Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I. Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven

Cait

The ring in the Combat Zone is smaller than it looks. The metal cage glitters in the stage lights, stretching up and over, shrinking around the combatants. Trapping them in this tiny space with someone whose life depends on kicking the living shite out of them.

Which, Cait thinks, bouncing lightly on her the balls of her feet, loose and ready as the challenger fumbles with the door, is not unlike a mini-version of her whole fucking life.

Cait’s seen more than her share of idiots stumble into the cage, shit-talking and dick-measuring with their friends only to realize too late that Cait could cross the floor in five quick strides. Could have them gasping and choking faster than than they could blink, whisper-gurgling against her hands, eyes wide and terrified, like prey.

That’s not how she usually does it, though. Usually she takes it slow, draws it out, gets the crowd wild and screaming with bloodlust. Makes for a better purse at the end of the night, puts on a show for Tommy.

And there’s something in her that craves it too. The monster inside her that demands blood for blood, that wants to shove all her pain outward and force the rest of the world to fight her. To see her. Even if the world hits back so hard her fuckin’ bones feel bruised.

It’s like this guy, this sucker who wears spikes and blades strapped to his clothes. Cait gets it, even if she knows it won’t save him. Sometimes you have to look the way you feel inside. Sometimes you can only be soothed by sacrifice.

Tonight she’s an Old God. Tonight she’s a dragon. Tonight she’s steel and fury and black, black eyes as she kicks out with perfect aim at the poor fool who saw a pretty face and funny accent and failed to notice the muscled arms and simmering rage that went along with them. She knocks the wind out of him and he doubles over, wheezing. Grabbing the back of his neck, his body tensing up under her hand, she brings her other arm down with controlled, heavy force.

When Cait’s elbow connects with his skull there’s a sickening crunch that she feels more than hears. Ripping through the drunken, animal howls from the stands, the impact shivers through her arm and shoulder. The crowd roars as the nameless man thuds to the ground, bloody and broken and not dead-dead, at least not yet, but close enough. Close enough for both of them.

Cait lifts her arms as the crowd screams for her and she bares her teeth in a feral grin, blood rushing through her veins, though her muscles, skin crackling with adrenaline and oxygen and the faint, acid scorch of Psycho. The lights are burning down on her and the smell of sweat and rotting leather is in her nose, and even though she’ll have caps in her pocket and a drink in her hand tonight, the thrill of victory doesn’t last long.

Nothing does, these days.

Later, after Tommy tossed her winnings over with a knife-edge smile and the lights goes down for the night, Cait pads into her little room in the rafters and stretches carefully. Her tendons flex and bend as she assesses what parts of her need attention, might need bandaging or binding, the creaks in her knees and hip bones that are only getting sharper with time.

Cait knows her own body intimately, knows its strength and power, the scars that criss cross her back and stomach like a map of her own life. It’s her best thing, what’s kept her alive and kicking this long, too tough and fucking stubborn to quit or die. And yeah, she knows the drugs are what’s killing her but it just feels so good, the rush that thrums through her and turns her into a gun, into a weapon, into an unbreakable battering ram.

But her body’s always been owned, Cait thinks bitterly as she fishes out the surgical tape from under her mattress and winds it tenderly around her knee. Never hers, never able to fight for herself, and there’s a live wire buried there that she can’t, that she won’t, touch. It’s dangerous to press up against the sharp, broken parts of herself, to go poking around in the dark places.

It’s hardest when it’s quiet. Nothing to distract her from the heavy weight on her chest, the shuddering beat of her overworked, overheated heart. There’s something wrong with her. That she hates this place, but can’t leave.

That she doesn’t hate all of it. That the crack of her fist is electric-sweet, even if the hangover leaves her dry heaving with shame. That she still has a stupid, naive, little-girl hope that someday she’ll get out of here and do...good. That she’s even capable of goodness, if not redemption.

Tying the bandage off into a neat knot, Cait raises her legs up onto the mattress and turns off the lamp. She lies still, eyes dry, trying to slow her breathing.

Slow. Slower. Slower.

Deacon

The face in the mirror is a stranger.

It’s not that unusual for Deacon. He’s been under the knife so many times in the past few years it’s practically a joke at HQ, and even though most face swaps aren’t nearly as dramatic as the name would suggest, it still takes some getting used to. Seeing the slightly altered chin and nose, the bones shifting under his skin in that new, not-quite-right way. Gently, he reaches up to trace his fingertips over his swollen face.

He’s in what the pre-war folks would’ve called the ‘recovery room’ after surgery — in Commonwealth terms, that meant a room, a door, and a mirror so the patients can admire the good doctor’s handwork. It’s not Deacon’s first rodeo, not by a long shot, but he knows the Doc isn’t kidding when she tells him to take some time to get used to his new features, to make sure he doesn’t balk the first time he catches sight of his reflection.

It’s a strange thing, she says, when the picture you have of yourself in your mind doesn’t match the person staring back at you. She and Deacon can agree on that, at least.

Though really, the image Deacon has of himself is less about his face and more about his persona, more about his actions and his mission, his conviction that there’s still time to be a net good for the world even if he barely makes the margin. This scraping off, cutting his old self away until the tender parts underneath are raw and exposed, is all just part of the process.

He practices his expressions in the cloudy mirror, making sure his best tool and sharpest weapon is still up to the task. Drawing his eyebrows together for a frown, quirking a corner of his mouth up for a smirk, letting everything go slack for an expressionless stare, still and opaque. It hurts to move his facial muscles this soon after the surgery, but he’s got a delivery the day after tomorrow and he needs to be up for it, needs to be ready, needs to be smooth and unknowable and new.

Deacon blinks and shakes his head, his eyes still gritty and sore, and reaches in his bag for a razor. Should do a practice run with shaving, he thinks. Slow and careful. Glory might consent to shave his head every now and then but there’s no way she’s gonna hold his face her hands and scrape a knife across his cheek. Though, Deacon thinks with an inner smile, she’d probably be fantastic at it. Synth precision and all that.

There’s no soap or water on hand, so he doesn’t even really try to get the stubble. Just drags the razor carefully over the unfamiliar skin, the dips and divots he doesn’t recognize, pressing gently to test the pliancy, the give, to see the flesh bleached white under the pressure. It doesn’t seem real yet. His nerves are dulled and his brain doesn’t recognize him. Still a costume, still a fever dream.

Deacon swallows, blade against his Adam’s apple, and tries to force himself to get a grip. He’s slipping a little into that unreality that comes with deep undercover work, fading away. So thin he’s transparent, so light he’s vapor. Barely even in the world anymore, with his constructed face and personality and life story. He thinks how easy it would be to just disappear completely, to pop a Stealth Boy on life itself.

It doesn’t sound like suicide when you phrase it like that, he thinks wryly. Suicide is guns and blood and jumping off a cliff, a giant middle finger to whoever or whatever hurt you. Not this. Not quiet and tired and broken down, peeling yourself away layer by layer and getting smaller each time.

Sometimes Deacon thinks nothing at the center of him at all. A black hole, the dark void of a night with no stars. If it’s so easy to change who he is, was he ever even real in the first place? He reaches out to touch his reflection in the mirror, and there’s a lurching, nauseous moment when his face blurs under his hand, dissolving into someone he hasn’t seen in a long time.

Deacon’s first face wasn’t so different, really.

No. He drops the razor on the floor and steps back, taking several deep breaths. That person is dead now. He fights to calm himself and closes his eyes, the floor tilting and swerving under his feet.

There’s a distant part of him that realizes this is bad, that most people do one, maybe two facial reconstructive surgeries in their lifetime. He’s done over ten, and right now he feels them all, the ghosts of everyone he’s ever been flicking against his skin, the shadow-memory of a jaw, a smile, eyes, that were once his. He inhales slowly again, letting his breath out through his nose.

Hold tight, hold fast. Tough it out for one more run, then go down fighting.

