CHAPTER 8
Lies

Grey woke to the still of the Prydwen, its gentle hum all but white noise. She listened for sounds of life, only hearing the faint breaths of the soldiers sleeping next to her, an occasional snore several cots down. She rolled onto her side, legs pressing against Dogmeat's belly. Heat radiated from his fur.

She twisted her wrist and examined her Pip-Boy. 3:47 AM.

Grey pressed her eyes closed, but sleep didn't come. It rarely did.

Silently she slid from the bed, gently lifting her weight from the springs such that they didn't creak. Not silently enough for Dogmeat, though, who leapt from the bed with her departure. She tapped her leg twice with her fingers, beckoning for him to follow.

They crept to the bow of the ship, traipsing down metal staircases and through narrow passages. The airship was still a bit of a maze to her even after her day of exploration and introductions. But she'd remembered this place.

Ducking through an alcove, the smell of Abraxo smacked her in the face. She gave a smile, the chlorine-like scent bringing her back to childhood swimming lessons and summers at her parent's country club. Sunshine and flip-flops, children running on wooden docks, hair reeking of chemicals as it whipped back into her face.

Grey pulled off her combat boots as she walked into the change room. She threw them in an empty locker and quickly stripped off her Vault 111 jumpsuit and underwear. She fingered a hole in the jumpsuit. A bullet wound she'd received in Concord, less than twenty-four hours after leaving the Vault. One of the raiders had caught her by surprise as she'd entered the Museum of Freedom, his first shot grazing her side and his second piercing her upper arm.

She'd never been shot before. The pain had been enough to blur her vision. If it hadn't been for the latent effects of the cryo—her nerves misfiring and pain receptors somewhat numbed—she would have blacked out. Instead she'd managed to pick off five raiders with her 10mm before finding Preston and having him tend to her wounds.

She pressed her fingers against the indent in her upper arm. A through and through. The skin still showed the faintest ripple of a scar. Stimpaks were excellent for triage, but poor for vanity. They'd kept her alive, accelerating cell growth and tissue regeneration, but they were a crude instrument. Her skin now told the tale of their workings: faint white lines along her forearms from a switchblade-wielding chem addict she'd encountered on her way to Goodneighbor, puckered skin along her collarbones from stray shotgun pellets, tough and whirled flesh under her right arm from an Institute laser round when she and Deacon infiltrated the Switchboard. So much damage in so little time.

She let the thought melt away as she stepped into the showers. She flinched as a blast of cold water hit her, but it quickly warmed and her legs all but turned to jelly. She hadn't felt hot water since the morning the bombs dropped. She closed her eyes and relished in the feeling of it massage into her scalp and run down her back. She felt the weeks of dirt and grime lift from her skin, pores tingling with the reprieve. She opened her eyes to the streams of greyish-brown water coursing into the drain underfoot. Grime and sweat and ash and blood, all washed away.

She wasn't sure how long she stood there, watching the water until it flowed clear. As the last of the hot water drained from the nozzle, she walked through a wall of steam to the sinks. Her blurred figure stood before her, reflection muted and lost. She slid a hand over the mirror, condensation turning to droplets and slithering down her arm.

She didn't recognize the face looking back at her. Not at first.

Dark circles surrounded her almond-shaped eyes, the green of her irises faded and flat. Burst blood vessels turned her vitreous into a spindled mess of red. Her ivory face was splattered with freckles and sunburn, the skin angry and dry. Her lips were chapped, a strange mix of pink and grey. There was a split running from her bottom lip nearly down to her chin. She hadn't felt it—still couldn't, even as she ran her tongue over it. Her hair hung in uneven layers and knots, split ends dangling before her eyes, soaked strands clinging to her collarbones and breasts. A mix of black and silver roots blossomed from her flaky scalp, the silver bleeding into bleached, ruined hair.

How unsightly, she thought, but any imagined feelings of disgust never came. She was numb to it. She might have cared once—she had, once. Image and attractiveness had been as important to her as any mental finesse. She could be cunning and calculated, but she recognized that without her looks, her successes and manipulations would have been fewer. Pre-war society attributed kinder traits to attractive people, perceived them as more caring, more virtuous, more compelling. Grey had never been stunning, but she was attractive enough. She knew how to flatter her features, how to take care of herself, how to dress.

