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Forward, but Never Forget/XOXO - Ch: 1 - Sucker Punch

Summary: Zaun is free—and must grow into its unfamiliar new dimensions. So must Silco and Jinx. A what-if that diverges midway through the events of episode 8. Found family and fluff, politics and power, smut and slice-of-life, villainy and vengeance.

AO3 - Forward, But Never Forget/XOXO

FFnet - Forward, But Never Forget (XOXO)

Playlist on Youtube

Chapters: 1| 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39 | 40 | 41 | 42 | 43 | 44 | 45 | 46 | 47 | 48

CH 1: Zaun is a free nation. Silco has plans - and problems. Jinx falls in both categories.

Tw: Mentions of war, rape and violence.

And so it went/The children lost their minds Begging for forgiveness/was such a waste of time

~ "So It Went" – The Pretty Reckless

Piltover is a firepit.

Flames bite through everything. Towers crumple and turrets crash. The Bridge splits down the middle. Blue fire ignites like lightning shot down its spine, ripping through its vertebra of bricks and breaking outward from its exoskeleton into a phoenix's wings.

The Enforcers have gone. Hundreds of them. A flock of executioners with crows' heads. Bullets slamming into bodies, throwing up showers of blood and guts. They've plugged every empty space full of lead. They've swooped with the flap-flap-flap of boots and pecked with the thunk-thunk-thunk of guns. When they scattered, they left behind a flood of meat and perforated bones. They turned the Undercity into a landscape of carcasses.

Until Jinx returned the favor.

In the alleyway: a ring of blood.

Jinx's senses are filled with it. Her breaths are a wet gurgle. Her dizzied body won't move. But her left arm holds a terrifying looseness. Wrist liquid; fingers live-wire. PowPow is a satisfying weight down her shoulderblade and the length of her arm. Its silver finish is blood-mottled, but each shot is clean and cutting and perfect.

Perfect like the lines of fire ripping the skyline to screaming shreds.

Perfect like the Enforcers popping one by one into burst blood vessels.

Perfect like the circles cycling across her face as the chamber spins.

Her periphery spins too. Somewhere to the left: Sevika. She is doubled over, braced with a forearm against the dirty brick wall. Her hair is flattened to her skull in a helmet of blood. More blood drips from the blade jutting out of her scorched mechanical arm. To her right: Silco. He stands with difficulty. His suit is dark with blood, too; shirtfront and trousers. The unscarred half of his face is flecked with it. Six inches of razor caught in his fist, fingers wrapped around the bone-handle. Blood on the gleaming metal.

At their feet: heaps of motionless bodies. Dark matter pools beneath them.

Jinx's chamber spins. Her fingers twitch on the trigger in panicky reflex.

(Oh you showed them didn't you took care of 'em like you took care of Vander and Mylo and Claggor oh look at the mess oh look at ALL THAT BLOOD—)

Voices. Voices. She can barely think for their thundering decibels.

Worse is what plays below the thunder. Soft, soft. It wheels through her emptying mind: the old merry-go-round melody.

(Dear friend across the River—)

Gasping, Jinx drops her gun. It falls with a heavy clatter. She barely hears it. The voices are massing in volume. Gathering a suffocating tension, a full-body compression squeezing itself outwards. Her mouth drops open and she lets it loose on a scream.

"I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm so sorry."

"…Jinx…"

Hands grabbing at her shoulders. She flails and screeches.

"No, please, no, no, I'm sorry—"

"Jinx."

Sturdy grip. Calluses on the fingertips; solid bones under pale skin like a bat's wings.

Silco.

Tears have melted her eyes. It's hard to focus on more than fragments of him. A body summed up into sharp angles. Long arms, hard knobs of wrists and shoulders like razorblades, blood darkening a trail up the shark-fin's crease of his trousers to the button-line of his shirt. His face is all angles too: cheekbones hollowing on a ragged inhalation, hair falling in dark slices over his forehead. His gaze is both soft-dark and inexorably bright.

"Jinx," he says. "It's okay."

"Didn't mean to. A mistake. I'm so sorry—"

She isn't talking about the gunned-down bodies. She isn't talking about the Bridge or the buildings. She can't see them. Specks of memory gather in her mind like the points of blowtorched iron nails. Pink and red and pink and Vi. Her sister and Mommy-and-Vander-Mylo-Claggor and Jinx, Jinx, just a stupid fucking jinx. A memory of blood-colored darkness and a giant fist crashing into her jaw, supernovas exploding behind her eyelids. Her whole body collapsing into itself as if hammered by the weight of the entire fucking universe.

She sways, and Silco's arms pass around her. He kneels, cradling her close. Both hands stroking along the sides of her face, thumbs smoothing through the blood-streaks to press against her temples. Jinx's chest hitches; breaths jittering. So much memory. Her body can't contain it. Any minute now, she will burst at the seams.

Curling into herself, she wails. The noise cuts bone-deep.

"Jinx, it's all right." Silco cradles her into the crook of his arm. "You did it."

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"Shh."

He dips his head to meet her eyes. His pupils are dilated with adrenaline. Blood on both their faces; hellish emptiness between them. Then his forehead touches hers, a widening circle of warmth.

He says, "You freed us."

"F-Freed?"

"We showed them." His voice husks as the smile twists across his face. "We won."

***

NEWS – SUN & TOWER

OPINION COLUMN

"Birth of Zaun: A Tryst with Liberty or Tyranny" – By B. Goode

"AMIDST unprecedented scenes of chaos, Zaun drags itself from Piltover's sheltering embrace and into self-proclaimed independence within 48 hours hence. In thus achieving separation through a bloody revolution, it has made democratic governments and imperial regimes alike squirm in their spectator's seats."

"Within the walls of this new dominion, the hastily-assembled Cabinet announced the maiden framework for governance. In Zaun's streets, the mood held a breath-held sobriety, a mark of mourning for the countless fallen to their revolution. Prayer was the keynote of the hour. Members from all communities visited the Temples of Janna to offer thanksgiving for the triumphs of the past hours, and to pray for the success of the Nation in the difficult times which lie ahead."

"On the eve of 10th October, a green-and-red standard – Zaun's colors in the symbol of a dagger-winged chem-shield – was run up a flagpole at the former Piltovan government-office at Entresol. There, the First Chancellor, Silco, delivered his address to the crowds of newborn Zaunites."

"A sharp-dressed man with a scabrous temperament and a disquieting appearance – rumor abounds that he traded his left eye for a sorcerer's omniscience – the First Chancellor's true métier lies in rhetoric. He spoke to the crowds in a rasping baritone that swelled into a thunderous bellow. His speech blended acuity with hyperbole, yet what shone through was his passion for Zaun. He painted a portrait of a city savaged by Piltovan indifference; with a keen eye to the exotic, the eccentric, the earthy, his anecdotes grounded in raw realities of Zaun's streets: miners and misfits, prostitutes and paragons."

"In Piltover, he stands accused of stoking a nationalist fervor into unrepentant terrorism. Yet here the sentiment is balanced with a keen intellectualism. Zaun for Zaunites; self-determination for self-sacrifice. Zaunites, in his words, finally have a shot at both, through the boons of a modern nation-state."

"'Forward, but never forget,' he declared, to the roaring throngs."

"Time alone will tell whether these lofty goals ripen on the vine of rampant instability. Large swathes of the city remain under curfew, without electricity or gaslight. Other regions are in disorganization and disrepair. Zaun's new leadership must pull together the fraying fabric of their creation—or perish."

"For the present, denied the clasp of Piltover's guiding hand, the Underground's fate hangs in the balance, and on the thinnest of threads."

***

Revolution is like love.

Sometimes it brews in secret, a dark stain seeping in slow-motion beneath the surface. Other times it hits like a sidewinder, powered by a lunatic savagery within which self-doubt holds no bearing. At long last, Zaun has dealt Piltover the sidewinding kiss-off, kept secret through years of subjugation. Now the city is unfettered, free-floating.

