CHAPTER 4
Honesty

She could feel eyes boring into her between key strokes. Each click of the typewriter accompanied by a sneered upper lip, a sigh of indignation. She wondered how exhausted the paralegal was at the end of each shift if he treated even half of the Major's summons with such forced distain. She also wondered how inept he must be to feel the need to act in such a way. Overcompensation was such a pitiful thing.

Grey leaned back in the antique armchair, skirt sliding against the leather. She examined her nails for the umpteenth time, deciding the shape wasn't entirely consistent, the slightest of cracks appearing in her French tips. She needed a new manicurist, someone who knew how to properly use a goddamn emery board.

The Major's desk stretched before her, nameplate large and obtrusive. No one needed that many names, let alone that many honourifics. The desk was as ostentatious as the plaque, carved mahogany, heavyset and reeking of lemon-scented wood polish. She knew the Major was married with several children, but nothing about his office suggested as much. It was devoid of personal touches. Several file folders were perfectly stacked to the right of the desk, suggesting to Grey that her boss was either anal retentive or did little work outside of delegation and telephone conferences. She wasn't sure which option she'd place money on; both seemed equally likely.

She didn't like waiting. It, like most Army protocol and policy, was a substantial waste of already precious time. She didn't care if a senior officer summoned her, and she was about to tell the paralegal as much until she heard the typing cease. A body lifted from its chair, feet snapping together. A stern, "At ease" followed.

Major Cantrell took all of three steps into his office, fixed Grey with a hardened look, and motioned for her to follow. For a man of forty, he strode like one in his twenties, all urgency and power. Fine for a loaded march, but ridiculous for JAG headquarters. Grey struggled to match his pace, her stilettos sliding ever-so slightly on the deco-style marble floors. The Major thrust a file folder toward her, not bothering with something as trivial at eye contact.

"You've been briefed on the Walsh case I trust."

It wasn't a question, and Grey knew he'd interpret any monosyllabic acknowledgement as a waste of valuable air.

"Specialist Walsh of the 108th Infantry Regiment has been accused of the attempted murder of Corporal James. James remains in critical condition at Kendall, last I heard. Charges against Walsh are unlikely to be filed though due to insufficient evidence." Grey paused. "Unless there have been developments I'm unaware of?"

The Major pulled open the door and beckoned Grey into the concourse. They walked along the upper floor, bodies and noise rushing around and below them, echoing throughout the large chamber. His heavy-set brow was furrowed, and she could see the muscles tightening along his jaw.

"I'm pulling you from your other cases, effective immediately. The Walsh case is your top priority now. You'll be assisting Lieutenant Mitchell. She's been assigned as lead prosecutor. Her case, her rules."

Grey bit down the urge to protest. She honestly would have preferred having bamboo shoved under her nails than work with the Lieutenant. Might even out the shape, she thought bitterly.

Grey had no personal quarrel with Mitchell. By all regards, she was a brilliant judge advocate and notably skilled in criminal litigation . She was efficient, fact-focused, and brutally honest, and while those were traits Grey would admire in any attorney, she also knew that Mitchell was a hair-trigger away from complete and utter emotional collapse. The woman appeared all business—no pleasures, no hobbies, no existence outside of her office's four monochromatic walls. There was clearly some trauma underlying it all—her need for order and perfection, her flattened affect—but Grey was no psychologist, nor did she care to be one.

She and Mitchell had completed their officer training together the year before, four weeks of listing protocols, cold showers, and itchy uniforms. It was a formality more than anything, but Mitchell approached it with an unsettling level of resolve. Grey had honestly taken little notice of her, passing her off as a sheltered Harvard grad hovering somewhere on the Autistic spectrum, until one of the recruits returned to base, unable to hold his liquor or his inhibitions, and grabbed Mitchell in the hall, ramming his hand down her blouse. Before Grey could move, Mitchell had kneed him in the crotch and casually sauntered off. Grey'd passively followed Mitchell, feeling some sense of witness responsibility or misguided gender solidarity. Except Mitchell paid her no heed, and Grey found herself tracking Mitchell to the shooting range. She watched the woman gingerly retrieve a .308 sniper rifle and load the magazine, her movements devoid of haste or tension. But instead of aim it down the range, she turned it back on the barracks.

Mitchell never fired. She just rested on her elbows for what seemed hours, staring through the scope, watching. After a few minutes, Mitchell dismantled the rifle and placed it back in storage. She calmly walked back to the barracks as if nothing had happened. And perhaps nothing had, but Grey knew at that moment that Mitchell's need for control far outweighed any other human impulse. That and Grey had no intention of finding herself on the other side of that scope, then or ever.

