Chapter Text
It’s an almost full-day hike from Sanctuary down to Diamond City.
It might’ve taken faster, but there were some... hold ups, along the way. Both literally and figuratively. They’d left Sanctuary — himself and Preston — around 7:30 in the morning, after checking in on everyone, and throwing some supplies into their bag. As much ammo as they can scavenge and pick up, a few boxes of Sugar Bombs and pork ‘n beans, bottles of Nuka Cola and whatever purified water they can spare, among other things. A round or two around the perimeter of Sanctuary just to make sure. A check-in with Codsworth for any signs of hostile life around the area. Just in case.
( He’d watched, too, as Preston almost shyly excused himself to say goodbye to the settlers. Had watched as he kissed Mama Murphy on the cheek while she smiled and told him not to worry about them, watched him wish the best to the Longs, who for once looked slightly hopeful. Watched, as he ducked away with Sturges to talk, in hushed whispers in the empty common bedroom of the designated communal workhouse, probably sure no one was watching them while they traded a quick goodbye. A squeeze on the shoulder. A kiss on the cheek, from Sturges to Preston that made the latter’s dark skin flush darker.
“You know, you’d think they’d know better than to assume no one can see ‘em. What with there bein’ literal holes in the walls.” Mama Murphy suddenly quipped, syllables drawn long in the way she always does. Her milky eyes had turned to him, then, a smirk on her elderly lips. “Maybe you should teach ‘em some Old World privacy lessons. Sock on the doorknob. Posters over peepholes. Right, Adust?”
He’d felt like a voyeur, then, flushing red, and turned to bid farewell to Mama Murphy too, before stepping out into the morning sun. )
After that it’d been a quiet journey, heading towards Diamond City. Hard to talk, what with how tremendously dangerous the world is, focused now on keeping his eyes alert and his body wary than making idle chatter. Harder still to talk when he's trying his best not to breakdown. Preston made an offhand comment here and there, explaining some tips on how the ‘Wealth works now, and how to get through places without dying. What plants are safe, what aren’t. How to cut up all kinds of animals for meat, ranging from the reasonable radstag to bloatflies, in case of emergencies. Already the past two nights before Adust’d sat down next to Preston, listening with his mouth pursed while Preston explained all the small and big things about the Wealth that had changed. What areas, what currencies, what things are of value now and what isn’t, compared to the world back then, before the bombs fell. He'd tried his best not to succumb to a meltdown mid-talk, feeling like he was caught in a nightmare he couldn't wake from. He still can't quite believe it, feels himself walking as if in a stupor.
( Suddenly, all the boxes of Nuka Cola caps he kept finding made a whole bunch of sense more. Which makes it a good thing that he has a habit of picking things up and keeping them, but it made all his time putting money in banks seem like a waste of time.
Like almost everything else he's done in the Old World.
He tries not to think about it. )
Walking through the heavy city area to Diamond City though, Preston kept small talk low and constant, pointing out anything that felt necessary to be pointed out. He was mostly just a guide, anyway, someone to watch Adust’s back while he guided the man into the Great Green Jewel. Adust knew the place like the back of his hand, but only before the bombs. Now? Now there are some roads he used to jog down that can’t be accessed anymore, covered in rubble and shrapnel poking out sharper than knives. There are buildings he used to have coffee in that he can’t walk into now without being shot full of holes by trigger-happy raiders or paranoid scavvers. That’s what Preston’s here to guide him away from. Show him the road, in return for the impromptu heroic rescue down at the museum, and the run down to Corvega's assembly plant (that'd nearly killed Adust, because he was fresh out of the vault and almost out of his mind with grief and loss and confusion.)
A guide didn’t mean there wouldn’t be any hold ups or detours, though. There was the issue at the Drumlin Diner that they got pulled into without warning just because they wanted a quick stop to grab some ammo. And then there was a radiation storm, of all things, one that made him gape in both awe and terror as Preston dragged him by the sleeve back inside, just as lightning struck, the faint tingle of electricity and radiation in the air. And then there were raiders and scavvers, roaming around that had to be snuck around or quickly dispatched. And then there were feral dogs, radroaches, bloatflies, stingwings.
If Adust hated insects before the war, he hates them even more now, and with more passion than he ever thought flies would deserve.
He feels like he's stuck in a dream. None of it seems real.
And none of this even factors in just... being back, in the city he was born in. Was raised in, got married in. Streets and alleys he used to duck into and roam in as a kid, shops he used to frequent, cafes and bars he used to work at before he joined the army. All of them, reduced to — to whatever this is, now. Piles of rubble. Rusted and coming apart, crumbling before his eyes like a dream turning slowly into a nightmare. The sandwich shop he used to work at while he saved up money for a place to stay, now desolate, food rotted, floor covered in patrons who couldn’t escape the blast in time. The gourmet bakery he always wanted to visit, even as a wide-eyed and sticky-fingered street urchin of a kid, now completely uninhabitable, the ceiling caved in.
More than once, he’d been frozen. Staring, into places he used to wander, a ghost of him watching the ghosts of the place it used to be. Breath catching in his chest, tears burning like acid in his eyes, hands shaking like leaves in a hurricane. Always on the verge of breaking. Always feeling like he's a breeze away from melting into the conrete. Preston, God bless his soul, never said a word against it. Only stood by quietly, understanding, offering soft reassurances. Gently tapped his shoulder when Adust had stood too long, traipsing on the edge of being pulled under by memories of a place that had changed and people who didn’t exist anymore. Adust was grateful, though it was understandable. Preston would understand, if only a bare fraction of what it felt like.
The Minuteman had the same look in his eyes whenever Quincy was mentioned.
But all in all, they’d made it to Diamond City before nightfall. Which is great, all things considered. Even now, as they crouch behind a barricade on the path to Diamond City, caught in the gunfire between Diamond City guards (are those umpire uniforms?) and supermutants. Pulled into another fray they never asked for.
“Take ‘em down!!” a Diamond City guard yells, before taking a bullet to the shoulder that makes him howl.
Adust coughs, as he half-jogs, half-ducks to inside the building, reloading his hunting rifle before unloading it on a supermutant who doesn’t see him. It roars, stumbling, and from somewhere behind him he sees a flash of red as Preston finishes the battle. The mutant gives an ugly, resounding bellow, before toppling down to the ground with an uglier thump-squelch. Silence follows after, and as he hears the guards start getting up again past the barricades, he squints, trying to make sure there’s no more movement in the buildings.
He desperately needs a proper sniper rifle again.
