#jafafics

🥂

[Cait]

...the cranky redhead that they had been travelling with for the past several months. The night had started out innocently enough - well, as innocently as a steady flow of whiskey and vodka would allow, of course. Cait and Sole indulged in a variety of liquor, trading stories and playing simple drinking games that usually ended in uproarious laughter and the demands for yet another round.

As the time ticked on, Cait had left their booth in the middle of the room and offered to grab the next round, and as she waited at the bar for Charlie to pour their drinks, she looked over her shoulder to see Sole pouting at a bloke maybe twice their age that had meandered over to the table. Her breath hitched in her throat as she saw him pass Sole a glass of something brown and almost certainly alcoholic, and she felt her face heat up as Sole accepted the drink with a smile. A smile that Cait had been secretly hoping was reserved only for her.

A familiar feeling of anger bubbled inside her, simmering just below the surface of her freckled skin as her chest ached with irritation. Or was it longing?

She didn't want to think about it.

Instead, despite herself, she watched on as the man slid into the lounge next to them, and Sole laughed. Laughed!

Cait grunted as Charlie handed her two glasses of bourbon and she downed hers in one swig before marching back to the table. Wobbly and inebriated, she nearly decked the poor wastelander before Sole stopped her, catching her as she instead fell harmlessly into their arms.

"A bit too much?" Sole chuckled, but their laughter was cut short as they were greeted by the fire in Cait's eyes. She scrambled to her feet and jabbed a long sharp finger into the stranger's chest, mumbling a threat into his ear.

The strangers' expression immediately changed from one of confidence to one of concern, and he drummed his fingers against his glass impatiently.

Sole pinched their nose and sighed. It was going to be a long night.

"Please excuse us," they said to the stranger as they dragged Cait into the VIP lounge and pushed her into the lounge. The room spun and Cait groaned as she placed her head in her hands. Was she coming down already?

"What's gotten into you?" Sole's expression was one of compassion. It was a look that Cait was not used to seeing, and in that moment, she realised that she resented it. She resented the feelings that it brought in her. She resented how her heart was hammering in her chest at the close proximity of the object of her desires. She resented how she was so utterly unworthy of anything that could happen between them.

With that in mind, Cait spat out the only thing that came to mind.

"He was gonna take advantage of ya, ya idiot."

Sole rolled their eyes. "Maybe I wanted him to…"

Cait's mind short-circuited.

"…Or maybe," Sole shrugged, and Cait almost missed the mischievous glint in their eye, "I just wanted to take advantage of the free drinks and wind up even more drunk than you for a change!"

The redhead may have been inebriated, but she was almost positive that she wasn't misinterpreting the situation as she bolted upright and squinted suspiciously at her friend. "You mean to say you weren't into him?"

Sole chortled. "God, no. I mean, the free drinks, though...?" They winked, and this time, Cait laughed alongside them.

Perhaps this wouldn't be the night that they would wind up in bed together, limbs entangled and bodies flush as they pandered to desires often indulged behind closed doors and under night's cover, but for tonight, as she held a thoroughly sloshed Sole in the VIP lounge, this night was enough for Cait. In fact, it was more than enough.

🥂

[Curie]

...their cheerful synth companion. The original plan for the night was for Sole to show Curie a more human approach to life and living, to introduce her to alcohol for the first time. Sole had promised that they would not go overboard - "Just one or two drinks, maybe some dancing, then we can go back to the Rexford" - but the pair had stayed at the Third Rail for almost three hours just dancing to Magnolia's tunes before a drink had even been mentioned.

Funnily enough however, the suggestion of a drink was not mentioned by either of them, but rather an attractive young woman. The stranger slunk in between the pair with a glass of wine in each hand; a light dusting of freckles painted her cheeks and shoulders, and soft brown curls framed her face. Effortlessly elegant, Curie thought, as the woman offered them both a drink. Well, more precisely, she passed Curie a drink, and asked Charlie at the bar to fetch another wine as she took a sip from hers and leaned against the counter, chatting to Sole as she did so. Curie pursed her lips but said nothing as Sole chuckled half-heartedly, thanking her for the offer.

As the synth gingerly took a taste of the drink, Sole and the stranger next to her appeared to be in deep conversation. Something was deeply unpleasant regarding the interaction, but Curie could not put her finger on why that would be. She enjoyed Sole’s company. She enjoyed the idea of making a new friend – especially here in the Commonwealth, where it seemed like every second person was a Raider or a Gunner with a desire for blood and no mercy to share. Perhaps she was irritated at the lack of care the stranger had shown towards Sole, not sharing the two glasses she had before ordering one for herself.

As she watched the woman bat her eyelashes at her friend, she felt a twang in her heart. The wine tasted bitter, and the alcoholic burn gripped her throat like a vice. She suddenly didn’t feel like drinking. Placing down her glass on the edge of the bar, she observed Sole as they returned the stranger’s odd behaviour with an equally odd act that made her heart clench even more; they placed their arm on the strangers’ own and smirked. Blood rushed in her ears. Why did she feel so unsettled by this?

Shaking her head, unwilling to see any more, she hurried into the VIP lounge, where she found solace in the isolated room of the Third Rail. She clutched her face as if to ground herself, her chest heaving with the effort of keeping in her tears. Such human emotions were too strange, too foreign for her. Too intense.

“Curie?”

She yelped in surprise to see that Sole had followed her into the lounge. Oh, of course they had, she realised. They were her friend. Friends help each other.

The word ‘friend’ felt as bitter as the wine from earlier.

“I don’t understand what I’m feeling.” She confessed. “It was so painful when you talked to her. I’m still learning all of these new things. It’s difficult.”

Sole immediately nodded and brushed a loose strand of hair off Curie’s pale face, “I’m sorry, Curie, I hadn’t realised.”

