#which makes him the worst courser because the fact that he CAN believe in them tears down everything they say about synths being people | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

that-blue-vault-dweller · 3 years

Note

Can you do a one shot story of the companions coming together to organize a surprise birthday party for Nora. I find it really funny to think of them having to interact and corporate with one another to make Nora happy. 😂😂😂

Awww!!! This is an incredible idea, and I absolutely love this so much!!! 😍😍😍🥰🥰🥰 I had an amazing time writing this one (as you can probably tell by the length of the thing 😂), and I hope you enjoy! Thank you so much for the request! 💙💛

Word Count: 3505

“Hancock, if you put Day Tripper in those brownies, I will personally make sure that Blue has your head—”

“Calm down some! I didn’t put any chill pills in the brownies, okay?!” Hancock replied, raising his hand up defensively before placing the pan on a nearby table. Piper just raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.

Since Nora had left that morning with MacCready and Dogmeat, everyone had been moving as quickly as they could possibly manage with Piper at the helm of the preparation crew. It was February twelfth and the birthday of the vault-dweller. And they had to do everything they could to make Nora’s birthday as perfect as her.

And if Hancock brought chems in, then it was definitely not going to be perfect by Piper’s or Nora’s standards.

“Okay, then, prove it. Cait!!!” Piper called. She knew that Hancock would cave if Cait came over to try the brownies. After all, he respected Cait quitting the chems too much to let her risk a relapse.

She could feel Cait’s glare on her back, and Piper resisted the urge to say something sarcastic as the redhead approached the two.

“What do ye want?” Cait questioned, not much kindness mustered in her words as she glared at Piper. After all, they were not really the best of friends, and for Piper to ask anything of her was a bit of a stretch. The only reason Cait was helping with the party was because she loved and cared about Nora so much.

“Go try those brownies.”

“Why? This feels like a trick,” Cait spoke, crossing her arms over her chest as she narrowed her eyes skeptically. Piper barely withheld the groan as she put her hands on her hips and glared at the other woman.

“We’re testing them to make sure they’re clean.”

“And ye chose me?! Look, I’ve moved past my days of addiction, ye hear?!” Cait informed her aggressively before spinning on her heel and leaving Piper with Hancock. Piper rolled her eyes, moving her mouth a little as she mimicked the other woman.

“Alright, then. Curie! Come taste these brownies!” Piper called, and Curie looked up immediately, her eyes sparkling with the promise of sweets.

“Ooh! Okay!” Curie cried, hurrying over. Piper smirked widely, knowing that Hancock would not just let Curie get high. Especially since Nora would be positively livid if anything happened to the innocent synth.

“No, no, no, on second thought, I think I might’ve burned them, and I probably should just throw them out. Nora deserves the best, right?” Hancock grinned winningly before heading out the door with the brownies. Curie stuck her lip out a little in a small, disappointed pout before returning to her previous task of cleaning up the house alongside Codsworth.

“That’s what I thought,” Piper muttered, and she turned to look and see what Cait and Danse were doing together. Currently, the both of them were attempting to hang decorations, and Danse was looking slightly flustered as Cait grinned widely. Piper immediately knew what was going on as soon as she saw it.

“No fraternizing in the workplace, got it?” Piper announced just behind them and Danse was almost pitiful in how he straightened immediately and cleared his throat in an attempt to look more proper. It was obviously a reaction left over from his time in the Brotherhood, and he quickly caught up on his mistake before releasing his shoulders a little and loosening.

“Who died and made you queen, anyways?” Cait questioned, and Piper scoffed as if it were obvious.

“Look, since I know Blue so well, I have been self-appointed as birthday party coordinator, alright?” Piper informed her. Piper mentally added in the fact that she believed that she herself was Nora’s best and closest friend out of the bunch, but she did not voice this opinion aloud since she would likely offend the rest of the people around the house.

“The rest of us know her pretty well, too, y’know. I think you just want an excuse to boss me around!” Cait challenged, pushing the thumbtack into the wall firmly, and Piper just shrugged, everything in her fighting the urge to say something that would provoke the former cage-fighter.

“Does this look balanced to you?” Danse questioned, and Piper squinted a little, tilting her head.

“Yeah. Except Cait’s end looks too high and mighty,” Piper commented, and she mentally scolded herself for not having more self-control than to aggravate the other woman. But it was just too fun to resist, and Cait got so irritated which made it so funny.

Sure enough, Cait looked like she might kill someone as she lowered her end ever so slightly.

“Good enough, your highness?” Cait questioned, clenching her fists tightly and her face turning a little red as she quite obviously tried to resist the urge to deck Piper. Piper just offered a smug smile and a thumbs-up.

She then headed over to check on Nick, Preston, and Deacon where they were working on wrapping the presents for Nora.

“How’s it going, guys?” Piper questioned, looking over the gifts for Nora on the table. They had labeled all of them with the people who were gifting them on the bottom and Nora’s name on the side.

“It’s going alright over here,” Deacon trailed off with a chuckle, looking over at Preston and the Minutemen shrugged a little with a grin.

“Piper, are you playing nice with Cait?” Nick questioned, raising an eyebrow knowingly, and Piper just grinned winningly, squeezing Nick’s shoulder affectionately.

“Oh, Nicky… When have I ever not played nice with the red-headed woodpecker?” Piper questioned much too innocently, and Nick rolled his eyes fondly, the barest of smiles pulling at the corners of his lips.

“Behave yourself now,” Nick chastised half-heartedly, too much warmth in his voice to be taken too seriously about it. Piper just laughed a little.

“I always do, Gramps,” Piper assured him with a wink and finger-guns.

At that moment, X6 entered the house with the cake. Piper turned around just as he placed the cake on the counter and faced her.

“I have completed the cake,” X6 announced, his voice completely calm as he wore an absolutely ridiculous apron. Piper had to search deep inside of herself to try to keep from laughing.

She had seen Nora wear this apron on many occasions when she was cooking around Sanctuary, and Piper always poked fun at her when she saw her wearing it. Apparently, Nate had bought it for Nora back before the bombs fell and it had been such an ugly apron that no one had stolen it from Nora’s house during the entire time that she had been frozen.

Of course, no one would want to steal a bright blue apron that had “Hot Mom Summer” written across the front of it.

“Did the apron work out for you, X6?” Piper questioned, unable to help a bit of mirth leaking into her voice.

“It performed its function properly, if that is what you mean. However, the aesthetic quality left a bit to be desired,” he very dryly replied. Piper just shrugged, chuckling a little.

“Nice! So, did you put a sweet little message on top of the cake like I said?” Piper questioned, and she could hear Cait muttering something to herself somewhere behind Piper. Piper simply chose to ignore her for now, focusing on the courser before her.

“Yes,” he replied simply, and she grinned widely, finding herself to be quite relieved since everything was going extremely well so far.

“Did you cover it in frosting all over?” Piper asked, raising an eyebrow, and X6 hummed in agreement. She let out a breath of relief, very happy to see that things were going so well as of now.

“Great! Let me see,” Piper spoke, moving over to look at the cake. To her pure, unadulterated horror, the cake was completely and barrenly white with a simple message in pretty lettering on top of the cake in blue letters.

“‘Pleasant regards?!!!’ You’ve got to be kidding me!” Piper cried, her eyes wide as she looked at him as if he had suddenly sprouted two extra heads. She could feel the coolness of his gaze even behind the sunglasses he was wearing.

“You did not make a specific request. Therefore, I put a kind message on the top as you said,” he replied, and it was so dry that she could not help but think he was being sarcastic.

“If this is your idea of being funny, it is absolutely the worst time to start pulling that—”

“Tiny human, Mack-Ree-Dee, and little dog are back!!!” Strong announced very loudly, sticking his head through the doorway as he bent over a little to fit. He had been outside waiting for Nora, MacCready, and Dogmeat’s return, and Piper had told him to let them all know when the group came back. Piper brought her hands up to the sides of her head, breathing deeply as she tried to hold it together.

“Aww, well, that’s just wonderful!” Piper sarcastically declared in pure aggravation.

“Okay, quick!!! You guys fix this cake! I’m going to try to get MacCready’s attention and see if he can distract her for a little longer,” Piper swiftly told them, and it was then that she noticed Hancock had re-entered the room after throwing his brownies outside behind the house.

“And do not line the edge of the cake with mentats or something, Hancock!” Piper demanded, pointing an accusing finger at him before hurrying out the door and barely dodging Strong standing there. She quickly spotted the three heading up the road through Sanctuary slowly. They had just gotten off of the bridge. Nora was laughing at something that MacCready had said to her, and Dogmeat was happily trotting along ahead of them.

Piper raised her arms up, waving to MacCready since Nora had just stopped to pat Dogmeat when he brought her a stick from nearby. He unfortunately was not looking. When he finally did happen to gaze in her direction, he just stared at her for a long moment, completely and utterly confused as she motioned to him.

Very unfortunately, he still did not seem to get the message whatsoever. Piper just groaned loudly before looking around quickly, trying to find something that could throw Nora off and that would take up some time.

It was then that she spotted strong standing nearby, just staring at her as if she were insane. Piper held back the grin that threatened to come onto her face and instead replaced it with a surprised look.

“Strong! I think you better go see Nora! I’m not sure, but I think she found milk of human kindness!” Piper announced to him, and he looked at her strangely, moving his gaze between her and where Nora was standing in the distance.

“Tiny human have milk of human kindness?!” Strong cried, growing quite excited, and Piper nodded swiftly.

