CHAPTER 6
Addressed

Grey hung back as the Paladin disembarked, pretending to fuss with her duffle bag. Dogmeat looked up at her and cocked his head, the slightest of whines coming from his throat. She ignored him, instead stealing a glance outside the Vertibird. A man in full dress uniform stood at the end of the gangway, chest pushed forward and head held high. Grey didn't need to understand the emblems to grasp that this man was likely one of the higher ranked officers. His hat alone was enough of a clue. She'd never known a senior officer to greet troops on their return though, unless Danse was far higher ranked than she'd thought. Mysteries abound.

"That's Lancer-Captain Kells."

Grey turned to the pilot and removed her flight helmet.

"So what do I need to know about him?"

He gave a short laugh. "That his bark and bite are about equally as terrifying. He's also the Prydwen's commanding officer, so good to avoid pissing him off for as long as you can."

"It sounds like you've already decided I'll end up in his bad books."

"With a face like yours?" Her flashed a flirty smile. "Oh definitely."

She returned the smile before jumping onto the gangway, Dogmeat close at her heels.

The Paladin approached Kells, his posture surprisingly relaxed. "Permission to come aboard, sir?"

"Permission granted. Welcome back, Paladin." Kells saluted, face unmoving. Grey wondered if he had any facial expressions at all. Probably looked that stoic, even when he came.

"Allow me to be the first to congratulate you on a successful mission. And is this our new recruit?" His eyes slid to her, watching intently.

That was her cue. She threw her duffle over her shoulder and approached the men, suddenly wondering if she was supposed to salute, kneel, or curtesy. She opted to stand stiffly, mirroring Kells' posture and face.

"Yes, sir," Danse replied. "I field promoted her to Initiate and I'd like to sponsor her admission into our rankings personally."

Kells gave the slightest nod of acknowledgement. "Yes, we read your reports. You'll be pleased to know that Elder Maxson has approved your request and placed to recruit in your charge."

Grey's stomach twisted. Reports? She wanted to fix Danse with a look, get some clarity, but she knew Kells was too attuned to her presence for her to try anything half-subtle.

"Thank-you, sir," Danse said, clearly oblivious to her weariness. "And my current orders?"

"You are to remain on the Prydwen and await further instructions."

"Very good, sir. Ad victoriam, Captain."

Kells gave another nod. "Ad victoriam, Paladin."

Grey got the sense she and Kells were to wait until the Paladin was out of earshot before conversing. Stand there politely, look casual, perhaps even thrilled to be in one another's company. She fought a smirk. Appearances and lies, just like old times.

The Lancer-Captain turned to her the moment the Paladin's body disappeared through a hatch.

"So, you're the one Paladin Danse has taken under his wing." Kells grunted, his affectless tone somehow souring. Grey quickly realized no amount of cajoling or forced sincerity would win this man over. That at least saved her the effort of trying.

"You don't look much like a solider to me."

And there it was: the gentle taunt. A quick and dirty assessment of impulsivity and insubordination. Tap at an insecurity, see if it bruised or bled. Except Grey knew this song and dance.

"Looks can be deceiving," she said flatly.

"Which is precisely why I personally insist on scrutinizing every recruit that boards this vessel." He crossed his hands behind his back, teetering on his left leg. He'd be circling her like a vulture if the platform was any wider, using his height and body language to impart upon her how small she actually was. Classic military tactic. She nearly laughed.

"I've read Paladin Danse's reports. He seems to think you'll make a fine addition to the Brotherhood. You might expect an endorsement like that to grant you a great deal of latitude with us, but let me make one thing clear: the Brotherhood of Steel has traveled to the Commonwealth with one specific goal in mind. As the Captain of this vessel, I won't allow anyone to jeopardize our mission, no matter how valuable they think they are. Understood?"

"Absolutely."

A split-second of shock erupted across his long features, but he quickly smothered it. He didn't expect her to play by the rules, but that was fine—men never did.

"Good. That's all for now, solider. Your orders are to proceed to the command deck for the address, after which Elder Maxson wishes to have a word with you. If you have any questions, ask me now. Otherwise you are dismissed."

