Preston Garvey Week Day 1 - Sanctuary

ORIGINALLY WRITTEN: September 2025

NOTES: One of several entries into Preston Garvey (Appreciation) Week over on Tumblr!

The air was heavy as the group of Minutemen approached the cul-de-sac in the hills. While it was clearer, lacking the distinct stench of death and gunfire, there was an eerie atmosphere that made a few shudder as they approached the dimly lit homes. In front of the group was the town’s sole resident, power armor creaking and groaning as it ate through the last bit of juice in the fusion core. As soon as those familiar mechanical whirs began to drown, the suit’s occupant stepped out and shut the hatch. Grey hair was matted down from the helmet, sticking to the man’s scarred face as he bit down the bile that rose with his memories. Odd as it felt to be back in a suit similar to the one he’d worn over 200 years ago, it was hardly the strangest thing about the world around him.

Yet, the sound of a familiar voice brought him away from the edge of the spiral he was about to tumble into.

“Shepard, was it?” Preston offered a friendly wave, stepping into the light of the garage overhang. “I’m glad you decided to come with us. I should have listened to Mama Murphy all along. Pretty nice place she's found for us; I think we could settle down here... Maybe make it a place to call home. What do you think?”

There it was again. The rising bile and a subtle nausea that caused the man to hesitate in speaking. He took a breath, shifted his footing, and sighed as he ran a hand through his hair to cool himself. “Yeah, it… It’s great. I used to like living here before…” His voice trailed, vanishing into an unsteady mumble. “Before the War, that is.”

That didn’t make sense. Before what war? There weren’t any wars of recent that Preston could recall; fights, sure. Massacres, yes. But proper wars? His brows knitted. “What do you mean? Before what war? Unless you’re saying…”

The end of humanity. The total reset. Nuclear Armageddon. The only survivors of that war, that Preston knew of, were ghouls. And Shepard didn’t look like a ghoul, which meant he was either pulling his leg, or there was something fishy going on. Not wanting to bite the hand that’d saved them, and sensing the severity in the other’s tone, Preston slowly set his rifle down on the workbench and leaned against it. Watched expectantly as Shepard offered a brief nod.

“I lived here over 200 years ago.” It rolled off the tongue forcibly; as if he were still reluctant to believe in his own lived experience. “I was... frozen–or something–for most of it. I just... woke up... a little while ago.” He nodded his head to the beaten dirt path across the road. “The vault’s right up there… Only here because of how close it was.”

“Damn.” The exclamation was followed by a stuttered apology. He didn’t intend to sound insensitive, it was just… a lot. Like something out of a radio play. “So… You’re like one of those Pre-War ghouls. But not, since you said you were frozen? Did… anybody else make it out with you?” Wide brown eyes found themselves fixated on the vault path before curiously scanning the other homes.

Beyond those that made it out of Quincy, Preston couldn’t see any new faces in the minute crowd.

“No–Well–” Another drawn out sigh, and Shepard sat himself on a stack of old tires. “Just my son. Somebody took him while I was still… trapped. I know it’s a longshot, but have you run across anybody with a baby boy?”

The curious tilting of Preston’s head did little to bolster the hope Shepard held onto; the shaking of his head was nearly enough to crush it. Fresh salt in a fresh wound. “I’m sorry, but no, I haven’t run across any… kidnapped babies.” An apologetic smile. “I’ll definitely keep an eye out for him. But, I am glad you’re here.”

“You are?”

“Well, yeah. You… I didn’t think we were going to make it out of the museum, if I’m honest. And… I know you have a lot on your plate, but I hope you don’t mind me askin’ another favor.”

Brows furrowed. The warm lighting stirred a subtle attention toward the thick scar across his features; subtly highlighted the lack of movement in his eye as their gazes met. One was hopeful, one was fatigued. Yet beneath the exteriors their expressions mirrored each other’s. Shepard nodded, and Preston continued.

“I’ve had word from a settlement asking for help. They’re still hopin’ there are Minutemen out there… Somewhere. Our only chance to start rebuilding the Minutemen–helping people properly again–is to show people that they can count on us when they need us. I’d go myself, but…” His gaze finally broke, and he looked back to the group of stragglers, watching as they crowded around the nearby cooking station. “I’ve got my hands full here. We were on the way when we were ambushed and… well… you know the rest. Do you… think you could go help out the settlement?”

