CHAPTER 26
Welcome to Goodneighbour
Gunshots and jeers rang out from Haymarket Mall. A woman screamed. A man pled and sobbed. A burst of bullets and laughter silenced them both.
Grey could sense Danse's disgust as they crept through an adjacent alleyway, manoeuvring debris and crumbled pavement while avoiding the raiders' many lines of sight. If Danse had had his way, they would have staged an assault then and there and put the gang out of business. But much to Danse's displeasure, they weren't equipped for that anymore.
Their Vertibird had crossed the Main Channel in the early hours of the morning, dropping them not too far from Custom House Tower. From there, they'd approached the Financial District on foot, trading firepower and force for stealth and manoeuvrability. Where they were headed Grey knew the Brotherhood wouldn't be welcome. And even with their T-60 suits and two gatling guns, Grey doubted they'd had made it to their destination in one piece equipped like that. In raider-infested Boston, a loud gun and flashy tech just made you a bigger target. Wastelander rags at least afforded them mobility and camouflage. Grey's logic hadn't made Danse's annoyance any less palpable, however.
Dogmeat scouted ahead, wagging his tail once the coast was clear. Grey tapped Danse's arm, ushering him to break cover by the Old Corner Bookstore. He moved awkwardly as if restricted by the denim and flannel. His tattered parka was a size too small, shoulder seams straining with each breath, but the jeans were a decent enough fit. If anything, Grey thought it was a good look for him. His scowl told her he thought otherwise.
Grey scaled the abandoned long-hauler crashed alongside the bookshop, dropping over the other side and out of the raiders' view. She couldn't help but smile as the glare of the neon sign caught her eye. She marched across the last expanse of pavement and banged her fist against a rusted blue door. Only with the responding hollering of voices on the other side did the tension finally begin to shift in her body. It wouldn't release fully—it never did—but it was enough to dial her hypervigilence back to a tenth of what it had been in the preceding hours.
The blue door screeched open.
Smell of piss and vomit aside, Goodneighbor was one of the few post-war settlements that didn't make Grey's skin itch. In Grey's time, Scollay Square was Boston's most infamous pleasure district, an incoherent blend of burlesque theatres, bordellos, chem dens, and pubs. It had always been an easy target for politicians and preachers alike, but no matter the press coverage or moral crusades launched against it, Scollay Square remained. Perhaps it was luck or perhaps it was the fact that those same politicians would be hard pressed to get their dicks sucked anywhere else. Regardless, the district always survived in one form or another.
Goodneighbor reminded Grey of its predecessor, and not just because they occupied the same architectural bones. Over two hundred years had passed and yet it was the same people roaming its streets. They were strung out survivalists, sure, but they were also proud and united, even in their violence and misfortune. It was beautiful in a strange, perverse way, and of all the settlements Grey had visited since she woke, this was the only one that made her feel like she was anywhere close to home.
Danse, on the other hand, all but recoiled as they walked through Goodneighbor's gates.
He scanned the market, his frown deepening. "Safety's off. I don't like the look of this place one bit."
"Relax," Grey chided. "Most dangerous thing in this plaza is the smell." That was a lie, of course. At least a third of the bodies circling the market would shiv a man if they thought he had something of value on his corpse. But even the most cognitively impaired of the bunch wasn't daft enough to challenge someone built like Danse. Thing about junkies was that the chems kept them thin and weak, if not downright frail. And a frail man, no matter how desperate and strung out he was, still had an ounce of self-preservation kicking around his reptile brain. So approaching an armed, muscular outsider in full view of the Neighbourhood Watch? Unlikely.
"Well, well, well," crooned a merchant as Grey approached her shop. Mousey brown hair framed a thin, ghoulified face. "If it isn't the second-best bullshitter in town."
"Daisy," Grey greeted warmly. The two women clasped hands across the counter.
"So what brings you back to Goodneighbor? And don't try to flatter a girl by saying you missed this lovely face."
"I need some supplies," Grey replied before leaning in and lowering her voice. "And some information."
"Well, one of those I can help you with. The other you'll have to shop around for." She paused, looking past Grey's shoulder. "Your friend there doesn't look like he's in a shopping mood though."
Grey glanced back. Danse stood on the edge of the market, arms crossed and eyes scanning. Every bit of his body language leaked distain, and the residents were starting to notice. A drifter shuffled past, casting the Paladin wary looks, while another whispered to a nearby Triggerman, hiking his thumb at the Paladin as he spoke. It reminded Grey that Danse didn't need power armour to be intimidating. It also reminded her that it took more than clothes to craft a wanderer's disguise.
"He… isn't really the shopping type," Grey muttered before steering the conversation to more pertinent matters. Grey quickly gauged that Goodneighbor was still on high alert following the Prydwen's arrival. Brotherhood patrols hadn't made it into the Financial District yet, but drifters brought in stories by the day. Sightings mostly. Nothing substantial enough to cause significant worry or relief. One travelling merchant claimed to have had an encounter, a trio of Brotherhood soldiers reportedly saving his caravan from a Super Mutant attack. But when he attempted to thank the patrol, they marched past without uttering a word. Daisy was quick to dismiss the merchant's tale, saying no one was that selfless or arrogant, but Grey knew better and she also knew it was more the latter than the former.
Before another word could be uttered, something cold and narrow nudged Grey's side. She glanced down at the barrel of a rusted Tommy gun. Its owner smirked at her, his cheap beige suit only slightly more yellowed than his teeth.
"Boss wants a word."
Grey frowned. "And if I'm not feeling conversational?"
The Triggerman laughed. "Oh, that's rich. 'Not feeling conversational.'" He gave a snort. "I'ma use that on the missus next time she gets lippy." He jammed the barrel into Grey's ribs. "Now move."
