Chapter Text
There’s a man in her room.
Morning light slants in through the grimy window, setting her eyelids aglow with angry red hues. Natasha peels them open, and he’s the first thing she sees.
He’s sitting cross-legged on the ground with his back to her, humming some jazzy number beneath his breath. Must’ve caught it in his head somewhere. His voice cracks on the high note. Cute.
Before she can soak in the sight of him further, a second visitor comes knocking. Natasha groans, recoiling into the sheets. Throbbing, pulsing pain aches in her skull. The headache pounds away relentlessly.
Her companion doesn’t notice her discomfort, just keeps on murmuring his song and fidgeting with whatever’s got his hands occupied. It doesn’t take long for the tune to morph from a pleasant wake-up call into a nuisance buzzing against her ears. Nat groans softly into her pillow, which is just about as scratchy as her throat feels. Nat pries her eyes open again, forcing herself to take a good, long look at this stranger who might not be such a stranger after all.
Streaks of dirt dull the sandy brown of his hair when he runs his fingers through it. Incidentally, those hands are also filthy, but what’s not in the wasteland? She can’t quite catch his face from this angle. His shoulders shelter whatever he’s so hard at work on, too. Which can’t be much; he’s a bit of a scrawny, lanky thing. Even so, she can see the roll and flex of muscle in his arms, poking out from the oversized green shirt he’s got tucked in to his torn-up khakis. String bean or not, this guy could probably break her in half with one hand tied behind his back.
But he wouldn’t have to, because now she’s glimpsed what’s swallowed up his focus: a rifle, cradled across his lap like a baby. Tenderly, he swipes a cloth across the barrel. All the while cooing that song that’s... so familiar…
The gun’s not aimed her way. Yet. There’s still time to puzzle through whether he’s friend, or foe, or...the other ‘f’ word. Gingerly, Nat lifts the rough sheets to peer down at her own body, fully-clothed, and fully intact, give or take a few mysterious leg bruises.
His voice catches again, chasing her fleeting memories with it. They swim and mingle in her brain, swaying flimsy with the room as the waves of vertigo crash and roil.
Goodneighbor. The Third Rail. Nick. Magnolia. The high notes. The headache slams its fist against her forehead.
__________________________
Nick Valentine smacks his hand against the bar. Whiskey spills sticky over the sides of her glass. “That’s it! ”
“Nick, let’s just talk about this.”
“You and I are done talking!”
He looms over her shoulder while Natasha stays seated. Idly, she watches the ice bob and dissolve in the alcohol. Sooner or later, Nick will fizzle out, too. He always does. She gnaws at the inside of her cheek.
Sudden brightness flickers through the dim haze of the Third Rail, glinting off the edge of her glass. A spotlight bathes the corner stage in blue. Beneath its halo, a woman in red draws the eye of every drifter packed into the hollowed out husk of the old subway station. The voice curling from the microphone is smooth and sultry. Nat can practically taste its richness as the drink slides sweet through her lips. When she swallows, there’s a nip of fire at the back of her throat that flares in time with the saxophone melody pouring from the speakers.
“Look at you!” Nick fumes. “Shit’s hitting the fan, and you can’t even be bothered to pay attention! Don’t you have anything smart to say?”
“You said we were done talking.”
When she goes to sip, Nick’s hand covers the cup and shoves it back down. Eyes peel their way, snatched by the sound of the glass grating over the wood of the countertop. Nat’s dark eyes flash to Valentine. She curls her hand tighter around her drink. Nick doesn’t let go.
Nat waits until the prying stares pull back to the glimmer of the songstress swaying on stage.
“Okay, Nick,” she hisses, “let’s talk . Let’s talk about what everyone told me when I came to Diamond City.”
“That’s not--”
“‘Nicky’s good people’ they said. ‘If anyone can help you find your son, it’s him’.”
“Natasha, enough!”
“After I fished you out of that vault, you told me you would do what you could to help me. So I guess my only question is: who was lying? Everybody, or just you?”
Nick’s face twists beneath the hard edge of her glare. “I’m not playing this game with you.”
“I could’ve walked away,” Nat presses sharper. “I could’ve left you to rust. But I didn’t. You can walk away, too, Nick. Maybe. But if you can, well, that says more about you than me.”