Unstoppable.

We showed them.

We showed them all.

Silco's salvaged headquarters is a cast-iron tower between Entresol and Sumpside. The shelling has stripped away its classical clothing of masonry. Left behind is a bony physique stretching into the fog of architectural eccentricity. Yet it stands strong, a testament to inward resilience despite outward deterioration. Its angular cupola crests to the surface like a shark's fin.

The fogged-over moon, angling off the ruined skyscrapers, sets its rooftop atrium ablaze in the colors of victory.

Green, red and blue.

From the floor-to-ceiling window, Silco stares at the downtown vista. With the lights low in his office, he can see across the jewelbox of his broken cityscape. Across the river, Piltover's mirrored skyline glows—an ember softly doused.

Three months, and Jinx's magician's hat of weaponry has left Topside stupefied by the performance. Buildings sawed in half, Enforcers fallen to dismemberment, roads folded into origami wreckage, armored vehicles finger-snapped into nothingness. Topside is recovering—but not with triumph. Rather, they stagger to their feet like godlings who've stumbled on a crack in mortal pavement: stunned by their own fallibility.

Silco's lip curls.

Secrecy is tattooed into his matrix. He shares neither his setbacks nor his sorrows. But his triumph? He wants to share it with someone. No—not someone. He wants to share it with Vander. He imagines himself and Vander staring out into the cityscape, shoulder-to-shoulder, passing a cigarette between them.

Just like we used to.

Since boyhood, they'd shared personalities at opposite polarities—Silco, a sly-tongued schemer, wielding as his weapon the slow and steady grind; Vander, a blunt-forced brawler, bulldozing through obstacles with his big fists and ballistic temper. Yet their crazy dream held them fast and true. A dream built in sufferings survived, in secrets shared. A dream they'd both notched into matching scars across their knuckles, knocking them together in solemn promise—Forward, but never forgetting.

Now their crazy dream is real.

(See, old friend?)

(This is what it takes to win.)

Ordinarily, Silco is a pragmatic daredevil. Every risk taken is a calculated blueprint of cause and effect. But for the barest heartbeat, he lets himself bask in Piltover's indignity without a care for past or future—a bastion with its nose bloodied.

Small pleasures are a rarity. Yet they cannot outweigh the casualties. On Piltover's side. And on Zaun's.

Before Jinx used Fishbones to blow the Bridge to cinder, the Enforcers blazed a war-path through the Undercity. Uglier than the Day of Ash: belching gunblasts and bulldozing grenades. Rubble flew through the Promenade like a storm of frightened moths. Entresol was pocked full of holes like a galleon under cannonfire. The Lanes were left a blackened smudge, like a dog doused in kerosene and set alight. The needle on the Old Hungry clocktower ran in herky-jerky circles as its body went up in smoke.

The inferno ate the Last Drop. Flames licked up its superstructure and bit off its neon eye. Jinx knocked Piltover's pride down a peg when she pulverized the Ecliptic Vaults as payback. Hours later, the Enforcers tore through Factorywood, corpses littering the cobblestones in their wake. They lost loyal men and women. The snitch—Cath. The twin bodyguards—Zoked and Szaza. The bartender—Thieram. Martyrs who bore the mantle of Zaun to their graves.

If revolution is love, then war is business. Fiendishly complex arithmetic is applied to cost and benefit. Lose a bet, win an ally. Lose a soldier, win a nation.

Yet Silco is not immune to a rare death-spasm of sentiment. One at a time, he sees them—the gunslingers, the runners, the mechanists, the dancers, the hustlers, the clerks, the barmaids, the fast talkers, the floozies, the freaks. The purest efflux of Zaun, all of whom lived hard and loved wildly and died horribly.

They deserve more than vague epithets of remembrance. They deserve loyalty.

He takes a moment to commit their faces to memory. A grim necessity. Some barely had faces left after the blitz. Others had even less remaining to cremate or bury.

The survivors were likewise stripped down to the bones: a steep psychic toll of broken limbs, bullet-wounds, and other internal damage from the Enforcer's razings and rapes. Ran has been jittery as a coked-up hummingbird. Dustin is no longer licking walls, but pounding his head against them. Lock, though he stays moving despite his Stillwater stay, is bloodlessly pale beneath his tattoos. Sevika is subdued, her mechanical arm twisted to an exoskeleton by an Enforcers' blowback.

And Jinx?

She doesn't have any wounds, except the dark vacancy in her eyes.

A dead girl's eyes.

That's what they'd whispered on the streets, when the smoke-clouds dissipated, and the survivors came stumbling out to gauge what was gone, and what remained. They'd given Piltover a bloody nose. In reprisal, Piltover left the Undercity wrecked as a whore with a mouthful of broken teeth: empty gaps in streets once throbbing with life.

Except it cannot rob them of their base elements. Their resilience and ruthlessness. They will recover. Rebuild. Resurrect.

So will Jinx.

(If Zaun can, you can, child.)

The alternative is intolerable. It builds a lung-splintering pressure in Silco's chest. Sometimes he wonders if it is Vander's revenge from beyond the grave. Their shared dream of Zaun bursting open like an air-lock; his daughter sucked out into the vacuum, and taking all of Silco's oxygen with her.

Exhaling, Silco moves away from the window.

His bullet-pocked desk is strewn: piles of books, sheaves of folders, heaped papers with his signature. Since the Undercity has broken free of Piltover, he has set a brutal pace that has continued unabated from the dim daylight hours to the cusp of nightfall. Edicts are churned at a prodigious rate, pen uncapped by breakfast, the draft polished by dinner.

A new nation is like a heart; it must be mainlined with liquidity. Money, trade, water, gas, electricity, infrastructure. The fledgling government so far consists of nothing more than twenty post offices, a modest coterie of clerks and attorneys, a heavily-damaged army with a depleted armory, and a newly-dubbed domestic bank on two wobbling legs. There are no federal courts, no naval fleets, no aerial support.

Worse, there are thousands suffering wounds and Shimmer-withdrawals at squalid camps that are festering into disease-pits. Power blackouts have plunged large city sectors into weeks of darkness. Violent clashes periodically erupt against the enforced curfew. They have few foreign powers in their corner: Ionia, a reliable business partner that pays ready cash for the munitions from Silco's steel-mills. Bilgewater, whose top smugglers have long held a close but choleric relationship with Zaun's criminal underbelly. Noxus, who has its sights set on Piltover, and isn't above employing Zaunite mercenaries to do their dirty work.

It's the makings of a grand guignol: the colors and lights, the heady music, the spinning wheels. But they aren't quite ready yet. The tents have yet to be pitched. The performers haven't yet donned their costumes.

Until Silco cracks the whip and the show begins.

Six years, he's worked behind the scenes. He's pulled strings and twisted arms. He's dragged the Undercity, kicking and screaming, into an era of cutthroat modernity. Under Vander, it was a fractured waystation. Piltovan officials pitted the Fissurefolk against each other, using cracks of dysfunction to divide and rule. Daily life was threaded with a blanket of false bonhomie. Beneath, it was every man for himself. Trade was at a standstill. Cartels ran amok. A heavy Enforcer presence strangled economic growth.

Vander was a popular leader, but gutlessly shortsighted. He'd struck a ceasefire with the status quo, and yet fast-tracked the Undercity's decline. He'd treated the Lanes as family, and yet failed to safeguard their dreams. He'd fought for freedom, and yet traded it for illusory peace.

Silco had changed that.

Overnight, he'd staged a coup and swung the Undercity upside-down. First, he'd driven out the Enforcers (bribes, blackmail, brutality). Next, he'd united the warring gangs (chicanery, coercion, collaboration). Last, he'd culled the dead weights (disappearance, double-crossing, disaster).

