LEGENDARY! - Chapter 4
Sept 5, 2017 7:58:53 GMT -5
Post by skirtwithaweapon on Sept 5, 2017 7:58:53 GMT -5
This story began here!
Jory slept very poorly that night. He laid on his cot, his arms crossed on his chest, Mirabel’s bracelet clutched in his hands. He ran his fingers up and down the length of it, studying every strand, every contour of every bead, every atom of it. He closed his eyes and tried to remember what his sister even looked like, tried to imagine what she could look like, after a year and a half of hard living on the surface.
On top of his emotional restlessness, more than a few of the adults hit the bottle pretty deeply and were carrying on quite loudly on the lower floors. The refurbishing of the building made the place far more practical, but not at all any more sound proof. Jory found it interesting that even though this group of people weren’t like the ragtag bunch of scavengers, mercs, and travelers that came through the Dugout on a daily basis, they all sounded just as stupid when they’re drunk.
Do they not have any idea how idiotic they sound? Why do they do that to themselves?
It wouldn’t be until morning, as he crept by the snoring pile of imbeciles, that he would realize the drunks were none other than the company shot up during their training the previous morning. He was nearly out the door, when he had a brilliant idea. As quietly as possible, he collected as many empty drinking glasses as he could, lying around from their little party. Next, he filled each one half way with whatever remaining liquids he could find in unfinished beer and liquor bottles, then carefully, planted the glasses on the sleeping, snoring bodies. The next time one of them so much as shifted their position, the cup would spill, and the wake of that person’s surprise would cause a domino effect of waking persons and spilled cups.
He almost regret not being able to see it when it happened, but he had training to attend, after all.
Shadow nearly gave him a heart attack. The aptly-titled agent appeared from beside the doorway and confronted him immediately. “Nice work in there. Maybe you’re the one we should call ‘Shadow,’” she smirked.
“Holy shit!” Jory exclaimed, startled nearly out of his wits. He doubled over to catch his breath, his heart rate having jumped through the roof. “Guh…good morning to you, too.”
“I couldn’t resist. I saw you pull off the whole thing. Really, good job. It looks like half my work is already done, all we really need to talk about is best practices.”
A yelp followed by a string of startled cries could be heard from within the barracks. Jory fought very hard to keep himself from grinning in satisfaction, causing his face to distort in his efforts. Shadow shook her head. “A lot of things are starting to make sense,” she said, cryptically.
Jory’s training went as expected for the first two days. He spent time with Shadow, then Tripwire that first day, then Shadow, and Deacon on the second. They gave him an introduction to the important topics of accumulating intel, preparing dead drops, interpreting orders from the dead drops, and some additional wasteland survival tips. Both nights he was fast asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.
Early the third morning, he was shaken awake well before sunrise. He was having the bright lights and paralysis dream again, and for that, didn’t mind the interruption. He blinked his eyes open to regard the figure in front of him. “Drummer Boy?”
“Hey, Microchip. It’s extremely urgent. Grab your bag and your jacket and meet Desdemona in the war room, right away,” Drummer Boy replied. Jory sat up and rubbed his eyes, but didn’t make to get out of the bed. Drummer Boy lingered. “You’re okay? You’re getting up?”
Jory yawned and waved him out. “Yeah, I’m getting up.” Twenty minutes later, the groggy, bedhead-sporting teen shuffled into the administrative building, through the main foyer, and up the stairs. The training yard was significantly quieter at that time of night, most of its occupants asleep, and those who weren’t, silently stood on a posted watch. The only lights in the building were stray lanterns left in the foyer, along the stairs, and the one lit inside the war room. He entered to find Desdemona, Deacon, and someone he didn’t recognize. The latter was sitting on a chair next to Desdemona’s map table and looked as though they’d escaped a harrowing situation. Their clothing was torn in various places, and their face bore bruises and scrapes. Deacon leaned against the wall in his classic pose, only this time, his mouth was curved in a deep frown.
Desdemona took a drag on her cigarette, the burning embers illuminating her face in their bright orange glow and casting a distorted shadow onto the wall behind her. She blew out the smoke in a slow exhale. “Well,” she began in a low voice, “I’m sure you figured out that if we’re rousing you from your sleep at 1 AM, something’s up, and it isn’t good.” She gestured towards the injured agent in the chair. “Echelon is the only survivor from a small intelligence outpost, Tower Twelve, that we had only just established a couple of months ago. Not only did the Puritans discover it, they sent enough people to wipe it out. Or, at least, attempt to.”
“Something about all of this really stinks,” muttered Deacon. “As long as none of you got close, as long as none of you were followed –“
“We did everything exactly as you trained us. We were posted to observe and report, nothing more. We never went out at the same time of day, never took the same way back. All that shit,” Echelon interrupted. “We were basically ambushed. Someone had to have told some Puritan spy where we were at. There’s no other explanation.”
“Someone on the inside, here, might be giving information to the inside, there,” Jory suggested.
All three adults turned to look at him. Desdemona puffed her cigarette and smiled, slightly. “A mole. That’s my thinking, as well. But, that’s our problem to deal with here at HQ.” Her smile evaporated as quickly as a puff of smoke escaped her lips. “The situation has become escalated in its seriousness, and very quickly. The Puritans are starting to hit us on our own territory. If they knew about Tower Twelve, we must act as though they know about the training yard, and any other of our intel operations.”
“Which ones are those?”
“Better that you don’t know, kid,” Deacon answered, gravely. “If you get made, they won’t be able to torture it out of you.”
Holy shit. I jumped from minor ball to the big leagues outta nowhere.
Desdemona spoke again, before Jory could respond. “You’re being deployed tonight. As soon as this meeting is over, Deacon will escort you into Malden to show you your dead drop, and then your mission officially begins.”
