Chapter Text
Nick came back to consciousness to find himself sitting at his desk, slouched over a casefile he never wanted to see again and a dirty ashtray. The cigarette, burnt down to the filter, was still clasped between his fingers. An unusual mistake for him to make, and one that made him swear quietly to himself. He didn’t need to add scorch marks to the catalogue of cracks and dents across his body.
It was later than he usually rose; he could hear Moe’s shop talk in full flow in the distance, muffled slightly by the bustling of farmers and merchants and the other sounds of city life. Even so, it had barely been five hours since he’d finally slunk back into Diamond City after a case had gone spectacularly wrong.
It hadn’t started any worse than normal, but it had taken a turn the evening before, and there’d been a dead kid and parents to inform. That never got easier, no matter how often he did it. He opened a desk drawer without looking and slid the cursed casefile into it before shutting it firmly. Ellie would find it later. She had a nose for these things.
His coat was still damp from the pouring rain of the night and even though he wasn’t chilled, not really, the feeling of it through his shirt sleeves still evoked such vivid memories of the sensation, that he was finally forced to stand up and remove it. After that it seemed foolish to slouch back to his former position, but with an unusually empty in-tray there wasn’t much else to distract him. He compromised and stretched out on his bed, idly checking the integrity of the joins on his claw-like, reed-thin right hand, and humming along to the Diamond City Radio. He almost felt human again when he heard the front door open.
‘Nick?’
He poked his head around the partition wall and found himself looking at the anxious face of one of the itinerant traders he’d bought metal and plastic from many times. It was amazing how quickly you could become acquainted with every traveller with deep pockets and a need for caps when Diamond City Surplus shut its doors to people like you.
‘Matilda?’
‘Oh good, I was worried you were out on a case.’ Her face was drawn, and her shoulders visibly tight.
‘Are you alright? Has something happened to your brahmin?’ He said, gesturing vaguely to a chair as he pulled a dry shirt on; her pack animal was the only thing in the world he’d ever heard her express a positive feeling for.
‘Janus’s fine, thanks. And me. I’m just delivering a message.’
She held out a dirty scrap of paper.
‘I’ve come from Goodneighbor.’ She said by way of explanation. ‘There’s been a murder.’
Nick couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at her; if deaths in Goodneighbor all got this treatment, he’d have enough caps to sleep in a pile of them like a hibernating molerat. It made no sense. Unless it was someone really important, of course.
He released an anxious breath he hadn’t meant to hold when he unfolded the paper scrap and found himself reading Hancock’s semi-legible scrawl.
Trouble in Paradise. Something really bad’s gone down and we could do with a professional eye. Come as soon as you get this, rates to be discussed. Hancock. P.S. I offered Matty 20 caps to deliver this. I’ll pay you back.
He sighed with a mixture of equal parts annoyance and relief and fished around in the sodden pocket of his trench coat for the caps.
‘Do you have any more information?’ He asked as he counted them out into her palm.
She shook her head. ‘Not really. I got there not long after dawn. I happened on a jet stash out at a truck stop during the night, and of course the mayor was a sure thing to get rid of it fast.’
‘Of course.’
‘But by the time I got there, it was already impossible to get in the front gate. There were a lot of people just inside it, and they were mad as hell, Nick. Then Hancock spotted me and wrote that,’ she said, pointing at his hand, ‘and now here we are.’
‘Well, thanks for your help.’
‘Thanks for the caps.’
‘There’s more where they came from if you can find me some aluminum soon, I’m running low.’
‘I’ll keep a look out for some. If you can hold on, I’ll be heading out to the old cannery in a couple of weeks.’ She said, shutting the door behind her and leaving him alone, save the note that was still clutched in his hand. He smoothed it out on the desk and read it a couple more times. For the famously feckless mayor of a town whose unofficial motto was ‘do it yourself’ to send this, something really awful must have happened. And he was probably good for the money. It wasn’t like Nick had anything else pressing to do. Nevertheless, he stood with his palms planted firmly on the desk, staring hard at the note as if it might suddenly explode if he so much as took his eye off it.
Finally, after what felt like hours, he grabbed his hat and gun, got back into his damp coat, and started heading out of the city. The route east through old Boston was far safer these days than it had been, for which he and the rest of the Commonwealth had Nora to thank. Normally he appreciated this as much as the next (relatively) innocent citizen, but today he’d have welcomed a distraction from his thoughts in almost any form. Out here in the bright sunshine, with no walls either great or small hemming him in, it was somehow easier to be frank with himself. Or perhaps harder not to be. With each step towards Goodneighbor his unease grew, and it had nothing to do with whatever terrible crime had been committed.
He’d seen Hancock many times over the past few years since he’d walked out on Diamond City, leading his small exodus of ghouls as the fresh-faced John McDonough, hurling insults at Nick himself, the citizen body at large, and the whole of humanity. It would have been odd not to, with his line of work often passing through Hancock’s (semi) lawless town, and more recently when he’d tagged along on Nora’s little Silver Shroud escapades. Not to mention their shared appreciation, at times, of the Memory Den. They’d ignored each other most times, and at others exchanged pleasantries without eye contact. What they hadn’t done is actually talked to one another, and Nick was half sure he’d rather fight off a razorclaw with a plastic spoon than do that. Sadly, that wasn’t a viable alternative.
There was no point delaying the inevitable. He picked up the pace.