Nick’s hand grows lax, and she wins their tug-of-war. She cradles the drink to her chest, peering at the last shards of ice sinking to the bottom. Time to sink Nick, too, and douse this petty routine.
“I know you’re not a liar, Valentine. So don’t make yourself one.”
“No,” Nick rasps. “You’ve got that job pretty damn well covered.”
Nat scowls. That defiant little shred of ice is floating back to the top of her whiskey. The only thing that’s sinking is inside her chest. Nick doesn’t spare her the space to try again.
“I’ve met a lot of scum in my line of work. People I wouldn’t throw to the bloatflies. You had me convinced you were a good person. Maybe you still are, but hell, you’re not acting like it. What happened with Piper crossed a line. What you pulled with Kellogg crossed a line. Then, the Glowing Sea...three strikes and I’m out, kid. You go after that courser, you and everyone you drag with you is gonna wind up dead!”
The words slap against the sudden silence at the close of Magnolia’s song. Chair legs scrape against the tile. Keenly, without turning, Natasha feels the stares of every drifter in the Third Rail fix to their faces.
Beneath the blaze of Valentine’s hawk-eyed glare, they sheepishly recoil to the murmur of their own conversations. Still, a sticky few stay latched hungrily to the sight of her blue and gold vault suit and the Pip-Boy glowing on her wrist.
Whitechapel Charlie hovers like an angry wasp. “If you two are bloody well done--”
“Don’t worry, Charlie,” Nick sighs. “I was just leaving.”
Nick’s hand rests briefly on her shoulder. Nat shrugs him off. “Go, then.”
“For what it’s worth...I really hope you find him. I’d tell you to try not to get yourself killed, but why would you start listening now?”
She doesn’t watch when he goes. Nick’s footsteps fade into the fog of smoke and music. The ache he leaves in her chest morphs into the burn of alcohol in her throat.
She tugs the band from her hair, letting red-brown waves fall around her face. Tomorrow, she’ll ditch the vault suit. Blend in.
The thought itches like a rash on her brain: you could still go after him. He can’t have gone far .
She doesn’t. The only thing she chases is the bottom of the glass in front of her.
__________________________
No, no...that’s not right. Nick left nearly two weeks ago. Natasha massages her temples, trying to ease the dizzy dance of the room back into stillness. Her stomach’s still rolling over on itself like its gunning for a trophy in gymnastics. Probably for the best that she hasn’t tried to open her mouth yet.
In any case, her mystery man wasn’t there the night that Nick left. She’s sure of it. Eyes that blue could cut through any crowd. From her horizontal view and heavy-lidded gaze, she watches him rise from his place on the floor, lay his rifle carefully, reverently across the table near the foot of her bed, and seat himself there. He kicks his feet up on the bed frame, which gives a tired, metallic moan in response. A moment later, she hears the soft sputter of a lighter, followed by the smoky-sweet scent of a cigarette filling her nose.
He’s still humming that same tune. The light clicks on in her mind’s eye. That song belongs to--
__________________________
“--Magnolia, sweetheart.” The songstress drawls, sinking into a seat beside her. “Well, now you know me. Wouldn’t mind getting to know you.”
Nat swirls her drink with her finger, and when the other woman’s eyes drip down her body, she brings it to her lips and sucks away the sweetness.
There’s a heat in Magnolia’s gaze when she looks back up. She tilts her head, humming thoughtfully. “You look so blue, kitten. What’s the matter? Didn’t like my song?”
Blue. It’s been a while since anybody called her that. Nat ditched the vault suit the day after Valentine left. It’s still crumpled at the bottom of her bag where she shoved it, next to the holotape and Piper’s article. Instead, she’d bartered for faded jeans and a threadbare flannel. Not much in the way of saving her from bullets, but the change provided some camouflage from the watchers clinging to the edge of every alley, sizing up easy marks. Hancock might’ve saved her once, but she hasn’t seen him since.
Nobody’s coming to save her now. Nat sways in her seat.
Before Natasha can answer, there’s a soft hand stroking hair from the side of her face, tucking it safely behind her ear. “Sweetheart,” Magnolia breathes, “you are way too pretty to be so lonesome.”
Natasha leans into the warmth of Magnolia’s palm against her cheek. “I was just thinking the same thing about you.”
