CHAPTER 21
The Remembered

The edges of the sky flared a brilliant orange as they traveled past Brakeheart Banks, the Mutants appearing to give them a wide berth. Perhaps they'd gotten word of the massacre at the Revere Satellite Array. Or perhaps they just weren't that hungry. Whatever the reason, Grey was contented not to waste any more time or bullets.

The pavement quickly gave way to an overgrown dirt road, its progression hugging the river's edge and weaving between jagged rocks. Deep drag marks cut into the ground, rusted chassis jutting from the dead shrubbery.

Grey stopped, eyes scanning the river's edge below, following it up to the faraway outline of Parson's Insane Asylum. She'd prosecuted a soldier who'd been committed there once. Maybe all her time in New York had skewed her view of asylums—grey concrete, white nursing uniforms, an overwhelming smell of disinfectant followed by the slightest whiff of faeces and urine. She hadn't expected the elegant refinery of Parson's, the elaborate mouldings, the stunning sunrooms, the gardens. She'd met the defendant in the art room, the afternoon sun bathing him in a lush, golden light as he painted endless blue skies. When he turned though, when he saw her, that light died and horrors eclipsed his face. Not because of her, but because of the uniform she wore.

Dogmeat gave a small whine, drawing her back.

She gave him an unseen smile and rustled her armoured fingers through his fur. He ran ahead to the Paladin once satiated, tail wagging furiously.

They didn't make it too far before Danse spotted the first of many proximity mines. He carefully deactivated the closest of them; the others they carefully maneuvered. It was hard to tell how long the mines had been there. Years, decades? Most were half buried beneath decaying overgrowth and mud, only the faint red glow giving them away. She scooped up Dogmeat and carefully traced the Paladin's steps, using his bootprints as a guide. She'd seen photos of the damage done by landmines to T-45 power armour too many times during the Sino-American war. She wasn't deluded enough to think the T-60 would fair any better. That and she preferred her limbs still attached to her torso. Preferred her dog that way, too.

After a ten minute hike, the rock face narrowed, giving way to a pale concrete structure.

"Recon Bunker Theta," Danse announced. "This is the hold out site. Stay vigilant."

The structure looked abandoned. Dead vines and shrubbery hung from old wiring and supports.

Grey surveyed the ground as they approached the access terminal, finally deciding it was safe enough to put the Shepherd down. There were no recent treads, no signs of active defences. She ran her hand across the top of the access terminal, armoured fingertips carving lines in the grime.

She gave the terminal a tap, waking it up from what she assumed had been a very lengthy slumber. The keyboard was coated with more sediment, each key press like gears grinding against sand. She input the callsign. The bunker door swung open.

Grey wasn't sure what she'd expected—darkness, damp, pre-war remains, munitions storage—but whatever it was, it wasn't what greeted her.

She raised her hands as the modified laser rifle bobbed in front of her vision.

A grey-haired man sneered beneath an unkempt beard, aggression and fear carving deep lines into an already aged face.

"One more step and I'll… I'll—I'll blow your damn heads off!"

With the way he was holding his rifle, Grey believed him.

"Paladin Brandis?"

Grey's eyes snapped to Danse, the older man's rifle now trained on them both.

"Who are you?" the man growled. "Who sent you? How'd you get in here?"

Danse carefully lowered his rifle, leaning it against the bunker wall and stepping away with his hands pointed skyward.

"It's Danse," he said gently. "Paladin Danse." He lifted his helmet from his head. "Don't you recognize me?"

"Danse?" Grey could see the flash of recognition spark across the man's face. "No," he whispered. "No, that can't be." The denial quickly set in, eyes clouding, body swaying.

She'd seen that before. That look. That stance. She'd seen it on the defendant at Parson's before he lunged at her with a sharpened paint brush.

Brandis continued to mutter to himself, tone turning desperate. "Why… why are you here?"

"I was dispatched to the Commonwealth on a recon mission, Paladin, just like yours."

"How did you find me?" Another sway, his grip tightening on his rifle. "I-I've been alone, all alone, for so long." The words fell like a growl, raising ever hair on Grey's neck.

"We followed the distress beacons left by your team," she said slowly. "Their holotapes led us here."

Recognition again flashed across Brandis's face, like he was being stirred from a dream time and time again.

"The others. What… what happened to them?"

"They're dead, Paladin. We recovered their tags."

With Grey's words, Danse pulled the holotags from his suit, holding them out to Brandis.

"You… you did?" Brandis lowered his gun, hands cupping the tags as if they were made of glass. He ran his fingers across the metal and dried blood, his lips pursing.

"Thank-you," he all but whispered. "This really means a lot to me." His grip tightened on the tags, fingers bleeding white. "I tried to go back for them you know. There was nothing I could do, not alone but—but I'd hoped…"

He shook his head, eyes now scanning the room, body language screaming with unease. "You've been through a lot to find me. I should... I should give you something." He shoved the holotags in his pocket, mind now focused on the shelves of components stacked behind him. "I've collected a lot over the years: technology, odds and ends. If you see anything you want, take it. Take it."

