- XIV -

(October 2277)

Part 2

The weight of the vest felt wrong on his frame, the riot helmet on his head stifling, smothering. He reached up to hook a gloved finger into the fastened collar of his jumpsuit, finding the proper wear too tight and restrictive. His sloppy gait needed work, but the disguise sufficed in serving its purpose, uncomfortable as it was. He had always walked the thin line of the law, and now, garbed from head to toe in Vault 101 security armor, he couldn't help feeling out of his own skin. Not only that, an earlier glance at his reflection incited a bout of conditioned hostility at the getup.

With the visor in place, he looked far too much like his nemesis.

The baton swung loosely over his hip while his Toothpick remained tucked inside his back pocket, yet even the switchblade provided no comfort as he sensed the mounted cameras monitoring his trek to the residential corridor. He supposed he should thank Officer Gomez for lending him the uniform, which enabled him to wander freely around the Vault, but he intended to reserve his gratitude until he made it back to the classroom unharmed. Several new members of the security force passed him by, thinking nothing of his hasty steps even as anxiety gripped him at their presence. Only when he made it to the apartments did some semblance of relief relax his frame, as no other security personnel appeared in this area.

He strode to the front door he hadn't seen in two months, hesitating before trying the lock. It slid open with no hassle, and he took two steps inside the dark interior, wrinkling his nose when the pervasive stench of alcohol wafted over to greet him. Either it had gotten stronger or he was no longer used to it because as soon as he lifted his visor, he pinched his nostrils together to keep from inhaling the smell. One remaining fluorescent light illuminated the hallway leading to the bedrooms, and he shut the door behind him before attempting to navigate through the living room, which had been completely torn apart.

"Mom?" he called, stepping over the remnants of the console table.

Something clattered from the direction of her room. He pushed the tattered sofa chair out of his path and ambled forward, coughing as he moved past several rancid dishes that reeked from the sink. A bewildered frown crossed his expression when he saw several of his belongings strewn over the hallway floor. His boot hit an old book next to a rusted wrench, and he recognized them as items his father had given him during his childhood.

Another thudding noise came from inside his mother's closed room. He kicked the objects aside and hurried over. Announcing his entrance, he pressed the switch to open the door, unprepared for the sight that met his eyes.

Ellen sat smoking a cigarette on the floor near the spot where he'd killed the radroaches months ago, a bottle of liquor in one hand and a wad of cash in the other. Most startling was her appearance. Her hair hung in tangles, and she wore a skimpy, stained nightgown made of material sheer enough to expose assets a son never wanted to see.

"Mom!" he yelped, clamping his hands over his face.

"Butch?" came Ellen's muffled answer around the cigarette.

"Holy Christ, go put on a robe or somethin', jeez!"

The sound of glass and paper dropping hit his ears as she scrambled up and ran for her dresser. "Of all the times for you to show up!" she exclaimed.

"Yeah, hi to you, too," he snapped, peeking through his fingers when she stated she was decent. "What the hell happened here?"

Ellen glared at him while tying the white robe tighter around herself, the cigarette still dangling from her mouth. "The consequences of your shit, that's what happened here."

"The fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"After you turned yourself into a wanted man and then ran off to join Amata Almodovar's rebels, the authorities came down on me and gave me hell for two months straight. I've had to keep myself afloat, and you never even called or came home to let me know you were all right."

"I'm here now, ain't I?" Butch snarled. "And why were you dressed like that?"

"Because I've been working the world's oldest profession to keep the goddamn security force off my back," Ellen returned heatedly.

The world's oldest profession?

A sick feeling seeped into his gut as his features twisted with mortification. "Mom, you've been whorin' yourself out?"

Mute seconds ticked by. Anger, pain, and shame flashed across her face in that order, spurring a flood of contrition within him. His focus had been so set on Ivy that he'd all but forgotten about how the state of things affected his mother. Had he any inkling that this had been going on, he would have attempted to return sooner.

