A/N: Hello and welcome back to the province where strange, and maybe a bit insane, stories pop out of the disturbed imaginations of writers here! First of all, I'd like to say thank you. We passed 100 favorites last week and I can't tell you all how much I appreciate the support you've given a story that, frankly, exists in a crossover fandom that doesn't have a very large following. It's been amazing so far and I have no intention of stopping any time soon. To those of you who leave reviews on a regular basis to show your support for the story and characters here, I may not always reply, but I read and am grateful for every one of them. Now that we got the sappy shit out of the way, the chapter. Like I said, this one is on the short side, but I wanted to close out the events of the last two chapters and transition into the next. I thought about making it one long chapter (it would have been about 20k words), but decided to go with this. I enjoy posting twice a month so I plan on continuing to do so for the foreseeable future. Anyways, enjoy a bit more action and as always, let me know what you think!

Chapter 14: Trust is a Funny Thing

Sleep. Funny.

I sat, back against the wall opposite the service staircase, remains of my sniper rifle on the floor in front of me. The barrel, somehow, didn't bend when I landed on it. The bolt still slid smoothly and locked into battery, and the trigger group, hammer, and firing pin all seemed to be on speaking terms. I wouldn't know for sure until I had a chance to fire it, but it looked functional, I would just need a new stock.

The weapon would probably be fine, but that wasn't my concern.

We shouldn't be in this position. Period.

I made a mistake at every step of the way. I shouldn't have accepted the job, consequences from Kleo be damned. I should have turned around the moment I got uncomfortable with that route. I shouldn't have ever rejoined it on the way back. I should have known the Assaultron wouldn't be in her storefront.

It was an odd feeling. I looked over at the ex-soldier, similarly propped against an adjacent wall, sleeping. The ODST's- I hadn't felt guilty about the ones that died. We were there to do a job, sometimes people die. Working with Fourier's squad, we ran a dozen operations without losing anyone. Hell, we didn't have any major injuries. Now though, Nate relied on me. He relied on me in a way no one had when I was operating alone, in a way Fourier's squad never did, even once I was on point.

And I fucked up.

Outside of his blood encrusted jacket and pants, there was no evidence of the gunshot, but knowing my mistakes had almost gotten someone else killed… It was different. I was upset my mistakes put me in the middle of three different ambushes. That wasn't something that had happened in a while, but it wasn't new either. This time I dragged someone with me. Something about it put a deep pit in my stomach.

The feeling was… incredibly uncomfortable. It wasn't something I wanted again.

As with every botched mission, I sat for hours, playing the events back in my head, redoing it to see how it could have been done differently. The problem here is there wasn't anything to do differently besides not doing it. My mistake wasn't a tactical one, it was the choice to be involved in the first place.

That was new too.

By the time the sky began to glow the dull grey of pre-dawn, I had managed to push the accompanying emotions away. There was only one thing I needed to worry about in this situation: killing Kleo before she had a chance to try to kill us again. That presented its own issues, but I would have to table it for now. The Brotherhood will be calling, and that was an entirely different disaster in waiting.

Eventually my body couldn't sit still any longer. I slung what was left of my only remaining rifle and stood. The ex-soldier had barely moved since he fell asleep. If it wasn't for the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, I might have thought he was dead.

I paced to the bank of windows overlooking the building's entrance. The last week had been a cascade of old memories and new emotions, but at the end of everything, I still had my duty. I still have to do everything I can to get back to the UNSC.

But the question wasn't only 'how' anymore. It was 'why'. That wasn't something I'd ever asked before. I chose to join the SPARTAN III program, and where I am now- it was just the logical continuation of that decision. Well… minus the alternate reality part of the equation. A few days ago, my answer was 'because I wanted revenge'. That's probably still true, but that begs the question: why have I spent most of my time fighting Insurrectionists instead of the Covenant?

Functionally, that was an easy answer: because ONI pointed me at them. As far as my own justification goes… I was ordered to.

Then is revenge really my reason for doing what I do? Do I have one?