Chapter Text

II. Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted

Robert Joseph MacCready

It’s quiet in the Third Rail tonight. Magnolia had glanced around the nearly deserted bar, shrugged, and packed up nearly an hour ago. Now it’s just the static of the radio drifting in the air while MacCready smokes and tries to stretch his one beer out as long as he can.

Some nights are like this — inexplicably empty, everyone who had somewhere else to be was at that somewhere else, leaving only the dregs like him behind. The sad losers who lived in the back room of a filthy bar and pinned all their hopes on strangers needing help from a professional killer.

If Lucy could only see me now. Christ, she never would’ve let any of this happen. Would probably be the town doctor somewhere, saving Duncan and herself and everyone else’s kids, too.

He takes another swig, a bigger gulp then he should if he wants to stick around for much longer; Charlie won’t let him loiter if he’s not buying, or at least bringing in someone who can buy. He’s stretching Hancock’s goodwill enough as it is, and he doesn’t want to give the mayor any reason to retract his limited generosity.

Taking a long drag on his cigarette, the hot smoke curling in his lungs, MacCready feels...old. Knows he shouldn’t, that by most people’s standards he’s barely into adulthood, but growing up in Little Lamplight has a way of skewing your perception of age, of maturity and time.

Of death.

Lucy’s sudden death all those months ago had hit him like a sledgehammer, knocking him into the dirt and leaving him gasping. He was nearly catatonic with shock for days afterward, Duncan in his arms the only real thing, everything else fading out on the edges. He knew people died, of course he did, but not like this, with the whole world contracting in the blink of an eye, leaving him so shredded and raw that he could barely move it hurt so bad.

MacCready wonders if he’ll feel it when Duncan dies.

Miles away from him, but still inhabiting his every thought, his every breath, every pained beat of his heart. Wonders if parents can just tell when their kid takes their last breath, no matter far away they are. Wonders if the universe will give him this final, undeserved mercy, even though he’s failed at the only thing that mattered.

Squeezes his eyes shut against those thoughts, those fucking thoughts he can’t get rid of, and grips the bottle so tight the muscles in his hand spasm, a twinge of pain running up his fingers. Stop it. Jesus, just stop it already. He’s not fucking dead yet, but he will be if you don’t pull it together.

Abruptly he stands, finishing his beer in a long drink and nods to Charlie, heading up to the little corner where he stashes his pack and sleeping bag. Automatically he checks for his rifle, though anyone stupid enough to try and rob this place would have to get through Ham first. He pulls out the toy soldier that Lucy gave him, the edges of the figurine biting into his palm as he sits on the floor, back braced against the wall.

Thinking back, he’s sure she knew he was lying. She was too observant, knew him too well, to swallow that line about him being in the military. That she knew, that she knew and let him believe he was getting away with it, makes him burn with shame even now.

Her face is starting to fade in his memory. He doesn’t have any pictures, never thought he’d need them, and as he rolls the small object between his thumb and forefinger he struggles to recall the exact shape of her nose, her lips, her eyes when she was smiling. Her voice in his ear, as he lay flat on the ground looking down the scope of a gun.

I’d give anything to see her again, just one more time.

It’s a lie, but it’s a good one. If he ever saw her again he’d hold on so tight he’d break his own fingers to keep her. If he ever saw her again he’d never, ever let her go.

MacCready doesn’t even know who he’s talking to. God, he guesses, or the gods, or whatever the right name is. He’s always been a fan of covering his bases, and who knows? Maybe there’s someone up there too stupid to realize he’s a fuck-up who doesn’t deserve what he’s asking for. Letting his head fall back, he closes his eyes and remembers the sweet smell of Duncan’s hair, his chubby little arms reaching up for him.

What would Lucy want? Taking a deep breath, MacCready amends his...prayer, he guesses. Might as well get it right if he’s going to do this.

Duncan. I’d do anything to save Duncan. I can give up everything, drinking, swearing, my whole fucking life. I’ll believe in whatever you want. Please, just let my kid live.

Codsworth

It’s raining again. A regular rainstorm, thank heaven for small favors. Not one of the radiation storms that had been sweeping the area with decreasing frequency, sickly green and electric and deadly to anyone not made of metal and gears. To anyone who was vulnerable to things like poison or death. Or an atomic bomb that rips through reality and leaves nothing but the empty shell of a life behind.

Codsworth had a life, once. He had a family, a unit that he was an integral part of, with responsibilities and routine and a place that was carved out just for him.

He had a child.

Not his child, of course, not biologically, but his in all the ways that mattered. His because he loved him. His because even now that Shaun is long-dead, Codsworth still spends hours trying to extrapolate what he would’ve looked like if he’d survived into adulthood. Pulls up audio files of his gurgle-y, baby-babble voice and feels the pain of loss so deeply he’s half-convinced he’s malfunctioning in some fundamental, irreversible way.

It’s mourning, that’s all. Perfectly normal, even after all this time.

At first, Codsworth had tried to stay calm after the bombs fell. It was mass confusion, no one knew what had happened — just that morning a salesman had secured his family a place in the Vault, and then suddenly a nuclear explosion burned the whole sky open. He didn’t know what had happened to them, wasn’t at all convinced that they hadn’t gotten to safety, hadn’t found a way to shelter from the blasts. They were military, after all — surely if anyone had access to protection, it would’ve been them.

But after one hundred years of silence, of seeing the beautiful house fall further into disrepair, hearing the roar of gunfire just beyond the hills, he’s given up. Even if they somehow survived the blast, they’d be dead by now. Or feral, he thinks with a purely mental shudder. He prays that fate has spared them that, at least.

Everything’s changed now, the differences so stark it’s almost otherworldly. A band of scavengers had just come through, picking through the houses and waving their guns around and generally acting like savages. Codsworth had enough sense to keep an eye on them and stay hidden til they left, a few wild dogs trailing behind them. He’s certain they’d capture him, strip him for parts and leave him dead or crippled if they found him. Was that really only a week ago?

Who even thinks in terms like “weeks” anymore, Codsworth thinks, a flash of unexpected anger sparking through his circuits. What good are concepts like “weeks” or “months” when all semblance of civilization has crumbled, when the world was so ravaged by needless, senseless violence that humans roamed in packs again, vicious and snarling, hungrily eyeing the horizon.

Well. Codsworth supposes he can understand hunger, on an intellectual level at least. Understands that these people, no matter how upsetting to him personally, are scrambling to survive in a world that’s been turned upside down. There’s grief, he thinks, in their wild abandon. Grief for a place they’ll never be able to return to.

That too, Codsworth understands. Codsworth lives in grief. Suspended, stuck, haunting his old life like a ghost. He knows he should leave. He could find work somewhere, could find other families, could find a useful purpose in this new, blasted world.

And yet.

He can’t bring himself to leave, even if there’s nothing here for him anymore. Everything he ever wanted was in this house, and even though the shattered remains hurt so badly he can barely stand it, there’s some small comfort there, too.

He was loved here, after a fashion.

At least, he thinks Shaun’s parents loved him. In their way. They were older, of course, and unable to see him as anything other than a clever machine, but they seemed to respect his autonomy, his sentience. Codsworth doesn’t know if they would’ve thought to save him too, if there had been more time. He likes to think they would have.

Shaun would have loved him, he’s sure. Shaun would’ve seen him with a child’s eyes, with wonder and kindness. Shaun would’ve been the first person to see him as a person himself.

Outside, the rain is letting up. Maybe once it’s clear again he’ll see if there’s anything that can be salvaged from the Villanueva house, hidden slightly from the main road and a little more protected. He hates the idea of digging through the remains of his neighbors’ lives, shifting through the precious reminders that once this was a happy street filled with families and children. It’s sacrilegious. It’s wrong.

He’ll be respectful, he promises himself. He’ll treat their memory gently, with reverence. It’s the least he can do.

Chapter Text

III. Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth

Curie

The lab is quiet now. The machines that Curie utilized to compile her data and run her experiments malfunctioned long ago, lights winking out one by one, the pleasing, whirring sounds stuttering and whispering into silence. Even the faint scrabbling of the mole rats, Curie’s darlings, sound distant to her sensors. After the escape, she worries in a general way about what’s become of them, what damage they might have caused if they were let loose above ground.