The success wasn't without its cost. The Undercity existed in a moral gray-zone. Everyone was on the make and on the take. Silco was no exception. A Janus-faced subversive, his dual nature was always split between devious means and incorruptible will. He'd left the Lanes overflowing with Shimmer. Yet the profits had bullied out the gangs and paved the way for a united front. He'd cut out the middle-class middlemen. Yet the removal had struck bloodless bargains between business rivals. He'd built a fearsome reputation as Zaun's all-seeing eye. Yet he gave a sizeable slice of his profits to a citywide network—street urchins, conmen, prostitutes.

The secret of his success lay in its dichotomy. While he'd embraced the Undercity's ruthless zeitgeist, he'd also reveled in subverting it. Double-dealing, some called it. To Silco, it was simply the cost of survival in a rigged system. As the Undercity saying goes: There are fifty ways to lose a game—and fifty more to fix it.

His methods were myriad. His bottom-line was singular.

Zaun.

Too long, roadblocks had impeded his nation's growth. They'd turned Fissurefolk into a tribe of halvsies—half-dying, half-surviving, half-mediocre, half-mad. They'd become the losers of history, impotently nursing their grievances like a shot at the bar, instead of vowing: I'll fight for what's mine.

Silco had replaced the roadblocks with a runway. No handouts—but sky-high opportunity. No rules—but dreams run rampant. A thriving marketplace needs wildcards; a laissez faire economy is powered by live-wires. Under his aegis, the Undercity was transformed from a jetlagged wasteland into a jetsetters' playground.

Zaunites are not losers. They are survivors. If dealt a bad hand, they take matters into their own.

And so we have.

Today, Zaun stands as its own blood-soaked testament. Its scars run deep, but its self-dominion is indisputable. Its businessmen, bureaucrats, politicians and privateers are one and the same. The water-barons control the flow of the river reservoirs. The shipping magnates haul in trawlers of legitimate trade and smuggled goods. The gas tycoons keep a lid on the mines. The steel moguls erect the buildings. They have privatized the Undercity's most critical sectors; they, not Piltover, are the wielders of its wealth.

And they are all in Silco's pocket.

He reaches for his smoking case. A cigar is withdrawn, clipped, cupped, lit. Behind a plume of smoke, Silco broods.

Freedom, once snatched, is never surefire. Zaun is at an unsteady juncture. Its reserves are low; its vulnerabilities are high. The subsequent year will decide whether it climbs to its feet or collapses in the bilge. The air is thick with expectation—a suffocating heat-wave. The cobblestones and bricks radiate it like a furnace. His office pours fumes like an oven.

Silco endures it with iced whiskey and gritted teeth. The only true relief he wrings is in the shower. At night, he sits by the window of Jinx's room—bulletproofed—and plans, not covertly as a good little third-class citizen of Piltover, but as the First Chancellor of a nation dragged from the depths, his decrees pumping air into an enormous pair of lungs, the future constricting and expanding around him, over and over, with possibilities.

Silco's own lungs burn. His chest is strangled by too much he refuses to name.

Pressure.

It mutates the mind. Like drowning. It cracks men into monsters. Like Silco.

So be it.

Monsters spare no thought except for survival. Zaun is survival, and Silco is that monster. He refuses to let the city collapse. Everyone—from the blackguards patrolling the streets to the clerks camped out in the bomb-shelters to the scientists locked in the Shimmer labs—must play their part. He will tolerate no excuses, and forgive no failures. Victory and victimhood are separated by a razor's line. Either you get suckered, or you throw the sucker-punch.

Zaun has plenty of sucker-punches up its sleeve.

At his door, three sharp knocks. A familiar combination-code.

"Come in."

Sevika shoulders through the door. Her hair, chopped three inches shorter after getting scorched in the battle, sticks out in hedgehog spikes. A blotching of old bone bruises overlays the Shimmer veins along her jawline. From beneath the flap of her poncho, sharp metal calipers poke out. The latticework is intact; she can use her mechanized hand for daily tasks of soup-sipping and throat-slitting. But the armored surface still needs adjustment.

These aren't the obvious signs of the battle's aftershocks. Sevika is a workhorse: she shrugs off most calamities that leave lesser men dead. But lately her expression looks like she's ingested a bad batch of magic mushrooms—palely nauseated, with red-rimmed eyes.

It's insomnia, not weepiness. Sevika isn't the weepy sort. Silco can count on one hand how often he's seen her in tears—with fingers leftover.

Once was after her sister's death at the hands of Enforcers, her blood-oiled hands cradling Nandi's broken body in the morgue as it grew colder and colder. The second was at the funeral, her eyes glistening red as the Temple's rotating lanterns strobed across the tar-toned mausoleum. The next was in the aftermath of Zaun's liberation, the spotlight silvering the dampness on her cheeks as Silco took the podium, the crowd breaking into a massacre of screams.

They've had much to mourn in the past. But more still to achieve in the future.

"The chem-barons agreed to the meeting," she says.

"Where?"

"The Cathedral. Just like you predicted."

"Typical."

Smoke twirls through the semi-dark. Silco bites the cigar between scathing teeth, and strokes all ten fingers through his hair. Bloody chem-barons. In Zaun's excruciating birth, they bear witness as ugly stalwarts of the old older: flesh peddlers, black marketeers and business tycoons.

Useful for squeezing out cash and connections. Useless for virtually anything else.

They'd holed up in their strongholds during the conflict. In the aftermath, they're still spooked. Silco hasn't heard a peep from them in weeks. Now, he's cracked the whip. The summons must be obeyed. He'll lure them out, one by one. He'll put them in their place, and put them to use.

For Zaun, and its future.

"Power's still out in Entresol," Sevika says.

"Tonight's meeting will remedy that."

"Probably a blessing in the meantime. Hides the corpses."

"They're still there?"

"In heaps. I wrangled together the blackguards at Northside. They put the fresher bodies in wagons and took 'em to the cemetery. Others were dumped in communal graves. The rest were too badly decayed. We had to make a mass pyre."

"We can't have a pyre in the town square."

"What choice is there?" She shudders despite the overheated air. "We need to get rid of the smell."

Silco tips a shadowy half-smile that deepens the grooves of his mutilated cheekbone. "You've always hated rot."

She scowls. "It kills the mood."

"Or inspires a killing mood."

Her nod holds a slow-simmering anger. The chem-barons were responsible for cleaning up the Undercity after the ceasefire. They're the ones who've prolonged this mess. Silco has pantomimed indifference; giving them a long leash and letting them run amok. Except a leash can easily tighten into a noose. Now he'll see them dangle from it.

"What about southside?' Silco says. "How many Firelights eradicated?"

"The blackguards are proceeding as per your charted strategy. We've cracked open one of their strongholds. Complete takeover is scheduled for next month. But we need manpower. More boots on the ground. Right now, the troops are barely at thirty percent."

"Another matter to remedy at the meeting."

"What about Uppside?"

"What of it?"

"You said there were talks on the table."

"Tentative."

"What's that mean?"

"Means what it means."

Stymied frustration pours off Sevika. He's on a short fuse lately; by proxy, so is she. In the spirit of charity, Silco throws her a boneful of detail. "Piltover's ploy is sophistry. Ours is stubbornness."

"They still want that damn Hex crystal?"

"Hmm."

"What did you tell 'em?"

Silco exhales a murky smoke ring. "I told them to piss off."

"Bunch of bastards," Sevika agrees. The rage vibrates through her ribcage and out of her darkly-twisted lips, a mobile microcosm of Zaun's own rage. Memory of bullets striking the chests of thousands, their bodies dropping like puppets with cut strings. "They left us for dead, soon as their Enforcers stormed belowground."

"We didn't die."

"Yeah. But—"

"What?"

"We might not have had a second chance."

Silco knows Sevika's triggers like a marksman with a well-worn shotgun. He doesn't miss the tightly-screwed strain in her voice. Mortality's shadow dogging their heels.