But there was also something else. He identified it at once in the tight set of her lips, and his horror transitioned into aggravation.

Blame.

Again.

"Oh, don't even," he growled. "This wasn't my fault. I've taken a lot of flak from you because for some reason you don't wanna believe your own son, but I ain't takin' it this time."

"Whatever. I don't want to get into that argument with you today." Ellen waved a hand in dismissal and ignored his furious look as she padded over to sit on the messy bed. "So what are you doing back? And incognito?" she asked, gesturing to his attire.

"Well obviously, I can't go waltzin' around the Vault as I damn well please anymore," he retorted, removing the helmet and wiping at his sweat-soaked hair. "I came to see how you were doin', but I guess now you're the Vault hooker, so I'll just leave—"

"No," Ellen interjected hastily. She placed the cigarette on the full ashtray on her nightstand and fixed him with a peculiar stare. "I didn't say I wanted you to go, I was just wondering."

He picked up on the odd note in her tone, but disregarded it to bark, "God, Mom, you're not gonna keep goin' with this whole prostituting gig, are ya?"

The DeLoria family had never ranked above scum, but this…

This level of degradation was intolerable.

"While the Vault is divided, I don't have a choice, Butchie," she told him, though her eyes strayed to the pre-war bills scattered over the floor. "Well, I do, but it's either this to appease the higher-ups, or they imprison me to lure you out."

He scowled as his detestation for the individuals in power reached new heights. "This is fucking disgusting," he spat right before another thought occurred to him. "Wait, please tell me your clients don't include the current security chief."

Ellen curled her lip in revulsion. "Stevie Mack? Fuck no. Only the men my age come a-knockin'. Had to turn away poor old Stanley the other night—"

"Okay, no names, my bad for bringing it up," Butch cut in, wanting to tear off his ears. He jerked his head toward the hallway in a desperate attempt to change the topic. "So what's with that disaster out there? The place looks like it's gone to hell."

"Because it did. Security ransacked the entire apartment, but mostly your room. And I've been too busy to clean and straighten everything."

The implications of her "busy" schedule provoked a wave of nausea that threatened to gag him.

"Right. I almost tripped over all Dad's old crap on my way in, thanks." Butch studied the doorway and then cast her a sideways glance. "There's another reason I risked comin' here. This has been eatin' me up—like literally—and I want the truth. Why'd Dad want Wilson's disease to be a secret?"

Ellen swung her sharp gaze to him. "How did you find out about that?"

"Oh, I dunno, maybe 'cause I was diagnosed with it not too long ago," he drawled, glowering at her. "I started taking zinc while I was jailed, and Ivy broke the news before the trial. Now I'll ask again. Why'd that bastard pass on this fucking disease to me and then just die without breathing one goddamn word of it?"

Silence. His mother appeared too stunned to respond. She gaped at him from her seat, the very picture of a devastated parent coping with shocking news. Yet, something artificial emanated from her rigid posture. He replaced the helmet and folded his arms over his chest as he waited, using his height advantage to loom over her until he received his answer.

Finally, she pressed a quivering palm to her cheek. "You have Wilson's?"

"Oh, it gets better. My case is far along enough that I need treatment we don't have in the Vault," Butch jeered with heavy bitterness. "One more time. Why—"

"Because Hank didn't want you to spend your days worried that you'd inherit it," Ellen stated miserably. "He said it was better for you to hate him and believe he'd destroyed himself than for you to think you'd end up like him because of a disease out of our control."

The explanation failed to impress Butch. "One, I'm gonna hate that guy no matter what. Two, I ended up with Wilson's, anyway. So… what was the point of keeping it hush-hush again?"

"Hank just wanted you to go through life without the threat of Wilson's holding you back. And neither of us thought you'd get it. The chances of passing it down were supposed to be slim," his mother told him.

"Well, lucky me, then."

"You know, your father loved you and did the best he could, considering who he was."

"Hold the bullshit. I'm already up to overflowing with it from everyone else." Butch rubbed the stubble on his chin and exhaled, rotating toward the wall on the right. "That fucker didn't love no one but himself."

