Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

~*°Chapter 1°*~

It was one thing to be going from enjoying a lazy morning with Shaun and Nora, plans of parks and picnics, the war veterans speech Nate was practicing in the bathroom mirror while Nora waited, a few mentions to “stop hogging the mirror” while he looked over himself, his dark raven hair styled, but his stubble was starting to grow out too much, I need to save it soon he thinks, looking over his now 3 day stubble, the scars on his chin and lip hidden by the growing dark strands. The calm, serene atmosphere of another peaceful day in Sanctuary Hills washing away the news of conflict in Alaska and the weather, the commies and overpriced sugar bombs cereal that probably had enough sugar to kill a man, to it ending with a giant nuke landing in the middle of Boston and wiping it all from the face of America.

Codsworth was whizzing around the house, his metal chassis gleaming in the early morning rays that cut through the windows, obvious of the care his humans took to keep him in working order, the can of oil and gas in the storage cupboard frequently topped up to ensure no squeaks or jamming were to occur in his appendages, and his thrusters keeping him floating from room to room. Cleaning this and organising that, as Nate exited the bathroom to leave Nora to fuss herself over, the reliable Mr. Handy informed cheefully of Nate’s awaiting coffee, brewed at just the right temperature, all of them unaware they were about to be confronted with the end of the world.

The vault representative that had landed on their doorstep took Nate by surprise, expecting yet another salesman as too Nora had mentioned once hearing the afronted knocking on the front door, trying to fob off another useless gizmo or gadget for way too much money, that would somehow turn his life around, as if the giant nuke hadn't been there and done that before lunchtime.

“Good morning! Vault Tec calling!” The overly cheerful voice of someone trying to sell something that meant much more to them as it did to Nate carried through the air. Yet this did matter.

He stepped forward, closer to the door's threshold to address Nate more clearly, his freshly laundered yellow suit shifting as he moved, showing off its slightly oversized shape on the rep's frame. Talk of this country going to heck in a handbasket and nuclear annihilation right around the corner passed by the man's thin lips, a veiled sense of urgency was enough to make Nate stop and actually hear out the representative's speech.

“Go on.” He muttered in the encouraging way you would use, a cheerful lilt to Nate’s voice hiding the small amount of concern that could have been seen in his eyes should one look closer, urging the rep on with his speech, curious enough to get him spewing up more on the prospect of life underground.

“Now I won't take up much of your time, time being a…ehe..precious commodity”. He rattled, a nervous tic Nate had spotted, unease filling the cavity in his lower abdomen, yet not enough to panic out right. With all of the conflict spilling from the TV set in the living room, it gave pause to his thoughts of precautions and ‘covering all bases’, just in case the worst was to happen and his family was secure, that militaristic urge to protect those around him that he couldn’t quite shake from the war.

Coming back to civilian life was a difficult transition, and Nate still couldn't help himself listening out at night, waiting for something to happen, keeping his face towards the bedroom door, out into the hallway where Shaun slept across, and the front door further down. A 10mm pistol hidden between the folds of clothing in the nightstand.

And so thoughts of maybe there was something behind the man's words suddenly filled his mind. 

So he gave the vault rep his and his family's information and away he scurried to whoever his next target was, rushing down the street to the next family that were fortunate or unfortunate enough to hear the representative’s speech. Nora insisted that there was nothing to worry about and continued to read the daily newspaper that was brought in by Codsworth earlier, ease pooling from her frame, the same cool collected attitude that secured her future in law along with her stark intelligence, something Nate found he couldn't compete with, having nowhere to go but the military after he graduated college.

Nora wasn't too happy by the whole ordeal, but it was where Nate found his calling, helping to protect those around him, if only that's what his time in the millitary was all about, and not the horrors he endured, he was thankful Nora was there to support him when he was finally discharged after his mental health made him more of a liability than a soldier, and so home he went when the war ended with a handful of calmex and not a single thank you for helping to protect his nation.

It helped settle Nate's nerves but he couldn’t help overthinking still. Watching the TV and sipping on his now cooled coffee, an advert sporting a young boy holding up the newest ‘Fat Man’, its name sprawled across the screen in big, vibrant letters, urging its loyal customers to pick up the phone and dial now! A sudden cry rippled throughout the home, a rattling Codsworth floating down the end of the short corridor from where Shaun was sleeping in the room to the right,

“Mr. Nate? I think young Shaun needs some of that paternal affection of yours.”

Nora watching on affectionately as her husband slowly sauntered to Shaun to comfort the crying child. After cooing and spinning the little bundle of blanket’s mobile that hung above Shaun’s head, little spaceships flying around making him giggle, and soft words of promised plans from Nora, the voice of Codsworth calling for them to come and see the TV suddenly stopped everyone in their tracks. 

As they crowded around the small screen, little Shaun fit snugly between Nora's arms, the scene showed a black and white news reporter, his frame hunched over in silent defeat, papers in one hand, his head in the other, as if it would fall straight from his shoulders had he not supported it up. Behind him read the name of the news broadcaster GNN, the table barely keeping the newscaster up as his voice trembled, slowly reading the report out in front of him, voice wavering he spoke, “we have coming in confirmed reports, I repeat confirmed reports of..” the man took only a moment to pause, almost pushing his words from his lungs, “..nuclear detonations in-"

The voice of the reporter faded into the sudden buzzing in Nate’s head, the words of the Vault Tec representative flowing through his mind, ”and it's coming sooner than you might think.. if you catch my meaning?” Oh he caught his meaning alright, caught it like a baseball would, colliding with an unsuspecting jaw in the stands when someone didn't realise the ball was heading straight for them, the realisation slapped across Nate’s face, breaking him from his stupor he suddenly shouted “we have to get to the vault!”. 

There was no time to pack, no time to think and the door was practically ripped off its hinges, Nora with Shaun held tightly to her chest running out the door as Nate held it open as he held himself together, no time to even say goodbye to Codsworth, the heartbreak throbbing through his chest at the thought that he may never see him again, that he may never see his home and his neighbours and this street and Boston-

He has no time to think of anything other than getting his family to the vault, military training kicking in as he ran down the street, shouting for Nora and passing by neighbours unfortunate enough not to have a shiny new vault to run off to, shoving memories into suitcases and packing away their lives into newly polished, fusion powered cadillacs, hoping that families by far away coasts will still be alive for them to take refuge in. It dawns on Nate how lucky he and his family are, burdened by this sudden onset of guilt; why should they get to go to the vault and live out the fallout while everyone else gets vaporised? 

The short run to the vault’s gated entrance felt like minutes they didn't have to spare, and waiting for the guard to locate their names on his clipboard felt like the bomb was surely to drop that second, but it didn't, and the silhouette of the vault representative that was only on their door step a moment ago seemed like a blur of dusted yellow as he rushed past and down the small hill, not one moment earlier demanding to be given refuge as well. The guilt in Nate’s chest grew more. The slow, almost uncaring voice from the guard in front of the small family took his time reading “one adult male, one adult female, infant, go on in” before stepping to the side, as though he had resigned to the fact he and the rest of the small crowd gathering by the gate wouldn't be alive in the next few moments, with another vault security personnel shouting “follow me!”, no time to even answer Nate’s questions on what was going to happen, dust kicking up from their shoes as they appeared to be the last few to arrive to the platform, above them the sound of a vertibird’s propellers whooshed around.

The sight nearly, nearly, gave Nate pause, a flashback of his war days seeing them high in the sky as he ran through ditches and bodies- no, ran toward the vault platform that would deliver them to either their new life, or hell. Nate couldn't decide which was worse, to go to a fiery underworld, or to lose everything you once knew in life to nuclear warfare, hiding in a deep dark bunker, and for a single, agonising second, the both didn't sound that too different. 

As the vault security shouted to send them down, and they descended into their future, the bright white, yellow cloud from the nuke rose from the skyline to erase their past, the sound of shock rang out from the other neighbours as everyone crouched down, shielding their eyes from the sight, the sound of the blast followed a second later, the edge of the vault door passed the ground, sheltering only them from the destruction of Sanctuary Hills.

°**~~~**°

Chapter Text

~*°Chapter 2°*~

The time after the events of 'the great war', as everyone has taken to calling it, moved along as well as you would think it did, from leaving the vault and talking to Codsworth, who after having seen Nate for only a moment had begun to breakdown over the period of, what Nate finds out he's been frozen for, the last 200 years spent all alone; raving about the waxed vinyl floors and “The car? The car!? How do you polish rust?!” 

The now brown and crumbling flowers at the front of what was once their family home were carefully tended to by the robot, and the cul-de-sac, as well as the rest of the world, had taken on a dull, lifeless brown, the land barren of any life from before, reaped by the unforgiving radiation from the blast. Bringing the now slightly rusting robot back up from whatever spiraling pit Codsworth managed to get himself stuck in after little over 210 years really was a challenge, finding the right words to comfort the Mr. Handy when Nate couldn't find the right words himself to explain what had happened down in that vault, what had happened to Nora. What had happened to Shaun.

                                   °**~~~**°

Alarms blared as a long hissssss rang out, the ‘decontamination pod’ as the vault dwellers of Vault 111 had so conspicuously called them, was slowly rising its door, rubber seals giving way the the air around. The once frozen man slammed his fists into its once chilled glass, the frost that had gathered at its edges now melted into the now less than bright blue and gold suit he wore instead of the warm, dry, freshly laundered shirt and slacks he unfortunately had to give upon arrival to the end of his world, the white vest that lie underneath that was once a pearly white was now a soggy mess underneath the suit.

As the ancient metallic door hissed and squeaked upwards, Nate found himself tumbling to the ground with nothing to grab hold of in his decent, muscles weak from 200 years of unuse, his hands and elbows crashed into the concrete below, thankful there was no sickening snap to the appendages, his knees burned at the impact, likely to bruise the next day. His mind had not caught up to what was happening around him, only the thoughts of his forever frozen family stuck behind the cage that was their own cryo pod. As he clambered to his feet, the soles of his shoes slipping on the cold water below a few times, hands grasping for purchase on anything solid, voice hissing in silent fury, willing himself to just get up, he couldn’t even breathe as he viewed the corpses before him, finding a release on the door, it too slowly hissed and rose into the air, the bodies frozen not only in ice, but the evidence of rigor mortis too. Had the bodies been thawed, they would still feel stiff and cold to the touch, lifeless in their sleeping expressions. 

All at once, everything had fled Nate’s body, the little air in his gasping lungs, the feeling in his waterlogged feet in their rubber soles, the racing thoughts in his mind, all but one, that Nora was dead, that Shaun was dead. Nate did not dare ask if it were a joke; the look on his face would have told a thousand words that were left unspoken as he stood there, as lifeless as the bodies before him. He slowly stood forward, cupped his hands around the chilled face of his deceased wife, thumb grazing softly over them, she could have been mistook for sleeping had she been anywhere else but here in this frozen hell, but they weren’t anywhere else, 'there was no anywhere else' the vault dweller thinks, and as he looked down and took the wedding ring from Nora hand, he almost couldn't bring himself to stop the few tears that fell. Attaching it around the chain of his dogtags, Nate worried at the metal pieces of his past in his damp fingers, he couldn't take anything from Shaun, the thought of removing him or anything else from Nora's arms felt wrong, felt sacrilegious to remove him from his mother's caring hold, the love still visible even after 200 years, frozen solid in place.

He whispered past his lips, “I'll find who did this, I promise”, yet in that slowly thawing room, it was loud as the shouting in the back of his mind, the air around him swallowing it. He took a silent moment to collect himself, not wanting to leave, but the military training hardwired into his mind now screamed at him to find cover in this new environment, to find something to protect him with, the red tool box at the end of the corridor serving not a lot in that regard, he needed to find something that could tell him what had happened between the bombs landing to falling out of his frozen crypt.