“Yes! Tiny human have milk of human kindness! You better go check!” Piper told him, gesturing in Nora’s direction, and Strong took off running in Nora’s direction to pester her about the nonexistent beverage.

Piper sighed deeply with relief before hurrying inside to see how things were going with the cake.

“How’s it looking?” Piper questioned quickly. X6 was just standing nearby, looking slightly irked as Hancock and Danse tried to shove each other out of the way to fix the cake. Deacon was trying to get around them to throw in his additions, and Cait had her arms crossed, her brow furrowed in some combo of frustration and nervousness. Codsworth and Curie were offering suggestions to the people fighting over the cake, and Preston just looked a little uncertain about the entire thing. Nick was propped up against the wall and watching the entire thing unfold.

“It looks like the beginning of a disaster,” Nick commented dryly, and Piper made her way over, trying to shove Danse, Hancock, and Deacon away from the cake. For a long few moments, they did not even notice her.

“Hey, hey, hey!!! Stop it!!! Let me see!!!” Piper yelled to get their attention. After much pushing, the three moved out of the way finally. Piper looked down at the cake, and she tilted her head to the side a bit as she looked down at the really strange cake before her.

There was a pair of sunglasses on the front of the cake, lug nuts lining the edge of the cake on the plate it was sitting on, and a flower on the top positioned in such a way that it bordered the top of the word “Pleasant.”

“Y’know… I’m not sure whether this is the weirdest cake I’ve ever seen or if it is literally the actual embodiment of Nora’s personality,” Piper finally spoke, and they all shrugged, honestly not too sure themselves.

“Well, I hope it’s good enough, because I think we’re about out of time,” Nick informed them, as he looked out the window carefully.

“Hide!” Piper quickly called in a whisper-yell, and they all tried to find a place to hide. Piper quickly turned off the lights that Nora had going in the house, turning the switch that connected the generator and the network of lights inside the house. She then took cover on the far edge of Nora’s couch where it was hidden from people coming in from the front doorway.

Curie, Nick, and Codsworth hurried into the hallway, Curie peeking out just barely and one of Codsworth’s eyes poking out to watch the door. X6 left out the back door and Danse hurried out the back door with him, standing just around the side of the doorway. Hancock, Deacon, and Preston hid behind the island countertop nearby and Cait kneeled down nearby them.

“Yeah, you’re right. I probably left it on the nightstand by my bed— Wow, it’s dark… I don’t remember turning the lights off before I left,” Nora trailed off, and Piper could hear the blue-clad woman feeling around in the dark for the switch that Piper had just turned off a few moments ago.

As soon as the lights came on, everyone hiding jumped up and yelled surprise. Nora jumped out of her skin at first, falling back into MacCready as she instinctively placed her hand on the holster of her pistol. However, as her fight or flight instinct disappeared, a look of pure awe and joy overtook her, and she just looked around slowly.

“Happy Birthday, Blue,” Piper told her, a giant smile on her face as she slowly approached the other woman. Nora was suddenly snapped out of her stupor, a giant grin coming onto her face as she wasted no time in closing the distance between her and Piper and wrapping her arms around the reporter tightly, burying her face in Piper’s shoulder as she squeezed her firmly against her.

After a moment, Nora pulled away, just gazing at all of it as she marveled. Curie hurried over, latching onto her waist quickly, and Nora reciprocated the hug with a half-choked laugh before kissing the girl softly on top of her head. It was then that Piper realized her Blue was near tears.

“What… When… How did you guys even come up with this?” Nora breathlessly questioned as she moved to the next person so she could hug them to. It just happened to be Nick. Piper shrugged, chuckling a bit as she hooked her fingers in the belt loops of her trench coat.

“Well, we told MacCready to get you out of the house and keep you out there for a while, and we all busted our rears to get everything together for you,” Piper expressed, and just as Nora latched onto Cait, she pointed in MacCready’s direction with a watery smile.

“You, sir, are a huge liar. Your scope was definitely not off all those times, and you do not exclusively pee in hubflower bushes, do you?!” Nora cried with a loud laugh that was somewhere closer to a sob as Cait crushed her in her arms, those bony limbs wrapping around Nora tightly as Nora rocked with her a bit and waved a scolding finger at MacCready. He just grinned sheepishly, shrugging. Piper scoffed as she raised an eyebrow at the man.

“Seriously? Peeing in hubflower bushes?” Piper questioned as Nora continued to make her rounds and hug absolutely everyone there. She next went for Codsworth and quickly after that latched onto Preston.

“Hey, you told me to distract her by any means necessary, and you wouldn’t believe how long it takes to find a hubflower bush out in the middle of the wastes,” MacCready admitted with a small laugh. Nora had embraced Danse, Deacon, and Hancock during his statement.

Nora shook her head, finally hugging X6 against his will.

“I just… Wow, I don’t even know what to say, you guys… Thank you so much,” Nora laughed, sniffing hard as she wiped at her eyes carefully, her hand squeezing X6’s shoulder.

Piper just grinned widely, looking down at the floor self-consciously before looking back up at the woman. Piper could tell that Nora knew Piper had been the one at the helm of the entire thing, and Piper treasured the soft, adoring gaze that was thrown in her direction especially.

“Well, then don’t say anything at all! We’ve got gifts and lots of them!” Deacon told her with a laugh, gesturing to the giant pile all over the kitchen table. Nora’s eyes went wide and she somehow looked even more deeply touched than she was before.

“Monsieur Deacon, let us show Madame the cake first, oui?” Curie suggested excitedly, and Nora turned around, looking for the cake as she looked as if she might cry all over again.

“You guys actually made a cake?”

“X6 baked it,” Piper informed her, coming closer to her best friend as Hancock reached over for the cake on the counter behind Danse. “And Danse, Hancock, and Deacon put some really weird spin on the whole thing as far as decorating it goes.”

As soon as Nora saw it, she looked somewhere between laughing at the sheer ridiculousness of it and crying from the tenderness of the whole thing. She placed a hand over her mouth, just staring as her shoulders shook. She finally released a sharp bark of laughter, and everyone could not help but chuckle quite a bit over the silly cake.

“‘Pleasant Regards’ was the moron’s idea,” Cait pointed at X6 as she explained in her usual gruff manner, and Nora just laughed and smiled widely as she looked at him. He did not provide an outward response.

“When I was instructed to put a kind message on the cake in distinguished lettering, I was not given specific requirements,” he explained calmly, and Nora just laughed even harder.

“I absolutely love it. You could’ve written literally anything on it, and I would’ve been happy,” Nora expressed wholeheartedly, and the sad thing was that Piper knew that was the absolute truth. Nora was always so happy with even the slightest shows of kindness and that was one of the many things that Piper loved about her best friend.

“So, sister, do you want to eat some cake or do you want to open some presents first?” Hancock questioned with a smile, and Nora looked a little guilty as she eyed the cake.

“I hate to mess up this beautiful cake… But I’m honestly kind of hungry,” Nora chuckled a little, sheepishly smiling at the group.

“Don’t worry. Cakes are made to be eaten,” Danse assured her in that deep, stoic voice. However, his tone was filled with warmth as he looked at the woman. She flashed him an affectionate glance.

“Well, why can’t she have both? She can eat cake and open presents at the same time, right?” MacCready suggested, and everyone quickly agreed, the entire bunch excited for her to see their gifts to her.

“Alright! Let’s do it!” Nora agreed with a shrug, but the thrilled look in her eye betrayed her true feelings.

“Let’s do sing ‘Happy Birthday!’” Codsworth called out, and everyone paused in their migration to surround the kitchen table. There was a collective sigh, but everyone cleared their throats before starting the song.

Piper almost could not sing for the huge grin threatening to overtake her face as she lovingly looked at her best friend who was just basking in the love that her new found family held for her. As Piper and the group sang the last bit, Nora’s eyes met Piper’s and Nora just smiled softly at her, mouthing a thank you to Piper as her gaze practically glowed with tenderness and lovingness. Piper stopped singing for a moment to mirror her best friend’s expression.

Piper had succeeded. Although it was not completely perfect, her Blue was getting all of the love she deserved.

And that was all Piper needed and wanted for her.

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concussed-to-pieces · 3 years

Text

The Mettle Of A Man; Part Ten

Fandom: Fallout (4)

Pairing: Eventual Paladin Danse/Female Sole Survivor

Rating: Holy shit M.

AN: Enjoy!

Part One: ArcJet

Part Two: The Prydwen

Part Three: Orders

Part Four: Finding Brandis

Part Five: Weston Water And Oberland

Part Six: Meeting Preston And Matthew

Part Seven: Radstag And Radstorm

Part Eight: The Return To Sanctuary Hills

Part Nine: Domestic Ruminations

[!TRIGGER WARNING!: This installment contains mentions of dubious medical procedures. Stay safe!]

Saying that she was in over her head would imply that, at some juncture, she had not been. Backhand couldn't recall a time when she hadn't been struggling to reach the damn surface.

There was so much. An entire underground compound, sprawling and winding like a rabbit warren, filled with synths and the scientists who seemed to style themselves as their betters.

Shaun had been the worst part about it all, if she was honest. The knowledge that it hadn't been ten years she had lost, but sixty ...and the now-elderly Shaun's bemusement at her emotional response to the child synth he had been leading her across the Commonwealth with was like a slap in the face.

The fact that he had the gall to suggest that she should take over the Institute once he had passed on was infuriating in its own right. Vega wanted nothing to do with any of this. She obliged him to the bare minimum. He wouldn't permit her to leave until she fully took in ' the wonders of the Institute ', everything that 'he' had built, so it was with a reluctant heart that Backhand agreed to think about the choice.