And even if it was true that Hank had wanted to protect his son's interests in his own screwed up manner, Butch felt no gratitude for the effort. Other courses of action had been more viable, such as a detailed discussion or even a cautious warning of its inheritability; these were ways every other family would have handled the situation. Still, he hadn't expected that as the reason for the concealment, and he found difficulty in associating it with the lifelong negative image he'd painted of his overbearing father.

Ellen watched him for several moments before clearing her throat and speaking up again. "Why didn't you go with Ivy Ashburn when she fled the Vault? She was on the medical track and could have found a cure for you outside this place," she pointed out. "I don't get the feeling you stayed for my sake."

Butch peered at her. "Oh, so now you believe that she and I were close, and all those charges against me were false?"

"Edwin Brotch came by a few weeks ago and set the record straight," she replied, staring at the floor. "And I'm glad he put my concerns as a mother to rest."

"Sheesh, it took ya that long to—"

"It's just too bad I had to get him detained afterward."

Butch froze. What? "Whoa, whoa, whoa. You're the one who turned Brotch in?" he thundered, spinning around to confront her.

Ellen's solemn expression stayed constant even when the sound of the front door sliding open alerted them to a new presence. "I'm sorry."

To whom and for what he wasn't sure, but he scampered farther into the room when he heard someone approaching. "What the fuck, Mom? Who just came in? Wh—"

"Officer Wolfe? We'll have to delay our session," Ellen called out. "My son is here and will cooperate with his arrest."

Butch's heart stopped. Arrest? The familiar pangs of betrayal stung beneath his sternum, rising to a palpable throb as he gawked at her in disbelief. It made sense now, the torn look on her face. She'd stalled him on purpose so her next client could catch him. But why? He didn't understand.

His own mother was selling him out.

"Just… cooperate with them, Butchie," Ellen whispered when a male voice in the living room hollered into his radio for backup. "Once they have you in custody, I can get myself out of this arrangement. And then I can try to negotiate your healthcare. I'll take care of this, honey…"

Butch slammed his visor back into place, hardly breathing as he shook his head at her. Unreal. Her words meant nothing because her countenance exuded clear selfishness. The money had warped her; greed had taken over. She would likely use anything at her disposal to ensure her own subsistence, even if it cost her the son who'd revealed his medical condition not five minutes ago.

For the first time in his life, he couldn't decide which parent he despised more.

A coldness spread inside him, numbed the pinpricks, eased the ache. "No. We're done. I'm cutting ties with you."

Fuck friends. Fuck family. Got only myself to rely on. Should've gotten that through my skull from the start.

Just as she began to protest, a uniformed body appeared in the doorway, armed with a standard 10mm pistol. Officer Wolfe hesitated for only an instant when he glanced at the other man wearing the security armor, but it was enough. Despite the wielded firearm, he'd already lost the advantage.

Butch went on the immediate offense, charging straight at him, giving him no time to react. His arms simultaneously drew his weapons, right hand gripping the baton while his left flicked out the Toothpick in a practiced move. Muscles flexed, contracted, prepared for the clash as he bent his knees and dove forward to dodge Officer Wolfe's reflexive trigger finger. Ellen emitted a scream at the fired round, and he reared up and smashed the baton into the older man's outstretched arm, the force audibly cracking the bone.

It wasn't a fight, but the start of the war, signaled by the howl of pain that split the air. Months of persistent self-discipline and melee training in the classroom manifested in his new lethal precision. Butch darted to the side and swung the baton again, catching the glass of his opponent's visor and shattering it. Fragments flew into delicate eye tissue, ripping, blinding. The howl reached a piercing crescendo, which Butch cut short with the angled plunge of the switchblade deep into the other's neck.

The pistol fell. Dark red spilled. And as he yanked out the Toothpick, his first human kill sank to the carpet.

Remorse, terror, and wrath all rebounded, but he tucked away his humanity into a box and locked it.