Reluctantly walking to the end of the corridor, noting all of the other cryo pods, Nate realised he was the only one to survive, finding a terminal, at the entrance of the room confirmed this, logs of every person frozen read in a bold Deceased next to their names, yet there was no other evidence of the goings on in the vault. Stepping back from the sodden monitor, he searches around corners and corridors, looking for a way out, which finds him in the security office, another terminal barely sparking to life as it boots up after all this time, clicking and whirring to life as Nate finally gets some answers after the too long wait of its loading screen.

He discovers he and the rest of the ‘lucky few’ who had found shelter within the vault’s concrete walls were in fact cryogenically frozen for some sort of long term exposure experiment. Notes on security shifts, breaks, the medical staff keeping notes on the progress of the fresh faced vault dwellers, unaware of the experimentation happening as they slept, Nate looked on in muted horror and disgust, how could Vault Tec do this? Were they the only ones? As he exhausted all notes of its monitor's information, he leans back into the chair that he must have sat down in without realising while he read, unaware of the time that had passed by, mulling on the new information he just absorbed and filling it away, compartmentalising as he looks on the table he's sat by. 

He notices a lone stimpak among the scattered sheets of paper, dusty, but still useful, needle still sharp as a tack, and as he goes to pick it up he finds he has nothing to store it in. Searching around the small office he finds a locker stuffed in a small corner by the entrance, and searching through its contents finds a small canvas satchel bag. Swiping dust away reveils the Vault Tec logo in what was once a stark white, now a muted grey, unfortunately empty but ready to use. He squirrels away the healing chem and begins searching the rest of the vault. As he combs through its halls, it becomes apparent that something was deathly wrong, giant roaches scurry around the place, finding their demise at the end of a security baton Nate finds on a small metal table, water and rot now cover the floor and walls, skeletons scattered around doning security vault suits and labcoats alike, evidence of the once bustling life now chewed and scraped to the bone from what could only be by the roaches. Nate shivers at the thought that they could have gotten through the cryo pods as he finally approaches what looks to be the overseers office.

He combs through this room too, finding a 10mm pistol along with boxes of ammunition, he greedily gathers the items, and feels oddly comforted at the grip he holds tightly in his palm, the familiar gun metal colour of the weapon glints slightly in the overhead lighting, flickering intermittently as it does in a crumbling vault left to rot in time. He spies yet another terminal screen, and discovers that the go ahead to leave and return to the surface was never sent, logs of food shortages and tensions running high were once haistly typed into the personal computer, Nate discovered the command to open up an emergency exit corridor that lead out to the once cut off exit, rusted doors that wouldn't let him through, notified by the intercom overhead.

He crosses the door and readies his new weapon in the face of yet even more giant roaches. As they fly and throw themselves towards Nate, their large mandibles clacking together and their broad, crystal like wings making a quick shk shk shk sound as they flew, he has no choice but to fall back, military training taking over as he falls into familiar steps of creating a bottleneck of the office door, and quickly picking off the oversized insects and they flood through. 

After the last radroach stops twitching, Nate finally allows himself to sit back down onto the office chair and just breathe. As he sits down in the once plush chair by the table, the overseers skeleton sat by his feet, like a fallen champion left to bake in the sun, all of the thoughts he stuffed away come flooding to the forefront. How did it happen? Why did it happen? Why was HE the only one alive? So many feelings were silently shed, yet spoke of so many more questions going unanswered, Nate knew not a single reply for the reasons these experiments even took place to begin with.

He stands suddenly in muted rage, and grips the chair at the table and goes still, nothing helping to ease the feelings of anger and despair ricocheting around his gut, around his skull that he tried so desperately to keep back, distracted by the roaches and the new environment as he was but now that it's quiet? He glanced down at his hands shaking in reverent fury and distraught, and slammed the chair into the floor and table, colliding with the skeleton and sending its bones to scatter the floor. No longer caring to be calm, the veteran pushed himself away, as if to push away the mortifying idea of their death, as if to push away the heartbreak of losing everything he held dear.

It did not solve anything. 

The 10mm pistol now discarded on the table glints dangerously in the flickering light again, and for one sickening thought, Nate wonders if he could conduct an experiment of his own, to find out whether this was all just a horrible nightmare fueled by his time serving, or if this really, really was his reality now. As he finds himself reaching for his possible salvation, he quickly snaps out of whatever thought had just consumed him, mortified yet again by the situation he finds himself in.

He suddenly can't stop the tears from falling, Nora wouldn't want him to just give up, not when he was serving for his country, and certainly not now, and that's what spurs him on, to keep going, to keep them alive in his thoughts alone, even if he doesn't find out why he was spared from a frozen forever, this was the least he could do for Nora and Shaun.

Gathering himself he readies to leave, grabbing the pistol, not to use on himself anymore, but for any threat he might find, he steps cautiously past the bodies of roaches, avoiding the not so red gunk that seeps from their settling corpses, he carries himself down to what he discovers is the vault entrance, dust and debris crunching beneath his rubber shoes as he passes the room's threshold. Relief floods his veins as he thinks, finally a way out of this hell, and as he passes by a bleached skeleton on the floor, garbed in a dusty white labcoat, time chewing at the frayed seems of its sleeves, unaware of what else had previously been chewing at it, Nate fails to register the radroach that sneaks from the the folds in the garment and lunges itself at Nate, dazed and confused from the events that had transpired, blood filled with hope, flooding his brain and blocking everything else out but that glowing control panel.

He allowed himself to have the benefit of doubt that he was safe as the insect tears its mandibles into Nate’s lower calf, the vault suit easily giving way the to evolved creature's jaw as blood begins to pool on the floor, white hot sparks shooting up Nate’s leg as he staggers back in shock, shouting out in blinding pain, and onto the floor below, debris digging into his bottom, pistol stuffed in the canvas bag as he fumbled with the material. 

The roach readies itself to lunge again as Nate bodily throws himself with all his might away from the creature, leg getting sliced again as he now kicks away the insect with his good leg, sending the roach flying across the room, squeaking and chattering in pain, more blood oozing from the newly cut wound, suit fabric flapping as Nate crawls away to the other end of the room, adrenaline pumping through his veins, sounds of pained surprise escapes his chapped lips as he's toppling over tables holding papers and boxes of brand new, untouched vault suits, left to slide and flutter to the ground.

These roaches had seems fairly harmless as he torn through them earlier, yet unarmed and injured, Nate discovers that what new life had found its way through the cracks of the vaults walls were infact dangerous. As the creature chitters, the sole survivor of vault 111 finds himself scattering further across the room as it does, muscles aching from the new activity of running for his life after being inactive for so long, sweat forms at Nate’s brow as he calculates what to do next, mind wirring with schemes of survival, and as the shining roach lunges for another attempt at scoring an easy meal, the flash of the 10mm pistol suddenly lights up its vision, sending a thundering last Bang through the antechamber of the vault’s entrance. 

The bullet rings through the room and through Nate's sensitive ears as the radroach falls gracelessly to the floor, splating and sending its entrails flying in an puddle beneath it's carcass, green ooze slowly spreading across the metal flooring. The gun clatters to the floor, it's last bullet now lodged in the radroache’s body as Nate's arm shakes and he slumps onto his elbow, the pain in his left leg temporarily forgotten as Nate comes down from the adrenaline high of surviving becoming the creature's long awaited meal. Heaving in a deep breath he finally registers the pain and eyes up the white labcoat as he slowly drags his body up, careful of his bleeding leg, and tears off strips of the robe, the material giving away easily as he dusts off and wraps it around the now exposed wounds.

Tearing off the rest of the ruined leg of his blue jumpsuit and securing his less than sterile bandaging, he scowls at the thought of infection, but unfortunately there's nothing else Nate can use, the rubbery texture of the clean wrapped vaultsuits not equip to soak up large amounts of blood or keep a wound tightly bound and clean, he removes the stimpak from his bag and jams it into the meat of his thigh, diligently ignoring the idea of a needle going anywhere near him as he feeling the medicine take effect. 

Throwing away the now empty chamber as far as he can, he slowly feels the wound stop bleeding, and the pain disapating. He knows he should wait until the wound is more secure before moving, but after what just happened, he doesn't feel like he wants to stay any longer in this roach infested pit. Slowing rising to his feet, he approaches the pile of vault jumpsuits and stashes a clean one away for later, should the one he's wearing become more ruined, and approachs the console that will release him from the vault, he spots a discarded Pipboy, still wrapped around a skeleton's skinny forearm, and wraps it around his more meaty, living one.

Dusting off the small screen, he fiddles the the tiny computer and connects it to the console, and just like that, as soon as he was quickly ushered down the elevator from the bombs above, he is now stood upon it again. LIghts flashing and alarms blaring, Nate takes a moment to look back and his temporary prison of ice, the man out of time wonders briefly if it would actually be safer to stay down here, but there is no food, no medical supplies, and the drinking water could only last him so long, not to mention the biting cold that floods the vault's various rooms, so up he goes, into the flames and fire of his once bright world. 

As Nate passes the threshold of the metal wall to dirt path and blue sky, he covers his face with his arm from the blinding sun, the picture of pure white light flooding his veiw as did the bomb some 200 years ago. The parallel is not lost on the vault dwelling veteran as he finally feels the sun and wind on his face once again.

°**~~~**°

Chapter Text

~*°Chapter 3°*~

Following Codsworth suggestion of travelling to Concord after rising from the ground like the zombie his corpse should have done, the sole survivor assisted him with clearing out the creepy crawlies of the wasteland to go search for other survivors and supplies for supper, as the robot had mentioned “Sir, you must be famished! 200 years will do that to a man”, his charming lilt of a metallic accent carried along to his ears. Nate figures out he much preferred the flies smaller, no matter how annoying they were once they found their way into the house, with these new ‘bloatflies’, he much preferred the ones from before the war.

He recalls the way Shaun would giggle whenever one got into his room, to which Nate would flail around, military expertise no match to the tiny fly, and not exactly a ballerina, the swatter in hand useless to the bug’s enhanced senses. It made the whole situation worse when Codsworth asked yet again where the young shaun and mum was, and Nate had to reply with a vague, “they're in a better place now”. Codsworth, not sensing or just outright not believing Nate, had gone on the stating he would diligently keep looking for them, insisting they would soon show up to play boardgames or have lunch together.

So with a shinier, polished 10mm Pistol and a handful of bullets scavenged from the now rot-eaten wood of his old bedroom nightstand, along with a few stimpaks, a tin of bobby pins and medical first aid kit took from the neighbouring homes he and Codsworth dug through, he thumbed the dogtags and ring around his neck, the metal of both burning into his chest, a constant reminder of what he’s lost.

He finally crosses the threshold of the decrepit bridge and down the dusted and cracked tarmac of the only road leading out of this once cosy cul-de-sac, looking back and feeling like he's never going to see the once vibrant sky blue signs that read out Sanctuary Hills in elegant looping letters again. His feet carried him onwards, and he did not need to travel long before he came across what looked to be a previous confrontation with a man and what looked to be a skinny, leathery looking hound. 

Staring at the corpses he felt the wind bite at his frame, the tear in his suit's leg not helping to insulate his body, and with a grim resolution, decided to take the frayed coat and sturdy boots from the drifter's attire, reassuring himself that this once alive human being would no longer need them. Doing so had reminded Nate of the times he would need to take weapons and dogtags from his fallen soldiers on the battlefield, as he wrapped it around his frame, the dark browns and greens clashing with the bright colours of the jumpsuit’s blue and gold.

Noticing the tire iron wedged in-between the hound’s now dried corpse, Nate grabbed it with one hand, placed his uninjured right leg atop of the dog's body and pulled, the blunt weapon coming free from its thin ribs, tearing stringy meat from the corpse with its surprisingly sharp edges, clearly modified to bring more damage to the table. He observed the new melee weapon and weaved it between the buckles and clamps of his new duster coat, the 10mm pistol sat snug in its holster at Nate's chest, and he continued to trek forward toward Concord.

