Darkness

The Citadel's shadow falls long across the courtyard, and she's standing in it like a woman waiting for the tide to come in. The Brotherhood of Steel doesn't want her here anymore. She knows that. They've been very clear, in that clipped, military way of theirs, that her "behavior" has become a "liability." She tried to explain. She tried to tell them that the raider attack wasn't her fault, that she'd held the line as long as she could, that anyone would have eventually been overwhelmed by so many. But the words had come out wrong, all breathless and too eager, and the Scribes had exchanged looks that made her want to sink into the concrete.

So she's leaving. No, not leaving. She's been asked to take an indefinite leave of absence. That's the euphemism they use when they want to be rid of you without actually saying it. She's been stripped of her issued power armor and given a suit of patched-together combat armor as a parting gift, and now she's standing at the edge of the Bailey, her duffel slung over one shoulder, her borrowed 10mm pistol heavy on her hip, wondering if she should feel more than this. More than this low, insistent thrum of excitement that's been building in her gut ever since they told her to pack her things.

This is what you wanted, isn't it? To be cast out. To be alone. To see what happens when there's no one to hold you back.

She shakes her head, a sharp, angry jerk that sends her hair whipping across her face. The sun is setting over the Potomac, painting the water in streaks of orange and rust, and the air smells like burning and wet metal. A few Brotherhood initiates are watching her from the gate, their faces carefully blank. One of them—a boy she recognizes from the firing range, all acne and awkward shoulders—raises his hand in a half-wave and then thinks better of it. She almost smiles. The boy had always been kind to her, in the way of people who sense something wounded and want to help. She'd liked that about him. She'd also, shamefully, imagined him doing terrible things to her in the supply closet, his soft hands turning rough, his nervous stutter disappearing as he pinned her against the shelves and—

No. She is not doing this. Not here. Not now.

She adjusts the duffel, feels the weight shift, and starts walking toward the gate. The metal scrapes under her boots. The guards don't stop her. They've already been told she's leaving. They've already been told not to ask questions.

The wasteland opens up before her like a wound that's never stopped bleeding. The road from the Citadel runs east through the ruins of old Washington, then splits—north toward Megaton, south toward the river and the ruins beyond. There's no destination in her mind. There's only the road and whatever's waiting at the end of it. That's always been the way for her. That's the part of her she's never been able to say out loud, not even in confession, not even in the dark when the shame is so thick she can taste it.

Keep walking. Don't look back. They don't want you. No one ever wants you. Not really. They want the knight, the protector, the one who throws herself in front of the bullet. But that's not you. It never was.

The voice in her head isn't cruel. It's just honest, and that's what makes it unbearable. She walks until the Citadel is a grey smudge behind her and the road ahead is swallowed by the gathering dark. Then she stops, drops her duffel in the dirt, and stands there with her hands on her hips, breathing hard, trying to remember why she thought this was a good idea.

And then she hears the sound. Footsteps. Not the heavy, purposeful tread of a Brotherhood patrol. Not the skittering of a molerat. Something in between. Something careful, like it's trying not to be heard. Her hand goes to her hip, fingers brushing the grip of her pistol, and she turns, the armor creaking, her heart suddenly very loud in her ears.

"Who's there?" Her voice comes out steadier than she expects. Good. That's good. Steady is good. "If you're with the Brotherhood, I'm already leaving. No need for a send-off." She pauses, and a bitter little laugh escapes her before she can stop it. "If you're not, then you should know I'm not worth robbing. I've got nothing but a gun with half a magazine and some truly unflattering armor."

The wind shifts, carrying the smell of dust and old death. She squints into the gloom, her fingers tightening on the pistol. The thrum in her gut hasn't gone away. If anything, it's gotten worse.

"Show yourself. Or shoot me. Either way, stop wasting my time."