__________________________
“Hey, look who’s finally awake.”
His voice cracks through her reverie. She sucks in a breath, eyes darting for a quick scan of the room. Anything that could place his face or pluck his name out of the depths of drunken stupor. The room is familiar: one bed, a dresser with tilted drawers hanging ajar, wood panel floors that look as if some animal uses them for a scratching post. The only real spot of color belongs to a crooked painting of a kitten. Its blue eyes gleam murderously against the stark white of its fur. A ball of twine lies tangled in its claws.
Natasha wrinkles her nose. The stench of dampness hangs like a cloud in the air. Water drips from the stain blossoming on the ceiling down to the bucket in the corner.
So they’d crashed at the Hotel Rexford after a drunken night at the Third Rail. Unless Goodneighbor had suddenly sprouted another watering hole worth visiting. But nothing could hold a candle to Magnolia’s music. Which was playing that night, in the background when she’d met--
Natasha’s eyes flit to the stranger, who’s peering at her curiously. “Hey...Mac?”
His smirk fades to a slight scowl. He’s ruffled, but he doesn’t correct her. A nickname, then. But what’s the real one? MacIntosh? MacMillan? Mac...something. In any case, there’s still another mystery that needs solving.
“We didn’t... you know ...right?”
His scowl deepens. “No! Of course not!”
Nat arches a brow. “ Of course not?”
“I’m a professional. I’d like to keep things that way.”
A professional killer by the looks of it. He’s been lining up ammo on the desk, counting in rows of ten. The metal shells shimmer in the muted light drifting in from the window. There’s a pistol holstered at his hip, but she saw the way he held that rifle. Apparently, Natasha had hired herself a sniper.
A sniper who’s fixed unwavering sights on her, with a look of suspicious malcontent scrunching up his face. “Hey, what happened to your accent?”
“My... what ?”
Mac sighs tightly. “Last night you...crap, you don’t even remember, do you?”
“I remember fine,” she says indignantly. Slipping from the shelter of the blankets, Nat pads over to her bag in the corner, feeling a twinge of relief to find it’s still there. Slowly, she opens it and begins to rummage through. His eyes track after her motions. The smugness slips back into place in his smirk. It must live there, Nat realizes. A cocksure grin and smart mouth might be his default state. Fine by her. She’d take snark over righteousness any day.
He rises from the chair and saunters over to her with arms crossed over his chest. “What’s my name then?”
Nat scoffs. “Your name’s Mac.”
He rolls his eyes in response. “Look, Lady--”
“Lady? You don’t know my name either!”
“Sure I do. It’s...Nancy...Soliloquy or something like that.”
His smirk fades as Nat looks up at him. Nat cracks first, but her laughter sucks him in with her. She’s wiping tears from her eyes by the time her breath settles.
“Something like that,” Nat agrees. “Natasha Sokolova.” She stands, offering him her hand.
He shakes it. “MacCready. You know, that name of yours is kind of a mouthful. Think I’ll just stick with ‘Boss’.”
Nat shrugs. “Blame my parents, I guess.”
“So you’re...not really Russian then?”
“I am ,” Nat laughs nervously. “What kind of question is that?”
“Well,” MacCready rubs the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish. “Last night you talked about your family, how they used to be KGB. And you sounded different. You scared the crap out of Winlock and Barnes. Even Whitechapel Charlie was on about it, something about debt collectors.”
The real KGB always collect on their debts was what Charlie had said, as she leaned on the bar, slurring in the worst Russian accent she could possibly conjure. It’s what he said to her moments before she grabbed MacCready by the collar and dared him to sneak them out of there without Charlie noticing. Without paying her tab.
What did it matter, after all: Charlie had just given her a job. He could shave it off the top when she came to collect. What did it matter if she only had five caps left to her name? She’d pressed the rest of them into the palms of MacCready. She’d make it all back twofold after they ran that job, and then the mayor would owe her a favor, too.
A job. Yes, a job for Hancock. A job she had no business taking. Oh...shit.
__________________________
The smooth swell of a saxophone flows from the speakers as Natasha curls her hand around the empty bottle. The air down here tastes like ashes. Red light glimmers off the tile lining the old subway station walls. It shimmers like cinders through the ever-present mesh of smoke drifting through the Third Rail.