As he walks, new boots shockly snug around his feet, rocks and dirt crunching as he steps, Nate is still surprised by the news that other people were in fact alive and inhabiting the remains of the small town down the winding street, he had chalked it up to Codsworth’s broken way of coping with the destruction of his life and purpose. Nate was still shell-shocked that Codsworth was even still here, assuming he would very likely get caught up in the blast like everyone else had done, it seemed Nate had underestimated either the care he gave to codsworth's robotic person, or the fact that he was so strangely and humanly determined to stare the mushroom cloud in the face and survive, if only to see his humans one more time.

Nate silently appreciated the Handyman’s steel resolve, the chance for him to apologise for leaving him so suddenly had warmed the robot’s engine as he assured Nate he knew they would come back one day. Robot or not, he could possibly be the most human thing around considering people had not only survived, but apparently thrived in this new world filled with death and destruction, not ignoring the way Codsworth hid behind the cheerful way he spoke of only getting shot at a few times the last time he visited Concord himself.

Nate was now unsure if he should be going out all this way, but really in this new world, what was he to do? Rot away like the buildings around him? Like the bodies down in the vault would soon do without the cryo pods functioning to keep them cold? He suddenly thinks he's going to need to bury Nora and Shaun before that happens, and doesn't that fill him with glee?

Now filled with morose thoughts of his dead family yet again, the ring feeling like it's scorching its way through the layers of skin over his heart, the vault dweller is broken out of his depressive spell when he hears sudden barking. Mind flitting back to the corpse of the shrinking hound some time back, his hand flies to the tire iron in the folds of his coat, not reaching for the pistol as he doesn't have much ammo left, preparing for another fight as his vision is suddenly flooded with the form of a tan and brown German Shepherd bounding towards him from the vine covered building of an old Red Rocket gas station, his paws tip-taping in place, not necessarily growling, but the barking doesn't exactly sound too friendly either, just… cautious.

He lays his weapon down and holds his slightly shaking arm out, calling out softly a "hey there boy", allowing the cautious canine to stiff at his hand, and that's how Nate finds himself wandering down the road yet again, bag and pockets slightly heavier with supplies from the gas station, some cram and an odd tin box labelled CAPS, the container rattling as he picked it up and inspected its contents to find at least 14 nuka cola bottlecaps clinking around the container, and decided to squirrel that away too, something in the back of his mind, reading between the lines, that this must be important, and with his new canine friend hot on his heels, nose to the ground every so often, they both travel the remaining distance to Concord.

 °**~~~**°

The sound of gunshots rang out as shouting closely followed, rounding a corner he darts back, glass and debris crunching as he does so. He slowly moves back out to observe the scene infront of him, a small group of armed men clad in metal and leather, weilding all sorts of weapons as they fight something out from Nate's field of veiw.

Every instinct torn in Nate’s mind as he debated throwing himself into the fray of guns and violence, the familiar scene of military warfare being one of the only things keeping him tethered to the old world, familiar and almost too comfortable amiss the chaos Nate found himself in now, and the fear that the situation may escalate into Nate getting himself killed. If, even with his experience of being a soldier wasn't enough to keep him on his feet with a radroach and getting injured in the process, how would he fare against human beings with guns and the experience of living above ground? 

Deciding whether he should just try and find a less direct route to the buildings by the end of the street, having scavenged the rest already, finding canned goods and ammo especially, another shout had Nate peering around the corner of a building that looked down the wide street, making Nate look more closely at the environment to scan for the yell. Caged in with crumbling high-rise buildings, scattered around were the skeletons of rusted automobiles and concrete barricades paired with sandbags and the men shooting up at something infront of the Museum of Freedom. This shouting was different, desperate, the call of a victim defending themselves, of a civilian.

Following the sound found Nate starting at the dark coloured skin of a man, dressed head to toe in an old, tan military garb, a royal blue sash adorned his neck, along with a pairing of a similar time appropriate hat, folded at one side made him look like he was pulled straight from the Museum of Freedom himself. He was armed with a laser musket, face all sharp angles and tense, sending beams of red from the fusion cell loaded into the weapon down to the unfortunate raiders who were attempting to return fire with their small pistol guns, obviously no match to the caliber of this mysterious man's gunpiece and the leverage of the balcony on the museum's front, which took the brunt force of the bullets attempting to rain up to meet him. 

There was something in that man that shouted safe, that had Nate making up his mind there and then. These sharp, mangled ruffians fighting to gun him down now looked no different to the enemy soldiers wielding rifles had looked during the war.

Peering down to the loyal dog that had followed him thus far, they began to both make their push forward, attempting to reach the front door of the building unseen, the dog's frame low to the ground as it let out a warning growl, and Nate holding his 10mm pistol in his shooting arm, a few more bullets loaded in its chamber, the tire iron in the other, instinct took over as he rushed forward, adrenaline surging him on, using his surroundings to his advantage. 

But it didn't take long for the raiders to notice their surprise guests, with a sudden “Huh? What was that?”, and “Find 'em and kill 'em!”, and as the bullets rained down on him, it didn't take long for Nate to start fighting his way through the small gathering, tiny 10mm bullets tearing through limbs, punching out streams of red from the back of legs, shoulders, heads, the tire iron meeting its mark as the seasoned soldier swung left and right, up and down and into the flesh of the men, tearing deep, jagged lines and bruising welts into whatever the cool metal came into contact with.

“Shit! My leg!” One shouts, crying out as the iron rod connects with the slower raider's leg, the soldier too quick for the guy to register him, and leaves a particularly nasty wound just shy of his knee. The skin around it instantly lit up red and inflamed, the patchy jeans of his road leathers turning from a dusty black to a reddish brown. The raider goes to clutch at the bleeding wound, weapon clattering to the ground as his voice breaks over the repeated words. It would have eventually healed had Dogmeat not then lunged at the man and torn him one better to his jugular, leaving the poor sod to choke on his own blood, wound to his leg forgotten as his hands move to his now exposed trachea.

Some of the raiders, upon watching Nate hack, slash and shoot his way towards the building, were smart enough to turn tail and run, finding it wasn't worth getting caught up in this stranger's fury, and had scattered away from where they came from. 

“Oh fuck this!” One particular scrawny looking guy shouts, staring down Nate with anger and fear as he suddenly turns to sprint down the street and past the decrepit church that sat beside the museum, dust and dirt flying as he runs.

It didn't take Nate long to come back to the present, his arm nicked by stray bullets he didn't even notice, his melee hand and sleeve of his duster looked as though he dunked them into a bucket of red paint, the substance still warm as it ran off the tire iron and fell in fat, weeping droplets and onto the ground below, the bodies around slowly cooling in the early evening air.

The vault dweller looked around, feeling empty as he always did when he had to take a life, compartmentalising the feeling to the back of his mind when he had to become a tool for commanding officers to throw around, like a wrench being thrown at a machine that didn't want to work properly, thrown into the spray of bullets from enemy lines, and almost didn't register that historical man's voice up on the balcony.

“Hurry! Grab that laser rifle and get inside!” Urging him to grab the second laser musket discarded on the pavement and help him and his group, ammo scattered around a corpse of what must have been this man's deceased group member, blood still sticky as it pooled around an unknown wound. 

Grabbing the weapon and entering the building, Nate got to work scanning the rooms and taking out enemies like this was a training session back on base, with his four-pawed friend following suit, holding down raiders by their limbs as they gave the soldier no reason to spare them from a strike of electric red, they had begun shooting at him as soon as they saw the bright blue of his suit, and Nate could almost reason with himself that this was self defence and nothing more. Sweeping through the building, as the last two raiders fell to the floor the mystery man begins to speak.

“Man, I don’t know who you are, but your timing’s impeccable. Preston Garvey, Commonwealth Minutemen.” He reveals himself to be the leader of the group, or what was left of them, a small group no more than five trauma weary travellers, holed up in a dingy office room. 

“I’m glad to help”, Nate responds with, friendly enough in the faces of new people he introduces himself to the group. Preston goes on to briefly explaining their situation, mentions of falling on hard times in their travels. They had discussed a plan of a suit power armour and a minigun, “Sturges? Tell him.” the minutemen leader calls out, the named man currently typing furiously away at a terminal, not really getting anywhere with its digital contents. The mechanic besides them stops to fill in the details.

“There’s a crashed vertibird up on the roof… old school, pre‑war. You might’ve seen it, inside a full set of cherry T-45 power armour.” Joy laced his words at the prospect of having the hulking armour, sure to turn the tides and get their group out of town unscathed.

“Only one problem, it needs power, there's a fusion core locked behind a gate below us, but I couldn’t get through to the thing.” And off Nate goes again, fusion core found and the war veteran charging into the quickly approaching night and through the fray of even more guns and bullets. 

°**~~~**°

Outside the building, a small breeze whiped through the small town, sun now nestled between buildings as Nate, now decked in a full suit of power armour, feeling its chassis hug his frame like an old friend, started mowing down even more raiders that must have been rallied for backup. With the fusion core draining in his back, minigun draining at his front, and raiders falling like flies, a monstrous giant lizard, he learns is called a Deathclaw, lets out an air shattering roar as it suddenly clambers out from the ground, attracted by the noise as sharp claws dig into the floor, and it charges towards an armour covered Nate and raiders alike, the colour drains from his face as do the bullets from his gun into the chest of such unseen creature.

Dogmeat, the dog's name, was curled safely around Mama Murphy’s frail legs back at the museum, as Nate soon learned upon entering that room and apparently signing his life away yet again to a fate worse than death with this Deathclaw from hell, all in the name of protecting his people and his country.

But that doesn't matter right now, as a last deafening roar escapes the Deathclaw's gaping maw, the giant thing tumbles down to the ground, dust creating a cloud in the air, reminiscent of the day the big one dropped and began this new life of Nate's. With the rest of the raiders having been dealt with by the scaled terror, he lets out a long breath, the minigun lowering as he relaxes into the frame of the power armour, relying on it to keep him standing.

‘Right, that's that then’, he thinks, and he contemplates dropping the minigun onto Preston’s sturdy frame when he gets back to the group for putting him through that, his life flashing before his eyes yet again, and upon entering the building, power armour rattling and thundering as he does, he sees the ragtag group preparing to leave.

“That was a pretty amazing display. I’m just glad you’re on our side.” Preston beams. The display Nate gave must have been something, because everyone was now looking at him with various degrees of trust. 

“You guys gonna be okay now?” He replies, voice morphed into a robotic sounding tinge from his helmet. Now chatting to the leader, Nate discovers that they intend on moving into Sanctuary Hills. Mama Murphy stating it seemed special, and that the sight had shown her the way, everyone apart from Preston seemed to oppose the idea and long time ago. But Nate had encouraged them then, disclosing the fact he knows of the place, and with nowhere else to go, they all began the trek back, with veteran and Dogmeat at the lead, Preston following close behind, with the rest of the weary group slowing following along.

As the group finally approached Sanctuary Hills, they had to stop for the night at the old Red Rocket gas station, taking out some horribly wrinkled molerats from the premises. Power Armour hissing and cooling as Nate exits through the chassis’ back to sit down and eat, their meat made for an unusual and less than satisfactory meal for Nate, tastebuds not yet acclimatised to the diet of the wasteland.

The cram in his satchel was long gone before he stepped foot in Concord, yet the group melted into a familiar routine of setting up a fire to prepare and cook the meat and hungrily devour the cooked flesh; the food was no less appreciated against the growling of Nate's stomach, and very much appreciated by the pooch sat snug beside him, before settling down for the night to sleep. As the morning sun soon rose, the small group crossed the rotting wooden bridge, and the atmosphere of the group practically deflates as the tensions of their journey finally disapate and their plans come to fruition in the form of safe shelter at last.