Rather than replying, he fills out a clipboard of forms with a methodical hand. Smoke spindles from the cigar between his manicured fingers. He's had them redone a week ago, the cuticles buffed to a cold sheen. But he still remembers them cracked and peeling, with flecks of Topside gore under their rims. Running down his knuckles, glinting off the bone-handled knife in his palm.

He'd always been a dab hand with a blade. You didn't need to be the strongest to slide a knife between someone's ribs. You only needed skill and stealth. He'd gutted plenty of men. Vander was simply the most memorable. But violence has different modes; dirt was better off delegated. At the apex of the underworld, Silco seldom sullied his hands, except with the blood-money that crossed them.

That night, he was in the thick of it. No manpower; no choice.

He remembers the hot piss of dark blood each time his blade found its mark. Remembers the redlining adrenaline, and his breaths half-laughing through gritted teeth afterward. The ache in his body was indescribable. Not pain. The wrung-out relief that came from squaring overdue debts.

Too long, he'd kept to the saboteur's sidelines. He'd spun webs and woven schemes. That was his talent since boyhood: his calculating brains equalized by Vander's charismatic brawn.

Not that night.

That night, he was in the eye of madness. Another cog in his own war machine. And he belonged as much as Jinx did.

(Always a pair, weren't we, Jinx?)

(Now you sleep the bells away. I barely catch a wink.)

Silco snaps back to the moment. He licks his thumb and forefinger and extinguishes the cigar. His good eye meets Sevika through the wisping smoke.

"Second chances are do-overs," he says. "We've never had the luxury. Yet here we stand. For better or worse."

"For better or worse," Sevika agrees.

Her smile is wan, and in her face Silco sees the rotten years they've spent together. They've never held the solidarity of siblings, as he and Vander did. But they've scavenged side-by-side from the Undercity's nadir to its pinnacle. A symbiosis of eye and fist, though they've occupied no common body, of general and soldier, though they've conferred no medals, of husband and helpmate, though they've shared no vows.

Except one. A birthright of bitter defiance bred from the cradle to the grave.

Now they are Zaunites, battle-scarred and born again. Both of them facing up to reality; their dream isn't percolating in their minds or plotted on their maps anymore. It is real. It is electricity and water supply; it is turmoil and toil. It is nothing like they expected. It is every fantasy fulfilled.

Depending on how they seize it.

By the throat.

Silco unfolds to his feet. Silently cued, Sevika takes his coat from the rack and holds it up so that he can pass his arms into the sleeves. Dark serge and red silk fall over narrow bone and wiry muscle. It feels less like a uniform than a second skin.

A shadow slicing up to the water's surface.

Sevika holds the door open for him. Her usual scent of sandalwood is piqued with brightleaf tobacco. With a ration on cigarettes, she's gone back to dipping. When Silco crooks a brow, she sighs and flips open the puck from her poncho. He takes a pinchful and packs it between his lips. The taste is bittersweet and carries with it a touch of the mines from over three decades ago.

It may soon be possible, he thinks, to savor the present without scalding mouthfuls of the past. But for now, it is everywhere. Their past selves recoalescing out of the stifling air—Vander, Benzo, Lika, Nandi, Silco, Sevika.

He remembers them standing together by the quarry after dark—working their swollen hands under the trickle of tepid water from a calcified spigot. He remembers the haze of chemicals that hung in the air—their lips and eyelashes perpetually blackened with it. He remembers them jostling in line for dinner at the Soup Kitchen—the twelve-hour shift's only hot meal sloshing in their bowls and perking their moods.

And he remembers the Day of Ash.

He remembers their clandestine meetings at the Drop, their group huddled under the suspended beer kegs. He remembers the lines of Vander's face hardened with grim resolution, the sharp paleness of Silco's own finger tracing out the smuggling routes for weapons between the shipyards, Lika tinkering with bitten lip over a makeshift grenade, Sevika huddled in the corner behind a sulky cloud of cigarette smoke, Nandi brewing coffee and Benzo wisecracking to keep their spirits up, everyone else listening intently. He remembers the crowd gathered at the Bridge, a small band in the midst of rewriting the Undercity's history—or so they'd believed.

Then the Enforcers came, in brutal marching rows, more and more, and their weapons weren't enough, and the ferocity of their convictions fled as their bodies scattered like matchsticks, Lika gutted, Nandi long dead, Benzo going down in a storm of blows, Sevika snarling as she was seized by Enforcer's black-gloved hands and ripped away, her clutching fingers breaking from Silco's sleeve as he fell under stomping black boots in a pool of his own blood, Vander the strongest and silhouetted by the flames, his massive fists still swinging before Silco's world crashed into darkness.

The past weeks—full of violence and hope—have conjured those days out of memory.

But the old days are never truly gone, are they? They bleed from the past into the present. They spur you to chase down and reclaim what's rightfully yours.

Forward, but never forget.

Silco savors the grittiness of the tobacco. Then he slips the puck into his coat pocket as if it belongs to him.

Sevika glowers. "That's my last."

"I'll handroll it into a half-dozen."

"When? During the meeting?"

"Better than listening to the chem-barons' sniveling."

"Guess that means we'll be there awhile."

"Guess again."

"Yeah?" Her eyes narrow, intrigued. "Any tricks up the sleeve?"

Silco's lips twist into the terrible approximation of a smile.

"Plenty."

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mareislandfoundation · 7 months

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Stranded!

Over 100 years ago a submarine operating out of Mare Island Naval Shipyard beached outside of Humboldt Bay and the initial attempts by the Navy to refloat and tow her out to sea failed spectacularly. However, following the Navy’s failure, the salvage was turned over to a veteran logger who rejected the notion of fighting the waves and current involved in towing the 400-ton submarine back out to sea. Contrary to the Navy’s approach, he looked to drag the submarine across the South Spit of Humboldt Bay and relaunch it into the protected waters of the bay.

In late December 1916 Mare Island Naval Shipyard was hurriedly preparing the Protected Cruiser USS Milwaukee (C-21) For deployment on a rescue mission 250 miles up the coast off Eureka, California. The ship had been built ten years before at San Francisco’s Union Iron Works and now workers at Mare Island Naval Shipyard were busy attaching a half mile long 2 inch thick 24-ton steel cable to the ship and securing it to the after 8” gun turret. The cable had to be secured to the gun turret as no cleat or bollard on the ship could withstand the full 21,000 horsepower the ships triple expansion steam engines generated; however, as it turned out, that cable would be death of the ship.

Milwaukee was being urgently dispatched to salvage the submarine H-3 that was stranded on Samoa Beach across from the Northern California City of Eureka. Earlier, on the morning of December 14, submarine H-3 with her sister submarines H-1 and H-2 and their tender the monitor CHEYENNE were off the Northern California port of Eureka. They were to survey the harbor as a potential location for a submarine flotilla. At about 8:30 in the morning the captain of the H-3 was blinded by fog and not in visual contact with the other ships in the small fleet. His dead reckoning placed the submarine off the tiny opening into the harbor and he began inching the submarine eastward to search for the entrance. With his leadman taking constant readings a sleeper wave lifted the submarine thrusting it forward where it then grounded on a shoal. All astern was immediately ordered, but it was to no avail. Wave after wave drove the H-3 further ashore and turned her until she was parallel with the shoreline. The waves then began destroying her bridge and rolling her from side to side throwing the men inside against internal projections. Water pored through the bridge opening requiring that the hatch be secured as the men inside fought fires and chlorine gas caused by the seawater entering the battery compartment. With the hatch closed, the 25 men on the submarine were confined within their convulsing prison until help could arrive.

