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"Come on, hon. Keep up. We don't want to be late."
She wonders who they need to be on time for. It's date night, just the two of them. The first they've had since...she can't even remember. Nate planned it all out. They have a booking for dinner at Boylston, followed by a wine tasting.
Maybe that's why they need to hurry. She knows he's been working for a while to get an in with the club--must not want to start off with a bad impression.
A romantic walk by the Charles. Dinner at one of the most exclusive venues in all of Boston. And when it's over they'll go home to their suburban house, their robot butler, and to their infant son.
The perfect night.
The perfect family.
She wanted this, asked for it. She should be grateful. But she just can't find it in her to be excited. Instead, there is only an abiding, bone deep weariness with it all. It is a grey slurry fog that swamps her, mires her, fills her chest cavity. It is a fight to just breathe.
From above, the great gear-shaped seal slides into place. The sound is cavernous, and final. She is stuck. There's no way out.
The Boston night air is cold, and despite their brisk pace she shivers, uncomfortable. She's an Arizona girl by birth and no matter how long she's lived here she's never managed to find comfort with the climate. She shouldn't need a coat in April.
Maybe she's just stubborn. Or maybe she just hates the cold.
It is a thousand needles in her skin, smothering her, inescapable. Ice, everywhere, ice.
She topples to the floor. She heaves in one sucking breath after another. Her chest aches like she hasn't been able to breathe for--for years. Condensation drips from the chamber door, trickling down the back of her neck.
She is alive. But--
When she has caught her breath she crawls forward. With frantic energy, she pushes herself up, scrabbles at the edges of the door for a latch, before she finally notices the panel with the lever.
Before the door is even open, she knows. He's gone. That life, is gone. And the first thing she feels, like a needle through her ribs, traitorous and shameful, is--
"What a relief. We made it just in time, hon."
Nate's waiting for her in doorway, the light from the club encircling him in a golden corona as it spills out onto the street.
An attendant is waiting in the lobby. She guides them to the elevators, and when they disembark into the club proper it's like stepping through a portal to another world.
The crystal light fixtures hang from delicate filament wires. The freshly waxed floors gleam. As they are guided to their seats she overhears snatches of conversation--the volatility of the market, who's new in society, the rise and fall of power players. She picks up her napkin, feels the pristine silk glide between her fingertips. When she puts it down she sees the oil in her skin has left behind trace staining.
It is a bubble of old-world luxury.
She glances over the menu, and--
"...Salmon? They have it here?" She can't remember the last time she had real, fresh fish. Between dwindling wild populations and the threat to vessels from Chinese submarines--"How did they even get it?"
"Where there's a will..." Nate's smirking, like he's managed to pull off a real coup. And yes, if she's honest, he has.
He looks back down to his own menu.
"Well, go on. Get them before they're--"
--gone, sliding under the railing and out of sight. She doesn't get a chance to miss it, or even think about finding another gun, before the woman is on her again, feral and screaming. She doesn't think, she only reacts.
She sidesteps the first thrust, catches the second on her makeshift, scavenged armour. There, she gets lucky. The blade wedges between the patchwork plating. It breaks the skin, blood dripping down her arm, but it's stuck good, and with a wrenching twist the two of them are down to their fists.
They scrabble at each other. Snarling, biting, cursing. Fingernails seeking purchase. A headbutt takes her by surprise, starbursts popping at the corner of her vision, and then the other woman is on top of her. Hands take her throat.
Her fingertips scrabble across the ground at her side--grasps a rock. She swings wild. There is a satisfying crunch, liquid warmth splatters her face. The weight atop her goes limp and the grip on her throat goes slack.
Hacking, bruised, and bloodied--the next breaths she takes are the sweetest of her entire life.
She pushes the body off her.
She's never--hasn't ever--
There were those flies. A pack of stray dogs. Yesterday she'd made a lucky shot against another of these lunatics who tried to snipe her from the window of what she thought was an abandoned building. But--
All of those were from range. Animals. Warning shots against other twitchy wasteland roamers. Her ambusher was long dead by the time she finally managed to reach him. Nothing like this. Nothing so close, so brutal. She could see the flecks of dirt crusting in the other woman's hair.
This was...
