Chapter Text
Sure, MacCready’s heard the rumors, about that vault dweller who crawled out of the ground with ‘111’ scratched across his back. Not literally, mind you, but might as well been literal, because even though he doesn't wear the blue suit anymore, it's hard to scrub the vault off, smelling like lemon-scented detergent and dust. Guy still looks shiny and new, like a pressed copper penny. He's tall and sturdy, with curly hair he wears tied back in a low ponytail. Easy smile and easier gait as he asks, “What was that about?”
MacCready isn't about to show his hand, because his cards usually get him in trouble. “Gunners have trouble taking no for an answer. Even when it's in their best interests.” He sort of wishes he still smoked, because the vault dweller pulls out his pack and holds it out like a peace offering. “Don't smoke anymore,” MacCready declines.
Vaultie shrugs his shoulders, “I gave it up before the war. Nothing like witnessing nuclear annihilation to make you pick up bad habits again.”
That rumor has been circulating too. One-eleven was some sort of cryo facility. And this guy was born before the bombs fell, put on ice, defrosted like pristine, expensive meat. The finest cut. No freezer burn either. Speaking of which, MacCready hasn't been able to afford a hot meal in a week. Makes his stomach hurt to think about. Would be nice, to eat something fresh and warm.
Vaultie sticks his hand out again, this time it's empty. “Vishnu Weiss,” he introduces himself, “and you are?”
MacCready will at the least shake the man's hand. He's gotta start making judgements too. Like if Weiss packs enough caps to be worth MacCready’s time. Weiss carries an expensive looking laser pistol on his hip and his leathers are scuffed, but sturdy. So, he's not poor. It's a start.
“MacCready. And you, you look like a man in need of a gun,” he tests the waters.
Weiss barks a laugh, “got a gun,” he pulls the pistol from his hip. Turning it over and over in his hands, he looks like he's assessing it. “Seems to work fine for me.” Weiss holds out the gun, handle first for MacCready to take, like he wants MacCready to agree it's a good gun.
“That's not what I meant.” Weiss is trying to be charming, or cute, or something. “Besides, little thing like that can only do so much.” MacCready inclines his head towards the armchair where his sniper rifle leans. “Could provide tactical support, for the right price.”
“Yeah?” Weiss puts out his cigarette in the ashtray on the coffee table. He's tall enough that he really has to bend over to reach. “How good are you? Because I already got a friend.”
Just then this synth comes in from the Third Rail lounge. Doesn't look like any synth MacCready’s ever seen, though. And he's seen enough since coming to the Commonwealth for three or four lifetimes. The machine is this weird sort of...in between. He's got a face, managed that much, but it doesn't look like skin, still all silver, tarnished. It's parched where it pulls apart at the synth’s neck, exposing a bundle of wires at its throat. Like the silicone is starting to dry up and crack.
“Get what you needed?” It talks almost human too, just a little garble at the edges, not entirely unpleasant, but enough to break the illusion of a human voice.
“Not yet, hey, Valentine, what's your feelings on mercs?” Weiss asks. His eyes dart between the synth and MacCready.
“Useful in a bind. But you can only trust them as far as you can throw them.” The synth, Valentine, pauses to chuckle. “So I suppose you can trust them a fair bit more than other folks, Weiss.”
Weiss smirks like that's some sort of great joke between the two of them. MacCready doesn't think Weiss could be all that strong. He's tall sure, but kind of lanky. Course, he doesn't know what’s under the vaultie’s armor.
“How much?” Weiss turns his attention back to MacCready.
“Two-fifty, non-negotiable.”
Weiss has these black eyes, the sort where you can't really tell what a guy is thinking. If he's gonna rob you blind or patch you up or what. The way he's always half-smiling doesn't help. He taps one tobacco-stained finger against his bottom lip. “Everything is negotiable. Two-hundred. Plus we find a lot of shit. You can make up the rest.”
MacCready doesn't want to take the offer. He doesn't. Giving into a lower price up front means this guy is going to walk all over him, start to finish. But that's still two-hundred more caps than he has to his name right now. And it's not like MacCready is getting a lot of offers as of late. His stomach sinks, but he knows he's got to take Weiss’ offer up.
“Deal.”
The synth tisks. “Whatever you think is best. This is your show, after all, I'm just a bit part.”
While MacCready is plenty used to humans underestimating him, man, even people estimating him about right. It's another thing altogether to feel disapproval wafting off this synth. But MacCready keeps his mouth shut about it. Weiss seems to trust the synth, and Weiss is also paying MacCready’s way, from here on out, so he's got no choice.
--
Weiss doesn't want to spend the night in Goodneighbor. MacCready isn't going to argue with that, nope, not one bit. Good riddance. Only in Goodneighbor, nobody much asks him about his ‘friends’ who come to visit suspiciously on the regular. But if he gets out of town, well, maybe those chumps will be less likely to catch up to him. MacCready can only hope.
So, yeah, it's not so bad that Weiss wants to get out of Goodneighbor, only MacCready didn't realize they were going to have to cut a path through a raider camp to catch a decent cot.
The three of them, MacCready, Weiss, and Valentine, crouch nearly one on top of another behind a pile of rubble between two blown open Fens buildings. The raider camp is up ahead, with their trashcan fires, rotting wooden walls, and flea-ridden mattresses. Weiss makes it sound real homely. He keeps his voice low.