Sole’s hand on her face was electric, and she absentmindedly wondered if Sole could feel the heat spreading across her cheek. Their eyes sparkled in the low light of the lounge, and they were almost close enough to…

…To what?

All too soon, the spell had been broken as Sole pulled away, shaking their head. “You felt left out. You felt excluded. That was on me, and I’m sorry I made you feel that way. Why don’t we have another dance, to make up for it?”

Ah, yes. That must have been what it was. Excluded. Curie ignored the doubt buzzing in the back of her mind as she followed Sole, hand in hand, back to the dancefloor.

After all, who was she to doubt someone as knowledgeable and as wonderful as Sole?

🥂

[Danse]

…the ex-Brotherhood Paladin. Earlier that day, much to Danse’s chagrin and to the surprise of everyone in their mutual social circle, Sole had convinced Danse to spend a night away from the bunker, to spend it in the fresh air and freedom and the multitudes of alcohol that only Goodneighbor and its premiere bar could provide. Unlike his superior in the Brotherhood, Danse had never been one to indulge in a beer or whiskey, but in his current circumstance, with the knowledge of his true identity hanging over him like an angry ghost, he reluctantly accepted Sole’s offer of a drink.

Perhaps it was the way that Sole’s fingers grazed his own as they passed him their first bourbon. Perhaps it was the way the light caught their eyes as the corners crinkled with each delightful expression that was painted on their face. Perhaps it was the way his companion sighed contentedly into their drink as they listened to Magnolia’s music. When he cracked a dry witticism and they turned and smiled at him, his heart almost leapt to his throat as he stumbled over his words.

Here, in the Third Rail, surrounded by drunkards and commoners, with his saviour by his side, he almost felt human.

Almost.

He pushed away the ugly thoughts creeping into his mind as he took another swig of bourbon. Side-eyeing the person next to them, he swallowed the burning liquid alongside the newfound disgust bubbling in his chest and he excused himself from their table to procure another drink from the bar. Too enraptured in Magnolia’s performance, Sole nodded happily and produced a few caps to buy a drink for the two of them. Grunting a thanks, he wandered to the bar and dumped the caps on the wooden counter.

“Careful,” Charlie tutted, “You’ll scratch my bar!”

“Vodka. Two.” Danse ignored the comment from the bartender. He almost found himself chuckling at how ridiculous the notion was; a robot, chiding a synth. He surely didn’t deserve to be out here, enjoying this freedom. What had Sole seen in him to spare him that fateful day? What could Sole possibly see in him now, as he sat stewing in bitter, unhappy thoughts?

What could he make them see in him?

 When Charlie had returned with the drinks, the tipsy ex-Paladin was still in a trance. He had pushed any such inappropriate thoughts of Sole out of his mind for the longest time, but perhaps the alcohol was loosening him up a bit more than he had expected. He turned, drinks in hand, to head back to his table.

He really hadn’t expected to see the most attractive man this side of the Commonwealth at their table.

Danse seethed as he watched Sole chatting to the man, his arm around their shoulders. The man seemed to be almost smirking down at Sole as he leaned down and whispered something in their ear, eliciting a giggle from them. A giggle!

He was furious.

He was furious with himself.

Not wishing to disturb any further, he quietly placed Sole’s drink on the table before slinking off the VIP lounge as quietly as he could muster. He knew that the object of his affections deserved better than what he could offer, and he was a big enough man to step aside, at least for the evening.

 Danse had been sitting in the dark, nursing his vodka for a good ten minutes before Sole had tracked them down. Out of breath, and with the beginnings of an inebriated blush on their face, they stumbled over their words.

“God, I’m so sorry. I lost track of time, and then I realised you weren’t with me, and-“

Danse held up his hand. “No need to apologise. You were, uh, preoccupied.”

Sole’s blush deepened, but they waved it off. “Regardless, I would rather spend time with you over someone I don’t even know.”

“Oh?” He quipped, quirking an eyebrow.

Sole only nodded, sitting down next to him and clinking his bottle with their own. “So, here’s to good company.”

Danse hummed in agreement, ignoring his heart surging in his chest. “Outstanding.”

To good company indeed.

🥂

[Gage]

…the most intimidating man in the Third Rail. It all began earlier that evening as the sun touched the horizon, and only the brightest dusting of stars had painted the twilit sky; the Overboss and their second-in-command were passing through Goodneighbor, and Sole suggested they unwind at the local watering hole. Ham growled a warning to the pair as they made their way down the stairs, and Gage tossed a careless obscenity back before Sole shushed him.

“C’mon, you wanna get kicked out before we can even get a drink?”

“Well shit, boss,” Gage shrugged, a playful smile ghosting his lips. “Is that a challenge?”

 The two raiders quickly settled comfortably into the empty VIP lounge, away from the prying eyes of the public. Gage sunk into one of the plush chairs and Sole draped themselves over a lounge, sipping a Nuka-Cola.

“Dunno how you can still stomach that.” He muttered as he shook his head, eyeing the carbonated drink. He watched Sole’s motion as they rose it to their lips and swallowed. He swallowed with them.

Sole wiped their mouth and raised an eyebrow, shooting their companion a questioning glance. “Thirsty, Gage?”

“Yeah.” Gage smirked and looked away. “You could say that.”

“Then get us something to drink.”

“Booze dulls the senses, boss. Gotta be alert, ‘specially in a place like this.”

Sole shook their head. “Yeah, yeah. I’ve heard it before. ‘You’ve seen raiders lose their minds over the stuff.’” They absentmindedly traced the letters of the Nuka-Cola logo with their fingers and allowed their gaze to wander from the lounge to the main area. “You’re no fun, you know that?”

Gage grunted. “I’m loads of fun, boss.”

‘Why don’t you find out just how much ‘fun’ I can be?’

“If you’re not game, then I’m hitting the bar by myself. I’ll be back.” Sole shrugged as they rose from the lounge and stretched, their back arching against the door frame, before tossing a coy look over their shoulder. “Don’t wait up!”