Jory could feel his heartbeat pick up speed within his chest. It started to hammer inside him. He imagined his heart flinging itself against his ribcage. His face began to flush and his mind raced with a million thoughts and questions. “A-are you sure? I didn’t even learn how to shoot a gun!” he stammered.
Desdemona’s shoulders fell. She dropped her cigarette to the floor and snuffed it out with her foot, then sighed. In the comparatively low lamplight, her face looked exhausted. Shadows cut deeply beneath her eyes and on her forehead. “Honestly, that’s probably better, in the end. The last person they will suspect to be a plant within their organization will be an unarmed, untrained teenaged boy.”
“You hope,” muttered Echelon.
Jory swallowed.
“Ignore him,” Deacon responded. “He’s understandably bitter over losing his team and his assignment.”
Desdemona broke character once more. She leaned over, gently took Jory by both shoulders, and looked him right in the eyes. She smelled a little sweaty, like it had been a couple days since she had last bathed, and her breath carried a hint of tobacco from her cigarette. “I know that this is all very sudden for you. Not even a week ago, you had a completely different life. For what it’s worth, I want you to know that we’ve all seen how far you’ve come in this short amount of time. We’re all very proud of you. Especially, me.”
Jory’s heart rate slowed slightly from Desdemona’s comfort. He returned her gaze. “I won’t let you down, Dez.”
“I know.” She regarded him for a moment more, as though she had something else to say. Instead, she squeezed his shoulders, then released him and stood. “Deacon, it’s time.”
Deacon and Jory stepped back out into the early morning. Overhead, the sky was littered with sparse clouds, but the world remained illuminated in the silvery glow of the stars and moon. Deacon pulled on a black leather jacket and began to lead Jory to the road. Jory himself buttoned up his denim jacket, and followed. Instead of following the road north directly towards the center of Malden, they crossed it, and began to creep through the brush and shadows. Neither spoke a word. Jory did his best to keep from yawning during the entire journey.
Deacon led them with the confidence of any professional guide past an abandoned military checkpoint, across a bridge, and into the center of Malden proper. They drew up to an alley, featuring an ancient mailbox painted on the side with a white tear drop. The alley was full of rubble, otherwise, and inaccessible from any other angle. “This is your dead drop, kid. You’ll have to visit it about once a week to leave your reports, and receive any updated orders from The Boss.”
“Right. I remember,” Jory replied. He looked around the area, trying as best as he could to gather some bearings in the moonlight.
Deacon dug into his pockets and pulled out some piecemeal supplies. He handed Jory a couple bandages, a Stimpak, a prepackaged sweet roll, and a bottle of Nuka Cola. “Listen, kid, none of us are really happy about sending you out there, underprepared. Hell, you were going to be just barely ready by the end of the week.” Deacon reached up and scratched his cheek. “Perhaps a great lesson to learn is, nothing will ever go to plan. So really, the fact that you’re not prepared, is the best kind of prepared.”
Jory dropped the items into his leather purse. He looked back at Deacon. The moonlight made it even harder to read the man’s face. “I’m a little scared,” he admitted.
“Good. That’ll keep you from getting too cocky.” Deacon leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. “Look. I know none of us are supposed to have any idea of who you are, and where you went, but at least I have the advantage of the reputation of a pathological liar.”
“Okay...”
“You see that main street?” Deacon leaned out and pointed to the road that wound past the group of buildings at the end of the block. “There’s a caravan due through that way tomorrow – well, which I guess is really, sometime later today – and they go right into the Puritan compound to trade with them.” He resumed his crossed arms pose. “You feed them a good enough sob story, and I guarantee they’ll take you right in with them. What that story is, I’ll leave it up to you.”
“A caravan to the Puritans. Got it. Anything else?”
“Tons. Unfortunately, we have run out of time.” Deacon regarded the teenager, then reached out and clapped him on the back. “Good luck, Microchip. Time to be legendary.” He offered a small wave, before stepping back out of the alley and disappearing into some shadows beyond.
Jory took several steadying breaths. This was it. For good measure, he popped open the dead drop box and peeked inside. Empty. I’m going to have to keep track of the days a little better, now. He closed the box and crept back out of the alley and down the block. He slowly pulled his gaze around the corner of the destroyed building at the intersection and looked down the street. The dim lighting made it difficult to see anything distinctive in the far distance, though he could make out barrel fires, smoke, and some sort of gruesome set of totems. Raiders, or mutants; violent threats to be avoided, regardless. Halfway between that and where he stood seemed to be a hive of feral ghouls, their hissing and slithering impossible to miss.
…yup, just gonna stay right here.
The sun had risen by the time he woke up. He had fallen asleep sitting up against the ruined building on the corner of the intersection. His backside ached and muscles in his neck were quite sore and stiff. Jory groaned and stretched, hoping the aches would subside once he started moving.
Moving! Did I miss the caravan?! What time is it? It would be hard to miss a caravan, wouldn’t it? No way I would have slept through them going by. He stood up and gazed around the corner once more. To his elation, the distinct arrangement of overlaiden Brahmin, two guards, and a trader, were just passing the mutant outpost down the road. Got lucky this time. Gotta be more diligent from now on. Jory’s mind quickly raced to come up with some excuse as to why he was out there, alone, and why the caravan should escort him to the Puritans. His eyes darted around his immediate surroundings. He estimated five, maybe seven minutes, were all he had before the caravan would be on top of him.
Jory turned and scraped the backs of his hands on the exposed, rough brick, of the wall of the building. He checked his work, and frowned; the wounds looked as fresh as they were. He took a deep breath, denying himself the chance to panic, and looked around once more. He squat and started rubbing dirt and dust onto his hands, and made a point of smudging some onto his face and into his hair, then shuddered, violently. If there were anything about his Institute pedigree that he had yet to temper, it would be his revulsion about being dirty. For good measure, he rubbed some dirt into his clothes and jacket. That final act was enough to make him nauseous, but he swallowed it down. Keep it together, just keep it together.