But with or without, the building seems clear enough, and the guards seem to find it acceptably empty too, judging by how they start heaving sighs of relief and backing off, nudging the injured to a corner to get the bullets removed and stimpak’d. In the meantime, Adust manages a quick jog in to scavenge for ammo and items. It doesn’t take him ten minutes. The place is more or less empty, the faint smell of decaying meat still penetrating his mask, but he manages a few quick finds. By the time he gets back to Preston — waiting on the Diamond City path, steadfast as always, looking tired and battered but no worse for the wear — the sun’s a little less than an hour from dipping.
“Got anything good?” the Minuteman asks, sweat prickling on dark skin as he jogs up. Adust eyes him, and pries his eyes away when he doesn’t see any major injuries, except for some scuffs and bruises that’d already been there. Good.
“Uh. Some ammo. Arm pieces.” he replies in turn. “No — no fusion cells though. Sorry.”
Preston shakes his head, a smile on his lips. Too kind for his own good. “It’s no problem, I still have enough in my pack to get me back to Sanctuary. Which I should head back to right about now.”
Adust furrows his brows. Not that Preston can see, given the gas mask he’s taken to wearing, but he’s sure the man can read into his pause at least. “Already?”
Preston nods. “Don’t worry, just follow the signs and you’ll get to Diamond City safe and sound. There are plenty of guards and turrets from here on out. You’ll be fine. Besides, the sun’s about to set, and it’s a few hours back to Sanctuary...” Adust can see the nervous shifting, the anxious waiting to get back to Sanctuary. Afraid, probably, that things might've changed for the worse in the half day he's been gone.
“Yeah. Yeah, okay. I understand. Thanks for, for guiding me here.” he offers.
“Get back to us in one piece, Adust.” Preston replies, all warm eyes and warmer smiles. “And good luck, finding your son.”
And then he’s gone, disappearing back into the rubble of the Commonwealth to head home to Sanctuary, ridiculous cowboy hat and all. Adust watches, trained on the disappearing silhouette through lenses slightly cracked on one side, until the silhouette is gone and all he has left to see is the city around him, drowning in the tea-rose of the sky. The sun will dip back over the horizon soon. He hopes to make it to Diamond City before then, and find his son soon after. Or at least, any news about him. Anything, any sign. Just, anything. Mama Murphy had said this was where he should start looking. Said she could feel his presence, that if he wanted to get started in finding Shaun that this would be definitely the place. It's one of the few things giving him hope. And if he was really hopeful, maybe he’d even see his son somewhere in the city, maybe raised here to be a Wastelander like everyone else, happy with surviving and thriving in the new world. And then they can start again — find a way to adjust, somehow, to this new world he still can't quite believe he's in.
But Adust has never been good at being a major optimist. Not a pessimist either. just — a realist, with a weakness to family.
So he walks, follows the signs. Nods to the guards as he passes them by, doesn’t reply when they call him brave for helping them out with the supermutants. Even with the chugging turrets he passes by, he keeps his hold steady on his rifle.
He sees the shadow of the Great Green Jewel of the Commonwealth long before he realizes what it is. When he does, though, he nearly laughs, bitter and sour and strangled under the mask. Almost hysterical.
It’s Fenway Park. The baseball park.
Great Green Jewel.
Of course.
Diamond City is — it’s beautiful, in it’s own way. Not pre-war, certainly not, not by a long shot, but it’s as close as it can get in the Commonwealth.
More life in one place than his past week in the Commonwealth. The wasteland is an array of faded colours and dull palettes, dust and ash surrounded by the long-worn and weary technicolour of the past, buried in dirt and lackluster. Half the things he’s seen have been dead and dead-looking, and even the not-so-dead look like they either ought to be or want to be. Depressing. Like being on a battlefield, except constantly. Though that is exactly what the Commonwealth is anyway, and he’s only been out above ground again for a week.
But here, here it’s vibrant and colourful and alive. The walls are as green as they used to be, as they were back in the time when he was a kid and managed to sneak into a game for all of five minutes before being hauled out by security. Everywhere there are splashes of colour, shining even through the rust and dust. Neon signs like a vague reminder of a time back when, just a little less than a week ago for himself and two hundred over years for everyone else. And through all this, the distinct taste of Wasteland flavour. Homes and shops spackled together from anything that works, platforms built from where the stands once were, making new places to live. He sees a BBQ grill somewhere on someone’s roof. An entire trailer.
A city within a city. A home within a home.
More than that, there are people. Not nearly as much as there were before, but more than he’s seen thus far. Most interaction he’s had in the past week has been with all four settlers in Sanctuary, and then raiders, which he didn’t do much talking to. Walking here with Preston and all he’d seen in terms of life were the odd few scavvers and traders, and plenty of hostile wildlife. But here. Here he sees people everywhere, hustling and bustling, the sound of talking and movement welcome in his ears. He sees people gathered around the centre of the city, what looks like a food stand, brightly lit and inviting. More or scattered across the various stalls.
He’s used to bright lights in city nights, hiding in the shadows and watching the people pass by. Watching life in motion. And here, though it’s not what it used to be — it’s like coming home. Just so. Just almost.
Just enough to feel the gutpunching sour twist in his stomach, to look closer and know that it's still miles and miles away from the world he came from. (That he's not going back. He's not waking up.)
Inevitably, he gets snapped out of his stupor by one thing or another. In his case it’s a city guard, brushing by his side, telling him to stop blocking the way, in which he sheepishly apologizes before heading down. The sun is halfway setting, giving way to the night, the sky a mixture of honey gold and soft hues of blue and violet, like paint mixing in water, viewed through a transparent plastic cup. The lights flicker, and he just sort of catches the wave of Piper’s hand, flagging him down. He obediently walks over.
Her grin is bright and charming, green eyes gleaming, oozing a sort of charisma and optimism that seems almost familiar. “ Pretty neat the first time you see this place, huh?”
He knows she can’t see his face through the gas mask, but he exhales low and heavy anyway. Contemplative. “I... yeah. Yeah, it is.”
She hums, nodding a little. Her dark hair bobs when she does. “Welcome to Diamond City, pal. Not as fancy as it looks, but it’s home.” Grins again. “I’m Piper, if you didn’t already catch on from our, ah. Little run in with Mayor McDouchebag. Piper Wright. And... this is the paper I said I run! Publick Occurences. Now I know you’re probably in a hurry and I'm not gonna stop you, but I was wondering if you could drop by my office sometime soon? I think Diamond City could use a story with you in it. And — don't worry, it's not for nothing, I might have info and people you need. Not — I mean, not like literally people with me in there, but I get around when I do my news scooping. You get me?”
He stares at her, her rapidfire business proposal catching him off guard. “Um,” he says intelligently, even more glad he has his gas mask on because now at least she can only hear, instead of seeing, how awkward he is. “You want to put me in the papers.”
