From my blog, Songs of an Innsmouth Nightingale

Ashley Stoneman leaned back in her chair, carefully balancing the old wooden seat on its back two legs as she braced her hands against the chipped, off-white counter in the Fletcher’s kitchen. “Thanks for lunch, Mrs. Fletcher!” she exclaimed cheerfully.

Kyle’s mother smiled kindly at the younger Stoneman, clearing her plate. “Ash, honey, you’re gonna cave your skull in if you’re not careful. Hasn’t that grandmother of yours taught you anything?”

Ashley looked back at her sheepishly, returning her chair to its proper position. “Sorry, Mrs. Fletcher,” she mumbled.

“I’m not angry with you, dear,” the housewife replied, placing the soiled dish in the sink. “I would just hate to see anything happen to you. You’re a good girl.” Mrs. Fletcher’s eyes seemed distant as she glanced over at Jill and Kyle. The two of them were sitting on the couch in the next room, their food half-forgotten on the coffee table as they sat knee-to knee. Jill’s melodic laughter wafted into the kitchen as she reacted to something Kyle said, her face alight with the warm blush of teenage romance. Ashley rolled her eyes, turning her attention back to her half-finished glass of milk.

Ashley wouldn’t say that she disliked Kyle. Not exactly. It was more that she resented Jill for liking him. He wasn’t even that special. Frankly, in just about every way, Kyle Fletcher was perfectly average. He played hockey for Lake Bakade High, but not well enough that he would ever be in the running for captain. Even his looks were just… average. His dark, soulful eyes and easy smile had always reminded Ashley just a little too much of an eager Malamute. But if that was what Jill was into, who was her little sister to complain?

“How’s your father getting on?” Mrs. Fletcher asked suddenly, her gray eyes intently drawn to Ashley’s face. “We haven’t talked much, not since…” she trailed off, suddenly sheepish. “I guess it’s a weird thing to ask.”

Ashley secreted away the tinge of sadness that the older woman’s question birthed in her, another piece of hollow loss that she kept hidden in a deep corner of her heart. “Daddy’s fine,” she managed, her voice softer than normal. “He’s working a lot more, now.” She wanted to tell Mrs. Fletcher the truth, but how could she ever begin to admit how worried she was about her father, or how terribly she missed her mother?

It had been nearly three years since Hattie Stoneman had passed, wheezing away her final agonizing breaths in a sterile hospital bed over at Iris Medical Center. But to those who had been left behind, it seemed somehow like only days had gone by. Ashley still caught herself watching for her mother’s beaten up old minivan to come crunching up their gravel driveway. Sometimes, she caught the tiniest hint of lilac perfume on the breeze, or heard the gentle hum of her mother’s voice just barely outside her perception. It was hard to remember that she was gone. It was hard to remember that she had ever really lived at all.

“I’m sorry,” Mrs. Fletcher replied, her hand hovering just a whisper above Ashley’s shoulder before returning, defeated, to her side. “I just…I’m terrible at these things.” she chuckled in wry self-deprecation. “I wish I could do more for you all, you know?”

Ashley smiled warmly at Kyle’s mother. “It’s okay. Really. We’re totally fine. You don’t have to worry. Grandma takes good care of us.”

“Well, that’s good,” the older woman replied. Silence filled the kitchen like smoke, heavy and palpable. What was there to say, really, when all the pleasantries were done?

“Ash!” cried Jill’s voice from the living room, beating back the uneasy quiet. “Get over here!”

Ashley smiled once more at Mrs. Fletcher before sliding out of her chair, joining the older teenagers eagerly. “Are we finally gonna talk about your plan?” she asked.

Jill nodded. “Okay, so what’s the big problem with our pranks on Lottie?”

“They’re a little mean,” Kyle replied. “I mean, what’s she ever really done to us?”

“She’s a Wollard, dude,” Jill mumbled, as if this explained everything.

“Yeah,” Ashley said, nodding. “And Wollards are freaks.”

Kyle sighed. “But has she ever done anything?” he asked.

“That’s the point!” Jill exclaimed. “She never reacts to anything we do! So I think we should give her a dose of her own freaky medicine and scare the crap out of her tonight! What do you guys say?”

“I don’t know,” Kyle said with a slight frown. “What’s the plan, exactly?”

Jill grinned. “So we know she likes to hang out in the woods and junk, right? And Ky, you’ve actually seen her little clubhouse for one, haven’t you?”

He nodded. “Yeah, but it’s pretty deep in the woods, you know? And last time I was out there…” he shuddered.

“I found these creepy old robes in the attic,” Jill continued, ignoring Kyle’s hesitation. “We’ll take them and some flashlights and hide out in the forest tonight. Then, we wait for her to show up like she always does, and we really give her something to lose her crap about! You guys down?”

“I don’t know,” Kyle mumbled. “That seems kinda mean, don’t you think?”

“Don’t be such a buzz kill, Kyle,” Jill said coolly. “It’s totally harmless. What’s she gonna do, call the cops on us?”

“Still…” he sighed. “Fine.”

“Jill, we absolutely have to be home before dark,” Ashley said, her eyes wide. “Can’t we just pelt her with water balloons like we did last month? That was fun, and no one had to spend the night in the woods.”

“Well, you can stay home and watch tv with Grandma if you want to,” Jill said flatly. “But then everyone will know that you’re just a little baby. If we pull this off, Ash, we’ll be legends. Think about it.”

Ashley gulped. On the one hand, she was utterly terrified of the woods. On the other, she was about to start her freshman year. If she got a reputation for being a wimp now, she could kiss any hope of popularity in high school goodbye. If the choice was between an easy life at the top of the class or being consigned to the “freak” pile with Lottie, her decision was an easy one to make. “Fine,” she muttered. “But I think this is a stupid plan. Just for the record.”

Jill grinned. “Come on, you guys. This is gonna be great. Trust me.”

Kyle smiled at her, but Ashley could see the flicker of nervous energy behind his eyes, the startled shudder of a rabbit cornered by a lean and hungry coyote. “I do trust you,” he said softly. “Let’s go.” He led the girls towards the front door, grabbing the golf cart key off of a simple wooden tray sitting beside it. “Hey, mom!” he yelled towards the back of the house, “I’m going over to Jill’s!”

“Okay, Ky!” his mother responded, her voice resonating from the kitchen. “Don’t stay out too late! You’re working tomorrow, remember?”

Kyle groaned. “Damn it, that’s right. I’m supposed to be cleaning bait buckets at the boat launch tomorrow. Verne’s even paying me.”

“Ugh! Really?” Jill hissed as they walked over to the garage. “That’s grody as hell. I told you, if you need money, my dad’s always looking for guys to haul tarps.”

“Yeah, but then I’d have to work for my girlfriend’s dad,” he replied, tossing Ashley’s scooter in the back of the golf cart, “and that’s way worse. I’d much rather scrape fish guts out of old metal buckets. Besides, I’m less likely to get hurt working for Verne. Can’t afford to be laid up now that I’ve made varsity.”

Jill sighed heavily, hauling her mountain bike up to join her sister’s scooter. Ashley glanced between the two of them, a faint smile playing about her lips. So there was trouble in paradise after all. That was useful information.

“What are you looking at?” Jill snarked. “Get in, or you’re walking home.”

Ashley nodded, hopping into the cargo bin with their stuff. Kyle twisted the key in the ignition, and the little golf cart purred to life. Ashley held on tightly to the side of the cart bed as they whizzed down the driveway, back towards the Stoneman farm. She felt her stomach quiver warily as they whipped around the tight turn onto Schooner Street, leaving the sleepy village of Pyramid Point for the farmland beyond. One of these days, she was going to get to ride in the front of the stupid cart. She wasn’t sure how, and she wasn’t sure when, but it was going to happen.

The worst heat of the day had already passed by the time the trio arrived back at the Stoneman farm, so they wasted no time in stowing the bike and scooter in the shed next to the farmhouse. They breezed past old Sarah Stoneman without so much as a hello, dashing upstairs to the small room the girls shared.

“Ash, grab our camping gear and the flashlights,” Jill commanded, and the younger girl nodded, extracting a duffel bag from her closet. Inside was a small dome tent and sleeping bags, as well as their mess kits and an old kerosene lantern. They hadn’t used any of it in…well, in over three years, but the gear had remained in their closet, a testament to trips once taken and future expeditions that had died, stillborn. At least they were getting used now, she thought.

Jill pulled a large, dusty box out from under her bed. She brushed away some of the filth before carefully prying the lid off the weathered wooden container. She carefully extracted three bundles of dark, age-mottled cloth, placing them on the mattress. Kyle stared at them with a mixture of concern and curiosity.

“You found these in your attic?” he asked, tentatively touching the corner of one of the robes.

Jill nodded. “Yeah. They were just shoved up there behind the Halloween decorations, so I guess they’re old costumes or something.” She handed him a wooden mask. “Check these out, too! Seriously creepy! Can you imagine the look on Lottie’s face when she sees us in these?”

Ashley wandered over, pulling the mask from Kyle’s trembling hands. “Whoa,” she murmured, turning it over in her grasp. The mask itself was fairly simple, carved from a single piece of driftwood and sanded down to a gleaming polish that still held up even given its apparent age. The face was human, or human-adjacent, with large eye sockets and a long, thin nose taking up most of the surface area. The mouth was the most disturbing feature, twisted and gaping in a primal scream, its maw lined with jagged teeth that seemed to have been carved from bits of bone and shell. “Dude, this is dope!”

“Right?” Jill agreed, adding two other masks to the growing pile of stuff on her bed. Each mask was slightly different, though constructed in a similar fashion. One looked almost deer-like with branching antlers, its snout punctuated by a large fang on either side. The other was more bird-like, with a curved beak and almondine eyes framed by intricately carved feathers about the fringes. Ashley eagerly grabbed the beaked mask, tossing the screaming face back on the bed.

Kyle shook his head before selecting the antlered mask. “Are you sure it’s okay for us to borrow these?” he asked.

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Jill said in reply. “It’s not like anyone’s using them. Besides, we’ll put them all right back where we found them after we’re done. No harm done.”

Ashley nodded, her thumb gently stroking the feathered carving on her mask. “I guess it’s okay, then. I mean, it’s just for one night.”

“Exactly!” Jill said. “And it’s gonna be so worth it! I can’t wait to see Lottie lose her freaky little mind over this! It’s gonna be awesome!” She grabbed the masks back from Ashley and Kyle, adding them and the faded robes to the duffle bag. “Now, we just need to grab some food, and I think we’re ready to go. You guys ready?” Ashley and Kyle exchanged a nervous glance before both nodding, hiding their trepidation behind a level of bravado only teenagers could muster. Jill laughed, looking at their faces. “Come on, guys! It’ll be fun, I promise! And if it’s not, well, at least it’ll be a cool story to tell.”

Kyle chuckled nervously. “Y-yeah,” he mumbled. “Spending all night out in the woods. Just the three of us, plus whatever hungry animals are out there. What could go wrong?”

“Would you chill?” Jill grumbled. “You sound like a city boy. It’s not a big deal. Besides,” she added, leaning in to whisper something in his ear. Ashley watched in confusion as Kyle blushed, his shoulders suddenly straighter. There wasn’t much time for her to speculate on her sister’s words, however. Even in these long summer days, the light wouldn’t stay forever. And the woods were dense and dark even on the brightest day. If they were really going to do this, they had to leave soon.

From my blog, Songs of an Innsmouth Nightingale

The Port Blanc Woods had always been dense and dark, at least as long as anyone who lived in Pyramid Point could remember. The forest itself ran the ridge of the narrow Port Blanc Peninsula for nearly twenty miles, though in recent years the southernmost end of the forest had been thinned by developers from Lake Bakade. The villagers to the north tutted and fussed as massive virgin oaks and beeches were torn down to make way for new subdivisions and massive retirement homes, but in the end, the Port Blanc families typically left the mainlanders to their own devices. So long as the peninsula herself remained mostly unchanged by the shifting demographics of the region, the men and women of Pyramid Point and Whitefish Bay could not care less what fate befell anyone else. If those idiots from Lake Bakade wanted to call down darkness on themselves, that was their business.

Darkness it was that the townsfolk meddled with, the older folks of Port Blanc knew. Few villagers had ever ventured into the deep woods without good reason, warned away from the tangled wilderness by the whispers of old women and campfire stories passed down from teenagers to children for generations. There were things that lurked in the trees there, so local legend claimed, ancient, best-forgotten things that stalked the trembling hearts of all who passed near the boundary of the forest. Only the large, window-rich mansions of new arrivals encroached on the edge of the gnarled wilds. The old families — their blood as rich with the soil as the soil was rich with their blood — knew well enough to build their modest houses far from the forest, and guarded their farms and orchards with all manner of strange signs against the otherness beyond.

It was into one of the old families that Charlotte Wollard had been born. She’d mewled to life on a late November day with all the dignity a daughter of winter-hardened farmers was allowed. Lottie was a plain-looking girl, with weak, milky eyes that bulged ever so slightly from her pale face in a manner that made her look perpetually startled. Her ears hung just a touch too low on her narrow head, their tips peeking out from among thin strands of dishwater brown hair. The Wollard genes were strong in her, poor thing.

A girl of few words, Lottie hardly seemed to care what others thought of her. Perhaps that was the heart of folks’ morbid fascination with the young woman, though few would ever admit to it. She was quiet and reserved, blessed with an easy smile and a bright mind that brought her nothing but the torment of her peers. And her unusual habits only amplified their bullying.

Rather than spending her leisure time with the other village girls basking on the shores of Mission Bay, Lottie had a strange and singular obsession with the forest near her ancestral farm. Specifically, she was taken with the dark hollow of ancient oaks that dominated the northernmost stretch of the Port Blanc Woods. She was known to vanish into the wilderness for whole afternoons, though what precisely she was doing in those secret hours was anyone’s guess. And none gossiped about her as frequently or as maliciously as the women of the Stoneman family.

The Stonemans and Wollards had never gotten along — at least not since old Tobias Stoneman had accused Herbert Wollard of secretly moving the boundary line between their orchards in the dead of night back near the founding of Pyramid Point — and the bad blood between them had a way of festering and bubbling up in the most peculiar ways over the years. During the famine of 1862, it was the Stonemans who had seeded the Wollard farm with gypsy moth cocoons, or so the latter family claimed. And it was the Wollards in return, according to local legend, who’d put such a curse on the Stoneman’s cows that all their milk turned sour for nearly fifty years after. But such accusations were things of the distant past. By Lottie’s junior year of high school, the feud between the neighboring farms had mostly faded to petty gossip and unspoken disdain.

“That Wollard girl’s got a darkness in ‘er,” old Sarah Stoneman warned, wiping the sweat of a hot July afternoon from her wrinkled brow with an annoyed huff. She turned to face her granddaughters as they rinsed the sand from their swimsuits with a worn old hose, shrieking as the cold water splashed on their tanned skin. “You girls oughta steer clear of ’er. No proper person hides away from the sun on a day like this.”

“I’ll bet she’s found a secret blackberry patch,” Ashley offered, her bright blue eyes brimming with excitement. She was the younger of the two, small and slight with dimples that put the angels to shame. “Yesterday, when I saw her down at the market, she had these dark stains on her shirt, like she’d been carrying a whole bunch of berries wrapped up in it. I asked her where she’d gotten them, but she just gave me a weird smile. I don’t know how you put up with her, Jill.”

“Right? Kyle thinks she’s been summoning demons or something,” her older sister Jill chirped, tossing her brightly patterned beach towel over a clothesline stretched between two trees. “A couple of the boys from school dared him to follow her into the woods, but he heard such horrible sounds from where she’d gone that he ran nearly all the way to Whitefish Bay. He said it sounded like an animal trying to speak or something. Super creepy.”

The family matron sighed. “Your Kyle Fletcher’s got less sense than a rabbit in a fox den,” she replied. “But in this case, he might not be far off. Them Wollards always struck me as the cultish sort. In any case, you’d best steer clear of that Lottie. It doesn’t do for Stonemans and Wollards to mix.”

Jill nodded solemnly, peeling a wet strand of blonde hair from the side of her face and tucking it behind her ear. “Of course, nana,” she muttered dismissively. “But Lottie’s in my class. I can’t exactly avoid her.”

Sarah frowned. “I’d best have a talk with your teacher, then, come fall, an’ tell ‘er not to seat you near ‘er. It can’t be helped. These newcomers never seem to understand our ways, nor do they try to. It’s bad enough my fool son sends you girls to that school. Back in my time, you’d both be wed off by now. What proper man’ll want a wife who cares more about ‘er studies than ’er chores?”

Ashley pouted. “Nana, that’s whack. I don’t even want to get married!”

“Yeah,” Jill agreed, horrified. “Who says junk like that? See, this is why my friends don’t like to come over. Girls are supposed to have careers now, nana. It’s 1997, not the freaking Dark Ages.”

“An’ people wonder why the old ways are dyin’ off,” the elderly woman muttered. “My own blood, turnin’ their back on how things ought’a be. It’s a cursed shame.”

The girls looked at each other, rolling their eyes. Every conversation with their grandmother was like this. Over the years, they’d learned to humor her, if only to avoid further lectures. It was times like this that made them understand why so many of their peers had moved to Lake Bakade. In the bustling tourist town, no one cared who your family was, and people like Sarah Stoneman were rightly dismissed as relics of a more ignorant age. But the Stonemans, at least, were tied to their land in a way that only the other founding families truly understood. Though their apple orchards no longer brought in the profit they once did, Lake Michigan itself would completely freeze over before the Stonemans sold their property and moved to the city.

“Just please don’t yell at Mrs. Holland again,” Jill pleaded. “It’s so embarrassing when you interrupt study hall, and it just makes her mad. Last year, I basically never got permission to use the hall pass. She already hates me enough.”

Sarah sighed, waving her hand dismissively as she turned back to the farmhouse. She mumbled under her breath about respect, or the lack of it, as the screen door swung shut behind her.

Ashley turned to her sister, a wicked grin on her face. “Hey, speaking of Lottie…you wanna let the air out of her bike tires again?”

Jill laughed. “Get real, Ash. We can do better than that.” She shuffled to a rickety wooden table by the clothesline, where a hamper of fresh clothes waited. Jill slipped off her baby blue bikini and hung it on the line before digging in the basket for a dry outfit. Ashley’s green one-piece quickly joined Jill’s suit, lake water dripping from the fabric to baptize the crab grass beneath the clothesline.

“So,” the younger girl said, pulling a purple t-shirt over her head, “you got any ideas, or are you just shooting mine down again?”

Jill smirked as she pulled her damp hair out from under her collar. “You bet I do. I’ve been working on a prank for weeks, and it’s just about ready. That freak won’t ever see this one coming. But if we’re gonna pull it off, we’re gonna need help. Let’s go get lunch at the Fletcher’s and see if Kyle’s interested.” She tied her hair back with a simple elastic, her brown eyes watching Ashley carefully. “That is unless you’re chicken.”

“I’ll show you who’s chicken!” her sister protested, already hopping on her scooter. Jill rolled her eyes, nudging back the kickstand on her mountain bike. Sometimes, Ash just made things too easy.

As the girls raced away towards the Fletcher’s homestead, Sarah watched them through the kitchen window, her thin lips drawn in a tight line. She peeled potatoes distractedly, her gnarled old fingers trembling from some unconscious discontent that boiled up from within her memory like oil. The old woman winced as her peeler bit down on her hand, cursing under her breath as she held the bleeding flesh over the sink. The troubled thoughts that gnawed at the back of her mind receded, forgotten as she wrapped her hand in an old dish towel and shuffled off in search of her first aid kit.

A half-peeled yukon gold lay abandoned in the sink, flecked with spots of bright blood. The stains slowly leaked downwards, curving across the surface of the potato like serpents on their way to the drain. The pale, age-yellowed curtains that framed the sink fluttered slightly in the afternoon breeze, sending slight shadows dancing across the kitchen counter and the linoleum floor. All was silent, save the creaking of the weather vane atop the Stoneman’s barn and the faint melody of wind chimes on the back porch that the breeze carried in.

If Sarah Stoneman had known what the day would bring, perhaps she would have told the girls to stay home. But in the quiet calm of summer, it was hard to think that something foul was less than a breath away, or that the shift in the wind was anything more than the capricious nature of the bayside breeze.

It was nearly midnight by the time Danse returned from reconnoitering the area and scavenging what supplies he could from the outskirts of the Fens. The further into the city the Paladin went, the better their chances of finding supplies, but the risk to one soldier working alone was too great to chance it. Even in the half-destroyed shops and apartments of the outlying area Danse had searched, there were traces of Super Mutants, raiders, and all manner of other undesirable things. Fortunately, there were also quite a few unclaimed resources, and Danse was an expert at locating and procuring supplies. His pack was nearly bursting at the seams by the time he returned to the cabin.

The Paladin knocked three times in quick succession on the cabin door, followed by two slower knocks. This was the signal he and Myra had agreed on. The last thing he wanted was to get his head blown off by his partner just because he failed to follow protocol.

When Myra opened the door, he could tell right away that something was wrong. Her eyes were bloodshot, hollow, her cheeks stained with still-drying tears. The smile she flashed him was wrong, somehow, like she wasn’t quite able to fake it.

“Myra, what happened while I was away?” Danse asked, pulling the door shut behind him. It was all he could do not to sweep her into his arms, to do whatever he could to erase the agony on her face. “Are you all right?”

She nodded weakly. “I’ll be fine,” she murmured. “I just...it’s been a tough night. Being here alone with my thoughts isn’t exactly the easiest thing in the world right now.”

Danse nodded. “I’m sorry. If we hadn’t been running low on supplies, I wouldn’t have left you behind.” He set his pack down on the kitchen counter, rifling through it and extracting his findings. “Fortunately, I believe I’ve procured enough food and water to sustain us until you’re well enough to come with me for the next run.”

“That’s good,” Myra said weakly. Danse paused, turning to look at her once more. It was more than being left alone. Something was definitely bothering her. Myra was wringing her hands, her lower lip trembling as she made eye contact with the cherub-like face of the boy on the coffee tin that lay open on the counter. Danse noticed with confusion that there were two cups out on the table. Why would Myra have made him a cup of coffee? She didn’t know what time he’d return to the cabin, and although he’d gotten better at hiding his displeasure when drinking it, he still wasn’t a huge fan of the bitter drink.

That left one of two possibilities. Either Myra had just had a mental lapse or someone else had been in the cabin. Given her behavior, Danse was convinced of the latter option. But no one was supposed to know where they were. No one except Farfield and Haylen, at least. Danse couldn’t believe that either soldier would have elicited such a reaction from Myra. So who had been in the cabin with her?

If this had been when they’d first met, the Paladin wouldn’t have hesitated to interrogate her, to find out what she wasn’t telling him. He hated lies, and to him, deliberate withholding of information was just another form of lying. But he knew Myra, now. He trusted her, even when she didn’t always give him cause to. Danse had to believe that she’d tell him what was going on in her own time.

Still, that didn’t mean he couldn’t expedite the process. Danse walked over to the table, gently clearing the half-full mugs from their spot and walking them over to the useless sink. He crooked an eyebrow at her as he emptied the frigid contents before setting the chipped mugs on the counter to be washed.

Myra’s eyes widened as she realized her mistake, and she sighed. “I guess there’s no hiding things from you,” she muttered. “Deacon was here.”

“Deacon?” Danse frowned. That damned spy was always interfering with their lives. Couldn’t he give Myra any sort of break before dragging her back into his petty problems? Anger and jealousy wormed through the Paladin, and he fought to keep himself calm. “How did he find us?” he asked grimly. “You didn’t contact the Railroad, did you? I thought you didn’t want any contact with them until you’d made your decision.”

“I didn’t,” Myra protested. “You have to believe that I didn’t want him here. And after...after what happened, I wish I’d never opened that door.” She leaned against the counter, her eyes brimming once more with tears. “I can’t believe he’d put me in this position,” she sobbed.

The Paladin was beside her in a flash, his steel-covered arm wrapped protectively around her shoulder. “What happened? Did he hurt you?” he asked, doing his best to hide his panic.

Myra shook her head. “No. At least...not physically. Deacon would never do that. I know what you think of the Railroad, Danse, of what they’ve done, but Deacon would never hurt me on purpose. I…” she sighed, clinging to Danse’s chestplate. “I think it’s safer to say that I hurt him. And I feel like the lowest, worst person imaginable because of it.”

Danse looked down at her, his heart aching for the woman he adored. He didn’t understand what she was saying, not completely. But whatever had happened between her and the Railroad agent had clearly affected her in a way that just replaying the events couldn’t fix. He needed to break her mind out of its melancholy. “You should get some sleep,” he suggested. “I assure you, things will be easier to deal with in the morning.”

“I’m not tired,” she retorted. “Hell, even if I was...I need a distraction. I just...God, why did it come to this?” Myra sobbed bitterly, burying her face in the crook of Danse’s arm. He gently turned her chin upwards with his hand, wiping at the tears with his spare handkerchief.

Myra chuckled, batting his hand away. “Christ, Danse. I’m not a child.” She wiped her eyes quickly on the back of her sleeve. “Though I’m sure I seem pretty pathetic to you by now.”

“Hardly,” Danse replied. “If anything, I’m envious.”

She frowned. “What do you mean? You want to be a damn crybaby like me?”

“Not precisely,” he corrected. “I just...you’re so free with your emotions. Not everyone has the capacity to be that way. Or the freedom.”

“Well, I’d rather not be this way,” she lamented. “I hate being out of control. So if you wanna switch personalities, trust me, Danse, I’d be all for it.”

“Unfortunately, I’m not certain that’s possible,” Danse replied with a soft smile. “But if you need an activity to take your mind off of whatever is troubling you, I did bring my chess set. Would you care for a game?”

Myra rolled her eyes. “So now you’re going to take advantage of my mood and beat me even more soundly, is that it?”

“I...suppose the thought did cross my mind,” the Paladin admitted. “But why not play a match with me? It always seems to help you when you’re unhappy.”

Myra huffed. “Well, I don’t exactly have any incentive to play you any more, do I?”

“What do you mean?” he asked, dreading the answer. Had she lost so often that she wasn’t even willing to try? Whas she simply bored of the game? Danse treasured their matches, not because they were challenging, but because it helped him feel close to her in a way that he couldn’t allow himself to be otherwise. Facing each other down across the chess board, strangely, had always allowed them both to let their guard down. Looking back, the Paladin felt that perhaps that very first match on the roof of the Cambridge Police Station had sealed his fate. It pained him to think that Myra didn’t feel the same way.

She smirked. “Our original bet was that if I beat you, I’d get to see you without your power armor on. But I’ve seen you without it quite a few times now. Doesn’t seem like much of a reward these days.”

Danse sighed. Or, of course, there was a more mundane and crass explanation. Naturally, Myra’s concern was a lack of novelty, not a distaste for the game. He wasn’t sure if he was relieved or more troubled by this revelation. “And I suppose you know what you’d like instead,” he grumbled.

Myra nodded. “If I win, you’ve gotta kiss me.”

What? Had he really heard that right? Danse froze, his eyes wide. “Absolutely not!” he protested. “Myra, you know full well that wouldn’t be appropriate.”

“Who cares about whether it’s appropriate or not, Danse?” she whined. “Come on. It’s just you and me out here. Who’s even going to know? Or do you just think you’re a bad kisser or something?” Myra’s grin deepened. “I’ll bet that’s it.”

The Paladin swore that they could power a nuclear reactor with his blush at that moment. “I’m fairly certain this is sexual harassment, Knight,” he sputtered.

