Chapter Text
She had always found a way.
No matter how desperate it got, no matter how fucked she seemed, Cait always found a fucking way.
But God. No caps, no prospects, and not a damn soul in the world she could trust. As far as things went, Cait was pretty fucked.
Sure sure, at least she wasn’t enslaved anymore, though even that was a lie if she really thought about it. Tommy still held her contract, and the newly moved-in Gunners had more than enough firepower to make her their bitch. She had already forked over the last of her caps to them as a sort of insurance, though God knows how long that goodwill would last. Things had been worse sure, and maybe it was the lack of Psycho or just the damn exhaustion, but she couldn’t remember the last time she had felt so helpless.
She needed caps. She needed a way out. She needed someone, anyone to care.
===
Cait wiped the blood from her nose, her whole body crying in pain as she spat hard at the dirtied floor beneath her. She walked over to Tommy, half strutting, half limping, hand outstretched expectantly. Sure the pay had been declining over the past few weeks, but this match had been a real good fight, and if there was one thing she knew about Tommy, it was that he wouldn’t let her go too long without proper compensation.
A few dozen caps plinked helplessly into her hand, and if her whole life hadn’t been so comically terrible, she might have thought it to be a joke.
“The hell’s this?”
“I’m sorry Cait, but this is all I got for ya.”
“All ya got?” Yer tellin’ me I fuckin’ got my ass beat for half an hour just to earn a couple caps?” She spat, rattling her hand for dramatic effect.
“Its not up to me. The Gunners-“
“Fuck the Gunners! Stop lettin’ them push ya around! By the time they’re done with ya, you’ll be payin’ them.”
“I know, I know.” He sighed, and as his breath left his chest, Cait couldn’t but notice how much he had aged these past few months. “I’m trying to keep them in reign but they ain’t like the raiders. I could work with those guys, but the Gunners...To be honest with you, I don’t know how much longer we have.”
“How much longer we have? The hell does that mean?”
“The Gunners are already demanding more and more of our take as an insurance. In a couple weeks time, they’ll be asking for it all. I’ve tried to stop them but...we can’t keep going on little bird.”
There it went. She stood glued to the bloodied floor, helpless as everything she knew came crashing down around her, everything she had built up, gone with a single sentence. What did she have if not the Combat Zone? Who in the Commonwealth would give a single damn about her if not Tommy? Who was she if not a cage fighter?
“I’m sorry Cait. I don’t know where either of us will end up but if you ever need anythin’, you come and find me. I’ll take care of you.”
For some reason, she had a hard time believing that.
===
The list began on her eighteenth birthday. All the people who had fucked her over one way or another, organized into a neat little mental tally. Her ma, her pa, her slavers. Years in the Combat Zone only added more parties to the list. The raiders, the Gunners, late-night lovers whose faces she had already forgotten. She took one hard swig of her whiskey and added Tommy to the list.
Years of mistreatment told her that there was no point in moping, but she had to admit, wallowing about her pathetic life over a couple glasses of rotgut sounded like a good way to cope as any other. There would be a time for action, a time in which she’d be shoved out and forced to find a new way of life or at the very least, a new bastard to add to the list. But tonight? Well it only seemed fitting to spend the last few nights of her days in the Combat Zone the way she spent most others – getting drunk by her lonesome. She had sworn up and down that she couldn’t stand the constant noise of the Combat Zone, but tonight she was damn grateful that the Gunners were so loud that she couldn’t hear herself think. In fact, they seemed more riled up than ever, something deep inside her warning her that something was the matter. Taking her eyes off her glass for the first time all night, she glanced over at the Gunners to her left, their faces molded by rage. Inconspicuously but intentionally, she tapped the bar in front of her, demanding another drink, all the while tuning into the angry, harsh words of the two men beside her.
“He’s one man! How the fuck did he manage to take down all of us?”
“Fucking beats me.” The other one winced, grabbing his calf. “He’s got a damn good shot I’ll tell you that much.”
“How many units have we sent out to get him?” The shorter Gunner raged. “How many men have died trying to hunt his ass down?”
“Thirty at the very least. After today? I’d bump that up to fifty, maybe sixty.”
“It’s not working. We’ll keep sending men to their graves trying to kill him.”
“So what do you suggest?" He scoffed. Captain Wes isn’t gonna quit till his head is on his desk.”
“He knows we’re coming after him. So we need to hit him where he least expects it. Infiltrate him if you get my meaning.”
“And how do you suggest we do that?”
The shorter Gunner leaned in close, his voice now only barely audible.
“We get someone to earn his trust. Befriend him, fuck him, whatever it takes. Just when he thinks he can trust them, we pull the rug from under him, and kill him.”
It was then that the bartender slid Cait her requested glass of whiskey, her hand barely registering to catch it before it slid off the bartop.