She didn't hate the Institute. It was odd to realize that, but at the end of the day what she truly hated was the way Shaun had continued to hoard all of the advancements they had made. The lives that could have been saved, the differences he could have made in the Commonwealth-!

Time passed strangely away from the reign of celestial bodies, simply separated into 'work cycles'.

Vega apparently spent the entirety of her first work cycle after arrival watching synths be created, the woman observing perfect bodies emerging disoriented from their vat of red liquid. The scientists overseeing the operation, after briefly introducing themselves, all but ignored her. For that she was grateful, because the process was equal parts fascinating and horrifying in its minutiae.

"Hello." One newly-formed synth said, sounding dazed when they addressed her. "I'm...new here?"

She wanted to cry at how confused the synth looked, she wanted to cry because she knew the life they would have down here. She didn't even have the chance to offer them a word of encouragement before they were spirited away to be properly calibrated.

Shaun came across her in the Robotics lab, her arms wrapped around her knees as she just... stared . "Ah, Mother. You will tax yourself mentally if you keep this up." Her son, who was now older than her by over forty years, scolded her in that insincere, saccharine manner. Backhand was reminded of Nate every time she heard Shaun speak. Even though he couldn't possibly have any memories of his father, his patronizing tone reeked of the casual superiority Nate had displayed in and out of the courtroom. "I have brought one of our coursers to escort you back to your room, Mother. If you would please cooperate with him."

"Hello ma'am." The courser intoned as she looked up. "I am X6-88. It is an honor to meet the woman who helped to create Father." He was tall and dark-skinned with narrow shoulders, his body wholly sheathed in the courser uniform to mask whatever bulk he might have. He wore mirrored sunglasses, even down here.

Backhand thought of the courser she had to kill to tear the chip out of it and her heart dropped. X6 must know about the courser. What if they had been friends? She hesitated on that thought. Were the synths down here even permitted to form those sorts of attachments? Curie, Sturges and Nick were her only real exposure to non-hostile synths, and all of them had their own personalities, likes and dislikes. Well, Sturges wasn't entirely certain as to whether he was a synth or not, but he believed he was and that was good enough for Vega. Did synths who were still under Institute programming actually have the capacity to create those bonds with one another?

"X6-88 is one of our finest coursers. Due to your combat history and... affinity for getting into scuffles, I assumed being in the presence of another combat-minded individual would help to put you at ease." Shaun's shrug was almost uncouth , as if he didn't particularly believe the words coming out of his own mouth. Backhand knew that the real reason he was giving a courser babysitter duty was because he didn't trust her not to meddle where she shouldn't. "The majority of the Institute is dedicated to much more lofty goals than synth retention, but why wear out the wrench with a job the hammer can perform?"

Backhand slowly got to her feet. "Very kind of you to think of my needs." She remarked, praying her voice wasn't too flat. She had yet to get used to how Shaun spoke to the synths. Or rather, how he spoke around them. Despite his insistence that they call him Father, the elderly man treated them like objects. Tools , or furniture items. These were living, breathing, thinking beings, reduced down to nothing more than careless analogies of hammer, wrench and screwdriver. It was heartbreaking.

Shaun simply inclined his head, the smile on his face more of a simper. "X6, I expect you to treat my mother with the utmost courtesy. She is, after all, the future of the Institute. During the work cycles following her rest, please escort her around the facility."

"Of course, Father." X6 replied immediately, his face and tone entirely devoid of emotion. "If you'll follow me, ma'am."

Backhand obediently followed X6 back out of the manufacturing laboratory, quickening her steps so she could keep up with the courser. He seemed to realize his legs were longer than hers a split second before she drew up alongside him, the synth slowing abruptly. Backhand ended up in front of him by half a step, chuckling a little as she paused and then fell in beside him.

"Sorry, my fault." She apologized.

X6-88 was silent for a moment, and then muttered, "that is foolish, ma'am. Why would you be sorry about something you have no control over?" Backhand hummed, trying to think of a way to explain. X6 quickly tacked on, "not that I'm questioning you, ma'am. I know questions are unwelcome."

Vega tilted her head, giving the man a confused look. "Unwelcome?"

"Father has instructed us not to ask questions. He says they will disrupt you settling in." The courser answered bluntly.

Backhand laughed, but the noise had no humor. "I've been disrupted for months , X6-88. You can ask me whatever you like."

"How did you do it?" X6-88 whirled on her, his tone and posture suddenly hostile. "Z2-47 was incredibly skilled. Deadly. Effective. And yet you killed him."

Backhand nodded slowly, and she heard X6's gloves squeak with how hard he clenched his fists.

" How ." The courser demanded.

"I...I don't know if I'll be able to explain it in a way you can understand." Backhand replied quietly. "Was Z2 one of your friends?"

"I-!" X6 jerked to a halt, seeming to realize that he had raised his voice. "My apologies if I have given you the wrong impression, ma'am. I merely sought to...find the weakness you must have exploited." He practically growled through his teeth, "I meant no offense."

"No no, you didn't offend me at all." Vega said sincerely, nearly putting her hand on his arm in a comforting manner before she reined herself in. "It's just not a conversation I would want other people to hear. Um, is my room…?"

"We only have a short ways to go. You will explain it to me there?" X6-88 asked curtly.

"I'll do my level best." The longest seconds in the history of man slipped by as the courser studied her from behind those sunglasses. "It's not that I doubt your intelligence or anything, I'd be an idiot to doubt your intelligence." Vega tried to elaborate after the silence grew uncomfortable. "I just don't know if I'll be able to...get the story to make sense."

"You are allowed to do as you please, ma'am." X6 said, his voice back to that monotone.

Backhand shook her head ruefully. "Never mind. C'mon, before somebody gets uptight that you're looming over me."

The courser took a hearty step back at that, his brow furrowing. "It was not my intention to make you uncomfortable, ma'am."

"X6, I was in the army. You're going to have to do a lot more than that to make me uncomfortable. I'm more concerned about what someone might do to you . You know, if they think you're trying to threaten me."

X6-88 was silent for the remainder of the walk to her quarters, which turned out to be just as sterile as everywhere else. Backhand felt extremely awkward, afraid that she would get dirt on the pristine white furniture.

She settled gingerly into one of the chairs, gesturing to indicate that X6 should sit as well. He did so after a moment, perched on the very edge of the chair and leaning towards her.

Vega clasped her hands in her lap. "X6, has there ever been anyone in your life that you wanted to protect?"

The courser responded without hesitation. "G5-19." Backhand squinted, trying to figure out why she knew that particular--oh. Oh . But X6 wasn't done. "They were efficient at performing their tasks. Helpful. Useful. An asset to the Institute." He tilted his head at her. "And weak. Poor at combat."

"You would have done anything to keep them safe?"

"I did everything that I could." X6-88 said sharply. "I was ineffective in the end, however."

"Take that feeling and multiply it tenfold, and that's how I felt about Shaun. I knew that I would do everything I could to get my child back. Even if it meant I would have to take down an Institute murder machine." Backhand explained. "There was nothing to exploit, I promise. Just a sad mom's desperation to find her son. Z2-47 gave as good as he got."

"I find it very difficult to believe that you employed no underhanded tactics." X6 remarked. "G5 was taken via the use of a pulse grenade, so I assume you must have used something similar."

"A pulse grenade?" Backhand asked incredulously. "Who the hell were you fighting? "

"It was a group of raiders that found one of our salvage teams. I was away on another assignment, so I was not physically present." X6's hands gripped down on his thighs. "Had I been there, I assure you things would have played out differently." He muttered.

"Oh no." Backhand felt a rush of sorrow, and then felt ridiculous. Untold hours ago, she had been standing in Sanctuary Hills, certain that the relay would do absolutely nothing and she would be back to square one. And yet here she was, inside the Institute, listening to a courser talking about losing someone.

"I am under the impression that the raiders must have tortured and killed her. Even if she did not die immediately, there is no possibility that someone as weak as her survived on the surface for very long." If Backhand didn't know better, she would have sworn that he sounded grieved. "I asked to be spinally recalibrated and have her memory removed from my processes but my request was denied."

"Why would you want to-"

"G5-19 is a distraction." X6-88 growled. "As a courser, I am not permitted distractions."

"But they denied your request." Backhand repeated.

"Correct, ma'am."

"I don't understand why they would say you can't have distractions but then also refuse to remove them." The woman mused, resting her chin in her hand as she thought. "What's the spinal calibration process like?"

"All synthetic cerebrospinal fluid is drained from the body, wiped of signature and then reinserted via a series of lumbar, thoracic and cervical injections." X6-88 elaborated curtly. "Posture is also corrected during the procedure, as the vertebrae must be properly aligned in order for the fluid to redistribute as intended."

Vega got a little queasy at his description. "I'm going to assume this isn't a painless undertaking?"

"It is extremely painful." X6's tone was flat, giving no indication of his feelings on the matter.

"But you would have gone through that, just to-"

"I am an effective instrument of the Institute. If I remove distractions, I am even more effective." X6 interrupted her. "G5-19's memory does not make me more effective. Therefore it is useless to cling to it. I made the mistake of mentioning how distracting I found their memory, and Dr. Ayo wished to study the effects over a period of time. So my request was denied." The leather of his uniform made a soft noise as he shifted in the seat. "I do not prefer one over the other, but if I am not as sharp as possible, there is always an enemy willing to exploit that crack in my armor."

