Some Time Later…

John felt drunk, and not in a good way. Whatever the seemingly mild prick to the neck had done left his vision blurred an his limbs uncoordinated. Also making any kind the of stress needed to activate the jet black device under the chainmail sleeve of his leather coat impossible to attain.

He knew he had to be close to Shadowtown, maybe he could make it, he tried to just focus on putting one tired foot in front of the other, it didn’t last. Unable to focus John couldn’t even stay standing as at least three blurry figures jumped him from the darkness, throwing him face first on the faded blacktop. Two knelt on him while the third strapped a length of rebar across his back, leaving his arms fully outstretched and something tight around his neck. “On your feet.” A man’s voice ordered him up while keeping a safe distance, as did the two behind, cocking their assault rifles rather than wasting their breath on unnecessary threats.

The induced state faded quickly and the fear he needed moments ago returned, too late to be of any use. He couldn’t reach the folding pistol or the cutthroat razor they missed, even if they were close enough to reach. John started to breathe deeply, steady, trying to determine the facts on the ground.

John’s vision cleared enough to realise he couldn’t make out the man in front of him, to say nothing of the two behind him. John let himself stagger, clipping his trailing boot in the cracked blacktop, falling face first, unable to do anything else with his arms held outstretched by the restraint. “On your feet.”

“I’ve been walking for two days straight. Give me a fucking minute.” John got to his knees, protected from the most of the fall by the vault-suit under his jeans and garish shirt. Leaning against the retaining wall he could just make out the three attackers. Not raiders, too well equipped, sidearms and assault rifles secured tightly. They weren’t Brotherhood either, scruffy, dirty, not well equipped enough, they didn’t even have matching boots. Who are they John thought to himself, then the thing around his neck started beeping. “On your feet.” The bald man stepped just close enough so John could see the repurposed radio in his hand, glowing with an ominous red light. “You see that? Dead man’s switch, my thumb comes off so does your head. Now move.”

“We’ll both die before I let someone make me a slave again.” John didn’t know if the nightmare, dreamlike state would make him fast enough to grab the detonator, but he would at least be closer than expected went it went off. “You slavers are real fucking filth.” John’s guess paid off instantly as one of the men advanced on him, angry at the insult.

“We’re not fucking slav—”

“Stop.” The bald man gave an order and the other obeyed. John realised who they were, not slavers, not raiders, not Brotherhood, they must be mercenaries. Sara warned him about them, soldiers without a cause, without honour, skills sold to the highest bidder. He pushed the similarities between them and being a man without a master out of his mind as he got to his feet, wondering how Sara would use the new facts on the ground.

“So how much are you getting paid?” They didn’t answer. “Must be a good price to risk kidnapping a Brotherhood Knight.” The two mercs walking behind him started whispering to each other, they clearly didn’t know who they’d grabbed, which meant the Brotherhood didn’t send them at least. Not that John thought that very likely, then again he didn’t think the elder would order a nuclear weapon be armed to ensure his cooperation.

“As we speak there’s a Vertibird looking for me,” John lied, convincingly for once, fully aware that if a bird were on the way he’d have far bigger problems than these three. “You know what a Vertibird is right, because it’s the last sound you’re going to hear, if you’re luc—”

“Shut the fuck up.” One of the mercs behind him sounded rattled. He obviously knew what a Vertibird was.

“I’m just curious, five thousand, ten thousand, more. Whatever they’re paying you to take me back to the Four Corners, you aren’t going to live long enough to spend a single cap.” The bald mercenary turned, arming the explosive collar strapped tightly around John’s neck.

John stopped walking, dropping to his knees, lowering his head as if broken and submissive. Just a little closer he thought to himself, focusing on the beeping, trying to find the fear induced adrenaline and finding nothing. The last two days had taken a heavy toll.

John got to his feet, staggering as slow as he could, trying to buy time. He’d guessed right about the Four Corners, the bald merc’s overreaction gave him a big clue. Turning off the road to head south through the red forest confirmed it, and that the Baron’s offer of safe passage had been a lie.

The mercenaries believed a Vertibird could be coming, John knew the approach to the Four Corners meant crossing a lot of open ground, no way they’d risk that in broad daylight. Not with the thought of a quick death descending from above, and it would be light in a few hours. If he could buy time in the forest they’d have to stop, then he could provoke them into making a mistake.

John staggered and stumbled through the forest, taking as long as possible, claiming to be tired, and in a way that Sara would have liked, looking up every so often. That rattled the merc’s behind him, which rattled the leader. Before long the mercenaries were watching for fictional Vertibirds, and not watching him.

John stopped, looking up into the dark as if expecting to see Valkyrie, with Tempest on the door gun, and staggered quickly as if to take cover. The rear merc’s couldn’t take any more. “Fuck this, I’m not getting strung up by those tin plated bastards for a thousand caps.” John could hear the barely contained panic, he faked a laugh.

“You’re kidnapping a sworn knight of the Brotherhood of Steel for a thousand caps each!”

“Not each.” The rear pair answered John, while glaring at their leader. John’s laugh became real.

“I tell you what, there’s about eighteen hundred caps in the hidden pocket in my coat, I’ll buy your water off you, and we can part as friends. Tell the Baron you couldn’t find me, tell him I got in a Vertibird a flew away, which is what I’ll be doing any minute now. Not that you’ll see it, you’ll be in a bloody mess, draped in a Brotherhood flag.” Divide and conquer John thought to himself, as he leant against a tree to watch it work. All the while bending the metal bar against his back, little by little.

The rear pair began gesturing to each other, it didn’t go unnoticed by the bald merc. “What’s a matter with you two bitches, he’s probably not even a knight.”