That help would be hours away as the nearest Coast Guard Station was located on the other side of the harbor entrance and rescuers had to travel around the entire harbor (about 25 miles) to get to the stranded sub. In the meantime, waves continued to push the submarine further towards the shore and into the breakers. By late afternoon a breach line had been attached to the conning tower of the submarine and the crew members began to be hauled across the 100 yards of breaking surf to the beach. As they were pulled to shore waves were rolling the submarine from side-to-side slackening and tightening the line causing the men to be dipped into the sea so often that when they reached shore most were half conscious. Despite the danger, all were saved by days end and were under care for any injuries suffered. With the rescue complete attention now shifted to salvaging the H-3.

For the next five days the CHEYENNE, a Coast Guard cutter, and two tugs tried in vain to haul the H-3 off the beach. The Navy then solicited bids from private salvagers. Those bids ranged from $18,000 to over $100,000. The low bidder was a man with many years logging experience who wanted to skid the sub a mile over the Samoa peninsula to the calm waters of the harbor.in the same manner he moved massive redwood trees. The bids were all rejected, and the Navy decided to do the job themselves with the powerful protected cruiser Milwaukee. The Milwaukee arrived on scene on January 9 and began the process of attaching the 24-ton tow line to the H-3. The plan was to tow the H-3 back to sea at high tide at 3:23 am on January 13. In the pitch black of the morning the Milwaukee took a strain on the line as she headed out to sea. She was assisted by the CHEYENNE and a small tug who were pulling her to starboard to counteract the effect of the wind, current and waves that were all pushing her to port. As the Milwaukee churned the ocean to froth the H-3 refused to budge. Then, the hawser from the Cheyenne parted. The remaining small tug was no longer able to hold the Milwaukee against the current by itself, and the waves and wind began swinging the Milwaukee to port anchored by the H-3. Urgent orders to cut the tow cable could not be completed in time and the Milwaukee swung in an arc around the H-3 until she too was grounded. It was going to be another long day for the Coast Guard rescue station. Although the immediate situation was not urgent, there were now 450 men stranded and in need of rescue through the surf.

The Milwaukee itself was not salvageable.

Eventually a temporary pier was built from shore out to the wreck and everything that could be carried off was taken and transported back to Mare Island for use on other ships. Meanwhile, the Navy, after originally deciding that the logger’s $18,000 bid could not possibly be executed, changed their mind and decided to retain him to haul the submarine over the sand peninsula to the harbor. True to his word, the logger hauled the H-3 into the harbor and refloated her. She was then taken to Mare Island Naval Shipyard for repairs.

Dennis Kelly

#vallejo #mare island #naval history #san francisco bay #us navy #Salmon Creek #Salvage #USS Milwaukee #Milwaukee #Coast Guard #Breeches Buoy

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judgemark45 · 2 years

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The Japanese Battleship Kongō was Among the Most Heavily Armed When It was First Built. The Japanese battleship Kongō had some of the greatest nicknames in history; the Japanese translations for the vessel’s many names are “Indestructible Diamond,” “Indra’s Spear” and “Divine Thunder.” In addition to this, she also saw extensive service in both World War I and II. Kongō featured eight 14-inch heavy-caliber main naval guns in four twin turrets. These guns were capable of firing armor-piercing and high-explosive shells, and were the first 14-inch guns in the world to be equipped to a naval vessel. Kongō was formally commissioned in August 1913. In November 1944, Kongō was spotted by the submarine USS Sealion (SS-315) in the Formosa Strait. The vessel fired six bow torpedoes at the battleship, two of which hit and flooded Kongō‘s boiler rooms. While she was able to escape the scene, the damage proved to be too much, with her sinking to the bottom of the strait after her forward 14-inch magazine exploded. Over 1,200 crewmen died. Kongō was the only Japanese battleship to be sunk by a submarine during WWII, while Sealion was the only Allied submarine to sink an enemy battleship. - Todd Neikirk

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usafphantom2 · 2 years

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Martin XB-10 in flight. (U.S. Air Force photo)

flickr

Ronnie Bell Following

Martin XB-10 in flight. (U.S. Air Force photo)

The first group of 14 airplanes were designated YB-10. The YB-10 (Martin Model 139) had enclosed canopies for the pilot and top gunner, and a nose turret. The crew consisted of a pilot, radio operator and three gunners. These airplanes were powered by two air-cooled, supercharged, 1,823.129-cubic-inch-displacement (29.876 liter) Wright Cyclone SGR-1820-F2 (R-1820-25) 9-cylinder radial engines with a compression ratio of 6.4:1, rated at 750 horsepower at 1,950 r.p.m. at Sea Level. The engines turned three-bladed Hamilton Standard adjustable-pitch propellers through a 16:11 gear reduction. The R-1820-25 was 3 feet, 11–13/16 inches (1.214 meters) long, 4 feet, 5-¾ inches (1.365 meters) in diameter, and weighed 1,047 pounds (475 kilograms).

The bomber could carry two 1,130 pound (513 kilogram) bombs, or five 300 pound (136 kilogram) bombs in its internal bomb bay. Alternatively, a 2,000 pound (907 kilogram) bomb could be carried externally. There were three .30-caliber (7.62 mm) Browning M1919 machine guns for defense.

The first full scale production version was the B-10B, which was very similar to the service test YB-10s. These airplanes were 44 feet, 9 inches (13.640 meters) long with a wingspan of 70 feet, 6 inches (21.488 meters) and height of 15 feet, 5 inches (4.670 meters). The B-10B had an empty weight of 9,681 pounds (4,391 kilograms).

The engines installed in this variant were Wright Cyclone SGR-1820-F3 (R-1820-33), rated at 700 horsepower at 1,950 r.p.m. at Sea Level. Dimensions, weight and propeller gear reduction for this engine are the same as the R-1820-25, above.

The B-10B had a cruising speed of 193 miles per hour (311 kilometers per hour), and maximum speed of 213 miles per hour (343 kilometers per hour) at 10,000 feet (3,048 meters).

Via Flickr

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pinturas-sgm-marina · 3 years

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1941 05 26 Sighting the Bismarck - Robert Taylor

In the early hours of May 24, 1941, as the mighty German ships Bismarck and Prinz Eugen slipped through the Denmark Strait, they were dramatically intercepted by the Royal Naval battleships Hood and Prince of Wales. Within six minutes of the first salvo being fired, the Hood, pride of the Royal Navy, was blown out of the water in one of the most gigantic explosions ever witnessed at sea.

Bismarck’s fourth salvo landed a shell forward of the Hood’s after turrets, piercing her deck, exploding the 4-inch magazine. Simultaneously this detonated the adjacent 15-inch magazine, and in one mighty eruption the battleship broke in two. Within seconds she was gone. Of the ship’s company of 1400 officers and sailors only three survived.

Outraged at the grievous loss Winston Churchill signaled the Admiralty just three words: “Sink the Bismarck!” Thus began one of the epic sea chases in the history of naval warfare.

Damaged by shells from Prince of Wales’s 14-inch guns, and losing fuel oil, Admiral Lutjens broke off the engagement and steamed Bismarck towards the anonymity of the North Atlantic. Evading the British warships for 32 hours he had hopes of reaching the safety of Brest, but when spotted by a lone Catalina of 209 Squadron RAF Coastal Command, Lutjens knew it was the beginning of the end for the mighty German warship.

When attacked by Swordfish from Ark Royal, her rudder was jammed and Bismarck’s fate was sealed. As she limped haphazardly through the waves trailing oil, the Home Fleet closed in for the final encounter. Overwhelmed by British gums and torpedoes, Bismarck’s crew fought a gallant last battle, but the odds were too great. Watching Bismarck’s final moments from King George V’s bridge, Admiral Tovey said: “She put up a noble fight against impossible odds, worthy of the old days of the Imperial German Navy.”

Robert Taylor, master-painter of sea and sky, portrays the Bismarck at the fateful moment she was located by RAF Coastal Command. Greeted by a defiant barrage of fire from Bismarsk’s anti-aircraft guns, the Catalina veers away, but already the radio operator has transmitted her position. Like the Hood just two days earlier, the pride of Hitler’s Kriegsmarine was by now, destined for the deep.