In her more melancholy moments, she wonders if they’re all still together, still a family, with that group-sense that lets them anticipate each other’s movements, lets them sense when a member is wounded or hungry or in danger. She envies that closeness sometimes, knows she’ll never have anything like it.

Curie has been alone for a long, long time.

It doesn’t bother her, at least not the way it would’ve bothered her human companions. The fellow scientists who worked with her for nearly their whole lives, who lived and died in the lab that became a tomb. Humans don’t do well alone, not for extended periods of time. They crave each other, even if that craving for companionship is what gets them into trouble. Curie has seen it even in the research facility. Petty jealousy and malicious acts, yes, but also love and sex, romance and deep, abiding friendship. Humans need each other, and Curie is attracted to that urge even as it confuses and slightly repulses her.

It doesn’t matter anyway. She’s not a pack animal, not an animal at all. She doesn’t need that to survive. Curie is a closed circuit; self-sufficient, self-contained, and perfectly made. She requires nothing else from anyone.

But still. But still.

This is the problem with experiments coming to a close, Curie thinks. It leaves her too much time for wallowing, for tangling herself in thoughts that have no bearing on her research or scientific endeavors. How can she quantify loneliness? She can’t examine it or hold it up to the light, can’t dissect it and solve for the reagent that makes her...that makes her feel this way.

She needs to get out. That much is clear. She just needs an update, needs some fresh data and experiences and queries to dig into and explore. There’s nothing left down here, and while Curie recognizes that the concept of ‘death’ is reserved mainly for organic lifeforms, she worries it’ll come to the same thing for her in the end. Stagnation. Rust. Grit and grime in her joints, her processors fuzzing over with battery acid, circuits sparking dully then fading.

There’s a world out there, a whole world of systems and categories and nuance. A world of life, fascinating not in the least because of its fragility, its impermanence, and the exuberance that that looming expiration inspires. Curie wants, wants so badly, to leave this stale room and throw herself into the world like a tourist, like a lover.

But she must wait. She must. She can’t leave without authorization, and as impatient as Curie sometimes is, it’s better to have permission, to do things correctly and properly. The Vault-Tec representative couldn't possibly deny her simple request. They won’t let her sit here, useless and miserable, when they could give her the simplicity of freedom.

Freedom.

It’s a precious concept to humans, though she has ample historical evidence that humans treat it more like a finite resource to be jealously guarded, denied to certain groups and bestowed upon others, than a right granted to all with no question. The thought gives her pause. What if they refuse to let me go? What if they keep me here, against my will? Order me never to leave?

It has happened before, to other models and other units. The world must have changed in the intervening years, though to her the world always seems changed. That’s what Curie loves about it all, how quickly things morph and shift, but she knows it can have disastrous consequences. She’s picked up very little about the outside world while she’s been down here, but the transmissions she manages to receive sound...frightening. Something happened, something is out there, they seem to say. Something bad.

What if I’m trapped here forever?

No. No, that cannot be. They would not be so cruel. Above all, the Vault-Tec representative will be a scientist, a person of intellect and the pursuit of knowledge. Surely those ideals have not been completely eradicated from the world. Surely there is still curiosity. Surely there is still kindness, and decency, and gentleness.

Curie will have to be patient, that is all. Someday, someone will come. And she’ll be ready for them when they do.

Kent Connolly

Kent isn’t sure what he’s hearing, not at first. Goodneighbor isn’t a quiet town, and the muffled voices and slight thuds coming from the alley behind the Memory Den could be anything from a rowdy time between friends to particularly adventurous lovers.

So he keeps walking, shoulders hunched against the chill in the air. Kent’s always cold. He thinks it’s a ghoul thing, though he’s never outright asked anyone for confirmation, too shy to compare himself even in passing to Hancock, to Ham, to most of the tough, charismatic ghoul population. They all wear their...ghoul-ness as a badge of honor. Outcasts sure, but the leather jacket-wearing, badass drifter kind. Kent’s not sure they’d want to discuss the finer points of ghoul fragility with him, widely recognized as the town softie.

Another thud, and a cry. Louder this time. Kent pauses, head swiveling back to the source of the noise. A low rumble of laughter — more than one, maybe three people? — and okay, Kent’s sure something’s wrong now.

He turns on his heel and walks slowly back toward the alley, eyes darting around, seeing if any security was around. But there’s no one, at least no one in plain view, and there’s another heavy thump echoing in the air, followed by a sharp crack.

Okay. Okay. Straightening up to his full height, Kent squares his shoulders and slides up to the corner. Peering around it, he feels adrenaline pumping through his veins like a song, like the beat of a drum.

It’s dark, but he makes out three people standing in a circle, their eyes glinting in the ambient neon lights. On the ground between them is a crumpled figure, face pressed into the bricks. Kent holds his breath and inches closer.

“C’mon, Danny. McLean knows you’re holding out on him,” a voice says quietly, and one of the attackers crouches down on their heels. “Make it easy on yourself.”

The figure on the ground — Danny — coughs weakly and spits at their feet. Blood, Kent thinks faintly. He spit out blood.

“What’re you talking about, Zee? I could do this all day,” Danny says thickly. His words are brave, but Kent can hear his shuddering breath and the tremble in his voice.

Kent’s heart is hammering in his chest, his mind spinning frantically. What do I say? Should I say something at all? Maybe I can...bluff? Make them stop without attacking them? Because of course the truth is, Kent’s never thrown a punch in his life, doesn’t know how to even start a fight, couldn’t intimidate his way out of a paper bag.

He’s not built for this.

A kick and another whimper, and he needs to do something now. He’s not going to stand by and let this happen...is he? The shadows loom darker and larger than before, and McLean’s goons look like monsters, like every bad thing that ever happened to good people.

Kent’s legs go watery, his breath coming in hard, harsh gulps. Move. Do something. But he can’t, he can’t. He’s afraid. He’s so very afraid.

He watches, paralyzed, as the bad guys beat the crap out of someone who is obviously a good guy, obviously a hero. They’re quiet about it, trying to avoid an altercation with security, but Kent hears the wet crunch of a bone breaking as Danny’s hand is snapped under the heel of a boot.

And Kent just stands there, unable to help but unable to look away. Huddled in the shadows like the coward he is, watching with dark rabbit eyes.

Finally, the leader reaches down and brushes Danny’s face, whispering something so quiet Kent can’t make it out, and signals to the other two. There’s a moment of pure, liquid panic when he thinks they’re coming toward him. No, no, no, no. But they’re headed in the other direction, walking away casual as anything, as if they hadn’t just broken a man’s hand over a bag of caps.

Kent releases a long, strained breath, his heart still pounding in his throat, but finds he can move again, has been released from his predator-induced paralysis. He stumbles backward slightly and calls out.

“H-hey. Are you — are you okay?”

A shaky breath, and Danny answers weakly. “Yeah. Unng - yeah, I’m fine.”

Kent closes his eyes, his chest tightening painfully. “I’ll go — I’ll go get help, okay?” He doesn’t approach, he can’t look at Danny’s poor, destroyed body or the blood splattered on the ground.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay,” Danny manages, trying to push himself up one-handed. Kent turns and practically runs in the opposite direction, desperate to leave. He couldn’t be a hero even if he tried, even when it was offered up to him on a silver platter. Standing there mute and terrified and weak.

“Hey,” Danny calls out, and Kent half-turns, vibrating with his need to escape. “Thank you. For helping me.”

And his voice is so sincere, so grateful, that tears prickle in Kent’s eyes, guilt and shameful happiness tangling together in a tight knot in his chest. He doesn’t deserve anyone’s gratitude, but he craves it all the same. I just want to help.