The sounds of the clodding Brahmin and some muted conversation were not far off. He was out of time. Jory ducked out of the road and back against the wall, where he curled up and leaned his head into his knees. He listened as the caravan lumbered past.
Show time.
Jory lifted his head just as the rear of the Brahmin was in full view. “H-hey! Hey, there!” He stood and lifted his left arm, as if to flag them down. “Excuse me, hey! Hey, you! Help! Help me, please!”
One of the guards turned to look at him, his rifle in his hands, but not aimed. “We ain’t got no handouts, kid.”
“What? No, not that, I…I need to find the Puritans. Please!” Jory scurried up to match pace with the guard, who had begun walking with the pack once more. “Please, just give me some directions. I’ve been lost for two days, and I’m hungry.” He added a hitch to his voice in an attempt to elicit some sympathy.
The trader at the front of the pack motioned for the caravan to stop. It was a small figure with androgynous features, clad in road leathers and a heavy trench coat. “What’s the commotion, back here?” The voice was smooth, and alto. “Davis, didn’t you tell the kid we don’t got handouts?”
“Of course I did, but he started cryin’ about lookin’ for the Puritans or some shit,” the man addressed as Davis replied. He leaned over and spat into the dust at his feet. A wave of nausea flooded through Jory. He inhaled deeply through his nostrils to calm himself.
“The Puritans?” The trader stepped towards Jory with a curious look on their face. “What’s some kid want with those hooligans?”
Don’t crack don’t you crack now is not the time to crack. “I…I heard they hate synths, from the old Institute. They’re hunting them and killing them.”
The trader barked some kind of repetitive hacking sound. Jory realized they were laughing. “You wanna hunt people-bots? You? How old are you, kid? Eleven?”
“Thirteen.”
“Ah, thirteen. My mistake. Listen, I’m just a trader, I don’t get into politics, I just want to make my caps and settle down with a double scotch before bed every night. But I guarantee the Puritans ain’t gonna wanna babysit some kid.” The trader shrugged, then flapped their hand in a gesture of dismissal. “Just go back home, buddy. Yer mom probably misses you.”
“My mom’s dead,” Jory blurted. The trader stopped short. Jory tapped into the welling emotions and continued, before the trader could reply. “My dad, too, and my sister. A synth came t-to our farm, said she had escaped from the Institute, had nowhere to go. I was upstairs, in my room. M-my dad, he…he told her she had to leave. He didn’t want to pick a side, either, like you. But the synth, she started yelling, got real mad.” Jory sniffed, even managed to cause a tear to form in his eye. “She pulled out a gun and just…just shot them. My dad, then my mom. My sister tried to run out the back door but the synth just shot her, too.”
“God damn,” the trader mumbled. “How did you survive?”
Jory sniffed again, then wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “I crawled underneath my bed and lay there listening for a long time. The synth went all through our house, looking through the rooms and furniture. She took caps and some food and left.” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “Dad should’ve killed her. He didn’t pick a side and my family died because of it. So, I’m picking a side. But I ran out of supplies and I’m lost, now, and –“
“All right, okay,” the trader raised both hands to stop Jory’s talking. “We’ll help you.”
Jory wiped the tears from his eyes. “Really? You’ll give me directions?”
“We can do better than that. We happen to be on our way to the Puritans’ main compound right now. Just…stay close, and don’t bother us. Got it?”
“Y-yes! Yes, of course, sir. Ma’am. …w-whichever. Sorry. My dad taught us to always be polite.”
The trader waved him off and took their rightful place at the head of the line. “Let’s get going. We don’t want to be any more late than we already are.”
Davis nudged Jory between the shoulders with the butt of his rifle. Jory stumbled and started walking. Barely a full minute had passed when the trader turned to address Jory once more.
“Just so’s you know, we’ll take you to the Puritans, but I got absolutely no say or whatever in whether or not they actually take you in, and I am not gonna be responsible for escorting your ass out of there to somewhere else, either.”
“No, that’s fine, I understand,” Jory nodded eagerly. His stomach was doing flips. The caravan had bought his story without a single question asked. In his life, he had only ever known friendly synths, those that simply fulfilled their duties as caretakers, or his teachers of his various classes. It wasn’t until his harrowing escape and the recounting of horrific experiences through his time with the Railroad did he ever learn about how Gen 1s and 2s were sent to the surface to eradicate whole settlements, Gen 3s programmed to replace live humans, and worst of all, ruthless Coursers dispatched to retrieve escaped synths. For him, creating a story about a murderous Gen 3 required the application of heavy imagination.
…and, it had worked.
It worked, this time. Keep yourself in check. Stay a little scared. Jory matched pace with the caravan guard Davis, and remained silent for the rest of the journey.
The caravan plodded steadily for a good portion of the morning. They stopped for a brief water break, but that was it. The trader was adamant about arriving at the compound in a timely fashion.
They had begun their approach of the compound before Jory realized it was the crudely walled, smoke-hazed eyesore in the distance. The outer wall was fabricated from scrap metal, wood, and any other material that could be hammered together in big pieces. It was gruesomely adorned with parts of Gen 1s and 2s, hammered into the wall, and worse: body parts, particularly heads, of murdered Gen 3s were impaled with sharpened stakes and nailed into the wall, as well. Anti-synth sentiment was painted all around it, including what he assumed was their icon: the capital letter P within a symbol of the sun. “What’s with all the smoke?” he mused aloud.
“They’ve taken to burning everything: synths, synth parts, human synth sympathizers. Plastic doesn’t exactly burn cleanly. Brace yourself, because it doesn’t smell great, either,” the trader answered unexpectedly. Jory nodded and said nothing more.
The caravan had to circle the entire compound to get to the main gate. The smell became more distinct as they rounded the walls, and the trader had not exaggerated. It was altogether unpleasant, reminding Jory briefly of the old incinerators back in the Institute. There were undertones of other things, as well, but he couldn’t identify any single source or likeness – it just smelled bad. He started breathing through his mouth to keep the nausea in check.
