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Time & Place: A.) Washington D.C., 2274 | B.) Enclave-controlled Detroit, 228X
Description: A.) Bellamy and Abner’s first mission together | B.) The Gang Solves A Murder
Content: It’s Fallout, you know the drill

A.) Introductions

This is a retrieval mission. One of our own, a traitor to the cause. You'll be accompanying Agent Rook. He has the details, along with a photograph of the target. Your duty is to assist with the retrieval and protect your superior from any harm in the process. You'll be meeting him outside the main gate at 0600 tomorrow. Do you understand? Good boy.

It was a quarter to six when Abner took his position by the gate, folding his arms tightly over his chest. February was fucking cold, and his civilian disguise didn't offer much in the way of insulation. At least they'd given him a scarf—as much to hide the shock collar as anything else, but it kept his face warm. He pulled it up to cover his nose as he scanned the area.

There. Someone else was emerging from the bunker. Smaller than him, almost child-sized. Was that supposed to be his superior? He stood at attention as the figure approached, just in case.

- - -

B.) Whodunnit

Abner remembered in flashes. Blood. Bruised knuckles. The sight of someone’s face being pummeled into a wall, over and over until it looked more like a crushed melon than a human head. And before that—a whisper in his ear, a voice he didn’t recognize, saying words they weren’t supposed to know.

Do you remember your training?

So yeah, he’d definitely killed someone. That wasn’t the important part. The important part was that he hadn’t done it alone. Someone, somewhere, had the controls to his brain. And that was blatant misuse of Enclave property.

He’d turned himself in immediately, of course. Fully cooperative. Now all that was left was to sit patiently in the interrogation room, hands folded on the cold metal table in front of him, waiting for the detective to ask his questions.

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Went away. What a wierd fuckin' way to phrase that. Like he got hijacked or something. Who knows, maybe they should check him for any injection points. Get a more comprehensive review from medical.

"Agent Paul DePleur. Worked security at the Mayor's office."

Detroit's Mayor went strictly by his preferred title of Mayor. It had been that way before Enclave had come. Small concessions, like not displacing Detroit's entire power structure, for the sake of integrating with the population. But in reality, the power structure remained in name only; Enclave had its own personnel in those offices, and its own staff defending them.

Paul DePleur was pure and ruthless at his job. But there was one aspect to the man Hank sympathized with. "Had a loving wife. A daughter. Reputation for getting the job done. And for some reason there's evidence he just let you walk up to him. Didn't run, didn't have much of a chance to defend himself. Acted like you walking up to him should be the most normal damn thing in the world."

He waits for any light of recognition in Abner's eyes. Even a shift of posture.

Oh shit. He’d killed a superior. A tight knot of dread twisted in his stomach, and he bit his cheek hard to distract from the nausea. The last thing he needed was to puke in front of his interrogator.

“Agent DePleur,” he said, keeping his voice carefully even. “Yeah, I know him. Knew him, I guess. I was assigned to guard the mayor a few times. Public events and stuff. It looked good to have something like me up there with him, you know?” The dehumanizing phrasing slipped out instinctively, a habit he was too far gone to notice.

“I saw what Agent DePleur did to people. I know they were criminals, they deserved it, but...” He grimaced slightly. Flashbacks to Raven Rock—blood, bruises, a metal gauntlet crunching into his cheek. “It was ugly, sir. He had a lot of enemies. I just don’t know who would still be, uh, capable of doing something like that once he was done with them.”

Said interrogator sees the shift in his expression, some... change... he can't tell what. At least he can't tell that it's nausea at his own act. It does look like it could be some manner of sudden guilt.

He really didn't know, huh?

"Something like you? You're just a private, Abner. But last I checked privates were still people." He makes the observation as if he wants a further explanation. "Did he have any enemies that he never laid hands on? Or did you know him well enough to tell?"

“I didn’t know him very well, sir. I’m not supposed to talk while I’m on guard duty.” Abner neatly dodged the question about his alleged personhood. Too complicated for that particular conversation. Better to let the officer think he was a human, not bring up the training unless he had to.

“You said he was married, though—suppose it could’ve been his wife? Like I said, it sounded like a woman’s voice. And if he was like that at work, I hate to think what he was like at home.” Pure speculation, but it was all he had. “Do you know if she’s Enclave too? It would have to be someone with inside information...”

