CHAPTER 16
Foolhardy

Morning hit her like a freight train. The sudden burst of artificial light, dozens of bodies leaping from groaning cots, sheets being stripped, boots being slapped on and tied. A Knight-Captain paced along the bunks, snapping soldiers to attention and barking commands.

Grey hated being rushed. Hated being ordered around even more. The concussion likely wasn't helping her mood or improving her already dismal levels of patience.

She begrudgingly crawled from beneath the covers and slid her bare feet into her boots. Her balance still wasn't stellar and her hearing was still shot, but that made it all the easier to ignore the Knight-Captain buzzing around her head.

She let herself be mindlessly herded from the bunks to the mess to the showers. It was easy enough to turn her brain off—not that it was very active at the crack of dawn—and follow the others. Only as a blast of cold water struck her back did it occur to her that she was standing naked in a room with roughly three dozen young women and men. It wasn't that Grey disliked nudity or had any concept of modesty—she didn't—but it was a strange sight to sober to.

She ran a bar of soap along her arms as she surveyed the room. There were few, if any, wayward looks or lustful stares. No groping hands, no demeaning wolf whistles. It was all business. Bodies stripping and dressing, faces at an impasse, the only smiles coming from lighthearted teasing and jokes. Someone snapped a towel against another's thigh and howling laughter filled the room. It was… foreign.

Sex and temptation had always been forms of currency for Grey. Where there was desire and forbidden fruit, there was opportunity. And with the continued objectification of women in 2077, sex and seduction were two of the few tools women like Grey had to manipulate an already unbalanced playing field. Sure, Grey could be accused of being a bad feminist, and maybe she was, but sometimes the only way to get ahead in an unjust society was to use what little power one had to the fullest. And one thing about people with power and position was that they felt so entitled to anything and everything that they rarely noticed when their entitlement was used against them. Grey had always banked on that, and with few exceptions she had always banked well.

There was no currency in flesh with this Brotherhood though, at least not that she'd seen. There was too much respect, too much kinship, and too little inequality.

Not the old boys club the military used to be, she caught herself thinking as the last of the water drained from the tank. It really was a strange new world.

Grey rustled a hand through her drying hair as she strode from the head towards the maintenance bay. The fabric of her new flight suit stuck to her damp skin, pulling against her upper thighs with each step. Another 50 caps gone. At this rate, she'd be owing Teagan money. Two suits in twenty-four hours did not bode well for her already dismal cap stash. Maybe she could work out an equipment loan scheme with him, or maybe there was a—

She halted as she reached Bay 3, brow furrowing.

Well that wasn't right.

A Scribe walked past, clearly seeing her confused expression. "Something the matter, Knight?"

"Where's my power armour?"

He turned, looking at the suit propped in Bay 3. "Right there?"

"Yeah, except last I checked my armour had about 200 shotgun pellets embedded in its chestplate. And this one? This one—well, it has a chestplate." Christ, she was eloquent in the morning.

The Scribe reached behind him and grabbed a clipboard from the parts shelf. "According to the log, your armour was repaired at 23:30 last night."

"On whose authority?" Which was her not-so-subtle way of asking on whose dime. Luckily her morning brain was smart enough not to let her mouth be that blatant, but just barely.

The Scribe's eyes scrolled the log again, the slightest furrow forming before he shoved the clipboard under his arm. "One higher than yours. Now if that's everything, Knight?" He didn't wait for a response before walking away.

Grey stepped into the bay and ran her hand along the repaired chestplate. The insignia was freshly painted and still tacky under her fingertips.

Her armour was repaired on Danse's authority, she realized. No one else would have bothered to examine her equipment or knew she was shipping out this morning. If Grey hadn't been all spitfire and spite yesterday, she would have had enough sense to seek repairs herself. But well… She could blame the concussion, but that was a convenient lie. She'd let her mind work overtime, finding challenge and treachery where it didn't exist. She'd also made herself look a fool in front of her commanding officer, which hurt her pride more than anything. Grey didn't like being wrong. It always left an uncomfortable sting.