Beyond the main gate, lopsided, crude tents littered the grounds with no distinct pattern. The smoke cast a distinct haze on the ground level, as well as into the sky. Jory was a little surprised at what the Puritans had established as their compound. In his experience, most settled areas were a refurbished reclamation of some pre-war structure, but the Puritans seemed to have just set up shop on a large parcel of land they took for their own. There were people merely milling about, disorganized, and doing very little.
Hardly the image I took to be as the Railroad’s greatest rival since the Institute. As they plodded through to the center of the compound, they approached another walled off, gated, and guarded portion of the compound.
“Hey, Rocky,” one of the guards greeted the trader. She shifted her assault rifle to push open the gate. “Running a bit behind, today, aren’t you?”
The trader, finally identified as Rocky, grumbled and pushed through.
Recessed into the ground was a pre-war military bunker. The majority of it had been unearthed recently, as Jory could see a natural colour difference between the ground he stood upon and the ground in the hole. Crude planks had been placed to create a ramp down to the entrance of the building. He absently took a step to begin the descent, when Davis reached out and stopped him by the arm.
“Nuh-uh, kid. You gotta be invited to go down there. It’s where they make all their plans.”
“Oh, right,” Jory replied with a nervous chuckle. Just as he was turning himself to look around, a man who appeared to be in his late twenties emerged from the building and came up the ramp. He wore a denim vest (that looked more like the sleeves had been torn off what had been a full jacket) over a long-sleeved, faded blue shirt, and khaki green cargo pants. His hair was long, and tied behind his neck in a lazy ponytail.
“This is Oscar Holly, one of the leaders of this group,” Rocky directed towards Jory. “This kid was on the road, said he was lookin’ for y’all, wantin’ to join up.”
“Really?” Oscar huffed, looking Jory over. “How old are you? Eleven?”
That has really stopped being funny. Jory clenched his teeth and offered what he hoped was a sheepish smile. “Thirteen, sir. A synth muh-murdered my family. They need to be destroyed, once and for all.”
“He’s got the right idea,” Oscar responded, looking back towards Rocky.
“I made him zero promises, Mr. Holly, I assure you. We were goin’ the same direction and I told him he was stuck here to figure it out,” Rocky was quick to reply.
“I’ve paid your prices, Rocky, I know you don’t give anyone a break,” he winked. Jory was starting to get a sense of Oscar’s charismatic nature and his gears started turning. “What’s your name, kid?”
Oh fuck! Why didn’t I spend the time on the road thinking more about this? Shit shit shit shit – “It’s ‘Ira,’ Mr. Holly. ‘Ira Dorval.’” It was the first thing he could think of. “Ira” was what they had called his sister, Mirabel, for short. He hoped he didn’t appear to be trembling too much.
Oscar nodded. “Nice to meet you, Ira. We don’t send kids to the front lines or anything, but if you want to stay, get back into camp and make yourself useful, somehow. We hear good things, and you got a new family.”
Jory felt a pain in his gut, hearing Oscar liken the Puritans to a family. He was used to the Railroad using that term and it felt…wrong. Suck it up. You need to integrate, or your Railroad family will meet the fate of your real one. He noticed that Oscar, Rocky, and the rest of the caravan were all looking at him. “Y-yes, sir! Thank you!” He turned and scampered past the inner gate and into the main camp.
Making myself useful means I have to help them, help them against the Railroad and anyone else they decide stand in their way. He wandered through the scattered campsites, aimlessly for the most part, while he gathered his thoughts. He approached the outer wall, turned, and leaned against it. Most of the Puritans seemed to be civilians, people who had lived a hard life of survival, and joined the cause for some semblance of security and a future. He saw a few of them working on guns, others stirring pots hanging over fires, and then something he hadn’t seen since he left Diamond City: children playing.
Something isn’t right, here. Where are the fighters? Most of these people haven’t been in a firefight in their life. They’re settlers. He frowned, vowing to get to the bottom of it.
The bottom. That must have been it – the interior of that uncovered bunker. Jory knew what his objective was, and would have to plan carefully.
A clattering nearby broke him of his reverie. A teenager, a few years older than himself, had dropped a couple crates of vegetables as he attempted to carry them into the camp. Jory sprung into action and began picking up vegetables. “Hey, buddy! Let me help you with that,” he chirped with a smile.
“O-oh, thanks. I shouldn’t have tried to carry it all, by myself,” the teen replied.
“I’m here to help, now! Nothin’ doin’. I’m Ira, just got in with the caravan.”
“Jordan. You just came in with the caravan? Rocky’s caravan?” Jordan stooped and started picking up vegetables as well.
“Yeah, they found me lost out on the road, trying to get to this place. I gathered that Rocky isn’t known for generosity.”
“Lost? Oh geez, pal, are you alone? No parents or nothin’?”
“Ah, yeah. Synth killed my whole family, while I hid. I decided I’d join up here, aid the efforts. Or, try. Mr. Holly gave me some conditions.” Jory straightened and lifted one of the crates. “Where to?”
“This way,” Jordan led. “Which Mr. Holly did you talk to?”
“Oscar.”
“Wow. He’s the meaner one, too. Guess he liked your chops, or somethin’. You sure you got that?”
For emphasis, Jory shifted the crate, and smiled. “I’m fine.”
“Well, I’m gonna have you stay for dinner with my family, since you don’t have one. It’ll be as a thank you for your help.” Jordan led them past another dozen or so camps before approaching one set up next to a barrel fire, a large blue tarp draped over a set of four sleeping bags, some duffle bags, and other assorted necessities of life. “Everyone else is running drills, yet. I’m still too young to get to train,” he grumbled bitterly.
“Yeah, Mr. Holly said something like that to me, too. Where do you want this?”