“We all saw him in the armour, you need training for that.”

“He probably found it, shit I’ve seen raiders wear power armour before now.” John had to laugh at the bald merc’s observation. He did find the T-51 suit, but doubted he could have moved it an inch without training.

“Look, I’ll prove it. Check the holotag around my neck.” John tried to sound casual, calm, despite never being issued with a holotag. That wouldn’t matter if he could just get one close enough. It worked, one of the rear pair steeped a few feet nearer and John felt his nerves prime, ready to attack.

“Are you stupid?! Stop there.” The bald merc shouted. “Remember the contract, dose him, don’t get near him and bring him in alive.” John wondered exactly what the Baron knew about him, but kept his focus on today’s set of problems. He saw the implanted fear multiplying, nerves and stress overtaking reasoning. “Too bad the Baron pays like shit.” The bald mercenary drew his antique revolver and stepped forward, raising the round barrel to John’s head.

From the corner of his eye John saw a shadow move, becoming a shimmer that became a blur as it zipped between him and the revolver. The mercenary dropped to his knees, pale, shocked and disarmed, literally. John looked on in confusion as he tried to pick up one gloved hand with the other, the revolver still gripped tight in the severed arm.

Before either of them could make sense of what happened the shimmer appeared behind the one armed merc, turning into a person, dressed in advanced, skin tight, black fabric with a hexagonal weave and embedded armour pieces. John felt the figure looking right at him through the reflective, angular, orange face plates that looked too thin to be glass. With no sign of effort, a dark steel blade erupted from the merc’s chest and retracted just as quickly.

The figure became a shimmer again and the remaining mercs opened fire, hitting nothing but air and trees. John heard the blade rip through another chest behind him as the last merc made a run for his cheap life. He made it a few feet past John before the figure hurled the sword through the air. John could do little else but watch as the matte finish blade span end over end, catching the fleeing merc in the back, knocking him off his feet and pinning his body to a tree with a sharp crack and a wet thud.

John felt his bindings fall away, cut with something from behind, freeing his arms. The figure stood before him, blood sliding off the strange material and soaking into the ground. Hands clad in tight black reached up and pressed the orange face plates inwards. A hiss of pressurised air escaped as the face plates separated and retracted enough for the figure to pull back the hood.

John gazed up in relieved amazement, red hair, impossibly green eyes, and the merest hint of smile on full lips “Hello John.”

“Rosie…I,” Before John could stammer and splutter through thanks and apologies, Rosie’s green eyes rolled up and she started to collapse. The fear he couldn’t find came roaring back, not for himself, and he caught her in mid fall. “Rosie! Rosie, talk to me.” John looked at her pipboy, somehow visible through a section of the strange suit, and saw something that made no sense.

*Low battery*

“Rosie wake up! tell me what to do, help me, please. I need you. Rosie...ROSIE!”

***

Much, much, earlier…

The ringing of an antique phone woke Burton from the silk and Egyptian cotton sheets. He rolled over the other side of the luxurious king size, four poster bed and answered. “Hello?” He sounded hoarse, one too many cigars, and two too many whiskey sours the night before.

“Good morning Mr Paige, it’s Clara at the front desk with your wake up call.” Burton smiled, that’s why he loved The Grand, old world class, the personal touch, not a bot. An odd preference for the former director of Robco Industries R and D. “Would you like your usual breakfast?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Very good Mr Paige.” Clara’s tone sounded anything but professional, reminding him how good she looked naked. Another thing he loved about The Grand, his hand picked staff of moonlighting high end working girls.

Ex-wife number four fought tooth and nail for to keep this place, thinking the ever at the lab Burton cared nothing for the reclaimed and restored piece of nineteen twenties architecture. She never looked deeper than the surface, he doubted she ever knew about the infamous first resident of the opulent penthouse he now lived in. Boots Drecker, miner turned bootlegger kingpin, and a man smart enough to build a series of tunnels that ran for miles around. Ex-wife number four had always been shallow Burton thought to himself, or was it number five.

Burton threw on a soft, white robe, impressed with the comfort of something made from recycled plastic. He stopped to admire himself in the mirror above the dual marble sinks, washing his thick beard, combing the long, dark hair from his face, still in good shape for a man pushing fifty. He couldn’t wait to call a barber, but he needed this image a little longer, knowing how much it would grate on the four star this and brigadier that, currently waking in their complementary suites below.

Today he needed to be the Burton from the tabloids and gossip mags, the man pictured staggering out of casinos while tossing fistful's chips to strangers, supermodels on each arm. All this would rile up the high and tight haircuts, putting them off balance, then just at the right moment he’d reveal his asking price, and they’d jump at it.

The military gets shiny new tech and another doomsday fantasy to waste money on, and he’d get the resources needed to leave this infested rock behind, before the people he’d help arm for two decades turned their fantasies into grim reality. He smiled as he showered, if it went well today, he’d make the Old Man’s lunar colony look like a second rate Nuka World.

***

A good deal of time later, back in the wastes…

Sara didn’t know whether she wanted to laugh or cry. She felt like the butt of one of her own jokes, only amplified a thousand fold, laced with karmic justice and thick with irony. Almost like a victim of one of the trickster gods from the books Grimm loved.

She’d betrayed her father, her elder, she’d broken the highest Brotherhood law, she’d taken a new life from her friend, her teammate, her aspirant, all of which meant nothing, and that wasn’t even the worst of it.

Sara forced John to run, leaving the life he just started to love, helping him head east to meet a girl who wasn’t there. Her official report told the Brotherhood she’d taken him west, so that's where they looked for him and that's where she stood now, over a pile of twice dead filth, looking at a vast, round, dark alloy door, carved with an X.