Chapter Text
When I was little, my father was famous.
He was the greatest samurai in the Empire. He was the Shogun's decapitator.
He cut off the heads of one hundred and thirty-one lords for the Shogun.
It was a bad time for the Empire. The Shogun just stayed inside his castle, and he never came out.
People said his brain was infected by devils.
The Shogun said his people were not loyal. He said he had a lot of enemies, but he killed more people than that.
It was a bad time. Everybody was living in fear.
But still, we were happy.
My father would come home to mother, and when he saw her, he would forget about the killings.
He wasn't scared of the Shogun, but the Shogun was scared of him.
Maybe that was the problem.
Then, one night, the Shogun sent his ninja spies to our house.
They were supposed to kill my father, but they didn't.
That was the night everything changed.
Forever.
Shogun Assassin, Kenji Misumi, Robert Houston. 1980.
So-called Sanctuary, Commonwealth Wasteland
October 2288
Robert Joseph MacCready woke up on the Minutemen General’s couch, feeling further from home than he had ever been in his life.
Dogmeat nuzzled him and whined. Kid, wake up. Wake up-
Jack Ward, ol’ 111 himself. All six-foot-something of him, his mop of black hair and his muscular arms crossed. He shifted his weight, worried about RJ.
He wasn’t sure how to play this, and was trying to find words that would convince his best friend to put one more foot in front of the other.
“So I know that.. Well.." He also had trouble making eye contact with RJ, considering the topic. "Med-Tek really didn’t work out the way we’d hoped.”
The response was a hoarse whisper. “That’s putting it mildly, Jack.”
“Y’know, I don’t think you should give up.”
RJ exhaled a breath he didn’t realize he was holding in as his eyes began to water. He was adrift now more than ever. Everything's so fucked.
Jack closed his eyes and tried to think of what his late wife would say. “I know more than most people what you’re going through. A lot hasn’t been going our way lately. I’m sorry.”
The Med-Tek cure had been long-stolen or long-smashed up. Jack and RJ worked their way through a horde of ferals only for the sharpshooter to end up on the floor crying, curled up in a ball on the basement floor.
He’d been so inconsolable and full of rage at the failure that he ran to Goodneighbor. RJ was inebriated and useless enough that when Nick Valentine tried to collect the guy and escort him home, he had to come back a few days later to ensure RJ could be whisked away while he was deep asleep. So far gone that Mayor Hancock - normally a purveyor of fine hedonism, and steward of many of RJ's benders - had to call for him to get picked up at all.
It had always been a little strange to be inside Jack’s house. This place was more personal than any other bombed-out suburb - it was the home Jack held with his former wife, Nora. It was where Jack unlaced his boots and held his baby; where he had family and friends over; where a normal life happened before the bombs fell. People felt safe and secure here, once upon a time. Both a relic of expectations from a bygone era - wife, kids, picket fence, dog, cat, goldfish - and something RJ dreamed of providing but was hopeless to give.
Each saltbox or colonial he’d explored across his travels up and down the eastern seaboard had the same stories, but this house unsettled RJ - he knew Jack felt the same. They were two peas in a pod as far as fatherhood went; they shared the same stinging regret and what-ifs about wives, children and living a life worthwhile.
Just as much as RJ wondered what it would be like if he met Lucy before the bombs, he knew Jack wondered what it would have been like if they never fell.
“You’re a fighter, kid," said Jack, his Southie Boston inflection coming out on fightah and kehd. "You need to keep pushing.”
“Jack, I’m just- I don’t know what I’m even doing anymore. Maybe I should just leave and.." he shook his head and stared at the hardwood floor. "I don’t know. Maybe I should just go back to Duncan and.. Just spend time with him ‘til..”
A moment of silence passed between the two men.
It hurt Jack to hear RJ say those words. The tone was so flat and defeated - RJ's voice carried none of the attitude and irritation Jack met back in the VIP room at Goodneighbor.
Dogmeat whined and got up on the couch. He laid down and rested his head on RJ's knee, ears back. Even he seemed to know what was going on; how their luck seemed to have run dry in the house.
“You have to keep going.”
The suggestion exasperated RJ. “Why? Why the fuck should I?”
“Because you still have a chance to make it right.”
“Yeah, right,” he said in a dismissive tone. RJ shook his head. “God, fuck - you know what, Jack? Sometimes I just wish the ferals got the three of us.”
