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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

"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?"

“Yes, sir.” Abner pulled the backpack into his lap, unzipping it and digging around until he found the notebook and pen. He handed it over to his superior and then, emboldened by the permission to speak, looked back to Mrs. DePleur. She seemed unnerved by his empty stare, quickly looking away. If she knew what he was, she didn’t show it.

“Excuse me, ma’am. If you don’t mind—I just wanted to ask, where do you work?”

“I don’t. Well, not according to my husband. He called me his little housewife.” Her lips pressed into a thin line. “Really, though, I do all the work around here. Cooking, cleaning, bills...and with a child on top of it all, I just couldn’t keep up anymore. That’s why we had to hire Helena.”

With that—a hand over her mouth, a stifled sob, and then she fixed her gaze on Anderson. Determination, Abner thought. Or maybe desperation. He wasn’t good at reading faces.

“Listen, Lieutenant, I know you have quotas. Paul was always bragging about how well he met them. So if you have to arrest one of us...please, take me instead.” Her eyes darted towards the girl, who was now kneeling upright in her chair, head cocked towards the unfamiliar visitors. Listening in. “Just make sure Dotty goes to her nanny. I think she’s a better parent than I ever was.”

"I know, I know..." Hank gestures at her, a quieting thing. "I know it's hard to believe, but I don't worry much about my quota. I worry about giving results that are airtight. If you're sure that she didn't do anything, then you have nothing to worry about. I'm a- I was a parent, too." He corrects himself, creating an aching pain in his chest.

"I wouldn't want her to be left alone, by either of you."

It's a rough sentiment, but he can clearly see between the lines at this point. The women were, if not in love, if not lovers, at the very least considered each other family. They both loved the little girl, still making dialog between her girlishly decorated army men at the table. Some soap opera worthy drama happening in the background in a pitched voice.

"But I also need some more answers. I've asked about your husband's enemies. Did you know some of his closer friends that wouldn't be in his department."

Still anxious, still watery-eyed, she nods and goes to retrieve his little black book. It's just a list of names and addresses, but it might be chances for Abner here to hear more women speak.

As she goes, though, Hank does watch Dotty sadly for a moment, before schooling his look to write some things down in his tablet.

Was a parent?

Abner got the uneasy feeling he’d heard something he wasn’t meant to know. It happened sometimes, superiors forgetting about him and saying too much. All he could do was try to ignore it, forget it, and be silently thankful for the programming that suppressed his own painful memories.

Not a moment too soon, Mrs. DePleur returned with the address book. He took it from her—Anderson was busy with his notes—and skimmed through the pages. Most of the names were male, unsurprisingly, but there were a handful of women listed. Carter, Gina. Duke, Evelyn. Daniels, Tammy. Gutierrez, Brenda.

Holland, Maria.

Abner’s breath caught. One hand crept up to scratch his at his throat. Why was she here? She couldn’t be involved, right? What if Anderson wanted to question her? His stomach turned, and he quickly snapped the book shut. “Here,” he mumbled, pushing it towards his superior. “You should take this.”

"Alright. And I'll tell you what. I'll write down a location in the city for your nanny to meet me at-" He proceeds to flip a page to do that. "This is neutral. It's a park. We can talk to her there rather than moving into her space. But if she doesn't show up, I will need to find her to ask her some questions. Fourteen hundred hours tomorrow."

He puts down the note, ready to get up because he's noticed the shift in Abner's demeanor. And he has some questions for him now that are inappropriate to ask here. He taps his elbow and offers a quick, "Come on. We gotta go."

"Good day Mrs. DePleur."

He suspects that she won't like that her friend or otherwise involved associates need to be questioned. But Hank's not at all approaching this like her husband would. Once they're outside, Hank shows him the black book.

"Alright, which names are familiar to you and why? Somethin's up. I can tell."

Abner’s nerves were on fire as Anderson herded him out of the house. A knot of dread had tied itself into his stomach. He wasn’t the most perceptive man, but even he could tell when he’d fucked up. Given too much away. And sure enough, as soon as they were out of earshot of the house, the detective flipped open that little black book and started asking questions.