“And what are you going to do about it, punish me?” Myra crooned. “Give me details.”

“You’re impossible,” Danse muttered. For all the embarrassment, he was honestly just happy to see her smile again. If a kiss was what it took to ease her melancholy, then...well, he certainly wouldn’t complain about it. He’d longed for another chance to feel her lips against his, and if a stupid bet was what it took, then so be it. She didn’t have to know his reasons for taking it. And besides, it wasn’t like she’d ever won a game of chess in all the matches they’d played. It wasn’t likely that she was going to start now. “Very well,” he sighed. “If it will get you to stop harassing me, I’ll agree.”

Myra laughed, sniffing back the remaining sorrow from her reddened nose. “I hope you packed chapstick!” she teased. “Because this time, I’m feeling lucky.”

“Chess isn’t about luck,” Danse corrected as he set up the board on the dining room table. “It’s about strategy, tactics, anticipating your opponent’s every move.”

“Or, it’s about moving your pieces so randomly that your opponent doesn’t have time to think up a counter-strategy,” she replied. “White or black?”

Danse groaned inwardly. Had that been her strategy all this time? It did explain some of her more questionable tactical decisions. Hell, it explained some of her choices on the battlefield as well. Luck was all well and good, but only a fool would plan for good luck and call it a strategy. He sighed. This was going to be an easy win again. Frankly, given the circumstances, he was hoping for a loss, but he would never bring himself to throw the match. Even now, with such a fantastic consolation prize, his integrity wouldn’t allow him to lose. “I’ll take white,” he said.

“Well, then, Danse,” Myra said, a dangerous glint in her eye, “It’s your move.”

The Paladin hesitated for a moment before walking to the door and exiting his armor. As Myra had so crudely pointed out, it wasn’t like there was a reason for him to keep it on while they were in the cabin. His...exposure was no longer a prize to be won. And besides, the empty suit would serve as an excellent barricade to prevent intruders. That’d teach Deacon to snoop around their camp.

Myra whistled teasingly as Danse returned to the table and sat across from her. “That’s one hell of a first move,” she teased, her cheeks a little bit pinker in the lantern light. “That flight suit really doesn’t hide a lot, does it?”

Danse scowled. This was exactly why he didn’t like being out of his power armor. He hated the flight suit, the looks he received when he wore it, how it rode up in the back...when forced to remove his armor for maintenance, he preferred to rely on fatigues. Those at least were less tight. He sighed before moving his king’s pawn two spaces. “Just play the game, Myra.”

She nodded, following suit with her king’s pawn. “I’m sorry if I’m making you uncomfortable. You know I’m just teasing you.”

Danse’s king-side knight joined the fray, falling in to support his pawn. “The teasing is part of the problem,” he replied.

Myra moved a second pawn next to her first. “What do you mean?”

Danse took her first pawn. This wasn’t going to take long, was it? “Myra, things aren’t…” he trailed off with a sigh. “I don’t understand you.”

She moved her queen in front of her king distractedly. “What’s there to understand?”

“The way you are with people,” Danse replied as his queen moved diagonally to the right side of the board, resting at H5. “I’m not exactly...great with human interaction. I’m sure you’ve realized that by now.”

“Oh, definitely,” Myra joked, advancing with a pawn and putting Danse’s queen in danger. “But that’s part of your charm. You’d be way less cute if you were all suave.”

Danse retaliated by taking her pawn with his knight. “This is exactly what I’m talking about. I don’t understand how easy it is for you to just…”

She stared at him, her bloodshot green eyes curious. “To just…?” she prodded.

“To just flirt with everyone the way you do,” the Paladin blurted. “I wish you would exhibit some more restraint. It’s...it’s confusing.”

“Is that what’s got you all bothered?” Myra’s queen swept downward, capturing Danse’s pawn. “Check,” she announced with a smile, before taking on a more serious expression. “Danse, I was a bartender. Charm’s my second nature. You know I don’t mean anything by it most of the time, right?”

Danse moved his king to safety next to his queen’s bishop. “No,” he replied sullenly. “I don’t know that for certain.” Sometimes, he was so sure, so confident that there was something special between the two of them. But other times, like tonight, he couldn’t help but feel that her playfulness was just how she kept people at bay. Some soldiers he’d known, like Maxson, guarded themselves in scowls and fury, protecting their sensitive natures with steel and thorns. Myra’s armor was no less effective, even if it was far more pleasant to interact with. Was it possible that she didn’t realize what she was doing?

Myra’s king-side knight moved to harass his queen. “I promise, Danse, when I’m flirting for real, you’ll know.” She leaned across the table, her lips pursed gently as she drew close to him. He froze as she removed his hood, tossing it to the floor. Myra ruffled his wavy black hair with one hand before settling back into her seat. “Much better. Now there’s a guy I could flirt with.”

Danse sputtered awkwardly and moved his queen out of danger, or so he thought. His heart beat furiously as he realized that he’d placed her right in the path of Myra’s queen. Fortunately, she didn’t seem to notice, as she moved her knight directly beside Danse’s queen. In retaliation, Danse advanced a pawn against Myra’s queen. “Well, I suppose I’ll have to take your fashion sense into account next time I prepare for a mission,” he said nervously, trying to make light of the situation.

She snorted, taking his knight with her pawn. “Danse, are you okay? You’re not usually this easy to mess with.”

He nodded. Was it warm in the cabin? It felt warm. “I need a drink,” he muttered, pulling away from the table. Danse tried to slow his breathing, tried to regain control. Ever since he and Myra had come to the cabin, he’d been having a much more difficult time relaxing around her. Without the weight of a mission hanging over their time together, the temptation to throw caution to the wind and just pretend that they weren’t in a difficult position was almost overwhelming. For all his stubborn faith in decorum, Danse wanted something to happen. Hell, he needed something to happen. Things couldn’t continue in this purgatory their relationship had been wallowing in. One way or another, things were going to come to a head.

But although Danse knew how he felt about Myra, he still had no idea how she really felt about him. Her heavy-handed flirtation should have been a clear indicator of her intentions, and coming from anyone else the Paladin knew, it would have been obvious that she had at least some attraction to him. Things were different with Myra. She was frustratingly hard to read, and her motives were obscured by her charismatic personality. She was a frustrating enigma, and the last thing he wanted to do was to lose her by making assumptions. Danse needed to calm down. He needed to give this time.

The Paladin rummaged in the kitchen cabinets before returning with a can of water for each of them. Myra smiled sweetly at him as she took the drink. “Thanks. It’s still your turn, you know. Unless you’re forfeiting.”

“Hardly,” Danse grumbled, taking Myra’s king-side rook with his queen. “I don’t know the meaning of the word surrender.”

“Tell me about it,” Myra sighed, moving her knight to capture another pawn. “Check.”

“What do you mean by that?” Danse asked, moving his king up to safety.

Myra shifted her queen over two spaces, locking down the space behind him. “I’m just saying, Danse, it wouldn’t kill you to learn to relax. Hell, with how stressed out you are all the time, it might even save your life. You’re a heart attack waiting to happen.”

Danse brought his queen before her king. “And you could stand to learn some caution,” he growled. “Check.”

Myra moved her queen in front of her bishop with a casual flip of her finger. “If you mean I need to be more careful who my friends are,” she grumbled, “trust me, I think I’ve learned that lesson.”

“Have you?” Danse replied, moving his bishop between Myra’s knight and his queen. 

She countered by moving her queen back a space. “You don’t have to sound so skeptical. Check.”

“I’m just worried about you, that’s all,” Danse said as his king fled to C3.

“I can handle myself.” Myra moved her queen to H4. “We can keep playing if you’d like, but that’s basically mate.”

Danse stared at the board in confusion. How had she managed to beat him? Yet there his king was, locked down by her knight and queen. Any additional moves on his part would just be delaying the inevitable. “Well done,” he said simply. “It took you the better part of a year, but you won.”

Myra smiled cryptically. “I guess I just needed the right motivation,” she replied. “Now, about my reward…”

The Paladin blushed. Right. Her reward. “Well, I...uh...how exactly do you want me to…”

She laughed. “It’s not that hard, Danse. I mean, you’ve kissed me before, remember?”

How could he forget? When she’d kissed him in his quarters the night they’d returned from Fort Hagen, he had felt his entire world shift. While it took him months to admit it, it was that moment that made him realize how deeply he cared for her. His desire to be close to her had been difficult enough to handle at the time. Every day they had spent together since had just made his feelings for her grow. There was nothing in the world that he wanted more than to scoop her up and pin her against the wall, kissing her breathless until there was nothing left for her to feel but the love he had for her.

Still, something held him back. He felt like he was taking advantage of her, somehow. Myra was still an emotional wreck. Whatever had transpired earlier in the night was still tormenting her. He could see it in her eyes. As much as he wanted to show her exactly how he felt, he knew it would be crossing a line they could never come back from. Even if he was willing to take the risk, to find out if what he thought she felt for him was real, was that what she really wanted? Was it fair to press the issue?

The Paladin sighed, scooping her up in his arms and carrying her into the sleeping area. She looked up at him, shocked, as he gently laid her down on the bed. “Danse,” she murmured, “are you…”

Danse smiled gently down at her. He removed her glasses carefully, setting them on the nightstand. Before she could say another word, he pressed his lips tenderly to her forehead, kissing her softly. “Get some sleep,” he replied. “I’ll keep watch for a few hours.”

The look of confusion and disappointment in her brilliant eyes was palpable, and it took everything in him to stand by his decision. It wasn’t what he wanted, and at least for the moment it wasn’t what Myra thought she wanted, but Danse wasn’t willing to hurt her just to satisfy his own feelings. It wouldn’t be right. He loved her too damn much to take advantage of her sadness, even if it was the only way he had to get closer to her. It hurt to leave her side, to head back out on patrol, but it was the right thing to do. Wasn’t it?

As the hours ticked away, Danse lost track of the number of times he almost walked back into the cabin to wake Myra up and talk things through. The more time they spent like this without immediate responsibilities, the harder it was for him to forget the bureaucratic nightmare that awaited them back at the Prydwen . Myra still hadn’t recanted her association with the Railroad, and if they were forced to return with her loyalties still very much unclear, Danse couldn’t guarantee that he’d be able to adequately protect her.

He trusted her when she said that she hadn’t known the Railroad’s bloody history. But now she did, and there was no excuse for her to see Deacon behind his back. While it was clear that their most recent encounter hadn’t exactly been a good one, who was to say that the charming spy wouldn’t turn her head with his duplicitous words? Danse had faith in Myra, more than she perhaps deserved. But against the wiles of a professional manipulator, he felt almost helpless. Losing her would be bad enough. Losing her to a man like Deacon was unthinkable.

Danse wanted to give her a reason to stay with the Brotherhood, to stay with him. He wanted so badly to tell her how deeply he loved her, but he knew how terribly that could backfire. What if she believed that the Paladin was also manipulating her? It could cost him everything, their entire friendship and working relationship. Was he really prepared to risk that?

No. Danse wasn’t about to do anything that would hurt Myra. Even if it gave him a chance at happiness, her peace of mind was more important. In the end, he only returned to the cabin once, just before dawn, to change shifts with her. As she smiled sleepily up at him, fumbling for her glasses, Danse knew in his mind that he’d made the right decision. His heart told a different story, but he locked it down. There was no time for speculation on things that shouldn’t be.

When he settled in for a few brief hours of sleep, however, Danse could almost swear that he heard Myra humming gently beside his bed. And as sleep took him into oblivion, he could almost feel her lips press softly against his eyelids, offering up a prayer for pleasant dreams.

::::

The next day, Danse awoke to the sound of frenzied shouting in the front yard. He leapt to his feet, thankful that he kept his laser rifle by the bed when it was his turn to use it, and careened to the door. He hastily threw the valve on his power armor and eased inside before bolting out of the threshold and into the forest beyond.

“I’ll have your head for this, you ugly sack of flying feces!” Myra screamed, waving her hands frantically at a large mutated seagull that sat in a nearby tree, completely indifferent to her insults.

“Myra, what’s wrong?” he asked, nearing her side. “Are we under attack?”

“Shoot the damn thing, Danse!” she cried angrily. “If my laundry can’t be saved, at least we can save someone else’s!”

He looked towards the house, his eyes widening as he saw the clothesline she’d strung from it. Indeed, her precious flannel shirt, as well as a few other items, were coated in white stains which were already beginning to eat away at the fabric.

“That looks like the work of more than one bird,” he said, honestly both horrified and impressed by the display. “Perhaps we should search the area.”

“Great idea,” Myra grumbled. “Thanks. You do that, and I’ll try to find more soap. I’m pretty sure that was the last of it, though. And this shit seems more acidic than the bird poop I’m used to.”

“It is rather corrosive,” the Paladin agreed. “Ingram complains about it eating through parts of the Prydwen all the time. We can go gather resources later today, if you’d like. There’s a few stores nearby that we haven’t exhausted yet. We might even be able to find you a new shirt.”

“I don’t want a new shirt, Danse!” she cried. “I like that shirt!”

It was true. Outside of her current outfit, which consisted of a simple black tank top and jeans, he’d rarely seen her out of the green and black flannel. She did occasionally wear the Brotherhood uniform, but only under duress.

The shirt itself was in miserable condition after all the battles it had seen. The original fabric was faded and frayed, held together by stitches and hope. Several bloodstains marred the fabric, a map of Myra’s misadventures and battles barely won. Danse was honestly surprised that the shirt had lasted this long.

“We can probably find one like it,” he replied. “There’s an abandoned Fallon’s just a few clicks from here. Wouldn’t a new one be better?”

“I don’t want one like it,” Myra said softly, clutching at the ruined shirt. “I want that one. It’s one of the last things I still have from before… before...”

She bit her lower lip, trying to suppress her tears. Myra cradled the worn flannel in her hands, fingers tracing the holes in the fabric like they were bullet wounds on the corpse of a friend.

Danse wasn’t sure when he’d gotten out of his armor, but before he knew it, she was in his arms, her too-cold body gripped tightly against him. She turned in his arms to face him, burying her head in his orange uniform, her tears saturating the thin fabric.

“I...I’ve lost so much,” she sobbed. “I know it’s just a stupid shirt, but…”

He cradled her head in one hand, his fingers wrapped up in her silky hair. The Paladin tried not to think about how long he’d been wanting to hold her like this. Now was not the time. “Shhh. No, it’s nothing to worry about, Myra. Just breathe. We’ll find a way to repair it, I promise.”

She nodded against him, the heaving of her sobs gradually fading away. Eventually she pulled back, looking up at him with her deep emerald eyes still moist from her outburst. “I’m sorry, Danse. I don’t know why I’ve been crying so much lately, and over such stupid stuff, too. I mean, yes, that shirt’s important to me, but...”

“Clearly, it’s not just stupid stuff,” Danse replied. “The catalyst may have been something minor, but I’ve seen soldiers lose their minds over far less than a ruined shirt. You are carrying a large burden of real pain. Of course it will find an outlet, whether you allow it to or not.”

Myra sighed heavily. “Well, how do you deal with it, Danse? You’ve seen a lot of hurt in your life, too. How do you keep it all locked down like you do?”

“It’s taken me years of practice and discipline,” he replied honestly. “Also, I’ve found that the extermination of wasteland abominations is extraordinarily therapeutic. As is power armor maintenance.”

Myra chuckled. “So you’re saying I need to get a hobby. Preferably one that involves lots of tools. And murder.”

Danse shook his head. “I’m saying that you will need to determine what the most beneficial coping mechanism is for you. But that is not the goal today. Today, you can cry as much as you want.”

“Well, as long as you keep holding me like this,” she said with a flirtatious smile, “I might take you up on that.” His face burned as he realized that his arms were still wrapped tightly around her waist, and he dropped them awkwardly to his sides, releasing her. Myra snickered at him as she wiped her nose with the back of one hand, turning her attention back to the ruined laundry. “Well, maybe you can start by just listening to me rant, like you always do.”

“That would be...more than acceptable,” Danse replied.

“I suppose I should have thrown this damn thing away months ago,” Myra said, surveying the tattered remains of her shirt once more. “I mean, it was mostly destroyed already. Hell, it wasn’t in great condition when I got it in the first place.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, where did you get it?” Danse asked, genuinely curious.

Myra sighed. “Nate gave it to me, I think. I don’t remember exactly...but I know it’s extremely important to me. When I woke up after leaving the vault, I looked through all the drawers and closets in my house. There wasn’t much left. Honestly, I was certain that nothing I treasured remained. But there, in the very back of a dresser, was this shirt. It felt like a miracle, like Nate was sending me a message that I was going to be okay. When I put it on, I felt like I could handle anything, like I was protected. So I guess I just never took it off unless I had to.”

Before meeting Myra, Danse would have dismissed such thinking as superstitious nonsense. But now...he’d seen her fight back through impossible odds, had watched her defy death so many times that it was almost scary. Maybe Nate was looking out for her from beyond the grave somehow. Or at least, having a memento of him with her gave Myra the courage to do the impossible.

“I think I might have a solution,” Danse said. “May I see the shirt?” Myra nodded, handing it over. Danse pulled a knife from his boot, cutting a large square of fabric from the back of the garment. He folded it carefully into a kerchief, taking care to trim as many loose threads as he could. When it was done, he tied the fabric around her swan-like neck. “It’s not ideal,” he replied, “but at least it will still be of some use to you. Hopefully Nate would approve.”

Myra nodded. “I...I think he would,” she agreed. “Thanks, Danse.” She lowered herself to the ground, groaning in pain as she laid back in the brown grass. “I always used to love looking up at the trees from below,” she murmured. “There’s something so peaceful about the way the leaves move against the sky. It’s a shame so many of these big ones are dead, now. But at least the sky still looks lovely.”

Danse hesitated for a long moment before lying down beside her. She scooted closer, resting her head on his broad chest. “I’m sorry if this is too uncomfortable for you,” she said.

“No you’re not,” he replied, worried that she could hear the frenzied beating of his heart, “but I suppose I don’t mind.”

She nuzzled tighter against him. “You’ve always been there for me, haven’t you, Danse?” Myra asked softly. “And all this time, I’ve acted like it didn’t matter. I’m sorry for that.”

“You have nothing to apologize for, Myra,” he replied, trying to decide whether to wrap an arm around her or not. He eventually settled on not. They were close enough as it was.

“I do, though,” she replied. “You’re a good man, Danse. I’ve been so caught up in everything, in fixing the ruins of my bombed-out life, that I haven’t been the most reliable friend to anyone. I’ve just been thinking about my own needs, my own fears. But that’s not who I was, before all of this. And it’s not who I want to be at the end of this road.” Myra trembled slightly, her breathing labored. “I’m scared, Danse. I’m scared that the woman I’ll be after we take down the Institute will be a stranger to me. I don’t want to be some unfeeling robot who has nothing left to care about, just a mother who murdered her own child.”

Danse stared up at the trees, collecting his thoughts as best as he could. “That doesn’t sound like the Myra Larimer I’m acquainted with,” he replied finally. “You may be impulsive and lack self-restraint, but you care very deeply about people. Otherwise, this decision wouldn’t bother you the way it does.”

“I guess you’re right,” Myra said. “I just wish things hadn’t ended up this way. I wish there was a way for me to stand by everyone I care about. It feels wrong, leaving so many of my friends out in the cold.”

“I know,” the Paladin replied, finally relenting and putting a comforting arm around her. It had always been so easy, so natural to touch her. From their earliest missions together, there had been a strange ease between Danse and Myra that he hadn’t encountered with anyone before. Well, there had been Arthur, but the younger man had stopped clinging to Danse years ago, had grown to rely on him differently. Arthur had been a child then, halfway between a brother and a son to the Knight who watched over him. Things changed when he had been forced into adulthood too early. Danse hadn’t been able to protect the last Maxson from the man he had needed to become, and perhaps that was the natural course of such a friendship.

With Myra, the course of their friendship had been different. For a while, Danse had convinced himself that he was playing the older brother to another young person with a destiny greater than one person should bear. But while Arthur’s destiny had pulled him ever further away from the Paladin, Myra’s seemed determined to bring them closer. She was more than someone for him to protect, now. Myra was...she was someone Danse wanted to spend the rest of his life with, in whatever way he could. The love he had for her had ceased to be friendship ages ago. He could only hope that she somehow, miraculously, felt the same.

“Hey, Danse?” Myra asked, starling him back into the present.

“What is it?” he replied.

“What did you think of me, back when we first met?” she continued. “I’ll admit, I’ve been curious.”

Danse sighed. “I thought you were rash, undisciplined, and clearly had a death wish,” he said. “I thought you were brave, facing down that horde of ferals with only a pistol, but I’ll admit, I had major reservations about working with you. I still don’t know what possessed me to offer you a place on my squad.”

Myra chuckled. “Yeah, well I thought you were a pretentious asshole with an armor fetish,” she shot back. “I mean, I know soldiers. Hell, I married one. But you were the most hardheaded, rigid person I ever met. Why I ever agreed to take you up on your offer, I’ll never know.” She sat up with a low moan. As she turned to look back at the Paladin, her eyes softened, a strange nervousness haunting their emerald depths. “And what about now?” she asked. “Do you still have reservations about me?”

Danse shook his head. “You’ve more than proven yourself to be not only a competent soldier, Myra, but a loyal friend as well. I...I trust you. Completely. I’m grateful to whatever temporary insanity made me want to recruit you.”

Myra’s smile wavered. “I’m grateful too. I can’t imagine how I’d be handling any of this without you. That’s...that’s why I think I’ve made my decision. I’m going to take the Oath, Danse.”

His eyes widened. “Are you absolutely certain? You realize the massive responsibilities that come with the Oath of Fidelity, don’t you? You will have to follow every order given to you, without question. If you were tasked with an assault on one of your former allies, you would have to comply.” 

She nodded. “I know.”

“You’d be giving up your neutrality, your autonomy…” Danse sat up, his face stony. “I...I hope your realize that I never wanted to ask that of you.”

Myra smiled sadly at him. “I know what I’m giving up, Danse. But I also know that there’s something really important that I might gain if I stay.”

The Paladin’s brow furrowed. “Such as?”

Myra blushed, the rosy tinge of her cheeks lighting up her freckles. “Don’t make me say it. I...it’s better if I don’t.”

“Myra, you can tell me anything. I promise not to judge.”

“It’s nothing bad!’ she protested. “At least, I hope it’s not.” She struggled to her feet awkwardly, nearly falling back to the ground before catching herself on a tree trunk. “Shit, that smarts! It’s just…” Myra trailed off, her eyes a thousand miles away. “I think I’m in love with you, Danse.” 

“You...what?” he replied, shocked. She had to be teasing him. There was no way she could be serious. Danse had never been a lucky man. He couldn’t be fortunate enough for her to really care for him that way.

“I mean it,” Myra replied, her eyes meeting his nervously. “I wasn’t expecting to fall for anyone, not after losing Nate. I never thought I’d find anything like that again. And it’s not like it was with Nate, not exactly. It feels different, almost...more real somehow? That sounds wrong,” she amended. “I don’t know. I just can’t keep denying that you mean more to me than just a friend. And I don’t expect you to feel the same way. I just thought you should know.”

Danse stared at her, slack-jawed. “I… er… I mean, I never realized…”

Myra laughed self-deprecatingly. “What, the kiss I gave you after Fort Hagen didn’t give you a clue that I might...?”

Danse shrugged. “Well, people behave erratically when they’ve been traumatized, Myra. I mean, Haylen kissed me once, too, and I know she’s not in love with me.” He thought for a moment, his deep brown eyes distant. “She’s not, correct?”

“I don’t think she’s in love with you, no,” Myra said. “Not so long as Knight Rhys exists, at least. But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t love you, Danse. I think she sees you as her big brother.”

“And you… don’t,” he replied.

Myra nodded. “Right.”

Danse’s mind raced. As much as he’d wanted to hope that Myra felt the same way about him as he felt about her, he hadn’t dared to really accept it as a possibility. As thrilled as he was to hear those words from her, the Paladin was caught entirely off-guard. What was he supposed to do now? Pining after her was one thing. Could he really continue the way things were, knowing that his feelings were reciprocated? “I’m going to need to think about this,” he murmured. “Is that acceptable? I’m sorry, it’s just that I wasn’t expecting to hear that from you.”

Myra’s shoulders drooped. “Well, that’s not a complete rejection.”

“No!” he shot back. “No, not at all. I…I just need time.”

“Of course,” Myra said with a heavy sigh. “I won’t bring it up again. Not until you want me to.”

“I appreciate it,” Danse replied. “I...I think I need to take a walk. Will you be all right on your own?”

Myra nodded, her eyes downcast. “I promise, I’ll stay put like a good girl and not let any boys into the house. I’m sorry for springing this all on you, Danse. Like I said, I guess I just wanted you to know.”

“I’m not upset with you, Myra,” the Paladin said. “I promise.”

She nodded again, grabbing her pack and heading inside. “Be careful out there,” she murmured.

“I will be,” he replied, heading towards the lake. Danse’s mind reeled as he tried to process what had happened. She loved him? Myra actually loved him? How? Why?

He paced the shoreline of the small reservoir, watching the sunlight dance across the water like children at play. How had he not seen this coming? Yes, Myra wasn’t particularly subtle when it came to her flirting, but she flirted with everyone she was close with, men and women alike. It was just part of her charismatic personality. How was he supposed to know when she was teasing and when she was serious?

Besides, why would she ever be interested in him? Myra was the remnant of a lost world, familiar with a way of life Danse had only ever dreamed of. What could he ever offer her that would make up for everything that she had lost? It was absurd that she would have ever grown to care for him in that way. 

Yet somehow, over the past year, they had grown closer, had become more than just Paladin and Knight. They’d become true confidants, even friends. Hell, she knew almost as much about him as Arthur did. That in itself was incredible. So how could there be something more than that?

For so long, the thing he feared most in the world was dying in disgrace, or disappointing his superiors. He was an honorable man, a loyal soldier, a firm believer in the justice of the Brotherhood’s cause. But somehow, that had changed. There was something he feared more, a fear which had proven itself  in small ways countless times over their adventures, most powerfully at the airport the night she stood on that platform in the rain, her eyes begging him to offer her some words of comfort before she most likely would cease to exist.

The thing he feared, more than anything else, was living without Myra by his side. The time they spent away from each other had become a form of torture. He spent most of it worrying about her, willing her back to her rightful place beside him. All he wanted in the world was to love her, to support her in any way that he could. To know that she felt the same, that she was willing to sacrifice so much of what she believed in to be near him...it was beyond astonishing.

Danse wanted to believe that seeing this through was worth the risk. The road before them had never been an easy one, and if their relationship crossed the line into romance, things would only be harder for them both. The Paladin had seen both the good and the bad of relationships inside the Brotherhood. When things worked well, the bond between the two soldiers involved made them nearly unstoppable. But when things went poorly, whole squads were often torn apart in the aftermath. Worse yet, there was the constant threat of death on the battlefield that loomed over such a relationship. All too often, someone was left behind. Danse knew he couldn’t bear it if that were him. Would Myra be all right if she outlived him?

Perhaps it was better for things to remain as they were. Danse didn’t have to tell her how much he loved her just because she had confessed her feelings to him. The Paladin could still make the choice to protect her, to protect them both. He could lie, could tell her that he just saw her as a friend. Maybe she would struggle with the rejection at first, but in the long run, she would recover.

But Danse knew that was the coward’s way out, and he wasn’t about to compromise his integrity just to make their lives easier. Myra deserved the truth. More than that, if there was a chance that they could somehow make things work, wasn’t that worth risking everything?

