Chapter Text
Fog on the glass, the hissing metal coffin, a permeating cold, and followed by an endless blackness. The dream was becoming less frequent now. It didn’t scare her; it just was, but sleep never returned afterward. Sleeping for 200 years would do that you. She would normally lie awake to listen to Ben’s light snoring, wondering what world he was in.
He’s not here, she reminded herself, you stormed off. I'm sure he's off on some new saint's task by now. Brook's own annoyance at her brother left a dull ache in her stomach. Loose rubble shifted under her sleeping bag and dug into her back, encouraging her to abandon the idea of sleep. The small pharmacy that was being used as a temporary camp was shrouded in ink. She slid out of her sleeping bag, the zipper broken long ago, and stood against the counter. Her hands barely grazed the counter top, too many times she’d learned to have a gentle touch when this new world was made of broken glass and rubble. Soon enough, she found the matchbox and lit the candle she’d read by last night. Packing up was quiet work. Normally, she and Ben would quietly discuss their plans, what food they had left, where to get more water. This morning there was only the hiss of polyester straining as the sleeping bag was strapped to her pack.
Ben had meant well, dragging her and anyone else around the Commonwealth. Becoming General had introduced in him an obligation to the well-being of settlers and farmers scattered around the wasteland. For the past six months, he had traipsed about, dragging around anyone who could hold a gun and was willing to follow. I’m tired of following, she absently touched the scars dragging down her face, and I’m tired of getting my ass kicked doing his dirty work. She considered the metal chest armor she’d discarded in the corner of the room before retrieving it. Even if she’d hated it, she could still get a couple caps for it in town. Ben had insisted she wear it, and she had eventually relented if not just to keep him from worrying. Metal was loud and limited her mobility. The last thing she needed was to be sneaking through a raider camp and ringing the plate like a gong with one misplaced step. The pack was hoisted to the counter with a huff and slipped on. The leather straps creaked against her shoulders as they were tightened, straining against the weight of the cans of food inside. One can of Cram, two boxes of Blamco—wait one box—two bottles of water, do I have any Nuka left? she mused.
With her rifle slung over her pack and her snub-nosed .44 nestled into the front of her waistband, Brook slid the chair barricading the door out of the way and cautiously peeked outside. Boston was fairly quiet, as if the moonlight washed away the harsh noises of firefights and screaming from the region. Cool air brushed over her forehead, and until then, she hadn’t noticed the stickiness of the air inside. Diamond City wasn’t far; she and Ben had been only a day away. It took her half the day to get this far after storming off, playing it safe by setting up in the pharmacy by dusk. Ahead of schedule, not that there’s a schedule anymore. She’d made this trip countless times before with Ben. Diamond City was a hub for supplies and gossip of scavvers looking to ‘join the good fight.’ She knew which streets were patrolled by raiders looking for a poor soul to torture. The streets infested with blood-crazed super mutants were also avoided. The idea was to avoid unnecessary attention. The wasteland was never more dangerous than when you were alone.
The sun had started to peek between the sagging skyscrapers by the time Diamond City was within view. The stadium lights towered over the green wall, easily spotted by someone who knew where to look. Brook brushed her hair back out of her eyes, cursing herself for not getting a cut from John when she was in town. She still wasn't quite accustomed to not bathing for days, sometimes weeks, at a time. Her hair was slick and oily to the point where it almost looked black, unfortunately being too short to pull back. She silently resolved to find a spigot in the city to stick her head under as her first priority. Soon, the hum of turrets gradually became clearer, and the gate of Diamond City could be heard groaning as it opened for daybreak. The green monster loomed overhead as a beacon in a grey, dilapidated Boston. With a few curt nods exchanged with the guards, she stormed up the stairs into the city.
There was nothing more refreshing than a Diamond City soak. A neck up shower from a spigot in the outfield complete with cold- and heavily irradiated- water. Ben had concocted a dry soap which was easily stored in a Mentats tin that she used. It was more suitable for laundry, but when your hair starts to resemble Takahashi’s greasy noodles, you make do. The sun hadn’t been up for very long, and Diamond City remained in a gentle slumber. Arturo was setting up for the day but still made an offer of 40 caps for her metal chest plate. Brook was relieved to be rid of the clunky armor and made her way to the Dugout Inn, desperate to set down her heavy pack for a day. She could usually never stay in Diamond City; Ben’s entourage was too big to take over the Dugout, so they were forced to set up camp just outside the wall.