“I, uh,” Abner started, scratching at his throat again. He could feel the mask slipping when he thought of Dr. Holland, and the distinct shift in his tone and posture as it did. Like a scared little kid. “I know Maria Holland, sir. She’s...she’s the head of psychology in the Enclave labs. We came here together from Raven Rock. Back east.” His memories of the trip were shrouded in a thick fog, but vague fragments stood out—hands on his face, pressure around his neck, flesh and bones between his teeth. It was probably good he couldn’t remember.

“She didn’t do it. She wouldn’t do something like that, she’s a really nice person, and I would recognize her voice anyway. I...just didn’t expect to see her name here. It startled me, that’s all. I didn’t know they were friends. That’s all, sir.”

"...Head of psychology."

Again, Hank can do a little bit of math. Enclave labs aren't a good place. He's seen the dread when the worst offenders are told they're gonna be sent there- Hank's taken pains to keep more sympathetic folk from ending up with the fate of reprogramming, let alone whatever they do in the labs.

Nice person. Somehow he really fucking doubts it. And his confidence in the thought is... disappointing. He'd once hoped for the best in mankind- like what he sees in Mrs. DePleur when she talks about her friend or secret lover or whoever she is. But more often than not, he's being scathed.

"And would she have given any personal knowledge about you to anyone?"

Abner fidgeted. With the skin on his neck picked raw, he started in on his wrists instead. “She, uh, she is usually the one who assigns me to people,” he admitted. “But it’s all official business. She only uses me for approved purposes, sir. Really, there’s no way she could be involved.” He gave the lieutenant a look of barely concealed desperation. Please don’t let her be involved. Please don’t involve her.

“There’s a lot of names in here. More than enough ground to cover without her. I—I shouldn’t have even mentioned it, sir, I’m sorry, I just wasn’t expecting to see her.” The words were spilling out too quickly, but he couldn’t seem to stop them. “I know it wasn’t her voice, so you can just cross her off the list now, right?”

The tone sounds familiar in a way that's unsettling. So he's blunt with his next question.

"If I were to talk to her, what's the likelihood of you showing up with another black eye?"

“What? That isn’t—Dr. Holland wouldn’t do that,” Abner insisted. It wasn’t a lie—the orderlies had given him last night’s bruises. On Holland’s command, but still. The doctor herself had never gotten physical with him. Not like that. “She hates violence. She’s the one who fixes me when I get hurt. Even if I deserved it, like last night.”

He sighed and rubbed his cheek. “With the way this is going, I might deserve it tonight, too.”

"Just stop-" he cuts him off, drawing a line through the air with his hand.

"Stop talking about how much you deserve it. One person can't breathe in my ear that you had no choice while the other person tells me you oughta be punished for it. The two things don't line up." And he thinks he understands now what the mayor's people meant.

"So either you do, or you don't. And if I need to talk to her, I won't do it with her as a suspect," because even if she was guilty, she might be too high up the ladder for him to do more than watch her burn when stronger hands take hold. If that ever finally fucking happens. "-And I don't want you there."

He gestures. "Come on, we got another place to hit up."

“There’s a difference between being forced to do something and being allowed to do it, sir,” Abner said. He didn’t explain further—he’d already been told to stop, after all. Instead, he obediently fell into step behind his superior, breathing a quiet sigh of relief that wherever they were going, it wasn’t back to the lab. Not with him in tow, at least. It had been hard enough to explain his behavior without Subject 51 in control, he couldn’t imagine Anderson would react well to seeing him drop the soldier persona.

“Where are we going?” he asked. It was strange, asking questions of a superior, but he felt pretty good about his chances this time. The lieutenant seemed to appreciate it when he acted like a person.

"Allowed? ...You know what? Still counts."

Because if the people in charge are convinced that Abner is 'innocent' in whatever fashion they mean, that he didn't have a choice in the matter, merely a weapon, then he didn't fuckin' deserve a black eye. A bunch of tender fuckin' cocksuckers that can't deal with the idea they fucked up by letting one of their goddamn pet projects fall into the wrong hands.

"We're going to City Hall. Gonna stroll around a bit. I want you to listen to voices while I'm questioning people."

He draws out the plan uselessly in the air as he explains it. "Bring it up to me discretely if something someone says rings a bell."

“City Hall? That’s where the mayor is, right?” Abner had been there before, in an official capacity, but he couldn’t remember much about it. Obviously. If he remembered what he did as the guard dog, they wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place.

Also, he would’ve lost his mind years ago. Selective memory was a blessing sometimes.