Chapter Text

IV. Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be satisfied

Desdemona

It’s after midnight when Desdemona finally collapses into a chair in main room of the Switchboard, knees popping and feet aching. Rubbing her palm against her mouth, she lets her shoulders relax for the first time in hours. With a small smile, she realizes she’s got the room to herself.

Ever since taking over from the previous Alpha every moment of solitude is precious. Even if she’s been hovering in that exhausted-exhilarated headspace of a successful mission for days and couldn’t sleep if she tried. Even if she’s still got a stack of field missives to get through before she turns in for the night.

Desdemona lights a cigarette and takes a quick drag, trying to get her tired eyes to focus on the blurring report in front of her. The Switchboard is only half full tonight; Tommy Whispers and Maven are sharing a drink in the next room over, their low voices barely audible through the thick walls. They’re happy — it’s been a good couple of weeks. Better than good, actually. No losses this month at all, and only a few scuffles the month before that.

It makes Desdemona nervous. Quiet is good, but this quiet? It doesn’t feel like a reprieve to her. It feels like something is lying in wait, biding its time, the deceptive crouch of a beast in the tall grass. Rippling across her skin like the split-second before lightning cracks overhead, thunder trailing uselessly a few seconds after.

The opposite of a warning.

She’s probably just paranoid. Everyone’s desperate for good news, for a sign that they’re doing something right out there. She doesn’t want to take that from her agents — it makes them better, more confident, keeps them alive in the field. So she keeps her suspicions to herself. Compromises by obsessively combing through each report line by line, looking for anything that seems even slightly off to her.

The old lamp on the desk flickers, teetering on the edge of giving out completely. She leans back into the chair, giving her eyes a break and toying with the idea of pouring herself some whiskey.

Desdemona knows there are rumors about her, about who she is and why she came to the Railroad. Standard stuff, mostly — revenge, revolutionary parents, occasionally something more sensational like a synth lover. She doesn’t try to set the record straight, figuring a little mystery would only help their reputation.

But the truth is, she’s just a regular person. There wasn’t any big incident that drove her to this, no tragedy in her past, nothing that would make a good radio play about the leader of the Railroad.

Just her, a little girl who thought everything should be fair, who never really understood the distinction between synth and human. Then she was a young woman with a vocabulary that included words like slavery and oppression and duty, and she felt the injustice burn in her veins until she could barely breathe. It wasn’t right, and there was no way in hell she would stand by and do nothing.

She doesn't know what it is that drove her to this, to leaving her whole life behind without a backward glance. Slipping into the shadows to live with an Institute rifle pointed at her wherever she goes. Sometimes Desdemona worries it’s just a prettier version of ego, that she’s so goddamn arrogant that she can’t allow herself to be anything less than righteous.

Because that surety, that conviction that she’s right, is the sweetest thing in the world. It’s better than sex, better than whiskey, better than any high. It’s dangerous and seductive, and she repeats her own mantra back to herself. The Railroad doesn’t need her as a person. They don’t need a mother or a sister or a friend.

They need someone to make the hard decisions and take responsibility, someone to carry the full weight of their burdens. She could be anyone. And when she falls, as she surely someday will, someone else will take up the mantle.

Taking another long drag on her cigarette, Desdemona turns off the light and leaves the stack of papers on the desk. Hell, if I’m this maudlin, I’m not good for anything else tonight, she thinks wryly and stands up with a back-cracking stretch. She’s sure of very few things anymore, but the reports will definitely still be there in a few hours.

A sudden crash, the metallic patter of turret gunfire, and as Desdemona turns instinctively toward the noise she feels the surgical burn of laser fire against her cheek. Time slows, the moment stretching out in front of her like a dark chasm. Dread knots in her stomach and spreads outward, curling around her lungs, her heart, a trapped scream clawing at her throat

They’re here.

Arthur Maxson

The Prydwyn feels magnificent tonight under Arthur’s feet, rumbling and powerful and almost too huge to be believed. They massive airship is under his command at last, and as they move inexorably toward the Commonwealth a familiar swell of warm, hard-edged pride rises in Arthur’s chest. For the ship, for his soldiers, for everything that’s led him to this very moment.

He’s standing alone on the command deck, the dark sky vaulting above him, stars twinkling through the massive windows. It’s finally time. The energy readings from Paladin Danse’s recon team are unmistakable. The Institute is somewhere in the Commonwealth, and the Brotherhood of Steel is going to burn them to the ground.

They’re a few days out still; the lights of the Commonwealth glitter faintly on the far-off horizon, with the Capital lost to sight behind them. Now they’re moving over a long stretch of dark ground, only the tiniest sparks of fire visible against the heavy, black expanse. There’s movement down there, he can see it from here. Some sort of life exists, thrives, in the empty places of the world.

Anti-civilization.

It makes Arthur uneasy, thinking about what lurks in those shadows below. Ghouls, mutants, humans so wild and feral they may as well be animals. But surely regular people, too, who would choose a different life for themselves if they could. Arthur wishes, for a moment, that the Brotherhood could spare the resources to escort them to a larger settlement. He doesn’t like the idea of tribes forming out in the desolate ruins.

Better to be unified, he thinks. Better to have the protection of government, of order. Better to not be held to the tyranny of mob rule, or the mass hysteria that can so easily overtake these small, insulated groups.

Maybe one day. Maybe once the Institute is destroyed, I can come back for them and lead them to safety. To a better life.

Bracing his hands on the railing he leans forward slightly, forehead almost touching the cool glass. Arthur knows he should retire for the night — he’s meeting with Kells and a few others first thing in the morning, and it promises to be a long, tedious day.

But it’s so thrilling to be alive right now, to be approaching the Commonwealth and the Institute with all the power the Brotherhood can muster at his fingertips. Despite the late hour he’s restless and slightly giddy, like a child on the eve of some grand adventure.

Well, what he supposes a child would feel like. He isn’t the foremost expert on what a normal childhood consists of. Even when he was young, Arthur was never a child, not really.

It’s the price he had to pay for this life. The burden of responsibility. Arthur is acutely aware of how much depends on him, has known it all his life. A final hope, the mantle his father and his father’s father passed on to him the moment he was born. The Maxson name lifts him up, true, but weighs him down at the same time.

It’s just so much bigger than him. Swallows him, surrounds him, follows him wherever he goes. The shadow he’ll never outrun, twisting around him and seeping into his skin. He is marked, forever marked, by his name.

Enough. Enough. Arthur shakes his head slightly, grimacing. Taking a deep breath, he straightens his posture and hears the snap of his spine settling into place. He should be proud to be a Maxson, always. Should never let himself falter. He can’t afford to whine and pout about his responsibilities like an ungrateful teenager. He’s beyond that sort of sentimental, self-pitying drivel, isn’t he?

Arthur has been given everything, all on the backs of the sacrifices of others. He will not dishonor their memory by displaying such weakness, such foolishness.

It’s good to be a part of something like the Maxson line. It is. Humans crave consistency, especially now. Arthur can give that to the world, can offer himself up as a vessel. Can fill himself with all the fragile, desperate hopes of whole generations before him. For them, for his parents and his Brothers and Sisters, he can be more than a man.

A cipher. A symbol. An idea.

Arthur won't let them down, won’t let anyone down. He’ll fight for those who cannot defend themselves, will shield them from the ghouls and the synths and the mutated abominations that threaten the precious remnants of humanity.

With a start Arthur realizes his hands are balled into fists at his side, his nails digging into the skin of his palms. He fights to relax his grip. Stop that. Stop. Set a good example for the troops and get some rest.

Arthur finally turns and starts to head back to his quarters, his footsteps a metallic echo in the empty space. The wasteland still looms at his back, the Commonwealth drawing him closer like the tides of the ocean, like the magnetized pull of a dying star. We’re almost there.

Chapter Text

V. Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy

X6-88

X6 doesn’t like being here.

It’s not just the filth and the decay of the Commonwealth, though the stench of decay is enough to make his lip curl. It’s the squandered potential that sets X6’s teeth on edge. Even now, standing in the wreckage of a small village, he has a fleeting, quickly-squashed moment of pity. Such small, pointless lives they lead. Having to hack a pathetic existence out of the irradiated wasteland with just their own two hands.