The evening’s songstress carries them to the end of her performance with deep, velvety tones. When the tune comes to a close, it's met with a spattering of applause. Natasha smirks, joining in halfheartedly. Personally speaking, she’s a bigger fan of Mag’s high notes. To each their own.
I’ll be thinking of you when I’m up on that stage, Mags said after. Sweet of her to say. But thoughts and prayers don’t mean shit, and Nat has had her fill of them. What she needs is a plan. And another drink.
Natasha taps her empty bottle on the edge of the counter. Whitechapel Charlie swivels her way. While he’s finding her another fix of the skunky bathwater that passes for beer in this century, Nat finds the folded blade in her pocket. She flips open the knife, passing it restlessly between her fingers. The tip pricks her skin, drawing a bead of blood from her thumb. She grits out a hiss.
“Playing with sharp toys is a quick way to lose your fingers, Guv.” Charlie chides her lazily.
Nat clicks the knife shut and stows it back in her pocket. The cool curve of the beer in her palm serves to soothe the throb where the blade nicked her. “Good thing I’m not playing then, right Charlie?”
“Yes, that was quite a show you gave us the other night. Don’t think No-Nose will come crawling ‘round your corner again. Best you don’t go sticking yourself in hers, either.”
“You think her guy would’ve killed me, or was he just here for the caps?”
“I reckon it was the caps you swindled out of her hands that had her grasping. Might’ve made a go at that clever mouth while he was at it.”
“If Bobbi wanted to pin blame, she could’ve just checked a mirror. She’s the one who paid me in advance.”
“Right. For a job you never bothered to do.”
“Why show up if I already got paid?” Nat shrugs, sipping the bitter beer with a wince.
Maybe burning bridges with Bobbi wasn’t her finest move. But what’s the haggard ghoul good for besides a pile of caps? Once that was in the bag, it was time to move on to greener pastures. Bigger lakes with bigger fish. In Goodneighbor, there was only one fish that really mattered: Mayor Hancock.
It’s been nearly two weeks since Nick took off. Without his constant critique in her ears, she’d managed to keep them peeled to the locals. She’d listened, and she’d learned.
For starters, Bobbi No-Nose was desperate for hired hands to dig bodies out of her basement. Or, something like that. Desperate enough to put caps in the hands of a promising stranger. Second, Bobbi was on Hancock’s shit list. Which meant Nat needed to take care to wipe her hands of the stench lest their fates tangle too closely.
Instead, Bobbi sent a lackey to tangle for her. Nat’s fingers trace the outline of the knife in her pocket. She didn’t blink, didn’t think. The second the hand clamped down on her arm, the blade was in her hand and in his ribs. Not enough to kill the guy. Just enough to send a message.
“Well, I do hope you’ve worked that out of your system,” Charlie drawls. “My client won’t suffer nearly so gracefully as Miss No-Nose.”
Nat tilts her head. “Oh?”
“What do you say, Guv? It’s a dirty job for a dirty girl.”
“You’re such a charmer, Charles. ”
“Are you interested, or not?”
“All right. I’ll bite.” Nat’s fingers knit together in her lap. She takes another swig to keep them from fidgeting.
When Nat had woken to the wasteland nearly six months ago, she’d stumbled into a world so radically changed from the one she knew, it seemed nearly impossible to find her footing. But the longer she roamed the ruins of the old world, the more she saw its reflection in the trappings of the new one.
The Third Rail is the closest thing she’s found to a church on this side of the apocalypse. There’s the little abbey in Diamond City, where lost souls go to sit and think and pray. But none of those sad faces knew what to pray for, or who to pray to. It wasn’t a church at all; churches claimed to have all those answers, in her experience.
Whitechapel Charlie presides over it all with the charm of a rusted can of cram. Drifters file in for their nightly worship. Sing praises at Magnolia’s behest. Drink deep from their cups and breath in their hints of heaven through their pipes.
It can’t be a coincidence, the aura of authority that Charlie wields over this place. Or the careful way he’s let her have her games, watching, observing even though he sees through every single ploy. But he has to be the brawn, not the brains. And who better to have a hand in the sacred space of the people than the man who claims he’s all for them?