“Just set it anywhere – yeah, that’s fine. You like Nuka Cola?”
Jory grinned. “Who doesn’t?”
4.
Jory slept very poorly that night. He laid on his cot, his arms crossed on his chest, Mirabel’s bracelet clutched in his hands. He ran his fingers up and down the length of it, studying every strand, every contour of every bead, every atom of it. He closed his eyes and tried to remember what his sister even looked like, tried to imagine what she could look like, after a year and a half of hard living on the surface.
On top of his emotional restlessness, more than a few of the adults hit the bottle pretty deeply and were carrying on quite loudly on the lower floors. The refurbishing of the building made the place far more practical, but not at all any more sound proof. Jory found it interesting that even though this group of people weren’t like the ragtag bunch of scavengers, mercs, and travelers that came through the Dugout on a daily basis, they all sounded just as stupid when they’re drunk.
Do they not have any idea how idiotic they sound? Why do they do that to themselves?
It wouldn’t be until morning, as he crept by the snoring pile of imbeciles, that he would realize the drunks were none other than the company shot up during their training the previous morning. He was nearly out the door, when he had a brilliant idea. As quietly as possible, he collected as many empty drinking glasses as he could, lying around from their little party. Next, he filled each one half way with whatever remaining liquids he could find in unfinished beer and liquor bottles, then carefully, planted the glasses on the sleeping, snoring bodies. The next time one of them so much as shifted their position, the cup would spill, and the wake of that person’s surprise would cause a domino effect of waking persons and spilled cups.
He almost regret not being able to see it when it happened, but he had training to attend, after all.
Shadow nearly gave him a heart attack. The aptly-titled agent appeared from beside the doorway and confronted him immediately. “Nice work in there. Maybe you’re the one we should call ‘Shadow,’” she smirked.
“Holy shit!” Jory exclaimed, startled nearly out of his wits. He doubled over to catch his breath, his heart rate having jumped through the roof. “Guh…good morning to you, too.”
“I couldn’t resist. I saw you pull off the whole thing. Really, good job. It looks like half my work is already done, all we really need to talk about is best practices.”
A yelp followed by a string of startled cries could be heard from within the barracks. Jory fought very hard to keep himself from grinning in satisfaction, causing his face to distort in his efforts. Shadow shook her head. “A lot of things are starting to make sense,” she said, cryptically.
Jory’s training went as expected for the first two days. He spent time with Shadow, then Tripwire that first day, then Shadow, and Deacon on the second. They gave him an introduction to the important topics of accumulating intel, preparing dead drops, interpreting orders from the dead drops, and some additional wasteland survival tips. Both nights he was fast asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.
Early the third morning, he was shaken awake well before sunrise. He was having the bright lights and paralysis dream again, and for that, didn’t mind the interruption. He blinked his eyes open to regard the figure in front of him. “Drummer Boy?”
“Hey, Microchip. It’s extremely urgent. Grab your bag and your jacket and meet Desdemona in the war room, right away,” Drummer Boy replied. Jory sat up and rubbed his eyes, but didn’t make to get out of the bed. Drummer Boy lingered. “You’re okay? You’re getting up?”
Jory yawned and waved him out. “Yeah, I’m getting up.” Twenty minutes later, the groggy, bedhead-sporting teen shuffled into the administrative building, through the main foyer, and up the stairs. The training yard was significantly quieter at that time of night, most of its occupants asleep, and those who weren’t, silently stood on a posted watch. The only lights in the building were stray lanterns left in the foyer, along the stairs, and the one lit inside the war room. He entered to find Desdemona, Deacon, and someone he didn’t recognize. The latter was sitting on a chair next to Desdemona’s map table and looked as though they’d escaped a harrowing situation. Their clothing was torn in various places, and their face bore bruises and scrapes. Deacon leaned against the wall in his classic pose, only this time, his mouth was curved in a deep frown.
Desdemona took a drag on her cigarette, the burning embers illuminating her face in their bright orange glow and casting a distorted shadow onto the wall behind her. She blew out the smoke in a slow exhale. “Well,” she began in a low voice, “I’m sure you figured out that if we’re rousing you from your sleep at 1 AM, something’s up, and it isn’t good.” She gestured towards the injured agent in the chair. “Echelon is the only survivor from a small intelligence outpost, Tower Twelve, that we had only just established a couple of months ago. Not only did the Puritans discover it, they sent enough people to wipe it out. Or, at least, attempt to.”
“Something about all of this really stinks,” muttered Deacon. “As long as none of you got close, as long as none of you were followed –“
“We did everything exactly as you trained us. We were posted to observe and report, nothing more. We never went out at the same time of day, never took the same way back. All that shit,” Echelon interrupted. “We were basically ambushed. Someone had to have told some Puritan spy where we were at. There’s no other explanation.”
“Someone on the inside, here, might be giving information to the inside, there,” Jory suggested.
All three adults turned to look at him. Desdemona puffed her cigarette and smiled, slightly. “A mole. That’s my thinking, as well. But, that’s our problem to deal with here at HQ.” Her smile evaporated as quickly as a puff of smoke escaped her lips. “The situation has become escalated in its seriousness, and very quickly. The Puritans are starting to hit us on our own territory. If they knew about Tower Twelve, we must act as though they know about the training yard, and any other of our intel operations.”
“Which ones are those?”
“Better that you don’t know, kid,” Deacon answered, gravely. “If you get made, they won’t be able to torture it out of you.”
Holy shit. I jumped from minor ball to the big leagues outta nowhere.
Desdemona spoke again, before Jory could respond. “You’re being deployed tonight. As soon as this meeting is over, Deacon will escort you into Malden to show you your dead drop, and then your mission officially begins.”
Jory could feel his heartbeat pick up speed within his chest. It started to hammer inside him. He imagined his heart flinging itself against his ribcage. His face began to flush and his mind raced with a million thoughts and questions. “A-are you sure? I didn’t even learn how to shoot a gun!” he stammered.