“Well, duh. Yeah! We don't get many vaulties wandering around, especially after I got booted from Vault 81, and we could use some new perspective what with the... current events. I promise, you won’t regret it. I’ll throw in something for you, promise. Or will, eventually. I don’t have, like, a billion caps to throw around or any neat weapons, but I'll figure something out, you have my word.”
Winces. He... he really doesn’t. Like. Being the centre of attention. He’s always liked life living on the sidelines, away from view, keeping to the shadows. Shadows preserve us, a childhood friend of his used to say. Being on a newspaper in a world he still can hardly swallow doesn't seem like the wisest choice. But on the other hand, if her news gets around as quickly as she makes it seem, then maybe he’ll be able to get her help at some point or another. Help to find Shaun. Help, to see if anyone's seen where he's gone. She seems genuine enough, a good person, and his intuition has saved his life enough to make him consider it with considerable interest. Won’t make him any less wary, though, any less cautious.
His silence must be a hint to her, because she shrugs, her smile lopsided. "Promise me you'll think about it and get back to me. Okay?"
“Alright,” he says slowly, “That’s fine.”
When she claps her hands together, the leather dulls out the noise. Her grin is cigarette-stained yellow, but bright as a stadium spotlight. “Great! Anyway, Nicky’s place is behind the shops.”
He turns to where she gestures at, behind the row of shops starting to close up for the night, only for something to pop into his head. Vaultie.
“Wait, how did you know I was a — “
But when he turns back she’s already walking back into her office. He only catches the tail end of a wave before she disappears behind the door, the faded red of her leather coat the last thing he sees before it shuts.
“ — The detective... he’s missing.”
Fantastic. Wonderful. Absolutely spectacular. The only person who might be able to help him even remotely track down any information of his missing son, and the guy is missing himself. This is a fucking nightmare he must be in.
A dull throb of an exhaustion-headache starts lowly in his skull, packed along with the anxiety and the him just trying to wrap his head around his entire situation, and he considers the gas mask to be the best thing he’s scavenged yet, if only because at least she — Ellie Perkins, she’d mentioned — won’t have to see the tiredness in his eyes. It’s been only a week since he’d thawed out of the vault. He’s spent the first few nights crying his eyes out, and every night since staring at the ceiling, feeling unreal and full of static from the overwhelming fact that the world as he knew it is entirely gone. That his best friend is dead, his son missing. Second day waking up in an unfamiliar world and he already had to help out Preston and the settlers and take on a twenty foot irradiated lizard almost entirely on his own. And then he’d had to help those settlers make Sanctuary a place to live in again. And then he was sent to a factory full of raiders, alone. And then he’d had to dodge bullets and mutant attacks just to get to Diamond City with Preston.
And now this.
He just wants to find out where his son is. He doesn’t know why life keeps throwing him into situations he never asked for. He just wants his family back.
Still. This Valentine guy might be one of the few people who could help him, judging by everything literally everyone's said about him. Mama Murphy had hinted it. Had seen it herself, according to her Jet-fueled haze. The mayor had personally recommended it. Piper, too. And even though he’s emotionally spent and weary to the bone, scared and confused and lost in this world around him, he knows he has to at least try and find Shaun. He doesn't have a choice. Even through the frazzled mind that tears him limb from limb night, taunts him with the loaded pistol in his pack and the memory of his dead family, he knows at his core that he’ll have push through. Because he has to. Because it's the one thing he has left to hold onto, the last hope he has in this unknown. Because Shaun is his son, because Jennifer was his best friend. He has to at least know. Needs to find out what happened. For Jennifer. For Shaun. Needs to at least find out something about him, for her and everything they built together. Shaun is his baby boy. His son. In their home in Sanctuary, together — he felt like he belonged, had just gotten comfortable and happy. Home.
He has to take the first step. Doesn't have a choice; his conscience and Jennifer's voice won't let him do otherwise.
Even if the first step is, apparently, held hostage by a gang in a station-turned-vault.
“I’ll... I'll try to find him. You have my word.” Adust answers, finally. Not without hesitation, but it's not like he has a choice. And if there's anything he's used to, both old world and new, it's how to handle a gun.
She does, and her smile is a relieved one, a sigh escaping through her teeth. “Thank you. Nick should be easy to spot. He’s always wearing that old hat and trench coat getup... Real noir detective like, you know? Please, hurry.”
As he steps back out, closing the door behind him and into the backway flooded with the bright red of the detective’s sign, he realizes that maybe, just maybe, he should’ve asked if he could have a place to sleep for the night.
Dugout Inn isn’t the... best place he’s ever slept in, but at least it’s not the worst. Not by far. He’d spent nights in worse places than this, some not even with the luxury of a roof. Sniper training has had him lying in dirt for days on end without sleep.
This place? It has beds. It's fine.
Adust wakes up to darkness and his hair in his mouth, and everything tastes sour from sleep and days without toothpaste. His limbs ache, slightly, ringing with activity it hasn’t had to do in almost a year. He spits his hair out of his mouth. Grimaces when it sticks to his cheek wetly. The blanket he has pulled over his head is ratty, more hole than cloth, and the mattress smells like stale sweat and the acrid smoke of cigarettes, among a whole lot of other familiar smells that he doesn’t want to put names to, not when his nose is buried right in it.
There’s no real way to tell that’s daytime in the room, not even after he shifts the blanket off himself, weary eyes creaking open to stare up at the peeling ceiling. The room has no windows, or anything else that could tell the time, aside from the number on his pip-boy that tells him it’s seven in the morning. The lightbulb ahead flickers weakly, and everything of him feels heavy. This is the first time he’s slept in a bed since the world ended and he almost wants to go back to sleep, even if the bed is halfway rotted and stuffed and stained with who-knows-what. Even in Sanctuary he just made do with the floor and a ratty roach-eaten sleeping bag, leaving the proper beds to the settlers who seemed to need it more. But he wants to, to — to just lie down, close his eyes, shut the world out. Stop existing for even a few more minutes. So he won't have to grapple with everything he has to wrap his head around, so he won't have to face the fact that he's lost everybody, lost everything, lost and lost and lost and confused.
But even though the temptation is strong, he knows that he couldn't anyway. Sleep, that is. Too haunted by nightmares, by thoughts that leave him gasping through tears and clenched teeth, and he’d come in to the Dugout late last night, after agreeing to help find Valentine. So he heaves a sigh through his nose. Fingers digging into the fabric of the mattress as he grunts, getting up, wincing at the loud creaking of springs too old. His hair is a wild mess, he knows it, but he straightens it out best he can with just his fingers, trying to ignore how greasy his roots are. Trying not to miss the smell of his shampoo. It’s not too hard. He’s gone through long periods without showers before. (Doesn’t make it feel less gross though, he thinks idly.)