I don't know.

Irritation flushed my mind once again. This is why I don't like having time to think. It never leads anywhere good. My job right now is to get back to the UNSC. Everything else was just noise.

A quiet crunch came from the staircase a few floors below.

That had my undivided attention. Not only to get my mind off of the never ending loop of questions I was asking myself, but because it was too distinct to be anything other than a footstep.

How had someone managed to get in the building without making any sound?

I may have been lost in my own head, but I was still attentive for any potential intruders.

Nothing else followed. Whoever was climbing the staircase was doing so as quietly as possible. They were hunting us.

I slipped over to the ex-soldier and knelt to tap him on the shoulder.

The smaller man woke with a start, eyes wide, and opened his mouth to say something. I clamped a gauntleted hand over it and held my other index finger over where my mouth would be.

It took a moment for his breathing to return to normal, but eventually he nodded and I lowered my hand. I motioned my head toward the service staircase door. He looked at the exit and back to me before offering his rifle. I shook my head. I want a little up close and personal time with whoever managed to follow me.

Who knows, maybe it will make me feel better.

As much as I wanted to be even more annoyed as I crept back to the door, it wasn't a surprise someone managed to track us. It would have been almost impossible for someone to follow me from Goodneighbor without me noticing. Constant paranoia of being followed during my solo operations led to habits to ensure it wouldn't happen. Taking paths too difficult for the average person, keeping a pace quick enough to leave anyone else behind, and constant random detours and backtracks to catch any lucky (or unlucky) pursuers. But with enough people, and enough time, any reasonably well organized force would be able to identify a hiding spot. It's why I don't usually use the same place more than once.

I reached the emergency exit and crouched off to the side to wait.

What these people didn't know, is they were hand delivering an opportunity. It didn't take a genius to figure out they were probably Kleo's people (I doubt Hancock was stupid enough to send people after me; if he wanted a fight, he would have taken it while he had me surrounded).

Despite their best efforts, the attackers became more audible the closer they got to our floor. Sometimes, there were things even the most experienced combatants couldn't overcome.

It was impossible to tell how many distinct footsteps there were, but I could guess at least 5 or 6 people were climbing the stairs.

My body tensed as I listened to them gathering outside of the door. Whoever they were, they were using fairly common timing, attacking just before dawn, and tactics. But they were common for a reason: they were effective. The problem for them was it meant there were plenty of tactics developed as countermeasures.

I slipped my knife from its sheath as they all stilled on the opposite side of the door.

3… 2… 1…

An explosive bang sounded as the latch was blown out of the door, probably by a shotgun. One of the men kicked the ruined door open. I was behind it now as the first attacker burst through and began clearing the far side of the floor. I waited a beat as the second man into the room turned around the door. He was the first to go.

My target was dead before he had a chance to register it. I uncoiled my legs, launching myself into the attacker. In the next instant, my knife was buried in the underside of his chin, through his neck and severed the man's brainstem.

The momentum carried me through the door, slamming it closed on a third man, and into the back of the first. The body, the surviving man, and I tumbled to the ground. I landed on him with a wet crunch and he screamed as 450 kilograms crushed his left arm and ribcage.

Scrambling came from the doorway as I rolled to my feet. I jumped away from the opening as a barrage of automatic gunfire tore through the door and into the two dead men on the floor where I had been an instant prior.

And now they were panicking, it was my turn.

Just as the gunfire stopped, I stepped forward and straight kicked the door. Since it opened inward, it squealed against its steel frame as it deformed into an odd, almost conical shape. The hinges reached their breaking point and the bullet riddled door exploded into the staircase, crashing into whoever was on the other side. I tore through the now vacant frame after it.

There were two men to my right on the flight of stairs leading down to the next floor, covering the door in case something like this happened. Three others had been caught by the door and were laying sprawled across the landing. These people were certainly prepared. But they were also too close. The two men covering for a counter should have been down on the landing below. They were near enough that, before either could fire, I was able to drive my knife through the side of one man's head. The already dead body slammed into the wall as other hurried to adjust his aim.

