Chapter Text
V9-38 ducked behind a large boulder. Art, the human he was meant to be replacing, had ducked behind a car, which seemed foolish. He knew from his training that those were quite unstable, and prone to exploding if exposed to gunfire. He'd managed to avoid having to put that knowledge to the test since.
Still. He took a moment to ensure that he had a full clip of ammo. Across the street, he heard the human cock his shotgun. The Institute had fucked up there and given him a pipe pistol instead. No matter. He could get the shotgun from his body before-
A gunshot rang out, loudly enough to startle the Watchers perched nearby, and a tall woman in blue combat armor walked out onto the road. Which faction had blue combat armor? V9-38 runs through all the information the briefing for this mission had provided him with and came up blank.
“Seriously?” said the woman as she walked between them. “Again?”
“I'm not the one doing this!” Art yelled as V9-38 yelled “What are you doing?”
“Okay, both of you, guns down and on the ground and come out with your hands up,” the woman said, pinching the bridge of her nose.
“He's the synth!” Art accused.
“No, he's the synth!” V9-38 called out. “He wants to replace me and then he'll go home to my family… oh god, my kids…”
“See! He's the synth! He doesn't recognize you!”
“Yeah, I can tell,” the woman drawled. “This is the sixth time this has happened, as you may recall.”
It was the what.
“Second time this week alone,” the woman continued, turning to smirk at him in particular. “I'm going to guess the Institute didn't brief you on that.”
No they sure the fuck did not.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” Art demanded. “Shoot him!”
“Yeah, that doesn't seem like it's working, Art, so we're going to try something new. Now, again: both of you put your weapons down and come out with your hands up.”
“I'd do as she says,” said a voice from behind him. “Next time, she won't be asking.”
The man who managed to sneak up on him is even taller than the woman, and everything about him screams Minuteman: the hat, the coat, the laser musket. Which means that someone at the Institute must have really fucked up, because he'd been told that they'd finally gone defunct.
Automatically, he looked for Watchers. There was a trio circling, too high above them to get much usable audio, and as he looked there was another rifle crack and one of them fell.
He looked back at the woman: her rifle was still slung across her back, so there was another sniper hiding somewhere, and to judge by her posture, they were one of her people.
Right. Okay. So, if there was going to be any chance of obtaining usable intelligence from this fiasco then he was probably going to have to talk it out of them and then escape once they’d relaxed their guard. He could do that.
V9-38 has been on seven infiltration missions- that he can remember, at least. That meant that he'd run seven successful ops, because the price of failure is being reset. He would like to make it eight, which didn't seem exactly likely right now, but if he could bring back vital information that they lack, they might still forgo wiping his memory. He would greatly prefer that: he's noticed that being able to draw upon past experiences has proven valuable in every successive mission.
He put down the pipe pistol and stepped out with his hands up. Across the street, Art did the same.
“Good. Glad to be on the same page,” said the woman. She looked between the two of them for a moment, before turning to V9-38. “Do you have a name or designation or something people can call you that isn't his name? Speak now or forever be Synthart.”
“My designation is V9-38,” he replied.
“Cool. Does that shorten to V9?”
“It often has been by humans at the Institute.”
“But you hate it, got it. V9-38 it is.”
V9-38 blinked- he did kind of hate it, in truth, but he was absolutely certain that he hadn't actually said that. The woman, however, was already turning back to Art. “As for you, Art: who the fuck are you, exactly?”
“You know who I am,” Art insisted, sounding baffled. “And you know what that is! Why are you-”
“Because family men who just make milk runs to Bunker Hill shouldn't be a high priority target,” the woman snapped. “And five dead synths- at least five, those are the ones I was personally around for- sure as shit sounds like a high price to pay for a set of eyes on Bunker Hill. If that's all they wanted, they could pick a softer target. Hell, they could just make up a guy and have him get work as a caravan hand. But they keep trying to replace you, specifically, and I want to know why.
“I don't- how should I know why?” Art spluttered.