Wiping the blood from his glove and blade, he scanned the floor for items to take. The baton returned to his side as he bent down and snatched up the pistol. A quick check of the clip revealed three remaining bullets. Three more than he had before, so he stuffed the handgun into the waistband of his trousers and stepped over the bleeding corpse. His heavy panting fogged up his visor as he ignored Ellen's wails and made to leave his home for the last time. Shouts echoed from outside, and he heard his mother scurry after him when he slid the Toothpick back into his pocket and shoved more broken furniture out of his way.

The front door remained open, and as he stepped up to the edge of the threshold, he had a split second before the security patrol at the end of the corridor caught sight of him.

"Butchie, don't run! They'll shoot you!" Ellen cried.

He sent her a blank look when half a dozen pistols aimed in his direction. "I've got news for ya. Your son's already dead."

In a burst of speed, he took off toward the opposite end of the hall without sparing the screeching woman a backwards glance. Bullets fired and whizzed past him, and he felt the standard weariness set into his bones as he pushed himself across the distance. The security armor added to the encumbrance, but proved itself crucial when a lead round lodged into the back of his bulletproof vest. He swore at the sting of the padded blow on his shoulder blade, using the force to gain momentum as he flew out through the exit and into the adjacent corridor.

As if on cue, the alarms across the entire Vault blared to life. Butch skidded to a stop as the flashing red lights roved over the metal walls and reminded him of the last wide scale emergency. He started toward the route that would take him back to the classroom, but glimpsed a group of helmeted shadows about to come around the corner. The pounding boots of the patrol at his flank drew nearer, cutting his indecision short. Faced with no other options, he bolted for the stairs leading down to the reactor level.

Yells of "Get DeLoria!" reached his ears, but he sensed no pursuit as he dashed down the steps and ran to hit the switch for the generator room door. The hammering rhythm of his pulse left him shaky and clumsy in his attempts to activate it, but once he managed to hit it to open, he took a few seconds to catch his breath. Just then, his Pip-Boy gave off a noise of static.

"Butch?" came Amata's whispered voice from the device.

He lifted his wrist and lowered the volume, still listening for any encroaching footsteps. "What?" he whispered back.

"Oh, thank God. Listen, all hell broke loose—"

"Yeah, no shit."

"—and we need you to come back to the classroom now."

"Can't. Security's onto me."

"Damn it, really? The stalemate's over. They're after not only us, but Stevie, too."

Butch paused to let that sink in. "Wait, what? He's their fucking boss."

"Susie just got back from scouting and reported that he's going through with his plan to flush out the water chip. The Overseer has ordered all of us arrested, and the only reason we'll be able to hold down the fort once security gets here is that the other half of the force is pursuing Stevie."

Butch let out a harsh bark of laughter. This day just kept getting better and better. "And here I thought they were settin' off the alarms just for me. I felt special for a few minutes there…"

"Stop joking around! Where are you and how soon can you get here? We'll need all the bodies we can use to hold off the enemy once they come hurtling through."

"I'm down in the reactor level with at least two patrols by the apartments and cafeteria. Ain't no way I'll be able to get up there anytime soon."

"Shit," Amata gasped as a loud crash resounded in the background. "They're here. I gotta go. Try to get up here as soon as you can!"

"Hey, hold on—"

The line cut off before he could finish his sentence. At the same time, several yells rang out just above the stairs. Butch jumped and sprinted to the open doorway of the generator room, preparing to lock himself in and draw up a plan.

The lights were already on when he entered, and after sweeping a confused gaze around the old, torn down shooting range, he spotted a movement at the corner of his eye. In a flash, his hand drew the pistol, aiming it toward the area where the targets had once stood. Inching forward, he acted on impulse when the click of another firearm's safety echoed in the space.

Two rounds fired from his gun toward the outlined form that appeared. He realized belatedly that he had given his position away, but if he went down now, he intended on taking this other individual with him. An identical pistol came into view, pointed straight at him as the figure emerged from the shadows. As soon as he identified the security armor, he fired once more, but only nicked the other's helmet. His finger pulled the trigger again. Out of bullets.