Hours passed as the Paladin debated the correct course of action, and it was night by the time he returned from his walk, a bundle of nerves and excitement. He wasn’t sure what would happen when he talked to Myra, but he knew that if he put off that conversation any longer, he would lose his nerve. The Paladin left his armor just inside the door again, his eyes searching the small space for the woman he loved. She wasn’t in the kitchen, so he tried the sleeping area. She was sound asleep when he found her.

Her body was curved protectively in on itself, forming a gentle ball of Myra on the mattress. The young woman’s white hair was loose, tossed every which way like there had been an extremely small, localized windstorm at the head of the bed. Danse gently brushed a few thick strands from her slumbering face, softly tucking them behind her small, pale ear. “Myra,” he soothed, “wake up.”

She moaned softly, the corners of her mouth lifting into a soft smile as she responded to his voice.

Well, that did things to him.

“What is it, Danse?” she murmured, one eye cracking open to look at him.

“I’m sorry to wake you,” he replied, “but I wanted to talk.”

“It’s ok,” she replied, wiping the sleep from her eyes and sitting up. “I was awake anyway.”

That was a lie, but he decided to let it pass. “Well, if you really meant what you said...I think I’m ready to talk about it.”

Myra frowned. “Are you sure? Last time we talked, you sounded like you were going to need a lot of time to think. I haven’t been in a coma, have I?”

“No. I…” Danse trailed off, his heart pounding in his ears. “I’m sorry. This isn’t easy for me.”

“I can see that,” Myra replied. “Look, if you’re going to tell me we should just be friends, I can take it. Like I said, I just wanted you to know.”

The Paladin shook his head. “That’s not...I’m not particularly great at expressing my emotions. I’m sure you’ve realized that by now.” 

Myra sighed. “You have a terrible poker face, Danse. I always know what you’re feeling, even if you don’t.”

“Then why do we even have to have this conversation?” He growled.

“Because it’s important,” she replied. “Because I might be reading into things too much, and I want to make sure before I do something we both might regret.”

“I suppose that’s fair,” he agreed. “I’ll be honest with you, Myra, I don’t know if I completely know how I feel about this…situation. But I do know that you are the most important person in my life, and I don’t ever want to be away from you, or see anything hurt you. I don’t know if that’s love or friendship or some other thing, but I know that whatever I feel when you’re close to me, it’s strong. So strong that it makes it hard to think about anything else. Does that make sense?”

“If you aren’t comfortable with this...”

“No. I am,” Danse interrupted. “I just… I haven’t cared this deeply about someone in a long time, maybe ever. And it’s terrifying to me. You know what the world is like now. We’re soldiers. Anything could happen to us in the field. One of us could die in an instant, or worse. I don’t know if I can live with that, knowing that I could lose you.”

“I understand how you feel,” she murmured. “I feel the same way. After I almost lost you at the Castle…” Myra’s eyes welled with tears. “If anything happened to you, I don’t know what I’d do.”

Danse frowned. “Is it alright for us to feel this way, when we know it could put our lives and our mission at risk?”

Myra smiled sadly at him. “That’s not how love works, Danse. You can’t just choose to shut it off and ignore it, at least not easily. Once you’ve started to care about someone, to put their happiness above your own, there’s nothing you can do to take it back. All you can do is decide what to do with the love you have for them.”

“And what is it that you want to do, Myra?” Danse asked nervously.

She thought for a moment. “I…I want to see where this goes,” she replied softly. “I want to continue getting to know you, to keep spending time with you. I just want to be by your side as long as I can. Is that okay?”

He nodded. “More than okay.”

“Good.” She beamed up at him, a faint blush playing about her cheeks. “So,” she murmured, “can I kiss you now, or…”

He knelt down beside the bed to meet her, pulling her carefully into his warm, muscular embrace as their lips met. This was not the abrupt, spur-of-the-moment peck Myra had given him months ago. No, this was something wild and ravenous, a surge of sensation that kicked about his spine as she leaned deeper into him, pressing their bodies together. He had never experienced anything like it before, this feeling of connection, of unity. It made him long for all the times they could have shared this before, if only he’d known what he was missing. All Danse knew as he kissed her was that he never wanted this to end. He wanted to know every part of her, to share every part of him with her.

All the fear, all the doubt faded away as though she drew it out of him like poison from a wound. All that remained was peace, was hope, was the promise of a beautiful tomorrow with her beside him. Everything Danse had longed for for so long seemed finally within his grasp, and he could hardly keep himself from crying with the sheer joy of being so completely lucky. He’d never dreamed that Myra would actually be his to cherish. He couldn’t have begun to understand what that actually meant, not until this moment.

His mind was at once blank and filled with images of the road before them. Navigating the Brotherhood’s fraternization rules would be difficult, but not impossible. And once they were able to be open with their relationship, he would ask her to marry him. It wasn’t too soon for that, was it? Did he care if it was? He knew he wanted to be with her, and as long as she agreed, was there any benefit to waiting?

When the kiss finally broke, he pressed his forehead against hers, chuckling weakly. Her own laugh echoed his as they held each other close, rejoicing in the warmth of their affection for each other.

“I love you so much,” Myra whispered, stroking his hair.

“I love you too,” Danse replied, his heart racing. “I have for a long time now.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” she asked, frowning. “Danse, things could have been so much simpler.”

“I…” He cleared his throat. “I wasn’t certain you shared the sentiment. I didn’t want to undermine our relationship.”

“I suppose that’s fair,” Myra replied with a smile, kissing him again. “I’m just glad we ended up here.”

“Agreed,” Danse murmured against her. “By the way, you asked me about my given name. Do you still want to know it?”

Myra nodded. “If you’re comfortable telling me, I really would like to know.”

He sighed. “Well, if we’re going to be...that is, if we are involved now…”

She laughed. “You make it sound like we’re caught up in a legal dispute, Danse. It’s not that bad. We’re just...us.”

“It will take me some time to adjust to this development,” he replied sheepishly. “I’ve never been in a relationship like this before.”

“Never?” Myra asked, startled. “But you’re a really attractive guy! I was sure all the Brotherhood women were throwing themselves at you. Hell, some of the men too.”

“I suppose that’s an accurate assessment,” Danse said, “though I think you’re overselling my attractiveness. But although I’m not exactly inexperienced, I can honestly say that I’ve never felt this...connected to someone before. Not like this, at least. So it seems only right to tell you. My parents, though what they were thinking I will probably never be able to comprehend, named me Tristan.”

Myra pulled away from him, her eyes wide. “Wait. Your name’s Tristan Danse? Are you serious? That’s ridiculous.”

Danse nodded glumly. “How do you think I felt, growing up saddled by that name? My parents left me nothing except for it, and I don’t even know why they chose it. If that wasn’t bad enough, there was another Tristan in the Brotherhood when I joined up who was extremely well-respected. It took me months to not react when he was mentioned. I eventually just dropped my given name altogether. It was easier that way, I suppose. Now there are only three people alive who know it. You, Arthur, and Cade.”

“And probably Quinlan,” Myra muttered. “Let’s be honest, that guy knows everyone’s secrets. But that’s not…” She chuckled nervously. “Danse, it’s just too big of a coincidence.”

“What is?” he asked, frowning slightly.

“It's just that my middle name is Isolde, after my mother’s favorite character in the King Arthur stories.”

He nodded. “It’s a lovely name. What does that have to do with mine?”

“Danse, we’ve got to get you to a library,” Myra replied, laughing. 

Danse sighed. Clearly, there was something he wasn’t understanding, not like that was a novel occurrence for him. But Myra seemed happy, and for now, that was enough.

“So,” she continued once her laughter died down, “can I call you Tristan in private, then?”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” the Paladin replied. “Like I said, I’m not overly fond of the name.”

“Well, if we’re really going to…” Myra sighed. “I’d like to call you something other than Danse, I guess. It feels weird calling you by your last name when you kiss me like that.”

“Like this?” he mused, pulling her close and gently but earnestly pressing his lips to hers. He could feel her smile against him, and it made his pulse quicken. What a delightful sensation that was.

“Is that a sense of humor you’re demonstrating, Paladin?” she teased, her lips ghosting against his cheek. “You’re just full of surprises tonight.”

“I have been known to make the occasional joke, Knight,” he muttered. “You do not have a monopoly on frivolity, in spite of what you may believe.”

“Fair enough, Paladin,” she replied with a snort. “Seriously, though, do you have a middle name or something?”

“I’m afraid not,” he said. “But if you really feel the need to use my first name, I suppose I don’t find it quite so unbearable when you say it. It will certainly take some getting used to. Or...” he trailed off, his eyes distant.

“Or?” Myra asked nervously.

Danse sighed. “My friend Cutler. He always just called me T.”

Myra smiled. “T, huh? Well, it’s not exactly a sweet pet name, but I guess that suits you, doesn’t it?”

Danse nodded. It was strange, hearing Cutler’s nickname for him fall from her lips. But somehow, it seemed like an appropriate choice. After all, with the exception of Arthur, they were the two closest people to him. It was oddly fitting that they should call the Paladin by the same name. “I suppose it does.”

Myra pulled him closer, holding him tightly. “I’m so happy,” she murmured. “Just to be here like this with you is…”

The Paladin pressed his lips to her temple. “I can hardly believe it myself,” he replied. “If I could, I would just stay here with you forever.”

“That sounds perfect,” Myra said. She pulled away, easing herself the rest of the way out of bed. “Right now, though, it’s my turn to stand watch. You need to rest too. It’s not like you’re a machine.”

He laughed softly, capturing her arm and kissing her wrist. “Tell that to half of the initiates. I’m pretty sure Aspirant Reinhardt has been telling them I drink motor oil and don’t eat any real food.”

Myra grinned. “He would. Well, at least I know the truth. Good night, T. Sleep well.”

“Good night, Myra,” he echoed. “Please be careful.”

“I will,” she replied. “After all, I’ve got something to live for, don’t I?” She kissed him one last time before slipping out into the kitchen, Righteous Authority slung over her back.

Danse settled into the bed with an overwhelmed sigh. The sheets were warm and smelled of Myra, and he smiled as he wrapped himself in her comforting scent. Somehow, in spite of the battles before them, the Paladin finally felt like everything was going to be alright. With Myra beside him, her love surrounding him, there was nothing he had left to fear. For once, the Commonwealth could look after its own problems. In these last few stolen days, it was finally his turn to be happy.

“I told you that you should have gotten out of Goodneighbor when you had the chance,” Deacon said, leaning against the wall of Dr. Amari’s lab. He had to admit, it was good just to see Amari back at work. For nearly two weeks, the scientist’s life had hung in the balance. Fortunately for her as well as the synths who relied on her services, the bullet that had pierced her chest had missed most of her major organs, and quick intervention had prevented the worst outcome. She’d lost most of her right lung, so she wouldn’t be running any marathons soon, but she had survived.

Dr. Amari wheezed sardonically as she wheeled herself over to her monitor, her dark eyes clouded with fatigue. “And who would help these poor souls if I left? You know how most people feel about synths, and that includes many with my expertise. Until your friends decide to relocate operations entirely, Deacon, there’s nowhere else for me to go.”

“We’re probably going to have to move anyway,” he replied with a heavy sigh. “After what happened to you, it’s clear that the Railroad can no longer guarantee the safety of anyone in Goodneighbor. Until things change, we’re all in danger.”

“You should be used to that by now,” the doctor continued as she typed away on her keyboard. “Isn’t danger your profession?”

“Well, kinda,” Deacon said. “I mean, secrets are my profession. But man, there is an awful lot of danger when secrets are involved. Sometimes, I wish I could just go back to being a teacher. I miss those days. Things were simpler, and there was way less...y’know, stabbing and stuff. At least with kids, you can just hold them by the top of the head until they get tired of trying to disembowel you. Harder to do that with adults, since their arms are longer.”

Dr. Amari shook her head. “I just can’t picture you as anything but a spy. I certainly wouldn’t trust you with my children, if I had any.”

Deacon recoiled playfully, clutching his chest. “Oww! That hurts, doctor! After everything we’ve been through together…”

“Don’t make me laugh,” she gasped. “It’s hard enough to breathe as it is.” She gestured to the screen. “Here’s the information you asked for.”

The spy walked over to her side, eyeing the monitor. Illuminated in bright green type was what appeared at first glance to be a medical supply manifest.

RadAway: 27

Stimpacks: 9

Med-X: 12

Deacon whistled in admiration. “27 completed procedures, huh? I knew this was gonna be a tough station to replace, but…”

“As you can see,” Dr. Amari continued, “I’ve had 12 synths killed in transit in the last quarter. That’s almost double the losses of the previous year alone. Things are getting dire, Deacon. Your friends at HQ need to provide tighter security, or I can’t promise that the next batch you send me will even make it out of town, let alone out of the Commonwealth.”

 “That’s why it’s best if we relocate you,” the spy replied. “I’ll let our people know, and we’ll hopefully be able to find you someplace safer to work.”

She shook her head. “I can’t just leave. My life’s work is here.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to die here,” Deacon pleaded. “It’ll only be temporary, until it’s safe for you to come back.”

“I can’t, Deacon,” Dr. Amari replied. “My work here is too important. And you know as well as I do that there’s no safe place for people with our views in the Commonwealth. Not anymore.”

Deacon sighed. He knew Amari was right. With the Institute’s psychological warfare and infiltration breeding paranoia, and the Brotherhood of Steel literally looming above their heads, the Commonwealth had become a very perilous place to be a friend to synths. Things were untenable here in Goodneighbor, but where was there a better alternative? He couldn’t move Amari without risking Institute intelligence getting word of her location. In spite of the very real dangers presented by staying put, it was honestly the best option. “Will you at least promise to lock your doors?” he said finally.

She nodded. “Mayor Hancock’s already promised me two extra security guards in the Memory Den lobby. I never thought I’d see the day when I’d have to be protected from the people I’ve been treating for years,” she murmured. “What is the world coming to?”

Deacon chucked. “Haven’t you heard? The world’s over. Has been for a long time.”

“Unfortunately, we both know that’s not true,” Dr. Amari mused. “But if the Institute isn’t stopped, it might as well be. Their disregard for life on the surface was always a bit insulting, like they saw us as a petri dish for their experiments. Now...I don’t know. I think I liked it better when they mostly ignored us.”

“You and me both,” Deacon agreed. He thought for a moment, trying to figure out exactly how much intelligence he could safely share with the good doctor. After all, she wasn’t part of the Railroad. Not officially. She was an asset, an ally, but not an agent. Hell, even when dealing with full agents, Deacon rarely told them more than what they absolutely needed to know. It was safer that way, for everyone.

His mind, as it often did, drifted to Myra. If there had ever been a person he wanted to be completely honest with, it was her. That was one of the many reasons why getting close to her was a dangerous mistake. Deacon was incredibly lucky that he’d had the presence of mind to put an end to...whatever had happened that night. He was incredibly unlucky that he had to put an end to it. Of all the times for him to get sentimental…

Maybe there was hope, however. He didn’t necessarily want to believe it, and lord knew the spy could barely see the glimmer of it, but it was there. Once the Institute was gone, the biggest threat to the Railroad would be destroyed, and things would be easier. Then, perhaps, Deacon could convince Myra to help drive the Brotherhood of Steel out of the Commonwealth. After all, Elder Maxson, that crazy son of a bitch, insisted that they were only in the ’Wealth to stop the Institute. Deacon didn’t believe a word of it. It was in the nature of the Brotherhood of Steel to take over everything. But if Myra believed it, and Maxson betrayed her trust...it was possible. And once both factions had either been destroyed or had abandoned the Commonwealth, perhaps things would get easier. Perhaps fewer secrets and fewer walls would be necessary.

Deacon knew it was wishful thinking. Desdemona would never allow him to work with Myra if she realized how close he’d come to letting his guard down with her completely. Frankly, the fact that trusting Myra came so easily to Deacon horrified him. And that night in the bar, those hungry, hot kisses that they’d shared...Deacon had to believe that it had all been part of the act, but oh, how he wanted to believe that there had been truth behind the facade. He never believed that he could feel those things again after losing Barbara. And he certainly would never believe that he deserved them. It couldn’t happen. He and Myra...it couldn’t happen.

All the same, Myra deserved to know the truth, deserved to know why he’d reacted so strongly and had pushed her away. He couldn’t tell her how he felt, not without putting them both at risk, but he could explain who he was at the core. If she knew the real him, there wasn’t a doubt in his mind that the situation would right itself. Myra would have to be crazy to have feelings for a man like him. Once she saw that, maybe they could move on with their mission. Maybe things would finally go back to normal.

“Deacon, are you all right?” Dr. Amari asked, eyeing him carefully. “You’ve been staring off into space for a long time. Perhaps you need your head examined.”

Deacon shook his head. “I was thinking about what’s ahead,” he said simply. It wasn’t exactly a lie. “We’re going to find a way to stop the Institute, Amari. I can’t tell you more than that, but we will.”

She smiled slightly at him, an unusual expression for her typically stoic face. “I hope you’re right.” Dr. Amari wheeled herself over to one of the tables that framed her lab. She grabbed a holotape from the counter, offering it to Deacon. “Can you do me a favor? Since I’m effectively trapped in the basement for the time being, would you mind taking this to one of the nearby dead drops?”

Deacon nodded. As curious as he was about what was on the tape, he knew better than to ask. “Are you sure you’ll be okay if I leave?”

The doctor snorted. “I can take care of myself, Deacon. I might be stuck in this wheelchair, but I can hold my own.”

“I know you can. That’s not why I’m asking. It’s just...I have a few errands to run. I won’t be back to Goodneighbor for quite a while. So are you sure you can bear to be separated from me, or do I need to ask Dez for an extension?”

“Just get out of my lab before I have the boys upstairs throw you out,” Amari sighed. “It’s bad enough you’ve been smothering me for the last two weeks. Now you’re telling me that you’ve been shirking work and using me as an excuse? That’s unacceptable!”

Deacon laughed, hoisting his pack over one shoulder. “I wasn’t exactly slacking off, you know. You’re Railroad business too. Can’t let word get out that our tourists are getting shot. Do you have any idea what would happen? It’d be chaos in the streets! Rioting, looting, hell, who knows what else.”

“You realize that rioting and looting are basically the national pastime,” Dr. Amari grumbled. “You don’t have to babysit me. Get back to work.”

“Only if you promise to let me borrow that wheelchair when you’re back on your feet,” the spy replied with a cheeky grin. “I wanna try racing that puppy down the ramp at Thicket Excavations. I wonder how fast it can go…”

“Fast enough to splatter your fool brains across the wall of the quarry, I think,” she replied. “This is rare and valuable medical equipment, Deacon, not a toy.”

“Why are all the doctors in my life such stiffs?” Deacon teased. “Do they take your sense of humor away when you get your certification, or is the caustic personality a prerequisite for the job? I’ve always wondered.”

Dr. Amari rolled her eyes. “I’ll miss you too, Deacon. Now shoo, before I sedate you. Lord knows I could use some silence after two weeks stuck with your constant yammering.”

Deacon beamed at her, blowing her a lazy kiss before climbing the stairs and exiting the Memory Den . With every step his smile faded, until all that was left was a neutral expression. He looked at the tape in his hand and sighed. Two weeks, and she was already back to work. There really was no rest for the Railroad, agents or otherwise. Hell, most of them would likely not live out the year, especially now that all of Myra’s friends were poking the slumbering beast beneath the Commonwealth. Agent mortality rates had always been high, but now, with the Institute gaining more power almost daily and the Brotherhood growing bolder and bolder with their patrols...any day could bring another Switchboard Massacre. And this time, Deacon wasn’t certain if any of them would survive.

He opened the dead drop just outside of town, an unassuming news stand half-buried in rubble. To his surprise, there was already a tape inside. Odd. Drummer Boy’s runners usually cleared the dead drops out pretty regularly. Either someone was slacking off, or the message was for Deacon himself. He picked the tape up, turning it over in his hands before tucking it away in his pack for later when he could find a terminal. The spy replaced the tape with the one from Dr. Amari, closing the lid carefully. He tapped out a short series of gentle finger beats on the top of the machine to wake up Tinker Tom’s little alert machine that a pickup was available. Once he heard a muffled beep from inside the box, he walked away, heading south towards the Castle. There were certainly terminals there, or if he was lucky, Myra would let him borrow her Pip-Boy. If the damned things weren’t so hard to come by and so garishly obvious to wear, he would have gotten his own ages ago, if only to play an occasional game of Zeta Invaders to kill time between missions.

As the day deepened and Deacon’s trail brought him closer to the Minutemen fortress, he found his mind racing as he tried to figure out exactly what he should say to Myra when he found her. With how badly their last interaction had gone, he couldn’t be certain that she’d even agree to talk to him. Frankly, he couldn’t blame her. Their friendship wouldn’t be the first one he’d killed prematurely in the name of security, and it likely wouldn’t be the last. 

There was a reason why Deacon preferred working alone. Yeah, it sucked not having anyone to watch his back, but it was infinitely safer in many other ways. Lone wolves rarely were tempted to be heroes, for one. If there was one thing he’d learned after surviving countless massacres and attacks on the Railroad, it was that people who played hero usually got themselves killed. Deacon had no interest in dying. Not before he’d repaid his debt to the world in full. Skulking around and keeping his true intentions shielded from the world might not have been an honorable choice, but it had sure as hell kept him alive. Well, that and his ridiculous good luck, but the spy never banked on being lucky. That required a certain level of comfort and naivete that Deacon was just not capable of any more. Not after Barbara. At least, not until recently.

Deacon could kick himself -- and in fact had kicked himself, both literally and figuratively -- for not being more careful with his interactions with Myra. He wasn’t sure when his desire to recruit her to the Railroad had changed into something far more dangerous and unpredictable. Perhaps elements of affection had been there all along, and he was just too blind or too stupid to realize it. By the time he know how deep the shit he was wading in had gotten, it was almost too late to swim back to shore. In a lot of ways, Deacon wasn’t convinced that he had managed to shake his feelings for her. After that damned hallucination in Hancock’s living room...what was that about, anyway? Just some new torture his troubled mind had cooked up for him? It didn’t matter. Whatever was making him so stupid had to be ignored or destroyed. Myra was too valuable to the Railroad. He needed to be able to work with her without his feelings getting in the way.

The best thing Deacon could do would be to just apologize for being a jerk. He’d tell her that he shouldn’t have reacted that way, and then remind her about the Railroad’s policies on relationships between agents. She’d understand, wouldn’t she? He sighed. “No, she won’t,” he muttered to himself. “Myra’s never been big on rules. Hell, if she...she might see it as a challenge.” He needed to think of another tactic, and fast.

“Maybe you could just tell her the truth?” he mused. The words had barely crossed his lips before he rejected them. Tell her the truth, let her see the real him? What the hell would that accomplish. Sure, it would horrify her to know who he really was. But what if it bothered her so much that she still left the Railroad? That she still left him?

Deacon realized with a jolt of panic that he was honestly terrified of losing her. The fear itself, honestly, was scarier than the cause in his mind. Was he really that far gone? Did it matter? Whether he liked it or not, that was the truth. Deacon had gotten used to depending on her, to trusting her. If he shared that side of himself with her, if her revulsion drove her away...he wasn’t certain he could bear it. Myra was the first person he’d ever considered being totally honest with. If she rejected his friendship once she knew, he would probably never be able to tell anyone again. Was it really worth the risk?

A thousand voices in his head cried out for him to reconsider, to play it safe, to keep his demons locked safely in their cage of lies. Fear overwhelmed him as he continued to walk towards the Castle, one foot carefully planted in front of the other like he was being led to the executioner's block. Still, there was no turning back. There was no undoing the course he’d set for himself. Coward or not, this was the right thing to do. Myra deserved better. Myra deserved the truth. If that meant that she would never speak to him again, at least she would finally understand why he was so flippant with her sometimes: Myra deserved better than anything he could ever offer her.

Deacon camped for the night on the roof of Gwinnett Brewery. He wanted time to think, to plan, and perhaps most importantly to rest before meeting with Myra in the morning. After all, this conversation was going to change things between them forever. He could only hope that the change was for the best.

The spy pulled a folded scrap of paper from his pocket, the poem he’d spent the last half a year fixated on. He sighed as he leaned against one of the industrial air conditioners that crowded the rooftop and read the words to himself, murmuring under his breath.

“It burns so quietly within my soul,” he said so softly that the words seemed to catch on his lips. “No longer should you feel distressed by it.” If only that were true.

::::

“Well, howdy, Colonel,” Deacon drawled as he strutted into the Castle and directly into Preston’s questioning gaze. “I’m here to see the General.”

Preston sighed. “She’s not here, Deacon.”

“What do you mean she’s not here?” Deacon said as Preston snatched the militia hat off of the spy’s head. “And give me my hat back!”

Preston shook his head. “No, I’m keeping this. So, you’re impersonating a Minuteman now? Where did you get the uniform?”

“If you must know, I enlisted fair and square ages ago,” Deacon protested. “Your predecessors weren’t exactly big on the idea of background checks. Too busy fighting each other to care about anything besides numbers.”

“So not only are you a spy, but you’re a deserter,” the Colonel muttered. “Fortunately for you, I’m in a good mood, so as long as you leave the uniform here when you go, I’ll consider you retired.”

Deacon nodded, hastily unbuttoning his tan uniform shirt. “I’ll just take it off now. Save us the trouble.”

“Please don’t,” Preston protested.

“Please do!” one of the nearby militia-women catcalled jokingly. “Always wondered what was under those disguises of yours.”

That voice...Deacon turned to look for the source, his stomach dropping as his eyes met a familiar pair of dark brown ones. Damn it, he’d trained her better than this. “Trail,” he murmured, “what the hell are you doing here?”

Trailblazer smiled weakly at him. “I’ll admit, you weren’t exactly the person I wanted to see either,” she said. “Just leave me be, Deacon. I promise, I won’t make trouble.”

“You know I can’t do that,” Deacon replied sadly. “Damn it, Trail. All you had to do was hide until I left, and I’d never have had to know.”

“I’m done hiding,” she replied. “When has hiding ever helped anyone? It sure as heck didn’t save Tommy, and he was so much better at it than I am.”

Preston frowned at their exchange. “Talise, what’s going on?”

Trailblazer waved a hand towards the Colonel dismissively. “Leave it alone, Garvey,” she murmured. “Please.” Her eyes returned to Deacon, and she frowned. “Tell Dez I’m dead or something. It’s basically true anyways. Trailblazer’s gone. I’m just Talise again. And it’s better this way. I’m happy here, Deacon...really, truly happy. Just let me be.”

Deacon sighed heavily, taking a step closer to her. “It’s not that simple. You can’t just...you can’t just leave, Trail. You know too much. Eventually, someone else is going to track you down, someone who isn’t your friend, and they won’t give you the choice to come home.”

She rolled her eyes. “You stopped being my friend when you didn’t tell me about Tommy. Heck, maybe you never really were my friend,” Trail scoffed. “A man like you...are you even capable of friendship?”

Deacon’s heart contorted in his chest as her words sunk in. Trailblazer was right, of course. The spy had been many things to many people over his lifetime. But when in a long time could he honestly say he’d been someone’s friend? Maybe he wasn’t capable of that sort of trust. Maybe he was deluding himself when he thought that things had changed. “I’m so sorry,” he said gently, “but I have to bring you in. Or…”

Preston walked in front of Trailblazer, a physical barrier between Deacon and his once-student. “Or what? You’ll kill her? Not in my territory, you won’t. Lieutenant Guerra is one of my soldiers now, Deacon. She’s not going anywhere she doesn’t want to. If anyone tries to take her, they’ll be starting a war with us. And I know the Railroad can’t afford that. So tell your boss that Talise isn’t a threat, and leave her alone.”

