CHAPTER 3
Busted

Shards of artificial light shone through broken ceiling beams and crumbling drywall. The light was dull, sickly. Green. She hated the colour, always had. Why RobCo had decided on green as their default terminal colour escaped her. She'd always found it stark and unsettling, those flashing green cursors. They reminded her of work left unfinished, papers left unedited, things left unsaid.

Night had long since settled over College Square. Grey could smell harbour fog in the distance, feel the humidity press into her skin. A light sweat broke upon her neck and a chill ran from her jaw to her navel. She shivered as she pulled her shoulder holster over her jumpsuit, the worn leather cold to the touch.

Boston's weather had changed since her time. December used to be one of the coldest months of the year, temperatures always hovering near freezing. Grey could still remember the feel of the cold in early morning. A gasp of breath escaping chapped lips, bodies pressed against one another beneath the warmth of the duvet. The bone-licking cool as she'd slid a bare leg from the bed. Nate's hands reaching for her, palms callused but warm, calling her back.

Grey pressed her fingers to her face, the antagonizing green glow of her Pip-Boy stinging her left eye.

No, December wasn't like that anymore. There'd been no ice, no snow. Even now, the temperature was tolerable, easily combatted with a jacket or extra layer. Effects of the bombs, she imaged. One of many.

Dogmeat laid by her feet, lapping into a can of pre-war dog food. A fine layer of dust had worked its way into his coat, his underside practically grey. She lifted her hands from her face, seeing the same grey, the same dust and mire. There were calluses behind that dirt, patches of dry, cracked skin running from her left index finger down across her palm. Just like her husband's, except her hands still reeked of gunshot residue. Nate's never had. He knew how she'd hated it, hated the reminder of what he did, what his Army was doing—what they did.

Would this Brotherhood be any different? Grey shook her head. She couldn't afford to think like that, not while she needed them. Whatever sense of morality she once had was no longer applicable. The world had changed too much, and she imagined even pre-war ghouls would struggle to remember the world and its values that were still so fresh in her mind. And even if they did, she doubted they'd understand.

A floorboard creaked.

Grey felt her muscles tighten. Blood drained from her face, heart shuddering against her ribs. She instinctively reached for Kellogg's .44 revolver, desperate to shoot and run, but she forced herself to stop. She couldn't take the risk. She wouldn't.

She could sense someone behind her, by the blasted out brownstone door. She estimated there was twenty-five feet between them, but they may as well have been pressed against Grey's back, purring in her ear. Goosebumps prickled her flesh. Her fingertips skimmed the revolver's grip. But then she heard Dogmeat, jaws working and tongue lapping. Unfazed, unthreatened.

Grey pressed her palms into her thighs, slowly pushing herself to her feet.

"Is there something I can assist you with, Knight Captain?"

She heard Daniels give a small chuckle. Wood groaned, and Grey didn't need to turn around to know the woman was leaning against what remained of the doorway.

"I think I'm beginning to understand the Paladin's decision."

That makes one of us, Grey mused, slinging her sniper rifle over her back. She turned, watching as Daniels' sharp features were tinged green and grey, her beautiful skin reduced to ugly highlights and shadows. Her flight suit clung to an athletic frame, hints of curves amongst lean muscle. There was a beauty to her fierceness, Grey realized. She watched as the Knight Captain again sized her up, eyes scrolling slower this time, gaze lingering along her collarbones, beneath, the slightest of grins tugging at her lips. A muscle twinged in Grey's gut, heat building along her neck. Her hormones and her adrenaline never did play well together. She was smart enough to recognize when a game was being played, though, no matter how tempting the premise was. Grey was just disappointed she wasn't the one orchestrating it.

"The flannel—that was truly a nice touch. Just Wastelander enough to not look entirely fabricated. But this look," Daniels said, motioning to the firearms and knives strapped to Grey's body, "A little closer to home, perhaps? A little closer to the Vault dweller rumoured to be carving up half of downtown Boston?" She locked eyes with Grey, temptation draining from her features. Grey clenched her jaw.

"I'm not your sponsor, and I'm not your commanding officer, so I'll speak plainly. That mercenary shit won't fly with us. You either get in line or get out. Understood?"