In the late morning light, Nate feels the sun on his face yet again, warming him from the inside out. Power Armour stashed within the open garage of the house they all chose to camp in, Nate never would have thought he would ever return a day later, with a group he could nearly call his own no less. His situation begins to look up for him, and maybe he thinks, ‘just maybe Nora, things will get better.’ Nate turns toward the sound of his name being called and walks down his familiar street to the new group of survivors, in a house across from the one that once held his past as be begins his new journey to live again.

°**~~~**°

Chapter Text

~*°Chapter 4°*~

The following weeks had flowed like the sludge infested waters that slowly drifted through the nearby river, almost cutting off the little paradise, if you could call it such, from the rest of the wasteland. Nate had slowly grown into his new skin, hardening himself to the ways of the wastes, adding pieces of armour to the duster he wore, patching up his vault jumpsuit and adding a gas mask to the sturdy strap of his satchel. He was yet to find anything like a backpack, but the satchel he wore could carry a lot, and the added loops and hoops fashioned from the very irritable Marcy Long, could carry more firearms and a bottle of dirty, but filtered water.

Without the blue and gold suit, a full set of teeth, all ten fingers, and the almost goody two shoes attitude Marcy had so gracefully spat at him one time, Nate looked every part like he fitted in with the commonwealth and the rest of the ragtag group. 

In their small bubble, they were mostly undisturbed, apart from the occasional molerat, radroach, and the newly discovered mutated insect Nate one day unfortunately had to deal with when exploring in the houses around the ring-like road at the end of the street, a bloodbug it was called, its spindly legs and giant needle like proboscis sending a full body shiver as it came far too close to him to get a taste, the vet had froze in place, unable to keep his eyes away from the needle on the end of the critters thin face. It wasn't until Preston Garvey came to the rescue and shot down the creature with his musket in a flash of static red, as the enlarged mosquito prepared to dig in to Nate's flesh, and until the vet stopped shaking, the minutemen leader had waited to asked what had happened. 

Now, don't get him wrong, Nate found in the past few days spending with the group at Sanctuary, that Preston was a good friend and an even better leader, everyone would always stop to listen to what he had to say next, but he couldn’t muster up the courage to talk to him about his outburst, even before the war, when Nora couldn’t stop Nate from clamming up when it came to getting Shaun his vaccinations, quickly leaving the small doctor's office once the shining vial made its way into Nate's field of view, and when Preston had pried, Nate wouldn't even give him an inch.

“Hey, you doing alright there? I haven't seen you act like that, you're usually ready for a fight when it comes to the critters.” Preston was gentle in his questioning, his keen perception aided him well in spotting when others weren't doing too good, he was patient when it came to talking with the rest of the group, and patient now as he stood, relaxing into his posture with his musket resting in the crooks of his arms, a finger trained on the trigger, ready to gun down his next victim of the wasteland should the need arise.

“Don't worry, I'm fine.” Nate almost felt guilty at brushing him off so easily, heaving out a hard breath and calming his nerves, so he added, “Is there anything from this we can salvage from this?” 

“If there was I wouldn't know, there's not a lot of meat on the guy either.” Preston looks down at the mentioned giant bug, as if it were to suddenly double in size and solve their growing hunger problem, something Nate was glad didn’t happen. The crops of gourd and melon in their back garden were slow to grow, but it was growing, the patch of mutfruit behind one of the decrepit houses held a high crop too, and the canned goods they had stocked up were holding for now, the group having scoured the vacant buildings in Concord over time.

He didn't think he could keep down his breakfast if he had to stare at that needle for a mouth and see it grow any larger than it already was. Shivering at the thought, the sole survivor suddenly stands, eyes averted from the scene with Preston following suit, and they leave the slaughtered bloodbug to rot as they walk back up towards the house they all chose as their rudimentary HQ of the Minutemen, twigs, leaves and rubble kicked away from where they both walked.

When they all arrived to the center of the cul-de-sac, they immediately went to work, they had started a week back on turning the chosen house from a rundown, loose paneled wreck of a shelter to a home they could call their own As they tore down the crumpled homes nearby, paneling used to patch up holes, and furniture slugged through the wide entrance to make it more comfortable during the chilly October nights, Nate had envied the skills the wasteland had taught the particularly stocky mechanic, Sturges. While he was a good mechanic himself, helping to keep the weapons and trenches from falling apart during his service, to then transferring his skills to the Mr. Handy Nora had bought to help keep his hands busy and mind quiet, those skills were no match to the hardened, calloused hands of the group's only qualified mechanic and builder. 

He should ask him for some pointers, or ask him to fix up his Power Armour, knowing the way it looked it wasn't exactly ‘cherry’ anymore, rust seeping through the rivets and folds in its metal plating. But for now the veteran helps around the small settlement, tending to crops, scavenging the homes and with the help of Sturges and Preston, they finally find the parts to set up a small generator. Cheers can be heard through the small home as the small dusty light-bulbs hanging by a small wire flicker to life, the generator churning away, spitting out a small stream of black smog as it does. The three of them look to each other as it gives out a small bang, but continues to generate power nonetheless. 

The gruff voice of the mechanic rings out first, country accent clear as day as he speaks, “We're gonna need to keep up on gas if we want this little thing to keep tick'n, how are we doin’ on that anyways?” He and Preston look to Nate, him being the main scavenger, knowing the cul-de-sac and all.

“We have a couple canisters so we should be fine for the next few weeks, but if we're wanting to expand to some of the other houses and start building up the Minutemen again, we're gonna need a lot more, as well as a few more hands too.” He looks to Preston as he says this, what was supposed to be a day there and back trek he asked Nate to go on to connect a nearby farm, Abernathy Farm he recalls, it had turned into a three day hike across the wasteland, Pip-boy flickering in at out at times, making it difficult to navigate. The farm owner refused to join the slowly growing militia unless some nearby raiders at a large factory down in Lexington were 'taken care of' as he put it.  

The stern voice and foot to the ground attitude left no argument as Nate's probable saviour complex urged him further south and away from Sanctuary, taking right and wrong turns at every junction, gunning down anything hostile that moved, Dogmeat following in tow, ears floppy and tongue lolling to and fro, chewing on the occasional molerat, and overall happy to be on the journey with the vault dweller.

And when they eventually returned, bruised and scrapped but still alive after gunning down the raiders, not before giving them the chance to stop harrasing the quaint farm, the group gathered round the two as he emptied his loot. With Dogmeat, sporting a new frayed red bandana, sniffing at area around the home, Nate's canvas bag was turned upside down onto a nearby table, canned goods, parts and components tumbled from the bag, as news of the farmstead joining the group tumbled from Nate's mouth. Sturges was overjoyed to see the rolls of military duct tape, new tools and an extra jug of gas, and Preston beamed across the table at Nate at the news of the Minutemen's slow but steady expansion, relived to hear there was one less threat out there.

They had soon managed to get a radio beacon up and running as well, the precarious metal structure with bits of wire and bolts from an old radio was not easy to assemble, but thankful for the times Nate would need to rewire radios on the battlefield some 200 years ago in a similar fashion in order to reestablish connection to other army stations after a particularly heavy shelling, the group found it paid of when a few lost souls looking for safety and security had wandered over the bridge, along with a trading caravan, 'Trashcan' Carla she called herself, looking to buy and sell. 

Nate finally found out the use for the rattling caps in his satchel, and had sold a few useless items to the woman now smoking a cigarette in exchange for more caps. Looking at the small pouch he now stored them in, he found himself with a total of 72 caps after selling some of the unused or broken weapons he took a week back from the raider's bodies in Concord, now piles of dried, and clearly eaten carcasses. The group of steadily growing eight bodies now got to work together, new names and faces learnt as they now lived through the wastes together, expanding into the nearby homes that still stood now.

°**~~~**°

As the days turned to nights, the band of settlers had readied themselves to sleep one warmer evening, the wind had died down some in the autumn months as the Long couple were up first on the nightly shifts to patrol the area. Dogmeat had stuffed himself away in his doghouse that was dragged to the front of the property, his tail could be heard slowly thumping away when one of the spouses walked by. The small generator was churning away, freshly topped up, and keeping the flickering lights on where needed.

Sturges had managed to set up some sort of circuit one day with the help from Nate, and the both of them had cheered when their testing proved a success as the rudimentary lightswitch flickered the lights from on to off to on again, the seasoned mechanic looked as though he would cry while Nate diligently patted him on the back a job well done. The rest of the settlers looked on in confusion at the pair celebrating their small victory, Mama Murphy in her new comfy recliner, shaking her head in amusement at the scene, Preston thankful he no longer needed to flail around at night to finally see where he was going. 

As the sole survivor had wandered by the older woman that night towards his small moth-eaten cot, she had suddenly grabbed his hand, a small, wrinkled, but delicate hand wrapped around his own calloused one in a bid to grab his attention, Nate had startled at the unannounced contact, but noticing the older woman, Mama Murphy quietly spoke to the veteran. 

“Hey kid, you have any Jet? The sight could really help you, I can feeeeel it.” Her thin wispy voice rang out into the cool night air, a nearly unnoticeable wiry need weaving through her voice as she spoke. 

Nate looks on in confusion. “What?” He dumbly mutters, sleep catching up with him as he fails to fully grasp what the old woman had asked of him.

The group has mentioned this ‘sight’ before, supposedly to be some sort of crazy intuition into the future from the old lady's drifting mind; it, especially by Marcy, had only been brushed off as a chem-fueled coincidence that got the old coot off her rocker. But the way it had been used before, her Jet fueled visions bringing this group to Sanctuary Hills, Mama Murphy's fearful whisper of “something big is coming, and.. its, angry..” back at the museum of Freedom in Concord, before that Deathclaw rose from the ground to devour them all. He pauses, and wonders if there is any real weight behind her claims.

“Hold on one second Mama Murphy.” He murmurs, wanders over to his cot and pulls out the red inhaler he earlier found on a raider, he figured he could sell it for a couple of caps, but now it finds a new use as he hands it over, warnings from Preston of not giving her chems flit past his mind, but the confidence in Mama Murphy’s voice doesn't waver as she asked. She is her own person, free to make her own choices after all. But he can't help but feel he's enabling something as the older woman grips it in her hand and brings it to her face, inhaling deeply from its white mouthpiece as though it would bring new life to her shrunken form. Her eyes light up and she takes a few heaving breaths, the chem flowing through her lungs and veins, and finally croaks out her next words.

“I can feel you're in pain kid, it's so bright, and it fuels you on, doesn't it?” She speaks empatheticly, concern lining her small voice. “You need to stay strong. Like you have been now. Cause there's more to your destiny. I've seen it. And I know your pain.”

Nate gives the older woman, frail in her years, the benefit of the doubt. Even if this turns out to be no more than some simple words of empathy, something to help bring peace to his mind, well, Nate wouldn't ask of her, but he certainly wouldn't turn it down either, the wasteland throwing too much shit at him, finding those that actually care about him is a rare phenomenon indeed. The vet watched on as Mama Murphy let out a series of small coughs, reaching out towards her when she looked as though she would double over there and then.

She settles back down as the next words ring through Nate's haze filled brain. “You're a man out of time. Out of hope. But all's not lost. I can feel your energy, the ones you've lost, the answers you seek…”.

Nate listens now with rapt attention, not daring to look away, not when Preston enters the room, soft footfalls echoing slightly under the fine dust that never seems to leave the house, failing to see the slight scowl on his face. He leans on some shelves as he listens with Nate, still as a stone statue, awaiting Murphy’s Jet fueled words.

“And even I don't need the Sight to tell you where you should start lookin’; the great, green jewel of the Commonwealth. Diamond City. The biggest settlement around.” 