As she circled her armour, she couldn't help but wonder if the Paladin was looking out for her specifically. She wanted to think he did this for all the soldiers in his squad, but the more likely outcome was that he knew she was somehow unprepared. She wasn't a soldier, didn't have the discipline or the forethought or the training, but she was supposed to act like she did. Be the asset to the Brotherhood the Paladin argued she'd be. Except he knew she was a fake, and now he was treating her exactly like the fake she was. She shouldn't have been surprised really, no matter how badly it bruised her ego.

Her suit hissed as it released. Grey gingerly slid her legs into the frame, still unsure of her balance. The metal was cold to the touch. She clenched her eyes closed as she waited for the suit to steal, the irrational part of her brain always fearing the frame would nip her skin or pull her hair. Or something worse.

She opened her eyes to the momentary darkness before her overhead display flared to life. The screen flickered as her Pip-Boy synced with the onboard computer. She felt a slight sting in her left arm and suddenly her biometrics appeared along the display, heartbeat slightly elevated but strong. The sting reminded her of yesterday when she'd spotted the Super Mutant with the missile launcher. A lesser sensation but same place. She needed to ask one of the Scribes about her Pip-Boy next time she had a free moment, figure out what the hell those calculations were and what was actually causing the needleprick-like pain. Sure, she probably should have queried half this shit before she clasped the damned thing on her arm two months back, but circumstances hadn't exactly had her looking for an instruction manual, just a way out of that frozen, underground nightmare.

She headed for the flight deck.

After nearly twenty-four hours onboard the Prydwen, natural light burned. Even filtered through the display, her eyes brimmed with tears. The smell of Boston's harbour mixed with rotting coolant was an equal assault on the senses.

The bunker door slammed shut behind her and she crossed the flight deck to the one prepped Vertibird. Her heart rate continued to rise as she approached, the hum of the fusion drive only seeming to add to her anxiety. She needed to be stronger than that. It was pathetic, no matter her damage.

She begrudgingly hauled herself abroad, only to have Dogmeat leap at her and nearly topple her back out and off the gangway. She grabbed the netting as the world swam around her, suit taking control and stabilizing her stance.

She shot the dog a look which she knew he couldn't see due to her helmet, but he nevertheless began to sulk, ears flattened to his head and posture sheepish. The dog was too goddamn smart for his own good. And manipulative, too.

"Aww, poor Dogmeat," a familiar voice cooed. "Did the big mean Vault dweller hurt your feelings?"

The Shepherd whined in response.

Grey rolled her eyes. "Stop putting ideas in my dog's head, Danvers."

"And a good morning to you, too, Face."

The Lancer poked his grinning mug around the cockpit, wisps of blond hair escaping his flight helmet.

"So," she said, straightening her shoulders, "are you the only Lancer aboard this airship or are you the only one unlucky enough to keep pulling the short straw to cart my ass around?"

"Well, if you're looking for someone to do a little more than just cart that ass of yours I'd be happy to—"

A throat was hastily cleared.

Danvers shifted, quickly clocking its origin. His cheeks burned red as he fumbled a salute. "G-good morning, sir!"

"Smooth," Grey whispered over the onboard radio.

Danvers' wide eyes shot to her, begging her to shut up.

"Lancer," a rough voice greeted from the gangway. The armour-clad frame then turned toward Grey. "Knight."

She gave a nod. "Morning, Paladin."

Danse pulled himself aboard in a single, swift motion, taking position by the minigun. He seamlessly swivelled the barrel and feed in a fresh belt with the efficiency and skill of a man who had done this too many times before.

Danvers sat immobilized. The silence was so palpable Grey was convinced a single utterance would have the Lancer shitting a brick. She grinned like a fool beneath her helmet.

Grey didn't mind silence, even an awkward one, but as it ticked along even she was beginning to pity Danvers. For all his backtalk to Cade, the Paladin seemed to be evoking a very different response in him. Peculiar that.

Danse slammed the gun's firing pin back into place and engaged the clutch.