Grey silently complied, keeping her hands in plain view as the Triggerman pushed her toward the Old State House. She imagined this was all show. She had left Goodneighbor on good terms, which was impressive noting her track record, so the hostility was more a message to the denizens than to her specifically. Danse didn't know that though, and that's what worried her.
Over her shoulder, she saw him stiffen, his eyes searching hers for clarity. But before she could utter a word, the Triggerman shoved her through the State House door.
Grey stumbled, catching herself on the bannister. The rotten wood cracked against her weight.
"Watch it," the Triggerman barked.
He slammed the outside door closed and thrust his chin and gun upward. "Start climbing, cupcake."
Grey kept her hands at eye level as she carefully scaled the winding staircase. It was easier said than done. The wood creaked with every step, some planks nothing more than splinters and rusted nails. By the time they reached the top, Grey queried how the State House's occupants hadn't all fallen to their deaths. Then again, she hadn't seen the basement. Maybe the Mayor's metaphorical bodies in the cellar weren't so figurative after all.
Fahrenheit, the Mayor's personal bodyguard, intercepted Grey at the top, giving the Triggerman a look that had him scurrying back down the stairs at a reckless pace. The redhead gave Grey a once over, her cold eyes bleeding her indifference. She didn't bother with a pat down. That would only imply she saw Grey as a threat, and Grey imagined she could shove a grenade into Hancock's mouth and Fahrenheit still wouldn't appraise her as anything more dangerous than a head cold.
"Mayor would like a word. So be respectful. And behave yourself, pawn."
Grey's lip twitched. She'd been in town all of ten minutes and had already earned herself two demeaning nicknames. Had to be another personal best.
She met Fahrenheit's gaze and gave a curt smile. "Yes, ma'am."
Fahrenheit frowned, kissing her teeth sharply. "You ever play chess, Grey?" Grey assumed this was a rhetorical question and kept her features schooled. "See, sometimes you need to sacrifice a piece to keep the game going. Keep that in mind while doing business here in Goodneighbor. Now go," Fahrenheit spat. "The Mayor's waiting."
She let Grey pass into the salon without any further quips.
The lamplight was low and the windows were filthy, blocking out the midday sun. The salon stunk of methamphetamines—the telltale notes of nitrogen and burnt plastic practically oozing from the furniture and walls. Trying to mask it was the smell of century-old coffee and stale tobacco, but nothing quite covered up the stench of Jet.
Hancock sat on one of two parallel settees, boots on the antique coffee table and cigarette cradled between two fingers. He gave a nod as Grey approached, motioning for her to sit. She sat across from him, gingerly crossing one leg over the other out of habit. Didn't have the same effect when her attire consisted of patched denim and ratty flannel. She never thought she'd be missing pencil shirts and stilettos, but there she was.
"You got some Diamond City folks all in a tizzy," Hancock said after a long draw. "So much so they even came knocking on my door, looking for signs of some silver-haired mercenary with a pretty wicked rack."
Grey smiled at that.
"Can't say I was much help to them," he continued, "so they took their search elsewhere. But, seeing as you're still topside and looking fine, why not do dear old Mayor Hancock a solid and tell your little reporter girlfriend that you're all right." He flashed her a coy look before taking another draw.
Grey leaned back, propping her elbow on the backrest. "Sounds like I did you a favour, increasing your tourism rates and all that."
The Mayor chuckled, pressing the spent butt into an overflowing ashtray. "Well I hope you don't work on commission." He gave her another coy grin. "Don't think I could afford your rates."
"You never know," Grey simpered. "I'm known to negotiate."
Hancock leaned back. "Oh? And what are we negotiating here, exactly?"
"I need something. Information on the whereabouts of a… former resident, let's say."
"Depending on the resident, that information could be pricy. And as you're asking me and not a local fixer, I'm imagining this 'former resident' may not be the type who wants to be found. So what do I get in return for this assist?"
Grey brushed her fingertips along the settee's torn velvet backing. "How would you feel about becoming the sole provisioner of merriment for the Commonwealth's newest players? You know, the ones with an affinity for power armour and steel."
Hancock whistled. "So that's where you've been. Infiltrating the infiltrators then?"
Grey shrugged. "Something like that."
"And what makes you think Goodneighbor wants to get into bed with that lot?"
Grey smirked. "This isn't an offer for Goodneighbor. This is an offer for you. Because lets be honest, neither of us wants this business going to those upper-stand asshats at the Colonial Taphouse or whatever raider scum has moved into Beantown Brewery."
"And what's the take?"
"That's the best part. I'm not going to negotiate price with you. Charge them what you want. As long at it isn't over seventy percent markup, I don't think you'll have a problem."
Hancock laughed, flashing a strangely white smile. "Well I'll be damned, little sister's got herself a deal. Now you go see Whitechapel Charlie, say I sent you, and give him the details—order numbers, drop-off points, contacts, whatever—and I'll get started on your little problem."
Grey outstretched her hand, passing him a piece of crumbled paper with the name she'd gotten from Brandis.
"How long should I wait around?"
Hancock eyed the name and stuffed the scrap into his pocket. "Should have something for you by end of play today. Meet me at the Third Rail tonight. We'll toast to our little business venture. And bring your boyfriend."
Grey's brow knit. "My boyfriend?"
"Yeah," he said, not missing a beat. "The one I have my men watching. Let's say he's been making the locals a little nervous. And that's doesn't sit well with me. So you put him back on his leash and you bring him to the Third Rail tonight. I'm sure Mags would love to get her claws into that one. I hear she has a thing for men in uniform."
Grey bit her tongue, the pain forcing her features back to neutral. "I'll see what I can do."
Hancock smiled. "Until then, Miss Grey."