“Ha-ha.” The raider snarked, rolling his eye. His gaze dropped to Sole’s backside as they sauntered to the bar, and if he hadn’t known better, he could have sworn they were showing off.

Still, if he had an ass like that, he would flaunt it as well.

 Gage sat and stewed in his thoughts for an eternity, waiting for the Overboss to return. Fiddling with the bolts at the front of his armour as he kicked back in the old chair, his mind drifted to Nuka-World. The raiders under the Overboss would be well taken care of now they were expanding to the Commonwealth, and there would be a steady flow of crops and caps coming their way. It was unbelievable just how efficient his plan had been.

It certainly helped that the right person wandered into the Gauntlet at just the right time.

Gage was in high spirits until he peered out from the VIP lounge and saw Sole with some stranger getting too close for comfort. What was the Overboss even doing, paying attention to a lowly settler?

Suddenly, he saw them raise their hand and touch the stranger’s shoulder as the wastelander handed them drink. Were they flirting?

Annoyed, Gage stormed over to the pair, and, without warning, he grabbed the hair on the back of the stranger’s head and smashed their face into the counter. The Third Rail fell silent for only a moment before the Overboss jumped from their seat and grabbed Gage by his armour, dragging him back into the VIP Lounge and ignoring Whitechapel Charlie’s cries of protests. ‘Someone’s going to have to help me clean up this blood stain you left!’

 “What the hell is wrong with you?” Sole growled.

“The hell were you doing? You know we ain’t here to make friends.” Gage tripped over his words as he felt the familiar heat of shame cross his cheeks. “We gotta get a move-on if we intend to arrive at Nuka-World before sun-up.”

The Overboss sighed, their shoulders slumping alongside the movement. “Yeah, you’re right.”

‘Phew.’

Gage chuckled darkly into his armour as he adjusted the chains around his leg. He understood the Overboss would never even look twice in his direction in the way that he did them – God knows he didn’t deserve the privilege – but he was at peace with that; so long as he could keep the less worthy wastelanders thinking the same.

Deacon:

Probably not the one who came up with the idea, but will happily take the blame if it means winding up Carrington.

Calls the cat by a different name every week "for security reasons".

Secretly thinks he could learn a thing or two from the cat's stalking abilities.

Tries to give himself a new feline-based nickname and is quickly shot down by Desdemona.

Desdemona:

"Why is this thing roaming HQ? Deacon, do you have anything to say to this?"

Frets immediately over the security risks a loose animal could cause.

She becomes much more open to the idea when she realises how the cat boosts morale amongst her team.

Briefly considers the idea of therapy pets for both rescued synths and Railroad Heavies.

Doctor Carrington:

Is almost immediately aggravated at the sight of the creature.

"Don't we have actual synths to worry about? That thing could carry diseases."

Relents after seeing the various Railroad Heavies taking comfort in the animal after strenuous missions.

Is the one who actually suggested the possibility of therapy pets for rescued synths.

Drummer Boy:

Is the one who lured the cat into HQ in the first place, but is happy to let Deacon take the blame.

Finds the cat a welcoming distraction from the tedious job of being the Railroad's liaison.

Is the one in charge of making sure the cat doesn't bolt from HQ every time the door opens.

Definitely the cat's favourite Railroad member.

Glory:

Briefly annoyed over the tiny tripping hazard roaming Railroad HQ.

She warms up to the cat quickly when she realises just how angry Carrington is over it, though.

"No heart, Carrington? Look on the bright side; maybe you can train this thing to be your little assistant!"

Unless it's to rib on other Railroad members, she doesn't pay all that much attention to the cat.

Tinker Tom:

Deeply concerned over the idea of a cat inside HQ, worrying it could be an Institute ploy of some kind to spy on them.

Constantly scans the creature with every test he has come up with.

Relents a little when it becomes apparent that the rest of the Railroad trusts the animal, but still actively avoids it.

Some members hypothesize he dislikes the cat because it reminds him of his life prior to the Railroad.

Bonus! Railroad Heavy Sole Survivor:

If Drummer Boy wasn't the one to bring in the cat, it was the Sole Survivor.

Reminds them of pre-war times, so they enjoy having it around.

Usually the one to bring back cat food and supplies from the outside.

The air inside the Valentine Detective Agency was suffocatingly tranquil. The small double-brick office held a century’s worth of dust in the cracks of the walls, and as Nick Valentine gestured to the faux-leather chair facing his desk that so many clients had sat on in days past, his latest guest hesitated at the doorway. A roll of thunder murmured somewhere in the distance, and Diamond City seemed so far away, the outside world stifled almost to silence by the guarded ambiance within the building.

“Take a seat,” Nick said, once more gesturing to the chair in front of him, “and tell me what’s brought you to town. You must be desperate to be knocking on my door.”

He lit up a cigarette and flicked the match away as his guest took a cautious step forward toward the rusted metal desk he stood behind. Nick watched as his guest took a moment to sweep his eyes over his office, and he huffed when the man’s eyes met his own. If he had the capacity, he would have quirked an eyebrow; instead, he settled on a thin-lipped smile.

“Been a while, Danse.”

Ex-Paladin Danse fiddled with the helmet of his power armour, grasped tight like a vice in his hands. In the wake of his latest discovery, the helmet was a comfort, a shield between himself and the rest of the world.

“A month ago, I never would have thought to employ the help of a synth,” he confessed, his words slow and deliberate, his gaze still locked on the detective. “Yet, with the knowledge that I am a synth myself, I find myself compelled to ask your advice.”

Nick gingerly took a seat in the office chair behind the desk and Danse followed suit, taking the seat in front of him. The detective took a long drag of the cigarette and leaned back in the chair, his gaze roaming over the steel-clad ex-Paladin in front of him. He seemed so much smaller now than when he had first made his acquaintance, all those months ago. With the Brotherhood’s insignia stripped from his armour and his livelihood, Danse appeared almost human.