The woman said nothing, merely waited and scrutinized. There was another shot from the unseen sniper and another one of the Watchers dropped from the sky and on to the concrete behind Art.
V9-38 probably had a better chance of getting out of this if he cooperated with the people with the guns. “He's a spy for a conglomerate of raiders based to the west of the Commonwealth, in Nuka World,” he told her.
The woman's attention snapped back to him. “Is he now?”
Art turned around and attempted to run.
“Hold it right there!” barked the Minuteman. The woman brought her rifle up. It was the shimmer in the air, that resolved into a man before V9-38 could even think courser that stopped him in his tracks though, a silenced pistol jammed against his neck.
“Now, you heard the nice Minuteman,” said the man. He wasn't a courser but V9-38 wasn't getting much else from him: he was wearing a synth trooper helmet, painted black and covering his face. “Hold it right there.”
“Actually, Art, why don't you come back here and make yourself comfortable,” the woman said. “You too, V9-38, I have a feeling this is the sort of conversation that's going to take some time.”
Art ended up sitting on the hood of the car he'd been taking cover behind, while V9-38 sat on the trunk. The vehicle's side mirror was bent out of shape, and had just enough actual mirror remaining to confirm that the two men had taken up positions behind them, the not-courser behind Art and the Minuteman behind V9-38. The woman sat down on the remains of a fence, her rifle held in her lap.
“So… I guess we'll provide the ice breaker here,” the woman said, which didn't make a lot of sense. It was nearly June. There was no ice to be had. “Deacon, Preston, could the both of you give me a run down on what Nuka World looks like these days?”
“It's a trading settlement, bigger than Bunker Hill, better run than Diamond City,” replied the Minuteman. “It's not part of the Commonwealth, but it is only about a day or so out. Contact is generally sporadic, and they've largely stopped sending reps here. Or, they had, at least.”
“Thank you, Preston,” the woman said. “Deacon?”
“That's about all we know too,” said the not-courser. Deacon? That was odd. His words suggested he wasn't part of the Minuteman, and his designation was a largely defunct religious rank, not known for field operations. “Them turning raider is news- and don't be surprised if it causes Pam to retreat to her pit for a couple of days.”
“I look forward to her analysis,” the woman replied with a smirk. “So, boys… tell me about these raiders.”
V9-38 waited. Art said nothing.
The sun was setting. Art was the only human displaying any unease about this. He flinched as another rifleshot rang out and the third Watcher fell to earth behind the woman.
“Jesus, lady, what do you have against birds?” Art muttered.
“They're not birds, they're Institute spy cams disguised as birds,” the woman replied.
“What?” Art yelped.
“How do you know that?” V9-38 demanded, because technically even infiltrators like himself weren't supposed to know what they disguised the Watchers as. It was just kind of obvious, from the way the footage they were provided with had been shot and the lack of other non-bloatfly options around to use as camouflage. “No one up here is supposed to know that!”
“You'd be surprised what we know about the Institute.” The woman tilted her head at him, clearly considering something. “Tell you what,” she said after a moment. “Tell me something true- something pertaining to either the raiders Art works for or the Institute, and I'll tell you how we know about the birds.”
Any information he brought back would raise the likelihood that he wouldn’t be wiped. “He's the only link between Nuka World and Bunker Hill. I would guess that's why the Institute is willing to expend so many resources on him.”
“Really? And why does the Institute care about the raiders?”
“They don't generally tell us why they want us to infiltrate a place” V9-38 retorted. “Just what to do when we get there.”
“Could you venture another guess?”
“Could you tell me about the birds?”
The woman grinned. It wasn't a particularly reassuring expression. “Well, a lot of our older residents report that there were no crows left until about eighty years ago when they showed up out of the blue,” the woman told him. V9-38 was surprised to hear that, until he remembered that ghouls existed and could easily live that long. Standing orders from the Institute were to avoid ghouls and their radioactivity contaminants whenever possible. To that end, normally V9-38 simply parroted the usual anti-ghoul sentiments, though given that Art's late husband had been a ghoul he wasn't sure how he was going to manage that this time. “Besides, when you shoot them, their bodies tend to be equal parts meat/bone and plastic/wires, which is kind of a dead give away.”