Desdemona’s shoulders fell. She dropped her cigarette to the floor and snuffed it out with her foot, then sighed. In the comparatively low lamplight, her face looked exhausted. Shadows cut deeply beneath her eyes and on her forehead. “Honestly, that’s probably better, in the end. The last person they will suspect to be a plant within their organization will be an unarmed, untrained teenaged boy.”
“You hope,” muttered Echelon.
Jory swallowed.
“Ignore him,” Deacon responded. “He’s understandably bitter over losing his team and his assignment.”
Desdemona broke character once more. She leaned over, gently took Jory by both shoulders, and looked him right in the eyes. She smelled a little sweaty, like it had been a couple days since she had last bathed, and her breath carried a hint of tobacco from her cigarette. “I know that this is all very sudden for you. Not even a week ago, you had a completely different life. For what it’s worth, I want you to know that we’ve all seen how far you’ve come in this short amount of time. We’re all very proud of you. Especially, me.”
Jory’s heart rate slowed slightly from Desdemona’s comfort. He returned her gaze. “I won’t let you down, Dez.”
“I know.” She regarded him for a moment more, as though she had something else to say. Instead, she squeezed his shoulders, then released him and stood. “Deacon, it’s time.”
Deacon and Jory stepped back out into the early morning. Overhead, the sky was littered with sparse clouds, but the world remained illuminated in the silvery glow of the stars and moon. Deacon pulled on a black leather jacket and began to lead Jory to the road. Jory himself buttoned up his denim jacket, and followed. Instead of following the road north directly towards the center of Malden, they crossed it, and began to creep through the brush and shadows. Neither spoke a word. Jory did his best to keep from yawning during the entire journey.
Deacon led them with the confidence of any professional guide past an abandoned military checkpoint, across a bridge, and into the center of Malden proper. They drew up to an alley, featuring an ancient mailbox painted on the side with a white tear drop. The alley was full of rubble, otherwise, and inaccessible from any other angle. “This is your dead drop, kid. You’ll have to visit it about once a week to leave your reports, and receive any updated orders from The Boss.”
“Right. I remember,” Jory replied. He looked around the area, trying as best as he could to gather some bearings in the moonlight.
Deacon dug into his pockets and pulled out some piecemeal supplies. He handed Jory a couple bandages, a Stimpak, a prepackaged sweet roll, and a bottle of Nuka Cola. “Listen, kid, none of us are really happy about sending you out there, underprepared. Hell, you were going to be just barely ready by the end of the week.” Deacon reached up and scratched his cheek. “Perhaps a great lesson to learn is, nothing will ever go to plan. So really, the fact that you’re not prepared, is the best kind of prepared.”
Jory dropped the items into his leather purse. He looked back at Deacon. The moonlight made it even harder to read the man’s face. “I’m a little scared,” he admitted.
“Good. That’ll keep you from getting too cocky.” Deacon leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. “Look. I know none of us are supposed to have any idea of who you are, and where you went, but at least I have the advantage of the reputation of a pathological liar.”
“Okay...”
“You see that main street?” Deacon leaned out and pointed to the road that wound past the group of buildings at the end of the block. “There’s a caravan due through that way tomorrow – well, which I guess is really, sometime later today – and they go right into the Puritan compound to trade with them.” He resumed his crossed arms pose. “You feed them a good enough sob story, and I guarantee they’ll take you right in with them. What that story is, I’ll leave it up to you.”
“A caravan to the Puritans. Got it. Anything else?”
“Tons. Unfortunately, we have run out of time.” Deacon regarded the teenager, then reached out and clapped him on the back. “Good luck, Microchip. Time to be legendary.” He offered a small wave, before stepping back out of the alley and disappearing into some shadows beyond.
Jory took several steadying breaths. This was it. For good measure, he popped open the dead drop box and peeked inside. Empty. I’m going to have to keep track of the days a little better, now. He closed the box and crept back out of the alley and down the block. He slowly pulled his gaze around the corner of the destroyed building at the intersection and looked down the street. The dim lighting made it difficult to see anything distinctive in the far distance, though he could make out barrel fires, smoke, and some sort of gruesome set of totems. Raiders, or mutants; violent threats to be avoided, regardless. Halfway between that and where he stood seemed to be a hive of feral ghouls, their hissing and slithering impossible to miss.
…yup, just gonna stay right here.
The sun had risen by the time he woke up. He had fallen asleep sitting up against the ruined building on the corner of the intersection. His backside ached and muscles in his neck were quite sore and stiff. Jory groaned and stretched, hoping the aches would subside once he started moving.
Moving! Did I miss the caravan?! What time is it? It would be hard to miss a caravan, wouldn’t it? No way I would have slept through them going by. He stood up and gazed around the corner once more. To his elation, the distinct arrangement of overlaiden Brahmin, two guards, and a trader, were just passing the mutant outpost down the road. Got lucky this time. Gotta be more diligent from now on. Jory’s mind quickly raced to come up with some excuse as to why he was out there, alone, and why the caravan should escort him to the Puritans. His eyes darted around his immediate surroundings. He estimated five, maybe seven minutes, were all he had before the caravan would be on top of him.
Jory turned and scraped the backs of his hands on the exposed, rough brick, of the wall of the building. He checked his work, and frowned; the wounds looked as fresh as they were. He took a deep breath, denying himself the chance to panic, and looked around once more. He squat and started rubbing dirt and dust onto his hands, and made a point of smudging some onto his face and into his hair, then shuddered, violently. If there were anything about his Institute pedigree that he had yet to temper, it would be his revulsion about being dirty. For good measure, he rubbed some dirt into his clothes and jacket. That final act was enough to make him nauseous, but he swallowed it down. Keep it together, just keep it together.
The sounds of the clodding Brahmin and some muted conversation were not far off. He was out of time. Jory ducked out of the road and back against the wall, where he curled up and leaned his head into his knees. He listened as the caravan lumbered past.