“Diamond City holds the answers, but they're locked tight. But you’ll find them. You find that heart. Oh, it's... it's bright. So bright against the dark alleys it walks. That's... that's what you need to do, kid. Follow the signs to the bright heart. That's where your answers lie.” Mama Murphy then settles back into her plush chair, exhaustion lining the wrinkles of her brow, aging her even more, as if her life had begun to drain from the vision itself, breath wavering as she does.

It seems that's all she can manage, and as her breath rattles on, the jet wearing off of her system and out of her lungs, Nate moves to glean for more answers, her speech cryptic in its last few statements.

“Please Mama Murphy, I need more." He begs, the fear and hope swirling around his chest, making room and feeling constricted against his heart at the same time, mind warring with this new information, overwhelmed at the prospect that the vault dweller may finally find answers of his release and his family's demise. ‘Follow the signs to the bright heart in diamond city’, what is that supposed to mean? 

“Ah, but I'm tired now, kid. And if I ain't mistaken', you've got a job to do.” 

Nate concludes he isn't going to get anymore answers from the now dozing elder, and as he turns to Preston, his own concern marring his features, he moves towards Nate, mouth opening and closing, wanting to speak but unsure how to say it.

“Did… did you give her Jet?” The Minutemen leader finally spoke, concerned not leaving his voice. His eyes spot the now discarded inhaler clutched loosely in Mama Murphy’s hand as she dozes.

“I did, I know I shouldn't have but-”

Preston eyes Nate up in a silent building fury, “We've talked about this before.” He hisses, “That junk... it's gonna kill her… why did you, what were you thinking?”

“She said it could give me answers about my family.” Nate cuts him off, cold determination flooding through his eyes. Preston looks on, wanting to but not hearing much from the seasoned veteran around the topic, that being a sensitive area going off of the blunt responses Nate would give whenever anyone would ask about the vault or his past. He stops for a moment, the anger slightly fading, waiting to let Nate speak, but it seems he won't say much more of it, with the man finally turning sharply towards his cot to settle down as he should have done before being given riddles by the old woman currently sleeping like a log. Preston lets it go, understanding when the line is drawn, suspecting there was a lot of pain around the mention of the vault dweller’s kin. He sighs as he turns towards his own sleeping bag to settle back down for a second time that night.

°**~~~**°

That night Nate didn't get any sleep, he tossed and turned, blanket tangling between his legs as fresh guilt gnawed at his mind for forgetting the sole reason he didn't blow his brains out in that vault, but all the hustle and bustle of survival pushed out all thoughts of Nora and Shaun, and when he finally fell asleep that night, he was plagued with nightmares both new and old, they began to blur together. Visions of his commanding officers screaming at him in the wasteland, of radroaches and bloodbugs, of raiders running through the trenches wearing his uniform carrying crude weapons, shouting to “find him, kill him!”, bright lights of an unknown city, red neon skies lighting up the war-torn battlefield, the echoing cries of a child, no longer knowing what was happening, or who was friend and who was foe-

As a hand reaches out to shake the thrashing veteran, the 10mm pistol hidden under Nate's ratty excuse of a pillow was at their forehead before they could blink, and it was only from the sudden shouting from the raider? the enemy? and stronger arms pulling his own down that prevented him from pulling the trigger, pistol ripped from his fatigued fingers, shoulders shoved back into something much softer than the dirt of the trenches. "G-get away from me, get OFF!" The soldier shouted out and thrashed against the weight in a bid to retreat, but he soon realised he was not getting torn up by the enemy, and as the fog of sleep lifts, he realises he's being held down by Preston and Sturges, both straining to keep the vault dweller down, sweat forming on the brow of the Minutemen's leader, his strength being a lot less than the bulky mechanic, whose own features were deciding on whether to knock out the frightful lump below him or not in an attempt to give him a peaceful night’s sleep for once. "Its alright friend, its alright..." Sturges speaks slowly, the attempt to calm Nate down fell flat a little compared to how the men were currently handling him.

The rest of the settlers all stood a distance away in and around the house they've all worked hard to repair, worry etched into every face, Dogmeat whimpering behind them, and Mama Murphy still sleeping like a log in her chair, oblivious in her Jet filled slumber to all of the commotion around her. After coming to from his night terror, staring at the anxious faces, adrenaline slowly leaving his taunt muscles, all Nate could do was drop his head back down on his pillow, huffing out a loud shaking breath, his body finally going lax as the men above him slowly retracted their arms from his own.

After a moment, watching the vet calmly breathe in and out, Preston stared at Nate in a silent bid to talk. Sensing this, Nate made to stand up, adrenaline escaping out of every pore, fatigued but longer struggling to rise now that his calf had fully healed since the vault, and Preston quietly followed. The rest of the group settled back down to sleep, but it would be nowhere near restful.

Preston had waited then, eyeing Nate as he pulled out the box of cigarettes that he stashed in his coat pocket, a habit from college that he managed to kick once he found out Nora was pregnant with Shaun, but after everything that's transpired over the weeks, Nate had looked to his long lost creature comforts, anything but the calmex that sat in the medicine cabinet in his home across the street. It was fate that it would follow him through the war, through the great big bomb, but seeing its sharp point and sedative medicine sloshing in the syringe, Nate refused to even touch them as he took everything else when he first scavenged the house. 

"You want one?" He mutters around the cigarette perched between his lips, offering the tiny box of lung cancer to the leader, his face looking like he had just crawled out from a ditch, although one could say Nate had after what had just transpired.

Preston shakes his head, "No thanks, I'm good." Nate shrugs his shoulders, and Preston stands patiently as he watches the vet light up the small stick of tobacco, the fire flickering across his face creating shadows that aged him considerably in the dark of the night. He watched him set fire to the cigarette's tip and inhale deeply before letting out a cloud of smoke that danced and twirled into the stars above, flicking away the ash with a practiced ease, tense hazel green eyes softening before turning their gaze from the far distance to meet Preston's brown ones.

He looked down then, those hazel eyes so deep with sorrow, the gold flecks mirroring the day his life had ended, and in the fires and ash of its destruction rose broken war veteran with a shattered mind, life stripped away of its meaning and left to rot in the rust and rubble of the aftermath of the war he was discharged from, and the war of the nuke that took away his wife and son. No family to care for, no meaning to his existence, no reason to wake back up each time he fell asleep. 

Or so he thought, as he watched the patient leader watch him back, not speaking a word, yet those dark brown eyes told him everything he needed to know, he began to tell the tale as old as time, of the day the bombs fell, the way he ran for his life, fooled by the glittering light of the shining vault door that would save him, only to stuff him in an icebox for the sake of experimentation. The gaping distraught he felt at seeing the absence of light within his wife's eyes as he cradled her face as she sat frozen, cradling their now stillborn son in her arms. His voice wavered and cracked as he talked, voice barely a whisper but loud enough in the night for Preston to hear every broken word.

He fiddled absently at the ring around his neck, cigarette now discarded and stubbed into the tarmac of the garage floor below, dogtags gently clinking together in the silence of the night as a breeze now filtered through the open space. As Preston quietly listened, he didn't miss the way Nate had slowly begun to breakdown before him, the shattered man, left with no other distractions of rebuilding and scavenging, of connecting people together and surviving, had slowly dropped to his knees, elbows against his abdomen and leaning on the balls of his feet as he brought the chain towards his face with both hands, gripping onto the pieces of metal and golden ring like a lifeline, as if sat in prayer, shoulders shuddering and breath gasping he begged for something, someone to take him out of this nightmare.

Preston had followed him down, resting on one knee as he held the sobbing man, weeks of pent up feelings flooding through the kneeling body, rubbing his hand slowly up and down Nate's back, having no idea what to say, this was the only way to show him he was there, and he was heard. It could have been minutes, it could have been the whole night, but when Nate finally calmed down, sobs turning to sniffling, he finally lifted his red and puffy face from his hands. No words were exchanged, there was nothing else to say, but the vault dweller knew Preston had heard him, was there for him, and as he stared dull and blankly at Preston yet again through blurred vision, he knew a bond had formed between them; having been told of the devastating massacre in Quincy, the fear and loss, their once large group now whittled to everyone in the room, a bond formed of brotherhood, of heartbreak and desperation, of losing everything they once knew.

They both didn't get much sleep that night, wounds of old and new ripped open yet again, and the scattered pieces of their lives left to settle in the dust of the fallout. And yet the new brothers in arms knew they could take on the world, fueled by their new found need to rebuild their lives again, to find peace in its destruction. They settle down to sleep in their beds for a final time that night.

°**~~~**°

Chapter Text

~*°Chapter 5°*~

Informing the group briefly the following morning, Nate refuses to go into detail with the rest of the group of the discussion with Mama Murphy, of the breakdown in the garage with Preston, emotions and mind spent up from the long night before, he only mentions Mama Murphy’s vision and the need to travel to Diamond City in search of a lead on his family. He only pulled Preston aside a moment, reminded by his mental turmoil last night, that he needed a favour from him before they left for the shining green jewel of the city.

“What's wrong friend? Something you need?” Preston softly spoke, and Nate explained to him his need to bring his family back home to be buried, for closure.

“I need your help bringing their bodies up from the vault, I just need you to keep point, there were quite a few radroaches down there last time. I'll be fine carrying them up.” He replies crispy back, compartmentalising the pain deep into the folds of his heart and mind.

Sadness filled the leader's heart at the request, but agreed none the less, and after speaking with Sturges and and another stocky looking settler, they began to dig the hole that would become Nate's wife and child's grave, the vault dweller couldn't live with the idea of splitting the mother and son from each other, and as Nate carried the bodies out from the vault, Preston keeping watch and gaining new insight to the elusive vaults scattered across the commonwealth, they finally laid the two to rest.

As the group held a small funeral, the rest of the group finally understanding Nate's turmoil behind the hushed secret family, a weight that had been laying heavy on his chest finally felt lighter, as thought Nora had took it with her to the grave and forgiven Nate for not being able to save them, as though Nate even had a chance to begin with, fate signed and sealed as soon the that Vault Tec rep had landed on their door, walking off with their names like a reaper coming to collect their souls, Nate unaware of it all. The stone that adorned the top of the small grave read Nora and Shaun, carved into with a switch knife that was found within Nate's neverending pockets.

He then prepared that afternoon to head off to diamond city, packing supplies for at least a week in anticipation of the hike to the city, dogmeat excited at the idea of going back out with the vault dweller, and Preston volunteering to go along with them.

“You'll need someone out there to help you navigate around, and I know a way we can get there that won't take too long.” Preston spoke as they prepared for the week's journey, and with the rest of the settlement staying behind to keep watch, the three of them set off on their journey into the wastes, to find this great green jewel of the commonwealth.

°**~~~**°

It didn't take the trio too long to reach the outskirts of the city, the shortcut that they had taken took them more west than south, but it avoided the nearby settlement of super mutants that had somehow taken over a water treatment plant. Preston had tried to explain the lumbering beasts to Nate, but without enough information from the leader himself, the vault dweller could only picture a large green creature, dumb and angry and wielding clubs like a caveman. Even still, they were a formidable foe and with Nate's experience in the wasteland, they were to be avoided at all cost.

So down they wandered west, past the city of Lexington, and south through Cambridge, across the bridge that connected the landmasses, Nate's pip-boy ringing out the different songs from the radio as they travelled, even joining in with the jingles a few times, both laughing at their sorry attempts at holding a tune to Butcher Pete and Uranium Fever. The little team of three had to stop a few times with the setting sun, and Dogmeat, Nate had found, was an excellent hunter, bringing in the fresh carcasses of molerat, radroach and even another mongrel, small and skinny as it was, the humans praised the canine's hard work.

“You were lucky to find him, Dogmeat I mean. He brings a bit of joy to everyone back at Sanctuary too.” Preston speaks while they're sitting around the fading fire, soaking up the last of its warmth. 

