SYNTH DETECTIVE (ap)

Elana stared at the banner as he spoke, who was lucky? No one, in the end, everyone died one way or another. She wondered how the world was before all the radiation. The world bustling, she imagined it was a cleaner version of Diamond city. Well, with houses and hot rods, the magazines she had collected through her travels about picket fences, she wondered what that was all like. Not having to worry about radiation. She wondered what the women use to do, what the men use to do. What jobs were like back then, surely they weren’t too far from what they had now. Pianos, that was an old world thing, she didn’t know of anyone that was super musically inclined.

She forced a smile, she had to get out of her own head. She had to be happy about what she had here. A shop, good clients, good neighbors, she was living her own little happy life. She looked around, the bench had to be somewhere, she saw it after a moment covered in whatever. She moved to go clean the bench off and pulled it over, sitting down on it, she patted it to signal him to sit down too. “Well then, Nick, let’s see if you possess the same talent.” She grinned. “I’m sure this thing is hundreds of years outta tune, but hey…this place is quiet.” She nodded. “Now, don’t worry, because I can’t sing to save my life.” She laughed a bit. “So I won’t make fun if your piano skills are rusty.”  she nodded a bit.

I’m sure this thing is hundreds of years outta tune. 

“Something we have in common.”

Helping her shove the bench up to the piano, Nick then took his place beside her, waving his hand when a swarm of dust sprang up for an assault. Damn. How long has it been since he’d seen one of these things? He pulled open the cover and swiped at the grime. Nick had played before. He’d poured a glass of whiskey, stuck a cigarette in his mouth, and played until the neighbor one floor below whacked her ceiling with a broom because, dammit, it’s 11pm.

“Well, now, let’s see. What do we have here…” He hit a key and it rang off an out-of-tune chime; not that bad, though. Not bad for two hundred years, at least. Almost like someone tried sprucing it up just a century before them. She mentioned being an awful singer and he glanced over. “At this rate, you and I might just start putting the Third Rail under,” he quipped, knowing that if Magnolia were here, she’d flash him that knowing smirk. Nick and Elana, the new jazz duo, putting Maggy out of business. Ridiculous. “Got any requests? Not that you’ve got options,” he said. 

This is obnoxiously long and might not be as organized or clear as I tried to make it, but here are my two bits. If you have different ideas, more points, or anything else, let me know!

A good pal of mine, @tothezeros​, asked me before if I thought Nick would transfer himself to a gen 3 vessel given the option. I said no at the time and I still mostly stand by it, but I think, ultimately, yes, but for only one reason. I’ll get to that towards the end, but will list down reasons for him staying in his gen 2 body. 

First and foremost, Nick has no illusions about what he is. He knows he’s a synth. Whether he’s in his gen 2 body or in a gen 3 body, he will always be a synth. I don’t think Nick wants to be human per say, even when he says the line, “I’m just a machine pretending to be human,” because, ultimately, his problem isn’t that he’s a machine. His problem is that he’s not his own person. Transferring himself to a gen 3 body doesn’t fix a single thing. Furthermore, Nick already considers synths to be as much people as humans, which can be surmised when he says, “You’re damn right synths are machines. But that doesn’t stop us from being people.” I would rule out Nick wanting to be a gen 3 to be more human because, really, he already considers them as their own free-thinking people as equal and deserving of life as humans. If anything, he wants the rest of the world to acknowledge that. 

“I even accept late payments.”

@malteseraven

Well, this was it. Nearly three-thousand miles away from New Vegas, and three-thousand miles away from his old home in Mexico, this was where he was to die: on a dirty, tetanus-infested rooftop, with the bottom of the building surrounded by feral ghouls. It was sort of poetic, really, how long he managed to keep his sanity through the centuries, about to bleed out to the injuries his feral kin had made. Always unpredictable when you were a sentient ghoul, you could never tell if they would accept you or lash out at you violently just as they did with humans and everything else that moved.