Someone who knew his trigger. Or someone who could’ve gotten ahold of it. And if one unauthorized person knew...well, he didn’t want to think about how many others might.

"Not even on a lunch break, huh?"

He tips his head. "Well. Anyone it could have been? Has an alibi. You. They used you to deliver the murder weapon while they went and did the killing. So I need to figure out when you heard this person speak-" to see who would have an alibi for that "-and where exactly it was."

He scratches at his chin scruff, face twisting up a little as he throws a questioning gaze at the two-way mirror. "Think you could recognize the voice?"

Abner nodded. “I could recognize their voice, probably. But I think I can actually narrow it down a little for you first. Just...give me a second to think about it.”

He shut his eyes again. That morning’s orders floated in his head, slightly foggy but still clear enough for him to backtrack. “They sent me on patrol at 600 hours. I was...out by that old Red Rocket station east of town. You know, the one where the raiders like to set up, with the rocket painted to look like...never mind. That’s where they grabbed me. I remember that part.” His forehead furrowed in thought. “Took me...I want to say, maybe an hour or two to get there from the base? The sun was all the way up, at least.” Clear blue sky, an empty wasteland, and then nothing afterwards but static and fog.

“I don’t know where I was when I killed the agent, though. I barely even remember coming here. How long has it been?” He glanced around the room for a clock, finding nothing but a bare lightbulb and a wall-length mirror, for some reason.

He took a moment to squint at his reflection. Christ, he looked exhausted.

"Don't wory, I'm a grown man. I know all the words." It almost sounds like a joke. Can't tell if the guy is sheltered or shy. So far, it seems like the former and in a strange damn way.

"Did someone order you out there, do you go there with any sort of regularity, or could there be some reason for someone to know you were out there. Because if not? Then you were followed. If yes? Then you were specifically researched and set up..."

Because, it seems, Abner could murder people and just forget. Hell of a bonus for confidentiality. He's important enough that the mayor and the Captain are vouching for him, he's a private, and he keeps referring to himself as a thing.

"It's been twenty-five hours."

But the investigation of the crime scene and jumping through the hoops of bureaucracy ate a hell of a lot of time. Especially when it seemed, at the beginning, they'd have an easy case with a cut and dry killer. Nope. They're gonna have some bullshit.

Twenty-five hours. No wonder he looked so rough. Hadn’t all been spent in this chair, thankfully, but the holding cell wasn’t much better. He scratched under the handcuffs, ragged bands of scarring around his wrists indicating this was far from a new habit.

“I was under orders,” he said. “They send me to check out raider territory a few times a week, if I’m not on special duty. Handful of places—the Red Rocket, the old church, that one movie theater on the south end. Sometimes I have to clear out an infestation, but it was empty this time. Well, except for the killer, I guess.” All things considered, he would’ve rather had raiders.

“Didn’t see anyone following me there, but whoever did this would’ve needed access to Enclave information anyway. They could’ve intercepted my orders somehow—I don’t know the exact schedule they keep me on, but it has to be written down somewhere. Everything is.”

He continues to write notes for himself as Abner speaks.

-On schedule, see who placed orders.

-Check out activities of wife.

-Figure out why it's okay for this guy to kill people and why he's allowed near public figures while having this problem.

-Also why he's a private and placed near public figures.

He tucks the tablet to the side, keeping the questions hidden for now. "You're not wrong. The fucking bureaucracy pit is a mile deep. I'm sure we'll find something. But it's my guess that if someone knew how to check or set your schedule, they know a few slight of hand tricks with paperwork."

But he's sure he can figure it out. People slip up talking all the time. Even the very best.

"So tell me, could someone be wanting to get you in trouble? Didn't give a fuck about DePleur. Just wanted you out of the way."

Abner quickly shook his head. He didn’t even have to think about that one. “No sir. I don’t have any enemies—not in the Enclave, at least.” People who looked down on him, sure. The scientists and soldiers treated him like an animal more often than not, but they wouldn’t take him out of service. He was far too useful for that.

“Besides, my superiors already know I couldn’t have done this alone.” Good dogs don’t bite their owners. “If someone with access to that information wanted me out of the way, they would’ve just decommissioned me right then and there. This was about Agent DePleur. Had to be.”

A slight hint of concern passed over his usually blank face. “Wait. Speaking of superiors...they do know about this, right? I was supposed to be back at base by now. I don’t want them to think I deserted.”

"Right. They said that you weren't responsible. That's a funny damn thing."