Deacon chuckled, shaking his head at Preston. “Wow. How long has she been here? A couple months, tops? Damn, you really are a natural agent, Trailblazer. It’s such a shame. Fortunately for all of us, Trail’s not why I’m here. Myra is. You still haven’t answered my question. Last I heard, Myra was here at the Castle. So where is she now?”

Preston’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t think I should tell you,” he growled. “Not after what you did to her.”

Deacon flinched involuntarily. “What did she say?” he asked nervously.

“She didn’t have to say anything,” the Colonel replied coldly. “What kind of man leaves a woman defenseless like that in the middle of a war zone? Did you know that she almost died? God damn it, Deacon, you’re supposed to be her partner? Why was she alone?”

“Hey, that was her choice,” Deacon lied. “We were on an op, and things went sideways. Next thing I know, she’s gone. I did look for her, but once I heard she was here, I figured she was safe enough, so I went to finish my mission.”

“Well, she wasn’t safe,” Preston growled, rounding on the spy. “Like I said, she nearly died. You should have been there.”

“And what about you?” Deacon retorted. “Like you so graciously pointed out, this is your territory. That means it was your job to protect her.”

“I…” Preston’s eyes darkened. “I did my best. But she never should have been in that situation in the first place!”

“I agree!” Deacon exclaimed. “She shouldn’t have been! But from what I hear, we both screwed up, so don’t get on my case about it! Grab your own plank before you go messing with mine!”

“Fine!” Preston shouted back, grabbing Trailblazer by the arm. “Come on, Guerra. We’ve got drills to run.”

“So you’re just going to leave me here?” Deacon retorted, grinning. “Oh, I’m so playing with that fancy radio equipment you guys have.”

The Colonel shook his head. “No. I’m not.” Preston gestured to a nearby woman. “Davis, please take our...guest to the General’s quarters. Feed him, but he’s not allowed to leave the room for any reason.”

“So I’m being detained?” Deacon asked. “That’s not very nice of you.”

Preston smirked. “It’s only temporary. You’ll be escorted out as soon as you’ve been searched. Thoroughly.”

“By her?” Deacon grinned, waggling his eyebrows at the petite blonde. “Well, well.”

Davis rolled her eyes. “So this is the Railroad’s finest? Man, they are so fucked. Relax, buddy. You ain’t got nothing I haven’t seen bigger and better. I promise I’ll try not to laugh, ’kay?”

“Davis…” Deacon pondered aloud. “Oh! You’re Ignatius’ master, aren’t you? I’ve met your daughter. Great kid. Must take after her father.”

“If you knew him, you wouldn’t be so disrespectful,” Davis growled. “Just for that, I’m gonna take extra care with the cavity searches.”

“As long as you buy me dinner first, lady, you can take all the time you want,” Deacon teased. “I’m kinda looking forward to this now, I have to admit.”

“On second thought, Ignatius is far more qualified,” the blonde hissed as she led Deacon towards the quarters. “And way less gentle.”

Deacon thought for a moment before shrugging. “Eh. I’ve dealt with worse. Not exactly my first rodeo there, cowgirl. But how about we dispense with the formalities and just...have a conversation? Spy to spy. Sound good?”

She nodded. “Any funny business, and you’ll wish we went with the search instead.”

Deacon grinned. “Naturally. No, Miss Davis, I respect members of the profession. Don’t worry. I’ll behave.”

“So you’re one of those noble spies,” she said with a shit-eating grin. “Pity. That’ll get you killed someday.”

“It certainly has kept everyone trying,” he agreed, opening the door to Myra’s room. He walked over to her desk chair and sat, resting his feet on the cluttered desk. “So, I’m Deacon. You probably know me from Ignatius’ reports, which I’m not sure is a good thing, but hey, you work with what you’ve got.”

She flopped down on Myra’s bed with a sigh. “Kestrel Davis. My friends call me Kes, so you can call me Kestrel. Of course, I’m sure you already knew that and you’re just playing dumb. If you were even half as dumb as you pretend to be, there’s no way you’d still be alive. Don’t get me wrong, the Commonwealth is soft. But it’s not that soft.”

“Well, we weren’t all brought up in the desert,” Deacon mused. “I mean, there’s a branch of my family out West somewhere, but I’ve never met them. I just know them by reputation. Not great people, it turns out.”

“Who is, these days?” Kestrel agreed. “So, you’re looking for everyone’s favorite Vault-Dweller. Why?”

Deacon sighed. He didn’t trust Kestrel at all. Of course he didn’t. She was a spy for a rival organization, and while she and her Foxes had never directly gone after the Railroad, they were a bit of an unknown entity. Perhaps, however, that made her the perfect person to confide in. As an agent, she’d understand his dilemma, wouldn’t she? And she’d have no inclination to report back to Dez. “I screwed up,” he said finally.

Kestrel laughed, her grey eyes shining in amusement. “No,” she said sarcastically. “I hadn’t figured that one out at all. So, what exactly did you do?”

“I...might have broken the basic rule any spy knows not to break,” he replied.

Her eyes widened. “You bet it all on red, not black? You fool!”

“What? No! I got too attached to my partner,” he corrected. “What the hell kind of organization are you running?”

“One that doesn’t live by that kind of puritanical bullshit, apparently,” Kestrel muttered. “So what, the General got jealous, and now you’re trying to…” she gasped. “Wait. No. The General is your partner?” Deacon nodded slightly, and Kestrel chortled. “What the hell is it with you guys and her? You’d think she was the only nice piece of ass in this wasteland! Does she know?”

Deacon shook his head. “No. And I’m not going to tell her. It doesn’t matter anyway. I’m going to forget about it. I have to. Our mission is more important than something like that. Besides, you know what it’s like. We’d just drag each other down. She deserves more than that.”

Kestrel sighed. “And I deserved a penthouse suite at every casino in New Vegas for everything I did for those people. What did I get? Nearly killed. A lot. You want some friendly advice?” He cocked an eyebrow at her, and she beamed at him. “Okay, well, some advice, at least?”

“I guess it couldn’t hurt,” he replied.

“This life’s brutal and short. You find someone worth throwing everything away for, and you’re a fool for not going for it while you have the chance. I mean, that’s what I did. I left everything I knew, a full pardon and everything, because I knew that my partner was worth fighting for. And damn, what a run we had.” She sighed. “Sometimes, I still hope that calculating bastard’ll walk through the door someday and I’ll finally get the chance to tell him that I…” Kestrel choked back a stray tear, groaning in embarrassment. “Why the hell do you care? We’re talking about you, not me.”

Deacon’s heart ached for her. Here she was, a strong, fierce warrior woman, and just the mere thought of the man she’d cared for made her weak. That wasn’t what he wanted for himself. Any weakness was just waiting for someone to exploit it. People in their business couldn’t afford that kind of liability. “Was it worth it?” he asked softly.

Kestrel nodded. “Yeah. Hell yeah it was. It hurts like a bitch, I’m not gonna lie. But it was worth it, Deacon. Just looking at our daughter makes it worth it. And even if she’d never happened…” she sighed. “I wouldn’t change a damn thing.”

Deacon frowned. “It’s not just the rules. I...I’ve lost someone before. I can’t do it again. It wouldn’t be fair to either of us.”

“Well, if you wanna be miserable, that’s your right,” she sighed. “Just ask yourself one thing: will you regret it more if you let her go or if you lose her? Because if those really are your only options, I feel like the choice is pretty clear.”

“Maybe,” Deacon replied sheepishly. “But honestly, even if I was ready to come clean with her, I don’t even know where she is or how to reach her. Preston sure as hell isn’t gonna tell me. I think that guy might actually hate me, and I didn’t think he hated anyone.”

Kestrel glared at him. “So what, you give me your little sob story and now you expect information? Sorry, pal. I like you, I really do. You remind me of someone I used to know, actually. But I do believe in loyalty, and you haven’t earned mine.”

“I wasn’t...look,” Deacon backpedaled, “I wasn’t trying to play you. I just really need to find her so I can at least apologize for being an utter asshole.”

She shook her head. “I still can’t help you. But I guess I could use a nap,” she continued, yawning. “There’s water in the fridge if you need it.” With that, she curled up on her side, facing away from him. Her hand rested firmly on the dagger at her hip however, a clear sign that she was still keeping an eye on him.

Deacon walked quietly over to the fridge, swinging it open. To his surprise, the old appliance was backless and non-functional. Inside was indeed a few bottles of water, but also a computer terminal. He grinned. Myra really was a clever one.

It didn’t take him long to break in to her computer, but that was more a testament to his skill rather than her incompetence. “Frankincense” was a pretty decent password. He popped the holotape he’d picked up in the appropriate slot, turning the volume down low and leaning in closely to hear the message.

“This is Witness,” a gentle, feminine voice stated. Deacon frowned. He’d never met the operative in person, but he knew her by reputation. Witness was one of the Railroad’s agents in the Brotherhood of Steel, whose orders were to keep her head down and keep an ear out for any operations planned against the agency. For her to reach out directly meant that either something big was happening or... “ If anyone’s listening, the General of the Minutemen’s near the remains of Allen Safehouse. There’s a cabin there, right on the edge of the lake. My sources say she’s been there for over a week now. Someone should probably find out what she’s doing all alone out there with a Brotherhood Paladin. I’m not saying he’d hurt her. Of course not! Danse would never...I mean, he’s a good man .” Witness cleared her throat awkwardly. “ I’m just saying, whatever led them out there, it’s caused a big stir here. If they’re planning an alliance...We need to move on this before the...oh, geez. Patrol’s coming back. I’ve got to go. Good luck! ”

So Witness didn’t know that Myra was a fellow agent. That was a relief, at least. There were already too many people who knew about Myra’s involvement with the Railroad. If anyone in the Brotherhood even suspected her, even if that person was another agent, it could spell her death. Deacon had to admit, though, he hadn’t been expecting such detailed information about her whereabouts. Either Witness was even better connected than he’d thought, or Myra’s close relationship with Danse was a matter of some concern for the Brotherhood as well.

He sighed. So she was with her Paladin. At a remote cabin. Damn. Maybe his window really was closing. Deacon shut down the computer after erasing the holotape. With a gentle cough, he turned to Kestrel. “Sorry to drink and dash,” he joked, “but I’d like to be escorted out now.”

She groaned, rolling over to face him. “Fine. Don’t let me sleep. Fucking jerk. Do you have any idea how comfortable the general’s bed is compared to my cot?”

Deacon shook his head. “Can’t say that I do,” he replied. “Now, are you gonna throw me out or what? No offense, but I’ve got places to be, cats to rescue...you know the drill.”

Kestrel snorted. “Right. Hey, take care of yourself, Deacon. And don’t forget what we talked about. Life’s a gamble either way. Might as well play.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,’ he replied. “Tell Renata hi for me. You’ve got a good kid.”

“Don’t I know it?” Kestrel stood up, leading Deacon back towards the courtyard. “I’ll tell her you promised to bring her the biggest, stupidest toy you can find next time you swing by.”

Deacon laughed. “Really? I’m not exactly known for keeping my promises, Kestrel. You sure you wanna make me lie to a kid, too? You’re heartless.”

“Well, follow through and it won’t be a lie,” she teased. “Now get lost before Preston realizes I let you go. You owe me.”

“I do,” he replied as she shoved him through the gate. “Thanks, Kestrel.”

“Just don’t make a habit of it,” she snarked, slamming the door in his face.

Deacon looked at the door in shock for a moment before laughing hysterically. Well, damn. That was one for the memory bank. He crept along the outside of the wall until he reached the shore, and with a flourish, he activated a Stealth Boy and was gone.

::::

It took Deacon the better part of a day to reach the cabin. He recognized the small green building immediately. For years, the little shack had been the reception area for Allen Safehouse. There was a trapdoor behind the dresser that led into a series of old drainage pipes for the Chestnut Hillock Reservoir and ultimately to a bunker beneath the lake. It had been one of the nicer safehouses, until the Institute invaded and killed everyone inside, flooding the structure with irradiated water. Deacon wondered if either Myra or Danse had any idea that they were holed up on top of a mass grave.

Deacon perched in a tree outside, pulling his scope out and watching through the cabin window. Sure enough, there was Myra, sitting at the kitchen table cleaning her laser rifle. He frowned as he looked at her gaunt cheeks, her exhausted eyes. Preston hadn’t been lying about her condition. Deacon hadn’t seen her looking this corpse-like since the day he’d rescued her from the vault.

Paladin Danse fussed about nearby, his power armor filling the tight space almost absurdly. Deacon rolled his eyes. How the hell did Danse even function like that in such a tight space? Ridiculous. 

He wasn’t sure how long he waited for Danse to leave, but eventually, the Paladin headed for the nearby ruins in search of supplies. “Are you certain you’ll be able to handle things on your own?” Danse asked.

Myra nodded. “You worry too much. I’ll be fine.”

This seemed to satisfy the Paladin, and within moments, he was clanking away towards the Fens, his eyes scanning for danger with every step. Finally. Deacon hopped out of the tree, landing gracefully like a cat. He watched Danse’s retreating form for any sign that the soldier sensed his presence, but no sign ever came. He was home free.

The spy knocked on the cabin door, his foot tapping nervously. He still wasn’t sure what he was doing here. After how things had been left between him and Myra, he wasn’t even sure she’d even see him. But Kestrel was right. For better or worse, he couldn’t just leave things as they were. Deacon had to take a risk, or everything was going to fall apart anyway. He and Myra needed to work through whatever had been building between them. She was too important to the Railroad for it all to end like it had.

Myra opened the door a crack, the muzzle of her laser rifle visible in the gap. “Who the hell is it?”

“Easy, Whisp,” Deacon replied, waving. “It’s just me.”

“Deacon?” she asked, throwing the door open. She stared at him, wide-eyed. “What the hell are you doing here? Danse will be back any minute. What if he sees you?”

“So let him see me," Deacon replied. "It’s not like he’ll recognize me. We need to talk.”

She nodded, letting him in. “Yeah, we do, don’t we?” She offered him a chair as she hobbled to the counter, pouring a can of water into a small kettle. “I was going to make some coffee. You want any?”

Deacon nodded. “That’d be great, actually,” he replied. “As long as you have sugar.”

Myra chuckled. “Figures you’d take it sweet. I might still have some Stingwing honey, if Danse didn’t use the last of it.” She fiddled around in the cupboard, returning with a small jar of viscous syrup. “It’s not exactly sugar, but it’ll do,” she replied. When the coffee was ready, she poured them each a cup, setting a steaming, chipped mug at each of their places before easing into her chair with a groan of discomfort.

Deacon felt a twinge of guilt as he watched her. Preston was absolutely right. If he’d been with her, Myra might not have gotten so badly injured. It was totally his fault that she was in pain. “Whisp, I--”

“Deacon --” Myra said at almost the exact same time before looking at him with a pained smile. “You first,” she offered.

He smiled sheepishly. “Look, Whisper, I...I’m sorry for reacting the way I did. It was juvenile of me. I...I got scared, I guess.”

“Scared of what?” she asked.

Deacon blushed slightly. He knew this wasn’t going to be easy, but it seemed like Myra was almost deliberately making things difficult. “You and I, we’ve become friends, haven’t we?” he asked.

“I think so,” she replied. “Why?”

“Well, I…” Deacon cleared his throat. “Look, I don’t really get close to people. Not any more. It’s not just because of Desdemona’s rules, though that’s part of it. But it’s...I’m a fraud, Whisp. Everyone else in the Railroad, you...you all deserve to be there. I don’t. I’m a monster.”

Myra frowned. “If this is another one of your stories…”

He shook his head adamantly. “No, it isn’t. This time, I want to tell you the truth. Will you let me?”

She smiled gently at him, and he felt his heart tremble. That damned smile. “Of course, Deacon.”

“Thanks,” he replied. “This isn’t gonna be easy for me.” He thought for a moment, stirring his coffee nervously as he tried to figure out where to begin. “See, When I was young, a hell of a long time ago, I was... well, scum. I was a bigot. A very violent bigot.”

Whisper watched him with keen interest as he told her about his past with the U.P. Deathclaws, about Barbara. She reached for his hand, holding it gently as he described his wife’s murder, how he’d lost himself to revenge. After he finished, she sat quietly for a moment, her eyes distant. 

“Well,” she said finally. “If that’s true, I’m so sorry. No one should have to go through the death of a spouse. Believe me, I know.”

Deacon nodded. “Yeah, I thought you might understand.” He sighed. “Look, I know it’s no excuse for how I behaved. But you, trusting me the way you do...I don’t deserve that. I certainly don’t deserve your friendship on top of that.”

Myra smiled sadly at him, squeezing his hand. “Deacon, no one deserves the good things in their life. That’s why we call them gifts. You can’t spend the rest of your life rejecting everything good in your life just because you don’t think you’re worthy of them.”

“It’s not just that,” he replied. “Whisp, I...I can’t hold on to good things. Every time I try, they break. Even the Railroad was almost destroyed. It’s a miracle any of us survived. I can’t risk the same thing happening to you. You’re...damn it, you’re too important. To the Railroad. To me. That’s why I wanted you to leave.”

“Deacon, I’m not fragile,” she retorted. “And I think I have a right to choose who I spend my time with.”

God damn it, he really didn’t deserve her. How could she be so...nice? After everything he told her, she was still there, still looking at him like he was the only person on earth. It wasn’t at all the reaction he’d expected, and damn if it didn’t make him want to sweep her into his arms. But he couldn’t. Not now. Not ever. “Well, you can’t say I didn’t warn you,” he mused, flashing her a bright grin. “Ok, that’s enough tragic backstory for one day. I hope now maybe you understand why I panicked.”

“I...I think I do, yeah,” Myra replied. “But while you’re being honest with me, there’s something else I need to know. I...I learned something about the Railroad recently, and I need to know if it’s true.” She inhaled sharply. “Deacon, does the Railroad kill people? Were we involved in the attack on the Brotherhood recon squad three years ago?”

Deacon’s eyes widened behind his sunglasses. Damn it, he’d hoped she’d never find out about that. It wasn’t that he was ashamed of what the Railroad did to survive. Not exactly. It hadn’t been his call. Desdemona tended to be impulsive, but her heart was in the right place. The Railroad had to be protected. Still, with things between Myra and the secret organization so tenuous right now...hell, Deacon knew how it looked. But he didn’t want to lie to her. Not now. “Shit, Whisp,” he muttered. “Who told you about that?”

“Is it true?” she asked again, her eyes bright with fierce intensity.

Deacon nodded. “But I...you have to understand, the Brotherhood and the Railroad don’t get along. How could we? They want to kill all the synths! Sometimes, we have to do what is necessary to protect our interests.”

“So it is true.” Myra bit her lower lip. “Deacon, how many people have you killed for the Railroad?”

“I haven’t killed anyone who wasn’t trying to kill me directly since I left the ’Claws, Whisp, and that’s the truth!” Deacon replied urgently. “I hate violence. You know that.”

Myra scoffed. “I don’t know a damn thing about you. I can’t believe I let you toy with me like this. You’re still lying to me, even now. Making up a story about your dead wife to get me to feel sorry for you, to forget what the Railroad’s done...”

Deacon cringed, his hand flitting to his sunglasses. He was running out of options, and fast. If Whisper didn’t relent, and soon...He removed the shades, popping them on top of his head. “Whisp. Stop. Look at me. Look into my eyes and tell me if I’m lying to you.”

Her eyes met his for the first time, and he saw them widen in shock. Myra met his gaze, her calculating eyes searching his for any sign of guile. A parade of emotions twisted her lovely face, sorrow, anger, confusion...finally, she sighed. “Deacon, I’m so sorry,” she murmured. “I believe you. But I’m afraid that good intentions just aren’t enough. I’m not...I’m not ready to deal with Desdemona or her methods. Not right now.”

“So where does that leave us?” Deacon asked, pained.

Myra sighed. “Everyone keeps asking me to choose. Well, you just helped me make a choice. I’ve decided to take the Oath when I get back to the Prydwen, Deeks.”

Deacon felt his heart shatter. This was worse than his worst fears. He knew there was a chance that Myra would turn her back on him once she knew what kind of man he really was. He’d been prepared for that, or so he’d thought. But to have her accept him with open arms, just to lose her again, that was so painful that he almost couldn’t bear it. “So that’s it?” he cried, his eyes welling with tears that he couldn’t hold back. “All the synths we’ve saved, all the people you’ve helped, and you’re just going to turn your back on all of them? On the Railroad? On even the goddamn Minutemen? For what? What did Maxson promise you?”

“I’m not doing it for Maxson,” she replied, her face stricken. She reached for his hand once more, but he snatched it away.

“Of course you aren’t,” Deacon snarled more maliciously than he’d intended. “You’re doing it for Danse. Why the hell should I have expected anything different?”

Myra choked back a deep sob as she shook her head. “Deacon, I’m so sorry. If there was another way...but I think Quinlan knows that I’m with the Railroad. The only way I can protect Danse from scrutiny is if I look like he’s managed to change my mind, like I’ve left the Railroad behind. I can risk Maxson taking his wrath out on me, but not him. He doesn’t deserve to get caught up in all this.”

Deacon couldn’t help himself. It all hurt, so damn much. All he heard was rejection, was her choosing Danse over him, without even giving him a chance to fix what had come between them. He had to get away, had to protect himself. “Well, Whisper, I hope he knows what you’re giving up for him,” Deacon hissed. “And I really fucking hope that he appreciates it. Because you and me? We’re done.”

“What are you saying?” she exclaimed. “After everything you just said, everything I...you’re just going to cut me off like this?”

“You’re acting like you’ve given me a choice!” he replied. “Damn it, Whisp, don’t you get it? If you commit yourself to the Brotherhood, it’s only a matter of time before they order you to hunt me and the rest of the Railroad down. For all I know, they already have. And you won’t be able to defy them, or they’ll kill you for being a traitor.”

“No, they won’t,” Myra retorted. “Maxson and I are close. He’ll listen to me. He has to. All I have to do is convince him that you aren’t a threat.”

“Are you really that naive?” Deacon shook his head. “The Brotherhood hates synths, Whisper. We rescue them. There’s no way we will ever see eye to eye. I can’t believe you would even consider taking their side.”

She shook her head, tears staining her freckled cheeks and misting up her glasses. “Deacon, please!”

He pulled away, his chair scooting across the hardwood floor with a horrifying squeal. “No. I’m sorry, but there’s no way around it. Goodbye, Myra. I hope Danse is worth it, because this choice you’re making? It’s gonna cost you everything, not just me.”

“Deacon!” She cried as he fled the cabin, struggling to follow him. But he was faster than her, and in a matter of moments, he vanished into the forest, leaving any hope of reconciliation behind.

Deacon wasn’t sure how long he ran before he collapsed to the ground, wheezing. He reached into his pocket, fingers playing with the poison-filled bullet that rested there. What had long been a familiar trinket was now a horrifying responsibility, one he couldn’t fail to fulfill. If Myra really was lost to him, if she really had decided to betray the Railroad… he shuddered, screwing his eyes shut as he tried to will the terrible burden he carried away. He didn’t want to kill anyone, especially not her. But he no longer had the ability to ignore the real threat Myra posed to the Railroad. He had to put a stop to this before she exposed the whole organization.

Deacon wiped his eyes, pulling himself to his feet. He knew what he had to do. But for now, all he wanted to do was find a safe place to hide out, to process everything that had happened and everything still ahead of him. Most importantly, he needed a plan, and that meant casing the area around the cabin. That could take days. Weeks, even.

He wasn’t stalling. No, he was going to kill her. Danse as well. It was his responsibility, he knew that. He just...maybe she’d change her mind if he bought her a little more time. Deacon knew Myra cared for him. She definitely did. So she’d come around, she’d come back to him.

Wouldn’t she?

Paladin Danse stood on the battlements of the Castle, looking off towards the airport. The Prydwen looked absolutely gorgeous in the early morning light, the violets and reds of another Commonwealth sunrise reflected in her steely exterior, giving the airship the illusion of being birthed by fire. He had always loved the design of her, at once both regal and powerful. It reminded him of Arthur Maxson himself, he realized, which made sense. He supposed the ship was an extension of his friend, in a way. Larger than life, intimidating, and yet somehow comforting at the same time.

Danse sighed. He wondered how things were going back at the airport. When he’d left, he had initially planned on returning with Myra as soon as she was able to travel. They had work to complete. But now, knowing how much she was struggling, he couldn’t bring himself to force her to return. At least not until she’d decided to support the Brotherhood above all other factions. Bringing her back as an unknown variable was just asking for her execution, and Danse would risk just about anything to prevent that.

“Homesick already, Danse?” Myra called from behind him, and he turned to look at her. She hobbled forward defiantly, bracing herself against the wrought iron railing, her shoulder-length hair unkempt. Myra was doing her best to put on a brave front, but it was clear that she was still in considerable pain.

“You should be recuperating in bed,” the Paladin chided her, “not climbing stairs.”

Myra groaned as she continued making her way to his side. “That’s boring. Besides, I’m never going to get better if I don’t push myself.”

Danse closed the distance between them, offering her his arm. “Push yourself too much, Larimer, and you’ll never leave that bed again. Did Ignatius clear you, or have you decided to be insubordinate?”

She chuckled weakly, coughing. “In case you forgot, Danse, I’m the General. I literally have no one to be insubordinate to.”

“That’s erroneous,” he muttered. “You and I both know that Ignatius gets the final say as long as your body is recovering. So can you walk back to your room, or do you require my assistance?”

Myra sighed heavily. “In a bit. Is it really too much for me to ask to watch the sunrise with you? I’ve been cooped up for weeks!”

Danse relented. “Very well. But unless you wish to remain on bed rest indefinitely, Larimer, you really ought to let your body heal.”

She nodded, leaning gently against his armor-plated side. “I know. I was just worried about you.”

The Paladin’s eyes widened. “About me? Why?”

“You’ve been acting… I don’t know, strange lately?” Myra said. “Like something’s bothering you, more than just what we’ve talked about. I guess I just wanted to make sure that you’re still okay with giving me time to think.”

Danse sighed. “You have the right to make your own choices. I can take care of myself.”

“I know you can,” she soothed. “But you shouldn’t have to. I don’t want to put you through something that’s going to make you miserable. If you need to go back to the airport without me, then I want you to do that.”

Danse’s heart ached at her words. How could she even dream of him leaving her when she was in trouble, or think that being by her side made him miserable? He knew he wasn’t the best at expressing his feelings, but he had hoped that Myra would have at least realized by now that he was happiest when he was by her side. But he couldn’t tell her that. To admit how he felt, even a little, might cost them both everything. “I’m still your sponsor,” he said finally. “My place is right here.”

Myra’s face fell slightly, but she covered it up with a charming smile so quickly that Danse almost thought he’d imagined it. “As long as that’s what you want,” she said. “The last thing I want to do is to push you away.” She sighed, looking up at the Prydwen as well. “Although I might not have a choice, in the end.”

The Paladin frowned. “What do you mean, Larimer?”

“I really do want to believe that the Brotherhood cares about the people of the Commonwealth,” Myra continued, her eyes tracing the gentle curve of the airship’s bow. “I know that our first priority is protecting people from technology, but...I’m not sure that’s the kind of salvation people are looking for. Are we...is the Brotherhood of Steel really doing what’s in the best interest for the people down here on the ground, Danse?”