“Sounds like a damn good plan if I’ve ever heard one. Why haven’t you brought it up with Wes?”
“I have. Wes thinks infiltration is cowardly, wants to do it the old fashioned way.” He clucked judgmentally. “He’ll send his men to their deaths by the dozens before he tries my plan. So we’ll have to do it under the table, find someone who isn’t one of us to carry it out.”
“Who are you thinkin’ then?”
“I haven’t figured that part yet. I’d hire a raider, but most of them are too fucking stupid to get anything don-“
“I’ll do it.”
Silence came over the two Gunners, their eyes flashing with confusion for a moment, before settling back into the all too familiar expression of rage.
“Who the fuck said you were part of this conversation bitch? Get the fuck outta here before I slit your goddamn throat.”
Perhaps such a threat would have scared a stupider, less experienced woman, but if there was anything her fucked up time in the Commonwealth had taught her, it was that most men barked harder than they could ever hope to bite. The men who proved to be the opposite were few and far between and if these Gunners planned on blowing her brains out, she supposed she’d find out soon enough.
“Just think about it for a second, will ya? I’m smarter than those raider nobs, and a lot more attractive too. If ya need someone to infiltrate yer little problem, I’d be more successful than any idiot mercenary you could hire.”
“Is that so?” The shorter, and seemingly more outspoken Gunner scoffed. “Alright, let’s say we hear you out. What do you stand to gain from this?”
Well, a lot of things if she was being honest. Freedom from her contract. Something to keep her busy after she was inevitably booted from the Combat Zone. And if she was lucky, maybe a couple good shags with a dead man walking. But the Gunners didn’t need to know about all that.
“Caps hopefully.”
“Oh so that’s it? You’re willing to try and seduce the most deadly man in the Commonwealth, a guy who just murdered two dozen people in cold blood, for a few caps?”
“I wouldn’t be so damn desperate for caps if yer group wasn’t running me out of business.”
“Out of business? Oh shit, you’re that fucking cage fighter aren’t you?”
“I’ve got a name ya know?” She scoffed.
“Yeah yeah Kat or something right? You’ve won me and my buddy here a whole shit ton of caps you know?” He continued. “I suppose we owe you our gratitude.”
“You can thank me by hiring me for yer damn-“
“Hold on a second,” the larger one piped in, “aren’t you under contract?”
Shit. That damn contract, the same stupid fucking contract that had made her the bitch of every person she had the misfortune of knowing, back to fuck her over again. Tommy holding her damn contract made this whole situation far more complicated than she’d like to admit but she’d sooner strangle herself than admit that to the Gunners.
“With you and yer buddies running the Combat Zone out of business, my contract isn’t worth a damn to Tommy anyway.”
“How convenient. You know what James,” the Gunner smirked, turning to his lanky companion. “I think our little friend here is trying to use us to get out of her contract.”
Cait kept her face still as she looked hard into the eyes of the Gunners, lest her expression give away any information that could be used against her. If they knew how vulnerable she was, knew how little power she held, they’d have the chance to use her as they pleased, a chance she knew they’d take.
“No, you know what? I think we can make this work for the both of us. You want out of your contract and I want this guy dead. So let’s make a deal.”
A sinking feeling began to settle in Cait’s chest the longer they kept talking; working with scumbags like Gunners brought nothing but trouble. Of course, it wasn’t like she had much room to be picky. They held all the power in this little barstool negotiation, and as the tall one named James shot her a Cheshire grin, she supposed they were acutely aware of that.
“I buy out your little contract from the ghoul, and give you three months to hunt down our man. If you get it done by the deadline, I release you from your contract and if I’m feeling nice, I might even throw in some caps.”
“And if I fail?” She scoffed, already knowing full well what he was going to say.
“Then I keep your contract and show you how the Gunners deal with failure.”
Lovely. Cait took a deep swig of her whiskey, finding that somewhere along the line, her hands had begun to shake. The tremors refused to die down even as the alcohol began to permeate into her system – apparently being a raging alcoholic for eight years made you immune to most of the fun side effects. In an effort to still her racing heart, she began clutching the bartop with an iron grip, desperately wishing she had some Psycho in her right now. Life-altering negotiations just wouldn’t be the same without a little buzz, now would they? Negotiation wasn’t really a fair term if she thought about it, it wasn’t like she had any real power to bargain for more favorable terms. The way she saw it, she had two options: say no, and resign herself to an uncertain future of scrapping for survival on the Commonwealth streets, or agree, and put her entire being at the mercy of the Gunners, a group who somehow managed to be crueler than the fucking Raiders.
“So do we have a deal?”
Or maybe not.