Vega extended a hand and the courser stared down at it blankly. "May I?" The young woman asked, deliberately keeping her voice even and soft. X6 glanced at her over the tops of those impregnable sunglasses and Backhand was startled to see that his eyes were in fact a light, steely gray.

"Why?" The synth queried.

"I'm a tactile person. A lot of times I feel like it's easier to make my point if I'm connected to the person I'm speaking with."

"I am a tactile learner as well," was all he said in reply. X6-88 didn't move, warily watching her.

Backhand relented after a moment, clasping her hands in her lap once more. "I just want you to know that sometimes memories aren't a bad thing, or a distraction. Like with me. Memories were all I had to get me here." She explained pragmatically. "They were my sole, driving force. I was going to get my baby back."

"Now that you're here, and you can see all the wonders of the Institute firsthand, was it worth it?" X6-88 asked sharply. "Or would it have been better if you woke up without recollection, just another nameless Vault dweller? Can you honestly say you're better off having been reunited with your son?" He challenged her, " especially since you were under the impression that he was still a child via the ruse facilitated by Kellogg and S9-23?"

Backhand, reeling from the courser's impromptu interrogation, nearly missed the flicker of confusion that twisted his features. She tried to formulate a response, wondering all the while why he was so bent out of shape over her being tricked.

"I...I meant no offense, ma'am." He said slowly before she could reply. "I am not supposed to ask questions. Why would I ask so many?" He seemed troubled, muttering about needing a full calibration as, " this is getting out of hand ."

"Look," Backhand said finally, corralling her thoughts into some semblance of order. "I can admit that I don't have all the answers. Despite what every human down here says, we're not actually all-knowing beings. But if you have questions, questions that other people can't or won't answer, I can always take a crack at 'em." She offered.

"Ma'am, are you implying that our brilliant minds may be keeping information from me?" X6-88 said, a slight uptick in his tone indicating his incredulity.

Vega held up her hands in an attempt to appease the courser. "Whoa whoa, I'm not saying anything like that. I'm just saying that if you feel like you're not getting the full story, you can ask me. After all, I'm a wellspring of firsthand pre-war knowledge." Her smile turned wry as she recalled Danse's words to her. "A relic, if you will."

…

X6-88's first question opened as a statement, oddly enough. "You do not like it down here." The courser observed as he watched her.

He had been like a dubiously-benevolent shadow throughout her stay, the work cycles ticking away as she soaked up the Institute's fluorescent ambiance like a sponge. "You're right." Backhand replied. No use denying it . "I don't."

"Why not?"

She leaned silently on the railing overlooking the atrium for several long minutes. "I don't feel like I deserve it, I guess." She admitted softly. "I'm not made for a place like this. Hell, I didn't even feel like I deserved my spot in the Vault. Only reason I went was because of Shaun."

"You would have died were it not for the obligation you felt towards your offspring?"

"Well, when you put it like that …" Backhand chuckled sadly. "In a way, yes."

"Explain."

"I'm not a good person, X6. Back in the war, I...there's stuff I'm not proud of. I let people goad me into doing things that were out of character for me." She tried to keep it simple, a little less messy than her piecemeal recollections. "I didn't deserve to have a baby. I didn't deserve to have that second chance, that life outside the military." She stared off into space, her eyes unfocused. "I had no one else to love, so I poured all of the affection I had into caring for Shaun. I didn't have a lot after the divorce, but we had a house and food."

"Divorce?" X6-88 sounded curious. "What were you divorced from?"

"My husband. Shaun's father."

"Oh, Progenitor Nathan." X6 mused. "Father has no memory of him."

"He wouldn't. Nate wanted nothing to do with him." Vega murmured.

"I cannot fault him. Infants are highly unsettling." The courser said bluntly, making Backhand burst out laughing. "Ma'am, please attempt to control yourself."

"Of course, of course. I'm sorry, X6. I just...the way that you said it, and you being what you are, I couldn't keep my composure." The woman wheezed, grinning up at him.

"I'm afraid I don't understand your amusement, ma'am."

"Well you're this deadly killing machine and yet something so innocent is something you find unnerving."

"I am...unused to their noise." X6-88 explained. "They are shrill. Their hunger cries are akin to torture."

" Oh ." Backhand didn't bother trying to hide her smile. "I guess that would be a problem for you. Back before the war, there were kids everywhere . More chances for people to uh, get used to their racket."

"That sounds like a nightmare."

" Everything about pre-war sounds like a nightmare to you." Backhand retorted petulantly.

"You are correct, ma'am." X6-88's mouth curved up ever so slightly at the left corner. If she hadn't been watching, she would have missed it. "Children and heights are loathsome to me and from what I learned via browsing archival data, the pre-war world was rife with tall buildings and wailing infants." He cocked his head to look at Backhand over his sunglasses, his expression downright human . "Mankind's ivory towers and dreams of the future did them very little good."

Backhand suddenly took note of the death grip the courser had on the railing of the balcony.

"G5-19 enjoyed children. She was very weak." X6 remarked reluctantly, like the words were being dragged out of him. "I still don't know what she was doing on surface detail. She had never expressed any interest in the surface. She was a simple maintenance synth."

"I notice that you refer to her as 'she'. The rest of the coursers just call the other synths 'unit'." Backhand pointed out.

"Another fault of the memories I am plagued by. Speech processor issues. I assign gender due to some form of...error in how I perceived her." X6 shrugged. "Doctor Ayo does not believe it is detrimental for the time being."

"Do you think it's because she was a real person to you?" Yikes, too direct , Backhand realized as X6-88 stiffened up. "I mean, because you got to know her. She obviously had some kind of personality that left an impression on you." She tried to amend. The courser was already in turmoil over the memories he didn't want to keep, it wasn't her place to pry.

"She was weak." X6 seemed to default to that as a descriptor for his... friend , his brow furrowed. Backhand resigned herself to that being the end of the conversation, and then, "she was weak like you are, ma'am."

"Like me?" The woman asked, surprised. "I don't think I understand."

X6-88 nodded, his stony expression far from encouraging. "She wanted to help, even if it was detrimental to her. Constantly working. Truthfully, her disregard for the work cycles was what put us in touch in the first place. I was sent to find her when several jobs turned up as incomplete and I located her in a supply closet, fast asleep." He sighed heavily. "I was supposed to reprimand her and send her for recalibration. I still don't understand why I didn't. I even lied and said that I did."

The honesty of his admission was unsurprising to Vega; all the synths in the Institute seemed to have very few qualms about telling the truth. She imagined that must be part of their programming, so the scientists could maintain their grip on the synths that vastly outnumbered them.

"She asked to be transferred from Facilities to Bioscience. She wanted to help, even after her request was denied. She spent all of her free time in Bioscience." His gloves squeaked on the metal bannister. "Then one day I came back from an assignment and she was...gone." He actually sounded pained now, the most emotion she had heard out of him yet. "It was a break in my routine and I do not cope well with such interruptions."

Translation: I'm sad and I'm not allowed to be , Backhand theorized privately.

"I would greatly appreciate it if you would not do the same." The courser said abruptly, turning to face her. "Take care of yourself, ma'am. You are, after all, the future of the Institute."

"X6-"

"I am being given a new assignment in the following work cycle and will no longer be responsible for you. So I will reiterate my suggestion to you." He said sternly. "Take care of yourself."

Backhand didn't have the heart to tell the synth that a suggestion and an order were two different things. "Alright." She replied. "I'll do my best, if you promise to do the same. And I...I hope that someday you'll find that friend of yours."

"Doubtful. But I appreciate the sentiment, ma'am." X6 inclined his head, and then departed.

…

With X6 out in the field, Vega felt like she could finally get down to business. She had a veritable laundry list of to-dos, and she had no idea how long she had even been down here for.

There was sneaking into the old branch of Bioscience for the serum to cure Virgil. It was surprisingly simple despite the security measures, to the point where Backhand was almost suspicious .

Then there was the holotape Sturges had given her to scan the Institute network, easily managed. " I'll be makin' copies of it. I imagine my boy Johnny D. will be mighty interested in what the suits have been up to, and then of course one for your friends in the Brotherhood ." He had informed her right before she had relayed, pressing the tape into her hands.

Next there was a bit of a...pet project. X6 had mentioned that his friend (alive and well, unbeknownst to him, functioning as Curie's new body) had expressed no real interest in the surface to the courser, and yet had somehow ended up on a salvage patrol. That sounded like a scheme. A well-meaning scheme. It was possible that there was a scientist sympathetic to the plight of the more self-aware synths.

Her gentle inquiries put her back in touch with a scientist by the name of Doctor Alan Binet, whom she had met during the first work cycle she spent in the Institute. He worked in Robotics, supervising the creation of synths from the ground up.

He was delighted to exposit upon his theories of synth cognitive capabilities. The good doctor had apparently witnessed synths experiencing REM sleep, and that fueled him to study their behavior even closer than before. Because if they could dream, why couldn't they have a soul as well?

But strangely, he seemed adamant in the stance that he would never release the synths to the surface, stating that it was a living hellscape. Backhand couldn't exactly refute his claims either.

Vega left Robotics stumped and defeated. If not the man who was performing social experiments with the synths, then who?

She left it alone for the time being, moving on to her last, arguably most important objective.

Convincing one Doctor Madison Li to take up her Brotherhood mantle once more.