Danse thought for a moment, his brow furrowed. He’d admit, his mind had been troubled by similar concerns in the past, especially when the Prydwen was first constructed. He knew the airship was vital to the Brotherhood’s mission, but watching the engineers rip the power core out of Rivet City had alarmed him. In a lot of ways, the old aircraft carrier had been his first real home, and even though the Brotherhood had replaced the power plant with the less efficient model they’d been using on the airship before, the method of seizure had still bothered him. 

Still, he had to believe that the Brotherhood’s mission was noble, that Arthur Maxson really did care about the everyday people under his protection. Though the young Elder’s methods sometimes lacked finesse, Arthur was a good man at heart. Danse knew that better than anyone. Maxson simply couldn’t afford to be sentimental with the eyes of the Council fixated on him constantly. If only he could make Myra understand that as well.

“It all depends on what it means to keep humanity safe from the abuse of technology,” Danse said finally. “Every Elder seems to have his own idea of what that means. Arthur, for instance, believes that we have to understand technology in order to find the aspects of it that are harmful. Since he became Elder, we’ve adapted a great deal of pre-War technology that others would have simply stored away to gather dust. And unlike many other Elders, he insists on trading food and medicine for the technology we acquire, rather than taking it by force.”

“The fact that Maxson’s policies are exceptions to the rule shows an inherent flaw in the system,” Myra countered. “Those rules should be the starting point, not the exception. What’s the point in having all of these advanced systems if everyone isn’t benefiting from them?”

Danse sighed. “Now you’re beginning to sound like Elder Lyons,” he replied. “He was Arthur’s mentor, and an extremely good man. But his idealistic and overly-generous policies weakened the Brotherhood in the East. We almost didn’t survive. If certain outside individuals hadn’t intervened on our behalf...well, we would have lost everything to the Enclave, a ruthless group who sought to destroy everyone living in the Capital Wasteland. So you see, Elder Maxson has had to walk a delicate line between genuinely wanting to help people and having to keep the Brotherhood strong. It’s not an easy path to follow. You, as a leader, should understand that.”

Myra’s brow furrowed. “I suppose. Just...are we really the good guys if we don’t respect people’s freedom?”

The Paladin looked down at her dubiously. “How do you define freedom, Larimer? Where does it stop, and anarchy begin? Look at your Minutemen, for example.” He gestured down at the courtyard below, where Preston was running drills with the newest recruits. “They claim to stand for freedom, but I’ve asked your Lieutenants, and none of them can agree on what exactly freedom means. To Mr. Stern, it means not being under someone else’s thumb. Miss Davis says that it’s being able to do whatever you want. Those are very different concepts.”

“I think it’s the very nature of freedom to be nebulous,” Myra retorted. “It means different things to different people.”

Danse nodded. “That’s a fair assessment. However, I think that there’s a key component missing in the way most people view freedom, and that is responsibility. Being free to self-determine is all well and good, but every individual then is responsible for using that freedom in a way which benefits those around them, or at least doesn’t cause them harm. Raiders claim to also believe in freedom, but they murder people and keep slaves. Freedom without responsibility...that’s the problem. The Brotherhood of Steel does respect freedom. We just also accept that there are limits to how freedom can and should be expressed.”

“But that has its own dangers,” Myra said. “Limiting people’s freedom too much leads to tyranny, and from what I’ve heard, many people already see Elder Maxson as a tyrant. Now, I know him, and I know that isn’t who he is, but I can understand why people believe that.”

“I’m sure Arthur would rather be seen as a tyrant than have the Commonwealth descend even further into anarchy,” the Paladin said cooly.

“Those aren’t the only options!” Myra exclaimed. “That’s why the Minutemen are important. We’re a militia of private citizens. Every person here is here to protect the Commonwealth, but we do it by being part of the Commonwealth first. If Maxson really wants to help, he’s going to need to learn that as well.”

“I’m sure he’d be pleased to discuss this with you, Larimer,” Danse replied. “I know he values your conversations. But what is this really about? You’re still having doubts, aren’t you?”

Myra nodded. “I...I know taking the Oath will keep me safe, but what about my work here with the Minutemen? I’m barely around as it is, but they rely on me all the same. What if they fall apart without a figurehead? The Commonwealth needs the Minutemen, Danse. And I firmly believe that the Brotherhood does, too.”

“I realize that it’s a terrible choice to make,” Danse said, pulling her just a little tighter. “And in the end, it is your choice. I’ll do everything I can to protect you if you decide not to take the Oath.”

“I appreciate that, Danse,” she said softly. “I really do. But I can’t ask you to risk your position for me. It’s all you care about.”

The Paladin’s heart clenched at her words. Yes, his position was important to him. But it certainly wasn’t all he cared about. Couldn’t she see that? “You’re wrong. I care about --”

“General!” cried Preston from below, cutting Danse off. “It’s good to see you up and about! Are you feeling better?”

Myra waved to the Colonel, grinning down at him. “Much, thank you!”

“That’s great news!” the Colonel continued. “Do you think you’re up to lead the Commissioning? We were waiting for you to recover before we handed out the new assignments.”

She nodded. “I’ll be right down!”

Danse frowned as he looked her over. Myra was compensating well, but her skin was still so pale and clammy, her eyes still shrouded in dark bags. Even as she tried to put on a brave face, he could see her fingers trembling. She may be finally a few steps away from death’s door, but she certainly hadn’t left death’s neighborhood. “Are you certain you’re adequately healed for this?” he asked. “You seem exhausted.”

Myra bit her lower lip, looking away from him. “I...I have a responsibility to the Minutemen, Danse. If I’m really going to leave them behind, I have to be there for them while I can be.”

“I suppose you’re right,” he replied. “But if you need my assistance, I can at least get you to the stage.”

Myra chuckled. “I think you just want an excuse to hold me again,” she teased.

Danse could feel his ears burning, and he sighed. “Hardly.”

“Well, I guess I wouldn’t mind it if you did,” she mused. “Just as long as you don’t mind my men giving you a hard time.”

“People have been tormenting me my entire life, Larimer,” Danse said, hoisting her up in his arms. “If you think that is going to deter me from ensuring your safety, you still have quite a lot to learn about me.”

She clung to the handles on the torso of his power armor and leaned backwards before flashing the Paladin a grin that threatened to melt him like plasma fire. “I look forward to learning everything about you, Danse,” she murmured.

His blush deepened, and he cleared his throat awkwardly. “If you’re quite finished,” he muttered, “I’d prefer it if you’d remain still. I don’t want to lose my footing on the stairs.”

Myra nodded, tucking herself tightly against his torso. Danse tried not to think about how much better this would feel without his power armor in the way as he carried her down to the courtyard. The past few weeks had led to many moments of closeness between them as he sat by her bedside, helping her eat and listening to her stories of life before the Great War. It was getting harder for him to remain detached, to put his duty as a Brotherhood soldier before his feelings for her. Part of him didn’t mind. It was wonderful just to spend those moments by her side. But at the same time, he knew all too well the dangers of becoming too dependent on another person for his happiness.

Danse’s mind filled with thoughts of Sarah Lyons, the valiant young Sentinel who had been Arthur Maxson’s life. She was the strongest and bravest soldier Danse had ever known, and she had been cut down in battle just months after becoming Elder. There was nothing that anyone could have done to save her, he knew, but her death had been a turning point for him and Arthur alike. It was the first time that either of them had truly realized how easy it was for everything to change in an instant, for even the strongest to fall without any warning. And while her death had sobered the young and optimistic Knight Danse had been, it had nearly destroyed Squire Maxson. Danse couldn’t bear the thought of going through what his friend had, of losing the woman who gave his life more meaning than anything had before.

Myra was like Sarah in all the wrong ways. She had the same impulsivity, the same charisma that made people rally to her, the same destiny-driven fire. But she lacked Sarah’s discipline, her experience. In many ways, Myra was constantly tempting fate by the way she lived and acted. It was a miracle she hadn’t died yet, and every day, Danse feared that she was closing in on the battle that would finally seal her doom.

Danse knew in his heart that he wasn’t strong enough to lose her. The closer they got, the more in love with Myra he found himself, the more terrified he became of her death. How could he endure if she wasn’t there by his side? Losing a best friend in Cutler had been hard enough. Danse couldn’t imagine how much worse it would be to lose someone he loved even more. What if he wasn’t able to protect her? Could he ever forgive himself for failing her? Could he ever forgive her for leaving him behind?

Myra shifted in his arms, clearing her throat so loudly that the Paladin nearly dropped her in shock. “Um, Danse,” she teased softly, “we can go now.”

He realized then that his feet had been frozen at the top of the stairs, and he blushed furiously as he tried to banish his fears from his mind. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, hoping that she wouldn’t ask him what he’d been thinking about. Fortunately, Myra seemed to be in a forgiving mood, as she simply nodded and let it go. Danse carried her carefully down the steps, cradling her in his arms like she was the most precious treasure in the world. To him, after all, she was. 

Once he reached the stage, Danse gently lowered Myra into a chair next to the podium. “Would you like me to stay by your side?” he asked softly.

Myra shook her head. “This is Minutemen business, Danse,” she replied. “I’m not sure it would look right for a Brotherhood Paladin to be assisting me during the ceremony. Preston will help me from here. But after...if you wouldn’t mind meeting me in my room, I’m going to need your help.”

Danse nodded. “I’ll wait for you there, then,” he replied harsher than he intended. “Don’t overexert yourself, Larimer.”

Myra nodded, smiling gently up at him. “I’ll do my best,” she murmured.

It was difficult for Danse to leave her, even knowing that he would see her again soon. He understood why she sent him away, of course. While tensions between the Brotherhood and the Minutemen were mild at the moment, he knew that his presence at the Castle had already caused a bit of a stir in the lower ranks, especially with Quartermaster Shaw. The old woman had been particularly outspoken in objection to Danse’s presence in the fort, and had gained the ear of more of Myra’s men than the Paladin was comfortable with. He wasn’t certain if Myra had heard the rumors or not, but he was certain that she was doing her best to make a clear statement that the Minutemen and the Brotherhood were still separate entities.

Danse eased the door of the General’s quarters open with a heavy sigh. Myra’s fears for the Minutemen were more justified than he’d cared to admit to her. Many of the settlers under Minuteman protection adored Myra, often to the point of worship. She was a symbol of everything the people of the Commonwealth stood for, a mother willing to go to war with the Commonwealth’s greatest enemy in order to save her son. She was a reminder of the past, a voice crying out for a better future. And the people listened to her voice, joining it with their own. If Myra stepped down, would the Minutemen still fight? Without a rallying point, would things return to the way they had been, the Minutemen reduced to little more than a group of feuding lords in charge of their own sectors? It seemed more than likely. In Danse’s experience, people needed a strong leader. Without one, even the best-intentioned movements tended to fall apart.

Danse eased out of his power armor, flopping down on Myra’s bed and staring blankly at the ceiling. For the hundredth time since he’d suggested that Myra take the Oath of Fidelity to the Brotherhood, the Paladin tried to come up with an alternate solution. He knew asking her to commit herself fully to the Brotherhood was the best way to save her life. But at the same time, if everyone else she cared about suffered because of her decision, would Myra ever forgive herself? Was Danse truly looking out for her best interests, or was he merely too terrified of losing her that he’d ask her to sacrifice her happiness in order to save her life? Maybe it was better if she fled, if she abandoned the Brotherhood. Danse would never be able to see her again without being forced to kill her himself, but at least she would be free.

Myra wasn’t like him. She wasn’t a born soldier. She questioned orders, fought for what she believed even when it wasn’t practical. Danse doubted if she’d be able to see the oath as anything more than a heavy chain of servitude. Part of him feared that she would come to hate him in time, should she take the Oath. Was he being selfish, hoping that she would choose to stay by his side?

As his thoughts grew more and more troubled, Danse felt his eyelids grow heavy. Before he realized it, the world around him faded away, his only thoughts of Myra and the cruelty of the fates that guided her journey. He wasn’t certain how much time passed in this manner, but before he knew it, he heard the creaking of the heavy wooden door and a bright, familiar chuckle from the entrance to the room.

“Well, I won’t say that’s an unwelcome sight,” Myra joked as she hobbled into her quarters. “Hell, I’d definitely stay in bed all day if there was always a handsome man keeping it warm for me.”

Danse blushed, sitting up abruptly. “I...er...I’m sorry. I must have been more exhausted than I realized.”

Myra laughed. “Relax, Danse. I’m not here to scold you. I came to pack. Think you could help me?”

Danse frowned. “You’re planning on going somewhere?”

“Well, as long as that offer still stands,” she said, a hint of darkness behind her emerald eyes. “I already told Preston that we’re leaving.”

“In your condition?” the Paladin replied in concern. “I thought we were going to remain at the Castle until you were fully healed.”

“Change of plans,” Myra hissed, clutching her side. “I can’t stay here any longer, not if I want to make a clear decision. It’s not saf...um, I mean, I can’t think clearly when I’m surrounded by people who refuse to see me as myself and not just the General.”

Danse caught her slight wrist gently in his hand. “Larimer, did something happen?”

She shook her head, pulling away from him. “Nothing I didn’t expect.”

The Paladin frowned. “That’s hardly an answer.”

“I…” Myra sighed. “I really don’t want to talk about it, Danse. I just want to go before I do something I’ll regret.”

Danse looked her over carefully. Something had clearly aggravated Myra. He’d rarely seen her this upset. But the Paladin wasn’t the type of man to push her beyond what she was comfortable disclosing. If Myra really didn’t want to talk about it, he’d wait for her to tell him when she was ready. “Very well,” he replied. “But please, lie down. Just tell me what you need, and I’ll pack it for you.”

“Well, for starters, I’m going to need underwear,” she said with a forced laugh. “Top drawer.”

Danse tried not to think too much as he picked a selection of panties from Myra’s dresser. He wasn’t particularly accustomed to handling women’s undergarments, after all. He tried to tell himself that they were just clothes, and simply shoved a few pairs in the bottom of Myra’s pack and moved on. Socks and pants were a little easier to deal with, and by the time it came to shirts, he had no trouble grabbing a few tank tops for her to wear under her flannel.

“I’m going to need fusion cells,” Myra continued, “and let’s make sure to pack Maxson’s notebook. I’d hate for anyone to stumble across it.”

Danse nodded, filling her pack with ammunition. “I’ll bring enough rations for a few days,” he said. “Do you have any particular requests?”

Myra pointed to a box near the top of her shelves. “There’s water and canned goods there. We can hunt along the way if we run out.”

Within minutes, both of their packs were filled. Danse set the bags by the door along with their laser rifles. “Are you certain you wish to leave now?” he asked.

Myra nodded. “It’s for the best. I need to clear my head, and I…” she sighed heavily. “I’m tired of everyone telling me who I’m supposed to be and how I’m supposed to behave. I just need time to be Myra Larimer again. If that makes sense.”

Danse nodded. “I promise, no one will bother you where we’re headed. I won’t force you to make a decision until you’re certain you’re ready.”

“See, that’s why I love you, Danse,” Myra replied. “You’re always looking out for me.”

Danse’s heart raced. She...had she meant to say that? He stared at her, trying to read her face. But as was so often the case, her intentions eluded him. “Well,” he said awkwardly, “I suppose I should take this note to Colonel Garvey then. And I’ll need to inform Lancer-Captain Farfield that we are ready to depart.” He fled the room, trying to catch his breath.

He hadn’t expected to hear those words from her. Regardless of how she’d meant them, just hearing Myra say that she loved him made him come undone. He was hopeless. Worse than hopeless. Ever since he’d put a name to his attachment to Myra, he’d found it difficult to think of much else besides how much he adored her. Danse was prepared to silently carry that torch forever, but if there was even a whisper of a chance that she felt the same…

The Paladin shook his head, trying to focus. No. It didn’t matter if Myra loved him or not. He had to be strong. How could he protect her if he got any more attached to her? Danse couldn’t dare to hope that she cared for him as more than a friend and colleague. Even if she did, he couldn’t risk acting on it. Losing her would hurt far too much. It already would hurt far too much. And besides, she clearly hadn’t meant love in a romantic sense. She meant it platonically. She must have.

Danse met Preston by the radio tower. The Colonel’s face fell as the Paladin handed him the signal grenade and letter. “Can you please send this letter to the Prydwen tomorrow?” Danse asked. “Give us time to be as far away as possible.”

“So you really are leaving,” Preston said with a heavy sigh. “I know what happened really shook the General up, but I was hoping she’d reconsider.”

Danse frowned. “What exactly transpired here? Larimer seemed particularly distraught when she returned to her quarters.”

Preston’s dark brown eyes misted with tears. “It’s...I’m sorry, Danse, but it’s not really my place to tell you everything. Let’s just say that some of the minutemen made some particularly...nasty comments about your relationship. Those men have been disciplined, but I’m not sure what else we can do.”

Danse’s eyes narrowed. He’d suspected as much, but to hear his fears confirmed was another thing entirely. “What did they say?” he growled.

“I...I don’t think it’d do you any good to hear,” Preston replied. “Really, just let it go.”

“If they insulted Larimer,” Danse retorted, “I’m not certain I can just let it go.”

“If you try to do anything about it, you might start a war between our factions,” the Colonel cautioned. “Please, Danse. I know neither of us want that.”

The Paladin sighed. “Your assessment is correct,” he muttered. “But if you care for her, I hope you didn’t hesitate to defend her from slander.”

“I did my best,” Preston replied. “But you know how ideas and rumors can spread.”

Danse nodded. “I’ll call our vertibird and tell them to rendezvous with Larimer and I by the diner. She’s right. We need to leave before the situation escalates. Be careful, Garvey. You’re a good man. I’d hate to see anything happen to you.”

“Same to you, Danse,” the Colonel replied, offering the Paladin a firm handshake. “Keep her safe, okay? Don’t let her out of your sight this time.”

“You have my word,” Danse said, heading back into the keep.

::::

As the vertibird cut through the Commonwealth sky, Myra’s attitude seemed to perk up a little. She stared in awe at the roofs of the buildings they passed, pointing out old landmarks to Danse. She tried her best to tell him what they looked like before the War, but he had a feeling that words weren’t entirely sufficient to express the wonders of her memories.

“Danse! Look!” she cried. “There’s what’s left of St. Pete’s! That was Nate’s family’s home parish! It used to have the most beautiful stained glass. I’ll bet it’s all gone now. Oh! And over there, that’s the park we...um, that we got engaged in! I can’t believe it’s still there!”

The Paladin leaned over the edge beside her, careful to keep a hand braced against the doorframe. “Do you want to take a closer look?” he asked. “We can land, if you wish. We’re not in any particular hurry.”

Myra shook her head. “I’m not...I’m not sure I’m ready to go back there yet,” she murmured. “Nate’s gone, but that park...I’m not ready to remember it.”

Danse couldn’t say that he understood her hesitation. Some part of him was almost jealous at the implication that she hadn’t entirely moved on yet, but he did his best to respect her past. After all, Myra had possessed a life before that Danse could never fully understand or share with her, and while that bothered him to some degree, he also knew how important those memories were to her. They made her who she was, this magnificent woman that he loved with all his being. How could he begrudge her the past that had created her? “Very well,” he said softly. “But if you change your mind, all you have to do is say so.”

“I appreciate that, Danse,” she said softly, a troubled edge to her voice. “Thank you.”

“There’s no need to thank me, Larimer,” he replied. “But if you really want to repay me, then would you please come away from the edge? I’m worried that you’ll fall, and you have no power armor to protect you.”

Myra chuckled. “Or you could just hold on to me, you know. You wouldn’t let me fall.”

“I…” Danse sighed, wrapping his free arm around her gently but firmly. “I wish you’d just relent and wear armor,” he muttered. “It would cause us both much less trouble in the long run.”

She gripped his arm tightly from beneath. “Yeah, but I kind of like trouble.”

“You certainly do have a way of surrounding yourself with it,” the Paladin replied. “I just hope you don’t come to regret it.”

“Me too,” she whispered, her voice so overpowered by the wing whipping past the open hatch that Danse almost didn’t catch her words. For a long time, neither of them spoke, their eyes trained on the destroyed cityscape beneath them. There was a stark beauty to the Commonwealth from the air, and Danse gladly lost himself to it. It was easier to focus on the buildings beneath them than it was to think too much about the wounded woman wrapped tightly in his embrace, or how incredibly natural holding her was beginning to feel. He didn’t want to think about the future, about what would happen when they returned to the Prydwen and he could no longer hold her like this. How could he ever readjust to the way things were supposed to be, to her being his subordinate and not...whatever she’d become?

After a while, Danse felt Myra’s weight shift against him, and he glanced down in panic to see her slumped over. He cried out in alarm, pulling her away from the edge. She murmured slightly as he laid her down on the vertibird’s passenger seat, brushing her snowy hair out of her pale, cold face. As Danse watched over her, she shifted into a fetal position, her snores filling the cabin. So she was asleep, rather than passed out. Danse smiled in relief. Poor Myra. The pain had kept her awake most nights in the past few weeks, and it seemed like her body had finally had enough. She smiled sleepily as the Paladin gently rolled her onto her back to keep her from reinjuring her ribs, but there was no other indication that she was at all aware of the world around her.

“How much further, Farfield?” The Paladin called to the pilot of their aircraft.

“Not too much longer, sir,” the young man replied. “We should be nearing Diamond City soon, and the coordinates you gave me are just on the other side of it.”

“Outstanding. Let me know when we’re in position.” Danse stood protectively between Myra and the open hatch, his hand ready to catch her at the first sign of danger. There was something so calming about watching her sleep, the peace on her face so rarely seen when she was awake. If he could, Danse would want to burn the image into his memory forever, a reminder of what he was fighting for, what he was sacrificing for. Things could never be the same. He knew that in the deepest part of his soul. But in the end, as long as he could be by her side, he didn’t particularly care. Whatever it took, he would bring her that peace as often as he could.

As the vertibird slowly descended into a sun-warmed field of brown grass, Danse hoisted the two packs onto his back. With a nod of thanks to Farfield, the Paladin pulled the sleeping Knight into his arms and bailed out, hoping not to wake her.

Fortunately, he’d underestimated how completely exhausted she was. As Danse crossed the field towards the skeletal forest to their west, Myra nuzzled tighter against his armor, and he smiled gently down at her. She seemed so small wrapped in his armored arms, her lovely face radiant in the late afternoon sun. It warmed his heart in ways he had never before experienced.

The cabin appeared, a small building of green-painted wood nestled between the trees, and Danse found himself instantly taken with it. This had been quite a find, a mostly intact cabin in the middle of nowhere. He reminded himself to thank Haylen for telling him about the place next time he saw her.

The building's interior was small, a simple kitchen and dining room separated from a sleeping area by a hastily-constructed barricade. He sighed in exasperation at the state of the sleeping area. Only one bed. Well, someone would need to be on watch at all times anyway. At least the mattress wasn’t the most disgusting he’d seen. He tossed a sleeping bag on top of it just to be safe before lowering Myra onto the bed.

She clung desperately to the front of his armor, and he had to pry her hands from it in order to retreat to the kitchen. Her grip was strong, even in her sleep.

“Hey, go check on the baby,” she murmured.

“I will. Don’t worry,” he replied, hoping it was convincing. He’d long since learned to play along when she talked in her sleep.

“You’re the best, Nate,” he heard as she rolled over on her side.

Danse tried to ignore the jealous twinge in his heart as she called him by her late husband’s name. Would they ever be free of Nathaniel Larimer’s ghost? “Sleep well, Myra,” he whispered, leaving the sleeping area as quietly as possible. This wasn’t the time to think about the past. If Danse wanted them to survive, he had to instead plan for the immediate future.

Now, to get their supplies in order. It was going to be a long stay. Hopefully they’d packed enough for the first few days, because he wanted Myra to rest as much as possible before they had to explore the nearby area. The last thing he wanted to do was to leave her alone and unattended when he went out on a scouting run, and it would still be a few days before she could reliably follow him. 

Danse carefully placed their preserved rations on the kitchen counter, taking stock of what he’d grabbed from Myra’s quarters. They had four cans of Cram, three of mixed vegetables that no longer grew in the Commonwealth, six boxes of Blamco Mac and Cheese, and two cans of dog food that would do in a pinch. Along with these humble rations were twelve cans of purified water as well as a box of snack cakes and three tubes of potato crisps. It wasn’t much for a long-term food solution, but it would keep the two of them going until they were able to hunt some fresh food.

The Paladin filled one of the cabinets with the provisions before returning to the bedroom to put their clothes away. There was only one dresser, so he put Myra’s clothes in the top drawer and his own in the next one down. Neither of them had packed much, but they had detergent and a steady supply of water from the nearby lake, so it wasn’t hopeless. They could easily stay as long as was necessary for Myra to make up her mind.

As he prepared to leave the room again, Danse caught the sound of weeping from Myra’s slumbering form. He edged closer, unsure of what to do. Should he wake her, or…

When the Paladin drew near, Myra turned to look at him with groggy, tear-stained eyes. She smiled weakly at him, wiping her tears with one hand. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I just...I’m scared, Danse.”

He frowned down at her. “Why are you afraid, Larimer?” he asked softly.

“I...can’t do this, Danse,” she sniffled. “I know what I need to do, what everyone needs me to do, but...I can’t just pretend that I’m alright with putting down my own child.” 

“That’s not…” Danse sighed. “You don’t have to think about that now,” he soothed.

Myra shook her head. “I can’t not think about it. There’s so much blood on my hands already, so much I’ve been willing to do just to find him. It feels like God is playing the worst possible joke on me, and everyone around me is just willing to let it happen!” she wailed.

Danse hated watching her cry. He was never quite sure how to handle it, although he hoped that he’d done a good job thus far. Watching her cry always made him feel so helpless, so incapable of protecting her. How could he defend her when her enemies were attacking her from within? “Pull yourself together, Larimer,” the Paladin said gruffly. “I know it seems like everyone in the Commonwealth is asking the impossible of you. In fact, were you anyone else, I might believe that this task is too much for you. But you are among the strongest, bravest, and most adaptable people I’ve ever had the pleasure of serving with. If anyone can find a way to bring this mission to a satisfactory conclusion, it’s you.”

Myra struggled to sit up, her body wracked in pain from her injuries and compounded by her sobs. “Do you really believe that? Look at me, Danse. I’m not a soldier. I’m a glorified housewife just trying to survive in a world where housewives don’t exist anymore. If Nate were here, maybe things would be different. But I’m not my husband. I never will be.”

Danse shook his head. “No one is asking you to be your husband, Larimer.”

“That’s the problem!” Myra cried. “Nate...he could handle anything. I could barely handle law school, much less life in the Commonwealth. I’m a pathetic burden. I mean, look at you,” she continued, gesturing to the Paladin. “You’re out here with me, practically defying orders, and for what?”

Danse sighed, putting a hand on her shoulder. “I’m here because I want to be,” he said simply. “And you’re wrong. I’ll admit, when we first met, I didn’t think much of you at all. I saw exactly the woman you’ve described to me, a frail, lost, terrified vault dweller that would be dead within the month. But that is not who you are, even if it was who you were. That is not who you’ve become.”

“And who exactly is that, Danse?” Myra retorted, wiping her nose on her sleeve.

“You’re someone I can respect,” he continued, “a sister I trust with every bone in my body. You may not have been a soldier, but you sure as hell are one now. Not only that, but I truly believe you have the capacity to be one of the best. I’m honored to be your sponsor, and, if I may, even more honored to be your friend.”

Myra laughed bitterly. “Do you actually believe that, or are you just trying to make me feel better?”