He remained silent. That thought would bring little comfort to the man in front of him.

Nick snuffed out the cigarette in his ashtray before steepling his hands, elbows on the desk, his chin resting lightly on his fingers. “Must be quite an adjustment.”

“Our mutual friend from Vault 111 says that you experienced something similar,” Danse began, shifting uncomfortably in the chair. He rested his helmet on his lap and wiped away the stray raindrops congealed on the visor. “My identity has been stripped from me, and I don’t know where to begin to come to terms with that.”

The detective nodded carefully, cautiously. Between the man – rather, the synth - sitting in front of his desk now, and the paladin he first met outside Cambridge Police Station, it was almost unthinkable that the two were the same person. Constant jabs at his synth-hood had been carelessly thrown his way by the paladin and his brethren; it was almost karmic to see Danse in front of him now, asking for his help.

“It took me a hell of a long time to adjust to life as a synth,” Nick shrugged as he tugged at the sleeve of his overcoat, “and folks were plenty scared when I rolled into Diamond City for the first time. I won’t lie to you, it’s tough.”

Danse nodded uncertainly, a forlorn look etched on his features. “I understand.”

Nick sighed as he shook his head and rose from the chair. With a grunt and a slurry of protests from his creaking joints, he walked over to Danse and placed a metal hand on the ex-paladin’s shoulder.

“You lost your home and your sense of self in once fell swoop. I did as well, and I carved out a home for myself here. You might find that, in time, you’ll find a home here, too.”

Danse looked up at the synth over his shoulder. “You’re being rather tolerant, considering how I treated you in the past.”

Nick shrugged once more, golden eyes glinting in the dim light as a crack of thunder rolled somewhere in the distance. “You’re our pal, and you’ve been through a hell of a lot. Wouldn’t be right to kick a man while he’s down.”

[Hancock]

...the Mayor of Goodneighbor himself, John Hancock. A bitter, unhappy silence had settled like a fog between the two; it was a stark contrast to the events that had played out earlier that night.

Hancock and the Sole Survivor had returned that evening to Goodneighbor, bruised and battered after a nasty encounter with the local mutants outside the city. When Hancock suggested that they take some time to relax in the Third Rail, his companion jumped at the opportunity, and the odd pair quickly settled into Goodneighbor's premiere club as the twilight faded to night.

Despite Hancock's status as Goodneighbor's mayor, he was loathe to indulge in a perk of his position and settle into the VIP lounge of the Third Rail, so instead, he and Sole took two rickety wooden barstools and sat at the bar. The air was slick with the scent of cheap beer and cheaper perfume and overhead, and as Whitechapel Charlie hovered over to serve them their drinks of choice, Hancock took an inhaler of Jet out of his tattered red coat and offered it to Sole.

"So, Sunshine," Hancock crooned in a raspy tone, his dark eyes glittering under the tavern lights, "What brings a gorgeous vault dweller like you to a place like this?"

Sole cocked an eyebrow and snorted into their glass, hiding their grin behind the alcohol. "You always know just what to say."

Hancock shrugged and gave Sole a playful nudge. "I gotta be charismatic with this face."

"Oh, you know you're attractive." Sole purred, leaning towards him as they sipped their drink, giving the mayor a playful wink as they did so. Caught off-guard, Hancock's practiced response caught in his throat, and instead he turned to observe Magnolia on the stage. It was times like this that he was grateful ghouls couldn't blush. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed one of the more good-looking regulars eyeing the pair – or perhaps, more succinctly, eyeing Sole – but when the regular scooted closer, whispering something low, and Sole flinched in response, Hancock suddenly found himself wishing they had taken the VIP lounge after all.

“Hey, c’mon pal. We’re trying to have a nice night over here.” The ghoul leaned across the counter and commented to the stranger. Inwardly, he hoped the natural rasp of his voice would come across as more intimidating rather than sickly.

The stranger scoffed as he handed Sole a glass of amber liquid. “On me.”

“Oh, uh, thanks…” Sole began, but was quickly cut off.

“What, no free drink for me?” Hancock attempted to keep his tone light, but he almost sneered as the stranger scoffed.

“I only give drinks to the good-looking ones.”

Sole flashed the stranger a forced, yet polite smile as they gripped the dirty glass. They took their time swirling the liquid inside, and the sharp odour of alcohol flooded their nose and settled on their tongue long before they were able to take the first sip.

“Hey, friend. Watch who you’re talking to, here.” The ghoul huffed, clutching at his red frock coat. He could feel the outline of his combat knife strapped to him, almost certainly still stained with the blood of the last person who dared try to insult the vault dweller next to him. His fingers twitched and, instead of grabbing the blade, he grabbed his companion’s arm.

“C’mon.”

With the mayor leaving the bar, the atmosphere at the Third Rail had turned somewhat sour, but in the VIP lounge, the party was still ongoing.

“You didn’t have to drag me away, you know.” The sole survivor tutted, tipsy from the night’s drinks. They leaned over Hancock’s shoulder and brushed a loose thread off his frock coat, and he held his breath. The close proximity of Sole, coupled with their crooning into his ear, had his heart pounding in his chest.

He brushed the thought aside. They didn’t mean anything by it.

“You looked uncomfortable.”

“Well then, thank you for rescuing me.”

Hancock chuckled. “Anytime."

🥂

[MacCready]

…The former-gunner-turned-mercenary.

Unsurprisingly, the odd pair was often found in the VIP lounge of the Third Rail - it was MacCready’s favourite hangout while in Goodneighbor, after all - and these days, it wasn’t uncommon to find both the sharpshooting sniper and the sole survivor of Vault 111 sharing a beer and spinning stories amongst the frayed couches and flickering string-lights; it provided an intimate atmosphere that only the VIP lounge could provide.