She wanted to know what this "word" would be about, but Kells would never divulge that. No, she would have to be subtle or, at the very least, practical. That and there was more than one way to skin a cat.

"Can you tell me anything about Elder Maxson?"

"Elder Maxson is the Supreme Commander of the Brotherhood. Without his tenacity and his vision, we'd still be a small group of complacent stragglers, occupying the Citadel in the Capital Wasteland. In a mere decade, he's grown the Brotherhood of Steel into a major military force. He's an inspiration to us all. Is there anything else?"

From the way people spoke about this man, Grey was beginning to wonder if Maxson shit gold bricks. Hero worship was always an interesting social phenomena, one the military was historically prone to in a much lesser way. The trick was in finding the balance between respect and reverence; the military usually preferred the former to the latter. Clearly something disjointed was happening with the Brotherhood. That or there was more than rads in the water.

"No further questions, sir."

"Then I suggest you head over to the command deck. Dismissed, Initiate."

Grey honestly had no idea where the command deck was, but she wasn't about to tell Kells that. Too much pride, her father would say. What did he ever know though.

She opted to trace Danse's footsteps to the upper deck. A solider in full power amour swivelled with her advance, minigun in hand. He gave her a gesture of acknowledgement and pulled open the hatch.

Grey entered a red-hued chamber and watched her pale skin turn crimson. The interior was surprisingly warm and still. As the hatch sealed behind her, the exterior noise of engines and rotors turned to little more than a hum. She could see a brightly lit room ahead, bodies adorned in black and orange fatigues standing in perfect lines. She tiptoed around the lower command deck and dropped her duffle outside the door.

She could feel the anxiety and anticipation wash over her as she pressed in behind a group of soldiers. Neither emotion was hers. If anything, she felt rather numb to the experience, even her curiosity barely prickling her skin.

Dogmeat leaned against her right leg and she instinctively dropped her hand, running her fingers between his ears.

The bodies around her continued to thrum. Backs straight, hands clenched. Grey swept her gaze across them, shaved heads and undercuts, stern faces and highly held heads. All attentive, all waiting.

That's when she saw him.

"Brothers and Sisters, the road behind us has been long and fraught with difficulty. Each and every one of you has surpassed my expectations by rapidly facilitating our arrival in the Commonwealth. You have accomplished this amazing feat without a hint of purpose or direction, and, most impressively, without question. Now that the ship is in position, it is the time to reveal our purpose and our mission.

"Beneath the Commonwealth, there is a cancer known as the Institute, a malignant growth that needs to be cut before it infects the surface. They are experimenting with dangerous technologies that could prove to be the world's undoing for the second time in recent history. The Institute Scientists have created a weapon that transcends the destructive nature of the atom bomb. They call their creation the 'synth', a robotic abomination of technology that is free-thinking and masquerades as a human being. This notion that a machine can be granted free will is not only offensive, but horribly dangerous. And like the atom, if it isn't harnessed properly, it has the potential of rendering us extinct as a species. I am not prepared to allow the Institute to continue this line of experimentation. Therefore, the Institute and their synths are considered enemies of the Brotherhood of Steel, and should be dealt with swiftly and mercilessly.

"This campaign will be costly and many lives will be lost. But in the end, we will be saving humankind from its worst enemy... itself. Ad Victoriam!"

The Elder's words had barely left his mouth as the deck erupted in victory chants. The anticipation had turned to fervour, and Grey could feel it within them as they saluted and fought to return to their duties. They had a plan now, a purpose—a war. What more could a soldier want?

Except Grey felt none of that passion. She honestly wasn't sure what she felt. Some part of her wanted to be convinced—that more so spoke to the Elder's ability as an orator. He was charismatic and compelling, each word carefully chosen and enunciated just so. That impressed her more than she would admit. Even from that snippet, she could see why his soldiers referred him. There was brilliance and conviction there, but she couldn't fight the feeling that there was also naivety. Or was it zealotry?

She agreed the Institute was a blight, but that was because they held something of hers. Would she be as vindictive if they hadn't? That was difficult to tease out. She'd seen the damage they'd done, the replicas they'd left behind. She had also received her fair share of laser burns from their Gen 1s and 2s. But she struggled, morally, with the Gen 3 synths. They seemed human. They were human, depending on who you asked. And it seemed they were also enslaved, very few escaping to the surface, only to then face the harshness of the Commonwealth.