The whole genesis of it all. The start of his problems, of every problem he’d had since. Ferals ripping at Lucy; screams he had never heard from her before, that he would remember until his dying day. Running with Duncan in his arms, hot tears rendering him near-unable to see the road ahead.
Jack frowned. "You don't mean that-"
"No, I do," he insisted. "It would be better than.. better than fucking this up every time I.." His voice cracked. "Every time I get close to.. to fixing.."
“I don’t know if you’re aware," warm arms enveloped RJ. “But I’d be mighty sad if you weren’t around anymore, kid. I couldn't imagine doing any of this without you.”
RJ sobbed into his arms.
“You listen to me. I know you know that I'm not the smartest man, I don’t have to tell you that," Jack sighed. "I went from being on ice to trying to sort out the whole Wasteland for a bunch of people who can’t figure it out for themselves. I got all these people depending on me, meanwhile my dog has more smarts than I do. I get to tell people it’s for the greater good; I tell people I want to make the world a better place to be. I do believe that, but, y'know.." Jack shook his head, images of the past year crossing his mind.
Preston saluting him; Mama Murphy pinching his cheek, Dogmeat running up to him for the first time. Then, harder memories. Nora, her beautiful dark skin and curly hair, dead; Shaun, a man in his sixties, dangling a Synth boy in front of Jack just to see what he would do. Desdemona and Carrington, always in a rush; strapped for resources, sure, but unable to extend empathy for non-Synths. That so-called Elder Maxson and his wish to murder just about anything non-human.
"The truth is I would have become the General of anything if it would have meant finding Shaun. I’d have done anything, pointed a gun in any direction. I would have walked from DC to Boston like you did.. I wouldn't have cared what the price was if it meant getting my boy back." Jack paused, cradling Dogmeat's ear. His tone was bitter. “Went from losing my son, to scouring the earth for him, only to lose him again. And we’re still not done with him either. I don’t know if I can do it without you, honestly.”
RJ was restless and worried, waiting at the house with Dogmeat when Jack visited the Institute. He came back rattled. Shaun, the baby he set out with Jack to find, became Father - the very-much-not-a-baby leader of the Institute. Jack had shown himself to be an accepting and courteous person throughout his travels, willing to help others no matter what they looked like. Shaun the not-baby had been playing God with people in the Commonwealth.
Jack stopped speaking and allowed RJ to cry until he started to slow down. “So,” he let go of the hug. “When I give this piece of intel to you, it’s because I want to give you the chance to not lose your family a second time like I did.”
RJ looked up, confused, eyes narrowing towards his friend. “What-”
“There's a caveat,”
RJ sighed and rubbed his eyes, wiping away tears. “Fine.”
“Well, standard stuff," said Jack, standing back up, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "It’s need to know, and I can’t very well tell you about the operation unless you agree to do it, y’know?”
“Yeah I - I get it, whatever," RJ sighed, prepared for Jack's particular brand of bullshit. This was a common introduction to many of their jobs. "Just tell me, dammit.."
“I’m sending you.. Several thousand miles away.”
“Fuh-freakin’ what?” RJ spluttered.
“You’re a hiker, right?”
“..what? I mean, I liked the Blue Ridge Mountains and stuff, but what’s-”
“Brotherhood called in a favor,”
“Are you out of your mind?" RJ narrowed his eyes at Jack. The last visit to the Prydwen was bitter. It was made clear Jack had to make concessions to continue working with them. "I thought we were done with those fools, Jack.”
"I know, I know - listen, kid. Hear me out," Jack put his hands up. “That's caveat number one-”
“First off,” said RJ, “Why are you sending me, and - Christ, Jack, how many miles? They're on the coast, it's not even an afternoon's walk-"
“They have a problem they could use a specialist to deal with, and I said to Maxson," he bowed his head, clasping his palms in mock-confession, ‘Mr Maxson Sir, I am sorry for my sins with all my heart. I sinned against your Godliness- er, Brotherhood and I declare my love for you above all else. I know we aren't on the best of terms, but I heard you're having problems and boy do I ever have the guy for you and it is ever so opportune that you should have need of our services, um.. my liege. ’”
“Don’t even put me in the same room as him, I’ll beat the living-”
Jack stopped playing. “I’m sure you will. He’s out of the picture for you. You’re going to.. I guess Montana?” he said, his voice changing the end of the statement to a question. “Debatably Washington? It used to be-”
“That's almost the west coast. Why does the Brotherhood need help on their own turf?”