Mitchell stood at the bottom of the stairs, talking to a serviceman in full uniform, his back to Grey and the Major. She eyed the Lieutenant. Wire-rimmed glasses sat on a petite nose and unremarkable face. Her mousey brown hair was pulled back tight, the skin by her temples pale and taut. Her suit didn't quite fit, like she'd had it tailored but then lost a tad too much weight. Her face was unmoving as she spoke, eyes a listless, murky brown. She hadn't changed at all.

"Rumour has it, Lieutenant, that you're rather efficient in—how shall I put this—extracting necessary information by whatever means necessary."

Grey paused and fixed the Major with a look. "Sir?"

"Mitchell is good, but she doesn't have the specific expertise required to handle this particular component of the case. I expect you to apply your skill set in her stead." He discretely thrust his chin towards the serviceman, identifying her mark. "Do we have an understanding?"

Grey paled, pulse quickening. What exactly was being said about her? She may not have always been entirely above board, but she was discreet. She'd never given a shit about her personal reputation, but her professional one was everything to her. She didn't need conjecture this early in her career, especially the type that was being acknowledged by her superior. She wasn't sure what disturbed her more though: that her colleagues gossiped about her tactics and exploits, or that her boss was giving her carte blanche to use them.

"And the target?"

"Witness," he corrected before lightly cupping her elbow. Grey's pace faltered as he leaned into the crook of her neck, the smell of cigars and Hugo Boss aftershave near nauseating.

"You succeed at this and there's a promotion waiting for you. You fail and—" He abruptly pulled away and she nearly toppled down the steps.

She caught herself, as he knew she would, and gave her pencil skirt a flick as she straightened. She forced her face into a veneer of calm, even as her heart shuddered against her ribs. Message received.

Major Cantrell strode past her, drawing Mitchell's attention and address. She nodded to Grey then, stiffly beckoning her into the fold. The serviceman pivoted with her approach, the slightest of smiles breaking upon a strikingly handsome face. Grey steeled herself.

"Lieutenant, this is Sergeant Anders, 108th Infantry Regiment, 2nd Battalion. Sergeant, Lieutenant Grey has been assigned to assist you with your deposition."

Grey held out her hand and he took it in stride. His touch was gentle but firm, skin lightly calloused. He watched her intently, gauging every inch of her reaction, and discretely ran his thumb along the back of her hand. She stiffened, fighting to urge to jerk away. His smile deepened, icy blue eyes glistening.

They were knowing eyes, she realized, the type that didn't belong on his playboy face. They were the type that took too much interest and looked too deep. They weren't military eyes, and that should have chilled her to her core, but instead it intrigued her. He was something different, something terrifying, and something that would ruin her, one way or another.

"I look forward to working with you, Sergeant," she smiled, lying through her teeth.

"Please," he said, the word inching its way down her spine like a velvet glove. "Call me Nate."

—

Grey woke with a start. The tendrils of his voice lingered.

She pressed her fingertips to her ears, jagged nails skating across cold cartilage. Her brain reeled with momentary confusion, wondering where her husband had gone, if the baby was awake. But then reality snapped into place and her mind went numb.

She breathed deep, grounding herself. She heard the soldiers' rustling bodies, their slow, deep breaths, the occasional snore. Heat emanated from them, bodies too close, sleeping bags nearly touching. They slept like a pack of wasteland dogs, relying on the illusion of safety in numbers. Relying on the knives strapped to their backs. It was suffocating.

She needed air.

Grey crept over the torsos and limbs, eyes struggling to adjust in the near dark. There was a faint glow outside the window, the scanning headlight from a power armour suit. She tiptoed from reception into a half dilapidated hallway, a rusted milk machine leaning against crumbling drywall. She ascended the staircase, finding the second floor inaccessible, and continued upward. An exit sign flickered over the roof access door; a screech of wind tore through crumbled weather seals. She could feel the chill of night as she approached, but it didn't matter. She needed the cold, something to snap away the past, rip it from her skin.

He met her gaze as she stepped onto the roof. She could see the second of alarm, how his shoulders squared, weapon grip tightening. It was momentary though, and he quickly returned to his perch.

"I'm sorry, I can—"

"It's alright," the Paladin said lightly. "I couldn't sleep either."

Grey noticed he was out of his power armour for once, orange flightsuit clinging to a broad, muscled frame. He leaned against the roof's railing, gaze distant, removed. He fingered something silver, flipping it back and forth along his index and middle fingers with his thumb. Her husband would do that with bullet casings, roll them between his fingers as he thought. It took everything in her to not turn and run. But run where? That was the real question, one she couldn't bear to answer, if only because there was no where left to go.