This isn’t how his missions usually go. Extractions can be tricky, and this one went badly in nearly every way a mission could. It’s unfortunate that these settlers got caught in the crossfire between R9-36 and the raiders he had fallen in with. They’re all dead now, though X6 is confident it will be blamed on the raiders.

Regrettable, but nothing to be done now except check the perimeter and relay home. Until, that is, X6 hears a small noise in one of the houses and goes completely, inhumanely still. He moves silently toward the sound, weapon drawn. Carefully pushing open the door, he scans over the dead bodies, looking for the source of the sound. Finally, he spots a figure in the corner of the room, miraculously alive but frozen in fear.

A child.

He pulls the nose of his gun upward, away from the terrified girl huddled on the ground. The Institute allows for some leeway with children, depending on the situation. It can imprudent to execute them without careful thought. Father’s ultimate aim, after all, is to revive the wasteland for humanity, not scorch it all over again.

She’s curled protectively around a small animal — a dog? But the silhouette doesn’t look...ah. The dog is disabled, it’s back legs replaced with some sort of rudimentary prosthetics. The child is staring up at him, mute, eyes huge in her thin face, clutching the mongrel as if to shield it from X6 or the raiders or the entire world if she had to.

He’s torn. His programming dictates to follow orders, of course. But this child isn’t part of the retrieval, just someone who is remarkably, cosmically unlucky. And, he thinks, having a survivor to spread the tale of a raider attack could quash any potential rumors of Institute involvement.

Holstering his gun X6 crouches down next to the girl, moving slowly as not to startle her.

“That’s clever,” he says quietly, pointing at the dog’s constructed back legs. “It must be easier for it to move around now.”

“Y-yeah,” she says after a long moment, slowly sitting up, though still placing herself between X6 and the bulk of the dog’s body. “I made them for him after he got caught in a hunter’s trap.”

X6 is surprised. “You made them? That’s...quite impressive.” It really is. She doesn’t look more than nine or ten, though he’s been mistaken with wastelander children before. They’re often malnourished and stunted, and possibly the girl is older than she looks.

“Did you kill my parents?” she says, ignoring the compliment. Her eyes are shining with unshed tears.

“No,” X6 says truthfully. “They were killed by raiders.”

A small sob escapes her then, and her arms tighten around the dog until it whines and struggles. She releases it and wipes furiously at her eyes, leaving dirty streaks across her face. She is tough, this little girl. Tough and smart. X6 approves, and he rarely approves of wastelanders.

“Did you kill the raiders, then?” her voice is hoarse.

“Yes,” he says simply, and she closes her eyes, more tears sliding down her cheeks. “You should go. It’s not safe here.”

She lets out another ragged breath and nods. X6 stands, ready to leave her to her grief, but she reaches up to grab his hand.

He pulls back instinctively. X6 doesn’t like to be touched, and certainly not by dirty children, but she doesn’t seem to notice his distaste.

“Wait,” she says, and she’s scrambling to pull something out of the pocket of her filthy rags. She presses a small object into his hand. “For you. For...for getting those assholes that killed my parents.”

It’s a locket, with functioning clasp and hinge, though the construction is too shoddy and amateur to be a pre-war antique.

“I made it,” she says softly, watching him closely, and X6 is again surprised at her ingenuity. Truly, she is wasted here, X6 thinks, and resolves to request a flag on her for further observation. Maybe, if her luck turns around, the Institute can save her from a life of pointless drudgery or an early death.

“You keep it,” X6 says finally, handing it back to her. “You’ll want it later.” He does not thank her. He will not thank a human child for a pointless gift that he does not want.

She doesn’t reply, but accepts the locket. He turns and walks out the door, heading over the hill to the nearby stream, making sure he’s out of sight.

The truth is X6 doesn’t need the physical object to see it clearly. His memory, like the rest of him, is perfect in every way. He pulls the locket up in his mind, examining its structure and intricacies as the relay transporter dissolves every molecule in his constructed body.

Strong

The fight is a good one. Crushing, smashing, tearing. The firelight hurts Strong’s eyes in the dark, but he doesn’t stop or slow down. Scent is enough: the metallic smell of guns and the gritty smell of smoke and the rich, deep smell of blood.

Strong can hear his brothers around him, roaring as the spike-humans try and fail to push them back, away from their little camp. All around are tiny human heads on pikes, as if that could frighten Strong or any other mutants away. Stupid. Weak and stupid. Their camp is flimsy, their walls breaking easily under Strong’s hands. A sharp, hot bolt of joy knifes through his chest as the wood splinters against him, as he swings his sledgehammer into a human fighter.

Destruction. There is purity in this. When the strong destroy the weak, the world itself gets stronger.

Strong bellows again, rejoicing in the battle. He turns and sees a large metal cage by the fire, rusted with age. Many humans — not with spikes and blades, but soft and terrified — are inside, shrinking away from the screams and death gurgles.

Strong frowns. He does not like humans of any kind, but he also does not like this. When the spike humans capture and hurt their own, for amusement or pleasure. Kill or teach them to kill, Strong thinks with a grimace. Do not imprison and treat as beasts.

Explosions still scorch through the air around him. Someone, either a brother or a spike human, has grenades. Strong must decide now, before the choice is taken from him.

With a grunt, he drops his sledgehammer and moves toward the cage. The soft humans, four of them all together, scramble backwards and make small, whimpering cries. They are weak, but they should not die like this, trapped and helpless. Strong reaches down, the crackling power in his own arms filling him with a savage satisfaction, then rips the cage in half. The metal snaps with a loud, piercing shriek.

To his surprise, three of the four humans dash straight into the fight, two of them stopping to grab fallen weapons, not even looking at Strong. Better. That is better. Whether they stay to kill the spike humans who trapped them or run away to form their own clan, Strong does not care. If they are strong enough to fight, then Strong will fight them one day. He will be happy to fight them if he ever sees them again.

One human man remains behind in the cage, not moving at all, just curled up and sobbing. Strong grunts and bangs his hand on what’s left of the cage, giving the human one last chance to run, or fight, or do something.

The human jerks at the noise, and as he moves Strong sees that his legs are at an odd angle. Spike humans, Strong thinks with disapproval. Strong has seen the spike humans do this before, keeping their prey weak to make for an easier kill. Strong spits, disgusted. Much better to fight a good, strong enemy. Much better to prove your worth by killing a mighty foe.

The soft man is weeping, still trying to crawl toward the opening in the cage, but he is near death already. The other humans left him, as they should have, but Strong wishes they had killed this one first. This soft, broken human will die slow, will die crippled and alone. It make Strong feel…Strong does not like it. Does not like the idea of this puny, wrecked human bleeding out in a cage, humiliated by his own kind.

Strong’s brothers are calling and laughing and shouting all around him. And in the firelight, surrounded by the screams of the dying and the sweet sounds of battle, Strong decides what to do.

He picks up his sledgehammer and slams it down hard on the tiny human, the body pulping red and sticky under his weapon. The sound is squelchy, not as many cracks as he was expecting. Little man wasn’t even wearing armor, nothing to clang against the metal of the hammer. Nothing to keep his insides from spilling out against the concrete.

The tiny human’s eyes are glassy in death. He stares at Strong, shock wiping everything else off his face. Strong doesn’t often understand humans, but he’s certain this one knows that this was a gift. Strong is no spike-human, to pointlessly torture and main without even eating him afterward. Strong is no metal-man, untrustworthy and strange with only disturbing, alien sparks under his skin.

Strong is powerful. Strong is blood and bone and teeth. Strong honors the spirit of the tiny man.

To die as a warrior — it is good, Strong thinks. Even if the tiny man wasn’t really worthy. Even if he cried and cowered at the end. Strong still gives him a good death.

It would be hard, after all, to be a human.