He leans forward, fingers knit together, brow furrowing. "So... you just... do what your told. No questions asked. No evidence because you don't remember it? Am I somewhere close? But only your superiors are supposed to be able to give those orders.

"But none of your superiors would have wanted this guy dead. And you didn't recognize the voice of anyone you knew."

He sucks on the inside of his teeth in thought, clicking a couple of times.

"Could you have been loaned out without your knowledge? Your superiors didn't want to get their hands dirty with somethin' so they just passed it on to someeone else to pass the order onto you?"

That...was a possibility Abner hadn’t considered. And it worried him. The more people who knew his trigger, the more chance of something like this happening again. Maybe even happening to someone he liked.

“It wouldn’t be the first time they loaned me out,” he admitted. “I’m only supposed to be used for military operations, but some of my superiors don’t care about that.” They usually limited it to household chores and the occasional underground cage fight, though. Never unauthorized assassination. At least not that he could remember.

“The only reason someone would do that is if they knew I would recognize their voice, right? All that does is make the suspect list longer.” He sighed and shifted his increasingly numb legs into a more comfortable position—the questioning was going nowhere, and it was becoming obvious that he wasn’t either. “Sir, I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but...I’m sure you know more about Agent DePleur than I do. Is there anyone you think could’ve wanted him dead?”

"Yeah, we've been looking into him. Problem is no matter who hated 'em? They had to go through you. And no one up top is giving me the full story on you. But as someone that gets 'loaned out' and is supposed to be used for 'military operations' I think I'm working some things out."

Some sick things. But he's getting an idea. Maybe the voice'll be the one thing they can use. He taps the desk with his knuckles, gets up, and says, "Wait here. You need a bathroom break, knock on the door. This might take me a little bit."

Hank exits then, goes outside to find Ben in the next room, and takes his notes to compare the two sets. Behavioral and his own list of questions.

"That as freaky for you as it was for me?"

"Hmm." Ben grunts and shrugs. "Remember the time we caught the last mayor and the molerat-"

"Alright, yeah, alright. This is normal compared to that. But, y'know. Still freaky. Who do I talk to if I wanna become a dogwalker?"

"Dogwalker?"

"Yeah, this guy. Keeps describin' himself like an attack dog. I need to take him with me until he hears a voice he recognizes among the suspects. Who do I talk to about that?"

"Can't bring everyone in for a line-up?"

"I don't want these people to know they're suspects. Better to just lead him around, let him sniff. See what he digs up."

"Now you're the one getting creepy with the dog stuff." Ben thumps Hank's arm on the way out, catching words as he leaves.

"It's a good line! I'm a cop. That's the only perk to this work. Terrible lines. Hey.
You didn't answer my question!"

Though within the hour, he'd figured it out. Finally got through to the mayor himself. It's only then that Hank returns, putting a metal nuka-cola lunch pail with a thermos of soup, a baked potato and some cooked meat in it. After all, Abner had been in there a hell of a long time.

"Here. Eat this. Go home. Sleep it off. Meet me here at noon. Got it?"

His eyes were already open, but Abner still seemed to snap awake as Anderson reentered the room. His focus immediately locked on the lunch pail, and he dug in with his bare hands, finishing off the food in a matter of minutes. Normally he'd control himself better in front of superiors, but it had been over a day since his last meal. If intravenous nutrition even counted as a meal.

"Sorry. Hungry," he panted, wiping his mouth on his arm. The detective's instructions had taken a backseat to his ravenous hunger, but he'd still managed to understand most of them. "I got it, sir. Noon tomorrow?" A curious head tilt. "You're...letting me go? Just like that?"

Apparently he was. Abner carefully got to his feet as soon as he was freed, grimacing at the pins and needles in his legs as he made his way around the table. He paused for a moment at the door, glancing back at the lieutenant before he left the room.

"I want to figure this out as much as you do, sir. I'll see you tomorrow. I promise."

-----

His superiors hadn't been...thrilled...with his new assignment. Still, Abner stood stiffly in front of the police station at noon sharp, sporting a bruise near his good eye and what looked to be a fresh burn mark on the side of his throat. At least they'd given him his jacket back. Minus DePleur's blood, of course.

Well, isn't that a hell of a sight. He wants to assume that Abner could go a full night without getting into trouble. So why the ever-loving fuck does he have a bruise?