"I'm lucky he didn't decide to tear my arm off as well.” Nate replies back easily, smoke disapating into the air as a cigarette nestles loosly between his fingers, orange and ash embers glowing along with the slowly shrinking fire before him. He chuckles, the corner of his eyes crinkling as he watches the mention mutt chewing on an unknown bone.

He was never allowed a dog as a young boy, his mother with her allergies made it impossible, but he would always watch the bounding animals run around at the park, and swim in the nearby pond, shaking off water from their sleek furs as they surfaced whenever they visited Boston Common on sunnier days.

Resting in crumbling buildings wasn't easy, the wind creating a biting chill, his coat and vault suit not enough to keep away the cold as the small fire simmered into charcoal. Preston was worried it might attract unwanted attention, so the fire was quickly snuffed out come time to sleep.

On the fourth day, they rose as the sun did, and packed away their things after a light breakfast of molerat and a shared can of cold pork and beans. Half a day later and well into the afternoon, they wandered through the ruined streets of the city, Nate's pip-boy flickering and sputtering as the screen suddenly cut off. Huffing at the inconvenience, he calls for Preston and he tells him the problem. The Minutemen leader chuckles at the machine as he surveys his surroundings, and urges Nate to follow as he takes them a different route that would hopefully take them to diamond city.

Minutes go by as the veteran passes by a building with a large sign that reads ‘Vault Tec regional HQ’. He rushed forward, debris crunching loudly as he read the name out loud, filing it away and the location in his mind, hoping to return if diamond city turns out to be a fluke. Continuing on, the area widens out as Nate arrives into a clearing. He begins to turn to speak to the minutemen leader for further directions when a nearby growl and a yelp is heard from somewhere behind him, he quickly whirls around finding himself completely alone, the only sounds registering through his tired mind were the creaking metal skyscrapers and the wind whistling through their broken windows.

"Preston? Come here Dogmeat!” He quietly calls out, careful to not draw attention to himself his hackles rise, military strategies forming half thought plans and routes of escape, exhaustion slowly seeping through his veins from the journey so far. He calls out for his brother in arms again, failing to hear the crunching of gravel before something hard connects with the back of his skull.

His vision explodes with colour and light as he feels his body fall forward gracelessly, face scraping the broken glass beneath him as his mind faded in and out, barely registering the fact he's being dragged up a small sidestreet, and is suddenly dumped in front of a face he nearly didn't recognise. A small rickety campsite surrounds them, looking temporary, it seems as if a group of people had planned on staying here for a short while before quickly packing away and moving on, short wooden panels and metal plates were used as makeshift defences that fenced them in the small street.

The face of the raider that had turned tail and ran a few weeks back from the slaughter in front of the museum in Concord sneers down at Nate, brand new welded armour rattling and shifting on his shoulders and chest in an attempt to make the almost scrawny, malnourished man seem larger than he really was. Fury and amusement mixed together on the raider's face in an expression of tormented glee at finding his prey, it leaves a pit in the bottom of the veteran's stomach. 

“Didn't think you’d see this ugly mug again did ya?!” The man practically spits at Nate, arms opened wide as the rest of the raiders surrounding them jeer at the newly appointed ring leader. Whooping and clapping can be heard as he spits at the ground by Nate's now aching knees, another raider behind him having the vet's head being held up by his hair, he can only sneer back at him, the fury he once felt burning hot again as he finds Preston in a similar position just beyond him, a matching red wound to his head, Dogmeat nowhere to be found.

Watching Preston and attempting to locate the tan and brown fun of the pooch, he fails to notice a steel-toed boot that connects with Nate's stomach. He doubles over, pain shooting through his abdomen as he feels a rib splinter in his lower chest, winding him as the rest of the group round on him, Preston wrestling against his human restraints as they kick, punch and shout at the vault dweller crumpled to the ground, skin tearing at his side and his face, pooling its red streaming contents into his coat and onto the ground to soak up like rainwater, as they continued their assault.

The leader of the small group of raiders then steps forward, somehow he managed to get a hold of a machete, and as it came barreling down towards Nate's head, Preston shouting out in warning and receiving his own fist to his gut, deflating into himself at the pain, face white as a sheet and coughing. Nate only had a second to bring up his arm, protected by a piece of metal armour wrapped around his coat, the machete warps and sinks into the metal and leather arm guard, sparks flying at the impact, face contorted in agonising pain as Nate's wrist shouts in a sharp agonising jolt of electricity, no doubt the force of the blade fracturing the small bones just beneath his skin.

The mutilated leader roars out a shout, and when he pulls back to retrieve the weapon, it rips the small piece of armour Nate had with it, the force sending Nate forward slightly, pulling at his shoulder, a small cut and widespread swelling as evidence it was ever there in the first place. He throws it to the ground before continuing.

“You thought you could make a fool of me huh?!” Red hazed eyes hardened at Nate, evidence of Psycho pumping through his veins, and he's grabbing Nate by the lapel of his duster, sending a bruising punch to his face, shooting pain through his jaw, hot red blood quickly seeping from the fresh cut to his lower lip. Unable to get a word in as the ring leader shouts again, he spits out the blood that begins to pool in his mouth.

“Thought you could shoot up my group? Embarrass me in front of my men? Take what was ours?!” The crazed raider's fist comes flying down again and again, creating red welts on the veteran’s face and around his eyes, causing his vision to swim and dark spots to form as he fights both the maniac above him and the concussion that was sure to follow. Hands grabbed uselessly at the abuser’s arm as his vision swerved to the side along with his head, the lump to the back of his skull not helping the throbbing that began to pulse through his head, and the ring leader finally let go of Nate, his face lighting up in a disgusting new epiphany, eyes sparking as he does. He slowly stands and stalks towards Preston, Nate forgotten as he now preaches calmly to the air as he goes.

“Y'know, word on the street is you've been going after a lot of us recently, vault boy.” He sneers. The coolness of his voice now sends fresh fear through Nate as he's unable to lift himself from the floor, his wrist burns at the attempt and sending him collapsing down in pain.

”Up in Lexington… my boys in Concord…” He stops in front of Preston and spins theatrically around on his heels towards the man on the floor, attempting again to lift himself from the ground, everything screaming at him to protect himself and Preston. 

“Maybe I ought to nip this in the bud huh? Get rid of this, Minutemen, as you're so called…” The raider's head slowly turns towards Preston, still held down by the men flanking his sides. Leader facing leader, the raider reaches down, a boot atop of the useless, discarded armour and wrenches the machete free, gripping its leather handle and he grins wide.

“Starting with its leader.”

He voices lowly towards Preston, face a contortion of pure madness and malice. If their faces could lose any more colour than it could, it would have drained straight down from the expression both Preston and now Nate wore just then. Horrified and wrestling with all his might, the minutemen leader struggled against the men holding him down with a bruising grip, his own mind surely swimming too from the trauma dealt to it, the rest of the crazed raiders cheering and hollering as their leader raises the machete high in the sky.

Nate watches the early setting sun frame the weapon, glinting in the golden glow, casting a burning shadow around the raider wielding it in a sickening image of insanity, grinning ear to ear, eyes ablaze watching the man struggle beneath him with joy. Preston finally manages to get an arm free but it's too late, and as the blade swipes down towards its target, a loud, thundering roar cuts through the cacophony of cheering from the gathered men.

Distracted by the noise, the maniacal leader whips around his head to the familiar sound, the trajectory of the blade changing and sending a slice through Preston's face, from his cheekbone to his chin instead of his skull. Thankfully it was not deep enough to cut a hole straight through the thin skin, but enough to leave a mangled scar when it eventually heals.

Preston cried out in pain as the raiders next to him finally let go and took a few steps back, their attention no longer on the man below them, he brought his hands to the open wound on his face as a giant lumbering beast wandered over at the continuous noise of cheering and shouting. A concrete club swings lazily in its hand as it spots the small gathering and finally roars again, sending blood and spit in their direction.

Nate watched on as a parallel of them only moments ago; the raider's faces draining of colour at the danger as they themselves wrestle with the floor and rubble, scattering like rats in front of a cat as a super mutant begins swinging at them all furiously, the club connecting with an unfortunate raider's back, a sharp crack making the man fold backwards and in half unnaturally, the force sending the body slamming into a nearby building. The man didn't even let out a sound as it happened. The rest, fueled by terror, survival instinct and common sense, begin running for their lives, the answer obvious when they see they are outmatched in a fight, and leave the veteran and minutemen leader to fend for themselves. 

This was not what Nate had imagined a super mutant to look like, slumped on the floor he stares in horror at the creature, its stature at least double what he had pictured, its skin a sickening bile green, covered head to toe in knotted muscles and scars of old and new. Its large chunky fingers grasped the concrete rebar of a club as it began swinging it around even more, fueled on by the small animals it spies scattering around its huge legs. It seems the only thing Nate assumed right about the ginormous being was that they did indeed act as a caveman would, mind smart enough to discover fire and fight for survival, but dumb as rocks when it came to a sophisticated civilisation. Truly this was a creature born of the wasteland, and right now it was dominating humanity in its strength and resolve to squash them into the floor below.  

Distracted by his musings, the raging super mutant had now turned into two, three, four stumbling bodies, stocky and large, green as they were, flanked with equally monstrous large green hounds, their howls deep and long, almost melodic as they called for their masters, readying to charge at the small prey they found. Nate had no other choice but to haul ass and run too, adrenaline urges him on as his chest hus killing him. He let out a few short feather-light breaths, ribs contorting at the sudden movement, body burning like the setting sun's final orange rays behind the horizon of Boston.

Finally up from the ground, struggling with all his might to get his bones and muscles to coordinate with each other in a push for survival, he sees Preston hunched over on the other end of the clearing, ready to dash out of danger. Dogmeat’s limp frame is held on and over the leader's shoulder, cheek free bleeding onto his militia frock. Their eyes meet, pain screwed into his face like a permanent scar he'll soon receive, his own super mutant swings a club around and screaming gibberish of skinning and eating them, and Preston mouths out something to Nate that he can't understand amidst his bloody, sweat-soaked and slowly darkening vision, before turning around and fleeing the scene.

Looking on, Nate had no choice to run back the opposite way they came originally, effectively getting separated from each other. Nate watches the hulking super mutants and hounds just feet away from him, sledgehammers in hand, his ribs and wrist burning from the pain of the fractures, and he finds has no choice but to turn and run further away from Preston and Dogmeat, and run as far as his body would take him, further into the city's ruins.

°**~~~**°

The creaking old floors of the Old State House rattled through the corridors, wrinkled bodyguards patrolling its grounds as a ghoul, drenched in a red trenchcoat and alcohol, leather tricorn hat discarded somewhere in the room, slowly rose from the precarious spot he found himself in on the ratty and shredding sofa he slept on the night before.

Well if you could call it sleep, he had spent nearly the whole night down in the third rail, partying with his people, handing out chems and drinking away his problems of the fears of tyranny and the chem wars between the triggermen and Marowski, trader and owner of the Rexford hotel a short walk across the street. 

Goodneighbour wasn't known to be a good place, small and compact, its rubbish, sludge filled streets, chemmed up drifters and homeless, and the scent of rot was enough to deter anyone with a nose and common sense, but it was a place of the people and for the people. A phrase he would shout out during his balcony speeches, yet his time being mayor, dishing out speeches atop of that balcony, arse comfy on a sofa, Jet swirling through his person, had begun to make him feel less of a benevolent mayor, there for justice and freedom, and more of someone bossing others around while the caps come flooding in.

Unease set in his stomach as the mayor swung his feet over the edge of the bed and stood, unsure if it were from his swirling thoughts, or the alcohol that was sure to soon swirl from his gut and onto the red stained carpet below. Wandering over to the mentioned balcony, looking down at the citizens mulling around, filling their days, Hancock was lucky he no longer sported a nose right now as he dragged a hand down his face, as if to wipe away the night before and the sleep crusting around his eyelids. He eyes up a suspiciously new stain of the floor behind him in the room that paired with the rest that had built up over time, whether it was blood or vomit, the mayor couldn't bring himself to really care, it had all begun to create an abstract pattern of the ground over time anyway, so as long as you were high and weren't squinting to closely, it could be called an okay carpet of sorts.