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nitewrighter · 4 years

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I know Faustine wouldnt be the type to fight on the same level as thugs like AU!Rei would but the idea of both of them fighting a losing battle and it getting all gritty is such a badass concept. LikeFaustine checking her phone while constantly getting dogged by this john wick level hitman and Rei facing off against a big null sector omnic. Faustine's opponent finally getting the upper hand and knocking her down then moving to execute her. The generic big bad holding the amaris hostage spewing their evil monologue only to getcut off by a beep from Faustine's phone, a ding from the hitman and the omnic seizing up. Hitman going from tense to lax as they point their gun away and extend a hand towards Faustine to help them up, going extremely polite and apologetic, while the omnic turns away from Rei to stand between her and the big bad and their lesser goons. And it all concluding with Faustine standing up, a bit of blood trickling from her wide grin. Ahhhh sorry about the ramble, Mun 😅

The other option is Rei thinks Faustine has ditched her early on, but Faustine’s actually taken a detour to hijack the entire building’s security system. And then Rei gets to the final boss like “Goddammit I have to do everything myself!” and that’s when Faustine comes over the speakers like, “Oh, just conveniently ignore all of the 14-inch steel doors that magically opened for you! Of course!”

Big Bad: What--how did you---Oh you are not staying there--System, activate wall turrets!

Faustine, still speaking over the turrets: ...I believe you mean my wall turrets.

*several guns jut out of the walls and fix on the big bad*

Big Bad: ...ah.

So Rei’s able to get the boys back and they rush to the control room where Faustine is like... scary wired into all of the control panels and it’s clear hooking into a system that extensive takes a toll on her because she looks rough, but she’s still trying to play it off all nonchalant like “I’m still detaching, give me a minute--”

Samir: I didn’t think you could take over a system this big.

Faustine: ...oh I’m really not supposed to. *inhales sharply as the last few wires retract back into her hands*

Samir: Foss, you popped a blood vessel in your eye--I--Is that blood coming out of your ear?

Faustine: *vaguely* Probably...?

#pending faustine tag #faumir #follow for more Gency kid facts #symmarah kids

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greatworldwar2 · 4 years

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• HMCS Haida

HMCS Haida is a Tribal-class destroyer that served in the Royal Canadian Navy (RCN) from 1943 to 1963, participating in World War II and the Korean War. She was named for the Haida people.

The Tribals were designed to fight heavily armed destroyers of other navies, such as the Japanese Fubuki class. Canada chose the design based on its armament, with the size and power of the Tribal class allowing them to act more like small cruisers than as fleet destroyers. Haida was among the first batch of Tribal-class destroyers ordered by the RCN in 1940–1941. They were ordered with modified ventilation and heating systems for North Atlantic winter service. Haida's design was modified after deficiencies were noted in the lead ship of the Canadian Tribals, HMCS Iroquois. Haida, as one of the British-built Tribal-class destroyers, was 335 feet 6 inches (102.26 m) long between perpendiculars and 377 feet (115 m) long overall with a beam of 36 feet 6 inches (11.13 m) and a draught of 13 feet (4.0 m). As built, the destroyer displaced 1,927 long tons (1,958 t) standard and 2,745 long tons (2,789 t) at deep load. Haida had a complement of 14 officers and 245 ratings. As built, Haida was fitted with six quick-firing 4.7-inch (119 mm) Mk XII guns placed in three twin turrets. For secondary anti-aircraft armament, the destroyer was equipped with four single-mounted 2-pounder "pom-pom" guns. The vessel was also fitted with four 21-inch (533 mm) torpedo tubes for Mk IX torpedoes.

Haida's keel was laid down by Vickers-Armstrongs, Ltd. at their shipyard in Newcastle-upon-Tyne on September 29th, 1941. The destroyer was launched on August 25th, 1942 and commissioned into RCN service on August 30th, 1943. She underwent workups under her first commanding officer, H.G. DeWolf before reporting to the British Home Fleet at Scapa Flow in October 1943. After commissioning Haida was assigned to the Royal Navy's Home Fleet. On November 28th Haida was among the destroyer escort for the Russian convoy RA 54B, protecting it until it reached Loch Ewe on December 9th without loss. The convoy JW 55B sailed from Loch Ewe for Russia on December 20th. Haida was a member of its ocean escort. The German battleship Scharnhorst was deployed to intercept the convoy. While the cruisers escorting the convoy kept the German vessel at bay, Haida and the other escorting destroyers shepherded the convoy away from danger until the German battleship was sunk by a British force. Haida joined the escort of RA 55B on the return journey to the UK which sailed from Kola Inlet on December 31st and arrived on January 8th, 1944. On January 10th, 1944, she was reassigned to the 10th Destroyer Flotilla at Plymouth and took part in the Operation Tunnel and Operation Hostile sweeps in the Bay of Biscay and along the French coast of the English Channel.

By April, Haida had sailed on nineteen of the Operation Tunnel/Hostile missions. Haida continued the Operation Hostile sorties in company of sister ship Huron during the weeks leading up to Operation Overlord. The 10th Destroyer Flotilla were part of the covering force for surface attacks at the western entrance of the English Channel during the invasion of Normandy. On June 9th, Haida was part of Task Force 26 which engaged the German 8th Destroyer Flotilla, comprising Z32, Z24, ZH1 and T24 northwest of the Île de Bas. Following the fall of Cherboug, the German E-boats were transferred to Le Havre, freeing up the 10th Flotilla. The flotilla was then given the dual role of covering Allied motor torpedo boat flotillas and search and sink missions against German shipping along the French coast. On June 24th, while on patrol in the English Channel off Land's End, investigated a Liberator bomber dropping depth charges on a target. Haida and the British destroyer Eskimo began their own depth charge attacks after being informed that a submarine had been spotted. After several attacks, the submarine surfaced and attempted to run. Haida and Eskimo began to fire with all their guns and sank U-971. Haida rescued six survivors of the sunken submarine. On August 5th, Haida was part of a force engaged in an Operation Kinetic sweep. The force attacked a German convoy north of the Île de Yeu and sank the minesweepers M 263 and M 486, the patrol boat V 414 and the coastal launch Otto. During the battle a shell exploded in one of Haida's turrets and started a fire, killing two and injuring eight, knocking the turret out of action. Staying in the line of battle, the destroyers were engaged by shore batteries when they attempted to take on a second convoy and were forced to withdraw without doing much damage to the German merchant vessels.

Haida departed Western Europe on September 22nd for Halifax, Nova Scotia, arriving on September 29th. The destroyer returned to Scapa Flow in mid-January 1945 after refitting to receive new radar. In March Haida escorted aircraft carriers in minelaying operations off Granesund, Norway and assisted in attacks on shipping off Trondheim from March 24th-28th. On April 7th, Haida escorted seven anti-submarine warfare vessels from Greenock, Scotland destined for Soviet use at Vaenga, on the Kola Inlet. Haida experienced one of the last RCN engagements of the Second World War when she escorted convoy RA 66 from Vaenga from April 29th to May 2nd. The convoy was attacked in transit and Haida and Huron received near-misses from torpedoes fired by U-boats. In the skirmish, two U-boats were sunk, along with the frigate Goodall, and the convoy escaped in a snowstorm. Haida and Huron returned to Scapa Flow on 6 May and were assigned to relief operations at Trondheimsfjord, Norway on May 17th. Haida, along with Huron and Iroquois, left for Halifax in June to refit as part of Canada's contribution to Operation Downfall. They arrived on June 10th and Haida started a tropicalization refit but it was suspended after the surrender of Japan later that summer.