The Dugout was always shrouded in a haze of cigarette smoke, the radio constantly playing while the patrons sat apart – eyeing each other suspiciously. It reminded Brook of her childhood when her father would come home after work and sit down to watch a noir detective show with the typical loose-cannon ex-cop as the front runner. The thought made her smile, Mom always told him to not rot my brain with those shows, but every time he’d scoop me into his arms and call me his future private investigator. She could still remember his smell of aftershave, motor oil, and a bit of sweat. It was leagues away from the Dugout, which smelled of must and smoke.
It was quiet this morning, Scarlett was sweeping up broken glass – most likely from last night; and Yefim was manning the bar, reading a paper. Vadim was no doubt hungover in bed like most mornings. Yefim was a quiet man, reserved in a way his brother was not. For a moment, Brook thought of Ben and how they were similar, but then she realized which twin that would make her and quickly pushed the thought aside.
Yefim didn’t look away from his paper but took notice of her. “The minuteman- just you today?” his Russian accent didn’t help him sound enthused, but he was polite, if anything.
Brook shifted under her pack uncomfortably, “Yeah, just me. I was looking to see if you had a room available.”
He glanced up at her briefly before returning to his paper, “Sure, it’s 10 caps a night.” She dug out 20 caps and set them neatly on the bar. He slid them aside and pointed to room 2.
“Don’t throw up on my floors.”
The room was basic, but it was nicer than a lot of places she’d stayed, even before the war. She shut the door behind her and slid her rifle off, setting it next to the bed. Her pack was deposited into the only lounge chair in the room, and she rummaged through it hoping to find some food that didn’t need preparation. The only thing she found was a half-eaten box of some very stale Fancy Lads Snack Cakes. She choked them down quickly with some water, pretending it was one of those dry scones from Red Rocket.
Brook felt restless and decided to head over to John to get that haircut she’d wanted. Maybe this time he’d have a pair of clippers that didn’t snag. After the first few cuts, John caught on to the usual: clipped sides, a trim on top, and styled into a slight pomp. A full 20 minutes later and his first customer of the day was leaving satisfied, even leaving a few extra caps for a tip—that always surprised him. Brook swiped at a few stray clippings on her neck, wandering back towards the Dugout when her stomach caught an elbow. Ugh, maybe I should’ve kept the chest plate after all, she thought bitterly.
“Jesus! Sorry, Blue, I didn’t see you there!” a frantic and apologetic voice rang out.
Piper. She’d tagged along after Nick Valentine when Brook had gotten word that he’d been in some trouble. They’d made a good team, but Ben had needed her—so she’d spent the last 6 months with him instead of chasing down headlines and keeping the quirky reporter out of trouble. They’d managed to exchange pleasantries whenever the group was in town. Piper always batted her eyelashes and tried to get a story out of her, and she had come close to being successful more than a few times. She sucked in a breath and dramatically clutched her abdomen.
“I can see the headline now,” Brook huffed with a smirk, “local reporter assaults innocent commonwealth citizen!”
“Oh, har har, and you think I’m gonna write that article?” She chuckled and tilted her head, jarring her news cap just so. “I’d sooner stage a cover-up. Eye witnesses, testimonials, the works.” Her grin touched hazel eyes that shined with excitement. She started a slow walk back towards Publick Occurrences, looking back for a rebuttal.
Brook met her easy pace, “Piper Wright, do you honestly believe you’re the only person in the Commonwealth with some writing skill?” She leaned in a bit to give her a hushed tone, “Once I have you out of the picture, the paper will be mine. Think of it Piper, I’m going to add a new column: Wasteland Whispers.” She gestured her tagline in the air above.
Piper gasped, feigning outrage and clutching her scarf. “A gossip column? You wouldn’t dare!” she growled.
Brook raised her brow and gave her an exaggerated shrug, innocent of any ill-doing. “Do you really want to find out?” She enjoyed these small moments with Piper, briefly forgetting her falling out with Ben. Instead, they just joked and verbally sparred, Brook found a little victory in keeping the witty reporter on her toes.
“How about we discuss your . . . acquisition . . . of my paper over some coffee? It’s a vintage, you know—200 years to be exact.” Her voice took on a smoky tone, still jesting with every word.
“Two hundred years?” Brook chuckled, “That happens to be my favorite blend. I think I’ll take you up on that, Miss Wright.”