Swinging himself away from the balcony and waltzing back into the building, boots still adorning his feet scuffing said carpet, Hancock only seemed to realise he didn't have it in him the night before to even remove anything before collapsing to sleep, only his hat which he swiped off the floor at the other end of the room. Lost in his thoughts of said night and securing the headpiece, popping a mentat from the rattling tin in his coat pocket to recall what had happened and feeling it fizzle and work its magic, he's greeted by the loud crash of the wooden door to the room swinging open and slamming into the wall beside it, wood splintering as it did so, hinges shaking slightly.

Fahrenheit storms through the entrance without a single hello as she rounds on the dazed ghoul, squinting at the sudden loud noise, brain soaked skull full of alcohol constricting painfully in a near head-splitting headache, her eyes ablaze with open fury at the ghoul as they have been seen doing so often lately.

“The third Rail again Hancock, are you serious!?” The woman boomed. If there was anyone Hancock scared of when they were angry, it was his right-hand woman. “This is, what, the fourth time this week? What have you been doing, drinking yourself to death?” She shouts incredulously.

Her fire coloured hair was neatly pushed back to the side of her face then as she huffs out a hard breath, the other side shaven to her scalp. Her tall, broad frame covered with jagged metal armour welded together and shining with slight rust, the rugged time worn outfit underneath showed that this woman had not only beaten the wasteland, but bent it to her will too, and was currently about the bend Hancock a new back as he walked to the small kitchenette, mentat not helping to form a reply as he brushed her off from talks of meetings with the aforementioned groups warring over caps and chem trades as she spoke.

With his head spinning from alcohol and blurry from the lack of Jet in his system, he would rather just ignore it in favour of pulling the curtains back and falling asleep right then and there on the floor, and wasn't that the smartest thing he's thought of this morning?... or was it evening? The setting sun could have easily been mistaken for rising in his spinning state, but perhaps Hancock should have that meeting with the hotel owner and straighten up his production of the mentats that were still fizzing underneath his tongue.

With all the commotion from Fahrenheit, they nearly failed to hear the commotion occurring outside the dingy settlement, the chorus of super mutants ranting and raving of a lost fight, and a tall stocky man, drenching in blood and sweat came busting through the front entrance of goodneighbour, bloody red welts adorned his sharp face, the blue of his vault suit barely covered by the ratty and frayed edges of the wasteland torn duster, bag and weapons strapped to his person. Hancock rushed to the entrance to the building, ready to fend off another super mutant attack, but only watched in confusion and curiosity at what was happening before him.

°**~~~**°

Barreling through the only exit there was from certain death, Nate dives through a door, neon signs blurring in his peripheral vision as he slams the it shut with a shoulder, the cries of hounds and super mutants barely registers as he nearly slumps to the ground, body screaming in white hot pain.

He doesn't know how to feel, recalling Preston holding a limp Dogmeat and leaving him to run to his own exit, he can't help but feel it wasn't a betrayal. Preston didn't seem like the kind of man to pull off a stunt like that, if the look on the leader's face was anything to go by, he looked absolutely distraught at having to leave Nate behind. As he attempts to stand up properly he's confronted by a man, scars on his face and arms as many as Nate currently had wounds, knife held in his hands as the veteran holds the large gash to his side, and the rugged man begins to speak. 

“Hold up there buddy, first time in Goodneighbor? Ya can't go walking around without insurance.” A disarming lilt covered his voice, but the light dancing in this man's eyes sang to Nate a different tune.

“Insurance?” His mind is whirring from the drastic change of pace, having moments ago been held hostage and nearly killed, separated from his friends and nearly flayed from his skeleton by green hulking brutes, he can only dumbly look on at this guy who stands before him, back straight, voice that was currently attempting to be charismatic as he introduced himself, a complete opposite to the way Nate was currently holding himself. Not even giving him his name, Nate holds his fractured wrist close to his chest, his good hand grips a large bleeding gash to his side, as if he were to let go, everything would come tumbling out of his wounds.

“That's right. Insurance. Personal protection, like.” The man, now named Finn, continues, stepping forward slightly into Nate's field of view and at the edge of his personal space, tilting his head ever so slightly. "What I mean is, you hand over everything you got in them pockets of yours, or ‘accidents’ are gonna start happenin' to ya. Big, bloody, ‘accidents’.” 

Nate doesn't like the way this guy is starting to sound, this promise of protection quickly becoming a threat. Already covered in blood and tensions running high in his mind, he throws the threat right back towards the offending thug. “You better back off, or you're the one who's going to need insurance.”

“Huh? What was that? I couldn't hear you over the sound of all that ‘pathetic’.” Finn's snarky expression showing he wasn't threatened at all, eyeing up the wounds and torn up vault suit Nate wore, the man could only assume he was just another naïve little faun that had accidentally stumbled into the lion's den.

Nate has heard enough, the man grating on his last nerves too much and too far, and with the threat of violence so soon from the previous hostage situation, it has Nate looking darkly toward the man named Finn, before he lets out a lowly warning to “Fuck off, I don’t need your insurance."

Finn stares the vet down, the message clear as day in his expression as he weighs up his chances, realising he's not going to get anything willingly from the wounded soul, he's going to have to take it forcefully. His stance suddenly changes, subtly angling his knife, preparing to charge the wounded man before him.

Hancock watches over, ready to intervene, one foot in front of the other, his own knife hidden within the folds of his red coat ready to sink into Finn’s flesh, when suddenly a thunderous bang rings out, the small crowd watches on in muted shock as the trusty 10mm is held out before Nate, smoke floating lazily from its barrel. The body of Finn falls to the floor, and a red hole weeping at his forehead, eyes bulged in silent shock. No-one moves a muscle, and Hancock only moves himself when Nate is suddenly tumbling to the ground as well for a second time that day, his wounds too much to bare as he collapses into a puddle of red next to the corpse of Finn.

°**~~~**°

Chapter Text

~*°Chapter 6°*~

Watching the new mystery man crumple to the floor left everyone in a state of shock. The bystanders, not knowing what to do, all looked at their mayor who was standing a few feet away.

“Whoa ho ho, I like this guy already, walks into a new place and makes a show of dominance? Niceee.” The ghoul claps slowly as Fahrenheit kneels down beside the body, smirking at this new turn of events. Goodneighbour did need something to spice up her streets afterall. The chem traders dished out enough drama that it was beginning to turn stale, the repetitiveness of gang shooting gang, pointing fingers, and leaving Hancock to pull them apart like two rowdy teenage boys having a scrap in the playground. He still needed to have that meeting, but he supposes now he has a real reason to delay it further. Maybe the gangs will just magically sort themselves out, have a chem filled hug, and leave Hancock to wither in his guilt even more.

It seems that mentat was still kicking afterall he muses, as he watches the rugged woman check on the reason why there's one less extorting thug off the soiled streets. He never really did like Finn afterall, the bully that he was, demanding everything from every fresh-faced wanderer that tumbled into their small little town, had this vault dweller been any less of a danger he quite clearly was, had he not shot him down in the streets filled with onlookers, Hancock would have disposed of the guy himself in a show of what we don't do in Goodneighbour.

“I suppose he got what was coming to him.” Fahrenheit mutters, looking over the slowly bleeding form. “The guy's breathing at least, so he's still alive, can't say much for Finn though.” She sneered at the offensive body, it was safe to say he wouldn't be getting a burial anything soon, unless you counted the stomach of a super mutant’s hound of course. The body would soon be moved, but for now Hancock wanted to focus on the living, breathing body first before that.

“Someone go let the Doc know, me and Fahrenheit will bring this guy down.” He calls out, voice gritty as a drifter goes running to the memory doctor in hopes that she can save the poor guy. As Fahrenheit lugs the body off the ground, Hancock steps aside to inform neighbourhood watchmen to ‘clean up the mess’; everyone knew Finn's corpse would just be thrown over the walls for the wastes to gobble up, but nobody could really care as they all began to disperse at the mayor's call for them all to clear off, nothing else to see.

°**~~~**°

Down at the memory den, the memory doctor, Doctor Amari, could be heard complaining, ringing out comments of ‘I'm not a surgical doctor, I deal with memories, not this!’ and ‘please be careful with the carpet, I've only just got that stain free’. The white labcoat that had over time began to fade and darken, fray and split at the seams, fluttered behind her as she hurried after the mayor and his second in command. She huffs out as the body is placed on a now cleared medical table down in the basement, white fluorescent lights bleaching the room in a bright sterile scene. The red of the man's blood contrasting with the silver of the table it laid upon, breath shallow and ragged, chest heaving quickly, arm wagging limply at the edge of the table.

“Hancock”, the doctor pulls him aside, “you do realise there isn't much I can do right?” she warns, and he brushes her words away, “just do what you can and we'll deal with the rest I suppose, there's no point letting a capable guy wither away is there? Who are we, super mutants?” He lets out a chuckle towards the doctor, who sighs again, washes her hands and grabs a pair of latex gloves, snapping them against her wrists, readying to get to work patching up the littering slices across the man's skin and securing the quite clearly fractured wrist with a splint. She administers a sedative into the crook of his elbow before making a start to sew him up, should the man wake up any time during the procedure.

Seeing the bleeding sod is in good hands, Hancock and Fahrenheit make to leave the basement, walk up the stairs, and exit the building, not without the mayor popping his head around a door and greeting the poor Kent, stuffed in a sideroom, hiding from the outside world with a radio in front of him. The Silver Shroud memorabilia makes him chuckle, when a ghoul has been around for as long as he and Daisy have been, Hancock supposes they have to find something to pass the time. He leaves with a few departing words, heading back to the Old State House, yet again dreading the meeting he needs to attend.

°**~~~**°

Bright. 

It was so bright.

The pain, the light seeping through his tightly closed eyelids.

Where was he? Why was it so bright, was it another bomb? Was he back to the start of his nightmare?

Nate struggles to get his bearings, struggles to remember where he was, what was happening, with that light was so painful to do so.

He tries to move but finds he can't, something was constricting his limbs, bound tightly around him, around his throbbing hand, making it hard to breathe. His eyelids shoot up and he instantly regrets it, his vision swims, was it possible for it to be any brighter than it already was? He can hear quiet whispering nearby, and as he tries to move his head to the side to get a better view of his surroundings, he's greeted with a scene he thought he'd never see again.

Stark white walls, fluorescent lighting flickering every so often, medical equipment flooding the room, metal tables, shining counters, tiled floors, tools, needles- 

The smell of antiseptic and clean fill the soldier’s nose as his nostrils flair, his heart rate skyrockets as he tries to free himself of his shackles, the leather straps around him almost tightening as he finally falls off the surface that was containing him, his chest and ribs burning with the contact, table and tools rattling and falling around him. He lifts his head off the ground to see someone with a labcoat and bloodied arms, blue gloves sparkling red in the artificial light, casting a sinister shadow across the floor, obscuring their face as it creeps towards the soldier, ready to engulf and swallow him whole. He makes an attempt to crawl away, but the shadowed form is quicker; blood-slick hands very nearly upon him, ready to deploy their twisted schemes. He can only shout out in fear, “N-no wait, stay back!”, willing this shadow to leave him alone, chest heaving, breath caught in his throat- 

It wasn't difficult to see that the man below Doctor Amari was well in the throes of a full blown panic attack. Hearing the crash in the basement, she paused her conversation with the woman laid gracefully across the plush red sofa, and rushed to the below ground level room, to be met with the man muttering quickly and squirming on the floor, battling with his coat, pulling at its loose buckles and torn threads, dangerously close the the neatly wrapped gauze that bandaged most of his limbs and chest and straining the wooden splint fashioned to try and hold his wrist secure as it sets. As she neared closer to stop the guy from tearing at his own wounds, she noticed the rugged man's pupils were pinprick points in the fiery green of his irises, unfocused, and not really seeing what was actually in front of him. 