“Well, you’d think it’d be that easy. Truth is power isn’t so absolute with them over there, especially not after the exodus of Brotherhood across the country. Depending on the leaders and the era, they’ll pick fights with whoever's in power. They’re so focused on expanding that shit’s thinner in their ranks than you’d think-” RJ opened his mouth to protest, Jack continued.
“-and no, I am not asking you to join their ranks. You’re considered a contractor. So that means-”
Knock knock knock.
Jack turned to the door. “C’mon in.”
Deacon stepped into the room. He wore sunglasses that reflected RJ’s puffy tear-covered face. All devil-may-care in his leather jacket, casually holding a sniper rifle on his shoulder.
"Still killing people for caps, RJ?"
His eyes narrowed. "I don't know, still pretending to be anyone but yourself?"
Jack rolled his eyes and ignored the exchange. “How was the way up from the city?”
Deacon walked into the living room, helping himself to a chair.
“Oh, it’s all good. Dez misses you.”
Jack felt a twinge of regret at the mention. Dez misses you meant We need you working right now.
Deacon turned his attention to RJ. “Y’all packed for summer camp, squirt?”
Jack intervened. “He’s not even fully briefed yet, Deacon.” He turned his attention to RJ. “So we’re-”
“Going to shack me up with the Brotherhood out in the middle of nowhere for some reason,” said RJ, unimpressed.
“Yes, well.. No,” Jack continued. “The way I was told, they’re dealing with a different breed of people out there. It’s not like down here where most raiders are a joke the moment you get better at shooting than the whelps they recruit. I’d have taken them up on it myself if I didn’t have all this,” his arm gestured towards the window, where farmers and civilians worked. Gesturing towards the street outside in Sanctuary, but implying the whole Commonwealth Wasteland.
Jack sighed towards it all. He could use a vacation.
“So, they need a sharpshooter who’s a cut above because they can’t pull their best from their other positions. I’m thinking, we scratch their back now, upper management up at the Prydwen will give us a break on territory discussions and whatnot."
Jack remembered strategy talks back in Anchorage. He was a soldier before the bombs, but only by conscription. It didn’t mean he wanted to become an officer, let alone General of the Minutemen - he was a professional boxer before he was called to enlist. He was a soldier because the military extended the age range of men they volun-told to enlist, and was nearing the end of his career in boxing, anyway. It was viewed as better for his legacy to quit while at the top. Jack was scrappy enough to leave active combat alive, without placing bets on himself.
RJ scoffed. “I’m not your little chess piece. Don’t buy time on my back.”
“It’s not like that. I guess there’s.. They’re having issues with snipers on the other side.” Jack looked with pleading eyes at Deacon, who took cue.
“Well squirt, we’re not really just sending you up for a little hunting trip-”
RJ crossed his arms and huffed. “Yeah. You want me to play informant for you up there. I know that much if you’re in the room.”
“-we think the people the Brotherhood are fighting have something that might help Duncan.”
He looked at Deacon and Jack, wide-eyed. He had a sudden feeling of embarrassment, almost like Lucy was watching him and witnessed him almost giving up on their child. He got up and stretched. “Where’s my pack?”
Jack leapt up. “Ah- I put it in the other room. Let me get it for you.”
Deacon stepped closer as Jack went down the hallway.
“Alright. Here’s the deal. Normally when I send people out, I have them find a drop box or have them meet up with an operative. I got none of that for you.”
“Wait a second. How’d you get this information if no one’s out there?”
“Goddamnit kid, I’d recruit you if only you’d shut the fuck up. If only you’d join-"
“Maybe when your little operation starts helping more kinds of people than just Synths. Question still stands.”
"Ouch," said Deacon, monotone. “Well.. the sickness your baby has..”
It was painful to remember. Duncan went from being a kid to being bedridden overnight.
“Now, I’m not the science guy. Carrington was telling me he found information about the illness before. Turns out this isn’t exactly a new thing.”
Jack returned and gave RJ his possessions.
RJ slipped on his pack and gripped his rifle, relieved to feel the old wood grain. “Thanks. So.. What exactly am I gonna do when I’m there?”
Jack took over. “Well, as your boss, I recommended your sharpshooting and tracking skills. That was enough for them. They’re desperate enough that I could have undersold you and they’d still take you on. As far as they’re concerned you’re extra padding where they need it most. Your mission is getting to the other side.”