The second man screamed as I dropped into a low crouch, under his burst of gunfire, and swept my left leg through his hard enough to buckle one of his knees. He held onto the trigger as he collapsed and emptied the magazine into the ceiling, raining concrete on himself.

As he hit the ground, I twisted away from a burst of gunfire that skimmed off my shields and into the wall behind me. The offending attacker was laying on the ground, firing his rifle almost straight up. I stomped on his left forearm and the limb turned into a bloody paste. He didn't have a chance to scream before he went into shock.

The remaining two were still groggily struggling to extricate themselves from the door turned impromptu projectile.

I pulled the handgun from my hip and leveled it at one of them, a sturdy looking woman.

"Stop", I barked.

They struggled for a moment longer before doing their best to hold their hands up from under the heavy steel door.

I had four survivors.

That would work. I glanced at the man on the floor who's arm I'd crushed. He was unconscious from the pain.

Three useful ones.

I turned my gaze back to the relatively unharmed two.

"I'm going to move the door. You're going to put your weapons down and stay there until I say otherwise. Understood?"

They both nodded after a moment's hesitation.

"Clear", I called back through the door.

Nate's footsteps preceded a quick stumble and a loud 'what the fuck'.

He reached the door a moment later. My aim stayed fixed on the two pinned attackers as I moved to the side to give the ex-soldier a clear sightline. It was difficult to tell if there would be others. These people used decent tactics, so there may have been a support squad somewhere in the staircase. Best to do this quickly.

"Keep them there."

"... Sure."

I stepped over the assailant with my knife in his head and pulled the rifle away from the wide eyed crippled man who was still trying to shoot at me with the empty weapon. I grabbed him by the front of his green combat armor and pulled him up the stairs. On the way, I ripped my knife from the dead man's temple and dragged my captive through the door.

Once I leaned him up against the adjacent wall, I began stripping his sidearm and a knife. He stared at me with a combination of anger and fear with a healthy dose of agony the whole while.

After dragging the unconscious man, minus his left forearm and hand, and trailing blood, next to the other, I returned to pull the door off of the remaining two attackers.

Nate remained silent throughout the process, eyes carefully fixed on the duo. It was a little too deliberate.

A minute later, they too were seated against the wall with their wounded squadmates. The woman's eyes were glued to my visor. They burned with hatred. The other one, a tall and slender man who had gone pale, was fixated on my first two victims, the first with the massive gash through his throat, and the other who's armor and torso were crushed when I landed on him.

The ex-soldier was standing guard at the door in case there was support coming. It was unlikely at this point, but I wasn't going to get caught off guard again.

I was standing over the man who's right leg was twisted at an extremely unnatural angle. His face had gone starch white to match the star painted in the center of his olive drab hard combat armor.

"Who are you?"

The crippled man glanced from the woman to his right and back. "Wha- what?"

I pulled my knife back out.

"You get one more chance. Name, affiliation."

The attacker looked back at the woman who was probably their team lead. "I'm- I don't-"

He pushed his back into the wall as I crouched in front of him.

"Please…" he whimpered.

The man shrieked as I drove my knife into his destroyed leg, just above the knee. I was careful to miss his femoral artery, no point in having him bleed out yet, and pulled the blade back out.

As he was crying in pain, I stood and moved to the woman who was still trying to kill me with her stare.

"Name and affiliation."

She remained silent, glaring daggers at me.

I knelt again.

"Name and affiliation."

The team leader spat into my visor. As I reached up to wipe the saliva away, she pulled a knife from beneath her armor and swung for my neck. I swatted the attack away and responded by burying mine in her stomach, just below her hard plate. The woman groaned, but still tried to kick me away.

I obliged.

As I stood, I pulled my knife from the team lead's abdomen and blood began spurting from the inch wide gash. She swore and grasped for the wound.

Standing in front of the final conscious man, I spun my knife in front of him, some of his squadmates' blood dripping onto his face and chest.