She brushes a stinging knuckle against her cheek. When she pulls away it is slick, shining, coated in crimson that clings to her skin. Slowly, she turn her hand, flexes her fingers. Watches the way the sunlight plays over the liquid's surface. The thickened droplets coalesce, running down her fingers, pooling in the shallow goblet of her palm.
She brings it to her lips--
--the taste is strong, acidic, sweet. Paired with the fish--a subtle tang of salt and lemon, flesh delicately shredded between her teeth--it's good. She feels...good.
And she thinks: she could get used to this.
A waitress comes by to check on them, and she finds herself staring at the other woman, following her as she moves on to the next table. She realises--almost everyone working here is a woman. The wait staff, the woman behind the bar. The singer in the corner. They're all gorgeous.
There's one--a redhead. Face full of freckles, with a laugh that carries across the dining room. Everything she does, she does like she was born to do it. And--
Hell, the women here are something else.
She doesn't realise she said it aloud until Nate chuckles. "Yeah, maybe. They've got nothing on you though, hon."
Oh, but he is almost adorable in his obliviousness. She's beyond thankful for it. If she isn't ready to have this conversation with herself, then she'll never be ready to have it with him.
She risks another look across the room and--the redhead is looking right back. The other woman winks, and she snaps her head away. A flush climbs her neck.
She won't look again. She can't let anyone see how much it effects her.
She doesn't know how much longer she can hold it in.
Her lungs scream for air, but the thing--this man-fish monster--won't let her go, dragging her down to the bottom of the river. Her vision is going black.
Another body collides with the creature. She sees a flash of red in the murky water. The creature is distracted enough she can finally free her arm and with it, her dagger. She plunges it into the creature. It screeches and swims away in a cloud of blood, her blade still lodged in it's side.
The figure grasps her arm. Pulling her, up, up, toward the light.
The capsized boat rocks as they pull themselves onto it, out of the scummy water. It takes them both a full minute to get their breath back.
"Thanks, Cait."
Her throat feels like a mile of gravel road, but she has to say it. Truthfully, she didn't think the other woman would stay.
Cait lies back, her eyes closed. "Think of it as repayment for that time with the raiders on the rooftop. Not to mention..."
Right. Vault 95. They aren't far off, now.
Still.
"I owe you."
She doesn't want their...their partnership to be based on quid pro quo. But she doesn't know how else to say all the things she's feeling.
They paddle their way back to shore, achingly slow. Aching all over.
The larger fish-man, the first they took down before the second dragged her under, has a weapon sticking out of it's side. A long pole, with a curved hook at the end. Strange.
She's seen a lot of unusual weaponry over the last month, but this is new. It has a handmade, cared-for quality that draws her. She likes the image it invokes: a great nautical hunter, brought down at last by his prey.
"You reckon you'll be takin' that with you?"
She could say she needs a replacement for her knife, but it wouldn't be the whole truth. And she wants to be truthful. It's almost embarrassing how right it feels in her hands.
"How do I look?"
Cait's lips curl in a smiling snarl that has embers flickering under her skin.
Her lips part--
"...devastating."
Nate sighs. "You aren't even listening."
He's right, but she doesn't want to let him know that. She quickly cycles through his favourite topics and make an educated guess.
"You're sad that the current season of power-armour derby has been cancelled, especially since the Knight Tramplers were set to qualify this time, for sure."
He gives her a wan smile. "That just means you weren't listening, and I'm predictable."
She shrugs. "If you can tell that, then I'd say we're both pretty predictable."
They share a forced laugh before returning, silent to their food.
Now it's her turn to sigh. She should at least make an effort. Find something to connect.
"You know," she says, finally, "I think I'd like to try it. Power-Armour derby."
He perks back up. "You want to watch it with me?"
"No. I mean to actually participate."
Her words were as much a surprise to her as they were to him, she thinks. It was like that for her, sometimes. Like she was laying down tracks for an oncoming train, hoping they would end up at the right place in the end.
"Are you...sure? It's pretty dangerous."
She is. The more she considers it, the more right it feels. Maybe it would be just what she needs.
Blow off some steam.
She stamps on the scarred man's head, over and over, until it cracks open like a melon. Amidst the reddish pulp are wires and circuits, seeds of fibreglass and veins of gold circuitry. Why she had to kill him...she almost can't remember. She hardly feels the bullet wound in her side.