"Butch DeLoria. What're you doing wearing that?"

He recognized the hostile tone, but it wasn't who he'd initially thought. "Officer Wilkins?"

"Well, this should make my job much easier," the older man remarked, still advancing on him. "Just got word to leave my station and apprehend the rebels. Or shoot them on sight. I like the latter option."

Butch put up a front even as the blood drained from his face. "Hey, now. Maybe this ain't the way to go—"

"You already shot at me three times," Officer Wilkins said, his sneer visible through his visor. "Now it's my turn. The difference is that I know where to shoot through this armor."

For a fleeting moment, everything went silent. Nothing in the immediate vicinity offered any cover. Butch braced himself when the trigger shifted, despondency overcoming resistance as he counted on zero fingers the number of things he had left to live for. However, the deafening impact that followed shocked him out of his hopelessness.

The other man's face exploded in an instant, the body flying backwards as blood and matter splattered over the surrounding area. Butch's jaw dropped at the sight, and he stood there, unmoving, as he attempted to grasp what just happened. The thud of the remains hitting the floor resonated throughout the room, and Butch had enough time to sense the presence behind him before the steady words drifted over to fill his ears, race across his head, wrap around his core.

"What have I always told you from the first day of shooting?" her voice demanded, rougher in its timbre, but familiar in its lilt. "Line your sights, squeeze the trigger."

Butch drew in a breath before turning in a slow, clockwise motion.

There she stood, remade by the months spent outside, her features unchanged, but her demeanor transformed. Wasteland-worn and armor-clad, auburn hair chopped short to her chin again, two studded piercings decorating either side of her lower lip. The serpent pendant gleamed and beckoned to him from its chain around her neck. She cocked the shotgun that had blasted Officer Wilkins's head apart, her hazel eyes darker than he'd ever seen them.

But beneath it all, the original essence was still there.

Ivy had come back.

And judging by that dangerous smirk, she was ready to settle all scores.

It took him almost a minute to collect himself enough to speak. "Nice entrance there, Poindexter."

"Heard security yelling your name, so I figured you might need some backup. Again," she responded, scanning the premises with a gaze that recalled their shared past in this room. "Looks like things haven't changed much here. I left this place in chaos, and chaos is what greets me. And I'm supposed to rescue all this?"

Butch swallowed, uncertain how else to react to her return. A million thoughts swam through his mind, but he reigned them in, distancing himself from the raw emotion clawing for acknowledgement. Finally, he placed duty at the forefront of everything else.

"You got Amata's distress call, right? Good timing getting here. The Vault's been turned upside down in the past ten minutes," he declared, ejecting the used clip from his pistol. "Here're the choices: we either bail out Amata's faction first, take down the Overseer, or look for Stevie. Take your pick."

Ivy regarded him for a second before reaching into her pocket and tossing him a full clip. "Amata. Then the Overseer. You can tell me all about what Stevie's up to these days while we head over. By the way, that security uniform doesn't do you any justice."

He frowned and caught the clip, loading it. "Tell me somethin' I don't know, girl," he muttered, staring at her. "You gotta tell me, though. Did you find your dad?"

"My father's dead."

The harsh iteration that left her lips sparked a moment of déjà vu. He saw the way she peered up at him, just like she had during their first day of school when he'd tripped her in the classroom. While the circumstances differed, it affected him all the same.

"My mommy's dead."

Butch uttered a curse at both the memory and the revelation. "Damn. Sorry."

She nodded toward the direction of the stairs, the pain flashing briefly in her expression before she stifled it. "Condolences later. Let's go save this fucking damsel of a Vault."

x-x-x-x-x

A/N: And I'm tardy again with this update. Sorry about that. The good news is that I'll be cranking out the last two chapters over the course of the next few weeks, and I hope you guys stick around to the end. Thanks for reading!