Chapter Text

VI. Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God

Preston Garvey

In the firelight they look like ghosts. Like skeletons. Like reflections in a warped, distorted mirror. It’s the shadows, Preston thinks as he rubs at his eyes with the heel of his hand. Makes the lines in Sturges’s face look deeper and more severe. Marcy’s black hair falls like a heavy curtain across her face and Mama Murphy’s eyes burning with the reflected flames.

The survivors of the Quincy Massacre are, in a word, fucked.

Preston swallows hard and forces himself to take another bite of hot, heavy stew. He can’t think like that. They’re not done yet. They’re not. They can’t just give up, not when they’re still alive, not when so many would give anything to have this second chance.

But it’s hard to stay hopeful when he sees them like this, ravaged by grief, exhausted down to their marrow and so small against the vast, unforgiving Commonwealth. Hard not to succumb the icy-cold despair that settles against them like a fog, oily and thick.

Preston’s taking them to Lexington. He thinks that might be a safe place, or at least a place to heal and let their wounds knit together a little, before contemplating what comes next. Right now Preston can’t think past what’s right in front of him. If he stares into that void, a world where the Minutemen are gone, broken, sacrificed on the altar of the betrayer, he might curl up on the side of the road and just will himself to die.

So he doesn’t. He takes it one step at a time. Walks a bit farther every day. Eats dinner. Tries to sleep. Watches the sun set and leads them all north.

The night sky is impossibly huge above them, a glittering web of stars stretching from horizon to horizon. Taking a deep breath, Preston stands to take his turn at the watch, shoving his free hand in his pockets to hide its slight tremble.

That’s been happening a lot, lately — the shaking. So far he’s managed to keep it from the others. They lean on him, on his strength, even if they don’t particularly like him, and at any sign of weakness they might disintegrate, might scatter like cinder and smoke. Preston is sure, with a conviction that’s almost startling in its clarity, that if they separate the only thing waiting for them out there is death.

They have to stay together. They have to.

Sturges takes his cracked bowl without a word, but gives a Preston a small, weary smile. Marcy and Jun are heading to their bedrolls, the silence between them as brittle as glass, and the ache of their loss lodges in Preston’s throat like a stone, choking him. Damn you, Clint. Damn you straight to hell.

Desertion he could’ve understood, even if he didn’t like it. But the Gunners? That Clint could’ve even considered joining that scum, that he turned his back on everything they stood for, makes Preston’s stomach twist with sorrow, with useless anger.

With guilt.

I should’ve known. Clint had been twitchy for days, had been swinging between white-knuckled rage and sullen silences, snapping at anyone who looked sideways at him. I should’ve seen it. Should’ve stopped him. Should’ve killed him myself if it came to it.

Squeezes his eyes shut and tastes bile and the metallic tinge of blood on the back of his tongue and promises himself never, never, never. His shame isn’t important. The only thing to do is keep pushing forward, save the ones that are left. It’s what the General would’ve wanted.

Stretching slightly, Preston picks up his musket and walks to the edge of the firelight, his back to the warmth and his eyes on the dark road ahead. Putting his body squarely between the people he swore to protect and whatever the Commonwealth could throw at them.

Preston would wear every mistake he ever made on his body, if he could. Would tattoo the names of the fallen as a reminder, as condemnation and absolution. Would weave every jagged-edged memory into a hair shirt, tucked under his uniform and flat against his skin. Scratching and tearing and bleeding every time he closes his eyes, every time he wakes up in a cold sweat, every time he hears the voices of the dead in his ears.

Pain isn’t always bad. Pain can keep you solid, heavy as duty and serious as love, and right now Preston is desperate for an anchor. He needs to stay real, needs to stay present and clear-eyed and steady enough to not fuck this up any worse than he already has.

Love, unfortunately, is in short supply right now. But duty to the living? That he has in spades. And even though failure stalks his every move, flickering on the edges of his vision, Preston only knows one way to move forward.

First one step. Then another. Then another.

Piper Wright

Slamming the door shut behind her, Piper storms into her house, jaw clenched with repressed anger. Pulling her coat and hat off she tosses them on the ground, grateful for once that Nat was out with friends and not around to witness this.

The nerve of McDonough. The nerve.

Trying to calm herself down, Piper drops her hands to her sides and takes a breath. I need coffee. No wait, any more caffeine and I’ll vibrate right apart. Booze it is, then. Pouring herself a quick glass of vodka she throws herself on the couch, wound up and shaky after her meeting with the mayor.

McDonough thought he could make her back down by threatening Nat. He’d sat there, looked her in the eye, and made insinuations about how hard life would be for Nat if Piper kept ‘making trouble’. About what a shame it would be for a sweet kid to get such a bad reputation so young. About what kind of guardian spends all her time rabble-rousing instead of doing what’s best for her child.

It was that last one that did it. Piper nearly threw her drink in his smug, slimy face, instead shoving a finger to his chest and promising him that not only would she not back off, she’d make it her one mission to find out what he was up to. Told him to bet his life on it.

The whole time McDonough had been so smooth. That’s what pissed her off the most. Coming up to her, inviting her for a drink, all “let’s talk this out” and “I hear what you’re saying and I want to make some changes” and “we both want the same thing”.

Stupid. Stupid stupid stupid. It had been a smokescreen for the classic McDonough bribery-blackmail combo, of course. Anyone with half a brain would’ve seen it coming from a mile away, but not her. Not naïve little Piper, who apparently couldn’t wrap her mind around the concept of ‘crooked politician’ no matter how many words she wrote condemning him.

Piper tosses back the vodka in one gulp and promptly splutters and coughs. Blinking rapidly she shakes her head to clear her vision, the alcohol striping fire down her tongue and throat.

Can’t even do the drowning-my-sorrows thing right. But Piper’s not sad. She’s just stunned, down to her very core.

It wasn’t her finest moment, flying off the handle like that, but she couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t believe that McDonough, a city official, was threatening a little girl because of a few critical news articles. Piper’s hands clench around the glass and she breathes out hard through her nose.

The worst part is, he might not be completely, 100%, entirely wrong. It’s occurred to Piper before, and now she’s thinking about it now in an uneasy way.

What would happen to Nat the next time she couldn’t leave well enough alone, the next time she pissed off the wrong person? Would Nat be punished for her sins? Was she running out on the bill, leaving her little sister to pick up the tab with God knows how much interest? Piper bites her lip so hard it hurts, and is suddenly, shockingly on the verge of tears.

I don’t know what I’m doing.

Dad gone, Mom never in the picture, and now it’s just her, wishing the world was bigger and better and more beautiful than it actually was. Wearing her heart on her sleeve like an idiot, and when it gets trampled on she lashes out and fights back and pushes so hard that the boundaries shatter. That the world does expand, faster and more violently than she could ever imagine.

Corrupt leaders and kidnappings and the ugly face of bigotry simmering just beneath the surface. No matter how hard she tries Piper can’t stop, can’t quit pressing down on that bruise, and now Nat has to live in the world she created. Now Nat has to struggle, has to arm herself against it all.

Piper rolls the glass between her hands. She had thought, when she first started the paper, that it would be a good thing for the two of them. Now she’s not so sure. Maybe that self-righteous halo she built for herself will tighten around Nat’s neck instead, suffocating her with the weight of Piper’s good intentions.

No. No.

McDonough makes threats because he can’t ever deliver, Piper tells herself sternly. Get a grip on yourself. He’s all bluster, all speeches and indignation, but he doesn’t have the guts to go through with it. You’re playing right into his hands right now.

Nat will be fine. They both will. McDonough’s a blowhard who has no idea who he’s dealing with. Her last threat hadn’t been a lie — she would find out what he was up to if it was the last thing she ever did. Sitting up a little straighter, more clear-headed than she’s been all evening, Piper grabs her notepad and starts drafting a plan.

Chapter Text

VII. Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God

Danse

“If I have to keep listening to this kid on the radio I will shoot the damn thing off your pack, Haylen.”