Show time.
Jory lifted his head just as the rear of the Brahmin was in full view. “H-hey! Hey, there!” He stood and lifted his left arm, as if to flag them down. “Excuse me, hey! Hey, you! Help! Help me, please!”
One of the guards turned to look at him, his rifle in his hands, but not aimed. “We ain’t got no handouts, kid.”
“What? No, not that, I…I need to find the Puritans. Please!” Jory scurried up to match pace with the guard, who had begun walking with the pack once more. “Please, just give me some directions. I’ve been lost for two days, and I’m hungry.” He added a hitch to his voice in an attempt to elicit some sympathy.
The trader at the front of the pack motioned for the caravan to stop. It was a small figure with androgynous features, clad in road leathers and a heavy trench coat. “What’s the commotion, back here?” The voice was smooth, and alto. “Davis, didn’t you tell the kid we don’t got handouts?”
“Of course I did, but he started cryin’ about lookin’ for the Puritans or some shit,” the man addressed as Davis replied. He leaned over and spat into the dust at his feet. A wave of nausea flooded through Jory. He inhaled deeply through his nostrils to calm himself.
“The Puritans?” The trader stepped towards Jory with a curious look on their face. “What’s some kid want with those hooligans?”
Don’t crack don’t you crack now is not the time to crack. “I…I heard they hate synths, from the old Institute. They’re hunting them and killing them.”
The trader barked some kind of repetitive hacking sound. Jory realized they were laughing. “You wanna hunt people-bots? You? How old are you, kid? Eleven?”
“Thirteen.”
“Ah, thirteen. My mistake. Listen, I’m just a trader, I don’t get into politics, I just want to make my caps and settle down with a double scotch before bed every night. But I guarantee the Puritans ain’t gonna wanna babysit some kid.” The trader shrugged, then flapped their hand in a gesture of dismissal. “Just go back home, buddy. Yer mom probably misses you.”
“My mom’s dead,” Jory blurted. The trader stopped short. Jory tapped into the welling emotions and continued, before the trader could reply. “My dad, too, and my sister. A synth came t-to our farm, said she had escaped from the Institute, had nowhere to go. I was upstairs, in my room. M-my dad, he…he told her she had to leave. He didn’t want to pick a side, either, like you. But the synth, she started yelling, got real mad.” Jory sniffed, even managed to cause a tear to form in his eye. “She pulled out a gun and just…just shot them. My dad, then my mom. My sister tried to run out the back door but the synth just shot her, too.”
“God damn,” the trader mumbled. “How did you survive?”
Jory sniffed again, then wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “I crawled underneath my bed and lay there listening for a long time. The synth went all through our house, looking through the rooms and furniture. She took caps and some food and left.” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “Dad should’ve killed her. He didn’t pick a side and my family died because of it. So, I’m picking a side. But I ran out of supplies and I’m lost, now, and –“
“All right, okay,” the trader raised both hands to stop Jory’s talking. “We’ll help you.”
Jory wiped the tears from his eyes. “Really? You’ll give me directions?”
“We can do better than that. We happen to be on our way to the Puritans’ main compound right now. Just…stay close, and don’t bother us. Got it?”
“Y-yes! Yes, of course, sir. Ma’am. …w-whichever. Sorry. My dad taught us to always be polite.”
The trader waved him off and took their rightful place at the head of the line. “Let’s get going. We don’t want to be any more late than we already are.”
Davis nudged Jory between the shoulders with the butt of his rifle. Jory stumbled and started walking. Barely a full minute had passed when the trader turned to address Jory once more.
“Just so’s you know, we’ll take you to the Puritans, but I got absolutely no say or whatever in whether or not they actually take you in, and I am not gonna be responsible for escorting your ass out of there to somewhere else, either.”
“No, that’s fine, I understand,” Jory nodded eagerly. His stomach was doing flips. The caravan had bought his story without a single question asked. In his life, he had only ever known friendly synths, those that simply fulfilled their duties as caretakers, or his teachers of his various classes. It wasn’t until his harrowing escape and the recounting of horrific experiences through his time with the Railroad did he ever learn about how Gen 1s and 2s were sent to the surface to eradicate whole settlements, Gen 3s programmed to replace live humans, and worst of all, ruthless Coursers dispatched to retrieve escaped synths. For him, creating a story about a murderous Gen 3 required the application of heavy imagination.
…and, it had worked.
It worked, this time. Keep yourself in check. Stay a little scared. Jory matched pace with the caravan guard Davis, and remained silent for the rest of the journey.
The caravan plodded steadily for a good portion of the morning. They stopped for a brief water break, but that was it. The trader was adamant about arriving at the compound in a timely fashion.
They had begun their approach of the compound before Jory realized it was the crudely walled, smoke-hazed eyesore in the distance. The outer wall was fabricated from scrap metal, wood, and any other material that could be hammered together in big pieces. It was gruesomely adorned with parts of Gen 1s and 2s, hammered into the wall, and worse: body parts, particularly heads, of murdered Gen 3s were impaled with sharpened stakes and nailed into the wall, as well. Anti-synth sentiment was painted all around it, including what he assumed was their icon: the capital letter P within a symbol of the sun. “What’s with all the smoke?” he mused aloud.
“They’ve taken to burning everything: synths, synth parts, human synth sympathizers. Plastic doesn’t exactly burn cleanly. Brace yourself, because it doesn’t smell great, either,” the trader answered unexpectedly. Jory nodded and said nothing more.
The caravan had to circle the entire compound to get to the main gate. The smell became more distinct as they rounded the walls, and the trader had not exaggerated. It was altogether unpleasant, reminding Jory briefly of the old incinerators back in the Institute. There were undertones of other things, as well, but he couldn’t identify any single source or likeness – it just smelled bad. He started breathing through his mouth to keep the nausea in check.