Part Eleven

#fallout four #fallout 4 #paladin danse #paladin danse imagine #paladin danse x sole survivor #paladin danse/sole survivor #Eventual romance #paladin danse x f!sole #fallout fandom #fallout fanfic #fo4 companions imagine #fo4 paladin danse #fo4 companions #x6-88 #the BOI #brotherhood of steel

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qqueenofhades · 6 years

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the dragons on the map: vii

Rating: M Summary: After the Lifeboat is nearly destroyed, the Time Team ends up stranded in their strangest and most unfamiliar destination yet: 1195 France. With Rittenhouse to stop, medieval adventures to be had, and a pair of rival kings at war, it’ll truly be a miracle if they ever get home. (Garcy/Lyatt/pre-Garcyatt, Flogan, Rufus Is Judging, general Time Team relationships and bonding. Guest appearances from the Plantagenets, for reasons.) Available: AO3

This has already been one of the longest days of Lucy Preston’s life – it started before dawn this morning, has seen them arrive at Poitiers, wash up, meet Richard and Eleanor, have a few sparring rounds in the ring, learn about Emma’s presence, culminate with Wyatt getting shot at dinner, and now seems liable to extend well into the night on a wild Rittenhunt – and some small part of her does just want to lie down, go to sleep, and hope it is over when she wakes up. Obviously, she didn’t plan to go on a hair-raising midnight raid (well, it’s not midnight, it’s not even Compline yet) with the intention of taking out Emma before she can put her nefarious plots into action, but then, that is basically Lucy’s life now. There’s even the massively over-optimistic thought that if they could get Emma in time, this would be the last one ever, and they could go back to… whatever’s going to pass as an ordinary existence after this. Lucy honestly has no idea, and sometimes, she’s grateful for the excuse to put it off. At least she’s gotten used to this, though she knows it’s a mark of humans being able to cope and adjust to almost anything. To live in a permanent state of deprivation and trauma, and have your brain convince you that it’s fine, it’s fine, no looking at the little man behind the curtain. You don’t actually want a settled, normal, happy life, do you? That would be boring.

Lucy speeds up, causing Flynn to take longer strides (he, of course, doesn’t actually need to run in order to keep up with her). Someone said they saw a red-haired woman leaving the castle earlier, in the chaos engendered by the botched assassination (Lucy wonders if that was another of Emma’s motives in staging it that way – nobody available to notice or stop her), and that she was on horseback. Oh joy, this means a return to it themselves. Flynn probably doesn’t mind, but Lucy decidedly does. Why couldn’t Emma have just been out for an evil moonlight stroll? Why more riding? Why?

And yet, they don’t have the luxury of doing otherwise. They reach the stables and order their horses saddled, and Flynn makes a step of his hands for Lucy to scramble up, having to give her an extra boost because her legs are so stiff. She groans. “How far do you think she could have gotten? We can’t be that far behind her.”

“No,” Flynn agrees, mounting up with an agility that makes Lucy momentarily hate him. “But we don’t know which direction she was going, or how hard she was riding. We might have to keep it up through the night. If I can get a clear shot at her, I’ll take it, but that’s also going to make it very tricky to find the Mothership.”

“Rufus can work it out.” Lucy has faith in him. “Let’s just worry about catching Emma first.”

Flynn looks at her sidelong, then nods. He puts his heels into his courser, as Lucy does the same with the palfrey, and they gallop out into the late evening.

The castle gates are just about to be closed and locked with the double guard Eleanor has posted, but Flynn calls out and manages, after an interlude of haggling, for him and Lucy to be allowed through. The streets of Poitiers are under curfew as well, people hanging up their shingles and closing their shutters; the latest taverns can operate is until nine PM. That’s late-night anyway, given that you’ll be awake at dawn, and any trouble that intoxicated patrons get into would fall on the tavern keeper’s head. In other words, there are not a lot of people they can ask if a red-haired woman just rode through here in a hurry, and besides, the townsfolk mostly speak Occitan, not French. However, there are a limited number of gates that Emma can go through – the one they arrived by, the one at the far side by the aqueduct, and a postern on the western wall. The latter is the smallest and most discreet, and it’s in the part of the city away from the steep river banks, opening onto the countryside beyond. In other words, if Emma wants to avoid notice in leaving Poitiers, and ride for a while without interruption, that’s probably where she’s headed.

Lucy and Flynn direct themselves accordingly, though when they reach the postern, it is also shut and locked. However, the night watchman is clearly not happy to see them, given the way he scrambles into his wooden tollbooth and pretends he is not there when they ride up. This is a fairly clear indication that a) Emma has been there, and b) threatened him with dire consequences if he let anyone follow her out. He is deaf to all their attempted reasoning (understandable, but still annoying) and finally Flynn, out of patience, draws his gun and fires it directly overhead, scaring the crap out of the poor bastard. He gives in, comes out and opens the postern for them, then presumably goes off to make his last will and testament.

Lucy normally would feel a lot worse for him, but this time she doesn’t look back once, urging her palfrey out into the dark blue hills beyond. It’s dark enough that she can’t really see more than a few yards, and the moon hasn’t risen yet. The only light, aside from the torches on the walls, is the scattered stars above, and she yawns hard and deliberately, trying to get more blood flowing to her brain. This, of course, only really makes her want to yawn again, and she turns to glance back at Flynn. God, he seems indestructible. Do his veins run with energy drinks? And he already got beaten up by Richard, and had to perform makeshift emergency surgery on Wyatt. He should be flagging too.

If he is, however, it’s impossible to tell. He considers a moment, then clucks to the horse, spurring it into a quick trot. The plan appears to be to ride as long as they can and hope they run into Emma somewhere out here. There aren’t exactly highways or service stations or mile markers to lead the way. Lucy hopes they can find their way back.

They canter along for a while in silence, as Lucy does her utmost to ignore her throbbing thighs and gritty eyes and sore back and ass and head, the small, niggling worry in her heart for Wyatt and Rufus, and everything else. Instead she glances sidelong at Flynn, hoping he doesn’t notice her doing it. This is the first time they have really been alone since they left Paris, and to say the least, a lot has happened in that week. He has been almost the sole historian (she feels guilt at not being more helpful, a voice that sounds like her mother’s whispering that she should know more of this, should have studied more), he has dealt in multiple confusing archaic languages and spur-of-the-moment cover stories, demonstrated some seriously hot swordfighting skills, and navigated them through the courts of two rival kings with Rittenhouse up in everyone’s business to boot. Lucy is really trying to ignore it, but the fact is indisputable. She’s had some kind of feelings and attraction to Flynn for a while now, but he’s leveled up about a thousand in that department since they got here. She can’t look at him without feeling something deep and raw and hungry in her stomach, something that wants, and this is literally the worst time for it.

There are a lot of things she could say. She could also say nothing at all, which is always a safe option, but one that rasps her raw in a different way. Then she says, “I thought you didn’t give a damn about Wyatt?”

Flynn twitches, looking startled. “What?”

“That was what you said,” Lucy reminds him pointedly. “Back in Chinatown. But you’ve now saved his life twice in two weeks. Once when the Lifeboat crashed and we couldn’t wake him up and you gave him CPR, and now with the emergency surgery on a supper table while also keeping us from having our covers completely blown. Rufus and I probably wouldn’t be doing so well by ourselves, but Wyatt would definitely be dead. And it’s thanks to you that he’s not, and you and he and I all know that.”

Flynn looks as if it is in fact news to him that they’ve noticed, and also as if he is not sure what to do with that information. He starts to say something, coughs, and stops. Then he says, “I don’t like him. That doesn’t mean I’m going to let him die.”

“But why?” Lucy pushes. “You could. You spent plenty of time trying to kill him, before – ”

“Yes, before.” Flynn takes the reins to steer the courser through a broken, boggy bit of trampled ground, then canters up on the far side and pauses to make sure she navigates it safely. It astounds Lucy how innately and endlessly protective he is – of her, of all of them – when, as she’s just been reminding him, that was his exact opposite instinct for a while. “And most of that was his own fault. He can’t take me straight in a fight, as we’ve just demonstrated again. And if you’d believed me about Rittenhouse and stopped trying to interfere, I wouldn’t have had to do it at all.”

Lucy raises both eyebrows. “Your methods weren’t exactly designed to convince.”

Flynn shrugs, as if to say that’s for everyone else to quibble about, not him. There are another few moments as the horses’ hooves splash in the mire. Then Lucy says, “So what is it? Just about fighting Rittenhouse with help now? Is that what we offer you?”

“What do you want me to say, Lucy?” He sounds wary, not sure if this is a trick or she wants a platitude or a safe answer or something else altogether. To be fair, she doesn’t quite know herself. “You have a problem with how it is now?”

“No. That’s not what I – no. I’m – if I haven’t said it, I’m saying it now. You’ve carried all of us on this, and – I said it back in the tavern in Paris, but it’s true. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” For once, when his words are generally laden with sarcasm and biting wit and sassy turns of phrase and the rest of his drama, it’s soft and simple. It’s hard to make out the expression on his face, since it’s dark and he’s looking straight ahead, but it has a hint of that softness that he tends to show only to her. “You and I, we’ve… we’ve managed.”

Lucy supposes that she has helped, a bit, even if it doesn’t feel up to her usual standards (and God, that’s such an unhealthy reflex, like she’s filling out a scorecard of every mission and if she doesn’t provide a certain, quantifiable amount of useful information, her credential as a historian and a person will be yanked. Her mother, again). She looks at him again, thinking it’s a good thing that they’re on horses, moving at a brisk clip, and several feet apart, or otherwise she might be tempted to reach out, to touch. Wants to ask him what exactly he was going to confess in that moment before Wyatt interrupted, but he’s been so understated and elusive about what he actually says to her (though his actions have said plenty). Does he not want to put undue pressure on her, or is it really just not how he feels?