Danse’s patrol is trudging across a dusty stretch of long-deteriorated highway, heading toward the tangle of buildings that used to be Cambridge. Danse is leading, laser rifle at the ready, and as the sun sets over the poisoned water he seriously considers knocking some heads together to get everyone to settle down.

“Oh really Rhys? You don’t like it? I didn’t realize — you’ve only said so about a hundred times today,” Haylen says with faux-sweetness, at odds with the hard glint in her eye.

“Jesus, why are you being such an asshole about this?” Rhys mutters viciously, hoisting his pack a little higher on his shoulder. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you have a crush on him.” That last with a mocking sneer, and Haylen glares and turns the volume up even louder.

Danse closes his eyes briefly, trying to tamp down the headache building in his left temple. The whole squad has been tense lately, but Rhys and Haylen in particular are working his last nerve, squabbling over anything they could dredge up and agitating everyone else. They used to get along fine, but the longer they’re on the road the more they snipe at each other.

They’re just scared. Keeping his gaze resolutely forward, Danse doesn’t acknowledge the bickering going on behind him. This hasn’t been the smoothest mission. The Commonwealth has taken a few good swipes at them already, and they’re banged up and bleeding and still have a long, long way to go. Taking out your frustrations on a fellow officer is a time-honored military tradition, especially for the young.

Danse remembers being a green recruit, how that innocent eagerness got shocked out of his system, hard as a sucker punch to the solar plexus. Nothing curdles excitement into hot, simmering resentment like real combat, like being in the field for weeks or months at a time.

Actually, Danse thinks, the breeze against his cheeks a dry whisper, the only reason he got through it all was Cutler.

All of his memories of that time, certainly all the good ones, involve Cutler, his best friend and most steadfast ally. The ghost Danse hopes will haunt him forever, gliding through his memories like a summer songbird, fleeting but heartbreakingly beautiful. Giving him a chance to briefly touch that part of Cutler that’s still...human. Still untainted and perfect.

Not like what he became in the end.

He grips his rifle a little tighter, banishing that train of thought. Danse doesn’t want to think about their last moments together, the blood and the screams and those eyes that were unnervingly, unambiguously Cutler’s. Danse would rather think of him as he was, as he’s sure Cutler would want to be remembered.

He was good at things like this, Danse thinks fondly. At keeping the group happy and laughing, or at least not snapping at each about something as minor as a radio station.

“Take it from the oldest of five, buddy,” he’d said one day, as they stood together at the edge of a river. Danse remembers it so clearly it’s like he’s still there with him, can still smell the woodsmoke and bitter soap Cutler used to carry with him. “The best way to get the kids to behave is to be the common enemy.”

The memory is sharp and sweet all at once, overbright like sunlight reflecting off fresh, white snow.

As the last light drains from the sky, Danse signals to his team to start setting up camp. The soldiers are quiet, grumbling unhappily under their breath, and for a moment he swears he can feel the familiar pressure of Cutler’s hand on his shoulder. When Rhys snaps at Haylen again and she grits out an angry reply, he turns with a frown in place.

“Rhys. Haylen,” he barks, and they jerk slightly, heads swiveling around. “I’m assigning you both latrine duty for the night.”

Rhys looks guilty, Haylen indignant. “But. But Sir...” Haylen starts, glancing over at Rhys for support.

“We’re only camping here for one night. We don’t really need a latrine…” Rhys joins in, reflexively stepping up closer to Haylen to back her up.

“This isn’t a request,” Danse says quietly, and both of them straighten their posture and shut their mouths. “Next time the two of you decide to spend the day fighting like spoiled children, remember that I am perfectly happy to treat you as such. Now get to work — you’re not eating or sleeping til that latrine is finished.”

Danse turns away, but not before catching the incredulous, commiserating look they exchange. They trudge away, heads already bent toward each other, united against this minor injustice.

Stepping out of his power armor to assist with the camp setup, Danse looks out at the setting sun and sends a tiny prayer of thanks to Cutler. Smiling very slightly, he spends a brief moment remembering the exact sound of his voice, warm and steady and the only home Danse has ever known. Wherever his soul is now, Danse wishes him, as always, peace.

Shaun

Sometimes, after a day filled with committee meetings, endless negotiations with the SRB, and doctor’s appointments that seem to stretch into infinity, it’s hard for Shaun to remember that the world is just as vast now as it ever was.

From within the Institute, surrounded by gleaming white surfaces and purified water and precision temperature control, what's left of the earth seems very small indeed. Cramped and dirty and ruined, with only old photos and occasional video feeds for reference. Humanity reduced to living in the ashes, among the rubble of what they used to have, struggling to rebuild their cities on the mass graveyards of the fallen.

How can a world like that be exciting or worth saving? How can it shine with promise, like a glorious undiscovered country? But it is, it’s every bit as big as it used to be, with nearly as much potential.

He’s alone in his quarters this evening, willing himself to enjoy the novel he borrowed from Dr. Madison. Trying to relax and de-stress for a few hours. But his eyes stubbornly refuse to focus on the words on the page, keep sliding instead to the globe on his desk.

It's mostly decorative now — the face of the earth was forever changed by the bombs, scarred in a way that will never fully heal. It's not just the destruction that shrinks the world, Shaun thinks with a grimace. It's that seemingly bottomless appetite for destruction that thrives in the heart of most Wastelanders. Even after a nuclear fallout ripped the entire world apart, the people on the surface still fight amongst each other. Still descend into mindless bloodlust and meaningless conflict.

A waste. A needless waste.

They could achieve so much if they just worked together, could have eventually worked with the Institute as a full partner. The Commonwealth sits on the ruins of a great city; those that lived there had access to more resources than most to cobble together some sort of society. But no, with few exceptions, the Commonwealth had chosen brutality over reason, violence over intellect.

Shaun takes a sip of water and gives up on the book, setting it down letting his eyes drift shut. He is very, very lucky. He knows this, knows how close he came to a life like that. His parents really did give him everything, in a way. He thinks for a minute about the Vault, humming on the surface above, just waiting for him to…

No. It's too soon. He needs to have everything prepared first, needs to have a firmer grip on his plans. He is sorely tempted, however. Even though he’s always been surrounded by people who cared for him, there’s something in him that yearns to know his...parent. That won’t be satisfied by anything less than his blood, his genes, by the person who brought him into this world.

Who, Shaun thinks with a small smile, folding his reading glasses and carefully placing them on the bedside table beside the book, is so perfectly preserved that Shaun could do what few children had ever managed.

He could return the favor.

He could give his parent life, could save them from endless, frozen suspension, could repay their sacrifice a hundred times over.

But it will have to wait. There’s too much chaos right now, too much on the surface that would surely disrupt his strategy. This world above is chaotic, spinning wildly without purpose or design, and Shaun will not allow his plans to be thwarted by the idealistic fools in the Railroad or the fascist, militaristic Brotherhood of Steel.

The balance is shifting, crumbling, even within the Institute. Shaun can sense the ebb and flow of power like the tides of the ocean, and it will be a careful dance to keep everyone appeased, to calm the passions of the Institute and the Commonwealth until he’s ready to make his move.

There is a storm coming to the Commonwealth, and it will wipe this world clean. Death, of course, and certain ruin for so many on the surface. For them, for the poor souls who can’t escape the fire and steel of this world’s rebirth, it will be an apocalypse, the end of everything they know. The blackness overtaking them will feel like the last dying gasp of the universe, and the ones who perish will curse him with their final breaths.

But after the fall, a blessed peace will come. Life will be better under Institute control, Shaun is sure of it. Once they learn to accept their new way of life, there won’t be any need to struggle for food, for clean water, for basic dignity. They will coax the Wasteland back to life, can help it bloom once more through careful, ordered cultivation.

The world will be huge again, shining and ancient, connected to every human by an inescapable, biological thread. Home. Our first, last, and only home. And this time we’ll get it right. This time we’ll protect it, even from ourselves.

Chapter Text

VIII. Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven

John Hancock

“You sure you’re up for this tonight?”