Yes. He supposed that it would be.
“How about you, Art? Do you have anything you'd like to add to this conversation?” she asked, turning her attention back to the human.
“I-” Art cleared his throat. “I don't know what you want me to say.”
“Literally anything?” the woman suggested. “This is the longest conversation I've had with a raider that didn't involve them trying to kill me and subsequently dying, and I'm curious.”
“I'm not,” Art whispered. “I'm not a raider. I just- they took over. About a month, a month and a half ago. Everyone they didn't kill was enslaved.” He laughed bitterly. “Everyone they enslaved can be killed at any time. They've got my kids. If I don't make my check-in in time, they'll give my oldest over to the Disciples, and if I don't come back the other two will follow.”
“He's telling the truth,” V9-38 confirmed. “They caught him giving false information previously and killed his husband for it.”
Art looked over at him, his eyes wide. V9-38 pointed to the closest dead Watcher. “They do give us surveillance footage to study before we undertake an assignment.”
“For fuck's sake, Art,” the woman sighed. “You didn't think to mention that to the goddamn General of the Minuteman?”
V9-38 looked back over at the Minuteman behind him. Preston shook his head, looking amused. Art laughed outright.
“Look, I'm sure you mean well, but you guys- we're not so far from the Commonwealth that we don't know, okay? Quincy finished you. Whatever you're doing now is your business so-”
“What we're doing now is rebuilding the Commonwealth,” the woman interrupted calmly. She held out her wrist- she was wearing a Pip-boy. Everything about this encounter had been so strange and unexpected that he'd failed to notice it before. “Listen.”
The sound of soulful fiddle music filled the air. Both V9-38 and Art stared at her incredulously.
She held up a finger. “Wait for it.”
After a moment the music ended, and a chipper-sounding voice came on. “Good evening. This is Radio Freedom, voice of the Minutemen, coming to you live from the Castle. It is seven pm. Earlier today Minutemen repelled a Gunner attack on Somerville, and we have just now received word that the civilian kidnapped from County Crossing has been rescued and is back with her family. All's quiet now, which is how we like it. Stay safe out there!”
The fiddling resumed, and after a moment the woman- the General, clearly- switched off the radio.
“Fort Independence is a mirelurk breeding ground,” V9-38 felt compelled to point out.
“It was,” the General replied.
“Yeah, it took an epic three-day crab bake, but eventually we cleaned the place out,” Deacon added.
“But it's an active breeding ground,” V9-38 insisted. “There’s a queen- a big one.”
“Yeah, it turns out those things die pretty quick if you have a few snipers who know what they're doing,” the General told them. “You don't even need a missile launcher. Or a laser Gatling. Or a Fat Man.”
“Did you have those?” Art asked.
“Yep. And a couple of sets of power armor too.” V9-38 couldn't remember a single instance of the Minutemen having access to those kinds of armaments, and his memories go back nearly a decade. “But that's not the real question. The real question is, since we did this way back in November and have been broadcasting ever since, why is this news to either of you?”
“We’re far enough away that we don't normally get radio broadcasts from the Commonwealth,” Art said. “And the raiders… so far, they're only interested in Bunker Hill. Beyond that I just- I've been trying not to notice.”
“Makes sense,” the General said, before turning to V9-38. “And you?”
“... I don't know,” V9-38 admitted. “It seems too great an oversight to have been made on accident, but I don't know why the Institute would set so many of us up to fail.”
“Maybe you're bait,” Deacon suggested, a little too nonchalantly.
“Kind of a shit place for an ambush, considering, though,” the General said. “Still.” She let out a piercing whistle; there was another in reply, and then another figure popped out of the derelict billboard up the hill behind her and began to trudge towards them. “Let's get out of the open. And, also, let's split them up into different settlements, make the replacement thing a bit less obvious.”