Lucy doesn’t know why that makes her stomach writhe uncomfortably, or at least she would rather not think why. Yes, Flynn is very attractive – she’s a woman, she has eyes, she noticed that even while they were enemies – but she’s a grownup and she likes to think of herself as a sensible one. She’s not going to be swayed just by a pretty face. Plus, there is the obvious fact that she has no desire whatsoever to sleep with another of her teammates and have that once more go to pot in a spectacular and heart-crushing fashion. It hurt badly enough to lose Wyatt, and though he’s physically back at her side, the emotional part is a long way off. If she had to go through that with Flynn, her rock and her solace and her safe place (how has he taken that job? How is it?) in the darkest hours of her life… well. She might flatter herself that she’s still strong enough to do it, but it is absolutely nothing she wants to go through or even try to contemplate. Flynn has always been hers. Shared with no one. He protects and defends and looks after Wyatt and Rufus, even if he’d never say it out loud or let them get comfortable, but her… no. She’s something altogether different.

They ride for a short while longer, until Flynn hears something, reins up sharp, and holds up a hand. Lucy is not quite as successful at stopping the palfrey on a dime, and it skids, sending her giddily off balance for a moment until it regains its footing. Flynn puts a finger to his lips and points ahead, and then stealthily dismounts, moving over to offer his arms for Lucy to slide down into. She knows it’s just to avoid making any noise, but she catches her hands against his chest as he, yet again, does not seem to expend any effort in any of this. It feels like an electric charge burns up her palms, and she has to resist the urge to jerk away too fast. Her cheeks are still hot, a small flutter rising under her breastbone, as she reminds herself that they very definitely need to focus right now. Hanky-panky, or at least extremely awkward sudden thoughts thereof, later.

Flynn doesn’t seem to have noticed, at any rate. He reaches into his tunic and draws his gun, and shakes his head when Lucy gives him a look asking if she should draw Wyatt’s as well. Leaving the horses behind, they climb up the next hill on foot, and edge up carefully over the top, peering down into the low green vale beyond. There’s a thin stand of alders and larch, dappled by the just-rising moon, but that’s not what is casting the most light. That is the eerie blue glow of the Mothership, which has just ginned up to launch speed and in the next instant, blows out of existence. Emma’s horse, tied nearby, rears and screams, pulling frantically at its tether, but doesn’t quite get loose.

Flynn and Lucy swivel to stare at each other in bafflement and terror. If Emma has somehow already put all her plans in place and is peacing out, leaving the surviving sleeper agents to handle the rest, they’re screwed. They were counting on stealing the Mothership to get out of here, after all, since the Lifeboat is toast. Was Emma asking Wyatt for twenty-four uninterrupted hours just as a misdirect? Bombing back to the future to see if things have changed yet, get a progress report on Rittenhouse’s activities – she’s the CEO now, maybe they can’t spare her too long in the field, terrifying (and terrifyingly competent) as she is. For a long moment, Lucy contemplates the possibility of living the rest of their lives here (that is, if they don’t get killed by any number of people). Tries to tell herself it won’t be so bad and they’ll adjust, just like they have to anything else. But she wants very much to be sick.

She reaches out blindly, grabbing for Flynn’s hand, and he holds it ferociously, steadying her from the brink of total panic. Lucy hauls in a few painful breaths, trying to tell herself there is another way back, even if she doesn’t see one. But just as she’s really about to lose it, the night starts to bend and ripple again, there’s a whine and whir on the edge of hearing, and the Mothership blasts back into the third dimension, landing with a slight skid in the silt. The door cycles open, casting eerie fluorescent light on this twelfth-century rustic countryside, and seven people troop out. Six men and a woman, all dressed in medieval chic.

One of the men turns to say something to Emma, who is just visible in the doorway. At once Flynn raises his gun, but it’s a long shot, they can assume that the Rittenhouse backups are all armed, and as the moon whispers out from behind a cloud, they both can see who the woman is, blonde hair braided in an elegant crown and green cloak artfully draped and clasped with a cloisonné brooch. It’s Jessica.

Both of their hearts skip a beat, though likely for different reasons. Flynn has a better shot at her than he has at Emma, but taking her out at this point is of debatable strategic value, and even he is not so cruel as to shoot Wyatt’s estranged, pregnant wife without him there at all or able to offer any opinion on it, to find out in some terrible way later. Jessica is an enemy, she is technically subject to the same rules of combat as any of the Rittenhouse goons she’s surrounded by, but while Flynn trying to shoot her now might be justifiable on some grounds, it would destroy a lot more on others. And he couldn��t bring himself to shoot John Rittenhouse, the terrified child of his mortal enemy. Is he really going to take out Wyatt’s unborn son or daughter, and call it square for Iris?

Lucy doesn’t know the answer, but she grabs at his arm just in case, shaking her head desperately. She has no reason to protect Jessica either, and perhaps if she was another kind of woman, she wouldn’t mind or just turn a blind eye, but that’s not it, that’s not her. No, she mouths. No, no, you can’t.

For once, Flynn doesn’t demur, if only since it’s clear it would get them into all kinds of trouble to be caught out here by themselves, no backup or shelter. Lucy has gotten better with the gun, but she’s not a sharpshooter or a soldier, and has never been involved in a sustained firefight with trained killers before. They have to observe, gather information, and not act, not yet. If nothing else, this makes it clear that Emma’s threat to Jessica’s life is no bluff, and she thought it would be easier to carry it out with her conveniently at hand. Oh God, is she planning to bring her back to Poitiers and – and what?

Lucy’s spinning head is distracted as Emma once more goes into the Mothership and shuts the door, and after a few seconds, it jumps out of existence again. The six guys and Jessica seem to think she’s coming back, since they start setting up a camp, laughing and talking and looking like they are on a corporate outdoor retreat (which technically they are, if you can forget… all the rest of it). Lucy stares harder at Jessica, trying to tamp down the morass of emotions that have risen in her chest at seeing her again. There’s anger and distrust and grief and an aching feeling like longing. They were friends, weren’t they? Jessica supported her, was kind to her? That can’t have all been a long-con act. There were other chances for Jess to hurt her, to actually walk away. And now this – is she just here for Emma to kill her more conveniently? Or –

At that, Lucy thinks of something, and it feels like another lightning bolt, but for a different reason. Jessica is dressed more nicely than the others; that is a fancy brooch, and there is fur edging her cloak, flashes of pearl bobs at her ears. The moonlight briefly catches on the embroidery on her skirt, which has the gleam of silk. She’s not looking so nice just to be thrown in a dungeon and held as a hostage. Which means, or at least strongly suggests, that that’s not why she’s really here. She’s here to marry Richard.

If you think about it, Lucy considers numbly, it makes sense. Emma probably doesn’t altogether trust Jessica, and wants her away from ongoing Rittenhouse operations in the present. Jessica already has plenty of experience at playing a loving wife, remaining embedded to gather intelligence or whatever they want from her, and she’s pregnant. Since the entire point of this mission is to make sure Richard has a son to succeed him instead of his brother John, Rittenhouse isn’t going to take chances or wait and cross their fingers and hope he eventually feels guilty enough to engage in dutiful heterosexual babymakin’. Make this as painless as possible for him. Provide him with a new wife already pre-installed with a son (is Jessica far enough along, do they know for sure it’s a boy? They must) and exempt him from even having to sleep with her if he doesn’t want to. Jessica can live here for a couple years, then come home when Richard dies in 1199 (if she doesn’t kill him first). Just like Emma, ranching it in the 1880s alone for a decade, she will have proved her loyalty, and can return in triumph. As long as she’s happy leaving her child behind, to grow up as a thirteenth-century king and totally change all of known English and American history.

Lucy turns frantically to Flynn, trying to think how to communicate this without words, but he’s staring at Jessica with an expression that makes her think it might have occurred to him too. At that moment, there’s another whine and flash as the Mothership lands for a second time, and a further seven agents troop out. What the hell. Emma could theoretically be spending as much time in the present as she wants on each trip, and then jumping back to a few minutes later on the same night in April 1195. Could have been gone for a couple weeks, having a spa date and going to evil board meetings and whatever else, then returning here. Time travel, it’s absolutely the worst, especially when they can only sit here and watch.

However, as far as Lucy can tell (or maybe just wants this to be the case) Emma has been running a straightforward shuttle service tonight, there and back in real time. There are now fourteen Rittenhouse operatives plus Emma, and given that they’re all dressed for the job, they must have just been waiting around headquarters tonight for the boss to bomb in and pick them up. The team was thinking hopefully that the two agents down with cyanide capsules might mean that Rittenhouse has to conserve their resources, but they’re bringing in the most agents that Lucy and Flynn have ever seen in one place and time. It was bad enough when they had to track one sleeper agent per jump. Now there are fourteen? Plus Jessica?

Likewise, Emma doesn’t seem to be done. She vanishes into the Mothership again, which then jumps for a third time, and returns with a further seven, upping the total to twenty-one. There is a good mix of men and women, dressed for all levels of society, and after the fourth trip, bringing what clearly look to be Jessica’s fake servants and ladies-in-waiting, there are almost thirty people in the glen. Lucy feels paralyzed. Thirty?

