Fallout 4: AR

53. Lessons in Trust

"You have ten seconds to convince me you're not a Synth." The beloved voice in my ear was rough, low and threatening. I had never been on the receiving end of MacCready's hostility before, and his intense anger was overwhelming. He was a trained killer, a dangerous adversary.

I lifted my chin, trying to ease the pressure of the blade to no avail. "R-" I wheezed, cut off as the razor-sharp knife pressed in to stop me, not quite breaking the skin.

"No!" he snarled, tightening his grip painfully, adding, "don't call me that," in an anguished tone. I could feel the shaking of his body through his hold on me, but in fury or inner conflict I didn't know. "Eight seconds." A broken sob escaped my lips, the motion jiggling the blade uncomfortably against my windpipe.

"You want proof?" Slowly, fearfully, I raised my arm into view, splaying my fingers to catch the morning light. "No Synth has cathodes invading their body. Those came from my world." Reaching for the latches on my Pip-Boy, the device came off to clatter noisily on the broken stone floor of the entryway. Across the room, Deacon exclaimed in surprise.

"Look!" I gasped around the terrified sobs trying to break free around the unwavering knife pressed to my throat. "I'm not a Synth!" Shoving my ruined forearm up into MacCready's field of view, I twisted my wrist to show the line of pin receivers glinting amid the scar tissue. I closed my eyes against the rush of heartbroken tears and continued, "You know that thing won't come off unless I allow it, so there's no way the Institute would know about my arm." My voice broke as I begged for my partner, my lover, to spare my life. "Look at it! You know my scars better than I do. There's your fucking proof."

A long moment passed, the only sound our ragged breathing echoing from the stone walls of the empty building. I couldn't see his expression, couldn't see if he was even looking at my arm. Without releasing pressure on the blade, I felt his free hand tentatively reach under the Institute tunic to trace along my ribs, locating the scarred gouge on my side from when he dug out the bullet after our fight with the Gunners. The calloused pads of his fingers brushed across the uneven ridge of flesh left behind as an unlovely souvenir. Suddenly the knife against my throat disappeared, and I heard a low tortured groan in my ear as he softened his grasp.

In an instinctive reaction, I clumsily scrambled away towards Deacon, away from the man I loved who had just threatened my life. In the dispassionately intellectual corner of my mind, I could understand his caution, even his anger. But emotionally I felt betrayed and terrified. The Railroad spy held out his hand to assist me to my feet, expression masked by the mirrored shades on his face. When I turned around to face MacCready, the haunted, self-loathing look in his deep blue eyes spoke more loudly than any words how he felt when he had accosted me, forcing himself to put a blade to the throat of his partner, the woman he loved. I stared back at him, unable to speak, hands shaking in reaction to the extent that it took three tries to reattach my Pip-Boy once Deacon had retrieved it for me.

"So," Deacon said lightly, breaking the silence at last. "Now that we've reestablished our bonafides, let's get back to HQ." He looked me up and down, taking in the stark clean tunic. "Uhh, as much as I admire the fashion-forward look amiga, it might be best if we got you a different outfit." He handed me my coat, but kept hold of my pack.

Digging through the discarded inventory of the abandoned stalls, I was soon sporting a much more surface appropriate tattered undershirt, checkered blouse, and scuffed jeans. Shrugging back into my now-familiar leather jacket completed the transformation, and I felt much less conspicuous and ready to go, heading out through the front entranceway.

MacCready stood motionless until we reached him. I flinched involuntarily when he held out his arm. A flash of pain tightened the skin around his eyes, quickly covered by his anger-laced emotional shield. In his hand was my combat shotgun. "Here," he said in a quiet, cool tone. "You're going to want this back."