It takes a minute to shake the sleep out of his system by getting up, and stretching. It takes another minute to re-tie his hair into it’s bun and then put on all the armour pieces he’d taken off in the night, the jagged metal of half of it too risky to wear to sleep and honestly too bulky to wear in general, but he doesn't have much better choices for the time being, however much he prefers walking light. The gas mask goes on last. It’s become a comforting weight, over the past couple of days, ever since he'd found it while helping out Preston and his settlers. Separates a comfortable distance between him and the world. Makes sure nobody can read his face, and not just because it makes him seem more put-together than he is. The fact that it also filters out a sizeable amount of the smells of the Wasteland that include bloatfly guts to straight up decaying flesh, well, that’s just gravy.
Thinking too much hurts in more ways than one, and if he slows down and takes the time to try and think and accept everything in one fell swoop, including all the differences between the old world and the new one, about the different values and stakes and what he has to adapt to now — he would break. He knows he would. More than he already has, a few times, after Preston had sent him to Corvega in a desperate tone that Adust couldn't say no to. He'd spent an entire day trying to keep the screaming in his mind down, trying not to think about the fact that he's been here before, when it was still a car assembly factory and not... whatever this is, now. He'd spent the entire time there not quite himself, shooting, almost in disbelief of the situation while his body worked on autopilot.
(It's not the killing that gets to him. He's used to that now, desensitized to it since the war. Has learnt, for years now, how to adapt himself to the violence. His enemies are people, but so is he. That it's kill or be killed, that it's for survival, that sometimes killing is necessary in certain situations. He's learnt to accept that years ago, and even before then, his hands have never exactly been clean. In his youth he merely had sticky fingers, and now they're stained with blood gained by necessity. He doesn't find any joy in killing. Nothing pleasant about it beyond the echoing, wave of a fact each time that he got out of it alive, but he has no qualms on doing it if it's necessary.
No. What hurts, what's maddening, what makes each day pass by with panic attacks brewing under his skin is the fact that everything's changed. Civilization is alive, but everything and almost everyone he's ever loved is dead. Gone. Wasted away. Buildings he used to pass by now crumbled to ruin, his old home barely holding up. Out of everyone he's ever known, he's the only one out here, spat out with freezer burn, into a world that's familiar but too different to navigate anymore. It's the change, so fast it gave him whiplash, that's making every waking moment like a nightmare he can't wake up from. He just wants to go home. )
He tucks it away as best he can, the thoughts. Leaves it for a time when he's stronger, or when things are quieter, and hopes he'll be able to handle it then. Get used to it. Focuses on taking the situation one step at a time, adapting to what’s directly in front of him, glad — at least — that he’s no stranger to dealing with grime and daily survival struggles on a fundamental level like food and shelter. Growing up in poverty seems to have paid off in some fucked up, roundabout way at least.
He checks, then double checks, then triple checks everything is still in his pack (he’d used it as his pillow) before slinging it back on and heading out. He stops in the sort-of bathroom to take a piss and brush his teeth (with no toothpaste, it’s really just him scrubbing his teeth with a worn brush, but it’s all most of the wasteland can do these days as far as he knows so it’ll be enough) before heading out to the main bar area, slipping by both Bobrov brothers without being seen. He tries the port-a-dinner, just once, an idle hope, though he’s never succeeded in winning even before the war. Naturally, the pie slips, and he turns up empty handed. At least one thing from the past has remained a constant, he muses, before leaving.
The door to the inn squeaks a little when it shuts, but there’s comfort when he steps out, the small sound of his boots on the concrete, the feeling of cool air and warm sunshine on his neck. Autumn has always been his favourite season, a perfect balance of temperatures that tickles him right. Even now, even here, even two hundred years after, it’s still the same. As he makes his way past the dining patrons of the inn outside (sitting together, laughing soft and already a slight tipsy, going back and forth between baked chunks of meat and bitter cigarettes) and past the butcher’s shop (there’s sweat beading on her nose and tiredness in her skin but she handles the knife like it’s part of her own hand, hackin’ and whackin’ and smackin’) he wonders how everyone here will handle the winter.
Diamond City’s marketplace is only just waking up as he strolls in, patrons sluggishly moving around while shop owners have already started barking out their own advertisements. He keeps his mind carefully blank as he focuses on things, like how Takahashi’s noodles smell almost divine as he passes by the warmly lit and welcome food landmark of the city, the robot chef hard at work. But he doesn’t have the caps to spare for the luxury of properly made noodles, so he settles on heading over to Arturo’s stall, awkwardly accepting the title of ‘new guy’ before trading caps for some .308s and a look through some customized flaming sword. Then a trip to Myrna’s general goods stall, where he mournfully exchanges a majority of his already meager amount of caps for a few stimpaks, while she gives him the stinky eye the whole time, threatening him under her breath if he so much as decided to pass gas in her general direction that seemed synth-y.
Synthetic humans. He’s slightly unnerved, too.
He quickly tucks the questions away for later, though. Another one of the major things in the wasteland he tucks away into his for when you’re stronger mental vault. Can’t focus on breeding panic on something he knows near nothing about, when he needs to focus on finding this, Mr Valentine, and then finding Shaun. But maybe the train of thought is slightly fortunate, in it’s own way. There are issues of The Synthetic Truth everywhere, and it only just occurs to him that he has a place he’s promised to visit.
Nat is already at her usual post, by the time he gets over to the newsstand, standing bright and full of energy on her tippy-toes and barking headlines at sleepy citizens who don’t have even a quarter of the energy she does. In a way, the image is — it’s warming. Really, makes him pause for a little, because she reminds him so much of his own childhood, all raggedy clothes and enthusiasm, though they differ in the way that she’s very in-your-face.
Then again, she’s trying to sell newspapers. He spent most of his childhood differently, hands in pockets and shining shoes.
The girl’s eyes brighten when he comes closer, and she thrusts a newspaper so enthusiastically at him he almost jolts. “Hey mister! Piper says newcomers get a free edition. Read the truth!”
The Synthetic Truth, the headline says, and in all honesty Adust figures he could’ve just picked up any of the copies lying around in the city for the taking. Still, he pockets this one. “Ah, thanks. Is Piper in?”
A nod, a jerk of a thumb over the shoulder. “She’s inside. No funny business! She’s mean with a pistol.”
Adust can’t help but feel warm at that, but Nat can’t see that so he just holds his hands up in a mock-surrender. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” And then he goes inside.