If she hadn’t seen him in all his colonial glory, Nat might not believe Hancock was real . A man like that could cause a real problem for his enemies. A real problem for her enemies, maybe, if she plays her cards right. Hancock meant status, protection, and a goon squad. A horde of lackeys he might be convinced to set against the boogeyman of the Commonwealth. Step one would be to earn his favor, but the final play could be enough to get her to Shaun. Come on, big fish.
Natasha huddles near as Charlie hands down the directive in a raspy murmur. “Three locations. Everyone inside. No witnesses.”
She leans back in her seat, burying the lump in her throat with another swig of beer. “Wow. Love the vote of confidence.”
“No need to flatter yourself, Guv. You’re a fresh face is all. They’ll never see you coming.”
Three warehouses. No survivors. No witnesses. Bullets for every one of them.
It’s not the people part that’s the problem. It would’ve been better if it was. It would make more sense. Make it more...human.
The past six months have been a blur of grenades and gunfire. At every turn, her quest for Shaun, for answers, only found more roadblocks. Some of those obstacles shot at her. Some, she’d managed to shoot down. She could count those unfortunate souls on one hand. More frequently, a honeyed word in the right ear would fetch her what she needed.
She could say no. One knife fight didn’t make her a...what, an assassin? But when would she have another chance at Hancock’s good graces? He’d made himself scarce since they first met. The sharks didn’t bother themselves with the lives of minnows. Except for the time when he stabbed that guy who sassed her at the front gate. But that was some flashy dominance thing. A wastelander’s welcome.
Maybe it isn’t even Hancock that she needs. But she needs...someone. Nick was right about one thing: going after the courser could be a quick way to die. So she has to find someone quicker. Someone sharper. Someone better.
She catches her reflection in the amber bottle, frowning and forlorn. Shaun doesn’t have someone better. Kellogg put a bullet through the chest of someone better, while she screamed and pounded on frosted glass. Helpless. Useless. Even with a gun in her hands, and a clear path to Kellogg’s skull, she knows now it would have ended all the same. There’s no reason for that cold, hard, truth to have suddenly shifted.
It’s a bad bet. But it’s the only one left to take.
“Consider the job done.”
“I’ll consider it done when it’s actually done. And I’ll know when it’s done.”
He moves to replace her empty beer. Nat holds up a hand. “Just the usual this time.”
“You’ve no taste,” Charlie snipes. “That was limited edition Gwinnett you were turning your nose at.”
“It tastes like garbage ran through a blender.”
“Here.”
Nat raises a brow as he passes a half-full bottle of vodka her way.
“What, like you won’t come slinking back in half an hour. I’ve other patrons to tend to. It’s not my lot in life to spend all my days babysitting you.”
“I love you, too, Charlie.”
“Fuck off. And don’t you forget your tab. If you try to cheat me, I can and will make life very short and miserable for you!”
Natasha leans back on the barstool, surveying her domain as Charlie leaves her to see to his. The bar is packed tight with faces that have slowly become familiar. Those same faces are familiar enough with hers to leave the corner seat at the far end from the stage open for her each night. Her stomach knots on the thought. The ripped up leather cushion tied loose over peeling wood is home for now. It even came with a picket fence, partitioning off the rubble clogging the disused tunnel.
With Charlie gone, Natasha feels her face fall with the spiral of her thoughts.
Three warehouses. No survivors. No witnesses. So...no explosions, either. Goodneighbor wouldn’t be getting the Corvega treatment. She’ll have to take another contingency plan for a spin.
Stealth is the only way to go. Might be enough to offset her little problem. Could go bright and early after a late night out. Catch them still faded, maybe even passed out if she was lucky. Sure would help if she knew the targets. But that was the magic, according to Charlie: they didn’t know her, either.
Natasha tugs the bottle towards her. Sure. Her plan might work better if she abstained. She could get up and go right now. Head back to the empty room. Or...
Across the crowd, Magnolia takes the stage once more. Their eyes meet. Nat raises her bottle to the songstress. The look that glistens back at her is so achingly full of pity, it turns her stomach sour.
No one’s coming to save you.
Her lips find drink, and her fingers find her knife. Again and again, she lets it roll through her grasp. Little cuts criss-cross over her knuckles, but by the time she looks up, she can scarcely feel the sting.
