Owen leaned against the metal railing. A skinny spliff peaked out from between his fingers, dangling precariously over the edge as he tapped the ash off into oblivion. He took a slow, deep drag. Strange how the cherry’s dull glow burned brighter than the lights below. Like a reminder of humanity’s resilience and downfall all at once. The thought lingered a while before Owen stamped the spliff out onto the rail and turned toward the doors. 

It took weeks for him to trust the  metal grate floors out here. Seeing through them as he walked was unnerving,  especially during the day when the skies were clear and their distance from the wasteland was unmistakable. That’s part of the reason he preferred coming out here at night. None of that seemed to bother the young squires ahead of him.

A young boy and girl crouched low onto the grating. The girl held half of a T-45 helmet in her hands, its flashlight shining down into the night sky.  Neither looked older than ten. Owen frowned a little and waved to the kids. 

“Good evening, sir!” the boy exclaimed, jumping to his feet. 

Had Owen startled him? “It is a good evening, isn’t it?” the scribe replied, watching the girl continue whatever it is she was doing with the helmet. “What are brings you both out here after dark?”

“Proctor Teagen said if we can find the White House he’ll teach us how to shoot,” the girl answered without looking up. 

Nervously, the boy nodded. “He really did, sir. It’s our mission.”

“Proctor Teagen said that, huh?” Owen sighed, then looked out into the wasteland. You couldn’t see much from up here after sunset. “Wait, move the light. Yeah, over there, there you go. I think you found it. See?” 

The girl squinted hard, then glanced at the boy and smiled. Together, they laughed, “We’re going to learn how to [i]shoot[/i]!”

Owen smiled, continuing toward the door as the kids dreamt aloud of what they’d learn to fire. Perhaps he smiled a little bigger imagining Teagen’s confusion, but it was all in good fun, of course.  The old proctor might benefit from some time around the energy and excitement of two squires. He was a good man, if a bit of a curmudgeon. Most of his brothers and sisters on the Prydwen were [i]good people[/i]. Some bought into hating mutants and ghouls a little too easily for his taste, but hate was a tempting drug. He couldn’t blame them for indulging a little. 

Climbing down onto the main deck, Owen took a moment to savor the sounds and smells. The laughter and gasps as knights recounted past missions, the mouth-watering and vaguely nauseating aromas from drifting from the mess hall. It had all its charm. He knew this “extended mission” would make him appreciate it all that much more, assuming they survived. 
“You’re early, Algarín.”  The scribe looked around, spotting Paladin Moss at a two-person table  hidden away near the back. “Take a seat. I took the liberty of getting you a drink.”

“That’s very kind of you sir, thank you.” Owen studied at the unfamiliar beer then glanced at the bar.

Moss grinned and popped the caps off both of their bottles. “Neriah told me you pick up on things fast. I take it you have some idea about our mission already.”

“Just inference.” Owen took a sip from his beer and gave a quick nod of approval. 

“Go on,” Moss ordered, eyes fixed on the scribe.

“Well, there’s the timing first of all. I worked with Scribe Faris, you know. Helped him do research into the Boston area ahead of Artemis leaving. I also haven’t heard anything about their progress since they left,” Owen explained and pointed to the beer. “That research I mentioned included common food and drink. Common like this lager, for example.”

“Impressive.” The paladin smirked and raised his beer. “So you worked out the why and the where. What about the need for secrecy?”

The words stopped, teetering at the tip of his tongue. Owen noticed the subtle look of satisfaction just behind the paladin’s stoic expression. This wasn’t an interview or opportunity to prove himself for the mission. No, the message was quite clear. Owen had already been chosen. Moss was trying to determine how to handle him. Maybe looking for a reason to remove him before the mission even began. If Owen answered honestly, suggesting the young Elder Maxon might want to keep losing touch with a squad quiet, he might be digging his own grave. Rumor had it Moss was the religious type. A New Canaanite. What was the saying? [i]Pride cometh before the fall[/i].

“I asked about the importance of secrecy for our mission,” Moss repeated. “You understand secrecy. Considering your [i]background[/i].”

“I haven’t told anyone about the mission, if that’s what you mean.”

Moss took a deep breath and stood. If his tone and unyielding stoicism weren’t intimidating enough, the foot or so he had on Owen sent the message home. Owen kept eye contact, even if that meant craning his neck upward. After a few moments they seemed to find an understanding.

“A vertibird will be ready and waiting at 0400 hours,” Moss explained “I’ve already sent messages to the rest of the team with details. I expect they’ll want a drink before the mission, and since you’re already quite familiar with the details,  I trust you will see to it that everyone gets enough rest.”

Without so much as a nod, Moss turned on a heel and left the mess hall. What strength Owen had summoned left him the moment the paladin was gone. He sank back into his seat. The conversation replayed in his mind until he realized the beer wasn’t going to be enough. 

“I’ll take a scotch, please.” Owen took a seat at the bar and scanned the room. He’d wait a few hours for anyone else to show. After that, he’d hit the sack. “So, got any good stories?” 

The mess officer chuckled to himself. “I used to be scribe like you, you know. Until I took a hit from a deathclaw.  Snapped my femur right in two.”