His stimpaks were all gone, and so was his ammo; there weren’t any bandages or first-aid nearby, all that was left to do was fall asleep and drift off from blood loss. Maybe if he was lucky, he would see his family again. Raul closed his eyes, his heavy breathing getting slower and slower… until the door to the roof slammed open with a loud, startling noise.

“Geez, can’t an old man die in peace?” He asked, somehow still finding the energy to be a smartass. He had to keep one eye closed due to a cut on his brow dripping blood down, and turned his head to see a figure in a fedora and trenchcoat, but his cataracts-riddled eyes couldn’t make out any facial details.

“You… you’re obviously made of tougher stuff than I am if you managed to make it up here,” he said dryly, holding onto his shoulder where a deep cut of meat had bit bit off of him from one of the ferals. “You got anything to help patch me up? Or maybe a bullet to the head to get this over with?”

“Say your prayers!”

Another pop went off, his pistol jolting, and the feral’s head flew backwards with a spray of blood. One more down. Nick rushed down the hall, his processors still buzzing, and he felt the holotape in his coat pocket smack hard against his chest, his shoes echoing loud. Gargling hissed from behind. A door to the roof lied in front. He reached out, rammed it open---

And breaking out, threw it back shut. 

But he hardly had time. On the roof, splayed out over the sun-baked floor, was a feral. But wait... It wasn’t charging at him. Holding his revolver tight in his hand, his coolant still whooshing through his system, Nick carefully stepped forward, eyes glowing, then finally saw. It wasn’t a feral. It was a ghoul. Bleeding out. Shit. 

“Knock it off. It ain’t over yet. Now hang in there; we’re gonna get through this,” Nick urged. Stopping quickly beside him, his optics gleamed over the damage, the gears grinding in his head. He was a synth. He didn’t need stimpaks, didn’t carry bandages, and he darted out here to this crumbled police station expecting no one. “Damn. No dice,” he cursed. There wasn’t any other choice.

“BULLSHIT. You don’t GET to make excuses because an itchy trigger finger and laziness made you complacent. You don’t get to try and pin murder and abduction by YOUR HANDS on bad luck.” There’s the sharp whip of anger, a voice that’s normally just smoky tones has crackled into a roaring fire. There’s a reason behind this – it draws the other settlers’ attention. It distracts him. It masks the hum of power as her Pip-Boy charges up.

But just like that, perspectives tilt. She’s not the only one playing decoy. Her tactics need to shift.

“It’s all I’ve thought about,” Quinn answers tersely. Nails bite into her palms, sharp, grounding her. She doesn’t want to spill truths to someone like Kellogg. But she needs to buy time. Just a little more. 

But sometimes, just a little is just a little too much. The gun is pointed at her, and Quinn can barely register his words. Can barely react. Fight or flight or fight or flight or—

She slams her forearm into Kellogg’s wrist, knocking his aim off kilter. The gun goes off, the noise of it so loud that all Quinn can hear after is the screech and ringing of her ears. Dying nerves in the ears, minimized hearing range; possible tinnitus from this proximity. It’s only when her shirt feels wet, when her arm is sluggish to respond, that Quinn notices the gunshot. Blinks, blearily, before seeing the gun in his hand still. Fight or flight. Quinn throws herself at him, sending them both to the ground. Her Pip-Boy hums, before letting out a sharp click. 

“For what it’s worth?” Her mouth feels like cotton, but the words come out crisp. She yanks a wire out from her Pip-Boy, holding it towards the exposed column of Nick Kellogg’s throat, aiming towards the web of wire and framing beneath torn latex skin. 

“I’m not the least bit sorry about you.” 

She knocks his arm.

The gun goes off. It falls and skids across the floor. 

In a split second, his mechanical mind registers the muffled, sucking thud that comes from a bullet and the silent click when it digs clean through, the casing hitting the ground. Then he feels something smash into his chest. She’s thrown herself against him.

Fans whirring, coolant rushing, he crashes hard against the ground, and together, they struggle in a tangle of limbs. He sees it, then. She’s yanking out a wire from her Pip-Boy and immediately tries sticking it through the gash in his plastic casing–tries to power surge him–but he cuts her off, grabbing her wrist then throwing his metal hand up to her neck, the iron fingers digging into her throat. He may have drawn blood. It’s too dark to see and the skeletal framework, stripped of sensors, feels nothing. 

