Warnings: Body horror (off screen), amputation (also off screen), violence (non graphic off scene)
Authors Notes: For the anon who prompted me “Fallout 4 verse with Grif and Simmons where something bad happens to the other and they can't prevent it :)” This takes place between the last two sections in “We Will All Go Together When We Go.”
A03
There was no place in the Wasteland that was 100% safe. This was a fact Simmons had become painfully aware of since he stepped out of the Institute and was confronted with animals twice their normal size, and storms that spread radioactive fog with each fall of rain. He’d gotten used to the danger over the last few years, as much as someone could get used to such things. He killed radroaches with the nearest blunt object instead of shooting them from afar. His reaction to radioactive storms was to close the windows and tell Grif he’d have to run the shop today. There was a pistol under his pillow, a rifle under the shop counter, a knife in the register and a fat man under the floorboards.
Simmons was based off a pre-war man, but he no longer acted like one. He knew his life from here on out would be saturated with danger at every turn, and if he ever stopped carrying a gun, he was a dead man. The Institute, their presence a looming threat, was never far from his mind. Simmons might look like a man, but to the Institute he was a missing piece of technology. A synth they wouldn’t hesitate to drag back once they found him.
Honestly, Simmons surprised it took them this long to take a crack at him. He’d been hiding in plain sight for ages. He was starting to think they might have decided he wasn’t worth raiding Red city for.
He might be correct on that assumption, he thought, staring down an Institute pistol. The Courser and his cronies hadn’t shown until he was a few miles outside of city limits. He was in the middle of the Wastes now, the perfect place to sight to capture a poor sap kicking and screaming without anyone noticing. As far as the Wastes went, he had even less cover than usual, nothing but a few trees and tall grass to use as cover. The fact he managed to run as long as he did without getting shot was a fucking miracle in itself. He’d lost his weapons in the shootout and the only thing he still had on him was a dumb backpack to help carry his delivery to Blue city.
“Unit 1837,” the Courser said. He was wearing those fucking ridiculous black visors the Institute made them wear, a blank expression on his face. Simmons was positive the place was run by Matrix fanboys given the get up they used as uniforms. “You are not at your assigned location.”
Coursers also talked like they were in the Matrix, their tones flat, their words as simple as possible. You are not at your assigned location. That was Courser for “you’re an escapee and we’re here to catch your ass, drag you to our base and wipe you until you only know five words.”
Simmons wasn’t a fan of the plan, to say the least. He rather liked his vocabulary as it was.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Simmons said, trying not to flinch as the pistol raised an inch to hover right between his eyes. Lying was always worth a shot. Given the fact the Courser didn’t even twitch, he didn’t think his lie landed. “Okay, look, do we have to do this?”
“What do you mean?” the Courser said. He still didn’t move. The two early model Synths behind him were perfectly still, almost like statues. Simmons wondered how much thinking they did. Did they think more like him or to the guard robots that patrolled the central library? Were they true AI or just commands programed to repeat?
“This.” Lifting his hands as slow as possible as to not startle any of the synths, he gestured to the gang in front of him. “The whole “come with us” “I don’t want to” “we can do this the easy or the hard way” banter. Because if we’re going that route, we going to have to have a stupid fight that ends with your friends needing a few spare parts and me very dead. Which probably will make me no longer useful for whatever shit you want me back for.” Simmons put his hands down so they rested in the grass. Clenching the strands helped him keep his voice steady. “I’m an old model, aren’t I? Scrap? Is scrap really worth all this effort?”
The Courser was quiet for a moment. For a brief second of hope, Simmons thought he might have actually convinced a Courser to be lazy. But then he watched as the Courser lowered his gun to Simmons chest. His smile, one as rigid as the one of fake plastic store models, was chilling.
“You say this like you’re a threat.”
He had Simmons there. Simmons might have been a synth but unlike the Courser he was made to appear like a regular old human not a super solider. He didn’t have any fancy super strength or boosted speed, his intelligence, while high, was the fault of the man he was copied from. He was pathetic in a melee fight, useless with any short range weapons and only truly excelled with the heaviest of artillery possible. Heavy artillery was not meant for close range. As far as the Courser was concerned, there was no way out of this for Simmons that didn’t mean risking his own self preservation.
Unfortunately for the Courser, Simmons had a very different idea of what self preservation meant. For the Courser, for the Institute cronies who programmed his head, it was to come back in one piece with as little damage as possible. But for Simmons?
It was doing anything to escape going back to the Institute and forget everything he’d ever know. Like what the land used to look like pre-war. Or how Donut managed to ride a Deathclaw around and not get eaten. Sarge’s wild speeches every time Red City got a new shipment of cheap liquor.
The sound of Grif’s laugh.
Simmons lifted up his arms and feigning surrender. His backpack loosened and fell off one arm, hanging precariously on the other. “Alright, alright. But-”
The Courser lowered his pistol just a fraction, taking Simmons surrender as genuine. Simmons took his chance, throwing up his backpack into the sky behind him. Before the Synths could respond, he jumped forward, tackling the two first gen Synths and knocking them onto their backs. The Courser spun on his heel, pistol raised.