She slowly approached the Paladin, placing a person's width between them. Grey crossed her arms and leaned into the railing. The night air was damp and heavy on her chest, Vault suit offering little warmth. The Charles stretched before her, both river and road devoid of life. Grey felt as if she could close her eyes and conjure throngs of speeding cars and flashing lights, the memories were so close. Ghosts, she realized, that only she could see. Or maybe it was her that was the ghost, the last remnant of a broken, unfathomable world.

"I haven't been completely forthcoming with you."

From the corner of her eye, she could see the Paladin shift uneasily.

"I've let you assume things, false things, and while some part of me still believes the absence of truth is not always a lie, it's still not fair." Grey paused, steadying her breath. "You deserve better than that."

He remained silent for a moment, considering her.

"Why the change of heart?"

She shrugged. "Not sure. Maybe I'm starting to realize that this world has changed, and I'm doing myself a disservice by clinging to old habits and beliefs. Or maybe I'm just tired—of concealing, of lying, of hiding away. Or maybe, just maybe, I need to learn to place a little faith in someone other than myself. Which, now that I've said it aloud, is a truly terrifying prospect."

She gripped the railing, stomach rolling and nerves firing. She didn't plan for it to go this way. It wasn't supposed to go this way. It was supposed to be acting and subterfuge and false platitudes. Play the part, sink into the background, get what she needed, and get out. She convinced herself it was like any other job, any other case, but it wasn't—nothing about this was familiar, and nothing could be left to chance. She'd promised herself that, promised Nate that. And yet there she was.

So she told him. Told him that she wasn't really a Vault dweller. That she was actually a 237-year-old pre-war attorney whose husband was murdered and whose son was kidnaped. That she'd inadvertently become one of Vault-Tec's forgotten science experiments, crawling her way out of an abandoned freezer to find her life and home blasted apart at the seams. That she'd tracked down the man that ruined her life, only to learn that he was just another pawn, another player in some sick, twisted game. And that the real villain in all this was the same villain in every tragic Commonwealth tale: the Institute.

She smirked to herself. "I don't expect you to believe a word of what I just said. Because, just listening to it, I don't even know if I believe it. But I need to find the Institute, and I think we both know that the Brotherhood is my only chance of doing that."

He hadn't looked at her since she started talking. He probably thought she was mad. Some brain-damaged chem addict that had somehow snuck in through their door. Would he calmly ask her leave, or would he turn his gun on her and put her out of her misery? Should she even give him the chance? Fuck, she was a moron. An absolute, utter—

"I've received orders that we're both to report to the Prydwen. Transport is scheduled to arrive at sunrise."

Grey turned toward the Paladin, confusion brimming. "Why would you still want me?"

He didn't reply.

"You know my motives are entirely selfish. There's no guarantee I'll align with your ideals, that I won't get what I want and run. So why?"

He pushed away from the railing and faced her. Even without his power armour, her towered over her, her nose barely meeting his chin. He took a step towards her, narrowing the gap between them. "Because the Brotherhood is a family. Because we support one another. Because we never leave one of our own behind. And while you may think your ideals misalign with ours, what you're fighting for—what you've bled for—that is Brotherhood, through and through."

She could sense the tension in him, thrumming beneath his skin, bleeding onto his face. She felt the same tension in herself, the want to pick a fight, to have someone yell at her or scream. To dig her nails into flesh and watch it bleed. She wasn't one of them. She wasn't military. She wasn't supposed to be, and yet...

The Paladin exhaled and she could feel the warmth of his breath on her face, watch it steam in the thin air between them. She could tilt her head back, lift herself onto her toes and—

She balled her hands into fists, planting them by her sides. No, she couldn't reach for him. Couldn't touch him. It was just adrenaline and dopamine, a confusion of frustration and lust. Like with Daniels, with so many others.

She stepped away.

The Paladin straightened, adverting his gaze. "People join for many reasons, virtue being the least cited. What we are and what we believe comes gradually, through experience and victory and... loss.

"I said you had potential, Initiate, and I meant it. You join our cause, and you won't be alone in this. You have my word that I will do everything in my power to help rescue your son. Understood?"

No, she didn't understand—couldn't understand. If she'd thought about this conversation, actually thought about a potential disclosure, she never would have done it. In no scenario did she anticipate his response. It wasn't logical; it shouldn't have happened. Her confession, her need for absolution—it was a weakness, one born of fleeting emotional vulnerability. Weakness caused by memories of what was, of love lost, a life mourned. And yet there she was, still intact despite that vulnerability.

And maybe, just maybe, not entirely alone.

"Understood."