"Name and affiliation."

"Don't you say a fuckin thing", the woman moaned, still trying to stop the blood pouring out of her stomach.

"She just took your first chance."

"I can't-"

"I know this story."

"No", the man pleaded, "please. Look, we were hired. We don't know who you are. We were just paid and told where you were hiding."

I cocked my head. Kleo is afraid to use her men to do this. Robots get scared huh?

"Who do you work for?"

The bleeding woman hit him. "If you say anything else…"

My current mark looked from her to me and back.

"Why not? This isn't what we signed up for. And it isn't like who we are is a secret."

"Yeah well, he clearly doesn't know." The woman motioned at me, weakly.

Sometimes interrogations are knowing when to let people talk. They'd already given me useful information: the squad was from a well known mercenary group hired by Kleo to ambush us. Again.

"Gunners."

Both stopped arguing and looked at me.

A mix of thoughts ran through my head as they did. On one hand, I didn't have anything against the group in particular. On the other, these are the people who attacked Preston's group and drove them out of- what was the town? Quincy? I didn't like mercenaries to begin with, the idea that someone fought a war to get rich. Take any job from anyone willing to pay enough. I might be a paragon of morality, but it didn't sit right with me.

The only uninjured mercenary slowly nodded. "Yes…"

"Kleo, the Assaultron who ran Guns Guns Guns in Goodneighbor hired you to kill him and I." I motioned at Nate, still standing guard.

"Yes."

"Do you know where she is?"

"No, we're just given marching orders. That's all."

I nodded. Compartmentalization. If they couldn't get that right, they wouldn't have been around long enough to gain a reputation. They'd given me all I needed anyways. I know where to find one of their bases. It might have people who can give me more information than these four.

As I was about to finish up, I heard Nate approach from behind.

"Before you kill them", the ex-soldier spat as he drew even with me, "can I suggest something?"

This again? "What?" My tone was more clipped than it needed to be, but I wasn't in the mood to listen to him beg for the lives of people who tried to kill us a few minutes ago.

"Use them as a peace offering."

"A peace offering." Why would I offer them anything after they attacked me?

"Yes. It's better than having yet another group pissed off at us, especially right now." The smaller man's voice was equally sharp. It wasn't the same anger as before, but he still didn't back down. He glanced at the crippled man, holding the wound above his destroyed knee, still moaning, and the unconscious mercenary on the floor in front of him, missing his lower left arm. "And you may be able to get more information from them a little less… painfully."

"Clint ain't telling you guys shit." The wounded team lead still had blood seeping through her fingers and soaking her pants as she looked up at me, trying to glare daggers through my faceplate.

"Well", Nate said matter of factly, "the other option is he does the same thing to whoever Clint is."

"Quincy?" She let out a weak laugh, face already beginning to pale. "You'd get butchered."

"No. But that doesn't have to happen. If we can get the information we need about Kleo, we wouldn't have any reason to come after you."

I haven't committed to that.

"And think about it. She just paid you to come after this guy", Nate motioned at me, "without telling you he'd just fought his way through Goodneighbor to her storefront, and killed the men she had there to ambush him."

"I don't-"

"Kleo fucked you over." The smaller man's voice was quiet, but firm. "She knew you wouldn't kill him, she was just using you to send us a message."

The uninjured man raised his eyebrows. "And you know this how?"

"She tried to kill us twice yesterday, and lost people both times. That's why she hired you instead."

The two still cognizant mercenaries looked the ex-soldier over, clearly taking in his torn and blood soaked shirt and pants. Nate was using essentially the same strategy I had back in Goodneighbor, just on a more… personal level. I didn't see any reason to keep these mercenaries in particular alive, but it was an interesting prospect.

That didn't mean I liked it. These people are the definition of a wild card: they didn't care who they fought for, just as long as they got paid.

And I might be able to use that. They probably wouldn't be a threat to the Brotherhood, but as a diversion…

I need to focus on one problem at a time.