The other side. Some fuckin’ advanced raiders or something, RJ thought, feeling no more clear on his orders than when he woke up. “And you’re 100% sure that taking me out back with a shotgun is less humane?”
“Aw, kiddo. I’m sure it’s overblown.” Jack spoke with a tone of sarcasm, the way they always spoke about the Brotherhood at home. “If you ask me I think the Brotherhood got too prideful about holding a position and they failed to learn that forcing their propaganda does nothing for civilians. Yet again.”
RJ sighed, rubbing his temple. Jack had always been one to undersell the danger of something they were walking into only to follow it up with a weird expression or a joke to downplay what was going on.
“Great outdoors. It’ll be good for you,” Deacon said in his sarcastic enthusiasm. “Think about it. Beautiful mountains and woods as far as the eye can see.”
Jack chimed in. “Yeah! And, um.. We’re sending you up right now. I have a vertibird up the hill. And.. Y’know. Nature, right?”
RJ blinked and both men waited for him to say something. It still felt like being fed to the wolves.
Jack had already signed his fate. And RJ was resigned to it. “How.. How the heck am I getting home after this?”
Deacon glanced at Jack.
“s’Ok kiddo. I’m coming back for you in exactly two weeks. I’ll wear the General uniform. It’ll be great seein’ ‘em line up for their first visit with a military official in.. Who knows. They're remote. Years, probably.”
RJ sighed. “We better not be doing this for free, Jack.” An eye roll and a sigh and asking about the caps, just like always.
The pre-war boxer turned General had been a stand-up friend ever since Goodneighbor. Back when they met in the Third Rail, Jack had whittled him down enough to give a discount on services when he couldn't afford to do so.
Well, he didn’t give him a discount, it just sort of happened.
It was a busy, loud night at the Third Rail. Jack fell into the VIP room to get away from the crowd; Dogmeat in tow, his ears pressed flat against his head. Winlock and Barnes had just left the room. RJ and Jack traded barbs, culminating in the sniper calling him an old man.
Jack countered with, “Yeah, I’m older. So my sniper eyes aren’t the best anymore. It’ll happen to you too, kiddo.”
The first time the guy called him kiddo. Ever since, RJ regretted calling him old.
But he had him at “sniper eyes”. If there was anything RJ was the best at, fucking A-1, gold star, capital-B Best at, it was being behind a scope.
“Now, what about you? How do I know you’re not gonna snap my neck with those arms, huh?”
“You don't. That's part of the risk, right?” The man shifted his weight and stared at RJ, trying to see how he'd take a joke. His fingers grazed Dogmeat's ears. “Who knows. You could snap mine.”
“Hey, you're the one who approached me. And frankly, I'm taking a huge risk being out here in the Commonwealth in the first place.. So I'm not about to leave anything to chance. Which brings me back to my original question.. Can I trust you?”
"Maybe," Jack smiled. “You think you've got what it takes?”
“You're joking right? I've been doing this since I was a kid. I know my way around.”
“Well, if you wanna tag along with Grandpa that bad..” The guy had worked him up just enough to get him huffy, and tossed him a 100-cap bag. He started walking out towards the bar.
RJ was left holding the bag. He looked down at the caps, insulted that it wasn’t the 200 caps the guy had originally tried to barter down to. Dogmeat whined and nudged his hand before turning to follow the man.
He leaned to the right on his couch, craning his neck so he could see the guy taking a seat at the bar through the door he left open. Who the fuck even.. Who the heck is he?
RJ’s puzzled frustration broke when he saw the guy staring right back at him. Whiskey bottle in one hand, his other hand pointing at RJ, then pointing at himself, then pointing at the bottle.
Jack spent the remainder of RJ’s fee that evening on food and whiskey anyway. They passed out in Hancock’s living room. Jack made good on the rest of the caps and then some the following day, buying out all the .308 rounds in Goodneighbor. Cigarettes for good measure. All things RJ needed anyway.
RJ was the closest Jack had to a sibling since.. Well.
Maybe it was how scrawny the little fucker was. Maybe it was how he talked big in spite of his own desperation. Maybe he saw one of his down-and-out younger brothers in RJ’s face. Jack had been a streetwise punk who played dad to his siblings in those cramped tenements back in south Boston. Got married, lived his own legend as a boxer; did the Anchorage tour, came home; expedited starting a family with Nora several years ahead of their schedule, knew his baby for all of three months, then the bombs fell.