Grey felt herself instantly place her fingers against Deliverer's grip. She could see why the Railroad did what they did. She'd even considered helping them at one point, but only if they could help her. It became very clear that they could barely help themselves, however, which was why she told Deacon they needed to part ways.

Would the Brotherhood differentiate between synth Gens though? Would they differentiate between those liberated and enslaved? Between free-willed and programmed? She wanted to hope that yes, yes they would, but she also knew that military politics didn't allow for dialectics and grey areas. It had black and white, right and wrong, with no allowance for discourse and debate. Otherwise the army wouldn't function.

So what did all of this mean for Grey? Nothing, at least not yet. She had to remove herself from the problem, remove herself for the morality and the ethics. They didn't matter—not at this juncture. The priority hadn't changed, neither had the plan. Shaun was the goal, and his retrieval was the only acceptable outcome. She could think about the rest after he was back in her grasp.

As the last of the soldiers trickled from the room, Grey walked towards the Elder. Her had his back to her, hands resting on the railing. Downtown Boston sprawled out below them in all its wonder and senseless destruction.

She approached from his right side, ensuring she could be seen without having to get too close. With each step, the title of 'Elder' became more and more ironic. Every time Maxson's name had been mentioned, her mind had conjured the image of a sturdy man with salt and pepper hair, harsh lines carved into a seasoned face. During the address, she'd clocked him to be in his mid-to-late thirties, but the closer she got, the younger she realized he was. His face did have the harshness she envisioned, but it wasn't through age but scars. He was beautiful once, she realized, boyish beauty that had been ripped away with gashes and stitches and staples. He was still attractive, but it had been changed to something harder, older. She could see the perpetual furrow to his brow, the mental weight he held there. His brown eyes were also weathered, the look of someone who had seen too much, lost too much. She knew those eyes.

"I care about them, you know—the people of the Commonwealth."

The softness of his tone startled her, and she faltered.

Her instinct was to challenge him, to see how much depth his words actually had, but that approach wouldn't benefit her in the long run. It was a quick way to get herself desk duty or the post-war equivalent, if not a prompt dismissal.

"I can see that," she said carefully.

She looked out at the cityscape below, raider tarps littering the dilapidated skyscrapers, fires and explosions glinting between the structures along the eastern wharf. Streets crawling with Super Mutants, ghouls, raiders, and who knew what else. Frag mines underfoot, toxic waste bubbling to the surface of the Charles.

"They're playing with fire," she found herself saying, "and we need to save them."

"Exactly. I just hope we're here in time. I refuse to allow the mistakes of the past to be repeated."

"Don't worry," she lied. "I'm convinced."

The Elder pushed back off the railing, finally meeting her gaze.

"Paladin Danse's reports were quite clear regarding your feelings towards the Brotherhood. And he concludes that you'd be an asset to us. Seeing as he's one of my most respected field officers, you couldn't get a better recommendation. Therefore, from this moment forward, I'm granting you the rank of Knight. And, befitting your title, we're granting you a suit of power armour to protect you on the field of battle. Wear it with pride."

Grey hated power armour, the mere sight of it sending chills down her spine. It conjured a strange mix of memories, none of which were pleasant. But she knew this was the Brotherhood's way, their sign of belonging and authority. She could respect that. And, most likely, she'd need that authority in the days to come.

"I'll do my best to live up to it."

"I'm certain that you will," he said, tone gentle. "In any event, once you're finished becoming familiar with the Prydwen and my staff, report to the Flight Deck at zero-six-hundred hours tomorrow for your new orders. Welcome aboard the Prydwen, soldier."

He pressed a fist to his chest and bowed his head ever-so slightly . "Make us proud."

And for a split second, she actually wanted to. But as she turned from him and collected herself, she realized how absurd the notion was. Where did that impulse even come from? Some boy with a beard speaks to her nicely and she wants to fly their flag?

Get a hold of yourself, Grey. Christ.

Maybe there was something in the water, she decided. Or the air.