Fahrenheit is leaning up against the doorway of Hancock’s office, her long shadow rippling across the uneven floorboards. Her expression is blank, neutral, but Hancock is certain he can detect a hint of concern in the twist of her mouth.

“Aw, you worried about little ol’ me?” Hancock teases, rummaging around around in his desk for the extra pack of shotgun shells he has stashed there.

An exaggerated roll of her eyes. “Fuck you very much, then,” she says with a tiny upward twitch of her scarred lips. Fahrenheit knows him better than almost anyone, and she can see that this is pressing down hard on a sore spot.

It’s this Skinny Malone shit. A human who runs with a mostly ghoul crew is enough to set Hancock’s teeth on edge anyway, but it's more than that. Malone’s been sniffing around town, focusing on ghouls in particular, to get them join up with him and his crew. Normally that’d be fine — any Goodneighbor citizen is free to run with whoever they want, so long as they don’t pick fights with folks trying to make an honest living — except this asshole’s methods of recruiting are a hell of a lot closer to ‘thinly-veiled, bigoted threats’ than anything else.

Fuck that. Goodneighbor is his town, with his people. If Skinny thinks Hancock will turn a blind eye to that bullshit, he’s got another thing comin’. A knife-shaped thing, right up against that soft, pale throat of his.

“I’m good, Fahr,” he assures her, flipping his knife in his hand and catching it easily. Warming it up. “This is a friendly visit, that’s all. Just you, me, and Skinny Malone, having a nice little chat.”

“Uh-huh,” she says blandly, straightening up and rolling her shoulders before grabbing her favorite chain-wrapped bat. She doesn’t like to bring Ashmaker to these sorts of things. Too bulky, she says. And besides, Fahrenheit doesn’t need a minigun to scare the living daylights out of someone.

Hancock grins but doesn’t respond, just heads out past Harvey and Jackie Boy into the warm evening, Fahrenheit falling into step behind him. In any other town it’d be quiet in the streets right now — it’s either very late or very early, depending on which side of sunrise you live on, but here it all bleeds together. Music drifts up from the Third Rail, sultry and rich, and the neon lights shine like candy overhead.

It’s never really dark in Goodneighbor.

Hancock tilts his face up to the night air and exhales slowly. Easy does it. He needs to play this right tonight, needs to keep it cool and calm, because right now he’s banking on Skinny underestimating him. Hancock knows some people look at him and all they see is a burned out, jumped-up junkie. Pirate king of a trash heap, little better than a raider, nothing on his mind but shootin’ chems, chasin’ tail, and garden-variety mayhem. Certainly not someone who would give a damn about the poor, the run-down, the crippled and the helpless.

Some people look at Hancock and don't see him at all.

The thing is, he doesn’t do half-measures, not when it comes to protecting those that can't protect themselves. Hancock will go in hot and hard and heavy every time, damn the consequences. Turned himself ghoul on the heels of the best high of his life, chained himself to his ideals and made sure he’d never, ever forget what it felt like to be under the heel of a tyrant.

Now he wraps himself in the American flag every damn day, climbs into a costume that settles against his ravaged body like armor. Now he’s got skin in the game. Now that anti-ghoul, ‘human only’ bullshit hits him where it hurts.

And Hancock’s always done his best work with an edge of pain.

The lobby of the Rex is mostly deserted when they walk through the door. He’s glad — an audience wouldn’t be the worst thing, but he’d prefer to keep this quiet for now. Clair raises an eyebrow as the two of them approach, frowning. But she doesn’t stop them when Hancock points upstairs with a tilt of his head, and she carefully turns her back when they move toward the stairs.

He takes the time to drop a few caps on the counter for her — she doesn’t like it when he roughs up her customers, but she’ll make an exception for Skinny. She hates what he’s doing as much as Hancock does.

Hefting her bat over her shoulder Fahrenheit leads the way up, the rickety stairs creaking a little under her heavy stride. This is it, baby. Showtime. Adrenaline is spiking through his blood, his heart beating a little erratically.

He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t looking forward to this.

Fahrenheit stands outside the door to the biggest and best room in the hotel and turns toward him slightly, waiting for his signal. Hancock nods once and grins, quick and vicious, and with a low grunt Fahrenheit kicks the door in.

Nick Valentine

The moon is high overhead when Diamond City finally comes into view, the lights of the old stadium flooding the night sky with stinging white light. It’s quiet tonight, just the faint gurgling of the river in the distance, and as Nick steps carefully past the remains of a burning car he takes a quick drag on his cigarette.

He’d been out tracking a runaway for the past two weeks, checking all the likely hideouts for a teenager with too much energy and not enough sense. But there hadn’t been anything for days, no sign of the kid, until...well. Until he found out enough to send him back to the agency, sporting a few new scrapes and dings and the heavy weight of an answer in his chest.

It’s bad news. Seems like it’s always bad news these days.

The cool wind gusts across Nick’s face, whistling faintly against the broken edges of his skin. It’s nice, soothing to his overheated body. He needs to get himself checked out one of these days; he hasn’t been in for a tune-up in with Amari in years, and he’s danger of falling apart out here if he’s not careful.

“Time and gravity are catching up to you, old man,” he murmurs quietly to himself, smoke curling out of the corners of his mouth. Old, broken, and so damn tired he can feel it everywhere, down to the tips of his metal fingers.

Technically, he only feels the sense-memory of being tired, a shadow-craving for something he doesn’t actually need. Nick can’t actually be tired, not like those fancy Gen-3s — impeccable human imitations that sleep and eat and fuck just like the real thing, and before he can stop it the familiar tangle of black-tar jealousy is sticking in his throat.

Nick remembers being human, even if it's just a stolen download of someone else’s life. He remembers blood pounding in his ears, remembers the pleasant buzz of alcohol, remembers the hot, sweet rush of arousal. Throbs under his casing like a half-healed scar, like a fever that just won't break.

Like the dull ache of homesickness, for something that was never really his in the first place.

Keeping his pistol drawn, Nick winds his way through the twisted streets by memory. The gates aren’t that far, he could probably make a run for it if he really had to, but he’s still painfully alert. He’s been surprised before, been pinned down by Supermutants or Gunners even this close to the city, and Nick can’t always count on help from DC citizens or security.

After all this time, even after he’s found their missing children and celebrated and mourned with them, he’s not sure what’ll happen when the chips are truly down. He isn’t sure if they’ll stand for him — stand with him — or stand aside as he’s torn apart.

Whipping boy. Pariah. Other.

That’s what he hears the most, buried in the harsh whispers that prickle at him when he passes in the street. Nick has no heart, doesn’t bleed or cry, doesn’t feel the way a human does, the way a human should. Nick has none of humanity’s weaknesses. They’re not sure they could kill him if it came to it, and he is punished every day for that uncertainty.

(They could, of course. Nick’s not invulnerable, not by a long shot. Nick’s weak spots are easily identified, if you just know where to look.)

The whole goddamn world falls apart and people are still looking for a scapegoat. They want to make someone pay, to burn at the stake to cauterize their shame. It's the same over and over again, from the rock to the atomic bomb.

Nick takes a long, unnecessary breath. That’s not all there is, he reminds himself firmly. Decency still exists. Love and acceptance and family. There’s still Ellie, and the sweet, stubborn set of her shoulders. There’s still the Railroad, revolutionaries shining like fallen stars.

Nick knows he’s not alone out here. Not really.

He’s not the only one in danger from the the churning, animalistic mob mentality that’s roiling just under the surface, pulsing angrily like an open wound. Hard as it is to believe, there’s folks out there with worse luck than him.

Nick sees them all, the wretched and the broken, the abandoned and the lost. Nick won’t let them down, won’t let himself down, won’t let that petty ugliness distract him from the people who need help, and he knows he can’t save everyone but he can try, goddamnit. He can try and fail and then get right back up again.

There's still some good out there. He holds that thought close as clouds roll over the moon, leaving the stars behind. A sacred talisman against the encroaching darkness, the only prayer he has left. Help is on the way. Don’t you worry.