This evening held a different overtone than usual however, and the lanterns that hung from the ceiling seemed to cast shadows on the couches and walls that stretched longer, felt deeper than usual. Or perhaps, that was just MacCready’s sour mood as he watched his companion - who had only briefly left to get another drink - be chatted up at the bar by one of the many regulars.

It was a shame MacCready hadn’t worked for this particular regular. If he had, maybe then he would know how to diffuse the situation, instead of hanging back like a lost puppy waiting for Sole to return to him.

No matter. Surely, they would. Besides, Sole had every right to accept a free drink, or flirt with someone to get one. They knew what they were doing. He had no claim over his friend.

His heart twinged at that last word. Immediately, he raised his beer bottle to his lips and drank deeply in an attempt to quash that last thought of… whatever he had been feeling towards his employer as of late. Feelings made a job complicated; you had to be smart about your situation out here in the wasteland. So, he didn’t have any. As of right now, that thought alone was enough to keep him from interrupting the delicate dance of social flirting that was taking place between Sole and the wastelander at the bar. He swallowed the bitter taste in the back of his throat that formed every time he looked in their direction.

Jealousy, maybe?

He quickly shook that idea out of his head.

It couldn’t be. Because he didn’t harbour any feelings like that.

Even from this distance, in the dim lighting of the Third Rail amongst the clutter and the noise, his sharp eyes took in the way the wastelander leered at Sole. His gaze darted between the two as they leaned in closer; Sole’s hand on the pitted glass as Whitechapel Charlie, shining under the glow of the Third Rail’s neon signs, poured them a drink, courtesy of the stranger flicking a bottlecap in his direction; the way the stranger leaned in closer and brushed aside their duster as Sole took a drink; the candles on the bar casting a haunting reflection of light and shadow dancing on Sole’s face as the wastelander whispered something intelligible in their ear.

MacCready’s right hand hovered over the scope of the rifle strapped to his side as he clutched his lukewarm beer with the left. He glared downwards, catching the glint of the metal doorframe that separated the VIP lounge from the rest of the bar. This had gone on far enough - he would be damned if he were going to let some no-good straggler take his-

“Did you get bored waiting for me?”

Sole’s voice chased him out of his own head in an instant, and he found himself tongue-tied as he stared into their eyes.

“Uh. No. Just, uh, I was just looking out for you.”

“Like a good spotter should, right?” His companion laughed. They then leaned in and whispered low, “Good range of drunkards here tonight. That guy at the bar? He just dropped twenty caps on these drinks because he thought he’d get lucky.”

Oh?

MacCready shook himself out of his daze and stared at the two drinks in Sole’s hand.

Oh!

“Nice work, boss,” he chuckled, taking one of the glasses from Sole’s hand.

Maybe he was jealous - but only of the way Sole could charm strangers into loosening their purse-strings.

Yeah, that was it.

🥂

[Piper]

…Diamond City’s own investigative journalist. It was rare for Piper to be seen in Goodneighbor’s local jazz club even before her chance encounter with the vault dweller, but now that she had been gallivanting across the Commonwealth with them for the past several months, never staying in one place for more than a few days, it came as even greater a shock to the bar’s regulars when the pair had walked into the old station earlier that evening and procured a drink from Whitechapel Charlie.

“Haven’t seen you for a hot minute, Miss. Wright. Are you here to irritate my customers again, or are you here to buy a drink?” Whitechapel Charlie buzzed indignantly behind the counter as he cleaned a pitted glass, dull claws scraping the fragile sides. The vault dweller stifled a smile behind their Pip-Boy as they raised their arm to their chin in an act of faux-thought, scanning the many bottles behind the Mr. Handy.

Piper sighed, tapping her fingers against the steel of the counter. “I’ll just have a beer, Charlie. Please.”

In the dim lighting of the Third Rail, with the free flow of alcohol and Magnolia’s sultry voice providing such magnetic background noise, the two companions almost missed the wastelander who had taken the seat next to the vault dweller, until she interrupted Whitechapel Charlie to make an order of her own.

“I’ll have two whiskeys, and give one of them to the gorgeous vaultie next to me.” She made the request while sliding over the counter, elbows gliding over the polished metal until they made contact with the vault dweller’s own.

“You didn’t need to do that, ma’am-” The vault dweller began, but was swiftly silenced by the stranger placing a hand over their shoulder.

“Nonsense. A sweet thing like you shouldn’t ever be paying for their own drinks. Not with a face like that.” She crooned.

Piper was acutely aware of the situation unfolding in front of her. She, perhaps naively, assumed the wastelander had recognised her companion from their various heroics around the Commonwealth, and wanted to thank them. It had certainly happened before, when the pair would walk into a local settlement and they would be accosted by a grateful settler shoving supplies into their arms faster than they could refuse them. This, however? This certainly didn’t feel as innocuous. A hot flash of anger burst into sparks in her mind and heat rushed to her cheeks. How dare she impose on their outing!

She stole a glance at the sole survivor once more, shifting uncomfortably in her seat as she did so, and she felt her heart racing as her eyes glided over their frame. In another time, in another place, perhaps she would be more confident in placing a name on the intense emotions she felt whenever she looked at them, whenever they laughed at her quips, whenever they commented on an article she had written. At times, she felt as if she were attracted to a ghost; someone that could not linger in her life for much longer than they had to before some other person from some other time called for them, and they would depart once more. The weight of the world was on their shoulders, and with the loss of their spouse and their son… God, it would be beyond selfish of her to desire anything other than the bond they shared right now.

On the other hand, though, her companion did look uncomfortable…

“Hey, Blue,” Piper leaned over to her friend as Whitechapel Charlie gave the pair their drinks. She shot the stranger a condescending look. “Want to get out of here, babe ?”

Her friend picked up on the inference almost immediately.