She and Flynn can clearly see that there’s no battle to be had here, and they slowly inch down the far side of the hill, though there is a hair-raising moment when one of the men looks up sharply and almost spots them. They take hold of the horses and try to sneak off as far as they can, but they also can’t just run away and leave the Rittenhouse camping party completely unsupervised. Once they have found a hidden spot that is well out of sight and earshot, but still close enough that they’ll be tipped off if the gang starts to move, Lucy almost collapses. “Oh my God,” she says at last, instinctively keeping her voice low. “That’s – that’s – ”

“I know.” Flynn’s mouth is grim. “That has to be a significant proportion of all their available operatives. After all, there are plenty of members who are in it for the benefits and the power and whatever else, but aren’t trained and expected to take on the time-traveling part. And bringing in fucking Jessica – ”

There’s a pause as they look at each other and silently concur about why they think she’s there. Lucy blows out a breath. “We need to tell Wyatt, don’t we?”

“So what?” Flynn snorts. “He can run off to her and screw us over again? Like Rufus said earlier. Jessica’s clearly picked her allegiances.”

“But has she?” Lucy stares up at the star-flecked sky. God, she wishes she could just not think about this, could switch off her compassion and stop caring, when it seems like it would be so much easier. “I don’t trust her either and I’m not saying we need to make any special effort to rescue her, but I’m not entirely sure she’s here because she wants to be.”

To judge from Flynn’s expression, he could not give a single well-formed shit if Jessica is here to redeem herself in Emma’s eyes, or simply because Emma saw the opportunity and seized it, or any other explanation whatsoever. He won’t kill her, at least not before knowing for sure, and because of it being Wyatt’s child, inconvenient and unwelcome as that may be for the larger cause. But, that look says, he is far, far from happy about it.

Lucy sighs, half-wanting to apologize to him and half-stubbornly convinced she has nothing to apologize for. They lie awkwardly side by side in the hollow of the hill, as the horses whicker and stamp at tether, and Lucy can feel the exhaustion rushing over her like the waves of a soft dark sea. Even if they had to get up and gallop off right now, she isn’t sure she wouldn’t just pass out and fall out of the saddle. She needs to sleep, she craves sleep with an almost physical, hallucinogenic intensity, but it seems irresponsible for both of them to knock off and potentially miss whatever Rittenhouse might do next. She should – she should stay awake, she shouldn’t make Flynn do it and keep watch alone, she should –

Lucy closes her eyes, just for a second, telling herself it is only that. Then she opens them, and it is cool grey predawn, the air calm and dew-damp and still, with the sun not yet in sight over the eastern horizon and Flynn snoring softly next to her. He has his hand on his gun, looks as if he stayed awake as long as he could possibly hack it, and will probably be very annoyed with himself when he rouses. A line is drawn between his brows, his mouth is set and grim, and since it’s been several days since he’s properly shaved, there’s a dark turf of stubble on his jaw, more than Lucy has ever seen him with. She lies there looking at him, reminding herself that a good chunk of Rittenhouse is camped about a quarter-mile off and she should possibly go run a scouting mission to see if they’re still there. But she can’t help but think that if Flynn woke up and she wasn’t here, he’d panic.

Without the sun, and still relatively early in spring, the air is chilly, and Lucy hesitates, then edges a little closer. Flynn is large and warm and comforting, she’s gotten used to sleeping with him nearby or next to her, and it’s a chance to look without the ever-present fear of being noticed or having to pretend she wasn’t or wanting to push him for more answers that he may or may not give. Her fingers are prickling again, the same way they were when he caught her last night, with that impossible, overwhelming urge to touch. There are a few shoots of silver in his stubble, more than there is in his hair. Her pulse keeps tripping in her throat, which is dry even after several swallows.

Lucy rolls onto her back and starts to mentally recite the U.S. presidents in order, which is a tactic of hers to calm herself down or take her mind off things or otherwise shake her out of whatever unprofitable train of thought she’s currently barreling down. But she can’t get further than about Polk before she finds herself glancing over again. She should try to concentrate on the fact that there was actually a man appointed to the highest office in the land named Millard Fillmore. What else does she know about ol’ Millard? Became president thanks to the death of Zachary Taylor, as he was his VP. Last president to be a member of the Whig Party while in office, endorsed by the Know Nothing Party in 1852, and lost his re-election bid (honestly, truth in advertising, you have to wonder if the Know Nothings would win today, which is a sad commentary on the state of America even without Rittenhouse – if Lucy recalls, they also started out as a secret society). Consistently ranked as one of the worst presidents, which seems cruel, given that he was already named Millard Fillmore. Rittenhouse doesn’t seem likely to be sponsoring any trips to his administration. Or –

Lucy turns her head and looks at Flynn again. Their faces are fairly close, and she should probably back up a little – if nothing else, because it would probably scare the dickens out of anyone to wake up and find someone two inches from your nose. She edges herself away carefully, digging her fingernails into her palms until they leave white crescent moons. Even if Flynn was interested in pursuing something else with her (and she doesn’t know for sure that he is – he too has a wife and child he wants to save, he could still change his mind about leaving them), this is an even more horrible time to find out. For God’s sake, Lucy. Focus.

Instead, she just lies there with a dry mouth and a hammering heart and a slickness she can feel between her thighs when she moves them, until Flynn jerks, starts, and wakes up with a snort, rolling onto his side and grabbing for his gun by reflex. When it becomes clear that their hideout has not been found, he grimaces, rubs a hand over his scruffy face (he should not do that, it’s distracting) and pushes himself up on an elbow. With another look telling her to stay where she is (it’s amazing how good they have gotten at totally non-verbal communication, in small glances and gestures), he spiders off on all fours, careful not to stand up and present a broad target before he can be sure where Rittenhouse is, or if they have moved during the night. Climbs up the hill, then disappears down the other side.

Lucy lies very tensely, a knot in her belly for more than one reason, listening with all her might for shouting or gunshots, but the morning remains quiet. She is feeling like breakfast would be nice, but there’s not going to be a Starbucks to stop by on the way back (and this is France, they’d probably scoff at Starbucks on principle). Hopefully Wyatt and Rufus have not concluded the worst about their failure to return last night, and Wyatt is feeling a little better. Though honestly, finding out that Emma has shipped his (ex?)-wife in to marry Richard and leave their son here as Rittenhouse Joffrey (as Rufus so memorably put it) is bound to put a damper on anyone’s spirits. Jeez. Poor Wyatt. Between the two near-death experiences and now further emotional turmoil, it seems like the universe has pasted a kick me sign on his back. Lucy is hardly so cold as to enjoy it, or want any more pain for him. She doesn’t know what else is going to be there for them, but she still cares for him deeply.

It’s another few nerve-wracking minutes until Flynn finally reappears. He sits down and rests his arms on his knees, scowling. “Well,” he says. “They have horses. I don’t know where they got them, though we can assume their previous owners are likely dead. They were talking, I couldn’t hear all of it, but I did catch something about the plan changing. Then Jessica and her escort headed off in the opposite direction than the one we came in. Emma isn’t going to risk taking her back to Poitiers and having us see her, now that she knows we’re there, so she’ll send her to another one of Richard’s cities and have him meet her there. And no, I don’t know which one that is.”

“What about the other agents?” It’s bad news that Jessica is about to slip through their fingers, but they need to get back to Poitiers and find out where Richard might be going next, then accompany him if they can. “Where did they go?”

“About ten of them went with Jessica on horseback. The others looked like they’d be walking. Probably get them planted in several nearby villages, have as many backups and second options as possible. I don’t know if they’ve all been equipped with their own cyanide pill, but not even Emma can afford to burn thirty trained operatives. They can’t all be under suicide orders. So if we could catch one – ”

“Would they talk, though? If they’ve been picked for this mission, they must be the best of the best, the uber-loyalists. Even if they don’t commit hara-kiri, they could still – ”

Flynn cracks his knuckles. “I’m willing to find out.”

Lucy raises an eyebrow, as if to remind him that grievous bodily harm is off the table until she says so (it’s not that she objects, she just wants to make sure they’ve run through their options), and he gazes back at her with a butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-my-mouth expression that is… not the best thing for her currently rather tenuous self-control. God, he really needs to stop being so distracting. Especially when he follows it up with that patented tongue thing of his, which makes her entire face feel like a brushfire. This can’t just be her imagination, can it? This spicy, gut-twisting, breath-catching chemistry, especially recently. Flynn can be soft and tender with her, almost unbearably so, and she has taken refuge in that on repeated occasions, has relied on it being there to catch her if she wants to fall. But she also wants him to, well, not be soft. He can pick her up and lift her and toss her around like a feather, and he would never, ever hurt her. It’s like the fuse of a long-burning stick of dynamite is on the brink of explosion inside her, and the thing about dynamite is that it does not care in the least if you ignore it or not. Eventually, and spectacularly, it is going to go boom.

Once more, Lucy drags herself away from her base impulses and focuses on the mission. “What about Emma?” she says. “Where did she go?”

“She waited until everyone was gone and then set off. She’ll be on her way back to Poitiers by now, so we need to be after her.” Flynn looks disgruntled. “And I can’t even shoot or blow up or lay a finger on the damn Mothership, because it’s our only ticket home too. At least we know where it is now, but with thirty Rittenhouse agents running around, we can hardly just jump in and bail out. Tempting as it sounds.”

