Parting Gift

Preston

"We should fortify the wall against raiders, at least something temporary until the General gets back. Then she'll say what to do." Preston yanked off his militia hat to try and wipe some of the sweat off his brow. All was impossible in this heat. After placing it back, he reached for his laser musket only to remember he sat it down on the table along with the other weapons. It still felt strange to not need it always within a finger's grasp, to not be on the run.

The other Minutemen marched off, their orders in hand. They'd been staring at the hole in the Castle wall for what felt like months. With the Institute truly gone it seemed like for once they had time to tackle repairs, both major and minor.

"Preston, this kid here's looking for ya," Ronnie Shaw's ragged voice broke through his reverie. He turned around to watch the young man approach with knees wobbling. Dressed in the wasteland caravan uniform of mismatched scraps and with only a hunting rifle across one arm, he seemed an unlikely addition to the Minutemen.

"Of course. What is it, son?" Preston asked.

"I have to deliver this to you," he said, thrusting a brown box into Preston's hands.

"Ah," Preston tore into the package without concern, "these must be the new shells we arranged to get from Bunker Hill." His trail of thought drained away as he plucked not iron or gun powder from the box but blue fabric. A tricorner hat sat atop the coat, brown leather worn at the edges. Below the frock was the chest piece, a fresh coat of paint bringing out the white star. Preston's fingers trembled above the uniform for the General of the Minutemen, afraid to touch it as if it were cursed. "Why do you have this?" he asked the courier.

"I don't know, sir. I was only told to deliver it," he said, his eyes dancing across every turret in the Castle.

Preston picked at the collar of the coat, trying to lay it back down, when his fingers unearthed a scrap of paper. It advertised that racetrack for robots, but on the back was a single sentence written in a careful hand: "Leaders are made, not born."

"No," he shook his head, trying to thrust the package back at the courier, "no, I cannot accept this. It isn't right, it shouldn't be me..."

"I'm sorry, Sir. I can't return it," the courier said, trying to disagree in the most respectful way imaginable.

A pang broke across Preston's chest at the unspoken implication. "Then she's...I had hoped."

"What's the matter, Preston?" Ronnie spoke, patting the butt of her gun.

For a moment he almost voiced what he realized this gift meant, that oblivion awaited the Minutemen. There was no future, could be no future, not without someone to lead them. His fingers curled across the paper and he smiled remembering when they stormed the racetrack together and took out the raiders that'd set up shop. She left him to clean it up and establish a basecamp for settlers moving through. He told her he wasn't a leader, didn't think he had the skill. Even though she'd leave him at the Castle for weeks, even a month, running things for the Minutemen - he felt secure knowing she'd return and take back the reins. Now...

Preston pulled off his hat, the brim crusted in filth that would never break off. It was a good hat, had served him well from Quincy to Lexington and then refuge in Sanctuary Hills. Before he trusted her, before they took back the Castle and rebuilt the Minutemen. But it wasn't needed anymore. They needed something more from him, something better. Sliding his old hat under his arm, Preston lifted up the leather of the tricorner and dropped it upon his brow. The coat fit snuggly under his arms, but the chest draped as if it was meant for him.

He looked down at the uniform shielding his body. He'd thrown her into it without giving her much of a chance to say no, it only seemed fair she do the same to him. "Tell the men," Preston spoke, his eyes turning up to Ronnie, "the General has arrived."

"About damn time," Ronnie said. Then she saluted and added, "sir!"

Preston smiled grimly, aware of the weight placed upon his shoulders. Turning back to the gaping wall, his voice rose with a power he never knew himself capable of. "You, realign your bricks. There's a gap large enough for a Deathclaw to sneak through. I expect to see this wall fixed before sundown tomorrow. And we should re-enforce the armory. Has anyone seen the last squadron sent out to the Sunshine Co-op?"