He'd been broken, Grey realized. Chipped at and shattered until only jagged little pieces remained. She could see it in the way he looked at them, mind unsure if they were friend or foe. Maybe even unsure if they were real or a dream. She'd heard his voice on those holotapes, the Brandis from three years ago. Commanding, strong. But now…

"Come back with us," Danse urged. "You're still a member of the Brotherhood, Paladin."

Brandis laughed in an unnatural way. "What? No, no I couldn't." He shook his head as if to reassure himself of his words. "No, not after everything that's happened."

Walsh had said that to Grey once, after the truth came to light, after she'd unearthed the extent of the corruption and the depravity. After she discovered what they'd done to Walsh, his body and mind. He'd pointed a gun at her, too, tears streaking his face, brain unable to comprehend there could be a life for him beyond that moment. A life in a place where he'd be safe. Where he could heal. A life where Nate didn't have his pistol trained on Walsh's forehead.

"The Brotherhood needs you, Paladin," Grey said against her better judgement. "It's time you reported in."

Brandis shook his head. "No, I... I-I can't. It's been too long. I-I wouldn't be of any use."

"No one knows the Commonwealth better than you," Grey coaxed. "We need your help. I need your help."

"I've been here too long, I'm… I'm not myself. Would they even still take me?"

That was the real question, wasn't it. And fuck if Grey knew. But she needed him, no matter how addled his mind was. She needed whatever knowledge was still locked away in there, whatever surveys were performed. She needed something, anything, about the Glowing Sea.

"The Brotherhood will honour the memory of your team, Paladin. But shouldn't you be the one to tell their story?"

A stillness settled over him, perhaps the first bit of calm he'd experienced in three years. His hand reached into his pocket once more, fingering the tags.

"Unless I go back, their sacrifices—everything we went through—it will be forgotten. I can't let that happen." He straightened. "I'll do it. For them."

Grey nodded. "Welcome back, Paladin."

As Brandis began to collect his things, Danse motioned for Grey to follow him outside.

She could smell the river on the wind as she stepped from the bunker. The cool December damp as twilight settled in. Grey released the seals on her suit, breathing the air in deep as she lifted her helmet from her head.

Danse gave her a subtle smile. "You handled yourself well, Knight."

"Will the Brotherhood take him back?"

"Not like that. He'll be placed under observation until he's fit for duty again. Still, his experience and knowledge of the Commonwealth make him an asset. He won't be turned away." A pause. "I'll make sure of it."

Grey found herself stepping towards Danse before her brain caught up. She wanted to reach for him, touch him. She wasn't sure why. It was a silly compulsion, but…

"You're a good man, Paladin. A good soldier."

Danse made no show of appreciation. If anything, he watched her as one would a street performer, equal amounts curiosity and distrust.

"As you were, Knight."

Grey felt as if a bucket of ice water had been thrown over her.

No more words were shared that evening. Grey deployed a signal grenade about a klick from the bunker. She opted to wait for their ride, letting Danse help Brandis pack his equipment and transport it to the rendezvous point.

As the Vertibird landed, some part of Grey hoped it would be Danvers, but it was a female face that greeted her. A crisscross of scars shot from the pilot's flight helmet and tore through her plump, pale lips. Old scars, oddly adding to the woman's beauty opposed to detracting from it. She, too, was disinterested in conversation.

Night settled in as they neared the airport. She watched Brandis's face on the approach, looking for some sign of contentment or horror, but there was nothing to see. A team of medics met them on deck, scurrying Brandis away like thieves in the night.

A weariness overcame Grey as she stepped onto the gangway. Exhaustion perhaps. Or something more. She knew she should report to Lancer-Captain Kells. It was nothing more than a formality—the Lancer had already radioed in their status as they'd loaded up the vertibird—but she got the sense Kells was big on those. She flirted with the idea of knocking on his personal quarters as she ascended the ladder to the main deck, but thought better of it.

Stepping from the confines of her armour in the workshop felt like washing a decade of grime from her skin. She stretched her arms and shoulders as she walked around, pleased that today's damage was utterly minimal in comparison to yesterday's misadventure at Fort Strong.

"What, no blood and bullet holes this time, Face?"

Grey glanced over her shoulder, watching as Danvers approached from the mess hall.

"Sorry to disappoint."

"Damn," he said with a grin. "And here I was hoping to get my arms around you once more as I brought you to sickbay."

"There's always tomorrow," she mused.

"Can I interest you in that drink now?"

"Depends on what you're drinking."

Danvers pulled a bottle of golden rye from behind his back.

Grey could practically feel her insides begin to purr.

"Anyone ever tell you you're not all that bad, Danvers?" She teased, making a playful swipe for the bottle.

"Only occasionally, Face," he said, catching her by the arm and watching as a coy grin pulled at her mouth. "Only occasionally."