“We’ve known each other for almost a year now,” Danse replied. “Do I strike you as the sort of man who would say something like that just to make you ‘feel better’?”

She chuckled weakly, her voice as bright and free as a half-forgotten melody. “Fair enough. Thanks, Danse.”

“It’s the truth, Larimer,” the Paladin replied. He’d wanted to cheer her up, it was true, but he’d meant every word. Myra had no idea how important she was, not just to him, but to so many people. It hurt to think that she thought so little of herself.

Myra blushed slightly, her eyes turning abruptly away from him. “Hey, Danse?” she asked.

“Yes?”

Her blush deepened. “You...um, you can call me by my first name, if you want,” Myra sputtered. “You’re the only person I’m this close to who doesn’t, and it’s kind of weird at this point, don’t you think?”

Danse froze, his heart pounding wildly. He wanted to oblige her. Of course he wanted to. But using Myra’s first name was a line he’d only crossed on accident. To deliberately break down that boundary between them was madness. The rules he’d meticulously imposed on their relationship were there to protect them both. Without that disciplined framework, anything could happen. Now, more than ever, Danse couldn’t afford to bend the rules. He shook his head. “That would… I feel that would be inappropriate, given the nature of our working relationship.”

Myra’s bloodshot eyes threatened to overflow again as she flashed him an incredulous look. “Our working relationship? Are you kidding me? Look around you. Do you see any Brotherhood flags? I know you’ll be your ramrod-straight self when we’re at work, and that’s fine. But for God’s sake, Danse, we’re alone out here. No regulations for miles.” She sighed. “Please, just… if we really are friends, you could at least treat me like a human for once, and not just a cog in the Brotherhood machine?”

Danse sighed. There she was again with that damned look in her eyes. Did she how that he could never deny her when she looked at him like that? “Very well, Lari...Myra. If you insist. But only so long as we are off duty,” he added hastily. “The last thing I think either of us wants is for Elder Maxson to accuse us of fraternizing and reassign you to another sponsor. That would be… unfortunate.” 

In spite of himself, Danse realized, her transfer really was the last thing he wanted. He’d asked Maxson to sign the transfer paperwork as a way to stop himself from putting the Brotherhood’s mission at risk, but it hadn’t been what he wanted. He wanted to be by her side as long as he was able.

Myra laughed. “Fair enough. I don’t really want to deal with one of the other Paladins. I mean, Brandis would be okay, but I don’t think he’s ready to take on any subordinates just yet. And given the position I’m in, I’m not sure I need another Paladin breathing down my neck.”

The Paladin frowned, his cheeks burning. “I can assure you, they’re all quite capable soldiers. But I concur. I’d...I’d rather remain your sponsor. I won’t do anything to jeopardize that.”

“But that’s for when we get back, ok?” Myra asked. “While we’re here, can we just be Myra and Danse for a while? Or can I use your first name too?”

Danse cleared his throat awkwardly, his gut wrenching at the suggestion. “I would rather you didn’t.”

Myra frowned, confused. “Why not?”

Danse tried his best to think of an excuse. He hadn’t gone by his first name in years. No one used it, nor did he want them to. He hated his name. It reminded him of his past, of fighting for scraps of rancid meat in the filth-ridden streets of the Capital Wasteland. Only Cutler had ever used it, and even he had preferred to call Danse by his first initial, rather than the clunky moniker the young orphan had been saddled with.

He thought of his parents, whose faces he couldn’t even remember. Had they abandoned him willingly, or had they been forced to leave him behind? His memories of them were fuzzy, vague. All he had to cling to was the sound of his mother’s voice, urging him to stay put until she or his father came back for him. He’d waited for days before wandering out into the metro. He’d never found a trace of them, dead or alive. They were simply...gone. Honestly, Danse wasn’t certain how he’d survived, young as he’d been. Perhaps he’d simply been too afraid to die.

“I…” Danse sighed. “It’s part of the past, Myra,” he said finally. “And I would prefer it if it remained that way. I’m sorry, but I’m not comfortable with it.”

She nodded. “I’m sorry for pushing you so hard, Danse. I know I’m asking a lot of you, and you’ve already done so much for me.”

“It’s quite all right,” he replied. “Maybe someday I’ll…” he trailed off as Myra’s hand brushed gently against his cheek, his eyes wide in shock at the tender gesture. “What are you doing?”

Myra blushed, withdrawing her hand as if it had been burned. “I’m sorry! I just…” she sighed. “You looked so sad, Danse. I couldn’t help it.”

“I...I need to gather firewood,” the Paladin exclaimed abruptly, retreating from the room. His heart pounded loudly in his ears as he fled the cabin. He felt like an idiot for being unable to control his response to her touch. Myra clearly didn’t mean anything by it. She was trying to be a compassionate friend. But he...he wanted more than that. He needed more than that.

“This is going to be a long mission,” Danse mumbled to himself, his stomach contorting into strange shapes. One way or another, he had a horrible feeling that this retreat was going to be the death of him.

Deacon was exhausted, emotionally and physically. Ever since that night up in Salem, he’d been searching half-heartedly for Myra, hoping that she hadn’t been torn apart by the corvid Watchers that patrolled the skies of the Commonwealth at the Institute’s bidding. He wasn’t sure what he’d do if he found her dead. He really wasn’t sure what he’d do if he found her alive. 

Although it had been a few days, the spy’s lips still seemed haunted by Myra’s ministrations. What had happened between them was an illusion, a facade. Deacon knew that in his mind. But his heart wasn’t entirely convinced. Whether it was simply the multi-year dry spell talking or something deeper, he wanted to believe that the passion behind Myra’s kisses had been real. Even so, he feared finding out the truth. At this point, he wasn’t sure what was worse, knowing that Myra didn’t care for him or knowing that she did.

Once the endorphins had worn off, the reality of the situation had fallen about his shoulders like a lead vest. Deacon had behaved horribly unprofessionally, even for him. The spy could and did make light of the rules all he wanted, but there were some lines even he didn’t dare cross. Work was work. Relationships were...messy. Most of all, they were for other people. Deacon neither wanted nor deserved intimacy with others. It was easier to be lonely than to put someone at risk. Even more so, loneliness was all a man like him could hope for. After the sins he committed, he didn’t deserve to be cared for.

He wished that Myra could understand that. The look of hurt on her face when he’d driven her away had wounded him deeper than she could know, but he’d done it for her sake. Couldn’t she see that? The last thing he wanted was for her to end up like Trailblazer, an exile trapped underground until the loneliness and grief drove her to desertion. Myra had already lost so much. Getting banished might be one loss too far. Besides, she deserved better than Deacon. Hell, she didn’t even know who he was, really, what he was capable of. He was poison, pure and simple. If he got any closer to her, he could very easily destroy her. Worse still, Deacon realized, Myra could just as easily destroy him. It was better that things ended now, before they could even begin.

All the same, he wanted to make certain that Myra was safe. The spy cared for her, whether he wanted to or not. Even if he had to keep her at a distance, he’d do anything he could to protect her, just as he always had. From the moment he’d intervened outside Vault 111, he’d never stopped fighting for her. Like hell he was going to stop now. But how could he protect her from himself, from the ramifications of what he worried they’d both felt that night in the bar?

Deacon sighed heavily, continuing his trek towards Goodneighbor. It was the next place to look for Myra on his list. The church in Nahant had been a bust, filled only with memories. Besides, he had it on good authority that Myra frequented the Old State House when she needed a place to lie low. Odds were good that even if she weren’t there, Hancock would have some idea of where she was. The ghoul mayor’s drifter-based intelligence network was startling, actually. It put Deacon himself to shame more than he’d like to admit.

The small plaza by the gates was filled with onlookers when Deacon arrived, and it didn’t take long for him to see the cause. Three bodies lay in the street outside Daisy’s place, skulls cracked open to reveal the synth components inside. Deacon recognized one of the corpses, a drifter he’d bunked next to more than once. The other two were strangers to him, though apparently not to the citizens of Goodneighbor. As Deacon’s eyes swept the crowd, he noticed that the gathered mob was not as unified as it normally was. Ghouls stood mostly on one side, pressing in on the other half of the crowd with fear and malice in their eyes. The other side was mostly other humans, with a few ghouls trying desperately to keep the peace between the factions. A few members of the Neighborhood Watch were holding people back from each other, trying to calm the rising tensions, but it was clear that a full-blown riot was only moments away.

“Any one of you smooth-skins could be one of them!” an ornery ghoul in a tattered suit yelled.

“What, so you want to just throw us all out, is that it?” shrieked an elderly woman. “You’ve known me since I was a girl, Greg! When McDonough kicked your family out, I stood up for you! Now, you want to kick me out of my home?”

“It’d be safer that way,” another ghoul cried out. “None of them synths ever posed as a ghoul. Bet they can’t figure out how. We’re the only ones we know we can trust!”

“Maybe old McDonough was right,” a man snarled back. “You freaks ain’t human.”

Shit. This was bad. Deacon had known for months that the Institute was trying to infiltrate and destabilize Goodneighbor. Honestly, he hadn't expected the city of misfits to band together even this long. But now, it was obvious that they had been working on borrowed time. The Railroad's efforts to secure the town were in vain. The population was all but prepared to consume itself, just like the people of University Point had. If someone didn’t intervene soon, more blood would be spilled, and it wouldn't just be Institute-controlled synths that lost their lives.

Where the hell was Hancock? The mayor might be a mess in his personal life, but he always had a knack for keeping everyone united. Had he somehow not heard the yelling in the streets, or was this particular problem too big for even him?

A woman screamed as a radiation-weathered fist swung down, sending her reeling to the ground. The groups surged even more insistently towards each other, knives and bats materializing out of coats. There wasn’t time to wait. If no one intervened, there was going to be a bloodbath. "Hey!” Deacon shouted, drawing the attention of the crowd, “knock it off, people! Can’t you see that this is exactly what the Institute wants?”

“Who the hell is this guy?” The ghoul named Greg jeered. “Who do you think you are, asshole, coming into my town and telling me what to do?”

“You’re better than this!” Deacon replied nervously. What the hell had he been thinking, getting involved like this? It wasn’t his style. He was more of a pick up the pieces kind of guy. “Goodneighbor’s a place where everyone’s welcome!” he called. “That’s what makes it special. Don’t throw that away. You start kicking people out, and you’re no better than Diamond City!”

“You’re one of them!” roared one of the other ghouls. “Damned smooth-skin bastards! I’m tired of getting tossed aside by you bigots! We ghouls have a right to be here, way more than you do! You haven’t been through what we’ve been through! You should pay for what your kind did to us!”

The crowd surged forward with a cry of contempt, and Deacon searched around for a place to run. This was why he usually just let these things run their course. He’d been spending too much time with Myra. Her stupid motivational speeches were rubbing off on him, and now he was going to die in a tremendously stupid way. Perfect. He closed his eyes, bracing himself against the town wall as the first blows descended.

The one good thing about getting beaten up as often as he did was that nothing hurt quite as badly as it used to. That was a small mercy, at least. After the first dozen or so blows, he almost couldn’t feel any new ones. As he sunk to the pavement, his own blood hot and wet against his skin, Deacon felt overwhelmed by a sense of grim clarity. Perhaps this was how he deserved to go out, being torn apart by people he wanted to help. Was this how it had been for the man the Deathclaws had lynched? Maybe, in a way, this was justice. He’d been waiting for the scales to right themselves for so long, he’d almost thought he’d been given clemency. Deacon should have known that he wouldn’t get off that easily.

Suddenly, he made out a voice crying over the crowd, barely audible to his failing ears “Hey! What the hell’s going on here? Fahrenheit, get him up, will you?” Deacon felt himself pulled free from the mob, and he opened his eyes painfully to survey the situation. He was alive. What’s more, he was tucked behind the broad back of a particularly angry amazon of a woman, her snarling face and readied minigun holding the mob at bay. Even without hearing her name, he would have recognized Hancock’s hulking bodyguard anywhere. 

The mayor himself pushed through the crowd to their side, clutching the side of his head as he glared at the mob with deep black eyes. “God damn, some of you people do not know how to behave when your beloved mayor has a hangover,” he hissed. Now who wants to tell me why the hell you’ve been chasin’ down baldie here before I really get impatient?”

“It’s these smooth-skins, Hancock!” cried one of the ghouls defiantly. “They’re all trouble. Hell, for all we know, they’re all synth spies!”

“And all ghouls are a menace, bound to go feral and kill everyone at any time,” Hancock retorted. “Yeah, yeah. We’ve heard it before. We all have! So why the hell are you acting like those asshats back in Diamond City? This ain’t the Stands. We’re better than them. Goodneighbor’s not a members-only club. Anyone that wants in and keeps their nose clean can stay here. That’s what we agreed on, right?”

“That was before!” Greg yelled, pressing forward through the mob. “Before these synths started replacing people. We gotta keep our town safe, Hancock. You know we do.”

“And we will. But we’re not going to start hurting innocent people just because they might be spies. That is not how we do things. Get that through your thick skulls, or we will have a problem. Do you want a problem with me, Greg?”

“Of course not,” the ghoul replied nervously. “But these bastards gotta--”

Hancock sighed, pulling his knife from its holster. “We can do this the nasty way if you’d prefer. I really don’t want to make an example of you, brother, but you know I’m good for it.”

Greg scoffed. “This ain’t over, Hancock. Sooner or later, things are gonna change around here. You’d best be on the right side when it happens.”

“Funny,” the mayor replied. “Here I was going to tell you the same thing.” He turned back to the crowd. “Anyone who still believes in fuckin’ freedom, get down to the Third Rail . Drinks are on the house for everyone who agrees that no one’s gettin’ kicked out of our little community who don’t deserve it.” Noises of agreement echoed through the mob, and the crowd slowly dispersed, returning to the gutters and tunnels from whence they came. Hancock walked over to Deacon, smiling grimly at him as he helped the spy up. “You all right, Deacon? Can you walk?”

Deacon nodded, spitting a mouthful of blood out of his mouth. “I’ve had worse,” he said. “Thanks for coming to my rescue.”

“You ain’t exactly my first choice of damsel in distress,” Hancock teased with a jagged grin, “but I guess in lieu of a tall, leggy blonde, you’ll do.”

“Hey, I can be a tall, leggy blonde,” Deacon protested jokingly. “I was a girl for a couple months once, you know.”

“And I’m sure you were quite the looker, too,” the mayor replied, “so long as no one was lookin’ too close. Not like it’d be hard to look better than you do right now, my man. Those bruises all from my people, or you come into town lookin’ like you fell off the back end of a particularly angry brahmin? I’m not judging, I’m just curious.”

“You don’t need to fuss over me, Hancock,” Deacon said. “I promise, I won’t go looking for revenge. I’m just here on business.”

“Your business doesn’t usually involve you picking fights with the populace,” Hancock replied, his beady eyes narrowed. “That’s why I let your people operate freely in this town.”

“To be fair,” Deacon protested, “I didn’t start it. Things were bad when I got here.”

The mayor nodded. “Now that I believe. The Institute’s got folks all kinds of worked up, and I can’t say that I blame ‘em. It’s only gonna get worse from here, and I’m runnin’ out of pretty speeches. Something’s gotta give, and I just really hope it ain’t our town. Goodneighbor’s always had her problems, but we’ve made it work because none of us have anywhere else to go. We freaks and misfits stick together. At least we used to. Who knows, any more?” Hancock sighed, glancing at himself in a broken storefront window. “Maybe this beautiful trip’s just comin’ to an end. Always knew we had to come down sometime.” He sighed. “Fahrenheit, you mind grabbin’ some bandages and shit from Daisy’s?”

The muscular woman nodded. “I’ll get some Med-X too. You used the last of it, I think.”

Hancock laughed. “Sounds like me. I’ll see you at home.” The mayor walked back towards the Old State House. Deacon wasn’t sure if the ghoul wanted him to follow or not, but he tagged along anyway. The spy still needed to find out where Myra was, and the mayor was still his best lead. Without saying another word, Hancock held the door open for him, ushering Deacon inside. Once they reached his sitting room, the mayor seemed to relax somewhat. “Now that we’ve got you off the street, mind telling me what brought you here? Do you know something about what’s been going on?”

Deacon shook his head. “I’m not here for the Railroad,” he replied quietly. “Not exactly, anyway. I’m looking for Myra. Have you seen her?”

Hancock eyed him curiously. “What makes you think that I know where she is?”

“I know she drops in to see you once in a while,” Deacon continued, “especially when she’s in trouble. And the last time I saw here, she was in trouble.”

The mayor sighed. “That’s not exactly news. Trouble tends to follow her, far as I can tell. But somethin' tells me you’re speaking of trouble in a more...hmm, concrete way, maybe? What’d you do?”

As Deacon struggled to come up with an answer, the door opened, revealing Fahrenheit. The young woman tossed a bundle of medical supplies on the couch next to him. “Patch yourself up,” she grumbled. “You’re bleeding on the furniture.”

“Thanks,” Deacon replied, sorting through the bundle.

Hancock sighed. “Fahrenheit, is that any way to treat a guest? Get some boiling water goin’, will ya?” He knelt next to Deacon, pulling a small sewing kit and a lighter from his pocket. “That cut above your eye’s gonna need stitches,” he muttered. “I think I’m sober enough to get the job done. Lucky thing you caught me early in the day.”

Deacon winced as he watched the ghoul sanitize the needle. He’d always hated needles. That was why when he’d hit his lowest, he’d always preferred pills and inhalers to injectables. “You sure that’s necessary?” he asked nervously.

“I mean, hell, brother, I’m not a doctor,” Hancock replied. “But I’ve cleaned up after enough bar fights and bad trips over the years. Tell you what? You take it like a man, and I’ll dose you up with somethin' that’ll make you forget all about it. What do you say?”

“Normally, I’d tell you to leave me alone,” Deacon grumbled, “but honestly, right now that sounds pretty great.”

“Right on,” the ghoul said with a wide grin. “You just take it easy, and we’ll take care of the rest. When you’re up for it, then we can talk about our girl, okay?” Deacon nodded, and Hancock sighed, holding his head still. “Hang on. I don’t wanna stab you in the face. Well, outside the parts I need to stab. Take your sunglasses off so I can see the damage.”

“Sorry,” Deacon replied. “The sunglasses stay on.” 

“Well, if you’re going to be difficult…” Hancock dug around on his coffee table, searching for something in the massive pile of chems that littered it. With a triumphant smile, he pulled a few bottles of different pills from the heap. Deacon recognized one of the bottles as Day Tripper, but he wasn’t sure about the others. The spy watched in fascination and horror as Hancock crushed several of the pills into a water-stained glass before reaching for a syringe of Med-X from the couch. “Fahrenheit, we still got any of that Quantum?” he called.

“There’s a couple bottles in the kitchen,” she replied. “You making another batch of Sunshine?”

“Thought we could all use some calming down after what happened this morning,” Hancock said, emptying the syringe into the glass with the crushed pills. “You game?”

“You know I hate that shit,” Fahrenheit said as she returned to the room, a steaming bowl of water in her hands. She set the water on the table before pulling a bottle of the glowing blue soda from her pocket, setting it next to the bowl. “Besides, someone’s gotta stay sober if those idiots decide to try anything.”

“That’s...actually not a terrible idea,” the mayor replied, cracking open the bottle of Quantum and filling the rest of the glass with it. He swirled the mixture around until the pills dissolved before handing it to Deacon. “Here. A couple sips of this, and you’ll be calmer than a corpse in no time.”

Deacon sniffed at the unholy concoction, grimacing. “Is this safe?” he asked.

“Hell, I don’t know,” Hancock said with a laugh. “But it sure as hell works. I’ve been perfecting it for a few months now. I call it Sunshine because it makes you feel all warm and safe and shit. Tastes like the wrong end of a radroach, but other than that, it does the trick.”

Deacon wasn’t thrilled about the idea of taking experimental chems from a man who literally ghoulified himself to get high. The spy had vowed years ago that his chem-abusing days were behind him, getting his highs from danger and self-loathing instead. That was way healthier. But, honestly, the idea of not giving a shit about anything for a few hours sounded pretty good. Maybe if Deacon could clear his mind of all these conflicting emotions, he’d be able to see a way forward. Even if that didn’t work, at least he wouldn’t have to worry about Myra, the Railroad, or anything else for a while. Before his mind could talk him out of it, Deacon plugged his nose with one hand and knocked back the glass.

“Holy shit!” Hancock cried. “Easy, brother! I said a couple sips, not the whole damn thing! Oh, crap,” the mayor continued, his voice trailing off as the world suddenly got all...floaty. “Deacon, come on, you...easy...damn it…”

The spy couldn’t understand Hancock any more, but he didn’t exactly care. He smiled sleepily as he drifted off, his mind a beautiful kaleidoscope of colors as he lay back against the couch. A warm softness took hold of him, wrapping Deacon in a blanket of pure light. Within moments, he was past the point of caring about anything.

::::

Deacon lay on his back in a field of surprisingly green grass, staring up at a clear, blue sky. He smiled sleepily as he felt the warm rays of the sun on his face, and stretched lazily. There was a clean, delicate smell in the air, like gentle florals mixed with hot summer grass. It was so soothing, so familiar, even though he was certain that he’d never experienced the scent before. He blinked a few times before realizing that his glasses were missing. Normally, he would have panicked at being so exposed, but honestly, he couldn’t really bring himself to care either way.

He heard a familiar laugh nearby, and the sound spurred him to sit up. Deacon glanced around, trying to make sense of where he was. The field he was in was vast, bordered in the distance by a lush forest. Somewhere out of the range of his sight, running water babbled and played. There were no structures of any kind save for a white wicker table resting at the crest of a rolling hill. There were several chairs around the table, two of which were occupied. At this distance, he couldn’t make out the features of the figures seated there, though they seemed familiar to him. One wore a long blue dress, loose, wavy blonde hair drifting about in the gentle breeze. The other wore a shorter green number, her chestnut brown hair pulled into a tight bun. Deacon wandered closer, his bare feet caressed by the soft grass as he climbed the hill. As he drew nearer, the two women turned to look at him, and he realized with a jolt who they were.

“Look who’s finally awake,” Barbara mused with a warm smile. “We thought you were going to sleep all day.”

Myra laughed warmly, gesturing to a basket on the table. “We thought we were going to have to eat without you. Come, sit.”

Deacon’s mind felt muddled. This couldn’t be real. Still, as if compelled, he sat between them, smiling in spite of his confusion. Barbara rached over, taking his hand in hers. “Myra and I have been having the most lovely conversation, haven’t we, dear?”

Myra nodded as she rummaged in the picnic basket, pulling all manner of delicious foods from its depths. “Barb has such a great sense of humor,” she said. “No wonder you love her.”

Deacon frowned. “Myra, your hair…”

She laughed. “Like it? I know it’s a simple style, but it keeps it out of the way.”

“No,” he continued, “I meant that it’s not white.”

“Of course not, silly,” Myra said, handing him the heel of a warm loaf of bread. “I’m not that old.”

“Are you sure you’re feeling all right, Alex?” Barbara asked, her hazel eyes concerned.

Deacon’s heart raced. How long had it been since anyone had called him by his name? “I’m not sure,” he managed. “What are we doing here?”

Barbara squeezed his hand tighter, her nimble fingers soft against his skin. “We’re having a picnic, of course. This was your idea, remember?”

“I can’t say that I do,” he replied.

Myra sighed. “You’re always so preoccupied, it’s no wonder you forgot. What are we going to do with you?”

Barbara giggled. “I guess we just have to remind him,” she said, kissing Deacon’s cheek softly. “Come on, sweetheart. You promised that you’d forget about work today and just spend time with your family.”

“But I...Myra’s not…I mean, I remember this,” Deacon managed. “But it wasn’t like this. Myra wasn’t here. And it wasn’t nearly this beautiful out.”

“I think someone drank more wine than we thought, Barb,” Myra joked, though her smile didn’t make it to her eyes. “Of course I’m here. Look at me. I’m right next to you.” She placed a hand on his thigh, gently stroking it. “I know you’re stressed out, but now you’re just being hurtful.”

Deacon tried to protest, tried to tell them that there must be some mistake, but the words just wouldn’t come. Instead, he just sighed heavily, doing his best to relax. He had to be dreaming. At least he could try to enjoy it while it was happening. He could feel guilty when he woke up, if he had to. He tore into the bread, relaxing slightly as the familiar mineral taste of razorgrain flour filled his mouth.

Barbara shook her head at him. “You should wait, hun,” she said. “It’s rude to eat before everyone’s here.”

Deacon frowned, eyeing the remaining empty chair. “Who else are we expecting?”

A loud whistle pierced the air, and Myra looked towards the forest, smiling warmly. “It looks like Soph’s back,” she said, waving to someone in the distance. The figure waved back, dashing towards them.

“Who’s Soph?” Deacon asked as he watched the person draw closer.

Myra looked at him like he’d grown a second head. “Don’t tell me you forgot about your own kid,” she said. “Did you hit your head?”

“But I don’t...we never were able to have children,” he murmured, looking to Barbara for help.

She sighed. “You’re still having those awful nightmares, aren’t you?” she asked. “About me being a synth? I told you, they’re just dreams. They aren’t real.”

“They...aren’t?” Deacon asked, trying to sort out his conflicting thoughts. He wanted to believe what he was seeing, that Barbara was alive, that they were living happily, that they had a daughter of their own. But in his heart he knew that this was all an elaborate fantasy. This idyllic place, the two people he cared most about by his side...it was a beautiful dream. Nothing more. This wasn’t his reality. And it certainly wasn’t the life he deserved.

“Daddy, are you okay?” asked a soft voice. He turned, his eyes meeting a pair of startling emerald green ones. The girl who stood before him was about eight or nine, if he had to guess, with a mess of ginger curls framing her heart-shaped face. A smattering of freckles spilled across her round cheeks, giving her an impish look.

“Your father just had one of his nightmares, Sophie,” Barbara replied.

“Again?” the girl exclaimed, pulling her chair out and sitting at the table. “Poor daddy.”

Myra chuckled, making up a plate for the child. “Its okay, Soph. We all have bad dreams sometimes. It doesn’t mean the nightmares are real.”

Sophie nodded, shooting Deacon a toothy grin. “He always makes things harder for himself, doesn’t he?”

Barbara laughed, making a sandwich for herself. “He always has.” She turned to Deacon. “Alex, dear, you should eat more. You’re so pale.”

Deacon nodded, trying to ignore how strange this entire situation was as he continued eating his bread. He wanted to accept the good that was in front of him, to enjoy these precious moments even if they weren’t real. He looked across the table at Sophie -- this adorable young girl who was supposedly his -- watching her every movement. Here and there, he caught sight of one of his mannerisms in her, and it startled and amazed him. He’d wanted children so badly back in those naive days when he and Barbara had vowed to spend their lives together. Things had seemed so simple, then, so full of hope. But who he was now, the man he’d become...how could such joy belong to him? His heart twinged every time Sophie looked at him, her smile exposing soft dimples on her cheeks. Perhaps Alex deserved to have a family of his own. But Deacon certainly didn’t. It was for the best that this was just a dream.

Myra kicked him lightly under the table. “She’s not gonna grow up if you take your eyes off of her for a single second, you know,” she teased. “Relax, Deeks. We have all the time in the world to be a family.”

He frowned at this. What did she mean? He cared for Myra, this much was undeniably true, but for her to call them family? Even his subconscious couldn’t believe that, could it? He looked to Barbara, who shot him that easy, comforting smile he missed so much. “You shouldn’t be so afraid, sweetheart,” she murmured. “Things change. That’s what they do. It’s okay for things to be lost. It makes finding them in the end even better, don’t you think?”

