweaty palms against the large slit in your skin, blood swelling from the wound, trailing down your leg through curled fingers. A deep red color cuts through the green fabric of your pants as it absorbs the fluid all the while you shout and swear loud enough to wake the dead. The rat is so intimidated by the ruckus you make that it chooses to flee. If only I had a stimpak, you think bitterly as the flow of blood slowly ceases and grows sticky on your skin.
More limping than walking onwards, you absently hope that you'll get to meet the Emperor again – and that his magic fingers works as well on cuts as they do on damaged eyes…