“There’s a lot of people there, I think,” he added. Crowds. He remembered crowds. “Important people. Maybe targets, Can you do me a favor, sir?” A little twitch of his head at his own deeply unorthodox request, still half expecting a shock. Anderson wasn’t like that, he had to remind himself. And they’d taken off the collar before sending him out that morning anyway.

“Please make sure I don’t hurt anyone else while I’m there. If it’s public, they’ll have to decommission me, and this whole investigation will be a waste of time. You’ll never catch the real killer then.”

"I'll do what's necessary," Hank promises. Though until he gets that dose of tranquilizer he doesn't know what will be necessary.

"I think I could still get on the right path. It'd just take me longer, I'd need more people. I'm pretty good at this." Which is why he can get away with not obsessing over saving face. He thinks he could solve it in time.

That is, if he makes it that long. Depends on how many times he can 'win' at Russian Roulette, or whatever other way he tries to destroy himself. It's not as if he has much to live for.

"But I'll not let you hurt anyone if I can help it."

“Thank you, sir.” It was good to hear, but he still hesitated—Anderson wouldn’t know the correct procedures, would he? “It’s easy enough to stop me, even when I’m...gone. Any kind of electric shock should shut me down right away. If not, aim for the knees. People say I’m brainless, so I don’t know if shooting me in the head would do anything.” His advice was delivered deadpan as usual, without a hint of sarcasm. For all he knew, the only thing left in his skull was the static.

He went silent after that, trailing after his superior in a haze, until City Hall loomed in the distance and he jolted back into reality. There was an uncomfortable feeling of familiarity as he looked up at the old pre-war building. Like something he’d seen in a dream, but he knew he’d been awake. Well, someone had been awake.

“I think they know me here,” he whispered to the lieutenant. “Do any of them know what I did? Besides you and the mayor?”

Hank snorts at the joke. But, assures him, "I'm not the type of guy to kill someone for reasons beyond their control. I'd get you in the knee before getting you in the head without you having to tell me."

"I don't think so. They shouldn't. I asked Ben to put out a wanted bounty for a male, slim build, late 30s, tall. Descriptions are vague enough to keep everyone side-eyeing each other and maybe the woman responsible feeling like she got away with murder."

Withholding evidence, changing accounts, usually good ways to lead to a killer when someone gave unexpectedly correct information.

“Slim build. Yeah, that rules me out.” Abner’s voice was tense, his eyes scanning the crowd that gathered near the building. “Just hope they don’t find someone matching that. Especially not Enclave. I don’t want a human getting blamed for what I did.” Unlikely, but it wouldn’t be the first time his superiors had created their own perpetrator. He’d been there for some of them. It was for the greater good, but it didn’t make their screams any less haunting.

Someone brushed past his shoulder and he flinched, instinctively moving closer to Anderson—to protect the lieutenant or himself, he wasn’t sure. “Sorry, sir. Not used to crowds,” he apologized. They weren’t even inside and he already felt light-headed, distant, slowly drifting away from himself like he had on the way there. “If I start zoning out when I’m in there, just—“ He instinctively reached for his neck, finding only scarred skin. Right. “I guess just hit me or something. Should work okay.”

Edited 2020-07-04 04:14 (UTC)

"Considering everyone high up enough to care know who did it? I wouldn't worry about it." As if people fucking side-eyeing each other with constant suspicion or thirsting for opportunity was new.

He's considering that, bitterly, as Abner either shelters near or hovers next to him, he can't figure out which. But it was just at a touch.

"Not gonna say no one here would hurt you but I am gonna say it'd be a bad look for them to try and they know it," is the comfort he gives Abner. Not that it's much of a comfort to himself, a reminder of the broken state of the world he thought was Better. But it'll have to do, and he walks up to the receptionist.

She's doing her best to look the part, too. A nice blouse with a pencil skirt, well-washed, hemmed in such a way you can barely tell that it was from a darker time. The trim on the skirt suggests that it's fresher- the fabric hardy old world fabric, spliced from different garments and sewn together to form a nice tailored cut on a body she probably has to work to keep.

"Hi." He introduces himself a little awkwardly, because he still gets a little starstruck by gorgeous women, even at his age. "I'm Lt. Hank Anderson with the Detroit Military Police. I'm uh..."

He hesitates. Fumbles over words.

