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MacCready felt eyes on his back.
He'd arrived in Sanctuary only a few days ago. Plucked from his cozy set-up in The Third Rail, he'd been dragged halfway across the Commonwealth and through some of the worst shitholes this side of the Potomac. Needless to say, it wasn't really doing much to improve his usually cheery demeanor. Sure, his new boss was good company, he couldn't deny that, but she was so clueless it physically pained him sometimes. Her incessant questions on "The Commonwealth fuedal system" and "Evolution of native flora" made him wonder how she could have gone a week without getting herself shot in the head.
After arriving at the recently rebuilt Sanctuary, she'd given him a quick tour of the town before disappearing on "Important Business." So, for the time being, he was left to his own devices. Most of which he spent avidly avoiding the assortment of outcasts and misfits his boss seemed to attract like rats. Two of the most hated citizens in Diamond city, a robot butler more than a little off his rocker, a dog she'd picked up from God-knows-where, and a cowboy wannabe calling himself "The Last of the Minutemen."
It was this last one that was currently drilling holes in the back of his neck from across the bar. MacCready had been avoiding, what was his name, again? Pearson? Patterson? Preston. And something to do with gravy... Anyway, he'd been avoiding the militiaman after the Vaultie had given them a quick introduction before sweeping the man away for a "Minutemen Meeting." Something about him just put MacCready on edge. He seemed...oddly familiar. Whatever it was, MacCready certainly didn't appreciate the intense stares he got from the man whenever they had the misfortune of making eye contact.
MacCready was only halfway through his fourth drink and deciding that he was not nearly smashed enough to deal with this kind of hostility, when he heard Preston (MacCready's pretty sure that's his name) stand up and start walking towards him. He absentmindedly wondered if he could avoid this whole confrontation by throwing up on the man's far too shiny boots. The footsteps stopped just behind where he sat.
"You were at Quincy."
Preston's somber voice held all the weight of guillotine. It wasn't a question.
MacCready's stomach plummeted and he gained a sudden, intense interest in his glass, but he was pretty sure he was doing a semi-decent job of hiding his panic for a guy who was halfway under the table already. His mind was going a mile a minute looking for a retort, an apology, an excuse, anything, really. Of all the times for that smart mouth of his to fail him...
MacCready knew exactly what the Minuteman was referring to, of course. He counted it up there as one of the worst days of his life. They didn't call it the Quincy Massacre for nothing. It was a bloodbath. It was chaos and screaming and so much innocent death. It was the straw that broke the camels back. MacCready left the Gunners that night. Well, he says left. What he really means is ran for dear life from the vicious gang of mercenaries he worked for, then hiding in a dark closet about half his (already diminutive) size until morning. And even then he never really escaped. Neither the Gunners nor the massacre. He still woke up with the faces of executed children dancing just out of reach in his head. Apparently this "Last of the Minutemen" shared his same nightmares... MacCready suddenly felt very much sober.
"I never shot." He finally said to his drink.
It was the truth, for the most part. After he had figured out what was going on, it was all he could do to sit up in his sniper's nest and not toss what little rations he had eaten onto the Gunners below him. Preston's accusatory stare softened.
"I know. I saw you. Hell, you're probably the only reason there's anyone left from that whole mess."
Preston sat down on the stool next to the scruffy mercenary, sighed and looked over at MacCready in all his deer-in-headlights glory. Preston noted that the drunken merc was not doing nearly as good of a job at hiding his terror as he thought he was.
MacCready, meanwhile, suddenly remembered why the man had looked so familiar before. Of course, last time he had seen him had been through the scope of his rifle. That day, in true Gunner style, he had been ordered to shoot whoever tried to run away. Leave no survivors, and all that. He sat in stunned horror, occasionally retching, for most of the fight. Then, when MacCready saw the group of shabby survivors, most of them bloody and beaten, trying to boost each other over the back wall of the gardens, he just couldn't bring himself to pull the trigger. Not on them, at least. Any Gunner that got close enough to see what was going on, however, suddenly found themselves with a severe lack of brains. The last one over had been one of the few Minutemen that had actually shown up and not immediately slaughtered. MacCready had watched as this straggler gave a quick thumbs-up in his general direction then disappeared behind the wall before returning to the challenge of not losing his lunch and/or sanity as his insides tried to escape the atrocities.
Finally, he looked up from his drink and returned Preston's stare.
"I'd do anything to take that day back," MacCready sneered, "Even if it meant killing every one of those fu-savages." The insult he had planned on saying died in his throat, but the animosity was still quite clear.
"You and me both, brother."
Preston clapped MacCready on the back, nearly knocking him off his barstool, much to the smaller man's embarrassment, before ordering another round of drinks for the both of them. MacCready silently decided that maybe his new boss knew what she were doing after all.