The bottle’s lighter. So is the weight on her chest. Snippets of conversation drift to her here and there, in between the swell of Mag’s songs. No word from Bobbi after she doubled down on her big dig. Rumor was that she wouldn’t be speaking at all, here on out. Either she buried herself, or someone else had. The barest whisper of Hancock’s slipping grip is quickly shushed by the other voices around the table. More of those mercs came through earlier looking for MacCready something-or-other. They looked like Gunners.
Nat shifts in her seat. “Hey Charlie, did that sniper set up shop in the back like you said?”
“Sure. What of it? He’s damaged goods, Guv.”
“Yeah, aren’t we all. What’s his story?”
“Walked out on the Gunners. Anyone caught floundering around with his ilk is like to get themselves caught in the crossfire. That’s a feud you’d best stay out of.”
“The Gunners. They’re...good at what they do, right? At killing people, I mean.”
“Ask them yourself,” Charlie gestures past her shoulder. “Told you they don’t take kindly to freelance trespassers on their turf.”
A merc strung out for work and cornered by some bullies. A sniper , no less. If he was worth the title, she wouldn’t find steadier hands. He wasn’t the big fish she was hoping for, but maybe a catch nonetheless.
Maybe the sniper in question would be grateful enough to whoever shooed off those bothersome thugs and offered him a job that he’d do it for...well, she only had a hundred fifty caps left. One fifty-five, to be precise.
Natasha gulps down another swig of liquor. Nevermind Charlie. He can take his precious tab off the top of her pay when the job is done. Desperate times, desperate measures.
She stumbles when she stands. For one, perilous moment, the whole earth slides slippery beneath her feet. Nat holds her arms out until the room finally rights itself. “Hey Charlie,” she slurs, “ watch this .”
“For fuck’s sake, I’m sure I don’t want to!”
Nat grins wickedly, running hands through the waves of her auburn hair to tousle it. She spots a battered leather jacket hanging from the seat next to her. Its owner is nowhere to be seen. Not hers, but it is now. She slides into the sleeves, pausing to admire the scuffs over the pockets. Perfect. Kellogg’s pistol in her grip, bottle in the other hand, she staggers towards the back room. One more swig. The lights blur together into neon smears as she goes.
“You get blood on the tile again, you’ll be scrubbing it!” Charlie’s last warning dissolves into the muted noise of Mag’s song. She can’t make out the words this far away, only the tune. It buzzes sweet on the back of her brain like the fizz of carbonation. Rougher voices cut the sugary sound. Nat lurks by the corner, peering past its edge.
That’s MacCready?
A brown duster hangs off his shoulders and drags to the floor in tatters. Looks like it’s been mauled by mongrels. Maybe it was. There’s padding in the shoulders, filling out his spindly frame. His eyes are pretty, though. Gorgeous, even. He leans back casually, arms crossed without a care in the world. The two towering men looming over him haven’t stolen the smugness from his face.
“So,” MacCready drawls, “should we take this outside?”
She lets the wall have her weight while she bides her time, taking care to stay pressed close to the cool concrete. The chill seeps pleasantly across her flushed cheek. Her eyes trail down the two beefy bodies, and the third leaner one. At a guess, the larger man with lips pressed and fists balled by his side is the muscle, and his comrade with the undercut is the mouthpiece. Whether that muscle has any bite remains to be seen. She catches the glint of metal fillings off his sneer. Probably toothless. Nat presses her mouth to her sleeve to bury her own snicker.
With only a glance, it’s clear Undercut and Toothless are part of the same club. They wear the same salvaged military fatigues with piecemeal leather armor. Seems like MacCready might’ve kept parts of the uniform, too. Beneath the shredded duster, his clothes are army green. All around, pistols hang heavy off their waists.
“It ain’t like that. I’m just here to deliver a message,” Undercut barks back.
“In case you forgot, I left the Gunners for good!”
“Yeah, we heard you, MacCready. But you’re still taking jobs in the Commonwealth. That isn’t going to work for us.”
They leer a little closer, teeth and egos bared, eyes burning holes where they dream of sinking bullets. Natasha peels from the wall, slinking forward without a sound. Gulping down one more taste of liquid courage, she musters the thickest Russian moxie her Mamockha ever hurled her way and rounds on the Gunners. Between the shadow of their shoulders, MacCready’s eyes meet hers and his go wide. She fights down a smile, winking his way before fixing her face into the cold curl of a scowl. Toothless and Undercut turn slowly towards her, steaming.