“She’s right, you know,” Myra replied. “We’re all together now, and that’s what matters.”

Sophie nodded, munching on a piece of tarberry crostata. The red juice from the berries rand own her chin, staining her pale skin. Without thinking, Deacon reached out with a cloth napkin, wiping her face. She grimaced at his ministrations, but allowed him to continue. “I can clean up after myself, daddy,” she muttered. “I’m not a baby.”

“I guess you’re not,” he replied, and she flashed an impish grin at him, stealing the last few bites of bread from his plate and shoving them into her mouth. “Hey!” Deacon cried. “I wasn’t finished with that!”

Myra sighed. “Soph, don’t tease your father. We want him to stay with us, don’t we?”

The girl rolled her mischievous green eyes. “Yeah, but he left himself wide open, momma! What was I supposed to do, pass up a chance like that?”

Deacon’s heart raced as he heard Sophie’s declaration. “Myra,” he murmured, his eyes wide, “she’s…no. That can’t be right. You'd never...we'd never..." He shook his head. "This isn’t real. None of this is real.”

“Shh!” Barbara chided, handing him a fresh piece of bread. “Relax. Eat.”

“I’m not hungry,” he retorted.

“Eat!” Myra chimed in, her eyes flashing dangerously. “Don’t be rude, Deacon. We spent so long preparing this for you.”

Deacon relented, taking another bite of bread. There was a bitter aftertaste to it this time, like the yeast had gone off. He tried to shake his growing dread, to bring his mind back to a calm place, but it was a losing battle. There were too many impossibilities. For how real everything seemed to his senses, he could feel a growing dread setting into his bones.

It wasn’t real. Deacon vaguely remembered being at Hancock’s, taking...something. This was just a drug trip. As he struggled to remember what had brought him to this place, the air seemed to grow bitter cold around him. The bite of bread turned to mold in his mouth, and he spat it out in horror. The food on the table had all decayed similarly, rotten meat and mold-covered fruit oozing strange juices as they leaked off the sides of the discolored wicker. He whimpered in alarm, his eyes fixed on a large, pus-yellow spider that crawled out from the pile, waving its spindly, needle-like legs slowly in the air. He didn’t dare look up, didn’t dare to make eye contact with the three figures sitting next to him.

“How sad,” a voice that was almost Myra’s rasped. “He’s gone and ruined this, too.”

“When will he learn?” a ghastly, child-like whisper asked, Sophie’s voice distorted and hollow.

“So many years on this earth, and still, he suffers,” Barbara replied, her voice choked back in her throat like it was being swallowed by the grave itself. “There’s nothing we can do, if he won’t do it himself.”

“We did our best,” not-Myra mused. “But for a liar, he doesn’t like lies much.”

“He’s a hypocrite,” the child whispered. “Maybe he does deserve this.”

Deacon shuddered, now trying to look up, needing to see the truth. But it was like he was paralyzed, unable to see anything beyond the horrible, pungent decay before him, beyond the massive spider-thing which he now realized had far too many legs. The terrible monstrosity skittered towards him, and he struggled in vain as it clambered onto his torso, heavy and cold as ice through his tattered shirt. He tried to scream, but he couldn’t muster a sound, couldn’t turn away, couldn’t do more than hyperventilate and watch as the horrible spider-thing climbed ever higher, its face shifting and contorting as it called to him with a thousand human-like screams.

Suddenly, its fangs sank into his neck, icy needles piercing straight through his jugular. Deacon gurgled in inexpressible terror as the legs of his chair gave out from under him. He found himself plummeting into an endless abyss of putrid darkness, the laughter of the three creatures who had played with him echoing in his ears as he fell into nothingness.

::::

Deacon’s own screams jolted him awake, and his eyes opened almost impossibly wide as he sat up, gasping frantically. Hancock loomed over him, shaking him gently. “Hey, brother,” the ghoul soothed, his pitch black eyes filled with concern. “Hey. It’s okay. You’re fine. Just a bad trip.”

“I…” Deacon gasped, struggling to slow his breathing. “What the hell is in that stuff?” he wheezed.

Hancock sighed, handing him a glass of water. “I told you, you weren’t supposed to take that much. I haven’t tested it out at larger doses yet, and even still, my metabolism’s way faster than yours. I’m thrilled you’re not dead. Last thing I need is you ODing on my couch. That would not win me any good ghoul points from your boss.”

Deacon swallowed the water greedily, his throat sore as hell. “Remind me not to take any more of your chem experiments,” he moaned. “Or any chems at all, really. That...sucked.”

“Outside of the obvious,” the mayor said, “how are you feeling?”

“Oh, me?” Deacon asked sarcastically. “I’m fine. Never been better. Heck, we should go bowling. I’ll be the pins.”

“That bad, huh?” Hancock asked. “Well, I can’t give you anything else for the pain, not until the Sunshine’s left your system. Like I said, I’m not keen on you ODing on my couch. But while you were flying high, I did make some soup. Chem-free, I promise,” he added. “It’s probably long cold by now, but I can reheat it if you’re hungry.”

“Food sounds...ugh,” Deacon muttered, his stomach heaving as the taste of mold and filth filled his mouth again. “Yeah, not like the best plan right now. I’ll stick with water.”

The mayor shook his head. “Man, that must have been a hell of a trip.” 

“How long was I out?” Deacon asked.

“Hmm,” Hancock mused, looking out the window. “Maybe half a day or so? I donno, man, time’s pretty much optional as far as I’m concerned. Sun’s nearly down, though, if that means anything to you.”

Deacon struggled to stand, though a flood of wooziness quickly forced him back onto the couch. “Ugh. That long? It felt like a few minutes at most.”

“Like I said,” Hancock replied, “time’s a funny bitch who doesn’t play by anyone’s rules. Better not to let her run your life. Still, I’m sorry if that’s not the answer you wanted.”

The spy shook his head, wincing as pain flooded his head. “It’s not your fault. I guess it was just one of those days.”

“You have days like this often?” Hancock asked.

“It’s been known to happen,” Deacon joked. “One time, I woke up in a Deathclaw nest with three baby ’Claws. Seems like the momma Deathclaw mistook me for one of her own. She kept fawning over me and everything. Now that was a rough day. At least I got free meat out of it. And some terrifying new siblings.”

The ghoul laughed. “That’s what I like about you Deacon. You’re a lying bastard, but somehow, I always want to believe you anyway.”

“That’s my charm,” the spy replied with a pained grin. “Hell, when Myra takes over the Commonwealth, maybe I can talk her into making me her jester. I’d look awesome in one of those outfits, right?”

Hancock struggled to breathe through his wheezing cackles. “Man, I’d hire you myself, if Fahrenheit ever retires. But speaking of Myra,” he continued, gasping, “you wanted to find her?”

Deacon nodded. “Have you heard from her?”

The ghoul sighed. “I’m not sure I should tell you this, but she did swing by a few days ago. Said she was on her way to the Castle, something about checking in with the Minutemen. I talked her into staying for a few nights, since she seemed pretty broken up about something. Wouldn’t tell me what, but that’s her business anyway. Something happen between you two?”

Deacon frowned. “What makes you say that?”

“Well,” Hancock said with a sigh, “It could be the fact that you both had that same look about you, like someone punted your cat off a roof. Hell, maybe it’s because you were screaming her name when you were out. Maybe it’s just my intuition.” he laughed. “Hell, you don’t have to tell me. Not my business anyway.”

The spy sighed. “If you must know, we had a bit of a fight over the value of some of the junk in her collection. Sometimes, I swear, she’s a crow with how much shiny stuff she hoards. She didn’t appreciate that I told her to throw out all those dog bowls that were weighing her down.”

Hancock grinned. “I hear you. Who even needs eighty screwdrivers? And not even the fun kind, with vodka, but the metal kind.”

“Right?” Deacon snickered. “I probably could have been nicer about it, though. I sometimes forget there’s feelings under all that warrior woman stuff she’s got going on these days.” At least that part wasn’t a lie. God, he’d screwed up. How could he face her, after the way he’d treated her? Even if it was for the best, he could have been more tactful.

The ghoul nodded. “As the world’s expert on the fine and often forgotten art of seduction, I can freely tell you, yeah, you messed up.”

Deacon groaned. “First of all, gross. Second, I wasn’t...I mean, I’d never…”

Hancock eyed him incredulously. “Right. A woman like that, and you haven’t even thought about it? Yeah, and I’m a hot pink vertibird. You’re lying to the wrong ghoul, Deacon. I can smell heartache a mile away, and you, my man, are marinating in it. So what’s the deal, she turn you down too?”

“You mean you actually…” Deacon smirked. “So much for the master of seduction.”

“Hey, I do all right!” Hancock protested. “And it wasn’t like that. I mean, yeah, I maybe suggested...but only ’cause she seemed so upset, you know? But she’s all hung up on that tin can of hers, unless you know something I don’t.”

Deacon tried not to think about the hot desperation in her kiss, the way she moaned against him as he explored her body. It was all an act, a game they were playing. It hadn’t been real, and it never could be. “Yeah,” he joked. “Not like Danse would know what to do with a woman if she came with an instruction manual. It’s pretty hopeless.”

“Poor Myra,” Hancock agreed with a laugh. “I guess there’s still hope for the rest of us, then.”

Deacon sighed. Maybe there was hope for someone like Hancock. He had a roguish charm that seemed to endear people to him, and what’s more, the ghoul had the sincerity to back it up. He might be a junkie, but he had a good heart. Deacon couldn’t say the same for himself. “Yeah,” he said, hoping his smile seemed more sincere than it felt. “Maybe.”

Hancock grinned, slapping the spy lightly on the shoulder. “Well, now you know where she went, so I’m sure you’ll want to go after her. But if you don’t mind taking my advice, maybe you should stay here until the Sunshine’s out of your system. Don’t want you gettin’ any strange side-effects out there on the road.”

“That’s fair,” Deacon replied. “Besides, I probably don’t need to go see her. I mostly wanted to make sure she was alive. Now that I know she’s okay, I should really get back to my mission.”

The ghoul frowned, his deep inky eyes narrowing. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? Look, I donno what you did, and I really don’t wanna know. But if you made her upset, brother, you’ve gotta apologize. Things have a way of gettin’ worse if you let ’em fester. Just ask my missing toe. You gotta make things right.”

“Or, you know, I can just run away and bury myself in work. That’s a great solution, too,” Deacon said. “Works like a charm, and it keeps me productive. It’s a win-win.”

Hancock sighed. “Whatever. I’m not your Miss Nanny. You wanna do that, go right ahead. But you gotta be willin’ to live with the consequences. This life we’ve got’s full of choices, my man, and not a lot of do-overs. Just think about that.” He grabbed a tin of Mentats off the table, popping a few in his mouth. “I’m too sober for this,” he muttered. “Do what you want.”

Deacon lay back down on the couch with a huff, trying to hold on to any train of thought he could...well, any train that didn’t involve Myra. He didn’t even want to think about the choice before him, especially not in light of his drug-fueled vision. The last thing he needed was to see her smiling face, or to hear the voice of a child that didn’t exist. His mind was a mysterious and often twisted web of lies and fantastical musings. This was just another of the cruel tricks he played on himself. Nothing more.

The spy liked to pretend that there wasn’t much that scared him in the world. And perhaps that was true, in a way. The things that really horrified him lurked in the dark recesses of his own being, not outside of himself. And if he had to single out the one thing that filled him with the most dread, it was the idea that his view of reality was wrong, that all the lies he’d told and internalized and believed at the time he needed to believe them had muddled his perception of the world as it was. If he couldn’t trust his own mind, his own senses, there was nothing in this world he could rely on. What if all the lies had finally snuffed out the truth like a cap over a candle, leaving behind nothing but smoke and the faint odor of a forgotten reality?

Deacon exhaled slowly, trying to calm the guilt and unease that filled him. He had to be rational about this. After all, he was still under the influence of the drug. The last thing he needed was a panic attack. The urge to run away from the situation was intense, as it always was. The spy was a coward. He had no illusions about that. But Hancock was right. For once in his miserable life, Deacon needed to consider the consequences of inaction just as much as he agonized over the consequences of action. 

Was it really better to leave things with Myra as they were, to drive her away when he’d spent so long trying to bring her into the fold? Regardless of his personal feelings for her, he still believed that she could be the force for change that the Railroad needed. Was he willing to throw away all their futures just because he might have let himself catch feelings?

“Damn it, I’m really going to have to go after her, aren’t I?” Deacon moaned.

Hancock wheezed contentedly beside him, his eyes glazed over. “Yeah, that's what I’m saying. But it can wait. She’s not goin’ anywhere, right? Try an’ get some sleep.”

The spy nodded. “I’ll try.”

Just as he was about to drift off, however, loud and angry voices filled the night. Hancock groaned in frustration. “Damn it, what is it this time?”

The door to the living room flew open, and Irma rushed in, blood coating her corset. “Hancock! You’ve gotta do something!”

The men both sat up straight, staring at the madame of the Memory Den . “What is it, Irma?” Hancock asked, all peace drained from his face. “What’s goin’ on?”

“I tried to stop them,” Irma gasped. “I told them we weren’t helping the Institute, but they...there were so many of them! It must have been half the town.”

“Easy,” Hancock commanded gently. “What happened? What did those idiots do?”

“It’s Doctor Amari,” she said breathily, her face clammy and pale with shock. “She’s been shot.”

Paladin Danse had hardly left his quarters since he’d learned about Myra’s association with the Railroad. There wasn’t much cause for him to do so, anyway. Until Myra returned with information about the Institute, the Paladin was effectively on standby. But it wasn’t boredom that confined Danse to his small room on the main deck of the Prydwen . It was a deep, twisting ache that seemed to grow with every waking hour, like an old wound that acted up when the weather changed for the worse. The thought that Myra had betrayed him, had betrayed everything he stood for, was unbearable. No amount of busy work could distract him from the gnawing, festering disquiet in his soul.

He barely ate, subsisting on the limited rations he’d squirreled away in his room in case of emergencies. He barely slept, his dreams haunted by visions of Myra, her mouth twisted into a cruel grimace as she pointed Righteous Authority at the Paladin’s head, Deacon urging her to pull the trigger. There was no escape from the torment.

Maxson had checked in on him regularly at first, trying to break the Paladin from his funk, but the Elder had eventually relented and gave him space. No one else bothered to try. Thus, when there was a gentle but persistent knocking on Danse’s door, he almost thought he was imagining it. “Come in,” he said gruffly, and the door swung open to reveal an unexpected visitor.

Paladin Brandis stepped lightly into the room, closing the door behind him. The old man had recovered quite well since his return to the Prydwen . His skeletal frame had fleshed out some, and a healthy pink glow had returned to his pallid cheeks. Even his green eyes, once haunted and half-crazed, had regained some of their kind, wise light that Danse remembered from long ago. “How are you holding up, kid?” Brandis asked, easing into Danse’s desk chair. He pulled a box of snack cakes from his satchel, tearing them open and tossing one to the younger Paladin. “Haven’t seen you around much. You been avoiding me?”

Danse shook his head, holding the packaged treat unopened in his large hands. “Not particularly,” he muttered. “I suppose it’d be more accurate to say that I’m just keeping to myself.”

Brandis nodded grimly. “It’s a terrible thing, Danse, losing your subordinates. Trust me, I know. But it’s too soon to give up hope on our Angel. Knight Larimer’s beaten the odds more than once. She’ll pull through. I really do believe that.”

“As do I,” Danse replied. “That isn’t what has me concerned.”

Brandis sighed as he unwrapped a cake of his own. “Well, what is it, then?” he asked between bites. “Because you look like I did when Larimer found me, and that’s not a good look on someone as young as you.”

Danse frowned. “I’m not certain you’d understand if I told you,” he said. “Or if you’d agree with my decision.”

“Well, hell, kid,” Brandis muttered. “You’re the Senior Paladin here. I’m not exactly at a position in the Chain to question your decisions. But sitting in here cooped up with your demons isn’t helping. You need to talk. Might as well talk to me. I’m old. I’ll probably forget whatever you tell me by the end of the day.”

The younger Paladin sighed heavily. “I suppose you have a point. It concerns Larimer. But I can’t risk anyone finding out about what I’ve learned, not before she has a chance to explain herself. You’re a good man, Brandis, but…”

The older man smiled gently at Danse. “But you’re worried that I’ll tell someone about whatever it is that’s bothering you. I can’t say that I blame you. The trouble with the Brotherhood being like a family is that it’s hard to keep secrets. It’s wise of you to keep whatever you’ve uncovered close to your chest.” Brandis leaned back in his chair, propping his feet up on Danse’s desk with a small sigh. “But, that being said, I owe our Angel my life, Danse. You can trust that I take that sort of debt seriously. I’d follow that girl into the gates of Hell if she needed me to, sure as you would. So if you need me to keep my mouth shut, you’d best believe that it’s locked tighter than Ingram’s metal ass.”

Danse thought for a moment, his brow furrowed. He knew that Brandis adored Myra, the woman who had given him his life back. Still, it was risky bringing another person into the circle of people who knew her secret, even someone as sincere as Brandis. Was the weight of Danse’s concern heavy enough that he really needed another shoulder to bear it? Or was Myra’s potential treason too great of a transgression even for the old man?

In the end, Danse’s need for a sounding board won out, and he relented. “I believe you, Brandis. But what I’m about to tell you becomes public knowledge, you are the only one I’ll have to blame.”

“That’s fair,” Brandis replied. “So what is it that’s gotten the Brotherhood’s most unflappable Paladin worked up like a Squire on his first mission?”

“I’ve recently acquired some information about Larimer’s...activities that could be a major liability,” Danse explained. “If anyone finds out the specifics, she would be severely punished. As the Senior Paladin of this outfit as well as Larimer’s sponsor, I have an obligation to report my suspicions to Elder Maxson immediately.”

“But something’s stopping you, right?” Brandis asked.

“I...I don’t know,” Danse groaned. “I’ve never neglected my duties. I’ve always stood up for the Codex, for order. The fact that I’ve even waited this long… I don’t know what to do, Brandis. What if she’s betrayed us, and my inaction leads to disaster?”

“What if you’re wrong, and she’s still loyal?” Brandis asked with a soft sigh. “Damn, Danse, I don’t envy you. That’s a difficult judgement to make. But, if you don’t mind taking some advice from an old man’s intuition, perhaps you should trust Larimer.”

“How can you say that?” Danse retorted. “You don’t even know what she’s done!”

“And you do?” Brandis countered. “I know you, Danse. I’ve known you since you were an Initiate fresh from the Rivet City gutter, barely able to spell your own name, let alone recite the Codex. If you had conclusive evidence that our Angel was a devil in disguise, you wouldn’t hesitate to unmask her. We both know that Larimer’s prone to doing things in her own way, and sometimes that means that she walks a grayer path than we can follow. But that don’t make her a traitor any more than it makes her a radroach in a human suit. You trust her. I can see it in your eyes. And as far as I’m concerned, you’re right to. Our Angel’s one of the good ones. Hell, maybe even the best.”

“Even if she’s working with the Railroad?” Danse asked, his voice trembling.

“The Railroad?” Brandis replied with a catch to his voice. “Are you certain?”

Danse nodded. “As certain as I can be without further proof. Now, do you understand the stakes? I read your report, Brandis.What happened to your squad, the ambush… Would you still stand by Larimer, if she was a Railroad agent?”

Brandis reflected for a moment, his green eyes misty, distant. “I lost three good men in that ambush,” he murmured. “We hadn’t done anything to provoke that sort of attack. Hell, we hadn’t even begun our survey yet. We weren’t threatening the Railroad or their interests. We were just too close for their comfort, I suppose.”

“And Larimer may be working for that same organization,” Danse pressed. “She may have even been sent by the Railroad to infiltrate our ranks. How can either of us stand by her when we can’t even trust her?”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Brandis retorted. “I trust her. Larimer saved my life, gave me my purpose back. Even if she was involved in the Railroad, I don’t think she’d agree to hurt us. That’s not the woman I know. If she’s involved with those nutcases, she has to have a good reason.”

“I hope your assessment is accurate,” the younger Paladin sighed. “Because I’ll be perfectly honest, the thought of Larimer being the enemy is one I’d rather live without.”

“Agreed,” Brandis said. “I certainly understand now why you’d keep that information to yourself, Danse. If word got out, I doubt our Angel would even get a trial.”

Danse nodded. “Banishment would be the humane option. More likely, she’d be thrown from the foredeck.” His voice trembled. “I’ll be honest with you, Brandis, I don’t know what I’d do if that were to occur. I...I care for her too much.”

Brandis smiled gently at the younger man. “I can’t recall seeing you this concerned for anyone since Knight Cutler,” he mused. “It’s good to see.”

Danse chuckled bitterly. “Not that it matters, if she really is a traitor. No matter how I feel about her, I have a duty to uphold. If I have to choose between her and the Brotherhood...how could I make such a choice?”

“Well, I guess the first step is finding out if your suspicions are true or not,” Brandis replied. “You need to have a talk with our Angel, find out her side of the story.”

“I don’t even know where she is,” Danse retorted. “Hell, I don’t even know if she’s alive.”

“I guess it’s your lucky day,” Brandis said with a faint smile. He pulled a sealed letter out from his satchel, tossing it down on the desk. “This came for you this morning. The Lancer who delivered it had quite the story to tell. Apparently, the Minutemen got their mitts on one of our signal grenades.” Danse’s eyes widened in shock, and Brandis laughed. “Now how do you think they got one of those?”

Danse grabbed for the envelope, turning it over in his hands. The writing didn’t match Myra’s delicate cursive. His name was emblazoned on the envelope in blocky print letters instead. If Myra hadn’t sent it, then who had? He tore the paper open, his eyes narrowing as he read the note.

Paladin Danse,

General Larimer made it to the Castle, no thanks to you. She’s hurt. Bad. We’ve got her as stabilized and as comfortable as we can, but there’s not much we can do but give it time. I thought you’d want to know. Please come if you can. It would put the General’s mind at ease, whether she admits it or not.

I’ll be expecting you by vertibird in the next few days. Don’t wait too long. I can’t guarantee that she’ll recover.

- Col. Preston Garvey,

Commonwealth Minutemen

“Damn it!” Danse growled, throwing supplies in his pack as quickly as possible. This couldn’t be happening. Myra wasn’t even back from the Institute yet. She couldn’t be. If she’d come back, she would have checked in with him right away, wouldn’t she have?

“What’s wrong?” Brandis asked.

“Larimer’s in trouble,” Danse replied. “I have to go.”

Brandis nodded. “Well, then, sounds like you’ve made up your mind after all, kid. Good luck. Just don’t forget to tell Elder Maxson where you’re going. The last thing you need right now is suspicion cast on you as well.”

Danse frowned. “Of course. Thank you, Brandis.”

“Any time, Danse,” the older man replied with a thin smile. He stood, walking deliberately for the door. “If you do get a chance to see her, tell our Angel hello for me.”

“I will,” the younger Paladin replied. “I sincerely hope you’re right about her.”

“So do I,” Brandis murmured, the metal door clanging shut behind him.

Danse continued packing as quickly as he could. He had no way of knowing how much trouble Myra was in, but for Preston to write him...her injuries must have been severe. In spite of how well he’d recovered in their care, the Paladin sincerely doubted that the Minutemen had the capability to tend to anything too serious. Their doctor didn’t even believe in stimpacks. He briefly contemplated requisitioning some supplies from Cade, but the Knight-Captain would ask questions, and questions had a way of getting back to members of staff that Danse would rather not deal with until he knew for certain how he was going to handle things with Myra. So instead, he grabbed a few stims from his personal supply, as well as clean bandages and water in case the Castle had run low.

He hesitated for a moment before packing his chessboard and pieces. How long had it been since he and Myra had last played? Would she even want to? Was she even physically strong enough to play? Danse sighed, putting the set in his bag anyway. Knowing Myra, she was probably bored out of her mind at the Castle. If nothing else, she’d appreciate the gesture.

Once his pack was full, Danse climbed back into his power armor, then turned out the lights in his room and made for Maxson’s quarters. The Paladin knocked insistently on the door, his heart in his throat. What if Arthur refused to let him leave? Or what if Quinlan had already gotten to him, had already poisoned him against Myra before Danse had a chance to get her side of the story?

“Come in,” Arthur’s gruff voice resounded from beyond the door. When Danse opened it, he was greeted with the familiar sight of his friend and leader typing furiously on his terminal. Maxson raised a hand, waving it idly as he continued typing with the other. “Leave it on the counter,” he said. “I’ll eat when I’m finished.”

Danse cleared his throat. “Hard at work, Arthur?” he asked, a hint of amusement in his voice. Maxson’s shoulders tensed. The young Elder turned in his desk chair, his eyes widening slightly as he took in the sight of his oldest friend.

“I’ll admit,” Maxson said as he stood to greet the Paladin, “I wasn’t expecting to see you today, Danse. Are you feeling any better?”

Danse nodded. “I must apologize for being so negligent in my duties,” he said softly. “I had quite a lot on my mind.”

“So it would seem,” Arthur replied. He eyed the pack at Danse’s side. “Something tells me this isn’t a social call. Are you planning on going somewhere?”

“Larimer’s at the Minuteman headquarters. I haven’t gotten too many details, but it seems as though she’s sustained some significant injuries. Colonel Garvey urged me to come at once, as long as you find that acceptable.”

“She’s back?” Maxson asked, his piercing steely eyes trained on Danse. “You’re certain of this?”

The Paladin nodded. “I’ve never known Preston to lie, Arthur. He may not be a member of the Brotherhood, but he does live by a code. If he says that Larimer is gravely injured, she must be.”

The Elder frowned. “Why would she have gone to the Castle, instead of coming back to the Airport? I gave her explicit orders to report to me as soon as she returned from the Institute.”

“There are any number of reasons,” Danse replied. “Perhaps her return trip sent her to the wrong location. Maybe she was wounded on the way and stopped there for help. I don’t know for certain, and it doesn’t matter anyway. I’m going to go retrieve her. Assuming I have permission.”

“Of course, Danse,” Maxson replied. “Recovering Larimer is an extremely important mission. If she really is back, she’s the only person we know who’s managed to infiltrate the Institute. We have to debrief her as soon as possible. But before you go,” he continued, “I need to ask you a small favor.” The Elder stalked over to his footlocker, digging through the box with a troubled expression on his scarred face. “Where did I...ah! Here it is.” He pulled a small package wrapped in red cloth out of storage, handing it to Danse. “I wanted to give this to Larimer when she came back, but perhaps you wouldn’t mind taking it to her instead.”

“What is it?” Danse asked, weighing the package in his hands.

Maxson sighed. “If you must know, it’s a collection of short stories I’ve been working on when I have the time. Larimer asked if she could read them, and perhaps they’ll give her something to do while she recovers.”

Danse smiled slightly. Arthur had always had a love for writing, ever since he was young. There had been many times over the years when Danse had caught him with a pencap in his mouth when Maxson thought that no one was watching. Since his promotion to Elder, such sightings had grown increasingly rare, so it was good to know that Arthur still found time for his notebooks. The Paladin didn’t think that anyone else even knew about Maxson’s secret hobby, and even Danse had never read any of what his friend had written. The Elder guarded his notebooks carefully. Maxson must have trusted Myra a great deal to be willing to share his stories with her.