Tick-Tick-Tick.
In the second before the backpack hit the ground, Simmons grinned, lugging the two gen one synths up for as much cover as he could get. The Institute might be smart, but apparently they weren’t smart enough to avoid attacking an explosives salesmen with nothing to lose. Especially without checking to see what he was delivering.
If he survived this, Simmons thought, Carolina would be pissed. She’d been trying to get her hands on a mini nuke for months. Shame Simmons had to waste it.
The backpack hit the ground.
An explosion.
Then nothing.
Simmons woke up three days later down his right arm and leg.
Carolina found him, he’d learn as he recovered from being blown to all hell. A mini nuke explosion attracts attention and when she’d gone to check it out, she’d found Simmons in a crater, surrounded by shards of gen one synths and a fried Courser. The only reason Simmons hadn’t bled out was pure luck. By the time she’d gotten him to Blue City, Radiation Sickness almost finished the job the bomb didn’t.
Carolina delivered the news about his arm and leg like she was announcing a death. Church would be able to find him robotic replacements, he was a crafty old piece of junk, but Simmons found he didn’t mind the loss much even if Church’s mad scheme didn’t work.
Two lost limbs was better than losing your entire sense of self.
Grif arrived a day later, smuggled into Blue City with a trench coat and a gas mask. He looked like shit when he entered Simmons room and for a whole two hours he didn’t say a word.
“They’re never not going to be after you, are they?” He said when Church and Carolina left to do some digging on a case. Kai was outside in the office, helping sort files. Simmons knew she could probably hear every word. Not that it mattered; she’d never bring it up to them. Kai was many things, but she had a surprising amount of tact when it came to other people’s business.
“Yeah, probably.” Simmons said. There was no point in lying. For a terrible moment he thought Grif might get up and leave, the fact Simmons would always be a wanted man too much to consider. But instead he reached into his bag and pulled out his Grifshot. Started sharpening the blade.
“If Church gets these limbs working, no more solo deliveries. Store can be shut down for a few days; we make shit sales when one of us is gone.’
To anyone else, it would seem a callous statement. But Simmons heard it for what it was.
Next time they come for you, they’re gonna have to go through me too.
for the angsty meme thing can you do either "Don't talk to me." or "I don't WANT our friendship! I don't WANT to work for it, I don't want ANYTHING TO DO WITH YOU!" for like anything rvb related please and thanks love u
Not, Not, No.
Warnings: Ableism
Characters: Caboose centic, Andersmith
Summary: He isn’t stupid. Even if everyone thinks he is.
He’s not stupid.
Caboose knows that’s what people think. He’s not deaf. People think he’s stupid, all sorts of people, people who haven’t even talked to him, people who talk about him when he’s in the room. They think he’s stupid, stupid in the same way his teachers in school thought he was stupid.
He doesn’t tell them he knows. That means they’ll start lying to his face, and they might think he’s stupid but he isn’t stupid enough to believe an obvious lie.
He’s not stupid, that he knows. Not because Freckles told him, or other Freckles told him, but because he knows it can’t be true. Stupid people don’t make robots out of scrap, stupid people can’t befriend alien A.I, stupid people can’t fix old cards with the wrong parts. Stupid people don’t even exist; stupid is what people call other people that they don’t get. Or they don’t bother to get. Or both.
So no, he’s not stupid. He knows that. Freckles knows that. Santa knows that, and somewhere other Freckles knows that too.
He thought Andersmith knew that too.
“Captain,” he’s knocking on his door now. Caboose has been holed up in there for thirty minutes, ever since he heard Andersmith talking to his friends and saying a word he thought the man would never use. “I didn’t mean it.”
“That’s not the point,” Caboose says underneath his pile of blankets. He wants to think Andersmith didn’t mean it, but he sounded so sure. So sure when someone asked him if he worked for the “stupid captain” and he said “yes.”
“I didn’t-” He won’t go away. Caboose should tell him to go away. He looks through his blankets and stares at the door.
“I think it might be for the best if you were to leave now please, Mr. Andersmith. Because you being here is not nice, and your words were not nice, and even if you didn’t believe them you let others believe you did and that is not a very nice thing to do.”
Most people don’t understand what he says. It’s a reason they think he’s stupid. Because they don’t understand it. Andersmith isn’t one of them. He does understand him. Even if he maybe thinks he’s stupid.
“Yes, Captain,” Andersmith says, his voice sad and defeated. “I’m sorry Captain.”
He actually leaves. Caboose knows. He can hear him walk away.
and on the third day, Joe gave us canon Grimmons and i LOST MY FUCKING MIND OH MY GOD IT’S ACTUALLY CANON, LIKE SHIT IS TEXT, I’D LIKE TO THANK GOD AND ALSO JESUS, AND EVERYONE ELSE FOR THIS GIFT UPON MY HOUSE, CROPS, AND LIVESTOCK.