“Caps, fire, food, and chems. It’ll be a real paradise. For tonight, at least.” His pipboy light is technically off, but there's still a faint glow to it, lighting his white teeth a sort of sickly amber when he smiles. MacCready has to remind himself that's what his own teeth look like all the time. Sort of...yellowed. No avoiding it.
Weiss grabs a chunk of broken cinder block twice the size of his hand off the ground. Sticking his head up and over the rubble pile, he chucks the chunk into the center of the camp. Normal person would throw a frag grenade, something to do some real damage.
In the distance they hear one raider perk up, “What was that?”
Weiss doesn't even flinch. His eyes are glued to his pipboy screen, frowning slightly. “Six, I think...yeah six of them.” He looks up, turning to Valentine first, “You ready, Val?”
“I believe I politely asked you to stop calling me that.” There's not much annoyance in Valentine’s voice. If anything, the kind of amusement that comes from resignation. “Ready as I'll ever be.” The synth pops a fusion cell pack into his rifle without looking at what he's doing. MacCready’s been shooting since he was ten and still couldn't do it as a fast.
“Time to demonstrate the usefulness of your ‘tactical support,’ MacCready.”
Weiss doesn't wait after that, rounding the rubble pile, pistol drawn and heading towards the camp.
Shi-shoot. He doesn't give MacCready time to get into any sort of worthwhile position. Best he can do is climb the damn rubble pile and hope the raiders are more interested in the vaultie with a death wish and the busted up synth than they are in MacCready. Maybe, after those two are dead, he’ll wait for the raiders to calm down and swipe the other fifty caps he wanted off of Weiss’s corpse.
The rubble gives under MacCready’s feet as he climbs, but only a little. He manages to scramble to the top of the pile, cutting one hand against a sharp piece of metal sticking out. Wiping the blood away on his pants, he swings his rifle back around to aim.
He can't see Weiss anymore, but he can see Valentine, hiding just outside the wall of the camp, his back pressed against the wood barrier, prepared to fire. MacCready waits.
Laser fire comes from inside the camp, short and rapid, eight shots all at once before one of the raiders disintegrates into ash on the final shot. Still, he can't see Weiss. Stealth Boy, must be. MacCready doesn't have time to wait, because he has to at least try and keep Weiss alive. Really, he doesn't want Weiss to die, either. He's callous, sure, but MacCready knows he's still a decent human being.
Lining up his shot, MacCready takes the head off of the raider perched in the nest. He may be at a height disadvantage, the rubble isn't a great location, but he's also not blasted on chems and scared out of his ten remaining brain cells about unexpected visitors.
In the end, there are four ash piles and two corpses.
“I'm telling you,” Weiss starts, “three of those are mine, Val.”
“Oh yeah?” Valentine smiles, reloading his rifle. “Prove it.”
MacCready trots up to them when he's sure all the raiders are done. No dogs, this time.
“Ash is ash, I suppose,” Weiss holsters his pistol and reaches for his back pocket. Normal, reasonable wasters use easily accessible pockets for ammo. Weiss uses them for cigarettes.
MacCready holds up his hand, hoping his request is self evident, “I need a stim.”
“Oh,” Weiss swings his pack around so it's against his chest. Finding a stimpak, he uncaps it with his teeth before shoving it unceremoniously into MacCready’s upturned hand.
“Fu-ahhh. Warn a guy next time.” MacCready shakes his hand out. Well, at least it’s starting to feel better. He doesn't watch as the wound stitches closed, always makes him nauseous to look at. But he can feel it working.
Valentine starts assessing the camp on his own. MacCready just looks around mutely. If he's not going to be asked his opinion on matters, he's not going to offer it up. Best that way. There are four mattresses. One’s covered in raider guts, another in...something else. He can make a guess what the raiders used that one for. There is enough food for the three of them, sure. And some dirty water to top things off. Great, just...great.
Weiss gets excited about a pack of gum, pulling out two sticks and showing Valentine the jokes that are on the wrappers. “I loved these as a kid.”
MacCready starts going through some wooden boxes himself, looking for anything at all appetizing. In the end, he starts boiling the irradiated water over the fire. He reads the back of a 200 year old box of blam-o. No milk, but he can substitute oil for the butter. There was oil somewhere.
While they eat, MacCready keeps quiet, listens to himself chew soggy mac and cheese and to Weiss’ endless prattle. He talks to Valentine like the two are old friends, though that's not possible. Weiss brushes his hair out of his eyes when it falls forward. “And so, that's when I decided to go into law.”
“Law?” MacCready realizes too late that he's spoken up. “Rumor was you were military. I mean, before.”
Weiss seems just thrilled that MacCready has joined the conversation. “Was, signed up when I turned eighteen. There were...complications, though. Military agreed less with me than I agreed with the military. Nate, though,” Weiss’s face drops. “Never mind. But yeah, I wasn't there for long.”
“Can tell.” MacCready doesn't elaborate.
They need to sleep in shifts, so only having two viable mattresses isn't a problem. Weiss says he’ll take the first shift. Valentine reminds him that's crazy. As a synth, he doesn't have to sleep. “And after being cryogenically suspended for two hundred years, believe me, I can stay up a few more hours.”
Weiss and Valentine are still bickering when MacCready just takes the nicer of the two cots for himself. Nicer being relative. Their chatter doesn't prevent him from sleeping, he won't admit to it, but he's missed the noise of children arguing. Even if these two are...well one is grown and one never was a child. Weird.