"So… you wa- want", the team lead stammered before falling silent. By this point she was sweating enough to drip from her chin and turn her hair into a matted mess. Blood pooled on the ground beneath her, spreading across the broken, rubble covered floor. The uninjured man turned to her just as she began wavering. A moment later, the woman collapsed into his lap.

Nate slipped his satchel off and yanked it open. "Son of a bitch." He pulled a Stimpak from the bag, but I stepped in front of him.

"She's dying", the ex-soldier shouted.

"She's lost too much blood."

"You don't know-"

"I hit her liver and pancreas. She's going to die." My temper began to rise once again. Don't put yourself in danger for no goddamn reason.

"Samantha", the other mercenary called, cradling the now unconscious woman's head, "c'mon girl." His voice was on the verge of breaking. "Albert's gonna be pissed if I don't bring you home." He looked up at me, pleadingly. "You gotta do something for her. Please."

"Move!" The ex-soldier tried to edge around me, but I grabbed him by the shoulder and shove him back. It was harder than necessary, hard enough to make the smaller man stumble and almost topple to the ground, but I wasn't going to do this again.

"She is going to die."

The ex-soldier regained his balance and tensed. I knew this would happen: the moment things get messy again, he turns back to pleading for the enemy's lives.

"And you're okay with letting that happen", he shouted. "You're the one who stabbed her. A disarmed prisoner."

I blinked. Yes she's a disarmed prisoner, now. A few minutes ago she would have put a bullet in you without a second thought. At this point it was less about him trying to save the team lead, her breath was already rattling, but his care for someone who wouldn't have offered him the same.

"She was going to kill you."

"So what? She wasn't a threat anymore."

"Sam!" The uninjured man was gently shaking her. "You have to help her!"

"I'm going to give her a Stimpak", Nate said, his voice the same cold, detached drone as when we'd first arrived at Diamond City.

Part of me… a very quiet one, told me to let it go. He wanted to help, even if it was pointless. The mixture of anger and determination wasn't a surprise; it was his worry that caught me off guard.

Whatever.

I stepped out of the way and pulled my sidearm from its mag clamps.

"Go."

The ex-soldier glanced at the handgun. He knew I wasn't going to shoot him, but he still hesitated.

And that did hurt.

"Go", I repeated, louder.

Nate paused a heartbeat longer before hurrying past me to kneel next to the dying woman and her pool of blood.

I watched him administer the mystery drug, handgun ready to shoot the other mercenary if he did anything stupid.

"She was going to kill you."

"So what? She wasn't a threat anymore."

How does that justify trying to save her now? Just because she couldn't kill him anymore, doesn't mean she wouldn't have. And does that excuse her original intent?

More thoughts raced through my mind as I watched their fruitless attempt to save the team lead. The bleeding slowed to a stop, but It didn't take more than a few minutes for her breathing to follow suit. The other man kept stroking her hair, crying, calling her name while Nate hung his head, trembling. Even the mercenary who was preoccupied with his own destroyed leg stared at the now dead woman, mouth agape.

After a minute or so of collective grieving, Nate stood. I couldn't see his face, but the ex-soldier was stiff and motionless.

"Do you have a radio", he asked, voice barely a whisper.

The mercenary looked up from the dead woman, eyes brimming with tears. "What?"

"We'll let you go back, just don't come after us. Please." The ex-soldier sounded like he was pleading.

"Yeah… I have one. It's back in the staircase."

Let them go back? As I was about to respond, Nate turned to me. His expression wasn't the fury I expected. It was deep, painful sorrow.

"What will killing them do at this point? If we can keep the Gunners from coming after us again, it's worth it."

Something odd mixed with the irritation pooling at the back of my head. It was something like unease… but not quite. I glanced from my companion to the weeping man sitting on the floor, head of his squadmate cradled in his lap.

What was I supposed to do here? Killing other humans, with a few exceptions, had never been anything more than a job. If I was ordered to, that's what I did. He did the same thing when he served. So what makes these people any different? Why should I make an exception for them?