//CRASHES IN HERE TUCKINGTON AND 19 OH MY GOD: “if you hurt him/her, i’ll kill you myself.”
THE PROPER MOTIVATION
(warning for blood)
Sometimes, Wash wondered what Tucker was capable of, when he was truly motivated.
He wasn’t a bad soldier, not really. Not a fantastic one either, but that was more the fault of his training than his lack of potential. Back when he first met the man, Wash thought that he was useless, just another Sim Trooper put into the program because they failed any other use the military could think up for them.
The years have proved him wrong on that. The Reds and Blues hid skills the military could use: the military just didn’t bother to look. Caboose could fix almost anything, if you bothered to give him all the parts and no distractions. Simmons had a talent for computers and heavy weapons that could be a force of nature if someone had bothered to set him up with any classes. Grif could drive- well Wash knew firsthand how well Grif could drive.
Tucker was the same: all the raw talent with none of the training. Back on Chorus, before everything, Wash thought he could turn that talent into actual skill with enough drills. The same way he’d been trained. Laps upon laps. Drills upon drills. No breaks until you stopped thinking about them.
It was the wrong approach. There was no teaching someone who wasn’t motivated. And when Wash met Tucker after what felt like a lifetime, he realized that motivation could do a hell of a lot.
Like now, Wash thought, holding his the wreckage that was his left arm together. Junior was ducked behind his arm, shielded by Wash’s body, and Wash hoped he would listen to his orders and stay there. Tucker was gone from the tiny safe house they’d hidden in, off with Grey to learn more about this prophecy forced upon his son. Before he’d left, he’d only said one thing to Wash.
“I trust you. Keep him safe.”
“I will.”
How far they’d come, from two strangers standing in the snow.
Wash intended to keep his promise, no matter the odds. He would make sure Junior got it out of here in one piece. Junior tightened his pressure on Wash’s shredded arm. Didn’t want him bleeding out.
He was a good kid. Worried about Wash even in a time like this. When a fringe sangheili army, armed to the teeth had landed on Chrous and demanded that they hand Junior over.
It’d taken the small army of Chorus less than five minutes to say “fuck no.” And that was before they all learned they wanted Junior to destroy the galaxy.
The world blurred a bit and Wash heard Junior honk behind him. Too much blood loss to stay awake. Wash knew he should lie down before he collapsed, but that would put Junior in the line of fire and well that wasn’t fucking happening. Not given who was standing in the doorway to the safehouse.
Five sangheili cultists. Ten minutes ago, there’d been ten. Wash was trying to make the number zero when the explosion came from his left and sent him flying.
“Uncle Wash,” Junior said. His grip on Wash’s arm was strong: good, it would keep him up longer. Junior took a step forward and Wash blocked him at once, stepping to the side before the child could get in front of him.
“No.” Wash knew what he was thinking. Not the galaxy over him. And not anything over Junior.
“They-”
“No.”
“Let the Savior come forth and you will be spared.” The leader at the front of the group said. He had a sword, and Wash knew if he went up against him in this state, he’d be cut in half. Might be worth it if just to give Junior time to run.
“Junior-” Wash whispered. Junior stiffened and planted his feet into the ground. Wash had a feeling his claws dug into the cement of the warehouse.
“I am not leaving-”
“Junior.”
“No.”
“You have ten Earth seconds.”
Wash bared his teeth, trying to look fearsome even armed with two knives and covered in his own blood. Junior wouldn’t have time to run now, not without a distraction.
“Nine.”
He gripped a knife in his good hand and planted his feet.
“Eight.”
He might be able to get two or three before he went down.
“Seven.”
The one on the left did have a weak knee. His plating was different. Wash would have to go for him first.
“Six.”
“Uncle Wash, please.”
“Five.”
“When I charge them, run.”
“Four.”
“No-”
“Three.”
You know where to go. Don’t wait for me.”
“Two.”
“Tell Tucker I’m sorry-”
“One-”
The leader alien didn’t finish his sentence. A sword had split him through, right through the ribs, and Wash felt some of the tension in his shoulders leave at it’s blue glow. Two of the other’s charged and the sword swung, a ray of blue light as they enemies fell. Wash watched as a figure in full teal armor ducked as one of the survivors reached for him. He kicked his leg back, making contact with the alien’s weak knee. Wash heard a crunch then another slice of the sword. Then another crunch as his sword sliced through bone on the last soldier standing.
Wash fell to his knees, not bothering to keep standing anymore. Junior’s worried yelp kept him awake. Wash watched as Tucker pointed his sword at the now dead leader. When he spoke, his voice was flat.
“If you hurt either of them, I’ll find a way to kill you again. I know you fucks can do that. I’ll learn how.”
As Wash fell unconscious, he realized he knew what Tucker was like fully motivated.
