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“So, you really thinking of joining up with the Railroad?” Nick asked. They’d stopped in another burnt out husk of a house to rest and recuperate.
Mischa shrugged. “Yeah, you know I figured I wouldn’t be comfortable until I was as busy and stressed and miserable as I was way back in the before days.” She sighed, digging through one of the packs she carried with her. “Besides, I’m a sucker for praise. I’ve got a feeling this Deacon kid could play me like a fiddle. Fucker got my pronouns right first time I met him, I’m already in too deep.”
“That all it takes?” Nick chuckled, “Boy, you sure are a tough one to please.”
She snorted, finally pulling out an old bottle of nuka cola and a can of mac and cheese. “Come on, you know what it’s like, don’t you? You run around getting scorned and barely tolerated and then when someone finally shows you basic fucking decency and acceptance it’s like… mind blowingly awesome. Besides, I like to help.”
“I can tell,” Nick pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, tapping one out into his hand. Mischa tossed him a lighter (right, he’d forgotten his in sanctuary) and went back to shoveling noodles into her mouth. Something like muscle memory kicked in as the tiny flame flickered in front of his face and the smoke started curling up from the end of the little paper roll. He knew what she meant about the difference between being tolerated and actually liked. There were so many people who would treat him with wary suspicion or outright hostility that when he came across someone who didn’t seem to mind his obviously robotic elements it was like a breath of fresh air. “So, how’s it going with the Minutemen? I’ve been hearing good things.”
“Ha. Well, people aren’t rebelling against my terrible leadership skills, if that’s what you’re asking,” Mischa took a swig from her nuka cola. She paused a moment, her face strangely sad and serious. Nick took another drag from his cigarette. He knew that face. She was gathering her thoughts and was about to say something important. At least, she was about to say something important to her. Last time she made this face she had ended up on a rant about fashion sense among animals. Nick smiled to himself, whatever it was she was thinking about, he was sure it would be a welcome distraction. “Hey Valentine,” she began, “You ever heard of the Pirates of Pennzance?”
He quirked an eyebrow at her, “No, can’t say that I have.”
“Oh, well it’s an opera. Gilbert and Sullivan. Written in the 1860s I believe, but I’m a little rusty on my theater history so I’m probably wrong. There’s this one song in it you might be familiar with, though, I’ve found a lot of people are even if they don’t recognize what it’s from,” she cleared her throat and began to sing. The tune was bouncing, light, and Nick found it vaguely familiar, “I am the very model of a modern major general. I’ve information vegetable, animal and mineral. I know the kings of England and I quote the facts historical from Marathon to Waterloo in order categorical.”
“Hm, you’re right, I think I have heard that somewhere before,” he smiled at her, “Finally feeling confident about your new job, huh, General?”
She looked at him with an expression of pure shock before she burst out laughing, “No, kinda the opposite, actually. Lots of people misinterpret the meaning of that song I guess, but nah, Gilbert and Sullivan were snarky bastards. The whole show’s a satire, that song in particular. It’s all about how the British military at the time prioritized book learning over tactical learning. Major General Stanley is the ideal Major General but he knows exactly fuckall about directing troops and using weaponry. He’s all mathematics and history and biology but can’t tell a spear from a rifle.” She paused again, focused intently on tearing the yellowed paper label off the cola bottle. “I guess I do kinda feel like that, though. I’m full of this pre-war history knowledge and random useless facts about animal behavior. I went to college and everything, got good grades, but most of my knowledge is basically useless out here. I don’t know the first thing about leading an army.”
“Heard you took back the castle just fine.”
She shrugged. “Beginners luck? Besides, we weren’t exactly facing down a huge tactical threat. Surprisingly enough, I can out-maneuver a horde of mirelurks.”
Nick nodded. She had a point, a mirelurk infestation was tough to get rid of, but not exactly difficult when it came to strategy. Still, the kid had come a long way from where she had been when they first met. He could still remember her standing next to him in the subway tunnel. She’d put away her pistol to talk to Skinny Malone, called it good manners, but her hand rested on the stock of the gun in its holster as she tried to talk him down. Her voice was steady but her fingers shook like autumn leaves. As soon as the gang was out of sight she’d crumpled, her breathing heavy and her eyes brimming with tears. He hadn’t traveled with her much after that, but now? She hardly needed a moment after raider attacks anymore. And when she picked through the pockets of killed foes her eyes were dry.
He wondered if she noticed the changes in herself. She probably had. Introspection was her strong suit, or so she’d told him.
“I’m sure you’ll learn more about it as time goes on,” he offered, “Garvey certainly seems to think you’re doing a good job.”
Mischa shrank in on herself, once again picking at the label of the nuka cola bottle. Her face lit up red. “Yeah, well, Preston doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Case in point he made me the general instead of himself. Talk about a lapse in judgement.” She polished off the last of her soda and stashed the bottle in her “junk” bag. “You wanna get moving?” She leapt up and offered him a hand. “We should probably not keep the new guy waiting.”
Nick took her hand, pulling himself upright. The kid didn’t even flinch at the cold metal that time. He smiled. “So what happened to the General in that opera, anyways?”
“Well, lots of emotional torment and stuff like that, but eventually his twelve or fifteen daughters get married to a bunch of pirates, who it turns out were noblemen all along as well as orphans.”
He frowned. “Does it make more sense in context?”
“Only a little bit,” she snickered, “If you want, I could give you a private one-man production as we walk. I’m probably about 80% confident I’ve remembered the words.”
Nick smiled and shook his head. “I think I’ll pass, kid. Thanks anyway.”