“Yeah.” Lucy sighs and tries to work up any enthusiasm at all for yet another ride back. As for now, Emma doesn’t know that they saw her midnight taxi service, much less Jessica, so they have the element of surprise on their side – at least to a point. But that doesn’t make what they have to do any less daunting, or with any more likelihood of success. If anything, much less. They were still relying on the comfortable assumption that this would be like previous missions, even after having been presented with concrete evidence to the contrary. That was stupid and they are lucky it hasn’t gotten them killed, though it’s been a close-run thing. At any rate, they need to stay just far enough behind Emma not to tip her off that they’re on her tail, but not far enough to let her have free rein. It’s a delicate balance.

Flynn makes a step of his hands for Lucy to mount her horse as before, but she decides it might be better not to risk touching him too much, and clambers up on her own. Something flickers over his face – she can’t tell what. Is he insulted, or hurt, or surprised that she’s rejected his help, when it’s become such second nature these days to take it? Or does he figure that she can definitely get on her own horse like a big girl and no need to do it anymore? Or is Lucy horribly reading into all of this, because a state of advanced and deeply unwelcome thirst is not the greatest for perceiving the world (and the man responsible) in a clear and unbiased way? God. This is terrible.

They don’t talk much on the ride back, as the sun steadily rises and casts golden glow over the green French hills. Finally Lucy says, as a neutral and pertinent history question, “Where would Emma be sending Jessica, if she doesn’t want to risk us interfering in Poitiers?”

“Could be any of Richard’s other major cities.” Flynn squints against the morning light. “Rouen is too far, they won’t want Jessica riding too much if she’s pregnant. They probably also don’t want to risk taking her north and running into any of Philip’s men. They could be taking her to Angoulême, that’s only about seventy miles south of here and it’s technically one of Richard’s possessions. But the counts have a fractious relationship with the Plantagenets, so it’s not a sure bet. Bordeaux would be safer, though that’s further away. Or perhaps – ” He stops. “No. Chinon. It has to be Chinon.”

“Chinon?”

“It’s north of here, but not too far. Only about sixty miles. It’s in Anjou, that’s Richard’s other home territory through his father, and it’s near Fontevraud Abbey. That’s the Plantagenets’ favorite religious house, it’s wealthy and influential, and it’s where Richard and Eleanor themselves will be buried in another several years, along with Henry. If Richard is going to remarry, it would make sense to have it happen in Fontevraud, and they can get Jessica there relatively quickly and safely to wait for him. We’ll have to be sure when we get back, but I’d be shocked if it wasn’t.”

“Where’s Richard’s real wife?” Lucy can’t help but feeling bad for this poor woman, who has apparently been put aside for years and isn’t even going to get the reconciliation that she was supposed to, kept at arm’s length and forgotten by almost everyone, her role as queen taken by her formidable mother-in-law and her role as wife all but an afterthought. “Her name’s Berengaria, right? Berengaria of Navarre?”

“Yes, that’s her. I think she might be in Anjou right now as well, or Maine. They have a few different residences, but those are her most common ones. If it’s Anjou, that’s another point in favor of Chinon. Rittenhouse would want to make sure Berengaria dies discreetly and can’t interfere, or lodge a complaint with the Pope, or her brother, the king of Navarre. Scorned royal wives do have a few options for justice, though that hasn’t helped Ingeborg.”

“Ingeborg?”

“Philip’s second wife,” Flynn explains. “Ingeborg of Denmark. He married her a few years ago, in 1193, then immediately and bizarrely rejected her the next morning. He’s currently keeping her locked up in a tower, and he fights the Pope for years refusing to take her back. Even gets all of France put under interdict. She’s finally restored, but not for twenty years.”

“What?” Lucy is outraged. She can’t say she liked Philip, exactly – he was too cold and calculating for that, too manipulative and obsessive – but this is certainly not doing much for her opinion of the guy. “That’s – where is Ingeborg? We should rescue her.”

Flynn gives her a wry little smile, as if he loves the fact that her first instinct is to charge in like a white knight and save an unjustly mistreated historical lady, even if there is no conceivable connection to their current mission. “I don’t know where she is right now,” he says. “She was at a convent in Soissons, but I don’t think she’s still there. Besides, we might have enough on our hands with saving Berengaria.”

“What happens to her?” Lucy asks. “After Richard dies. Does she remarry too?”

“No.” Flynn glances ahead a little too carefully, as if this question of whether a widowed spouse deciding, or not deciding, to move on is strictly academic, or at least he’ll pretend it is. “She outlives him by about thirty years, she never marries again. John isn’t very good at paying for her maintenance, and the Pope badgers him about it on various occasions. In 1204, Philip gives the city of Le Mans on her after she relinquishes her Norman dower properties to him, so she settles there. It’s a lonely existence for a discarded queen with no son to become king or look after her. Not much money, either. But it’s what she does.”

“But surely she could have married again,” Lucy persists. “She’s still the sister of the king of Navarre, isn’t that what you said? That makes her an eligible match, and she can’t be that old. A new husband would at least take care of her, and plenty of widowed noblewomen married more than once.”

“She could have,” Flynn says, after a slight pause. “For whatever reason, she didn’t. Perhaps she really loved Richard, despite all his flaws, and didn’t want to think that any mortal man could take the Lionheart’s place. Maybe her independence as a widow was worth more to her than money. Unless you want to ask her if we meet her, we won’t know.”

“But – ” Lucy doesn’t know how to put this without making it uncomfortably clear that they might not be talking about Berengaria anymore. God, and this was supposed to be a safe avenue of conversation. Finally she says, “From what we’ve seen, Richard has a lot of admirable qualities, but being a great husband isn’t one of them. Did she – could she really love him that much that there just wouldn’t be anyone else, for thirty years afterward?”

“Love doesn’t really enter into medieval marriages,” Flynn points out. “A bit more among the commoners, yes, but for the king and the aristocracy, it’s a business arrangement, for an alliance or for money or for consolidating or claiming territories. That’s part of the reason most kings have mistresses. They’re not really expected to owe emotional or sexual fidelity to their wives, though of course their wives don’t get the same freedom. Berengaria might have had to marry again if her brother forced her, but he doesn’t. So I suppose no. She never found anyone she loved or wanted enough to do it for its own sake.”

Lucy doesn’t answer. There’s a strange kind of grief in her chest that is for Berengaria, and isn’t, and it’s mixed up and sharp-edged and painful. Even if they save Berengaria from getting unceremoniously murdered by Rittenhouse, there’s still no guarantee that Richard will take her back again, or that she won’t end up even more alone than she does. There are so many women in history who get forgotten or overlooked or mistreated or simply ignored, who are much less fortunate than Berengaria – at least history knows her name and who she was. It just isn’t fair. It isn’t fair.

(There are other things that don’t seem entirely fair either, but that’s beside the point.)

They fall silent for the rest of the ride to Poitiers. The sun’s up, it’s morning and the gates are open, so they don’t need to bribe or bash their way through, but they need to get back to the castle. Emma might have figured out that they’re gone, and they also need to ensure what’s going on with Wyatt and Rufus. They canter quickly through the streets, almost aristocratic in their disregard for public rights of way; if it’s there, they take it. Finally, they reach the castle and hurry inside, unable to shake the fear that Emma might be watching from the gatehouse. She has no reason to suspect them, right? Assumed they stayed in the tower room with Wyatt and Rufus? It would be nice to think so, but she’s a formidable and terrifying adversary, and any underestimation whatsoever could easily be lethal. Maybe they can pretend they were just out for a nice breakfast jaunt.

Lucy and Flynn ride into the castle and dismount in the courtyard, at which point Lucy spots a guard across the way who seems to be staring at them a little too intently. It is entirely possible that he’s just surprised to see them back for any number of reasons, or he missed the memo about Prince Ali and his weird friends arriving yesterday, but if he is in fact Rittenhouse and is waiting to report to Emma, they need to throw him off the scent. Lucy turns around and giggles at Flynn, as if he’s just said something funny, and while he is looking confused, tilts her head halfway at the guard, indicating that they’re being watched. Then, before Flynn can look around and make it obvious, Lucy stands on her tiptoes, grabs him by the tunic (it’s necessary to get his head to her level), and kisses him.

She has no idea what the protocol is about PDA in the medieval world, but she’s pretty sure they’re not Puritans (and the Puritans themselves banged like crazy, just where they hoped no one could see them). Lucy remembers her colleague Eleanor, back at Stanford, telling her about a genre of Old French poems known as fabliaux, which feature an extremely healthy amount of sex; indeed, they’re so bawdy that their titles can’t really be said aloud to an undergraduate class. There are also poems called pastourelles, which likewise involve what the people want, literally (albeit with a lot of misogyny, because that, as noted, is history for you). Plus the literature of “courtly love,” often sponsored by and written for powerful noblewomen, tends to horrify the clerical moralists who think it promotes adultery. The point is – medieval people have a robust appreciation of the beast with two backs, draw lewd figures with huge genitalia in the margins of their manuscripts and tapestries, and otherwise are not about to faint at the sight of two presumably married people macking on each other. Not that it’s not macking. It is a dry, swift, timid kiss that almost misses Flynn’s mouth, and Lucy is pulling away before it can let itself be anything else. “Come on,” she says, too breathless. “Let’s find Wyatt and Rufus.”

Flynn looks like he’s been hit by a two-by-four. It’s not clear if he heard a word she just said, because every single bit of his available brainpower is engaged in vainly struggling to pretend that this is an entirely normal, everyday occurrence in his life and that he knows exactly how to deal with it. Lucy can almost smell the burnt wiring, and she’s pretty sure he abjectly fails. Then finally he says, hoarsely and much too belatedly, “Yes. Let’s.”

#timeless #garcy #garcy ff #lucy x flynn #the time team #the dragons on the map #timeless ff

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