What Nate is saying makes sense: give the Gunners these people back alive in exchange for a cease fire. One less problem to worry about for now.

"Fine."

The ex-soldier dipped his head in thanks before walking past me toward the staircase to retrieve the squad's radio.

Why was he upset?

The smaller man walked beside me through Diamond City's rear gate (apparently they hadn't gotten word of what I'd done the night before), silently. He hadn't said a word since he negotiated his agreement with an extremely angry sounding man on the other end. But this time was different; on the way back from the Vault after rescuing Valentine, Nate had radiated fear and anger. This time it was sadness. I felt him glance at me every so often, but the ex-soldier carefully avoided my gaze.

What is he thinking? Why isn't he angry this time?

With nowhere else to go, we made our way back to Valentine's office. I scavenged another rifle from one of the first two men I'd killed. This one was chambered in 7.62x51mm. It had a 508mm barrel, polymer furniture, an aggressive muzzle brake, and a 20 round magazine, which was a tradeoff, but worth it for the extra energy and armor penetration. It was loaded with regular full metal jacket, and the mercenary had five spare magazines on him. They weren't armor piercing, but they were still a substantial upgrade over 5.56.

By the time we returned to the small shack tucked away in one of Diamond City's many side alleys, it was just past 1100.

The Brotherhood would be here any time.

Nate stopped just as we reached the front of the door, staring at the ground between his feet. "Look Damon… I just-" He paused and looked up at me. "Thank you for letting them go."

I didn't know how to respond. Logically, the choice made sense, but it wasn't one I would normally make.

The ex-soldier didn't wait for a reply though. He walked past me and pounded on my left pauldron with the side of a closed fist. "I get it. I really do."

What does he mean "I get it"? I squinted at the smaller man as I followed him inside. I wanted to ask, but at the same time I wanted to figure it out on my own. Did it have something to do with knowing at least some of my past?

We sat in silence, me against the wall, him behind Perkins' desk, for the better part of half an hour. I disassembled and reassembled my new rifle a few times to make sure I knew it well enough to do by memory, and that everything was in working order. The ex-soldier… he leaned back in the chair with his eyes closed, but his breathing never settled into the deep, rhythmic pattern of sleep.

What did he mean? What does he get? It probably has something to do with why he's upset instead of angry this time. Besides knowing about the attack, about the war, what's different? Or is that all? Is that why his attitude has changed so much?

Inevitably, my thoughts drifted back to Kleo. I doubt she would try anything any time soon. The Assaultron was intelligent, she knew we would be on guard and, after learning of the Gunners' failure, she would be hesitant to commit any more resources to hunting us.

Oddly enough, our (soon to be) arrangement with the Brotherhood would probably provide a bit more breathing room. If she knew attacking us meant the Brotherhood would be on her ass, the robot would be a lot less likely to come after us again. Unfortunately that also meant she would go to ground and, without the necessary resources, finding her would be damn near impossible. The thought of interrogating the Gunners crossed my mind, but if I were in Kleo's position, I wouldn't risk making physical contact with them, so they won't know where she might be.

Whatever came next, I wouldn't make the same mistakes. Next time I went after her, I'd kill that goddamn robot.

I ran through a dozen scenarios, trying to figure out some way to track Kleo down with extremely limited resources and information. Best bet would be to find someone in Goodneighbor either on her payroll or who knows someone who is. Problem with that is I'm not allowed there anymore.

And then the pounding of Vertibird props came flooding through the thin wooden walls of the detective's office.

Here we go.

I stood and, a few seconds later as the concussion grew loud enough for Nate to notice, the ex-soldier's eyes snapped open. He looked at me, half grimacing.

"This should be interesting."

I nodded.

"We should leave before it turns into a shitstorm again."

"Agreed."

We left the office and, to avoid the mess that would be the marketplace, used the exit opposite of the parking and circled the outside of the stadium. The beating props were close enough by the time we reached the parking lot that I could feel their concussion through my armor.

There were more than last time.