None of it matters.
She feels so alive.
"...and that's why I think we should start looking into little league placements now, and--sorry. I know I promised you no Shaun talk tonight."
She plays it off with a shrug.
"It's not like we've got anything else going on."
She rides atop the deathclaw, boots braced against its' shoulders, the pole of her trident between its' teeth, and she strains, pulling back with all her might, fighting not to be thrown off. Stumbling back out of its' reach, Cait sinks round after round into the creature's gut.
When it finally topples, she is thrown forward. When she opens her eyes she finds herself astride Cait's prone form. The other woman is splattered with blood, her hair messy, her eyes wild.
She thinks she has never in her life seen anything so beautiful.
"That was--"
"It was!"
"And you were--"
"I was? You were--"
"I...I think--"
"I love you."
She knows he does--almost says as much. Of course he loves her. And she--
"I love you too," she lies.
He's the boy from next door. The one who waited, happy to be her friend without expecting more. Solid. Dependable. Handsome, even.
If someone else described their story to her she'd think it was...well, perfect. So why doesn't she love him? Why isn't she happy?
He's a good man, maybe the best in the entire Commonwealth, and how does she repay him?
He knows that she is unhappy, she can see it in his eyes. He's trying so hard, and she almost wants to shake him, make him see that there's nothing that can be done. He is isn't the problem.
She is.
"I hope you have a good time tonight, I really do. It feels like such a long time since I've seen you smile."
He raises his glass.
"Here's to us."
It's been a long time since she's had champagne. This rotgut sure as hell ain't champagne, but as she drinks she feels like it might as well be--it bubbles within, it fizzes; she's giddy and flushed.
Her stomach hurts from laughter. He laugh is a little noisy, a little ugly. It makes Cait laugh to hear it, and she's never been happier to let it out.
They lean on each other. They keep doing that--leaning, touching. Any excuse for contact. It's not just her doing it. Cait's playing with her hair, and the look in her eyes is--
She knows. This, this crackling energy between them--it's mutual. And those eyes say that they've been in this bar for too long.
Giggling, they stumble out of the Dugout. Find a nook, off to the side, out of the way.
The kisses start out slow, exploratory. Then Cait is running her hands over her body, and she's coming alive in so many ways. Sparks all through her skin, in her bones, between her legs. They're clumsy, overeager, pressed against each other, almost grinding. It's like they're teenagers. And then--
For a moment she remembers: before Cait--before him, even--there were stolen kisses in the hallways of the faculty building. A smile a little too toothy, shining in the dim light, encircled with a halo of gloriously smudged lipstick. She'd taken that woman's glasses, threaded her hands through those gorgeous curls and the woman had looked her in the eyes, and she said, Oh, you're goin' to change the world, darling.
And there it is, she feels that all-but-forgotten ache, the one she'd never thought she'd feel again.
"Love, what's the matter? You're--"
A thumb tracks across her cheek, and she realises it's damp.
"My love." Cait's voice is so gentle. Softness from such a hard person. It cracks her open. "If you want to talk, I'm here for you."
She shakes her head. Shakes the ache away.
She won't think of the past. Not tonight.
Tonight is for beauty, for desire. For parts of herself she thought lost forever. For this gorgeously feral woman who sees her, and wants her anyway.
She kisses Cait, fiercely. She reaches for the buttons of other woman's corset, finger clumsy in her eagerness. And Cait responds, hunger and need, teeth scraping against her bottom lip. It pulls a moan from her.
"I like the way you think, treasure," Cait whispers. "Try an' keep it down though, eh? This is just for us."
She feels a hand glide down the plane of her stomach. Fingertips slip under the waist of her jeans--
He clears his throat.
"Dear." He glances first to her empty glass, then to the side. "Don't you think you should, uh...slow down?"
She follows his gaze to the neighbouring table. A couple of the exact type she'd expect to find in this place--richly tailored, stiff beaked, blood so blue Vault-Tec could paint their walls with it--flick their eyes away, a little too late.
She sees their assessment of her, their judgement. She's not from around here. She doesn't know how to hold herself, and they can tell. The doorman, the sommelier, the other attendees--they look her up and down, dismissal in their barely concealed sneers.