The place is... cozy. Really. The red walls are warm and faded and everything smells like ink and paper and a little bit of cram, but that’s only to be expected. It’s very home-y, actually. And standing dead-centre is Piper. Or more like, crouching, because she’s arm deep into the printing machine. It’s almost charming, actually — on the floor, half-kneeling in the dust, hard at work preserving something he’s increasingly sure that she’s more dedicated to than he first imagined. Her fingers and elbows are stained with dark grease, her red cap and coat lying safely draped over the couch while she works only in her yellowed-white button-up undershirt, sleeves rolled to her elbows.
When he clears his throat, she peers over her shoulder owlishly, before grinning, a dark smear of ink on her cheek. “Hey, Blue! Thought you forgot about me. Give me a sec, the ol’ girl’s got something stuck in there. Make yourself comfortable.”
"Blue?” he asks, making his way to the couch. Vaguely admires the way it doesn’t creak like the ones do at the Dugout. Tries a variety of positions to look casual, fails spectacularly, and eventually just sits sorta stiff.
“Caaause you’re a Vault Dweller?” Piper responds, though she doesn’t look his way, an arm still up in the heat of the machine. Her voice is only mildly strained. “I know you’re not in a vault suit right now or anything, but everything else is a dead giveaway. Pip-boy? Healthy skin and nails? Bet if you took that mask off you’ll even have all your teeth, and a helluva lot whiter lookin’ than the rest of us here.”
She seems to find what she’s looking for, because she goes ah-hah! in a hushed yell of victory, and she yanks out a glob of gross half-solidified grease and ink and paper mulch. Behind his mask, he idly runs his tongue along all of his teeth. (Yeah. All there.) When she wipes the sweat off her forehead with her arm, it leaves a dark smear that he doesn’t want to point out, not with the way she finally gets up and turns back at him, sunny-smiles and enthusiasm that he’s starting to think just runs in the Wright family. She grabs a towel — and where did that come from? — and starts wiping her hands, before grabbing her cap and putting it on. Idly, he wonders if it makes her feel more in-character.
There’s a tape recorder placed in front of him, then, and her eyes sparkle greener than the Great Green Jewel itself.
“So listen. Here’s the deal. I want your life story in print. I think it’s time Diamond City had a little outside perspective on the Commonwealth.” Piper explains, adjusting the tape. “You do that and ah. I’ll offer you some pointers! Give you some advice on how to deal with the Wasteland so you’ve got a better chance of not being dead out there. I'll even follow you out and get your back, whenever I can. Trust me, I have a lot of good tips and tricks to go around the ‘Wealth so you don’t end up with a few extra decorative bullets in your spine.”
At least that’s comforting. He shifts a little, uncomfortably. “My... entire life story?”
She nods. “Well, I mean I’m not gonna ask you for your daily bathroom habits since you were nine or anything, but you know. The general gist.” A dismissive wave of the hand. “C’mon, Blue. Please? My knowledge is invaluable, cross my heart, I’ve been almost everywhere in the Commonwealth, and I’ll gladly let you in on it once you you do this interview. What d’you say?”
He — ah, he doesn’t think he can say no anyway. She already has the tape recorder ready, herself leaning forward to look him in what he assumes that she assumes are his eyes (and she assumes right). and he already said he would.
He’s never one to go back on his promises, no matter how uncomfortable.
“Okay. Okay, okay.” he sighs. “Go for it.”
She smiles, and she claps her hands, just once, sharply and happily, settling down in the seat in front of him, scooting until she’s sitting right at the edge of it. Looking more excited about this than he probably ever would be. “Great! Let’s get down to business. Okay, so — first things first. You’re obviously from a vault. Which one, and how would you describe your time on the inside?”
“Uh. Vault 111.” he answers. “And I can’t say. Not really. We were — we were frozen. Cryogenic stasis. All of us, except the staff. So most of my time on the inside was... cold.”
That musn’t be the answer she expected, because her eyes widen, and she half-laughs, disbelieving. “Wait, wh — they boxed you up in a fridge? The whole time? Are you saying you’re alive before the war?”
Adust wonders if his grimace can be seen through the gasmask. “Yeah. I was.” Just a week ago for him. Two hundred over years for everyone else. It’s a thought that comes back often. It makes his chest clench. Makes her eyes open wide, lets out a low whistle.
“Oh my God. The Man Out Of Time.” she states, shaking her head a little in disbelief. "I can't believe it. First time I've seen anyone pre-war who wasn't a ghoul, but knowing Vault-Tec, this is far from surprising. This is... wow. So — the Commonwealth. Diamond City. It's got to be different from now and then — How does it compare to your old life? God, I can't imagine.”
A furrow of the brows. “I mean. How do you think? There’s no... comparing the two.” Back then, no matter how poor he was, at least the flies wouldn’t try to kill him in his sleep.
“Fair enough. Guess things were a helluva lot better back then — or not, seeing as how we've got this world to deal with now.” she replies, nodding when he does. She’s right, anyway. “Okay. So you got out of the vault somehow. When we met, yesterday, at the gates, when we ran into Mayor McDonough — you said you came here looking for someone. For your son. You said he was, what, a year old? How — How did you even get out? Where's the other vault dwellers, how did your son go missing if you guys all got out at the same time?”
“Half a year. Just... still a baby.” It hurts to think about it. Hurts worse to say it. Tastes bitter in his mouth, like a pill melted down over his tongue. "And I was the only survivor of the Vault. Some kind of error. Everyone was dead except me. Or at least — my, uh, my wife, she had Shaun in her arms when the pods opened the first time but. Only hers. And these guys — I don't know who they are, but they sh— shot her. Took Shaun. Sealed us up again until the error popped me out, alone, a week ago."
At least the sympathy in her eyes are genuine, wincing when his voice cracks. “That... that’s awful, Blue. I’m so, so sorry.” A pause. A bite of her lip that makes him half-dread what she’s going to say next. “But I... gotta ask. Do you think that, just maybe, the Institute is involved?”
There’s that word again. The same one he’s been seeing around Diamond City, passed from mouth to mouth laced with fear and venom in equal measure, breeding paranoia like mosquitoes on still water. He still doesn’t... know, who or what this Institute is. He’s heard more than a few mention of it. Rumours flying past his trained ears, questioning the human integrity of Mayor McDonough. Everyone questioning, everyone scared, an almost electric hum of anxiety that he realizes is part of the city, almost fading in the back of the warmth of human contact but always there, like static in a TV left to play in the background. Between everything here, there’s fear. Synthetic humans, he’s gathered, but no matter how unnerving the idea he can’t grasp the full fear of it, still new to the concept. Still too focused on Shaun first. He can get maybe, that everyone’s afraid of... what, synthetic humans taking over the world, maybe. But it’s an idea he’s only ever seen in fiction. Books, comics. It’s hard to associate it with something real, an actual situation.