The sniper reached their position at that moment, and announced his presence by kicking at the dead Watcher. “Ugh,” he muttered. “I still can't believe those fu-reaking birds are for real.”
“None of us can,” Deacon assured him. “Save for maybe Tink, who I think is mostly shocked that one of his conspiracy theories turned out to be right on the money.”
“He's going to be insufferable when that ends,” the General observed. “Mac, Preston, you should take Art down to Greygarden. Deacon and I will escort V9-38 up to Starlight.”
Preston and the sniper- Mac, he supposed- nodded. Deacon did not. “You sure about that, Fixer?”
“Yes. We have to know how those defenses measure up, and if we do this now we do this with at least a few hours warning and a synth we know they're prepared to write off, no offense V9-38,” said the General- Fixer? “We aren't going to get better conditions than that.”
“I'll make sure one of the robots is manning the radio at Greygarden,” Preston added. “If you need back up, just say the word and we'll come.”
“Make sure you get started on planning that rescue mission,” General Fixer said. “Because we have a deadline there. Hey, Art, what's our deadline?”
“What?” Art asked, bewildered.
“When are you due back to report in with the raiders?” asked General Fixer.
“I- I’m due back at the transit station in five days,” Art told her. “You can't seriously be thinking of- what, attacking them?”
“Art, we're the Commonwealth Minutemen and you basically just told us that your settlement needs our help,” General Fixer replied. “Of course we're mounting a rescue mission. That's kind of our whole deal.”
Art gaped for a moment before rallying himself. “These aren't- they aren't your normal raiders. They're three groups working together, for one thing, and between them all there's got to be about a hundred of them. You can't possibly think you're going to just march over there and wipe them out.”
“Five days of planning to wipe out a force of a hundred is a bit much even for me,” General Fixer admitted. “But tell us what you know of how they operate, and I'll bet we can get your kids out.”
“Children younger than the age of fifteen are held separately from the adults,” V9-38 supplied. “The compound is poorly guarded, compared to where the adults are held. With some forethought and a strike force, it should be possible to get all the children out.”
Art turned to stare at him. So did everyone else.
“I was planning to get your children out,” he added.
“Wait, so, what. The plan was to kill me, replace me, and then save my kids?” Art demanded. “What does the Institute want with my kids?”
“I wasn't planning to tell the Institute a thing about them,” V9-38 said. “And killing you isn't personal. They changed the protocols on us several months ago, and failure to dispose of our placement marks the whole mission as a failure. I would be reset, and whoever the next iteration of V9-38 would be, I doubt he would assign any kind of priority to your children.”
“Is that how you justify it?” Art asked. “With my kids?”
“Don't you?” V9-38 retorted.
Art looked away first.
“As fascinating as this is- and it really, really is- Deacon does have a point about being out in the open here,” General Fixer declared. “So, take him to Greygarden, get him a bath and a hot meal and then start compiling information. Make a recording. We'll do the same for V9-38, and then either meet back up after the courser attack or three days from now, whichever comes first.”
How do you know about the coursers? V9-38 just barely stopped himself from asking.
Preston nodded tightly. “Be careful, babe,” he said, which sure didn't sound like the usual way people addressed their commanding officer.
“I absolutely refuse to die before this is done,” the General replied, which probably wasn't as reassuring as she wanted it to be. “And we'll all be careful.”
Mac-the-sniper had collected their guns in the meantime. “Do you want these?” he asked.
“I'm just going to disassemble them into parts,” the General replied. “You want them intact, they're yours.”
“Don't mind if I do,” Mac said, stuffing both their guns into his pack.
V9-38 exchanged another look with Art, mostly to confirm that this was atypical behavior. To judge from the look on his face, it was, indeed, very weird.
“Let's move out,” the General said, as Deacon sidled up to V9-38 and linked arms with him. “Good luck everyone.”