Armed with the pistol and her accent, she levels them both their way. “These suki bothering you, MacCready?”
“The fuck is this?” Undercut glares between Nat and MacCready. “You quit the Gunners and hire some Soviet to protect you?”
“I do the hiring,” Nat steps in before MacCready’s gaping mouth can ruin her ploy. “He works for me.”
Toothless seizes his moment, stepping forward to shroud her in his shadow. “And who the hell do you think you are?”
“The woman who’s about to wipe the floor with you two ublyudki! ”
Undercut scoffs. “What, you? You’re a toothpick! Snap you right in half, sweetheart.”
The liquor rushing in her blood has left her body numb and pulsing. Something sharp cracks through her at the jab. A jolt of inspiration.
Natasha holsters the gun at her hip. In one fluid motion, she steps chin to chin with Undercut and flips the pocket knife open to his throat.
“ Ty che, suka, o’khuel blya?! My family was KGB. I learned how to kill before I knew how to write. You’ve got one more chance to decide how this goes.”
It’s the most ridiculous lie. She feels it burn and crash into the pit in her stomach. If they have a single brain cell between them, the Gunners will see her ploy for what it is. Undercut’s eyes are blown wide. They dart towards his partner, and flicker, just briefly, with fear. Nat raises her bet.
“Trust me,” she breathes, letting the threat fan across his face. “You don’t want to make a mess in Hancock’s town.”
When his bottom lip starts quivering, she knows she's found the magic word. A smile blooms over her face. She staggers back from him, tucking the blade back in her pocket.
“Come on, Barnes,” Undercut growls. He shoots one last look towards MacCready, but his parting glare is all for her.
Natasha oversees their exit with another taste of vodka. As the liquor burns her inside her throat, MacCready’s gaze sears against her cheek. She shrugs his way with a sheepish smirk. His mouth is still climbing back from the floor. He fumbles for words as he rubs the back of his neck.
“Uh...thanks?”
She keeps the accent. “You’re welcome. Fuckers sounded like they had it coming.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” MacCready groans. “Don’t need the stench of those two idiots scaring off my business.”
“Yeah, looks like it’s really hopping back here.” Nat sips from her bottle while her eyes swipe across the empty, sagging sofas around them. He bristles at the implication. Annoyance ripples through his face. Nothing a stroke of the ego can’t fix. She gestures towards the rifle beside him. “You any good with that?”
Immediately, his demeanor shifts. A cocky, crooked grin pulls on the corners of his lips. “Here I was thinking you’d heard of me already. If you had, you’d know I’m the best shot in the Commonwealth.”
“That right? Because I just had to swoop in and save you from those big bad bullies.”
He scoffs. “Smart talking and name-dropping only get you so far, darlin’. When it comes down to bullets flying, you want somebody who actually knows what they’re doing.”
She studies him with narrowed eyes, leaning against the wall as she does. Even beneath the guise of her alter ego, he’s managed to snag on something real. Something weak . Maybe it was the way she held the gun, or the stagger in her step, or the slur in her speech. Her tricks fooled Winlock and Barnes. But not MacCready, not all the way. Guess it means those eyes are sharp, after all.
His smirk only widens beneath her scrutiny. “Look, lady, if you’re preaching about the Atom, or looking for a friend, you’ve got the wrong guy. If you need a hired gun, and it sounds like maybe you do, then we can talk.”
Fuck friends. If this guy is half as good as he claims to be, the job for Hancock will be a cakewalk.
“You’re hired,” she decides, offering her bottle. “You drink?”
MacCready coughs a laugh. “Don’t get too excited, we haven’t even talked price yet. Not sure you can afford me.”
Despite his snark, he takes her offering. Calloused fingers brush briefly over hers on the neck of the bottle as he pulls it from her grasp. Nat’s eyes flicker down. There’s dirt in the beds of his fingernails, grime rubbed over his knuckles. Angry red crosshatches decorate hers: battle wounds from her failed knife tricks. She feels his eyes on her again when he leans the lip of the glass to his mouth and drinks deep.
“It’s a job for Hancock . Three hundred caps, and you’d get half the pot. We can talk base pay.”