A part of him wants the heat to drip over his face.

Metallic and thick, the smell of iron. 

He hears other sounds now. Not just her breaths or this maddening fan in his head, but voices. Other people from the settlement. With a guttural growl, the synth attempts to coil his fingers deeper into the soft base of her throat like knives and doesn’t try shoving her off, but whipping around and pinning her to the dusty, cracked floors, his plastic body trapping her below. Forget the gun. He can choke her blue and watch the last shred of life leave her eyes. 

“Should’ve left it when you had the chance.”

Scoring lucky on two counts has made this a rather eventful evening, and now more curious that someone wouldn’t jump at the chance to get extra money. He wouldn’t push him to take it, not if he was content to go without, but why? That old patchy coat didn’t scream well off, nor the hat that begged to be thrown away. “Trouble finds me the easiest when I’m not looking. I didn’t expect anyone else to be different.” It’s not the most off-handed apology he’s ever given, but certainly not warm and fuzzy while he pushes himself up from the floor. “That kid is probably still alive, but I can’t say they’ll keep him there forever.“He hated to think what might be ahead of that poor boy.

“Archie said he was getting his son away from his ‘crazy Ex-wife’, when I saw Lee last. Doesn’t make much sense now when he didn’t mention it until…Two months ago? We stopped in your town to resupply, and he always seemed to be talking to someone. When we bunked down he was gone in the morning, and left a note about meeting in Goodneighbor, I’d get paid there. He was there, but there was this little boy, he didn’t even look like he knew where he was. Usually kids sense those kinds of things, places where you should be careful? Arch said he was just tired, and like the idiot I was, I didn’t question it. “Guilt hung high above his head, though looked awfully guarded, too stiff and swallowing something down hard.

“You’re going after him, right?”

“And lucky for us, ‘murder in cold blood’ never quite made it into the job description,” Nick answered.

It could have had more bite to it, but it didn’t. The detective stayed in place as MacCready finally pulled himself up off the ground, the body soaking in its own brain matter. He stewed in his thoughts. The first 48 hours are the most crucial. After two days without any solid leads, the chances of finding a missing person, of solving a murder, even, are cut by 50%, and his perp lied dead in a bloody heap on the ground, no Lee in sight. No. He was finding this boy if it was the last thing he ever did.

Damn programming. Cut it with the sinking feeling. Nick’s face shifted with a slight micro-expression. So Archie was talking to someone from Diamond City? And this thing about getting his ‘son’ away from his ‘ex-wife’— “Now hold on. You mentioned ‘two months,’” Nick urged. “Either that means this grab-and-go was in the works long beforehand, or Archie’s gone and turned it into a business. And I’ve got a gut feeling.” A kidnapping business. With those at the chapel. Which meant this wasn’t the first snatching. He could tell, then. Something about MacCready had shifted, something integral, like he wouldn’t think twice about killing a man or a woman, but the idea of taking away a child?

“And here I thought I was already dreaming,” he remarked casually. “—Kept seeing you.”

Cigarette glowing, Nick took a drag but didn’t lift his head from the paper. It was a note on the Mysterious Stranger.

@malteseraven gets mutt

When he smelled the familiar metallic scent, the K-9 felt his heart start to thump in rapid succession with the swaying of it’s tail. He knew the sound of Nick’s voice, and how his unique smell of synthetic material and metal mixed with the air.

The dog ducked and weaved, sprinting on his callused paws and nails scuffing against the ground. Sprinting through a few citizens, the dog ducked around the corner, chocolate eyes spotting the neon sign. And sure enough, there was Nick.

The Synth was met with a short bark. Probably meant to mean something, but it ended up with the dog happily running in circles around him before hopping on his hind legs, meeting nick’s  torso with his paws. 

Making a series of whimpers and mumbles, the dog tried to get the Detective’s attention (as if he couldn’t get it without putting 70 pounds worth of German Shepard to lean on him), eventually hopping down and rapidly picking up and putting down his paws, eager for his dear friend’s response.