“What kind of help do they need?”

“Sounded like the usual–Raiders. You’ll have to get all the details when you talk to them. They’re up by Tenpines Bluff?”

The survivor squinted a moment before raising his arm to pull up the map on his Pip-Boy. He’d seen the name while plotting out the route to Diamond City, but it was a matter of finding it again. After a few moments of twisting the navigational knob, he glanced over.

“Okay, I think I see where to go. Off from Concord and up in the hills.” He paused, lowering the Pip-Boy. “I’d be glad to help.”

“That’s fantastic! We could really use more people like you–out there… and in the Minutemen.” Just as he’d begun to pull himself from his spot, Preston paused. “Oh, that’s right–On the walk over, Sturges mentioned getting right to work on whatever we came across when we got here. If you want to help out around here before heading out, I’m sure he’d be glad for all the help he can get, too. But… It looks like you got a head start after leaving that vault of yours.”

The pair looked around, watching the darkening sky emphasize the cozy glow of the neighborhood’s remaining homes. Just off to the side, on an empty lot, stood a few roughly put together garden planters and a comfortable cooking pit.

“Codsworth was persistent in making sure something was set up before I left… but I’ll see what else I can do in the morning.”

Preston smiled. “And that’s more than enough. Thank you, Shepard.”

“‘Course. Goodnight Preston.”

“Night.”

The dawn broke, and it was simply another new day. It wasn’t the first in which Shepard found himself taking in the subtly irradiated world, but it was one in which he felt an unfamiliar sense of purpose. The dog at his feet lazily raised his head, big brown eyes squinting in the early sunlight as large paws slid forward onto the floor. The creature stretched, slow to find itself on the ground and patiently waiting by the doorway. Shepard got up, got dressed, and simply headed out without a passing word. He checked the Pip-Boy on his wrist once he’d gotten to the outskirts of the Red Rocket truck stop, and found himself on his merry way to make contact with those at Tenpine’s Bluff.

When he got back, there was relief. The dulling of the aches that seeped through the rough bandaging. Familiarity in the worn down homes and the carried chatter of his newfound neighbors. Yet one wasn’t readily noticeable until he’d circled back around toward the bridge. It was then that he saw the Minuteman down by the water, sitting on the rocks with his rifle at his side.

“Hey–There you are. You know that settlement you sent me to help?” Preston turns as Shepard speaks and steps down onto the embankment. He offers a bright, albeit tired, smile. The Minuteman goes to stand, but the survivor waves his hand, opting to sit with him on the rock. There’s a twinge of guilt within Preston, his eyes wandering toward the mechanical groans of the worn down prosthesis. A little kick from Shepard sets it straight, and he smiles back.

“They decided to join the Minutemen.”

“That’s great news! I knew you were the right person for the job. Since that’s the case… Here–” Preston turns to reach into his pack. From it, he pulls a flare gun and a box. “You should have one of these. You can use it to signal for help from any nearby Minutemen. I know it’s not much use yet… But once we have more allied settlements? You’ll have all the help you could need, whenever you need.”

“Huh, thanks.” Shepard turned the gun over in his hands, examining the worn mechanisms before holding it out toward the river. He closed an eye to check the sight, tilting his head and humming with content before setting it aside on the box of flares.

There were a few moments of comfortable silence–rather, near silence as the stream swept by–as the pair sit side by side. Their minds wandered, both toward an uncomfortable past. The subtle glint on Shepard’s finger was more than enough to bring his focus back to those fateful moments; a man frozen in time, unable to reach out and stop the gruesome sight before him. He reaches out now, subtly, and admires the wedding band’s vibrancy amidst the hellscape ahead. The rushing waters drew an uncomfortable chill along Preston’s spine, particularly as the breeze picked up and the scents of the Wasteland drew closer. It was enough to bring his focus back to the massacre; to make him look down at his trembling palms to ensure the condensation on the sitting stone wasn’t the same thick crimson of his closest companions.

It shook him enough to broach the topic.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.” His voice was quieter, gaze hesitant to turn to him. Yet it did, and the survivor offered a polite nod. Preston hesitated before continuing.

“I guess you know I’m one of the last Minutemen, but… I never really told you what happened to us.”

A sucked in breath; a silent exhale. “I figured you’d tell me when you were ready.”