“Yes! Absolutely! After you, babe .” The sole survivor grinned right back at the reporter as she rose from her seat and began making her way to the back room of the bar. “S’cuse me, darling,” was the reply from the vault dweller to the now deeply irritated wastelander as they pried themself off her grip.

“Typical. All the attractive ones are taken, aye?”

“Why, yes, we are!” Piper called out over her shoulder.

The soft amber hues that painted the VIP lounge leant itself a romantic atmosphere; the golden lanterns twinkling from the ceiling, the tattered but comfortable crimson couches, the deep brown tiles that seemed to glow in the low light; all of these romantic inferences were a blight on Piper’s mind as she and the sole survivor slunk into the lounge and sank into the nearest chair. It wasn’t comfortable and the years hadn’t been kind to it, but then again, there were not many objects in the wastes that could boast anything different.

“Thanks, Piper. Always good to have an excuse when someone’s hitting on you.”

“Any time, Blue.” Piper brushed it off with a wave of her hand, ignoring how her stomach flipped at the compliment. With her beer in her hand, she leaned over and clinked the neck of the bottle with the vault dweller’s glass. “Cheers!”

Her companion chortled at the gesture, raising their own glass and meeting Piper’s shining eyes with their own. “Cheers,” they echoed.

🥂

[Preston]

…the Minutemen General’s second-in-command. The pair had wandered over to Goodneighbor’s premiere jazz club just as the lounge singer started her set, and amongst the sparkling lanterns on the ceilings, the flickering candles on the tables, and the soft, hushed whispers of couples and strangers slow-dancing to Magnolia’s crooning, the atmosphere of faux-intimacy in the Third Rail was almost dazzling.

Upon the polite request of his General, Preston made his way to the bar and ordered from Whitechapel Charlie. As he handed the Mr. Handy his caps, he turned to watch his companion take a seat at the empty table in the corner. He observed as they scooted two stained armchairs towards the wooden oak sideboard and sat down in the one closest to the bar.

His eyes met their own, bright and curious and intelligent, and his heart leapt against his chest when they smiled at him. That smile was all-encapsulating; in that moment, amongst the chatter of bar patrons and the soft hues of the buzzing neon signs, it was all that Preston could see. It was all that he wanted to see.

“Hey Casanova,” Whitechapel Charlie whistled from behind the counter. “I’ll have your order ready whenever you want to stop staring at your friend.”

Preston was startled out of his thoughts. Quietly, he cast a glance over at the Mr. Handy and gave a small smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I'm not that obvious, am I?"

Whitechapel Charlie would have shaken his head in disbelief if he had one to do so. "Normally the fellas 'round here only stare slack-jawed at scantily-clad strangers the way I saw you looking at your mate there."

"Well, that's a bit crude." Preston frowned, rubbing the back of his neck with a calloused palm. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he stumbled over his words. "It… it isn't like that."

"Sure it isn't," Charlie retorted, gesturing behind Preston with his lanky claw. "And that isn't your friend being hit on by the best-looking bloke this side of the Commonwealth."

Preston raised his eyebrow at the bot before turning around.

Standing by their companion's chosen table, a wasteland stranger was engaged in an animated conversation with them. In the deep, milky candlelight, shadows flickered over his General's face, covering an unreadable expression. Were they enjoying the attention?

Were they enraptured by it?

Immediately, Preston brushed the thought aside. After all, it didn’t matter. It wasn't as if he held any claim over the General's personal life, nor would he want to, if they would not have him. He was under no delusions regarding their partnership. He was a trusted friend and loyal soldier, first and foremost. There were no ulterior motives behind his actions.

Yet, his heart still clenched painfully in his chest as he watched the handsome stranger slide into the seat opposite the table and take the General's hand in his own. All along, Preston had assumed his attraction was one-sided. Evidently, he had been correct in those assumptions.

Charlie’s voice was low as he addressed Preston once more, handing him two lukewarm beers. “Tell you what. Go tell your friend over there that ol’ Whitechapel Charlie wants to comp you two the VIP lounge for the evening. Get them alone, and tell them how you feel.”

“Oh, wait-” Preston began.

“If you don’t say something now, you won’t get another go.” The lenses in the robot’s three eyestalks whirred incessantly. “Now, scoot! I got more customers.”

And so it was that the night took an unusual turn, with the two Minutemen on opposite sides of a tattered leathery couch in the private room just past the bar, laughing at their good fortune and drinking their beer. Preston’s smiling facade obscured the tumultuous depths of his racing mind as he replayed his conversation with the bartender over and over.

“Why do you think Charlie let us in here, anyway?” The General cocked their head, a lop-sided grin plastered on their face. They were clearly tipsy.

His companion’s smile was as contagious as always, and despite his anxieties, Preston found himself smiling right alongside them. “Something to thank the Minutemen General for what they’ve done for the Commonwealth, I’m sure.”

A bark of laughter erupted from the tipsy sole survivor as they leaned over and flicked the brim of his hat. “Something to thank us, I’m sure.”

As their laughter subsided, Preston found himself on the edge of a conversation he wasn’t sure he was ready to have. Curiosity burned in the back of his mind, and he asked the question that had lingered on his tongue ever since he had returned from the bar.

“Why were you so eager to ditch your friend out there when I told you about Charlie’s offer?”

The General shrugged. “I want to spend time with you.”

Preston couldn’t suppress the smile that ghosted his lips at the answer, nor the way his heart pounded in his chest at the way they were looking at him in that moment; so instead, he took a swig of his drink.

Silvery starlight painted the dark velvet sky with an effervescent brush. The D.C. landscape was awash in soft, cool hues; a stark contrast to the jagged lines of metal and broken concrete that wracked the skyline of the Capital Wasteland. The air was still and held only the slightest chill, and as he stood amongst the rubble just west of what was once the Washington Monument, Charon turned the collar of his coat away from the breeze to conceal his scent from the super mutants that he could hear nearby.