Beyond the main gate, lopsided, crude tents littered the grounds with no distinct pattern. The smoke cast a distinct haze on the ground level, as well as into the sky. Jory was a little surprised at what the Puritans had established as their compound. In his experience, most settled areas were a refurbished reclamation of some pre-war structure, but the Puritans seemed to have just set up shop on a large parcel of land they took for their own. There were people merely milling about, disorganized, and doing very little.
Hardly the image I took to be as the Railroad’s greatest rival since the Institute. As they plodded through to the center of the compound, they approached another walled off, gated, and guarded portion of the compound.
“Hey, Rocky,” one of the guards greeted the trader. She shifted her assault rifle to push open the gate. “Running a bit behind, today, aren’t you?”
The trader, finally identified as Rocky, grumbled and pushed through.
Recessed into the ground was a pre-war military bunker. The majority of it had been unearthed recently, as Jory could see a natural colour difference between the ground he stood upon and the ground in the hole. Crude planks had been placed to create a ramp down to the entrance of the building. He absently took a step to begin the descent, when Davis reached out and stopped him by the arm.
“Nuh-uh, kid. You gotta be invited to go down there. It’s where they make all their plans.”
“Oh, right,” Jory replied with a nervous chuckle. Just as he was turning himself to look around, a man who appeared to be in his late twenties emerged from the building and came up the ramp. He wore a denim vest (that looked more like the sleeves had been torn off what had been a full jacket) over a long-sleeved, faded blue shirt, and khaki green cargo pants. His hair was long, and tied behind his neck in a lazy ponytail.
“This is Oscar Holly, one of the leaders of this group,” Rocky directed towards Jory. “This kid was on the road, said he was lookin’ for y’all, wantin’ to join up.”
“Really?” Oscar huffed, looking Jory over. “How old are you? Eleven?”
That has really stopped being funny. Jory clenched his teeth and offered what he hoped was a sheepish smile. “Thirteen, sir. A synth muh-murdered my family. They need to be destroyed, once and for all.”
“He’s got the right idea,” Oscar responded, looking back towards Rocky.
“I made him zero promises, Mr. Holly, I assure you. We were goin’ the same direction and I told him he was stuck here to figure it out,” Rocky was quick to reply.
“I’ve paid your prices, Rocky, I know you don’t give anyone a break,” he winked. Jory was starting to get a sense of Oscar’s charismatic nature and his gears started turning. “What’s your name, kid?”
Oh fuck! Why didn’t I spend the time on the road thinking more about this? Shit shit shit shit – “It’s ‘Ira,’ Mr. Holly. ‘Ira Dorval.’” It was the first thing he could think of. “Ira” was what they had called his sister, Mirabel, for short. He hoped he didn’t appear to be trembling too much.
Oscar nodded. “Nice to meet you, Ira. We don’t send kids to the front lines or anything, but if you want to stay, get back into camp and make yourself useful, somehow. We hear good things, and you got a new family.”
Jory felt a pain in his gut, hearing Oscar liken the Puritans to a family. He was used to the Railroad using that term and it felt…wrong. Suck it up. You need to integrate, or your Railroad family will meet the fate of your real one. He noticed that Oscar, Rocky, and the rest of the caravan were all looking at him. “Y-yes, sir! Thank you!” He turned and scampered past the inner gate and into the main camp.
Making myself useful means I have to help them, help them against the Railroad and anyone else they decide stand in their way. He wandered through the scattered campsites, aimlessly for the most part, while he gathered his thoughts. He approached the outer wall, turned, and leaned against it. Most of the Puritans seemed to be civilians, people who had lived a hard life of survival, and joined the cause for some semblance of security and a future. He saw a few of them working on guns, others stirring pots hanging over fires, and then something he hadn’t seen since he left Diamond City: children playing.
Something isn’t right, here. Where are the fighters? Most of these people haven’t been in a firefight in their life. They’re settlers. He frowned, vowing to get to the bottom of it.
The bottom. That must have been it – the interior of that uncovered bunker. Jory knew what his objective was, and would have to plan carefully.
A clattering nearby broke him of his reverie. A teenager, a few years older than himself, had dropped a couple crates of vegetables as he attempted to carry them into the camp. Jory sprung into action and began picking up vegetables. “Hey, buddy! Let me help you with that,” he chirped with a smile.
“O-oh, thanks. I shouldn’t have tried to carry it all, by myself,” the teen replied.
“I’m here to help, now! Nothin’ doin’. I’m Ira, just got in with the caravan.”
“Jordan. You just came in with the caravan? Rocky’s caravan?” Jordan stooped and started picking up vegetables as well.
“Yeah, they found me lost out on the road, trying to get to this place. I gathered that Rocky isn’t known for generosity.”
“Lost? Oh geez, pal, are you alone? No parents or nothin’?”
“Ah, yeah. Synth killed my whole family, while I hid. I decided I’d join up here, aid the efforts. Or, try. Mr. Holly gave me some conditions.” Jory straightened and lifted one of the crates. “Where to?”
“This way,” Jordan led. “Which Mr. Holly did you talk to?”
“Oscar.”
“Wow. He’s the meaner one, too. Guess he liked your chops, or somethin’. You sure you got that?”
For emphasis, Jory shifted the crate, and smiled. “I’m fine.”
“Well, I’m gonna have you stay for dinner with my family, since you don’t have one. It’ll be as a thank you for your help.” Jordan led them past another dozen or so camps before approaching one set up next to a barrel fire, a large blue tarp draped over a set of four sleeping bags, some duffle bags, and other assorted necessities of life. “Everyone else is running drills, yet. I’m still too young to get to train,” he grumbled bitterly.
“Yeah, Mr. Holly said something like that to me, too. Where do you want this?”
“Just set it anywhere – yeah, that’s fine. You like Nuka Cola?”
Jory grinned. “Who doesn’t?”