"I'm here to see the mayor, JoAnn Connelly, Adam Van Cleef, and Noore Najjar. We're here to follow up on the DePleur case."

"Ah, yes. I'll let him know you're here. And hello to you, Private Abner," she responds and greets in a sing-song voice, rising to her feet in heels with the elegance of someone who has trained herself to wear them for the impression they give, and exits to go pass on messages through pneumatic tubes. It's then that Hank glances back at Abner. "Familiar voice?"

“I don’t mind getting hurt, sir,” Abner assured him. “Just...don’t like crowds. Harder to see threats coming. I’m better at it when I’m gone, but that won’t work for what we’re trying to do here.”

Really, he just hated being touched, but that was a weakness and he knew it.

He tensed up, fists clenching, as another person brushed far too close to him. It was a relief when they got inside, the outdoor crowd giving way to a clean floor and a reception desk straight out of the old world. The receptionist was uncomfortably pretty, and Abner tried his best not to look at her for too long. She seemed vaguely familiar, he thought, and hearing her call him by name confirmed it. They must’ve been introduced one of the other times he was there. Or wasn’t there, as it were. It was always a little weird encountering people who only knew him as the mayor’s bodyguard—usually they were surprised he could talk.

“Not her,” he whispered as she walked away, once again trying not to stare. “I think I would’ve recognized her voice. Don’t actually remember meeting her, though.”

Edited 2020-07-05 14:45 (UTC)

Hank knits his brow and looks off the direction the woman had gone to, the sound of her heels having faded completely. Then back to bewildering Abner and all his strangeness.

"Well she definitely remembers you."

The secretary returns, still looking pleasant enough. "You can speak with the Mayor once he's out of this meeting. Mr. Van Cleef isn't currently in the building, but his coworker Mr. Miller is available on floor three, office twelve. Mrs. Najjir took the day off, and Miss Connelly should be available in the archival room all evening."

"Right. Thank you. Come on." He pats Abner's shoulder, indicating that they need to go, and goes to the stairs. Miller first. Then probably Connelly, 'cause god knows how long the Mayor's meeting will be.

"So you don't actually remember any of these people? None of 'em?" He asks once they've walked far enough away.

This time Abner managed to mostly suppress his startle response, only twitching slightly under Anderson’s hand. Ideally he shouldn’t react at all when superiors touched him, but this particular superior wouldn’t know that, and he wasn’t about to bring it up himself.

“Don’t remember them, but I know their faces,” he explained as he trailed the lieutenant to the stairs. “Voices too. Same reason I’ll be able to recognize the killer’s voice.”

He knew he was walking right on the edge of saying too much, but part of him didn’t care anymore. The part that instinctively trusted anyone who treated him gently and gave him food.

“It’s hard to explain, sir, but I’m not always me. I‘m something else when I guard the mayor. I was something else when I killed DePleur. The same thing, I think. But I can only remember bits of it when I’m me again. Sounds and smells. Faces sometimes.“ He paused, realizing for the first time that he might sound a little bit like a crazy person. “Does...that make sense?”

"Can't tell if that sounds like some sorta fugue state or what..." but he theorizes, maybe, that Abner's been trained to be completely covert in his actions. That he won't be a threat to confidential information. He can only imagine what kind of toll that'd take on the mind, and while he'd hope someone would only damn themselves to that grief willingly? Knowing what he knows about their imprisonment system says to him that they shouldn't.

They reach the upstairs office first, names listed on one of those signs where you slip in the letters individually. Amazing how much stuff the original resettlement of the area managed to dig up, even small tidbits like that. And Miller's name is written as Kazuhira Miller.

When they reach the door, the man inside with the handsome face, just scruffy enough that it looks intentional and pristine, and shockingly blond hair does not look like a Kazuhira. He shouldn't judge, though.

He knocks on the open door rather than just entering, tapping against the wood so the other man looks up through NCR issued sunglasses and is in a beret with a patch he can't identify, another bewildering mix here. A liaison, maybe? He's wearing a uniform under a tidy long coat, and while he writes with his left hand his mechanized right one sits idly on the desk.

He looks up to Hank and Abner. "How may I help you?"

"We're here to ask about one of the late Paul DePleur's associates. Adam Van Cleef?"

"Oh." Miller responds with all the passion of a man that's found a turd lying in the center of a clean room, and he tips back in his seat and turns his pen in his fingers, real and metal.