But now — now Piper is mentioning it with Shaun added to the mixture, and he finds the shrill voice in his head rising an octave as he straightens up a little. Shaun and the Institute? What would they want with him?
“What’s the Institute?” Adust asks, slowly. “I’ve been... hearing mentions about them.”
She shakes her head. “That, Blue, is the biggest mystery of the Commonwealth. Nobody knows who or where they are, but their handiwork is all over.” Piper explains, expression turning troubled. Fingers lacing together, then un-lacing, then repeating. Like a tic. “Synths. Synthetic people. Sent from their hidden labs to do the Institute’s dirty work. They destroy settlements, entire families, just to raid and then they disappear without a trace. Sometimes they even kidnap people, replace a person with — with a synth double.”
He finds himself going rigid, ice in his lungs. Oh.
Piper keeps going. “There’s two major kinds of synths you gotta look out for. The first one is an obvious fake. Skin looks like plastic, skeleton may even be showing. You see groups of them scouring the Commonwealth, killing people, scavenging what’s left. I reported on University Point awhile back. Whole town got cleaned out.” A pause. A breath. “The second type of synth is the real deal. With skin, blood, warm smiles and guilty glances. Just like a good ol’ fashioned human. Can't tell 'em apart until you pop 'em open — I saw one once, already dead, there was some kinda chip in the head.”
She pauses again, here. Looking for words to properly describe it, he supposes, as her brows furrow. And then she turns back to him.
“Listen,” she continues, looking right at him, piercing green, “I know you’re probably new to all this, and all this fear over a boogeyman that no one’s been able to track — it seems kind of ridiculous. Like, comic book nonsense, right? And it would be just mindless paranoia, if it weren’t for the fact the Institute’s hurt the Commonwealth. A lot. Actual, tangible effects. Take this as your first official warning, from me to you: watch out for them. Synths are one thing on their own, but with the Institute flicking the controls? It’s dangerous, Blue. More than you realize. Groups of robots gunning down innocent people, sometimes entire settlements and towns en masse, just to collect supplies for some unknown people hiding away in the shadows. And family, friends, neighbours being taken away to God-knows-where, being subject to God-knows-what, to be replaced with an exact replica. It’s terrifying, and it’s been going on for way, way too many years. If you’re wondering why everyone’s so scared? This is why.”
Teeth clamped shut. Fear, breeding somewhere in his throat, spreading like fractals of ice on water in the coming winter. Panic. He feels his hands trembling already, his mind whirring to accomodate this new information; there is an entire shadow organization creating synthetic people, deadset on killing and raiding and replacing people? Experimenting? It’s a scary thought, oh God, what the fuck, what the fuck is this world, and it's terrifying mainly because if, if this... weird, sci-fi trope organization took Shaun, what kind of things are they doing to him, what have they done to his baby —
“What would they want with a baby boy?” he asks, and his voice leaks more fear than he’d wanted to let on. Fuck. “A spy on... on what? He couldn’t even walk or talk or — “
“Maybe for experimentation.” Piper answers stonily, before realization overtakes her and she immediately waves her hands. “No! Not, not that I’m saying they are — wow, Piper, you just stuck your entire leg in your mouth there — I’m not saying the Institute did take your son. The Commonwealth is dangerous, and there’s plenty of other reasons kidnapping happens and — shit, okay, I’m not great at comforting people but the point is, I’m not saying the Institute did take him, or they’re responsible for the missing people around the Commonwealth. Just... all I’m saying is, be careful out there. And watch out for the people around you. And — be understanding, if some people are a little paranoid out there in the ‘Wealth.”
Inhale. Exhale. He takes a few precious moments to breathe, to calm himself. Think rationally. There are... hundreds of reasons someone could’ve taken Shaun. Majority of them unhappy.
Adust chooses not to focus on them. One step at a time. Too many factors to consider and he’ll only confuse himself.
His silence maybe gives Piper a cue, because she starts picking up the tape recorder again, looking apologetic. “Sorry for dropping a bomb on you. Not, uh — sorry, no offense to the whole war thing, but just. Yeah. Whew.” She throws on a slightly forced smile, and even though he knows it is what it is, he forces himself to relax anyway. Unclenches his fists, runs his tongue along his teeth as he relaxes his jaw. Better that she warned him now. He’s... grateful. Really, he is. Just... he puts it back in his mental vault again. Like he said earlier, no point in breeding fear in himself for something he hasn’t even — oh God, but Piper can’t be exaggerating if this is the way everyone’s acting, and — “Anyway, uh. I... think we're done here today. Think you could give us a closing statement?”
Adust’s head cocks up. “A what?”
Piper smiles, a lot more genuine this time. “A closing statement. A... direct statement, actually, to Diamond City.” she holds the tape recorder a bit closer to his face. “Let’s just say missing people is something people in the Commonwealth don’t want to think about, or deal with. So. Maybe give some... words of encouragement? To the people out there who’ve given up, or think they’re too weak to find their loved ones. The reason you go on. I mean, you've had to cope somehow. God knows I don't know how I'd act if I got spat out of a freezer like that.”
He hesitates. Not that he’s awful with words, but he’s not great with them either. It isn’t even as if he has a spectacular way of describing his own goal. Not everyone is as strongly family-oriented as he is. Not everyone has people like Jennifer in his life, a role model in all her fierce determination and raw courage, an eternal source of strength to tap from because she never ran out.
( And when he stares into Piper’s green eyes, ablaze with fierce determination and a ruthless tongue, he’s starting to realize why Piper feels so familiar. )
“One day at a time.” is what he goes with, finally, breaking the silence. “One day. One step. You’ll get there.”
Things he tells himself, too. What else can he do?
“We’re all just doing what we gotta do, huh? Think my readers could relate to that.” Piper says, a smile quirking the edges of her mouth as she clicks a button on the tape recorder, stuffing it in her pocket. “Well, I think I have all we need. It’s gonna be a great issue, once I get the ol’ girl working proper again. On behalf of Diamond City, or at least the reasonable folks, I thank you.”
Adust feels the ghost of a laugh in his system, slightly awkward and in half-disbelief, stopping before it leaves his throat and coming out in just a little huff. “I don’t think it’s something worth thanking me for.”
The journalist snorts, putting her still-stained hands on her knees, pushing herself up to stand. “Oh, please. You’d be surprised how many people would benefit from an outside perspective. Some of the folk here are... too content. You know? Could use either a little more hope or a little more of a wake-up call. And here’s ol’ Piper, trying to do that with some ink and paper. And you'd think they'd give me some credit, right? Nooo, it's all Piper stop writing this and Piper you're gonna get arrested, unbelievable...”