Maybe for once in her life, things could work out. Perhaps she could manage to take down this mystery man, earn herself her freedom from her contract, and get some victory caps in the process. All she had to do was bet on herself, and she liked those odds.
“Deal.”
===
“Is that all then?”
“Shit I’ve barely even started.” James scoffed, hands clutching a longneck in white-knuckled fury. “The last time we saw him was near Bunker Hill, but we think he’s got a base down in Diamond City. He’s tall, got a mustache, and always wears a minuteman hat and a leather jacket. Like he’s some fucking tough guy or something.”
“Hold on.” Cait snickered, sitting up from her reclined position. “Ya mean to tell me your whole group got massacred by a lad in a fuckin’ minuteman hat?”
“Watch your fucking mouth cage fighter. I’ve got your contract now and you best not forget that. Understand me?”
“Yeah.” She said curtly, trying to ignore the finger he was pointing at her, or the deep shade of rage in his face, lest she burst out laughing.
Insecure pricks like the Gunners could never stand being laughed at, and now that he held her contract, she’d rather not think about all the things he could do to her now, lest she dig up memories of her time with the slavers.
“You’ve got three months, and not a single day more. I don’t care how you manage it, but find some way to get the man to trust you. Fuck him, seduce him, I don-“
“Hold on just a second. Who says I’ve got to seduce the man? Can’t I just fuckin’ kill him?”
“Good luck with that.” The Gunner laughed, now stuffing his face with a tomato. “I’ve watched some of the deadliest shooters I’ve ever known drop like flies trying to take him down. If you wanna be just another corpse on the Commonwealth streets, then be my guest.”
Cait fought half-heartedly not to roll her eyes – she’d be fucking damned if she suffered eighteen years with her parents, five with the slavers, and three fighting in the Combat Zone just to get shot down by this little mystery man. No, she’d stay alive no matter what it took, she’d scratch and claw – she’d do whatever it took to never be helpless at another man’s hands again.
“Fine then. Point taken.”
“Glad we’re on the same page.” He chuckled, a cold smirk slowly creeping onto his face. “So enough chit-chat. I’ve taken care of the contract, and now its time for you to take care of your end. Can you handle this?”
“I wouldn’t be here if I couldn’t.”
“Alright then. You’ve got three months to get it done, and I don’t want any meaningless chit-chat in between then so don’t even bother trying to get ahold of me if you don’t have his head. Got it?”
“Yeah yeah yeah.” She sighed, already halfway to the door. “See ya in three months time then.”
“Wait.”
She paused hesitantly, the sooner she was out of this asshole’s presence the better.
“I forgot one thing. His name.”
In an instant, the Gunner’s face fell, taking on a much more pained expression. The words seemed right on the tip of his tongue, yet they hesitated to leave his lips, almost as if the name itself was painful to even speak. At last, he stilled, taking a deep, shuddering breath in.
“His name is...”
===
“Dean fucking Thorne!”
The grizzled Sole Survivor sat leaning against a clunky old office desk, rusted and showing every sign of the nuclear fallout it had endured. A faint glow emerged from the cigar currently situated between his teeth, illuminating the rugged features of his face. He took another puff as the walls began to tremble, raiders of every sort on the hunt for him, fueled with an everlasting bitterness that could only be cured with his death. As the first raider entered the room, Dean couldn’t help but notice the distinctly nutty taste of the San Francisco Sunlight brand.
Cigar still tucked between his teeth, Thorne turned to face the raider, one knee pressed upon the bloodied floor as he held up his trusty Deliverer. To any outsider, he’d appear careless, lackadaisical to a fault, but to any Commonwealth resident who had ever watched him in action, they knew the Wanderer worked best at ease. The bullet entered the brain before the raider could even cry out, his prone body and a small pile of cigar ashes the only sign Dean had been there at all. It was almost if the Sole Survivor took great delight in prolonging the raiders’ suffering, puffing on his cigar as he sauntered into rooms, appearing almost bored as he dispatched raiders with ridiculous ease. He listened carefully as the screams of frustration crescendoed into a frenzy of rage, eventually dying out as more raiders fell to his handgun.
At some point, the killing came to a head, and he supposed the only fool possibly left in the building was the one fool he didn’t care to deal with right now. If he truly wanted to, he could have left the building right then and there, but loose ends always came around to fuck you over. Just ask Kellogg.
Situating himself in the main lobby of the C.I.T building, right next to a particularly bloated raider corpse, Dean Thorne began the waiting game, deciding to enjoy the finer things of the Commonwealth all the while. A rich cigar, some good whiskey stashed in a flask, and a smoking hot gun. What else could a Commonwealth man want?
Well... there was one thing.