It had been good being brothers again.
“All I am saying to you,” Jack said, “Is I need you to take one more chance for both of us and just go for it. I know Nora would want me to, if it was her and me.”
There it was. Jack, the older brother who couldn’t shoulder it all anymore. He needed the Brotherhood and the whole world off his ass, but the heart of it meant much more than whatever the political situation was in this corner of the Wasteland.
“Jack,” the kid had his head in his hands. “If I don’t come back, what about Duncan?”
“I will personally go to DC, bring him here, and I promise I will raise him and keep him safe.”
It always sounds like he tells you what he wants you to hear when he says things like that, he thought. But RJ knew better - he was sincere. Jack was always good for it. Ever since brahmin steaks and whiskey at the Third Rail. He didn’t understand, but he knew Jack well enough to know he meant it when he said he’d get something done.
“Do we know if the Brotherhood knows anything about.. The people I’m after? Are they raiders or something?”
Jack and Deacon looked at each other. Deacon spoke. “We don’t know a hundred percent what the Brotherhood is aware of, so don’t go asking questions. You don't wanna freak people out. They just know you’re helping them for a couple weeks."
“You wanna play the part here,” said Jack. "You’re a private military contractor on loan. They know you’re a sniper. So far as they’re concerned, you’re there to help ‘em out. I’d cooperate with them as long as it keeps them off your back.”
RJ sighed anew, looking out the window towards Sanctuary.
He’d been laser-focused on Med-Tek for months. Get the medicine, go home. Heal Duncan and finally begin to start over for real; get back on the path to raising his kid right.
“Well,” said RJ, checking his ammo. "Did four-hundred-something miles from DC to Boston, so," he smiled at Jack. "What’s another few thousand miles, right?”
“C’mon,” said Jack, motioning for the front door. RJ and Deacon followed him out. The men made their way up the hill behind Sanctuary, Dogmeat in tow with his ears flattened against his head.
They reached the top of the hill. A vertibird waited for him, as promised. He walked to the edge of the cliff, looking at the view.
Overcast in the Commonwealth Wasteland; cloud cover stretching to the coast and beyond. The Boston skyline never looked more like a series of middle fingers in his direction than it did on this morning.
You thought you’d find your answers here, it seemed to say. Wrong. You’ve wasted months. Duncan’s getting sicker and you’re not home. Good job.
He breathed in deep and he choked up, warm tears lining his eyes. The bullshit just never ends. RJ often wished he could go way back before any of his adulthood happened at all. To warn his teenage self and tell him every mistake he was about to stumble into when he left Little Lamplight.
His thoughts were broken by the sound of the vertibird motor beginning to start up. He felt Jack’s arm around his back and Dogmeat’s snout sniffing at his hands.
“Two weeks?” asked RJ, raising his voice over the quickening whup-whup of the vertibird blades. He asked it in place of the real question he wanted to ask. Can’t you just fly me home to DC on this thing?
“Two weeks,” Jack confirmed. “I promise.”
They walked over to the vertibird together. He climbed into the vertibird and strapped in, his worldly belongings - a backpack and rifle - in his lap.
“Alright, RJ-” Jack started to say, his hand on the exterior of the cabin door.
“The heck am I even looking for, anyway?”
“They’ll brief you," Jack yelled, the vertibird motor roaring. "Just know I’m coming back for you, alright? There’s somethin' out there, go find it. Safe travels, kiddo.”
“But where and what-”
But the vertibird door closed.
It was only when he felt a sudden mechanical lurch and the new feeling of being in a machine gaining altitude that his stomach dropped with the earth he'd stood on a few minutes ago.
His chest tightened, his eyes closed and he gripped his rifle.
Robert Joseph MacCready had never flown before.
Jack and Deacon watched the vertibird raise up and away while they walked down the hill.
"I ever tell you my favourite Hitchcock movie?" Deacon asked.
"Never took you for a film buff, honestly. You like the oldies?"
"Yeah, I guess you could say that."
Finding the odd holotape with a movie or two on it was a lot better than finding someone's awful minutes-before-the-bombs story.
"Which one was it?"
Deacon grinned. He managed to get the words out before his response devolved into snickering.
"North by Northwest."
Jack snorted. The men belly laughed at RJ's expense; Dogmeat barked and danced circles around their feet as they walked back to the house.
Just like always.
RJ MacCready. Uploaded September 16 2022. Image is my own twosides--samecoin