Hank rolls up with the nonchalance of a jaded man, not especially caring about being there on time. He comes in, does his job, leaves. He's got a good investigatory history. The fact his success record is so good is what keeps him from being fired. The gold-star citizen status.

But his heart hasn't been in it for a while. Honestly he cares about the DePleur case more for the sake of his family and doesn't give much of a damn about the man himself.

"Hey there," he calls out as he gets closer, squinting at the fresh bruise on his already messy face. "Where'd you get the shiner?" He asks outright.

Dr. Holland wasn’t angry, she’d told him, cradling his face in her hands as the sting faded to a dull ache. She hadn’t wanted to hurt him. But good dogs don’t bite their owners, and he’d done far, far worse than bite.

“It’s nothing, sir. Won’t get in my way at all,” Abner assured the detective. Not really a lie—he’d gotten off easy, given the circumstances. “What did you need me for today? Any new leads, or did you have something else in mind? I’m up for anything. They’re not even sending me on any more missions until the killer is caught. Apparently I’m a ‘liability‘, whatever that means.”

"Yeah, I'm sure you tripped and fell down the stairs," he says suspiciously, somehow coming to that conclusion with the, 'Did you kill someone else?' as a second.

He almost wants to hold the guy in custody for his own protection. He might look into it. After all, if he's a hair-trigger then that's an excuse to keep him under observation, right?

"It means that if you're in close proximity to someone you need to protect and some asshole decides that they need to be dead, then they're in deep shit. So right now as far as I see it, I'm your mission. You keep an ear open. We'll do this case.

"Now, if you don't mind, let's go in. I'll get some water for this hangover and something to eat from the breakroom. I'll check in with the Captain and then we'll fuck off. And then we can fuck off."

He gestures loosely to the station before heading in.

A new mission. An official one now. Abner felt oddly relieved as he followed the detective into the building—he wasn’t sure how long he could’ve lasted without orders, especially out in the open like this. Lieutenant Anderson may not have been a traditional superior, but he was Enclave and had a rank, so it was good enough for him. The food was a plus, too. There was just one nagging thought crawling into his brain...

“Understood, sir. I’m yours until this is over. One other thing, though, if that’s okay.” A deep breath, reminding himself that Anderson seemingly didn’t mind him asking questions. An oddity among superiors.

“What if someone wants you dead? Wouldn’t I be a risk then too?”

"I'm a cop, I'm expendable. Nobody's gonna give a shit about me. And getting rid of me isn't going to hide anything. I check in too often." Though he has considered it, and he's not going to mention to Abner that he asked the Captain to get him a syringe of tranquilizers, just in case. Enough to take down a Yao Guai.

Some things it'll be better, for both their own good, if Abner doesn't know. And hopefully it should be in by tomorrow and nothing happens today. "Besides, I'm tougher than I look. I can stand up to a lot."

Sometimes more than a man with a wavering deathwish would like.

He heads by the breakroom where there's some food for lunch (he completely missed their breakfast run, but he always does). He grabs some of the cooked softshell because, lets be real, the Great Lakes had the best quality Mirelurks. Fight him. And some corn on the cob.

He tosses a pear to Abner because it looks like he'd need it.

"Here. Eat this," he insists. "Grab something else if you want it." Now, to that water so he can start eating away at this fucking ungodly headache. "Did your superiors say anything specific about DePleur or did they just converse with their knuckles and blunt objects?"

Shit. Was it that obvious? Abner rubbed his cheek, suddenly self-conscious.

“They didn’t talk much about him,” he said. “Not to me at least. I did hear one of the scientists say they’d need to find a replacement soon.” It wouldn’t be hard—DePleur was ruthless, but he was far from the worst Abner had seen. Or experienced.

Indicating his face again, he added, “They didn’t blame me. They know I couldn’t have done it alone. But I’m not supposed to hurt my superiors. I deserved this. Worse, probably. You know the saying—good dogs don’t bite their owners, right?”

With that, Abner turned his attention to the food, devouring the pear—core included—before cautiously reaching for the mirelurk cakes. Nobody had stopped him yet, so he might as well take advantage of the meals while he could.

That makes Hank stall in his tracks, just drinking a freshly acquire glass of water with a knit in that deep brow of his and a pointedly unhappy look.

Then he moves the cup away. "I wonder if your superiors ever owned a fuckin' dog. I do. If it bit me, I'd wonder what went wrong that it wanted to."