Every instinct I had was screaming at me to stop, turn around and leave. Not only was I offering myself up to an outside party, yet again, but I was going to join a pseudo military outfit that, had this been a few weeks ago, I'd be exterminating.

And I would be enjoying it.

Five Vertibirds emerged from behind the destroyed skyline and began their approach toward the stadium.

"We won't be able to come back here if the Brotherhood keeps showing up like this", Nate shouted over the pounding rotors. The prop wash was beginning to kick up dust and dirt again.

I shrugged, eyes locked on the approaching aircraft. Coming back here wasn't important unless we needed someone in the city to get to the Institute. The only people who had proven helpful were Valentine and Perkins, but they weren't there at the moment. That was the least of my concerns in any case; there was always the possibility they would renege on their end of this arrangement. If that was the case, there wasn't much chance of Nate living past the next few minutes.

Hell, my own odds wouldn't be very good.

That's what I hated about this the most: this situation was completely out of my control. Of course if they decided to fight, I'd make them regret that, but I had no input on when or where that might happen. The best way to win an engagement is to control it. There will always be factors that you can't account for, but the more you do, the better your odds.

The only thing I can account for here is my direct actions. That isn't something I'm comfortable with.

Three of the Vertibirds settled to the broken, rubble strewn pavement. This time a half dozen men dressed in their odd, primitive power armor disembarked as soon as their wheels touched down. They fanned out around us and I felt Nate tense as I checked my own impulse to snatch my new rifle and engage.

Once the Brotherhood soldiers had formed a perimeter another pair emerged from the center aircraft. One was Marsaul, still not wearing a helmet. The other looked identical to the men surrounding us. Another guard? No, that wouldn't make sense. This is another high ranking member of the militia.

The two soldiers stopped 10 meters away. I couldn't see the helmeted man's face, but Marsaul looked apprehensive.

"So what is your answer", he called over the multitude of beating props.

Nate took a step forward, eyeing the half dozen guns pointed mostly at me. "We accept." It was hard to tell over the flood of buffeting air, but the ex-soldier sounded… anxious. Was he more worried about this arrangement than he was letting on? That was good, he should be.

"Good", the helmeted Brotherhood soldier called. "Follow us." It took a moment to place the voice, but as the two armored men turned back to the waiting Vertibirds, it clicked: the other was Danse.

My companion began after them and I followed a heartbeat later. Every step I took toward the VTOLs was a step away from the world I know. I'd already been operating on the edge of my SOP since I woke up on that damn hill. I'd crossed the line plenty, but it was either close enough I could still use my standard skillset or for a short enough time it didn't matter. Escort Preston's group to Sanctuary to get information, escort Nate to Diamond City so I could get a lead on the Institute, those were outside my normal parameters, but not far enough my knowledge wasn't applicable. Rescuing Valentine from the Triggermen, hunting down Kellogg, hell, even my retaliation against Kleo, as misguided as that was, were all well within my operational scope.

This isn't.

Cooperating with the Brotherhood of Steel, any large organization really, isn't what I do. Playing politics is something I leave to people with an interest in wasting time. Add their fundamentalism…

My only option now is to trust Nate.

Trust Nate.

Huh. What did Fourier say about that?

A/N: And it's time for the Brotherhood of Steel. Now, this part of the story got more complicated than I originally thought it would... If you haven't realized yet, I'm one for leaving the suspension of disbelief at home, and obviously this type of story is already stretching that. As much fun as it would be to have Damon massacre the BOS, and as much damage as he could do without time/resources to prepare, he isn't invincible. On top of that, the story of FO4 is a bit... simplistic. The politics and planning that would have to go into a situation like this aren't as basic as that game is (I think NV actually does a fantastic job of getting into that without losing the plot). That will get a bit clearer in the next chapter, but worry not, I don't intend for this to get bogged down with boring shit like politics. There is plenty of shooting (and some more... gruesome action) ahead of us. Thank you all for reading, and for the 100 favs, here's to the next 100!

Next Chapter: July 3rd, A Grim Reminder