"To answer your question, Knight, Lancer Danvers has, for the interim, been assigned to support any initiatives under my direct command. Whether this constitutes 'drawing the short straw', I cannot say." If it hadn't been for Danse's deadpan delivery, Grey would have thought he was joking.

She burst into laughter, disrupting both men's unease.

"So Danvers," she teased, "care to provide clarification on that assessment?"

Danvers cast her another uneasy look before pulling it into check and replacing it with a grin. He knew she'd offered him a lifeline and he was damn well going to take it.

"Well, Knight, you can't place too much importance on Prydwen shuttlebutt. Last guy who did believed the iguana bits were actually made of iguana."

Grey paused. "Wait, what are iguana bits actually made of?"

Another silence passed between the men.

"You, uh, haven't eaten any lately, have you, Knight?"

"You haven't answered my question, Danvers," Grey pressed.

A low chuckle sounded over the radio as the Paladin anchored himself behind the minigun. "If you want to keep your breakfast down, Knight, you're better off not knowing."

"Yes, sir," she replied, knowing when to leave well enough alone. Whatever the answer, she was suddenly feeling fortunate that her only foray into Wasteland cuisine was Takahashi's noodles.

The conversation came easier after that, the Lancer providing brief updates on the state of the Capital Wasteland during Danse's deployment. It was a welcome distraction as they detached from the Prydwen and experienced the momentary dive towards the airport terminal below. Grey decided she would never get used to that.

Much of the Lancer's talk meant little to her. Something about Jefferson Memorial patrols and ongoing tensions with Underworld, whatever or whoever that was. Someone named Cross was still missing, although the men seemed quite intent on using every word but missing to describe him or her. Sightings of someone called the Lone Wandered also appeared to have dried up. Grey could only think of the chorus to Dion's "The Wanderer" but that association was quickly squashed when a few female pronouns were thrown around. Then again, maybe she, too, was into "squeezing" the girls as Dion infamously crooned. Clearly no one knew her name with a nickname like that, so top marks there.

Grey wistfully looked out the Vertibird as they traveled over Revere Beach. The edges were littered with dilapidated boats and cracked tires, but the sand was still a stunning ivory-beige. She and Nate had gone there once in the winter. It was after she'd found out she was pregnant. After they decided what to do. They stood in silence along the shore, February frost and pools of snow piled along the boardwalks. Night had settled in, the cold blowing in off the ocean and hitting her face like blades of ice.

She'd wanted nothing more than to throw herself into that black water. Which was a stupid compulsion. She hadn't been suicidal. Just disenfranchised. Just lost. Grappling with her wants and her plans and her principles and her reality. Nate had grabbed her hand then, the warm of his skin pushing through her leather glove. He told her it would be okay, that they'd be okay. And in that moment, she'd let herself believe it.

Now look where they were.

"Where do you want me to drop you off, Paladin?"

Danvers' voice freed Grey from the past and she disorientedly looked below, seeing the edges of Breakheart in the distance. How long had they been travelling? She scanned the area, all seeming quiet. A rarity for Breakheart Banks.

"Knight?" the Paladin prodded.

Right. She was supposed to be the Commonwealth expert. She could laugh at how laudable that was some other time.

"Watch out for the farming settlement near the river. It's overrun with Super Mutants packing some serious firepower." She continued to survey the area. "There's another settlement with greenhouses to the South. Should be safe enough to land there."

"Roger," Danvers acknowledged. "Settlement spotted. Should be on the ground in three minutes. Prepare for landing."

Landing she could prepare for. But everything else? Fuck if she knew. Three years was a long time for evidence to remain intact and undiscovered by wildlife or assailants or scavvers. She wanted to share the Paladin's optimism, believe there was some trace of Artemis out there, but the pessimist in her knew different.

If she really was that pessimistic, would she be out there though, combat rifle in hand, pulse raging in her ears?

What was it Nate said to her while they investigated the Walsh case? "No risk is too great when there are lives on the line."

She'd thought it reckless drivel then. But now? Now there was a life on the line, and for once it wasn't Grey's.

As she jumped from the Vertibird, ground quivering beneath her, she realized that maybe she wasn't half as pessimistic as she thought.