All those tricks were useless now. Wasterlanders didn't care for flawless skin and defined brows. Even basic hygiene wasn't a deal breaker anymore. All that mattered now was her brawn and her brain. The rest was distraction and conceit. The only thing a pretty mouth would get her was the wrong kind of attention, the kind that saw her as vulnerable, an easy target. And she wasn't that.

Grey opened the medical cabinet and grabbed a pair of bandage scissors. They were awkward and blunted, but they worked well enough as she fought her way through the knots and tangled mess. As the last strands fell, Grey discarded the scissors, letting them clatter to the floor. She gripped the sink with both hands as she regarded her handiwork.

She used to rely on her hair to convey a certain image, usually one of professionalism. She'd always thought long hair softened her features, her fringe giving her face a more sultry look, while her straightened black locks had a certain severity to it. Look but don't touch.

That was gone now, locks cut back to a few inches from her scalp. What remained of her hair was a mess of grey and black roots, the ends holding remnants of pre-war dye. Her face looked harsher almost. More angular with her high cheekbones and prominent v-line jaw. She looked like Jasper, she realized—like her brother.

Dogmeat raced after her as she left the head, following her back up the staircases which seemed to crisscross and zag. Grey stretched her shoulders with each step, her new orange flight suit stiff and foreign. Proctor Teagan had told her it had a low-level ballistic weave, but she wasn't willing to test that. Her Vault jumpsuit technically did, too—a gift from Tinker Tom after she ran an op for P.A.M.—but her injuries taught her not to confuse a weave with kevlar.

She found herself in Senior Scribe Neriah's petshop of horrors, the lab strangely empty aside from the sleeping molerats. Grey approached the Gen 1 synth remains assembled on a gurney, tracing the wires and connections with her fingers. Its dead eyes stared at the nothingness above her, half its jaw cracked and missing. There was no rubber on his joints; just plastic and metal. She thought of Nick then, strapped to the gurney, skin removed, glowing eyes dead.

She recoiled, nearly stumbling into a surgical tray.

Grey grabbed its edges, instruments clattering. Only as she stood still did she feel her pulse race. She retreated to the railing and leaned over it. The feel of the cool metal against her hands calmed her. It grounded her in a way, giving her something tangible, something real to hold.

She felt Dogmeat against her side before she heard his gentle whine. He'd only lean against her slightly, just enough to let her know he was there. She'd never been much of a pet person. Pets weren't conducive to her parent's way of living. They took too many business trips, hosted too many house parties. And Grey and Jasper experienced too many months of being packed up and shipped off to summer camps, ski lodges, or distant relatives' European villas to care for an animal. She'd probably wanted a dog at some point in her childhood, but that notion was likely squashed before it took root. Be practical, darling, her father would say. Do you really want those additional responsibilities? He was always like that, framing his disproval as a question for her to ponder and answer.

Nate had had a dog, some mutt he'd apparently rescued in Anchorage a few years before they'd met. The dog had a fractured life after his rescue, being caretaken by Nate's relatives and friends every time Nate was deployed. Nate had brought the dog into their home when they moved to Sanctuary Hills, but he never settled. He was always running away, not to anywhere in particular—just away from them. It was always a cycle of departure, missing signs and posters, return, and repeat. The only feeling she'd had for the animal was distain. And then one day, after Shaun's birth, the mutt never came back. If it hadn't been for that empty dog bowl in her kitchen, she would have forgotten about him entirely.

She didn't feel like that about Dogmeat. How she felt about him was hard to quantify, but whatever kind of relationship they had, it worked. For Grey, that was enough.

She dropped her hand to scratch between his ears and noticed his tail was wagging. She followed his line of sight to the power armour workstations below. Leaning over the rail, she first spotted the sparks. Twisting her head, she got a better view of a figure tinkering with a set of power armour. Her set. She narrowed her gaze, watching the person grind down some of the metal in the left leg.

What are you doing? she thought. Was she being sabotaged? No, she hadn't interacted enough with anyone to draw that type of ire. Daniels and Rhys were still back in Cambridge as far as she knew.