She left where she came from--gave up so much of herself to be here--and they'll never let her belong.
Dark times on the horizon, her mother had said. You can't put a price on a good man when the going gets rough. I should know. Those gunmetal grey eyes that she sees every time she looks in the mirror stopped surveying the interior of the trailer she grew up in and locked onto her own.
He won't wait forever. Lock him down.
So she'd loved another--Love don't pay the bills, the old woman said. Veterans are afforded privileges that a grad student couldn't hope to match. The subsidy for raising a child overtakes what she'd make as a paralegal, fresh out of law school.
And wasn't the old woman right? Dark times aplenty, and here she is. A night on the town in the fanciest club at the very heart of Boston. A good man on her arm. A house by the water, like she always wanted.
So far from the ration line; so far from home.
The salmon, richly pink and dripping with butter, catches in her throat. Those disapproving eyes watch as she splutters. They know who she is. How she got here. She feels it prickling on her skin.
This place is a palace.
She doesn't belong here.
The old man speaks, but his words don't register. Distantly, she thinks: this one doesn't smile like--like the man in her memories. But those grey eyes--there are reasons she doesn't look in mirrors anymore. A barbed coil unfurls in her stomach.
Whatever her reasons for coming here, whatever they were to each other--it no longer matters. They tricked her, toyed with her--lured her here to this underworld paradise of plastic artifice, made her think of him, made her remember who she once was.
He's happy, she thinks, that she's here. He speaks of progress, of family. He wants her to stay.
She nods, forces a grimace in the shape of a smile, and plays along. She can bide her time. She can wait. For now.
But she won't be held down--never again.
The speaker drones on. A European vintage, notes of cranberry, zesty--oh so zesty. She thinks he's making it all up.
But, she can't say it isn't, at least, a stuffy kind of pleasant. She reaches for her glass, knocks the rim with her fingertips. It wobbles--
"Whoa, steady, hon." He catches it before it tips. "You doing alright?"
Of course she is. Almost never better. She knows her smile looks pained--always has--but it doesn't stop her from trying.
"My hero."
She doesn't feel at home in herself, really. Ever. The lines she says, the ways she moves--they're like a doll version of herself, strings rising from her articulated joints. The fingers of another, someone concerned with ironing and small talk, puppet her. Make her dance.
Here and now, she makes a fist under the table. She is here. She is herself. And with each glass down, the lines break, and she gets a little more of herself back.
Sip. Snap. Sip. Snap.
How much longer can she stay upright?
The strings cannot hold.
"Not a bad place for a last stand," Cait muses. "Y'ready love?"
The mutants are almost on them. There's nowhere to run. As she readies Riptide she feels the very stones underfoot shudder as the monsters ascend, and she knows--the two of them have been through a lot, but this is a lot and then some. Too much, maybe. One of them might not make it out of here. Cait might not--
She feels a flicker of cold in her chest.
Fear. Hesitation.
Unacceptable.
When she slides the needle out from her pack, the look on Cait's face is--
She knows. It's bad enough that she even has it. She promised no more, and she keeps breaking that promise. They were meant to be in this together, but she can't--she needs to kill this last thread inside her, the one that flinches, before it gets her killed. Or worse...
She'll kill it, whatever it takes.
Even if it ends with her alone.
"A dangerous red, this one...bold notes of cherry, a little sour, a little bitter, I think you'll find--but that, in my opinion, gives it it's bite. Give it a try, fellows, you'll see what I mean."
It looks, smells, and tastes like the last five glasses she's tried: like wine.
Not that she's complaining. It's pleasant stuff. Better than what she's used to by far. But then, what she's used to comes in a box.
The man at the table next to them clears his throat, turns to them.
"This one has layers to it, yes; quite an impressive little vintage. What do you think?"
Her husband smiles, affable as ever. "I'll be the first to admit, I wouldn't know know my reds from my Rieslings--but I can tell you, once you've tried army rum, anything'll taste good."
They chuckle, they're charmed. Her stupid perfect husband. And then the man turns to her.
"And what do you think, my dear? Always good for these events to have new blood."
What has she got to prove to these assholes? She shrugs.