Grey fought the urge to smirk as she grabbed her duffle bag from the fridge. She approached the Knight-Captain slowly but deliberately, throwing the bag over her shoulder as she walked. She gave a nod as she moved to push past her, but she felt Daniels thrust her shoulder into her chest, hard enough to falter Grey's pace but not hard enough to bruise.

"One last thing," Daniels whispered into her ear, breath hot and sweet. "Next time you're tempted to scout out an active site of operations? Don't."

Grey pushed past, feet guiding her into the Square. She didn't trust herself to look back or to speak. They were playing a game, after all, and the Knight-Captain thought she had the upper-hand. No need to confirm it.

Dogmeat chased after Grey, paws padding against the asphalt. Only when the Knight-Captain was out of earshot did Grey let out a laugh. The uneasiness of it stayed with her as she walked back toward the compound. Brotherhood soldiers nodded as she approached, all sense of previous reservation apparently gone. Somehow she was one of them, at least in their eyes. Whatever reservations Daniels had, clearly she hadn't shared them with her ilk. Grey decided not to think on it, at least not yet.

Pushing through the police station doors, a familiar frame stood at the top of the stairs. She paid him little regard, muttering a, "Hey", as she attempted to pass. An arm shot out, stopping her short.

"Alright, out with it. What's your game?"

Grey kissed her teeth before meeting Rhys' narrowed gaze. She wasn't in the mood for this, but clearly her wishes meant jack shit.

"Game?" she feigned, tone deliberately mocking. "What do you mean?"

"I can usually size people up at a glance, but you—you're different. And it's bugging the heck out of me. You're not the military type, you're a loner, so I can't figure out why you're sticking around. You got what you wanted, so why don't you hit the road?"

Grey pursed her lips. People were seeing through her too easily. Two people in ten minutes had to be a personal record. Her instinct was to belittle or disregard him, but that tact wasn't going to work here. Neither was sarcasm, as tempting as that option was. Having the Paladin buy into her bullshit was one thing, but that victory would be short lived if his squad weren't convinced of her loyalties.

"What can I say that will make you trust me?"

"There's nothing you can say. Trust is earned through action—nothing more, nothing less."

She arched her brow, his words not warranting a verbal response.

He sighed. "Look, I'm going to cut you some slack because Danse trusts you, but if you step out of line and put any of my brothers or sisters in danger, I'll make sure you regret it."

He dropped his arm and strode outside, some of the heaviness leaving with him. The threat was still there though, and Grey knew she was on thin ice.

Trust was a conflicting notion for her. In her career, trust was irrelevant much of the time. She'd worked criminal prosecution for JAG Corps, so the only "trust" she'd encouraged was that her peers shut the fuck up and trust she'd do her job and do it well. Trust had always been a one way street, and she'd preferred it that way. Likely because people, by and large, weren't trustworthy. Everyone was out for their own interests some way or another, and the easiest way to be used or abused was to default to the position that people were, perhaps, honourable. That wasn't to say there weren't honourable people out there—she liked to think she'd married one of them—but she'd never assume it. She'd never gave her trust. So was it rich that she was asking Rhys to trust her? Yes, and made all the richer by the fact she didn't deserve it. Asking for it was another deception, another lie.

"Rhys still giving you the cold shoulder?"

Haylen peered over the railing.

Grey looked up. "I can handle it."

Haylen scoffed. "If you could, you'd be the first. Rhys bleeds brotherhood. It's all he cares about; it's his family, it's his whole life. If anything else comes into the picture and gets in his way, he shoves it aside."

There was vigour in her words. Hurt, Grey realized.

"Is there something between the two of you?"

Something flickered behind her eyes. "When I first joined up, Rhys was the one who sponsored me. He took me under his wing, showed me the ropes. I thought there was a little more between us, so I asked him if he cared about me that way. He told me that the Brotherhood of Steel was all that he cared about. And there was no room for anything else in his life. We never spoke about it again."

She paused, body language turning stiff. "Look, I—I need to get back to things. If you're worried about Rhys, just keep doing what you're doing. He'll come around soon enough."

With a forced smile, she returned to her terminal, fingers clicking away. Grey continued around the corner, watching the woman type. She couldn't see the content, just the glimmer of garnish green text. The flashing, pixelated cursor, scrolling across the screen.

She hated that colour.