He pushes himself to his feet too, as she keeps rambling. “Ah.” is all he replies, switching on his pip-boy. “Crap. It’s almost eleven.”
“— Can’t even remember the last time I’ve seen anything with accurate time-keeping. In a hurry, huh?” Piper questions-but-not-really, cocking her head, look of concern on her face. It’s oddly endearing, how she wears her heart on her sleeves like this. Maybe that’s why people trust her, he thinks, as she puts a reassuring hand on his arm. “Good luck out there, Blue. I hope ol’ Nick can help you find your boy.”
He grimaces, behind the gasmask. “Actually, that’s... kind of why I need to go.”
She blinks, slightly confused. “To see Nick? Thought you went to find him last night?”
He shifts again. “I did. Turns out he’s gone missing too.” he explains, watching her face fall. Well, since we’re on the topic of missing people. Apt. “His assistant — uh, Ellie, I think — said he disappeared working on a case. Something about Skinny Malone and a missing girl. Ellie thinks he’s being held hostage in Park Street Station in an — an old vault, I think she said. Something about Triggermen too? I ended up offering to find him.”
The hand on his arm drops, and Piper sighs, heavy and loaded with worry. Pinches the bridge of her nose and leaves a dark mark on it. “God, Nicky, what’ve you gotten yourself into this time —” she murmurs, half-under her breath, before she suddenly snaps around on her heel, stalking towards the other side of the room hidden behind a divider. Adust stares confusedly after her, listening to the sounds of things clinking and rustling, her rummaging drumming up noise in the quiet office, before she comes back out, a gun jammed in a holster and a pack full of ammo. “I’m coming with you.”
He stares. “What?”
“I said I’m coming with you! God, I should’ve known he was missing longer than normal but, I dunno, I guess I just got caught up with the McDonough case. Stupid, stupid Piper.” she says, hands moving wildly, frustration on her face. “Okay, not an excuse, but I mean! We have to find him, Blue. He’s one of the few genuinely good people in this place, in the ‘Wealth. And you’re not going alone down into the Commons, you'd be dead in a brahmin's fart.”
Adust is almost tempted to take her up on her offer. Getting to Diamond City alone was mostly quiet but he still relied on Preston. And that was with the knowledge there were Diamond City guards helping halfway. In Boston Commons, though, he doesn’t know for sure what to expect. Granted, if he’s veeery slow and careful and sticks to the walls and shadows, he’s confident he could make his way around — but would he, in this new ruin of his old city? Piper’s help would be invaluable, he’s sure — but. But, but, but.
“Are you sure?” he asks. "What about Nat?"
She freezes mid-step, and then he watches her nose scrunch in frustration, pinching the bridge again. He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t pry.
“Right. Right. I can’t — “ she starts, and then pauses, rearranging words in her head before continuing. “I can’t leave Nat alone, here. In Diamond City. Not now, it’s too risky, Mayor McDonough’s got an eye out for me and my sister, if I shift her onto Arturo again he’s gonna have it out for him too — but, fuck. Nicky. I can’t leave him down there and you can’t go alone.”
It's difficult, he knows. But Adust doesn’t want Piper to have to make the decision between putting herself and her sister at risk for him, a stranger, even if it does revolve more around this Nick Valentine than it does around himself.
“I could go alone, like,” he tries, “I managed to take out the raiders at Corvega by myself.”
“Yeah, half. The rest are still hanging around raising hell near Lexington, everyone knows about it, it was on DCR — trust me, Travis may be kind of a nervous duckling, but he gets his news fresh.” Piper counters, crossing her arms. “And this is Skinny Malone you’re talking about. He has a gang. And maybe they’re not as scary as the Gunners or the Institute, but they’re a helluva lot more organized and better armed than your scattered, chem-addled raiders. I don’t care how good of a shot you are, but you’re not going in there alone to get both you and Nick’s ass in hot water!”
“But you can’t leave Nat here and you can’t take her with you.” he states, and Piper just grunts, troubled. In his mind, he racks through the people he knows. Anyone, anyone that could maybe help him. Because inside he knows Piper is right; even in Corvega he got caught unawares more than a few times, and he couldn’t even take out all the raiders, the protectron he found in the main chambers doing most of his work for him. He's unfamiliar with this new world, with these people, with some of these weapons — but he's unfamiliar with everyone else too, and his list of people to contact for help is tremendously low. If he dies, he doesn’t know if anyone’s going to help, and then he’ll never find Shaun and this Valentine might get killed too and —
Just. Yeah.
Adust definitely can’t bring anyone in Diamond City, that’s for sure. The mayor won’t spare the guards, and he hasn’t seen anyone here who is both capable of handling a weapon and capable of working together as a team. Those who might be, have families, and he can’t in good conscience pull them into the fray without feeling guilty. He can’t bring Preston, who’s already just barely recovered from his own firefight and is in charge of both a settlement and the Minutemen now. Definitely not Sturges, the only handyman in Sanctuary. The Longs and Mama Murphy are out of the question. And Dogmeat is loyal, but not stealth material.
“You... could get a hired gun.” Piper’s voice, well, pipes up. Hesitantly.
Adust’s train of thought stops, screeching on it’s rails. “A — a what?”
“A hired gun. A mercenary. C’mon, Blue, don’t tell me you’ve never heard of ‘em?” she tries, sounding as unsure as she looks.
He has. He definitely has. It’s just... something he completely forgot to consider. Something hard to consider, considering he's spent a good while before this living in a world where killing among everyday people wasn't an everyday reality, where he was going to wipe off the bloodshed off of his palms and have a nice family, an ordinary job, a home. Something he’s forgotten to factor in because this just rings more bells in his head that says this is the world you’re living in now, you’ve come out from underground after two hundred years of sleeping and barely a year of coming out of a war pre-bombs and everything as you know it has changed and then. No. Nope. Shoves that into the vault, and he hopes there’s enough space for more things in there because he doubts he’ll ever run out of things to stuff inside.
So he counts his breathing, and focuses. Throws everything away into little boxes to be peered into later, focuses instead on the immediate suggestion. Hired guns, a definite consideration. Hired guns in this Wasteland, which means all the more danger, but also someone who’s experienced and who might be willing to work together, if only for an end goal of cash. Caps, sorry. Maybe that’s a good thing, to have such a visible and tangible and obvious end goal instead of a dubious ‘good samaritan’ who could guard him for unknown reasons — so many factors. So many considerations. But a consideration, still.
“How much can I trust a merc here in the Wealth?” Adust asks Piper, wary. “How are they... like?”
