We Know The Price We Pay

12. September. 2277 - Sarah Jeannette Lyons

A disordered life, at least, if discussing an individual, is one characterised by anarchy on the micro level, and anarchy in any form is something I have never been able to stand. So much as some civilians will run their mouths all seven days of the week about wanting unadulterated lawless anarchy, they would be begging for security and order if they were actually given anarchy. They don't need anarchy, nor do they actually want it. They need us. The calendar on my wall is a constant reminder of that fact. It's been hanging there, displaying the month of October 2277 for the last five years and, in a few weeks, it'll finally be accurate.

Two hundred years. In just a few weeks, it'll have been two hundred years since the War. Two hundred years since the Brotherhood was founded. Two hundred years of struggle against the Enclave, and, finally, all but one sect of their 'government' remains. The irony of the knowledge they will, eventually, be completely eradicated is sweet; they declared themselves as the only remains of the United States and, yet, here we are, our order founded by one of the United States Army's highest ranking officers and still standing two centuries later.

They took us lightly, and they will pay for it. Just as anyone who takes us lightly does.

Tying my hair up into a perfectly neat bun, I snap the elastic around it and stand up. I sweep up my deodorant from my desk, and apply it liberally – one of the few things you cannot do enough or have enough of around here. Satisfied, I commence my morning stretches. Waking up my spine. Straightening out and checking my capacity to bend forwards and backwards. Back bend to handstand. Handstand to back on my feet. Front salto tuck. Another back stretch and, then, I open my wardrobe and take out my standards. Orange and grey shirt, long sleeves, clips and hook points at the shoulders and at the centre of the chest to attach to during operations which may require climbing up or descending down buildings or underground systems. Next, the orange and grey pants, pockets halfway down the leg in which I always keep several sets of laser cell cartridges. Then, I pull on my dark, leather utility gloves and, finally, after they're on tight, don my thick, scuffed, dark leather combat boots. I turn towards the mirror for one last check to ensure I am dressed properly, and clip my ID badge onto one of the hooks on my shirt. A final dust off, and I exit my quarters, locking up through the fingerprint scanner.

A spring in my step, I check my watch only to be pleased to see I am well on schedule. It is only when I scan in to enter the upper level of the Citadel's power armour maintenance bay that I slow from my brisk pace and stare at the man removing and hanging up the helmet of his power armour with a smug smile.

"The hell are you wearing that shit eating grin for?" I roll my eyes at my brother as he steps out of his power armour. "You know as well as I do there's a war council meeting in fifteen."

"True, and don't worry, I didn't forget," He laughs, removing his fusion core and putting it away in his toolkit behind his power armour. "Watch closely, and you'll realise I smile because you're my sister, and I laugh because you can't do anything about it."

"Think I would, asshole?" I catch the tablet he throws at me and tuck it under my arm while we walk down the Citadel's hallowed halls to the war room. "Pretty sure mother would curse me from beyond the grave if I tried anything to get rid of you."

"And do what?" He says with a jocular wink. "Make it so you can never find your fusion cores when you need to go out for a long field mission in power armour?"

"Or make someone spill red wine on me every time we all wear our formal whites," I dramatically shudder. "I wanted to start tearing my own hair out the longer it took to try and get the stains out of mine the last time it happened. I've learnt my lesson – never drink red wine while wearing white."

"Any dumbass could've told you that, but glad you learnt it on your own," He snickers. "You're having a moment of growth as person, Sarah-bean."

"Shut up," I sock him in the arm. "Keep calling me by embarrassing childhood nicknames, and I'll dig yours back up from the grave, Will. You'll be lucky if I don't go into the archives and change the name on your ID badge."