Her magic word does the trick. There’s a flicker of light in his eyes when he passes the liquor back to her. His tongue darts out to wet his lips. He shakes his head with a faint smile.
“Lady, who the hell are you?”
Nat feels the surge of victory soar inside of her. Or maybe that’s the floor rushing to meet her face. For a moment, the world is a blur of faded red light. Then, rough hands reach out to steady her. Nat sways in MacCready’s grasp.
There’s something about his eyes blown wide that kicks up laughter in her stomach. It feels like tossing piles of leaves in autumn, the way it billows on her breath. She loops an arm around his neck, tugging him with her towards the bar.
“I’m Naskalova and I’m the last real KGB! Now let’s talk dissssscount…”
__________________________
The rest of the evening is a faded blur. Natasha catches glimpses of it with each pulse of pressure through her forehead. Somewhere in that mess of memories, she recalls passing MacCready the rest of her caps beneath Whitechapel Charlie’s steely stare. And then...ordering a round of all of her friends. The whole bar.
“Just put it on my tab, Charlie,” Nat said as she swayed in her seat. She nudged MacCready. “Me and Charles go way back,” she told him. In a whisper louder than the music, she added, “Charlie’s KGB too!”
“I’ll kindly remind you, Guv, that the real KGB always collect on their debts. And their bar tabs.”
Sputtering a laugh, she’d leaned across the bar, swiped the cloth from behind the counter, and wiped a smear from Charlie’s metal body. “ Tovarisch, you worry too much. It’ll give you wrinkles. I’m sure what’s owed will be paid.”
Not minutes later, she seized MacCready and dared him to sneak them out from under Charlie’s nose. He’d laughed, eyes bright and cheeks flushed from drink. “Oh, you and I are gonna have fun.”
Nat groans, dropping back to the edge of the bed. The mattress sags beneath her weight, uttering a flimsy whine that twinges sharply through her temples. For now, at least, the fun part is over. She would pay Charlie back...eventually.
MacCready’s shadow falls over her. She squints up at him. “I hope you're at least half as good as you said you were.”
“Don’t you worry about me, darlin’. If anything, I should be skeptical about you. You mean any of that crap you spewed last night?”
“My family weren’t KGB. They...sold flowers.”
“Seems like a bad way to make a living. But, whatever. Doesn’t really matter as long as you remember the important parts.”
The important parts being his caps. “I remember,” she mumbles. “One hundred fifty caps base, which I’ve already paid you, plus half the cut from the job for Hancock.”
“ And half a cut on any other jobs he throws your way after. You do have that rocket launcher we talked about, right?”
Nat narrows her eyes his way.“The what? ”
“Relax,” he snickers. “ I’m just messing with you. Here, this should help with the hangover.”
Ouch. Nat grimaces, rubbing her forehead. The scrape glass against wood grates on her brain. She looks up. MacCready’s set a bottle on the bedside table. She reaches for it hesitantly.
“This is beer .”
“Good to know your eyesight’s still good even though your memory’s crap. Gonna need your best aim if we’re doing this without witnesses. Need to move quick and fast, dead the runners before they can get the word out to the other warehouses. You said you’d worked with Hancock before?”
She suppresses a scoff, coaxing her face into a blank canvas. It’s not a lie, per se. If the wasteland definition of working with someone includes them shanking a guy in front of you. “Sure did. This is supposed to be some political thing for him.”
“Works for me,” MacCready grunts, packing up the ammo he’d laid out on the desk. “As long as there’s caps at the end.”
Caps again. Must be another magic word. Might be for any mercenary; Nat’s experience with his kind is limited. But there’s a hungry look on his face at the mere mention of the crude currency. Nat bookmarks the thought for later. An easy carrot to lead him with if she finds herself lacking a stick.
Of course, one would need to have caps in order to promise them to someone. Nat routes through her pack, plucking out the five measly caps that remain to her name, and the sparse ammo buried beneath her clothes. There was no buying more, now. Kellogg’s pistol and her salvaged shotgun would need to see her through the day. She shoos MacCready out of the room long enough to pull on different clothes. When he reappears, she’s strapping weathered leather armor to her shoulders. It’s not much. But it’ll have to do.
She’s placed her bet on MacCready. No changing hands now. With any luck, he’ll prove to be a worthwhile investment.