The journalist only shakes her head. “Yeah, I don’t generally trust mercs. I trust ‘em as far as I can throw ‘em, and I don’t throw far.” And then, “But I mean. Most of ‘em are desperate for work, these days, thanks to the Gunners’ influence, and a lot of them want a steady clientele if they want to keep the caps flowing in. Their rep goes down if they kill their clients, and I know Hancock doesn’t keep outright murderers in his city. So.”
He frowns. He doesn’t ask who Hancock is, and he’s very skeptical on the idea of hiring someone who might as well shoot him in the back if they find a bigger stash of caps than what he has on him, but. But. he’s not about to drag Piper or any of the Minutemen into this. So. Maybe. Just maybe. If it fails, well — he hopes Jennifer will forgive him. At least he can say that he tried.
“I’ll — I’ll give it a shot. See who I can trust.” Adust finally responds, shrugging when Piper shoots him a worried look. “I’ll figure something out. I will.”
She seems to stare at him a moment longer, debating in her head, before she finally releases a defeated sigh. “Okay, okay, fine, yeah, that's the only way. But if you don’t come back in three days, maximum, I’m coming after you guys. You hear?” While she talks, she tugs her coat back on, slinging her pack around her shoulders. “Now c’mon. We gotta get you to Goodneighbour before nightfall. If you want at least semi-trustable mercs, that’s where you go.”
He stares. “You’re coming with? I thought —”
“Don’t worry, I’m not gonna be out long. Just... gonna show you the way there. Trust me, I’m good at navigating the Commons on my own. I’ll find my way back fine, as long as we get you to the gates before nightfall.” she nods, before putting on her signature charming grin. “Be — besides, I mean, what’s life if I haven’t gone through risky places before? You know, first few times through Boston Commons, I went toe to toe with a huge supermutant. A behemoth. And boy, I never sprinted so fast. My legs were killing me for days.”
He manages a hum at that. “Sounds like a story.”
Piper laughs. “Oh, you bet. but it’s one for the road. C’mon.”
“ — So okay, if you see lots of boarded up wood and spikes and dead people hanging or heads on pikes? Raiders. Almost always raiders. Supermutants are easiest — meat and blood everywhere. You’ll smell ‘em before you see ‘em — or at least you would, if you took off that gasmask. You know what? Don't. The smell ain't worth it.”
He nods, not answering, as she explains in hushed whispers as they sneak past yet another raider camp. Trusting her to guide him had turned out to be the best decision he’s made yet — the Commons are twice as dangerous as she’d made it seem, with raiders and mongrels and supermutants appearing for almost every two minute walk in any direction. It's horrific, in comparison to his old life — people hanging by their entrails, heads on pikes, levels of violence that makes him sick — but each time he just looks away and forces his mind to a big fat zero, as best he can, despite the tremble in his hands. Focuses on Piper's back, and the ground beneath them, and not getting caught. He’s grateful, at least, that he’s trained, raised to be adept to stealth. Piper’s footsteps are loud in comparison, but she knows how to evade obstacles before they ever become too much of an issue, her coat fluttering behind her with each turn she makes.
They’re close to Goodneighbour, or so she’d said earlier. They’d run into the walls of the city, so they just had to make their way around. Easier said than done, when everything is out to kill you.
“Shh. Stop.” she hisses, and he freezes instantly, body lowered, right as they’re about to step over a pile of rubble. Her pistol is positioned. “Look ahead. See those guys in the green uniforms? Gunners.”
Adust sees them, alright. Sandbags and shrapnel surrounding the mass fusion building, and people guarding the area, equipped to the teeth. Skeletons and corpses of those who didn’t make it past them surrounding the structure. He’s only ever heard of them through the hissed gritted teeth of Preston and the sad tones of Sturges, but he knows that they’re dangerous. Not to be trifled with. After what Adust has heard about Quincy, he doesn’t want to test Preston’s truth either.
“Most dangerous mercs in the Commonwealth, and the largest single unalligned force. Took over Quincy not too long ago. If they’re not being killers-for-hire they’ll plunder whatever they can. They’ll kill anything and anyone for enough caps. They’re organized, well-equipped and smart.” Piper explains, as she guides him around the building they surround, past and over a toppled truck. “They could make Skinny Malone’s men run for the hills, but I doubt we have the caps between the two of us to even try asking them for a contract.”
Not that he wants to invite that kind of attention on himself, contract hire or not. The information is welcome, though, as has all the knowledge she’s given him through the journey. He makes a small noise of agreement so she knows he’s listening, and sticks close to her heels as she moves forward. He’s glad, at least, for the rest of the journey there aren’t anymore hold ups. They’ve already had more than a few close calls with raiders earlier and an army of bloatflies. Granted, he now has some extra weapons and chems and armour to sell, plus some scavenged caps, but he’s tired, and the sun is soon to setting. No matter how much she’s told him of her familiarity with the area, they’d passed enough fresh corpses for him to worry for her safety, no matter how brief their time knowing each other.
The bright neon glow of the sign is enough for him to tell where they are. Glaringly obvious, as it should.
“We’re here. Finally.” Piper breathes, taking off her cap and fanning herself. Beads of sweat are gathering on her nose. It’s stuffy, here. When she turns to him, her eyes are bright. “You gonna be alright on your own?”
“I’ll... manage. Thanks.” he says, nodding. “Thanks again.”
“Get Nick back safe and it’ll be my thanks to give, plus whatever I can scrounge up. He’s — he’s like family to me. To Diamond City.” she explains. "Listen, two last pieces of advice I can give you. One, sleep with one eye open if you're going to stay at the Rexford. And two, the first time you see Nick, don't shoot. He's safe, no matter what he looks like."
And that's not ominous at all. Is he disfigured or something? “I’ll try and make it back in a couple of days.”
“You’d better.” she huffs, before slipping the cap back on, and clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Be safe, Blue. Keep your head. I know all this must be hard to adjust to, and after losing everything — but just know you've already got friends to count on in this new world, okay?”
He nods, just once, and then she’s off, slinking through the rubble and disappearing behind a building, going off on a different path than the one they’d taken here. He waits, maybe five, maybe ten minutes. Keeps an ear out for gunshots or cries. But nothing happens but the sound of the city rustling, light debris rolling across concrete, and noises from within the walls. Idly, he hopes she likes the copy of RobCo he’d slipped into her pack. It’s not much, but he’s heard copies are valuable, and it might help her out with her own machine. A thanks, for the help, sort of.
Adust turns to the glowing, neon sign of Goodneighbour, and then to the door it points to. Adjusts the hunting rifle in his hands.
Well. Here goes nothing, and everything, all at once.