Being a Doctor of memories also made Amari a well off Doctor of the mind, watching many people’s past thoughts and feelings made it easy over the years to pick up on certain triggers and responses from the traumatised folks that came to relive the past, no matter how painful it was. Recognition flit across her features at the signs of a PTSD induced panic, as well as the small frightful mutterings to stay away, the man's sharp, unfocused eyes in the face of blurry visions constantly shifting from the lights up above to his body, to the tools that were scattered around him, his form tensing much more when they landed on the syringe of calmex that laid close the the man's thigh. The same medication that was flowing through his form at that moment was supposed to keep him settled throughout the days of his healing, not the startled mess he was now. 

At this new information, she makes a move to slowly and carefully gather up the fallen tools and items, and calmly place them on a counter above them, making sure the man could see exactly what she was doing, trying to convey an air that didn't threaten the already unstable man before her. She slowly rose and moved away from the fragile form to turn down the lights, enough for that face to loosen up from the sharp pain of the brightness, but not enough to hide her form in the darkness, ensuring the injured man before her could still clearly see her and her intentions.

As the man visiblely shrunk in some small amount of relief, he was still on high guard as Amari began to sit down on the floor in front of him, leaning against the wall as she did, door to her left in case she needed to leave the room and give the man some space. She then speaks softly to the traumatised bundle of bandages on the floor.

“My name is Doctor Amari, you are currently in the Memory Den in Goodneighbor, located in Commonweath Boston. You are safe here, you have nothing to fear, and no one is going to hurt you.” she reassured the man, unsure whether her words would have cut through the haze of fear that shone in the man's bright eyes, unsure if what she was saying would even help to calm the man down.

But something must have broke through, because that expression of fear ever so slowly turns to one of confusion, then curiosity, and finally, the man looks around again, eyes more lucid, pupils dilating slightly, breath and chest slowing to a more steady rhythm, and Doctor Amari’s shoulders relax from the tension she wore like a second labcoat when she hears the man's voice croak out a single word.

“G-goodneighbor?” Nate's voice cracks as he finally looks around the room that came into focus more clearly, the shadowed visage morphing into the actual form of a woman, lithe and mostly clean as she watches Nate come back from the terror that just flooded his veins, registering the familiar lethargic pull of calmex that now replaced the feeling.

“Yes!” the good doctor enthusiastically replies, “Yes you are currently in Goodneighbour, does that name ring a bell to you?” Her crisp, clear voice rings out, matching the tables and walls that surround her.

“No, no I've never heard of this place before, wha- what happened?” He speaks bluntly, looking down at himself to see he was not in fact covered in leather straps on a table, but it was the loose straps of his duster and the tight hold of crisp clean bandages that had him nearly ripping them off his person, a wodden splint holding his mangled wrist together as it pulses with pain and inflammation. Some of his wounds had begun to bleed through, no doubt a stitch or two coming loose in his fight with himself.

“You were found within an inch of your life on the floor by the door you came through, after gunning a man down who tried to threaten you” she replies easily, “or so I've been told, the mayor didn't tell me much, I have hoped you could fill me in when you finally awoke. The wounds you sustained were quite serious, it was a fight to bring you back around”. She begins to tidy up the place, discarding dirty tools to the sink to be washed and disinfected, soiled gauze and dressings tossed into the nearby trashcan, ridding her hands of the bloodied latex gloves and washing her hands with a practiced grace, along with the said tools as well.

As Nate watched on, mind still whirring from his previous panic, the vet couldn't help but wonder how long he was here, and suddenly the images of the fight that had led Nate to Goodneighbour’s doorstep had him worried about whether Preston and Dogmeat had even made it out alive. 

“Wait, how long have I been here for?” He blurts out suddenly, shattering the quiet that had settled over the two. Doctor Amari turns around then, her head inclined towards Nate as she replies, “Hmm? Oh, just over four days, I'm surprised you recovered so fast, and so is the mayor too, he's been keeping an eye out since he brought you down.”

‘Four days?! What had happened between that time and now?’ He mused silently, thoughts simmering beneath his skin, the situation the trio had found themselves in was traumatic, but Nate could only pray that Preston and Dogmeat had made it to Diamond City in time after the attack.

"If you're feeling up to it, you can go over to him now, he wanted to talk to you once you were healed up. Your vitals are holding, and all I'd need to do is change those bandages and check your fractures before you're free to go.” She faces Nate fully now, drying tools and hands on a nearby dishcloth face calm and professional as she speaks. “Just make sure you don't get into any more trouble for the following week, those bones need to heal after being set before you can do anything strenuous.” At this, Nate finally makes to stand up on his feet, legs wobbling slightly but able to hold his own weight, the cuts, bruises and bones throbbing as he does, but the Doctor just hands him a rattling bottle of painkillers and inform him to take four evenly and throughout the day. “Oh and one more thing, please take care of yourself. I don't know what you've been through, but it's quite clear it's affecting your mental health.”

Nate now takes in a deep breath, attempting to brush aside the panic attack that had just transpired, willing it to stay in the deep dark of his mind, and with new bandages, Nate is slowly hobbling out of the door he was carried through and towards the mayoral building that held Goodneighbour's dear mayor.

°**~~~**°

Finally meeting the mayor of the town, he had not expected the man to be a ghoul, and while his wrinkled and scarred face gave him an unusual aura, it didn't make him look half as old as Nate imagined, the only mayors Nate having seen were not only old, but senile in their mind as well as years, attempting to control the masses with their supposed wisdom from said age.

But this mayor before him was as young and full of life as Nate was, minus the wounds, and was twirling a large hunting knife in the air and catching a deftly into his awaiting hand below with a practiced ease that showed the time it took to perfect such an act. His expression was at ease, and almost a veiled sense of boredom, as the mayor threw the knife in the air, and watched the vault dweller before him, as though his hand had their own pair of eyes to focus on the blade with which he could focus on other matters, such as introducing himself to Nate with a flourished final catch of his knife and a charming smile.

During their travel to Diamond City, Nate and Preston had passed through Cambridge, a mess of a place, with a giant crater adorning the center of the district, buildings falling apart at different stages surrounding it, evident of a bomb landing in the area back in October 2077. Peering over the edge had them discovering a den of feral ghouls, garbled snarls and clawed fingers scratching at the ground, hunched over forms shambling like zombies.

Preston had mentioned that many of the people who weren't vaporised by the bomb must have turned into these creatures, radiation leaving their brains as a mush of fat and cerebrospinal fluid as they succumbed to their baser instincts, attacking anything that moved on sight. The trio had quickly vacated the premises in search of safer grounds to settle for the evening, their sounds of screeching and snarling could be heard through the winds that chilled them that night.

But the ghoul before Nate was nowhere near resembling those of his feral counterparts, black eyes sharp and shining with intelligence, pose and expression calm and lax, not a hint of aggression towards Nate in sight, and despite the knife flipping into the air just a moment ago, it was never pointed towards Nate. The garbed in red ghoul introduced himself as Hancock, the name slipping out of the aforementioned man as he stares at Nate, “and who might you be, hmmm? I can't be calling you vaultie all the time now can I?” His voice was amused, eyeing up the blue and gold suit, and remembering the way the man had tumbled into the settlement and cemented his face into every onlooker who was there to watch the showdown.

Certainly not one of the doe eyed vaulties that have been and gone before, this one was tough, evidenced by the fact that he not only went up against a group of super mutants, but was up and nearly running in no more than five days after the damage he sustained. Still weak, but strong-bodied as he stared into the ghoul’s face, slightly chuckling at the name 'vaultie', like it didn't terrify him from his boots that were planted firmly in the ratty stained carpet. No signs of disgust marred the stocky man's features either, and that's what surprised him more.

“I've got hand it to you brother, you've reaallly shaken things up here, you're almost the talk of the town, bleeding on my doorstep and shooting my guy down”, he speaks low, words all charming, calculated and cold, and all Nate can do is reply with a blunt “Oh, right I did do that, didn't I?”. Nate's hand came up to scratch at his neck, staring back at the ghoul unsure of where he stood in the room, Fahrenheit leaning against the kitchenette counter, watching the exchange go down with sharp eyes and sharper instincts. The way the ghoul had spoken just then felt like a test, the way he formed his words ‘shot down ‘his’ guy on ‘his’ doorstep’, it gave off the impression he had wandered into someone else's territory and defied all its rules.

Lifting his head up with all the courage he could in the eyes of Goodneighbour's leader, he goes to explain himself, “Well I'm sorry for killing him, but in hindsight he deserved it.” He looks to the side and shrugs his shoulders, skin prickling at the eyes on him as he speaks. And as the room fell silent, Nate instantly realised he had said the wrong thing, words had failed him in his poor attempt of reasoning, a pit forming in his battered gut, mind whispering to him that he mistook the almost amused twinkle the mayor's eyes for someone who was much more lenient with-

A sudden, deep-bellied laugh escapes the ghouls chest, slowly building he couldn't help double over slightly at the blatant discard of manners in the way this vault dweller had presented. Fahrenheit watched wide-eyed at one of the few who didn't seem that intimidated or disturbed by the mayor when first meeting the ghoul, simply cautious of the situation he was in. It was that or this one just seemed dumb as rocks as Nate quietly stood and watched, attempting to calculate what to do next but not knowing what to say as the ghoul mayor wiped away a fake tear, lifted his head and finally spoke.

“Oh brother, you and me both! If you hadn't shot him down I would have done it myself.” His voice crisp and gravelled as his knife glinted in the overhead light in his hand as he pretended to gut the air before him theatrically, amusement still evident in his eyes. He chuckled, “Heh, even Fahrenheit over here said the same, so cool your Jets ok? I ain't here to gut you too, just warn you not to pull something like that again, ya feel me?”.

Nate, confused out of his mind, only mindful of the knife wielded in the mayor's hand and the promise of not meeting its hilt should he behave, he voices back in a quieter “Yeah, I feel you.”

He then holds out his hand, “My name's Nate by the way, it's uh, good to meet you Mayor.” A much more polite tone coating his words after the way he handled his speech before, and the ghoul simply stashes away the knife and takes his hand and firmly shakes, squeezing it slightly as he perks up at the formality that passes by Nate's lips. “Ugh please, just call me Hancock, ‘Mayor’ feels too cold, like I'm separate from the folks that live here too ya know?” Nate can understand the sentiment. The weight of a title can drag anyone down if they're not careful. Thinking back to the time he served, he's so lost in thought he misses what the ghoul next said.

“Sorry, what was that?” He blurts dumbly, and Hancock has to repeat himself, ignoring the way vault dweller’s eyes drop down, deep in the throes of his mind. "I said how about you go talk a walk, look around town, clear your head a bit hmm?” He pauses at this, the thinly veiled suggestion not lost on the veteran. “Besides I've got some work that needs doing, meetings and such.” The mayor rolls his eyes at this, and Nate isn't that stupid at social signals to know when he's no longer needed, so he bids farewell to the two and leaves the building.

Feeling the sores on his back, the wounds and fractured bones, much like his fractured mind, he looks back at the imposing building he exited a moment ago and wonders how his life had flipped so suddenly. He fiddles with his dogtags in his good hand again, thankful he still at least has his shooting hand fairly unharmed as he absentmindedly wonders what his brother-in-arms was doing that same moment, if, after 4 days Preston and Dogmeat were within the hustle and bustle of an unknown city, or 6 feet under. The unease that curls around his stomach was too much for the now muted effects of Calmex to control, so he sets off to discover this new environment instead, in an attempt to distract himself further from his mind's warring wonderings.

°**~~~**°