===
Navigation had never been Cait’s strong suit. Not that it was her fault or anything. It was hard to develop much of a sense of direction when you were being dragged along by slavers or stuck in a cage. The Gunner fellow had mentioned Bunker Hill, a place she had only seen in passing once or twice. Of course, she had heard the rumors about all the goodies sold there, but hot air from drunken raiders wasn’t much to go on. Without a map, or a robust sense of direction, she began to wander, not aimlessly but something dangerously close to it.
A chill came over her, sending a little involuntary shiver down her spine, all whilst reminding her of the sun’s impending descent. She wasn’t scared – she wouldn’t let herself be scared – but like any sensible woman, she recognized how stupid it was to be wandering the Commonwealth helplessly as dusk fell. As soon as she found a building that wasn’t half falling apart, or reeked too heavily of corpse, she’d call it a night, tuck herself in, and resolve to start fresh tomorrow morning. Of course, as with most things in the Commonwealth, that was easier said than done, and as the night grew colder, her prospects began to dim. Night had settled in completely when a round of gunfire broke out, the sound emanating from a nearby building.
Of course, most sensible women would have walked right past, leaving those poor trigger-happy fools to their own fate, but all Cait could think about was murdering the lot and spending the night all warm in a nice, intact office building. Into the CIT building she went.
===
“Thorne!”
“Ah. So you’ve found me.” Dean chuckled, taking a prolonged swig from his flask.
“You’re a hard man to find. I’ve been tracking you down for weeks now.” The raider spat, barely containing his simmering rage.
“Well if I knew you wanted to meet up so badly, I would have arranged a nice little date for us at the Colonial Taphouse.”
“You find this shit funny? You murdered my entire crew, you piece of-“
“First of all,” he interrupted, throwing up his hands, “they started it. Second of all, you don’t give a fuck about your crew so spare me that bullshit. You’re only here because I took your lady to bed and showed her how real men d-”
He was halfway through his sentence when a bullet entered his shoulder, a pause and a barely audible groan the only indications that anything had occurred. It was then that the at-ease wanderer flipped a switch, gritting his teeth like he hoped to grind them in dust. Paying no mind to his injury, he grabbed the edge of a nearby desk, pulling himself up all whilst putting two bullets into the leather armor of the raider boss in front of him. Bullets flew from both ends of the room, hitting their intended target more often than not. He’d duck for cover, only to be immediately hit once he emerged to take a shot. Leaning against an old desk, Dean Thorne sucked in a painful breath, knowing that at this rate, he’d end up too bloodied and bruised to deal any real damage. He needed an equalizer, a final blow that would put this idiot out of commission. Reaching into his back pocket, his fingers wrapped around a frag.
Another bullet made it through his hole-riddled armor, and as another wave of excruciating pain washed over him, his little explosive plan looked more and more tempting. Any Commonwealth resident could tell you explosives and enclosed spaces were a bad idea, but if he had listened to what others thought, he’d be dead in a ditch by now. Spitting up the pooling blood in his mouth, he began to thumb the pin, just about to pull it when the building door flew open.
The raider threw his head over his shoulder, attention diverted for a few seconds – which was just enough for the Wanderer to yank himself up, bullrush him, and press a pistol to his head. Before the raider boss could register what had happened, the trigger had been pulled, the pistol thrown on the floor and the Sole Survivor collapsed into a pained, sweaty mess beside his corpse.
Each breath stung like a motherfucker, and somewhere around the fourth inhale, Dean became convinced that he had broken a rib or two tackling the hulking brute. At exhale number eleven, he came to remember that there was someone else in the room with him, the whole reason he was alive right now. He threw his head back and opened his eyes lazily, pupils shooting open as his vision focused on a redheaded, freckled beauty.
“My God...I’ve died and gone to heaven.”
“Ugh that was awful.” The redhead rasped in a sandpaper Irish accent, and in an instant, Dean Thorne became completely convinced he had made it to the golden gates.
“And you’re Irish!”
“Don’t cream yerself now.” She sighed, rolling her eyes at him before offering a hand.
He hissed as he put himself on his feet, one hand immediately clutching his ribs as the other kept a firm grip on the redhead’s hand.
“I owe you my life.”
“Uh, are ya gonna let go or...”
“I can’t ever pay you back for that,” he continued, still holding her hand, “but how about I get you a couple rounds?”
“Only if you let go of me hand.”
The wanderer sighed and let his hand fall to his side, a frown on his face the entire time.
“Fine then. Let’s drink.” She conceded.
The giddy grin returned to Dean’s face, only to suddenly drop a few moments later.
“Jesus, where are my manners? I didn’t even ask your name.”
The Irish redhead hesitated for a moment, eyes glancing away from the wanderer’s steady gaze before finally relenting.
“Cait McBrennan.”
“Well nice to meet you Cait McBrennan.” He smirked, sticking out a hand, “I’m Dean Thorne.”