Soon, the unintelligible conversations faded along with their footsteps, and the ghoul was on the move again, as silent and stealthy as the dark cloak of night would allow. He glided effortlessly through the debris of ruined buildings and cracked concrete pathways boasting 200 years of nuclear erosion, only pausing when his destination appeared on the distant horizon.

Megaton.

.

The nigh-impenetrable steel and iron walls of scavenged material that served as the town’s barriers, designed to keep Megaton’s residents safe - designed to keep people like him out - were little more of a nuisance than an actual problem as he slipped nimbly through the gap created by the steel gate keeping guard over the city. As he entered the settlement, he turned his collar up once more and clutched at the combat knife strapped to his belt. His hands brushed against the tattered note given to him by Ahzrukhal that dictated his instructions.

Amongst the scrawlings about Megaton and its lackadaisical security was the description of the latest client of Ahzrukhal, who had run out of the Ninth Circle without paying their bar tab.

Well, that’s what Charon assumed. It wasn’t his job, nor his right to know why his targets were destined to die by his hand.

He didn’t want to know. 

He only had to adhere to his contract.

.

Quiet as a shadow in the dying light, Charon made his way to an elevated section of Megaton, between two obsidian black buildings that blended into the cast-iron surroundings. Any other passerby might have paid it no attention, but the ghoul knew better as he cautiously made his way through the cracks, hugging the walls, effortlessly blending into the dark.

Charon soon found his target; a pale, lanky teenage girl curled up in a corner, by the iron building on his left. Soft streaks of moonlight cast a deep, forlorn shadow over her youthful face, illuminating a deep, angry scar that stretched from her brow to her lip. Her face was framed with messy strawberry-blonde curls that clung to her skin, slick with sweat.

The poor thing was shivering, eyes shut and brow furrowed in a pained expression. Even from the yawning distance between the two, he could hear the pathetic whimpers from her trembling form. Was she dreaming?

Charon brushed the thought aside. It didn’t matter. She owed his employer. As requested, she would pay for her tab with her life. 

His nimble fingers gripped the brittle oak handle of the knife strapped to his side. He unsheathed the blade. It glinted in the moonlight, a dull reflection of the still night above.

The air felt colder with each careful step he took towards the sleeping form.

His grip faltered. His steps were heavier.

The girl stirred in her sleep.

Charon held his breath. He wouldn’t make a mistake.

He couldn’t make a mistake.

He had to adhere to his contract.

.

Life was in motion all throughout the Capital Wasteland. A family of four was settling in for the night. A rowdy group of wastelanders were drinking their sorrows away. A Brotherhood patrol was making their way through rubble, towards Galaxy News Radio.

Life was in motion.

Life was in motion for all but Charon, and the girl whose blood was still dripping crimson from his knife.

With the girl’s caps and meagre belongings in his hand, he slipped away into the night.

As far as Ahzrukhal would know, he adhered to his contract.

~

To the two weary travellers, the gates of hell might have been more welcoming than the outpost of Cottonwood Cove; the heat from the harsh Mojave summer had collected in the sand and permeated the ruined buildings along its shore, but at night, the surrounding earth was as bitterly cold as the people in it. The Legion camp stretched for an eternity in front of Craig Boone and the Courier, and they silently nodded to each other before they slunk into the lion's den, under the waning cover of the fading night. Above, the last twinkling of stars were ebbing away, slowly being overtaken by the approaching dawn. Sunrise would come soon. A quiet seed of anxiety settled in the pit of Boone's stomach, and he swallowed thickly.

It was time to act.

It was the ferryman, Cursur Lucullus, who fell first. The victim of Boone's sniper rifle; only one bullet to the head and he crumpled to the ground, falling away from the group camped around the jetty.

Next was Canyon Runner, the slave master stationed by the dock. A less clean kill, this time. A handful of .308 calibre bullets from the Courier were enough to break through his armour, but only left him wounded. In the distance, Boone hissed as angry shouting welled through the valley and echoed over the river like an angry crescendo. Now the rest of the camp was alert to them.

"Down." He barked.

The two fell on their stomachs in the Mojave dust, obscured by the dead patches of foliage concealing them from the pier, the main group of Legionaries sitting a mere twenty metres from the barrels of their guns. The air was tumultuous and the Legion's cries were violent and heavy, pounding like a tidal wave against the swell of civil twilight. An odd clarity swept through the sniper as he observed the group screaming their battle-cries in front of them. The realisation struck him like a lightning bolt that this was what he was meant to do. Whatever happened to him in the aftermath wouldn't matter.

The anxiety in him ebbed away, and he once more lined his shot, peering down his sights.

To make it to the boat would guarantee a death sentence, and yet, here they were, picking off the Legionaries one by one, until none remained. A bloodbath lay at their feet, the scattered remains of the Legion patrols and their mongrels barely recognisable. In another time and another place, Boone might have felt pride in it; instead, he only grasped his rifle, reloaded, and took the lead, striding over the docks and onto the rickety boat that would take them into the belly of the beast. Like Charon on the ferry of the River Styx, it would surely take him to his death, but if this would be the journey that he would take to meet his end, he was ready to die.

"Ready?" He asked.

He received a curt nod.

Dawn approached with a fiery lustre across the clouds as the pair cut through the camp with equal ferocity. Bright marigold streaked the sky and a chill set in the wind like a warning, and as Boone found himself at the flap of Caesar's tent, he took a steady breath and looked at his hands, stained red with Legionary blood. Or was it his own? He couldn't tell. He didn't think he was bleeding, though he'd long since lost his beret to a stray bullet from the barrage at the entrance of the Fort.

No matter. He would look for it after the job was done.

Without another word, and without waiting for his companion, Boone entered the tent of the Legion's leader. The scratchy fabric was rough against the palms of his calloused hands and, as he made his way into the tent, the scent of gunpowder assaulted his senses.