The figure was too large to be a woman, but that was all she could deduce from her position. She quickly slipped away from the rail, tapping her leg and having Dogmeat race after her. She wove through metal containers and past the chalk drawings of some kids before slinking down the stairs, careful not to tread too heavily.

As she reached the primary deck, only a few metres sat between her and the saboteur. He was wearing an orange flight suit, like her, but the suit was only drawn to his hips, arms tied around his waist. A crisp white undershirt stretched over a broad chest laced with muscles. She watched his arms work, sweat glistening over his biceps. His face was hidden behind a welding mask.

She observed him for a bit longer, his hands now tinkering with her suit's shocks. Was that the plan then? Let her attempt a jump and break her legs when the suit's shocks didn't engage? She furrowed her brow and reached for her holster. Only to realize it was under her bed with the rest of her gear. She whispered an oath. She needed a weapon, a wrench or a—

Dogmeat leapt from their hiding spot, bolting toward the saboteur. Grey lunged after him but he slipped through her fingers. She sunk back against the wall, watching as the dog bound toward the man and skid to a stop before her suit. She saw the man flinch and immediately drop a screwdriver. The clang of metal echoed throughout the Prydwen, resulting in a forceful shh from the floor above.

The man dropped to his knee and reached out to Dogmeat, the German Shepherd excitedly bobbing his head against the man's hand. Only when the dog jumped towards his face, tongue flailing, did the man tilt back his mask.

A wave a calm washed over Grey.

Asshole dog, she thought as she rose from her spot and entered the workshop. With her sounding footsteps, Dogmeat leapt from Danse and bound to Grey's side. She raised a brow at him as he collided with her leg, puppy-dog eyes begging for another pet. She ran her fingers through his fur.

As Danse rose to his feet, Grey again took in the sight of the Paladin without his armour. His arms and neck shone with sweat and his broadness continued to surprise her. His skin was cleaner, face freshly shaven, only the faintest hint of stubble shadowing his jaw. His hair had been trimmed, but it still held some volume and length. His hazel eyes momentarily widened as he spotted her, thick brows lifting. She watched the scar tissue in his brow stretch, and began to notice the other scars lining his face. Faint discolouring along his cheekbones, a pale line carved through his stubble.

She met his gaze. "Paladin."

"Knight."

He looked away quickly and cleared his throat. "I was just inspecting your—"

Another shh hissed from above, this one more forceful and distinct. A series of sounding bed springs and tossing bodies accompanied it. Danse cast a glare to the deck above, brow furrowed with annoyance. Grey's lips twitched as she fought the urge to grin.

Danse removed his welding mask and gently laid it on a toolbox. He gave her a nod and motioned for her to follow. She did so tentatively, Dogmeat traipsing along beside her. Danse led her toward the bow, passing through the empty mess hall and past the medbay and archives. Emmett, Quinlan's cat, watched with one eye open as they past Quinlan's desk. His attention immediately shifted to Dogmeat, but the cat showed no sign of alarm. Grey could feel the pause in Dogmeat's step and quickly looped a finger through his collar, guiding him past.

She followed Danse to a stairwell, her calves stinging in protest as they ascended flight after flight. The lighting darkened, only the occasional security lamp defining their way. Grey instantly grabbed the railing, not trusting herself to stay upright. As she reached the top, she saw Danse's silhouette near a single unmarked bulkhead door. He popped the lock, a hiss of air escaping, and motioned her through before her eyes could adjust. For an instant, she thought she felt the brush of the Paladin's hand against the small of her back, but then it was gone. Replaced.

Wind whip against her face, dragging the smell of Boston's harbour up into her nose. Her eyes finally adjusted to the midnight-cast city before her with its graveyard of skyscrapers and the faintest flecks of fires and electricity in the distance. She hated it, she realized, the Boston ruins and the haunting memory of what it had once been, what it had once held for her. But she'd never seen it so still before. A city, unmoving. Asleep.

"You get used to it, eventually."

Grey looked to her left, watching as the Paladin leaned back against the railing, arms crossed against his chest. He wasn't looking at her though, his gaze also fixed on the ruins below.

"Used to what?"

"Sleeping on the Prydwen."