He finishes stuffing his face and calls out a hello to Chris, buddy buddy with the guy, but that statement is lingering with him. He's had a bad feeling about some of the stuff going on up top. It's been chiselling away at him, that suspicion, but to cling to the last shreds of hope he's not wanted to know.

Maybe he should want to know.

Expendability is one of the issues of this place. It always has been. Hearing it, being reminded of it, is jarring in a way he can't quite identify. But there's a mother and daughter out there that need to find out what happened to their beloved fuckbag of a husband, so he needs to focus on that.

"Alright. Grabbin' my pack and then we're headin' out." He heads for a stretch of lockers to grab his goods, undoing the old school lock binding it shut (pre-war, scrounged early on) and pulls out a vest and a military pack that he puts on his back.

"We're talking to the wife and daughter first. We're not telling them that you're the killer. You're just my assistant on the case. Got it?"

Judging by the look on Anderson’s face, he didn’t know the saying. Maybe it wasn’t as common of a phrase as Abner had thought. Maybe it wasn’t a common phrase at all. He scratched anxiously at his throat, struck by the sudden realization that he’d probably said too much. If his superiors found out—

No, he couldn’t think about that. Not now.

“Your assistant?” he said quickly, jumping on the chance to change the subject. “I’m not trained for police work, but I’ll do my best to be useful, sir. Are these clothes okay, though?” He looked down at his uniform, green fatigues with the Enclave’s insignia stitched proudly on the chest. Not exactly fit for a police officer. “I don’t want people to recognize me. Especially if they’re involved in this whole thing. I’ll be decommissioned for sure if there’s another unauthorized murder.”

"Doesn't matter. You're there to carry my gear when I need you to, say 'yes sir' and look pretty." Which might sound like he's starting to not treat him like a person, before he adds, "-sounds like that if someone did recognize you they'd expect you to act blindly like that."

And he sounds kind of disappointed. Not in Abner, but in the system. His hope's been stretched thin.

He slings the pack over his shoulder and rolls up his sleeves as he walks out. The MP officers range from official to aggressively casual, and Hank leaned towards the latter. His uniform was a police vest and bits and pieces of his Enclave regalia. The dress standard was loose as they dealt mostly with civilian matters, so it was all he needed to adhere to.

He heads towards the DePleur house. Along the way, he exchanges the occasional pleasantry with a citizen or two. Most of them seem to know him along his regular route. He'd built a good reputation.

“Understood. Looking pretty wasn’t part of my training, sir, but I’ll do my best.” Abner was confused, but still deadly serious as he saluted—sarcasm had never been his strong suit. It was even more confusing when Anderson didn’t immediately hand over the pack for him to carry. Hadn’t he just ordered that? He decided not to question it. No use getting on the detective’s bad side before the mission even started.

True to his training, he slipped into a near-trance as he followed his new superior onto the street, back stiff and eyes fixed straight ahead. Whispers trailed along behind him—Who is that? What happened to his face? Wait, I think I know him, isn't he one of those—but he paid them no mind. They barely registered. He only woke when Anderson stopped in front of a house. A little cottage, pre-war style, light blue paint over plaster walls. The kind he’d fantasized about back when he was a person. This had to be the place.

“So...what’s the plan, sir?” he asked hesitantly. “Anything in particular you want me to do?”

And they robbed the man of his sense of humor, too? Damned monsters. Somehow that was the worst crime. If a man couldn't meet his hardships with some sort of humor, then life was barely worth living. From what he's seen, this guy just autopilots. Moments of sensation like a fucking full stomach being made of gold for him.

As promised, when they reach the tidy little house he passes off his pack to Abner. "First, hold this. Second, keep your ears open. Tell me if the woman's voice is recognizable."

When he reaches the door, the woman who opens it looks depressed. Tired. Her clothes are better than most wastelander clothes, washed to near newness with minimal grime. The little girl sitting at the table in the kitchen far behind her, paying attention to small army men she's playing with (ones she's painted pink and purple at that, so they're pretty) and seeming oblivious to the fact something traumatic had happened.

"You're from the Military Police, aren't you? Come in."

Well, from the initial reaction, she doesn't seem to recognize Abner. She barely pays him a second glance.

"Right," he says. "I'm Lt. Anderson. You were expecting us?"

"Yes, the mayor said you would be coming." And she gestures for them to follow her to the living room.

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Took a lot longer than I thought because I felt bad today.

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being an adult with a job sucks shit, don’t do it

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