In an instant, he could see what he had to do. His steady hands never betrayed him as he raised his rifle and, without hesitation, took the shot that he had been destined to take.

The world slowed to a crawl, like pebbles of sand trickling down a cracked and weathered hourglass. Dappled light curled around the flashing barrel of Boone's gun. The bullet arched through the air, cutting through the oppressive atmosphere and landing true into its target. Boone's breath hitched in his throat as he observed Caesar crumple on his brahmin-skin throne. The bullet had pierced his skull. Boone's last victim fell into the sand as one of Caesar's men lined a shot of their own straight at the intruder.

Pain burst into the back of Boone's head and he collapsed, rifle still in his hand as he fell to his knees and hissed an expletive. Red sparkles danced in his vision and, as he tried to catch his breath, he found that he was unable. Instead, he produced a pathetic gargle as another shot pierced his fleshy abdomen.

His vision was spotty. The world was growing dimmer. 

He did not hurt anymore.

Buried within violaceous rock, seeped in deep shadows, surrounded by cold and bitter decay that chokes the lungs and coats the senses, Vault 13 stood proud; a steel and iron testament to humankind’s longevity. A testament surely worthy of the title, as eighty four years after the Great War, the vault was still operating strong.

Well, as strong as  a vault could operate with a malfunctioning water purification chip.

The young vault dweller strapped the 10mm pistol to his side and ran his hands over the thick steel door of the Vault before carefully, pensively, stepping over the threshold.

“If we didn't have to do this, I'd never ask.” Overseer Jacoren sighed as he cast a glance to the rocky ceiling above their heads. His eyes were cloudy with emotions that the vault dweller couldn’t recognize. Fear? Acceptance? Hope?

“And if you don't do this,” Jacoren continued, placing his fingers on his temples, “I don't know who else can. Help us. Be safe, find that chip, and get back here.”

Without a word, the vault dweller turned his back to the Vault. The only home he’d ever known. With the next destination of another Vault loaded in his Pip-Boy and the 10mm strapped to his belt, he felt as prepared as he could have ever been, and he took a shaky breath. The scent of decay settled on his tongue as the tang of death permeated the air. 

As he walked away, head low and hand hovering over his weapon, he heard the overseer one last time.

“You know you're important to me and to… I- I really… just be safe, OK?”

*

Two months had passed before the vault dweller returned to Vault 13, bruised and battered and slick with sweat. His once-pristine cobalt jumpsuit was torn and tattered. The old pistol had long since been sold; now, a hunting rifle was strapped to his back.

The biggest change in him, however, was the look in his eye. No longer were they cloudy with a questioning cowardice - now, they were sharp with focus, with a purpose, as he looked over Jacoren and presented him with the chip.

The overseer sighed in relief. “Great! Let me have it. We'll see if it works…”

.

In Vault 13’s laboratory, overwhelming anxiety encased the room like a fog as the water chip was analyzed. Or perhaps it was only in the vault dweller’s mind as his eyes darted from wall to wall, a growing sense of impending doom gnawing at his gut. 

Had he always been so claustrophobic?

The overseer’s laughter brought the vault dweller out of his head.

“You -- you've saved us. You've done it!” Overseer Jacoren beamed, almost giddy with the news. “You've saved a lot of lives! Now, we need to discuss your report…”

.

Once more, the vault dweller found himself at the threshold of his previous safe haven, the Overseer standing behind him like an impenetrable barrier, and the wide plains of California stretching beyond his line of sight, calling to him in a siren-song of wasteland wanderlust. 

“The mutant population is far greater than could be expected by natural growth or mutations.” Overseer Jacoren explained. “Someone's generating new mutants, at a startling rate.”

“What do I need to do?” The vault dweller asked, readying his rifle. He didn’t need to ask - not really - but he needed the overseer to tell him. To see the look in his eye when he once more sent him out into the breach; the saviour of Vault 13.

The Overseer obliged. “As long as someone is creating hostile mutants at this rate, the Vault's safety is at stake. Find and destroy this lab as soon as you can.”

The vault dweller turned away once more and headed west. The world behind him seemed so much darker, now.

*

It took another few months for the vault dweller to eliminate the source of the super mutant army. The Cathedral and the Mariposa Military Base had been reduced to smoking craters - just another blight on the California skyline - and the stench of destruction still clung to him as he made his way back to Vault 13 for the final time. Standing by the communicator, he announced his return, and the Vault door opened, hydraulics squealing in the cavernous silence.

The overseer stepped out of the yawning abyss. His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “There's no way that we can ever thank you enough for what you've done. You've saved all our lives. Maybe even saved the human race.”

The overseer kept his gaze to the floor, eyes sweeping over the rotting radrat carcasses scattered around the Vault entrance. 

“That makes the rest of this even harder.”

“I’m sorry?”

As the vault dweller stepped forward once more, Jacoren moved to block his path. The overseer still steadfastly refused to look at him, instead choosing to focus on the rifle strapped to his back. The barrel glinted dull and lifeless in the dark.

“Everyone will want to talk to you. Every youngster will look up to you. They will emulate you. And then they’ll want to leave.”

“Is that such a bad thing?”

The overseer continued, his voice sturdy, uncompromising. “What happens to the Vault if we lose the best of a generation? You just gave us back all these lives… I can't risk losing them.”

The vault dweller held his breath, willing his racing heart to slow. The silence that permeated the cavern and bled into the rock, the steel, the air - it was suffocating. The weight of the overseer’s words were a dagger to his chest.

“I've made a lot of tough decisions since I took this position, but none of them harder than this one.” Jacoren swallowed thickly. 

Burning hot resentment pounded through the vault dweller’s skull. He took a step away from the communicator, daring the overseer to look him in the eye. 

Awash in righteous indignation, he almost missed Jacoren’s final farewell.

“I'm sorry. You're a hero… And you have to leave.”

~