She doubted that. Grey was always weary of sleeping in proximity to others. Their smells and their noises and their heat—she hated it. She knew many found comfort in numbers, but she found it unnerving. If anything, it made her feel vulnerable.

That's because you aren't a soldier, Nate would say. She could hear him in her head, words whispered against the soft flesh of her neck as they'd lie in bed. He'd wrap his arms around her, pinning her to the sheets, pulling her close. It took everything in her not to lash out and push him away. She'd try to roll away, try to slip from his hold as they slept. For him, closeness was a comfort. For her, it was harrowing. But only because she knew what would happen when his nightmares took hold. Or was that just her excuse?

Grey ran her fingers through what remained of her hair, the last bits of moisture drying in the breeze. She threw her memories of Nate aside, instead focusing on the Paladin before her.

"What's your excuse then?"

She hadn't been the only one awake on the Prydwen at 4 AM after all.

She saw him tense. His body language told her he wouldn't answer, not truthfully at least. She opted to look away, giving him what privacy she could. No one liked having their discomfort on display.

"I've never needed much rest," he lied.

She gave a nod, unsure he could even see it.

"How'd it go with Elder Maxson earlier?" A welcome change of topic.

It was a good question though. She hadn't tried to think on it. She'd gotten too caught up in exploration, introductions, and acquiring new gear. That was her excuse anyway. How had it gone with Maxson? She didn't have a point of reference to properly assess that. How did things usually go with him? Was there always that level of intensity, that sense of quiet and passion and fervour and rage? Too much rode on the outcome. Her need for Maxson to trust her, her need for him to confide in her. Her need for him to not to launch an offensive on the Institute before she found Shaun. Before she reclaimed him.

"Maxson seems so young, compared to everyone else," she found herself saying. "You're... okay with that?"

"Don't let his age fool you," Danse said, tone terse. "Maxson's a brilliant tactician, a formidable warrior, and possesses an idealistic vision for the future of the Brotherhood. I'd follow him anywhere, without question."

Grey was slightly taken aback by that. "Why are you so confident in his abilities?"

"A decade ago, the Brotherhood had almost gone completely astray. The Elder before Maxson sent us down a path that was leading nowhere. He was more concerned about charity than preservation of technology. But when Maxson took over he single-handedly reprioritized the Brotherhood from the ground up and put us back on the path to glory. This ship and his crew are a testament to his leadership."

Grey thought back to the two wasterlanders she'd overheard in the Third Rail less than three days ago. Two conflicting views of the Brotherhood, one dated and one newer—scavengers versus an army. She struggled to see how any twenty-something-year-old could accomplish that level of growth and reform, but maybe that was pre-war bias. Wastelanders seemed to live harder and faster, much like people had in Grey's great-great grandmother's time. That, and she'd seen the command with which the Elder had spoken. If his actions held even half that conviction, perhaps it was possible.

"He's a very dedicated man," she said carefully. "It sounds like he stands behind everything he's saying."

"Of course he does. How could he afford not to?"

Fair point, Grey thought.

"I just hope you appreciate how much of a chance I'm taking, bringing you into the fold this quickly." He shifted his stance, biceps tensing. "Not to put too fine a point on it, but if you screw up, we go down together."

"So what's all this about you being my sponsor?" Grey asked.

"Elder Maxson is understandably particular when it comes to new recruits. He believes, in order to keep the Brotherhood strong, we have to bond as brothers." He lifted his gaze, the whites of his eyes shimmering in the near-dark. "As your sponsor, it's my duty to travel with you throughout the Commonwealth to ensure that our ideals are being observed. That's why I'm so concerned about your performance in the field. And why I'll be accompanying you on your next mission."

A vision of Daniels and Rhys entered her mind. Was that where their distrust of her stemmed from? The knowledge that Danse was putting his reputation on the line for a recruit like her? That he was possibly risking his own advancement and career?

Not that it would be the first time someone had misplace their trust in Grey and had gotten burnt. Grey'd probably ruined more lives than she cared to know. Some were intentional, others were just victims of circumstance. Did that bother her? No, because it didn't affect her. Moreover, what difference did it make now? They were all dead and she wasn't. She was still alive.

But the Paladin? She returned her gaze to the broken city below.

"I won't let you down, Danse. I promise."

Another lie. She was always good at those.