The sentiment caught Preston off guard. Made him wonder if this was some of that Old World mentality bleeding through. Here, in the Wasteland he knew… Nobody could afford to give the type of grace Shepard was giving. It was shoot first, ask later. Or ask first, then demand, then shoot. There was hardly ever… social compromise; the acknowledgment of boundary and delicacy. He cleared his throat and tried his best to hide the way he was taken aback.

“Have you heard of the Quincy Massacre?”

“Your… group came from Quincy, didn’t you?” They hadn’t talked much about what happened prior to their introductions, but Shepard distinctly remembers him mentioning the area. The connections his mind draw are troublesome; enough to make his gut clench with dreadful anticipation.

Preston simply nods. “That’s right. Mama Murphy, Sturges, the Longs… they’re all from Quincy. I was with Colonel Hollis’ group.” A pause as the day begins to replay in his mind.

His voice lowers.

“A mercenary group called the Gunners was attacking Quincy; the people there called for the Minutemen to help. We were the only ones that came. The other groups… they just turned their backs. On us. On the folks in Quincy. Only a few of us got out alive. Colonel Hollis was dead. So… I ended up in charge of the survivors. We never found a safe place to settle. One disaster after another…”

His voice quivers.

“You saw how it ended, in Concord.”

Surrounded by Raiders. Backed into a corner. Licking fresh wounds while old ones tore and stretched, exposing the group to be devoured. Shepard’s expression fell, and he let go of a breath he’d only just noticed he was holding. His fingers twitched beside him, unclear whether physical comfort would be appropriate.

“If it’s any reassurance,” he hesitated, “I know how it feels to be the last survivor.”

They hadn’t talked much about what happened prior to their introductions, but Preston distinctly remembers him mentioning the local vault, being frozen, and a missing infant. A whirlpool of nausea awakens in his gut as he tries to pin the details together.

“Yeah, I guess you do. That’s… I think that’s why I’m talking to you about this.” He hesitates. “I can’t rebuild the Minutemen… but I think you can.”

Shepard’s gaze lands on him more steadily. “Why can’t you lead the Minutemen?”

Preston’s gaze withdraws, focusing on the stream before them. Under the sun’s overcast glow, the river pebbles seem so much more mundane. He frowns.

“That’s just not who I am. I can get my men through a firefight. I can defend a perimeter against all odds… But that’s not going to be enough to bring the Minutemen back from the brink. We need someone who can bring the whole Commonwealth together in a common cause. And I think… I think you’ve got it in you to be that leader.”

It was, admittedly, a lot to take in. The few people who had relied on Shepard to be a provider were dead and missing. He failed them. Who’s to say he wouldn’t fail the Minutemen, too? Wouldn’t get caught up in some trap as he navigates the new world around him, and be forced to watch as the remnant survivors found themselves begging for his help? The thought brought about an intense wave of discomfort. He shook his head.

“What makes you think I can do this?” The emphasis on ‘I’ was enough to cue Preston in. He was not alone in his doubts, it seemed.

“You saved us in Concord–There wasn’t anything in it for you. You had your own problems to deal with. But you did it anyway. That kind of selflessness has been in mighty short supply around here for quite a while.” For his whole life. At least that which he lived away from home. “I really think you’re the one who can bring the Minutemen back, and bring the whole Commonwealth together. I know it’s a tall ask, and not one you need to say anything about right away, but–”

“I’ll do it.” Unquestioning confidence; a desire to make things right. “Finding Shaun… That takes priority. But I promise to do what I can, when I can. It’s the least I can do for your group taking me in.”

“Good–Good!”

Preston could just about cry from how relieved he was to hear those words. His lips trembled and his deep eyes became misty as he smiled. Nausea bubbled into excitement, and he leaned over to hug the man beside him before withdrawing. A subtle panic rose, but Shepard simply laughed and sat back on his elbows. The Minuteman sat forward, hands resting beside him eagerly.

“Welcome aboard. Really. I feel like this is a whole new start for the Minutemen, and the Commonwealth, too. But don’t worry. I’ll be right beside you all the way… General.”

Shepard gave an amused laugh. “That’s quite a promotion you just gave me.”

“The leader of the Minutemen has always held the rank of General.” Preston laughed with him. “Our last leader was General Becker. After he died back in ‘82, nobody could agree on who should take his place. The one good thing about being the last Minuteman is there’s no one to argue with me when I say you’re the new General. And now, it’s your job to make it more than an empty title.”