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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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"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.

“Yes, sir.” Abner slung the bag over his shoulder like it weighed nothing—which, for him, it might as well have. He stepped back as the door opened, taking his proper place behind Anderson. Out of sight, out of mind, and hopefully out of range of any unauthorized orders.

He shouldn’t have been worried, though. The woman who opened the door was completely unfamiliar, and the dismissive glance she gave him suggested she thought the same. Abner caught the detective’s eye as they followed her into the house and shook his head—no, not her.

Mrs. DePleur’s living room was small and neat, with a relatively intact couch—a rarity outside the bunker—and a wood-paneled holotape player. She motioned for them to sit down, but Abner opted to stand near the door instead. She could still be a threat despite her innocent appearance, and he’d prefer to be ready if she tried to make a move on his superior. Besides, he wasn’t allowed on the furniture.

Edited 2020-06-13 20:15 (UTC)

Hank sits, but then takes a moment to realize that Abner isn't. He's just standing there, looking like a guard at some palace gates, marred face and all.

Hank clears his throat and gestures at a seat. "You too," he adds, just in case Abner isn't sure.

"Mrs. DePleur, did your husband have any enemies that he spoke to you about."

"No," she responds. "I rarely see- saw him anymore. He barely comes home, and when he was home, he spent most time with his daughter. He-"

She hesitates, frowning. "He wasn't the best husband, but he was good father. A great father. I hate that this happened to him. She doesn't even realize that he's not coming home yet. She doesn't get it."

Hank looks around idly as she talks. The only significant details he's finding immediately is that there are two still three places from around the table that morning.

Edited 2020-06-15 10:51 (UTC)

Abner hesitated for a moment, but orders were orders, even if they did conflict with the rest of his training. He compromised by perching at the very edge of his seat, as little of his body touching the cushions as he could manage. It was too soft for something like him. Too clean.

Mrs. DePleur gave him an odd look, seeming to really notice him for the first time. “Excuse me, but who are you again? You look familiar.”

His pulse spiked, but his voice remained steady as he replied. “Private Abner, ma’am. Special asset. I’m helping the investigation. You’ve probably seen me with the mayor. I’m his...bodyguard for public events.”

“Right, right.” She nodded. “Did you know my husband? Is that why you’re here?”

“No, ma’am. I saw him, but we never spoke.” Oh, he didn’t like where this line of questioning could end up. He shot a frantic glance at Anderson out of the corner of his eye, quietly begging for a change of subject.

"Because he's assisting me in the investigation, and protecting me if I should need it. The man that killed your husband was pretty tough- who was here this morning? Have you been keeping safe just in case?"

And that's when Mrs. DePleur seemed to metally jolt, realizing that the place settings were still out. "We- we have a nanny. For Dotty. She stayed over last night because I didn't want to be alone."

Hank squints as she tugs down the hem of her dress, like it's accompanying a self-concious thought.

"She around often?"

"Pretty often. She's been with us since my daughter was a baby."

And DePleur, he remembers, was gone a lot. Huh.

"Think I could speak to her as well? Got a way that I could contact here?"

“She left at around nine today,” Mrs. DePleur replied. “It takes her a while to get home. She lives near the outskirts, you see.” She sighed, almost wistful. “I wish it didn’t have to be like that, but she’s...not from here, if you know what I mean.”

Not from here. He knew. Not Enclave, not human. Abner felt strangely relieved—a suspect he wasn’t compelled to obey. But if she was from the outskirts...the same place he’d gotten ambushed...

No, whoever did it had to have insider information. Unless Mrs. DePleur was in on it, of course. He wasn’t sure what she did in the Enclave, if anything, but he wasn’t the one asking questions, even if this particular one was nagging at his brain. Anderson would know best anyway.

After all, Abner was just there to say ‘yes sir’ and look pretty.

Mrs. DePleur, at this point, starts to look a little concerned. Rightfully so, if a cop searching for a suspect suddenly starts showing interest in someone she cares about. She stiffens up a little.

"Yes, you could speak with her. But please, she's 115 pounds soaking wet. She's kind, she wouldn't hurt a fly. She doesn't fake it, not like he did-"

Even as her defenses rise, Hank raises his hand.

"I take pride in my job, Mrs. DePleur, and what I mean in that is I bring the right person in. Always. No one is gonna be able to argue with my results, and if that meeans she's innocent, I'm gonna prove she's innocent, alright? I promise."

She seems hesitant, nearly stammering a- "Are you sure, because..."

...Because that's how Enclave are, right? They're power hungry. They force results. DePleur forced results. Hank can't, and won't, blame her for that. That's the way that this system works. He's worked within it for a long time, most of it spent doing the right thing when most people wanted to do the easy control thing. He could manage it until in the last few years.

Since he lost Cole, he's just coasting. But it sounds like Dotty in there shouldn't lose yet another parent who loves her. Maybe this woman is as good as one of those.

"I just need her to be completely honest with me." He looks over to Abner. "Hand me my notepad, I need to write all this down." But he does notice a sort of look on his face. Maybe he's just reading into those torn features, but he still asks, "You got somethin' on your mind?"

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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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