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Hazy morning light filtered through the boarded-up windows of the old Hotel Rexford. The smell of vomit and shame permeated the walls, and old blood and – ugh – other things coated the floors. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.
Lana rubbed the sleep from her eyes with the heels of her hands and groaned as she sat up from the rented bedroll. The twinge of pain along her hip told her she slept with her gun holster still on.
Good. At least I still have –
Wait. What did she still have? Lana patted her pockets with a sweaty palm. Stimpaks, still there. Rad-Away, still there. Caps –
Oh, shit.
Think. Think, Lana, think.
There was that mayor – and that ridiculous hat – and he stabbed someone. He stabbed someone! But she was welcome. And in desperate need of help. And rest. And a drink.
Oh, god.
The Third Rail. That’s right.
Funny how these things happened. For all the strangeness of the Commonwealth, there were some places that felt just like home. Goodneighbor was one of those places. 200 years ago, Boston was the picture of complacency. Everything was shiny and clean on the outside, and everyone was all smiles. Meanwhile, the seedy underbelly of the city grew fouler by the day.
Goodneighbor was that seedy underbelly, perfectly preserved and brazenly exposed for the whole world to see. It was a haven for misfits, criminals, and drifters. Way back when, most of her clients had come from places like this; usually normal people just trying to get by, too easily caught on the wrong side of the law. Lana smiled bitterly. Some things never change. Goodneighbor probably didn’t have any job openings for a 230-year-old defense attorney, though.
Think, Lana.
She coughed a dry and wheezing cough. Oh, right. There was a drink that tasted like gasoline and burned all the way down, like a lit match tossed down her throat.
That was the first mistake.
The bartender meant well, or so she thought. A Mr. Handy – not unlike her own Codsworth – who offered a drink on the house after a few moments of friendly chit-chat. The mayor – Hancock. Hancock with that ridiculous hat – had stabbed the drifter who tried to extort her. That meant she was safe, right?
It didn’t matter. No matter where you went, safety was a fleeting thing. That’s why she needed help.
Think. Think. Think.
She remembered stumbling down there – down where? – after downing that God-forsaken swill. Dogmeat was there, too, circling around her nervously. Bless that dog. She remembered apologizing to the person – no, not a person, that was a mannequin, Lana – whose foot she tripped over.
Help. Lana was looking for help.
That was what she needed, wasn’t it? If she had any hope of finding Shaun, anyway. Preston was busy helping the settlers secure Sanctuary Hills with the help of Codsworth. Piper always watched Lana’s back, but was more comfortable with a pen in hand rather than a pistol. And Dogmeat—
Dogmeat was the reason Lana was still alive. Thanks to his eyes, ears, and nose, the two of them had avoided direct combat thus far by laying low and staying out of sight. But Lana knew that would only last for so long. If she wanted to find her son, she needed someone who knew how to fight. Someone who knew how to survive this Wasteland.
“If you need a hired gun,”
Oh.
“… then maybe we can talk.”
Shit.
She remembered the cigarette that dangled from his lips like bait on a hook. She barely remembered handing him a fistful of caps, but she remembered the gaps in his smile as he pocketed them. She remembered the room rising around her when she collapsed on the couch that night.
Hotel.
That’s right. She had looked up at her new hire and rasped, “Hotel.”
She remembered his self-satisfied chuckle. “Listen, lady, I thought I was clear about the services I provide, and that is not—”
Lana’s stomach somersaulted as she remembered leaning over the side of the couch and emptying her stomach into a cracked floral vase.
“First time at the Rail, eh?” She remembered how he clicked his tongue. It echoed in her mind, pounding against the wall of her skull. “I told Charlie he shouldn’t test his experimental drinks on the newcomers. It’s bad for business.”
She remembered wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and grabbing the mercenary by the sleeve of his duster.
"Rexford. Now.” She would not pass out in the basement of this God-forsaken place. She would not.
She remembered his drawn-out, long-suffering sigh as he pulled Lana to her feet by draping her arm around his shoulders.
“You’re the boss.”
Dogmeat’s whine broke Lana’s train of thought. Good boy. He licked her face as she ruffled his ears. From the other side of the door, someone cleared their throat.
“So, uh. You done throwin’ up in there, boss? Or do you need another day to recover? ‘Cause if you do, it’s gonna cost you about 50 more caps. I’m a mercenary, not a babysitter.”
It was going to be a long day in the Commonwealth.