"I'm not much for drink, actually."
"Not at all? What about chems, then?"
She shakes her head, then shrugs at Mags' raised brow.
She's telling the truth. After Cait left she spent the week curled up at the bottom of a bottle, but after that...
"I don't need them." Not anymore--she's found something better. Now, she doesn't flinch.
"You're something special, Overboss. I've seen what you can do--but you aren't a bloody sadist like the Disciples. You value the thrill of the hunt, like Mason's rabble, but without their crippling dependance on substance. And I know you're not hurting for caps. Still--if there's one thing I know, it's that everyone has their thing, Overboss."
From the naked flattery and the way Mags' stares at her through lowered lashes, not bothering to disguise the way her eyes roam, Sadie suspects the Operator boss knows what her 'thing' is.
Mags isn't Cait. Doesn't have that screwdriver smile, the laughter in her eyes. Mags doesn't smile--she watches, she waits, she smirks. A crook at the edge of her lips that says she already knows you backwards and forwards.
An Arizona girl should know a rattlesnake when she sees one. Should know better than to tangle with one. Mags is pretty enough, though, to risk it. This--whatever it is--will be transactional. It's a good thing. She doesn't want to remember how it feels to care. A little venom might be just what she needs to keep her the right kind of numb.
The Operator boss straddles her lap, leans in.
"We've got a real opportunity here, Overboss."
She grips the other woman by the hips, pulling her closer.
"I know."
A shiver, not unpleasant, runs up her spine.
"Are you cold, hon?" He signals for the attendant.
When isn't she, is the real question. Not now, though, for once. She's not feeling much of much right now. Only a vague glow that suffuses her.
It took him long enough to notice, but still--it's a sweet gesture. She leans forward to peck him on the cheek.
A man with dark eyes appears by the table, her husband's coat on his arm.
She reaches out to take it--
The gang bosses watch as she shrugs the battle-coat on. She doesn't need it--but then, neither does its' previous owner. The fire from the fallen blimp across the bay lights a fire inside her that cannot be quenched. They've tasted victory now. This is but the first--and she will never be cold again.
The fire reflects in Mags' eyes. She can see the other woman's calculations, her assessment of her Overboss shift. Sees the ceiling of her ambitions shatter. The gleam there edges on manic as she slinks closer.
"...a moment of your time, Warlord?"
"For you? Sure."
She doesn't know what she's agreed to, exactly. She's floating, already forgotten--if she heard it at all.
The corners of his lips tick downward.
"I was hoping you'd do it for you. But if it means you get help..."
What does she need help for?
"I know the last couple of months have been hard. The move, quitting your masters, the baby...I just want you to be healthy. You don't have to prove anything. You're a good woman. I know you'd do anything for your family."
She holds the old man's head aloft. Below, hundreds of bloodied fists rise into the air in answer, a cacophony of triumphant howls rising up to greet her. She throws the last vestige of her past into the murderous throng. It's chum in the water, the surface roiling as the sharks work themselves into a fevered frenzy.
Her army.
Cambridge is a smoking crater--again--and now there's nothing left to hold them back. They're going to roll over this land like the tide.
Her husband, her baby. The trailer, the judgemental assholes who sneer at her for not being born one of them. The red-head she can't quite take her eyes off of, no matter how hard she tries.
If only she could quit it all. Leave them all behind. This buzz is almost enough to get her there.
A taste of what it's like to be free.
Smoke and ash on the air, fire lights up the night.
The last defender standing doesn't see her until she's right on top of him. The familiar skull logo of his armour is splattered with gore, blackened with soot. She remembers when Gunners were a serious threat. So long ago. Almost a whole other life.
His eyes widen; he recognises her.
How satisfying.
She whips her trident up, hooking him through the belly, under his armour.
She hefts the squirming body aloft. Blood drips down--
"Dear? Are you having a good time?"
Her vision blurs. She can't quite tell who's sitting across from her. Over the rim of her glass she sees the anxious creasing of Nate's forehead. Cait's eyes, sharp and sad. Mags' snake smile.
She throws her head back.
Red liquid drips down her chin, hot and clinging. Sharp and sweet and metallic on her tongue. It coats her teeth.
"Dear? Hello?"
And she smiles.