Chapter Text
Paladin Shirogane has pulled the trigger on countless mutated creatures across the desert wastes. Aim, shoot—the Brotherhood of Steel doesn’t ask questions. It’s the mission, the oath he’s sworn since he was an Initiate.
The objective is equally firm regarding hostile humans, but with that Shiro has never truly aligned. Humans can, theoretically, be reasoned with, and he knows in his gut that most are just pure desperation with a loaded gun. Because once, he was right there with them, huddling with other wasteland orphans in a hollowed out passenger train, just trying to survive day to day by whatever means necessary.
That’s why the Brotherhood of Steel was so damn enticing in the first place; the fact that being a solider ran in his blood was a lucky coincidence.
And that’s why he hesitates now, the barrel of his laser rifle pointed at a raider’s gas-mask-covered face. That’s what he tells himself—that shooting a human in need of food, water, or shelter isn’t the same as ferals or radscorpions or deathclaws.
In reality, it’s those dark, quivering eyes behind the raider’s mask—stark violet irises, abyssal pupils that he’s been lost in before; a scared little boy who doesn’t stand a chance with nothing but hammered, patchwork armor and a machete in his hand.
The name leaves his lips on the wing of an exhale.
“Keith.”
His voice is tinny, near-garbled through the mask of his power armor. And yet—the eyes behind the mask split wide, recognition overlaying fear like a wound licked clean.
“Sh-Shiro?!”
At the sound of Keith’s voice, Shiro lowers the rifle and jerks back, as if the memories shove him hard in the shoulder. “Keith,” he says again. “What—” There are too many questions but all he can think is, I could have killed you.
“You left me!” Keith screams, still brandishing the machete at Shiro’s heavy-plated chest. “You fucking left me behind!”
It’s not the version of events Shiro has carried with him across the wasteland, but it’s still true. What he’s told himself is that he tried, he tried to come back for Keith, and that effort had to have counted for something. But the Brotherhood envoy had swept through their corner of the desert in a hurry, and he’d had to choose between leaving or being left.
He holds out his empty hand. “Come on.”
Keith says nothing, but lowers the machete.
“The Brotherhood could use you,” Shiro urges. “They can help.”
Keith reaches up and tears the mask off with his free hand, freeing a curtain of thick, black hair that sticks to his sweaty, angled face. “Yeah?” he says, tossing his head to flip his hair out of his eyes. “What about you, Shiro? Can you help me?”
A scar cuts through the meat of his cheek, and uncovered, his eyes are hard as iron, toughened over the years. It wars with the image of Keith that Shiro has held in his mind—round-cheeked and boyish, still curious and childlike despite the wounded world they grew up in, his high-pitched laugh ringing like a ghost in Shiro’s ears.
“I can,” Shiro says. “I will, Keith—whatever it takes.”
For the longest moment of Shiro’s life, Keith just stares at him, mouth stretched into a tight line. Then he nods once and reaches up to take Shiro’s outstretched hand.