After the war, Haida was in inactive reserve for approximately one year but was prepared for reactivation in 1947 and underwent a refit for updated armament and sensors. This involved replacing the main armament, with the 4.7-inch guns removed and two twin Mk XVI 4-inch gun mounts installed forward and a twin 3-inch (76 mm)/50 calibre gun mount installed aft. Haida and her sister ship HMCS Nootka participated in exercises between the RCN's Atlantic Fleet and the United States Navy and Royal Navy over the next several years and were the first RCN ships to penetrate Hudson Bay in Fall 1948. Haida was involved in assisting during the grounding of the aircraft carrier HMCS Magnificent off Port Mouton, Nova Scotia on June 4th, 1949. In November 1949, Haida rescued the 18 members of the crew of a United States Air Force B-29 bomber that crashed in the Atlantic Ocean. The opening of the Korean War on June 25th, 1950 saw Haida once again activated for war duty. She was converted to a destroyer escort and began refit in July 1950 which saw various new armaments and sensors and communications systems. Following the Korean operations, Haida embarked on Cold War anti-submarine warfare duties with other NATO units in the North Atlantic and West Indies.

In 2002, at the urging of Hamilton, Ontario MP Sheila Copps, Parks Canada purchased Haida from the provincial government and towed her (with great difficulty) from her Ontario Place dock to a shipyard at Port Weller for a $5 million refit to her hull. She was taken to a new home on the Hamilton waterfront and arrived to an 11-gun salute from 31 Royal Canadian Sea Cadet Corps Lion and her 12-pounder naval field gun on August 30th, 2003, the 60th anniversary of her commissioning into the RCN.

#ww2 #world war 2 #world war ii #second world war #royal canadian navy #canadian history #history #british history #long post #british commonwealth #wwii

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nebris · 3 years

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The 2 turrets of Triple 14 inch (356 mm) guns turrets of the Battleship California (BB-44) circa 1945.

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neskire · 4 years

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USS California (BB-44) was the second of two Tennessee-class battleships built for the United States Navy between her keel laying in October 1916 and her commissioning in August 1921. The Tennessee class was part of the standard series of twelve battleships built in the 1910s and 1920s, and were developments of the preceding New Mexico class. They were armed with a battery of twelve 14-inch (360 mm) guns in four three-gun turrets. California served as the flagship of the Battle Fleet in the Pacific Ocean for duration of her peacetime career. She spent the 1920s and 1930s participating in routine fleet training exercises, including the annual Fleet Problems, and cruises around the Americas and further abroad, such as a goodwill visit to Australia and New Zealand in 1925. (source: Wikipedia)

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lonestarbattleship · 10 months

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View of the 14 inch guns of USS TEXAS (BB-35). She was in Port Townsend, Washington.

Note: the Hanriot HD2 aircraft on turret #2.

Date: December 3-4, 1920.

#USS Texas (BB-35)#USS Texas #New York Class #Battleship #Dreadnought #Battleship Texas #Warship #ship #United States Navy #U.S. Navy #US Navy #USN #Navy #December #1920 #my post

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gold-and-rubies · 4 years

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In It For The Long Haul - Chapter 14

Violence against robots. Mac POV.

MacCready shivered lightly as he and Flynn trudged through the snowy wastes. He was thankful for the new duster. He was sure that if he had the old one he would have frozen to death.

They had received a call over the radio to go down to The Castle. MacCready had decided to skirt around the Boston ruins. He did not want to deal with the raiders and mutants that they were sure to run into if they went along the river and harbor. Part of him regretted it, since they had to walk in a large loop to avoid the bad pockets.

As they came over the crest of the hill MacCready spotted one of the old military checkpoints that littered the roads of the Commonwealth. An old Mister Gutsy roamed the area. Just as he was just about to start on a path to take them around it he saw a suit of power armor.

He nudged Flynn with his elbow lightly, “There’s power armor down there. Probably some ammo too. We should go.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, “You sure it’s not a trap? It’s out in the open.”

“Yeah. There’s a Mister Gutsy. Jamaica Plain, University Point, and South Boston are nearby. Plus that junkyard I told you about. I doubt it’s a trap,” he explained.

She nodded, but he doubted she knew what was wrong with the places he listed. He forgot about her time in the vault sometimes. He was going to have to sit down with her one of these days when they are not overly exhausted, and fill her in on everything he could.

He dropped to a crouch half way between the crest and the checkpoint. Flynn dropped down next to him, not wanting to draw attention to them both. He brought his rifle up, and stared through the scope. He traced the rhythmic motions of the robot for a bit before firing two consecutive shots. He nailed it just right and it’s power cut out.

“Damn….” Flynn swore quietly beside him.

He smiled to himself.

They made their way down, and found that the power armor was not only safe, but was also an almost perfect T-60 suit complete with a fusion core that still had some juice in it. Thankfully, there was not a fleck of paint on it either.

“Well, Damn,” MacCready swore, “A decent T-60 that doesn’t belong to the Brotherhood? Don’t mind if we do.”

“You think they’ll try to take it from us?” Flynn asked. She was completely serious.

“Nah. If we keep it at The Castle or Sanctuary it should be fine.”

She nodded, “You want to take the armor or…?”

“You take it. You’ll be actually intimidating for once,” he teased.

She rolled her eyes at him as she climbed into the suit. Normally she was several inches shorter than him, half a foot at the least, but in the power armor suit she almost towered over him. He wondered how she managed to operate the thing without modifications.

They walked along the shore, with Flynn being closer to the water. Every now and then she would make a comment about how much she loved the ocean. That it was one of the perks of living in The Commonwealth.

He did not understand why she loved it so much. It did not smell great, and it was full of mirelurks and who knew what else. He had stepped into a boat once or twice, and to say he lacked sea legs was an understatement. He would much rather stand on dry, solid ground where he knew what threats he was facing.

The only good thing about it was the look of wonder that came on her face. That was something he was noticing. When they first met she did not emote much, and if she did was either subdued or angry. She was slowly letting other things through. He felt a little honored that she was slowly opening up to him. He knew as well as anyone else how hard that could be, especially since he had almost everything buried.

As they approached The Castle they could hear the radio before they even got close to the entrance.

“While we’re here I want to get one of those funny looking hats. Always wanted one of those…” he joked.

He glanced at Flynn with a shit eating grin. He did not need to see her face to know what her expression was.

As they stepped into the courtyard he slowed his pace. At this point they were partners, but she was absolutely in charge when it came to the Minutemen. Who she was as the General was part of who she was, but it was a different part than who he was used to.

“Can you hold this?” she asked, handing him her pistol.

He grabbed it with a look of confusion. He realized why when she took off her helmet. He mentally slapped himself. It made sense since no one would be able to know who she was for sure, even with MacCready by her side.

“Thanks. Stay here,” She ordered.

He nodded, and watched as she walked up to the man in charge of the radio. MacCready vaguely remembered his name. Lewis something or something Lewis.

Lewis pointed somewhere, and Flynn nodded. She turned back around towards MacCready, and gestured at him to follow her with her head. He followed her over to a grouchy looking, older woman.

“Excuse me, are you Ronnie Shaw?” Flynn asked her.

“Who else would I be? Can’t mistake me for one of the pups running things around here.”

MacCready narrowed his eyes at her, but kept his mouth shut. It had taken him a bit, but he knew better than to mouth off when it came to Minutemen business. Unless it was just Garvey of course. In that case he would actively try to bug him sometimes.

“I’m General Flynn. I heard your message on the radio.”

Shaw half scoffed, “I’ve been waiting to talk to you. I used to be with the Minutemen myself, back before Joe Becker got himself killed and the Idiots took over.”

Flynn shot him a warning glance as though she could tell he was having a hard time holding back. To be fair she probably could.

She smiled, “Well, I’m glad to meet you. We could use some more… experienced soldiers.”

“You’re right about that. I feel like some of these you’ve got may still need their diapers changed. And you seem pretty young yourself.”

MacCready could not help, but roll his eyes. He was glad neither woman saw it though.

Flynn cleared her throat, “I’d still like to hear what you came to talk to me about.”