He heard it before he saw it. A series of scratches scraped the wooden boards, citizens gasped, and there was the tell-tale rhythm of an animal’s run. Dogmeat. Nick’s eyes brightened when the canine came into view, its swishy tail wagging in the night.

If only everyone was that happy to see him.

“Ah. Well, if it isn’t my four-legged friend,” he chuckled. The dog yapped happily, running circles around him, then leaped up, jabbing its front paws against his chest. He tossed his head back to avoid a faceful of slobber. “Whoa. Down, boy.”

“You and that silly dog.”

Turning around, he saw Ellie finally emerge from that narrow entrance into the agency. Her face beamed with a wry little smile and she had her fists balled to her hips, one leg jutting out. 

"They don’t call ‘em man’s best friend for nothing,” he started, standing up. 

“I didn’t mean Dogmeat.” 

‘ scary. got any other poems, nick? ’ he doesn’t mind nick’s dramatics, really – the storytelling is good; in fact, it’s almost as good as deacon’s recitations of proust. but not quite. no one will ever be good as his recitations of proust. he picks at the corner of his shirt, where there’s a small hole. he has holes in all his shirts. ‘ you should do radio, pal! you’ve got the voice for it.’

His match isn't burning. Nick tries lighting a soggy cigarette, but it won’t catch, and the corner of his mouth curls down as the pitch black sky spills out a river over the tin roof. “For you? I'll even throw in a serenade,” he jokes, trying another strike. Nothing. Blasted rain-- Two hundreds years since the bombs, they make human-like robots and machines with personalities, but can't find a way to make waterproof matches. He tries to light again. Nothing. "Some future this turned out to be."

“Oh hey…no no…you are uh…fine…I just…figured you know they would be good to sell…lots of uh…Lonely people.” She smiled and put some of the ones in better shape in her bag. “Uh…by the way, thanks for coming with me.” she smiled at him moving to catch up once she had a few best sellers.

She knew a few patrons that would love these, always looking for some light reading. Not that she blamed people, it was a rough life, and even if looking at partly faded pictures of half-naked girls was perverse, it was up to them, not her. “So…where do you think Richard was going?” She motioned to the banner as she looked around, this place was picked clean, but she was happy he went out of his way to help her. “Bon Voyage….” she whispered softly. “I guess it doesn’t matter now though, he never made it….the bombs….it’s a shit way to go, being incinerated…or radiation…” She pouted a bit.

“Yeah,” Nick said, almost like an afterthought. “I won’t mention this to anyone if you won’t.”

But it wasn’t that he didn’t believe her. If anything, he did. Most people weren’t interested in Moby Dick or Shakespeare these days; they were into whatever caught their eye, and if he knew one thing, it was that not even a nuclear apocalypse and raining fallout could ever destroy the impulses of men. Nick wandered over to the piano, a memory coming to mind, and found an empty box of ammo lying on top.

Where was Richard going? Where they all went. Nowhere. Heaven, if you believed. He glanced to the drooping banner then back down to her, catching the hollow look on her face. 

“Now and then you wonder who the lucky ones are: Us. Or them.” But he thought he knew the answer: None. And the people who made the bombs, the people who pushed those buttons… “’Beware; for I am fearless, and therefore powerful.’”

The hazy smoke coiled and swirled around her, the smell of cigarettes and cigars familiar, comforting in a way. The song filled her head and Jenny felt her mind wandering back; a black dress, red lips, green eyes focused on a man at a bar focused entirely on his drink and nothing else. She didn’t know it at the time, but she had already been falling in love with him.

Now, Jenny found herself looking down at not her fiance Nick Valentine, but she was looking at an ‘old synth’ by the same name, someone she felt a newfound closeness to. So no matter how self-deprecating Nick wanted to be, Jenny had no interest in sharing a dance with anyone else. A few people, while silent, looked on. Some of them new Jenny, some of them knew Nick, but none of them were aware the two knew each other before this night. That was, obviously, changing very quickly.

At Nick’s comment, Jenny smiled, white teeth and peachy lips. “Gal like me? Careful Nick, you don’t want to give me an ego.” She mused softly, her gaze soft, smile warm. Her lips pursed in thought for a moment though, as if she were humouring his comment, as if she had any interest in dancing with anyone else in the room. No offence to the other patrons, but her eyes were fixed on one and only person in The Third Rail; an old synth, in fact.

“Hmm…true. Then why are you making me ask twice?” Her brows jumped, and Jenny was done waiting. She bent down and let her fingers wrap around his left hand, pulling him up into a standing position and beginning to tug him towards the open space in front of the stage, that smile still on her lips, eyes twinkling with the red neon on the wall.

He didn’t have time to say anything else, something absurdly along the lines of ‘because you don’t want to be with a bot like me’ or ‘because there’s a hundred other guys’ or ‘because look.’ She was already tugging him closer to an open spot on the floor. Her hand was wrapped around his.

He didn’t expect this. Tonight he just planned to knock on her door, tell the truth before the gears and wires in his core were too bundled to get the words out, and stay up at an ungodly hour of the night–no standby–as the ticking of a broken clock kept track of the time, the image of her running away looping in his storage. Instead, she was happy. Instead, they were underground in a crummy subway station with jazz and maybe a light warmth from the bourbon in her system.

"I don’t think ‘smooth sailing’ is the phrase I’d use here...” Glancing around, he stopped at the empty champagne glasses. His voice lowered. “Here’s to new beginnings.”

A banner, ripped and faded over time, drooped from the ceiling. ‘BON VOYAGE, RICHARD’ was printed on it. This was to be a retirement party, then. Deflated balloons scattered all around, the dance floor was empty, and the bar was ransacked, all the prewar money stolen with only a river of debris filling the space. A band set stood silent, too. Some records were collecting dust--Miles Davis, Count Basie, Benny Goodman... There was even a piano.

He swung his head around to lead them over, but stopped. They were standing by a pile of magazines. Pinups. He made a noncommittal sound and moved on.

[I’ve already answered it before, but I’ll give you the short explanation:

Nick’s got some heavy weight to lug around. Everything he is–his memories, name, actions–comes from another man whose everything was downloaded into him. He’s a copy. He thinks of himself as a copy. How can he make room for a relationship when he’s struggling with the reminders that he’s not even his own person?

I think he’d feel they deserve better, too, than a robot with the ghost of a pre-war cop in its head. He’s got a lot of things to juggle.

“Said something about a kid named Lee. At first I thought he was just trying to level with me, get on my good side. But no one talks about their own kid like a parent does…I think.” Adding a layer of unsure tone was all part of keeping things from digging too deep. His eyes only roll at another kick back at him, trying to bite with less venom. There was some mutual need to keep things a little peaceful as long as he could; buying stimpaks wasn’t at the top of his list of priorities today, and now he;d be swearing to himself that he’d get at least five before he got into the Third Rail again. “I’m not going to get turned in anywhere to anyone, especially not by you. Tell me who sent you after me, I’ll give you…fifty caps, a little information and we’ll both leave here without a scratch.”

Lee. That was it. Just a first name, but the widow’s son was Lee, too, also a kid. The coincidence was too much. Nick couldn't ask more, though. The merc was already trying to bribe him to break confidentiality for bent-up caps, fifty of them. It was an insult. 

“Sorry, pal. My integrity’s not for sale.” His voice buzzed, drawn out and defiant. The glow of his eyes pierced the shadows on his face. “I’m here for the kid, not you. Putting your rounds into my perp just made things harder, but I ain’t going out on a limb and empty-handed here... Maybe you ought to choose your ‘friends’ more carefully.” The advice might’ve been clear. If MacCready’s first thought was that someone was here to take him down or tie him up or blow a hole out the side of his head, spray it against the wall, it’d come from his own people. Other mercs. Other criminals. Not Nick, and not here.

And Archie? For snatching a son from his mother? There was a bitter taste in his mouth.