“Heard you were trying to get the Minutemen back on their feet. Thought I’d come see the new general for myself. So, what’s your story? What makes you think anybody wants the Minutemen back?”

“I’ve spoken to a lot of people. All of them have said that things got far worse when the Minutemen fell apart. That everything is so much better with us around. Even if people didn’t want us, it’s easy to see that we’re needed. I know things weren’t great, but we’re the good guys again,” Flynn explained.

Shaw nodded, seemingly pleased with her answer, “I’ve heard some good things. Wouldn’t be here otherwise, and now that I’m here I can see you really need my help.”

“The more help the merrier.”

“Yeah. You’re not kiddin’, but I had something specific in mind. I’m probably the only person who still remembers this, but The Castle’s armory was located in the west bastion,” Shaw started walking past them to it, “All of our best equipment was stored there. Weapons, ammo, schematics, you name it.”

Though he was not a fan of how she was talking to Flynn, the sound of all that equipment was music to his ears. He hoped there was something of actual value, and not just a pile of .38 bullets.

“Looks like it’s in good shape. Door is still sealed, bastion’s still standing. All we need is a way in.”

“I hope you have an idea,” Flynn said.

“Of course I do. If you can’t go through, go around,” she responded, and led them to the part of The Castle that still stood proudly. She pushed open the doors to what was the general’s quarters.

“I thought I told them to use this room for normal quarters,” Flynn sighed.

Shaw stopped, and looked at her, “Why?”

“I’m hardly ever here. This is an important place, but we’re rebuilding out of Sanctuary. It might be closer to the edge of the Commonwealth, but it’s easier to get to. Besides, we need as many guns as possible and I don’t really need a special room.”

“There are several generals rolling in their graves. Anyway, there’s a tunnel that leads from here to the armory.”

Flynn put her helmet back on, “At least they cleared the rubble…. MacCready, can I have my pistol back?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah,” he handed it to her. He somehow forgot he was holding it for her.

“Who is he, by the way?”

“Uh, he’s… an unofficial part of the Minutemen? He basically does all of the work without the title.”

She narrowed her eyes at them.

“I’m a merc with a heart of gold,” he joked.

“Things really are changing,” Shaw scoffed.

They made their way down the stairs, and into the tunnels. The air was moist, but stale. It smelled like dirt, and something horrible. A green glow lit the walls.

“There’s some landmines down here. Watch out,” Shaw warned.

“We should clear this place later. It’d be a good place to go during radstorms,” Flynn said.

They weaved through the maze-like tunnels. There was a turret, but it was a smoking pile of scrap in a matter of seconds. The next two rooms were relatively empty. At least there was nothing that interested him.

As they stepped into the last room, his ears were met with the sound of a sentry bot booting up.

“Sentry Bot designation SARGE powering up,” it said.

“What the actual fuck is that?” Flynn exclaimed, throwing professionalism out of the window.

MacCready whipped around to see it come out of its station. Then it’s gun started up.

“Oh sssshhhhhh…”

“GET BEHIND ME!” Flynn bellowed.

MacCready and Shaw dove behind her without a second thought. Bullets sprayed across the room. They sent chunks of stone flying through the room as they hit the column. He winced as he heard them hit Flynn. He knew she would be fine, but it was hard not to.

They poked their guns out to shoot the bot. The bullets were hardly doing anything. The musket was doing slightly better, but not by much.

MacCready was starting to wonder if they could make a run for it when Flynn cursed.

“I’m going to try something. You two need to get behind the wall, now,” she ordered.

He did not need to be told twice. They backed up to behind the wall, and peered through the arch way. Flynn tossed her pistol aside. The bot charged at her, and she was pushed back an inch or two. She grabbed a hold of its arms just before it could smack her. They struggled for a moment, then the sound of creaking metal filled the room.

She was somehow pushing its arms backwards. Its gun started up again, sending a rain of bullets into the wall opposite of them. The plating was starting to glow red. She bent the arms back further and further until the gun stopped. Then with a shower of sparks they were bent completely out of place. They were barely hanging on.

Her hands flew back as though she was afraid of being burned. They would not be, but with the mixture of the sparks and red hot plating, it made sense.

It started to get ready to charge at her again, but it stopped. It was overheated.

“Grab its fusion cores,” MacCready told her.

She moved surprisingly fast given the power armor. She was behind it in a second. She managed to rip out its fusion cores just as powered up again.

They were quiet for a moment, scared of it coming back to life.

“Too bad Sarge went haywire. He’s been guarding The Castle since… forever, far as I know,” Shaw said.

MacCready looked at her like she was crazy. He looked over at Flynn who he guessed was wearing an exasperated look.

They stepped around the old sentry bot, and headed to the other end of the room. There was a terminal sitting on a desk next to a security door.

“Alright, let’s see. I used to know this password… ‘One if by land…’ no. ‘For the Commonwealth….’ Goldurnit, it’s been a long time… ‘United we stand…’ there we go.”

She selected a few things on the terminal, and the door swung open. He was half-expecting there to be an assaultron waiting for them. Instead there was a desk, several bottles of wine, and a dead body. The skeleton chained up between the walls. He decided not to comment on it.

Shaw stood next to the body, looking somber.

“That explains all the landmines. This is, well… was, General McGann. He had your job when I first joined up. Must’ve gotten trapped down here when that sea beast attacked. He did manage to keep the armory secure. I’ll give him that much,” she sighed, “I guess the uniform is yours now. This old geezer doesn’t need it any more. Rest in peace, General. Your fight is done and the Minutemen live on.”

He shifted from foot to foot uncomfortable. Things got awfully sobering faster than he was comfortable with.

“Heh, no point in getting sentimental in something that happened over forty years ago. Come on, the armory is just through this door.”

I swear to fucking god. If there is another murder bot in there, MacCready thought.

They climbed the stairs, and sure enough, they were inside the west bastion. Flynn hit the button on the wall, and the door to the courtyard swung open. They pushed open the double doors.

MacCready could not lie, there was some good stuff in there. Laser turrets, laser guns, several different grenades, and workbenches. His eyes widened when they landed on the fat man. He whistled appreciatively.

He turned around and saw Flynn put her pistol on the table in the center of the room. She took her helmet off, and her hair was stuck to her face. She shook her head to get it all out of her face. Her hair momentarily became a red halo. When it all landed, it framed her face beautifully.

His mouth fell open a bit, but he closed it just as quickly. He blushed slightly. Since he realized that he might like her a little more than as a friend. He was slowly realizing how beautiful she was.

“Now,” Shaw interrupted his train of thought, “I know those turrets, and the fat man looks great, but this,” she handed a large rolled up piece of paper to Flynn, “is why I wanted to get in here.”

She took it with a skeptical look. She unfurled it and studied it for a moment. Her eyebrows raised.

“Are these… schematics?” she asked.

“Yes, yes they are. For artillery to be exact.”

MacCready raised an eyebrow, “I’m sure that’s a good thing, but what’s that?”

“Similar to a canon. They are essentially really powerful, really big guns,” Flynn explained.

“Well damn.”

“These things can take down anything.”

“I have to admit,” Flynn said, “this is great. Would you mind if I put you in charge of building them here?”

“I’d be honored. It’s good to see the Minutemen growing again. You could use some work, but I think we’re in good hands. Good to meet you, General.”

Flynn smiled and handed the schematics back to her, and she left.

“You don’t like her very much, do you?” she asked.

“Of course not. Only authority I like is you and Hancock. But that artillery… You think it’s strong enough to, oh, I don’t know. Blow the Brotherhood out of the sky?”

She frowned, “It might be, but I hope we don’t have to. We’ve got raiders and Gunners against us inherently, and we’re picking a fight with the Institute. We have other things to worry about.”

He hated to admit, but she was right. They had bigger problems to deal with.

#fallout #fanfiction #fanfic #fallout 4 #fo4 #maccready #claudia flynn #sole survivor #ronnie shaw

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