Danse’s heart ached once more as he thought about what he’d learned of Myra’s associations. What if she really had betrayed the Brotherhood? Maxson had very few people who he was close to, fewer still that he really trusted. Danse could count the members of Maxson’s inner circle on one hand. Given the number of people both outside of and within the Brotherhood who wanted him out of the picture, the young Elder had good reason to be suspicious.

Still, somehow Myra had joined the ranks of Arthur’s trusted few. But if she turned her back on the Brotherhood, how would Maxson handle the betrayal? Would he ever trust someone again? Somehow, Danse doubted it. It would be nearly as devastating as Danse himself betraying the Elder. At least that was an outcome that was unfathomable to contemplate, or had been until Myra had entered the picture. If Danse was forced to choose between his best friend and Myra, he still wasn’t certain what he would do. He was loyal to a fault, but if his loyalties were divided...it was better not to think on such things.

“I’ll make sure she gets it,” Danse said simply. “If there’s nothing else…”

“No,” Arthur replied. “By all means, go. Bring her home.”

The Elder didn’t have to tell Danse twice. In a flash, he was out the door, heading for the flight deck. He could only hope that Myra was still alive. After that, then he could worry about who she was really working for...and what the implications of her true allegiances would be.

::::

It was a short but rough journey from the airport to the Castle, and Danse was extraordinarily grateful when he felt solid ground beneath his feet again. He loved flying, but given the circumstances, he couldn’t wait for the trip to end. He barely acknowledged the young raven-haired minuteman at the gates when she let him in. His mind was so preoccupied with thoughts of Myra that it was hard to focus on anything else...that was until he stepped inside the old fortress.

The Paladin glanced around the Castle courtyard, his eyes wide in astonishment. The fort was no longer the seaweed-encrusted ruin it had been when he’d last visited. In the months since, the Minutemen had made significant improvements, crafting fortifications and gun placements that the Brotherhood would be jealous of. He noted with some concern the long iron barrels of what looked like artillery being polished and prepped near the radio tower. What did the Minutemen need such heavy ordinance for?

Danse glanced up at the sky, the Prydwen anchored to the zeppelin tower of the old airport clearly within view, and his stomach twisted slightly. With that kind of firepower, the Minutemen could shoot the great airship down easily. No longer were they a group that could be ignored. If Myra really was an enemy of the Brotherhood, the strength of her militia could prove to be a far greater threat than anyone had believed.

Preston strode up to greet him, a grim smile on his face. “I’m glad to see that the gate guard didn’t give you any trouble,” he said cordially. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”

“Where’s Larimer?” Danse asked bluntly. “Your letter implied that she was in peril.”

“She’s through the worst of it, thank goodness,” Preston replied. “But as it is, she’s got a few broken ribs and a pretty nasty concussion. And that’s just what we were able to diagnose. She’s on bed rest until Ignatius is satisfied that there’s no worse damage.”

The Paladin frowned, his eyes heavy with concern. “Do you know what caused her injuries?”

Preston nodded solemnly. “She got in a fight with some Super Mutants, and one of them threw her against the Castle wall. If she’d been wearing armor, she might have been all right, but as it was…”

Danse’s eyes narrowed. “She wasn’t wearing any armor?” he cried in alarm.

Preston shook his head. “Apparently she and Deacon had been...um…” he paused, his eyes widening as if he just realized who he was talking to. “Anyway, she wasn’t wearing armor for whatever reason,” the Colonel hastily amended. “Just a nice dress.”

Danse scowled. So Deacon was involved in this situation, because of course he was. Instead of checking in with the Brotherhood, had Myra gone on a Railroad operation? The Paladin didn’t want to believe it, even though the evidence was staring him in the face. How long ago had Myra returned from the Institute? How much information had she given to the Railroad? He felt a cold anger surge through him, tempered only by a great deal of sorrow. Was Myra lost to him after all? Had she ever been loyal?

The Paladin cleared his throat, tamping down his emotions. He didn’t have time for speculation. Today, he only had time for the truth. “May I see her?” he asked gruffly.

“Of course,” the Colonel replied, leading him into the keep. They stopped at the end of a long stony corridor before a set of heavy wooden doors. “This is the General’s Quarters,” Preston said. “Please be careful not to get her too worked up. We still haven’t ruled out internal bleeding.”

Danse nodded. “I’ll certainly make an attempt,” he replied, easing the door open.

The room was a little bit bigger than Danse’s own quarters on the Prydwen , all gray stone and concrete instead of cold steel. It was well-furnished and very Myra, he noted with a slight smile. A large Minuteman flag hung on one wall, its slate blue softening the stark stone. Several of the other walls had been adorned with tattered cloth tapestries decorated with what seemed to be the beginning of a couple different art projects. To the left of the door was a large desk, overflowing with maps and books and other documents. Next to this stood a large set of shelves, filled with strange trinkets and jars of what looked like various pigments, as well as a selection of knives and smaller sidearms placed haphazardly throughout. Righteous Authority , Danse’s treasured laser rifle that he’d gifted to her, leaned against the wall next to the shelf, faint bloodstains darkening the barrel. Beyond was a battered wooden table and a set of four mismatched chairs, a threadbare red tablecloth covering the flat surface. Finally, there was a large double bed, piled high with pillows. There, looking up at him with wide and conflicted eyes, was Myra.

She seemed paler even than she normally was, her skin almost like translucent wax against the soft blue sheets. As Danse approached her bedside, she lifted a hand shakily towards him. “You’re not a dream, right?” she asked hoarsely.

Danse shook his head. “No, Larimer. I’m here.”

She smiled gently at him. “It’s good to see you, Danse,” she murmured, “but what are you doing here?”

“Preston sent me a message,” he replied. “He told me you’d sustained serious injuries, and that I should come as soon as I could. So I did. Are you recovering well?”

She nodded. “Preston. That sly bastard. Who would have thought? Still, it’s...it’s really good to see you.”

He took her trembling hand in his armored one, squeezing it as gently as he could. In spite of his doubts, in spite of his worry, it was wonderful to just be near her again, to feel her hand cupped in his. It almost made him forget everything he had to ask, all the things he needed to know, all the horrible suspicions that had clouded his mind. Wasn’t it enough that she was here, by his side again?

For the first time since he’d joined the Brotherhood, Danse found himself wishing that he hadn’t become a Paladin. If only he and Myra had met some other way, in some other circumstances. Allegiances wouldn’t matter if they were both civilians. None of this would matter. They could just be like the thousands of others struggling to survive in this cruel world, working side by side to build a life for themselves. Things would be so much simpler, if only that were the case.

But unfortunately, such speculation was wasted. Their circumstances were what they were, and their lives were not their own to spend on each other. He belonged heart and soul to the Brotherhood of Steel, and Myra...well, she had always been a complication. Now more than ever.

“It’s good to see you too, Larimer,” he said softly before releasing her hand and reaching into his pack. “I have a gift from Elder Maxson,” he continued, handing her the package.

She unwrapped the parcel, her hands shaking with effort. As the cover of the worn composition notebook was revealed, she chuckled softly. “Of course. I’ll have to thank him personally when we get back to the Prydwen . Whenever that is,” she added with a groan of pain.

“Just be kind if it’s not well-written,” Danse replied. “As far as I know, he’s never let anyone read his notebooks before.” A cold shard of jealousy stabbed at him, but he wasn’t sure where it was directed. Was he jealous of Myra for getting a chance to see inside Arthur’s well-guarded inner sanctum, or was he jealous of Arthur for how close he’d gotten to Myra? Perhaps it was a bit of both, he thought. Either way, it was distracting and hardly worth worrying about. There were far worse things on his mind than Myra’s relationship with the Elder.

“I promise I’ll be tactful if it’s awful,” Myra said, setting the notebook on her end table. “So, did you bring me anything else fun, or just your handsome self?”

Danse blushed, furious with himself for reacting so strongly to her casual flirtation. “I…” he cleared his throat. This was hardly the time. He needed answers. “How long have you been back in the Commonwealth?” he asked.

Myra sighed, as if she too could feel the change in the wind. “I’ll take that as a no,” she replied. “It’s been a few weeks. I meant to come back right away, but…” She trailed off, eyeing the door.

Danse walked back to the entrance of the room. He pulled the door of the General’s quarters closed with a heavy thud before turning back to Myra. “Larimer, I think you owe me an explanation,” he growled. “And given the danger you’ve put both of us in, it had better be one hell of an explanation.”

“What are you talking about, Danse?” Myra asked, her eyes wide.

“I believe you’re already aware of what I’m talking about...Whisper,” Danse said, nearly spitting out the last word.

Myra’s face paled even further, and she struggled to sit up in her bed. “I...how long have you known?” she gasped in pain as she fought the sheets that confined her.

Danse felt the last delicate shard of hope shatter inside him. He knew it was a long shot, but he really wanted to believe that Quinlan’s information hadn’t really been implicating Myra, that it was all just a horrible misunderstanding. “So it’s true,” Danse snarled. “You are a member of the Railroad after all.” The Paladin glared at her. “After all we’ve done for you, everything I’ve...the Brotherhood has offered you, you joined the damned Railroad? You do understand who they are, don’t you? What they stand for?”

“They just want synths to be treated as persons,” Myra said defiantly. “I know the Brotherhood doesn’t believe that synths are human. But Danse, what if the Brotherhood’s wrong about gen-3 synths? What if they really are as human as you or me?”

“That’s ludicrous!” Danse retorted, pacing anxiously. “Synths are machines. They are manufactured. Their very existence is a testament to technology going too far yet again, to human hubris destroying itself. Do you really want to live through another disaster like the one that decimated your world? Because if you let those abominations live, Larimer, that could well be the result.”

“I understand the Brotherhood’s concerns,” Myra continued. “And I’m not asking you to agree with me, Danse. I’m just asking you to keep an open mind. If it is, in fact, possible that gen-3 synths are people, then we have an obligation to help them, just as much as we have an obligation to help other humans who need us.”

“Are you hearing yourself?” the Paladin asked. “Synths aren’t born. They don’t die. They are manufactured, and they shut down. That is a fairly clear distinction. They do not have souls. How can they? They are fabricated.”

“How would you know?” Myra exclaimed, her eyes pleading with him to hear her out. “Danse, how would you know if they have souls? Have you discovered some way to find the soul that I don’t know about?”

“No,” he replied cautiously, his clanking strides coming to a stop.

Myra nodded. “Exactly! There’s no way to be certain if they are ensouled or not. So isn’t it possible that an artificial being with intelligence and free will might possess a soul? I mean, how would you know, one way or the other?”

He thought for a moment. “I suppose it is possible,” Danse conceded. “But that’s hardly the point.”

Myra shook her head. “No, it’s exactly the point. If it’s possible that they have souls, that they are, in fact, alive, then I believe that gen-3 synths have a right to live, just as much as any natural-born person. Even if you disagree with me on that, Danse, you have to acknowledge that it is wiser to err on the side of caution. Do you really want to be responsible for genocide?”

“Larimer, listen to me!” Danse growled. “Of course I don’t want to commit genocide. But your Railroad friends are almost at that level already! Do you know how many people they’ve killed over the years in order to save an insignificant number of synths?”

Myra frowned. “The Railroad doesn’t kill people, Danse. Not unless they’re threatened.”

Danse shook his head, pulling a fat stack of files from his pack and handing them to her. “That’s incorrect. I did some research in the Brotherhood’s archives. These files contain every known act of terrorism committed by your friends. They have murdered a significant number of people in the last few years, and many of the victims are our own brothers and sisters. Do you remember the old man you rescued, Paladin Brandis?”

She nodded slightly, her eyes welling with tears as she read through the reports. Danse knew the files forwards and backwards. The contents had occupied his every waking moment the entire time Myra was gone, so he knew full well the horror and dismay she must be experiencing. “Are you saying that the Railroad…” Myra murmured, her voice cracking with emotion.

Danse sighed. “We have reason to believe that the initial ambush on his squad was from the Railroad, yes. Brandis was on a recon mission, just like mine. His team hadn’t even encountered any synths. Still, the evidence we collected at the scene suggests that the Railroad attacked them anyway, just to keep them from getting too close.”

“Desdemona wouldn’t do this,” Myra protested. “She’s a ruthless bitch, but even she wouldn’t do something like this. Would she?”

“I believe that the evidence speaks for itself,” the Paladin continued. “I’m sorry, Larimer. I wish I didn’t have to show you these files. But I want you to understand who you’ve decided to join forces with. The Railroad is not on the side of justice. They are liars. They are killers. And if they even suspected that I had uncovered your secret, they would not hesitate to make you and I both disappear.”

Myra stared up at him, tears welling in her bloodshot eyes. “But, Danse, how many synths has the Brotherhood killed over the years? Surely, the Brotherhood has caused just as much suffering as the Railroad has. Hell, even the Minutemen had their dark chapter at Quincy. One thing I’ve learned since I emerged from the vault is that no group of people is blameless.”

Danse nodded. “That’s certainly true, as long we accept your premise that synths are human. But the people the Railroad has killed are undeniably human, and there is no way around that fact. The Railroad doesn’t value human life, Larimer. How can they claim to champion synthetic life when they have no regard for life itself?”

Myra thought for a moment, her brow furrowed. “You do have a point,” she said quietly. “But I refuse to believe that every member of the Railroad thinks that way. I’ve...I know them, Danse. Some of them are my friends.”

The Paladin sighed. “And I believed that we were also friends. I’ve come to trust and respect you. If this were just a matter of ideological debate, I might even be able to agree to disagree with you. But the fact remains that the Railroad is a corrupting influence. And if you continue playing both sides of the fence, sooner or later, you’re going to find yourself alone.”

“We...we are still friends, ” Myra replied, her voice breaking. “I...I want us to still be friends. I need you, Danse. More than you know.”

“If you’re being sincere,” Danse muttered, “you need to start behaving like it. Do you realize the danger you’ve put us both in? If anyone in the Brotherhood finds out about your...associations, you’ll probably be executed. And as your sponsor, it is my duty to report you and accept my share of the blame.”

Myra frowned. “So why haven’t you turned me in?”

“I’m not entirely certain,” Danse admitted. “I’m not particularly sentimental, as a rule. Perhaps I merely wanted to give you a chance to recant. I felt…” he sighed. “I feel like I owe you that much, after all we’ve experienced together. You matter a great deal to me, Larimer. But you have to stop lying to me. If we’re going to survive this, I need you to tell me the truth. How long have you been working for them?”

She sighed raggedly. “I never wanted to hide this from you, Danse. I was hoping that I could find a way to tell you that wouldn’t put anyone else I care about at risk.”

Danse frowned, jealousy tightening its coils around him again. She’d kept secrets from him, to protect whom? Deacon? The Paladin’s scowl deepened. He had disliked Myra’s association with the duplicitous civilian even before he’d learned that the man was the Railroad’s top intelligence agent. Now, the mere implication that Myra cared for the man filled him with ire. “I wish I could believe that,” the Paladin replied. “I want to trust you, Larimer. But I’m not sure how I can any more. Answer me. Have you been spying for the Railroad since before we met?”

Myra shook her head. “Of course not! I was recruited a few months ago, when MacCready and I went to Goodneighbor.”

Danse scowled. “Is MacCready also a Railroad agent? Hell, are all of your friends working for them?”

“No, although Mac and Preston do know about them.,” she sighed. “Mac works for me, and that’s the truth.”

The Paladin felt a pang of guilt as he remembered the events that led Myra to Goodneighbor after they had cleared Fort Strong. If only he’d kept himself under control, had been able to face his fear of losing her after the Super Mutant attack...he should have stayed by her side. Damn it, why did everything go wrong every time he strayed from her side? Danse and Myra should have gone to Goodneighbor together. He should have been there for her. In a way, this was all his fault.

“Larimer,” Danse said softly, “what did the Railroad promise you? Why would you join them when you already had the Brotherhood of Steel and the Minutemen at your back? Weren’t we enough for you?”

“They want to take down the Institute, Danse,” she replied earnestly. “Even if their motives are different, they want the same thing the Brotherhood does. And they have some significant resources at their disposal, methods and techniques no one else has. That’s why I decided to ally with them. I figured that we could debate the synth question after we…” Myra’s voice trailed off, a far, haunted look in her eyes. “I’m sorry. I never meant for things to turn out like this.”

“Neither did I,” Danse said softly. “I never wanted to doubt you, Myra.” It was only after the shock on her face registered with him that Danse realized that he’d called her by her first name. Ordinarily, he’d be flustered by this breach of decorum. But at this point, he wasn’t certain where they stood. Was she even his subordinate any more? If this was truly the end of their time together...perhaps it no longer mattered. She’d been Myra to him for months, although he rarely acknowledged it.

“I know you can’t trust that I’m telling you the truth, Danse,” she continued. “But believe me. The last thing I’d ever want to do is to hurt you. All I’ve ever wanted was to get my son back. Everything else was just a means to get there. But now...now I wish I’d found another way.” Myra’s eyes welled with tears. “Very few things in my life have been as painful as seeing you look at me like this, Danse. I’d take it all back, if I could. I’m so, so sorry.”

Danse felt an overwhelming desire to scoop her into his arms and cradle her gently against his armored torso. He wanted to hold her close, to brush the lines of worry and regret from her lovely face, to give her the comfort both of them desperately needed. But he held himself back. For all her perfect words, for how desperately he wanted to throw caution to the wind, there were some lines he couldn’t afford to cross. Not until he knew where they stood.

For a long time, neither of them spoke. No more apologies were exchanged. There was no need. Whether it was a foolish, treasonous decision or not, Danse believed her. He still trusted her. And, more than that, he couldn’t bear to lose her because of his own mistakes.

Eventually, Myra sighed, biting her lower lip the way she always did when she was distressed. “So what now?” she asked softly.

“We still have quite a dilemma on our hands,” Danse replied. “I’m reasonably certain that Proctor Quinlan suspects you, or will soon. As far as I can see, there are two options. You can leave the Brotherhood of Steel and go into hiding. You might be safe, but I...we would never be able to see each other again without risking us both being executed for treason.”

Myra laughed bitterly. “Well, that’s not really an option. After all of this, I won’t leave you behind to clean up after me. What’s the other choice?”

“I hate to ask this of you,” Danse said with a measured sigh. “I know how important the Minutemen are to you, and whether I approve or not, I realize that you consider many members of the Railroad to be your friends. If there was another way...but the safest option would be taking the Oath of Fidelity. Formally join the Brotherhood of Steel, and make it clear to everyone where you stand. Then no one in the Brotherhood would turn on you, not even Quinlan.”

Myra frowned. “Danse, I can’t do that. I have responsibilities to all my allies. If I prioritize one group above the others, it could start a war.”

“I understand that,” the Paladin replied. “That’s one of the reasons I was hoping to avoid you taking the Oath. But we don’t have the luxury of half-measures, Larimer. Not at this juncture. If you’re going to survive, Quinlan has to believe that you are sincere.”

“I...I need time, Danse,” Myra murmured, her emerald eyes searching his for answers he couldn’t even begin to know how to give her. “That’s not a decision I can just make on the spot.”

He nodded. “I understand. That’s why I’m prepared to take you away from here as soon as you’re well enough to move. I have a vertibird on standby, manned by a lancer who owes me a pretty substantial favor. We can be halfway across the Commonwealth before anyone knows we’re gone.”

Myra scoffed. “Running away? That’s unlike you, Danse.”

“It’s hardly running away,” he argued. “You need a chance to think things through, and the further you are from Proctor Quinlan right now, the better. As far as anyone will know, you and I have a very important, urgent mission that requires our immediate attention.”

The Paladin walked over to Myra’s desk, grabbing a pen before furiously scribbling a message to Arthur.

Elder Maxson,

Knight Larimer is experiencing severe psychological stress as well as extensive physical injuries. I am retroactively requesting an undetermined amount of leave for her and myself so I can keep an eye on her. I believe I still have almost a year in unused leave, so I trust this will not be an issue.

I know our attack on the Institute must come first, but, frankly, if she doesn’t take some time off, I fear Knight Larimer will not last through the coming conflict. As you yourself said, she is too valuable an asset for us to mismanage her right when we need her the most.

I’ll keep you informed of any and all changes to her condition, and we will return as soon as she is well. Thank you in advance for agreeing to this. If you do not agree to this, feel free to punish me as you see fit. Remember, you’re the one who insisted on leaving her in my care.

Ad Victoriam,

Senior Paladin T. Danse

Good enough. He grabbed a signal grenade from his pack, setting it on top of the note. “When we’re ready to leave,” he said, “I’ll take this to Colonel Garvey. I trust that he’ll know what to do with it.”

Myra’s eyes widened. “You’re serious about this, aren’t you?”

Danse frowned. “When have you ever known me to not be serious, especially when it concerns the safety of my men?”

She smiled softly. “That’s certainly true,” she replied. “Still, are you sure you want to take this sort of risk? What if I decide not to take the Oath?”

Danse returned to her side in a few long strides, taking her hand in his once more. “I trust you more than almost anyone. I know you’ll do what you perceive to be the right thing, even if I don’t always agree with your conclusions. Whatever you decide, I’ll do my best to protect you. If it costs me everything…” he sighed. “So be it. But if you’re still holding something back, I need you to be honest with me. I can’t protect you if I don’t know all the variables.”

Myra’s gaze faltered. “I already told you about the Railroad.”

Danse sighed. “I know. But there’s something more, isn’t there? What happened in the Institute, Larimer? Why didn’t you come home to the Prydwen ? You never would have risked exposing your involvement with the Railroad if you’d just done what you promised and reported to Elder Maxson first.”

“Do...do we have to talk about this right now?” she whispered hoarsely. Her eyes looked past him at some unknown spot on the floor.

The Paladin nodded. “I need to know, Larimer. What aren’t you telling me?”

“Sit.” Myra patted the side of her bed gently, and Danse shook his head. She glared at him, patting the bed more emphatically. With a heavy sigh, he removed his power armor and sat awkwardly next to her, trying not to crush her battered body by accident.

“I’m not sure why this is necessary,” he mumbled.

“I…” Myra smiled up at him sadly, her eyes brimming with tears. “This is going to be difficult for me, Danse. It’s easier if you’re close. Sorry,” she added, blushing slightly. “I know it’s awkward and weird, but I feel safer when you’re here like this, okay?”

Danse nodded, his ears burning. “Very well,” he conceded. He wasn’t sure he understood what she meant, and he felt nervous sitting this close to her. He could feel the heat of her body through the sheets, the hard curve of her leg pressing slightly against his lower back as her body shifted. Even though they operated in close quarters most of the time, it was rare for them to be this close, with no armor in between to keep them safe. This close, they could wound each other gravely if they wanted. This close, it was harder to deny the growing bond between them, even if Danse was still struggling to ignore it.

He didn’t want to admit that he loved her. The thought crept unbidden from the deep part of himself he’d caged it in when he’d found out about her Railroad involvement. He might in fact love her, but there were so many reasons why he shouldn’t let that be true. What if she was toying with him? What if she only saw him as a friend and colleague? He couldn’t risk their already frayed relationship by giving his feelings for her a name. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.

But sitting beside her, watching her labor for words that would not willingly be born, he couldn’t deny the truth to himself. He would conceal it as long as he needed to, even forever if that was how things panned out, but he knew. Danse knew for certain that he loved her. He loved Myra so much that the thought of leaving her side again was almost unbearable. Even if she betrayed him in the end, even if she killed him, he couldn’t bring himself to ever part from her. He was hers, completely and entirely. May whatever god still ruled over this forsaken world have mercy on him.

He started as Myra laid her cold hand on his knee, and he turned to look at her awkwardly. She chuckled at him softly, her beautiful eyes flickering to life with her smile. “What’s wrong, Danse?” She asked.

“It’s nothing,” he replied. “We’ve just talked about so much already today. Perhaps you’re right, and we should continue this discussion another time.”

She shook her head. “No. You’re right. I need to be honest with you. After all you’ve done, you deserve to know the truth. I found him, Danse,” she continued, her face falling. “I found my son. But he’s not a child any more. He’s the leader of the Institute.”

Danse’s mind reeled. How could this be? “Are you sure?” he asked.

“Definitely,” Myra replied. “I’ve tried to come up with some way the Institute could have been tricking me, but the evidence speaks for itself.”

Danse took her hand in his, lending her what comfort he was able. “That certainly complicates things. I assume that’s the reason why you failed to report your findings to Elder Maxson?”

She nodded. “I’m not sure what to make of it all, Danse. Hell, I’m not sure what to do about it. Shaun’s an old man, now, almost three times my age, if you can believe it. I missed… I missed everything. I never got to teach him to read, or soothe his nightmares. Those bastards stole it all from me, and now he’s the worst one among them. They made him into a monster. My own son...my baby boy.” She broke down in deep, angry sobs.

Danse struggled to find any words that would fix this situation. He never quite knew what to do with crying women. It was one of his bigger weaknesses. Someone slicker than him would have had the right thing to say, some simple solution to make everything seem right again. All the Paladin had was his gruff sincerity, and he had to hope that it would be enough. “I...I’m sorry,” he managed. “I know this must be a terrible shock for you. I cannot even imagine what you must be feeling right now.”

Myra shuddered as he placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “How do I carry out our mission now?” she asked. “Can I really kill my own child? No mother should have to make that choice, Danse!”

He nodded solemnly. “Agreed. You have been put in an unimaginable position. I’ll ask Maxson to take you off this assignment. We will find another way to reach the Institute.” Not that Arthur would agree, since he’d made his position on their mission abundantly clear while Myra was away. Still, Myra was being asked to kill her own son. Danse would risk Maxson’s wrath to save her from that.

“No!” cried Myra. “No, this is mine to finish. I can’t let anyone else take responsibility for my failure as a mother.”

Danse sighed heavily. “It is not your fault that you were robbed of the chance to raise your son, Larimer. Therefore, it is not your fault that he grew up to become the man that he is. You cannot blame yourself for that.”

“But I do!” she cried. “I do. It was my job to raise him, to protect him, and I failed. My son…”

He shook his head. “Thinking like that won’t do you any good,” he replied. “Believe me, I know somewhat how you feel. After Cutler, I felt like I’d failed as well. I realize that losing a friend is different from losing a child, but the fact remains that you did not make him who he became. It wasn’t your choice.”

Myra gripped his arm so tightly that he thought she might leave a bruise. “When I was pregnant,” she growled, “I made a promise that I would give Shaun the best chance in life that I could. Is this really the best I could do?”

The Paladin placed his hand over hers. “I don’t know,” he replied earnestly. “But none of this was your choice.”

“I could have refused to sign us up for the Vault,” Myra continued. “We could have died together that day, or become ghouls. Either way, those bastards wouldn’t have taken him, used him for their damned experiments. Did you know why they call him Father? It’s because his DNA...my DNA is the model for all the gen-3 synths. They stole my baby to make their slaves.”

Danse stared at her in shock. “I...I had no idea.”

“I doubt anyone outside the Institute does,” she murmured. “The synths basically worship him. Hell, a lot of the scientists do too. Everyone in the Institute was just so fucking nice to me because of it. These terrible, twisted people, and they treated me like I was the Madonna. It was an awful, heretical nightmare, Danse. I can’t even begin to deal with it.”

His heart ached for her. How could it not? After all she’d gone through to save her son, to be confronted with something like that...it was a miracle that she still seemed sane, if he was perfectly honest. “That’s all the more reason to move to a neutral location as soon as you’re able,” Danse said softly. “No matter what you decide to do, you deserve to come to that decision on your own, without anyone manipulating you.”

Myra nodded. “It would be best if I was on my own while I figure out what to do about all this” she replied. “But Danse?”

“What is it?” he asked.

“I’d really like it if you stayed with me. I’ll understand if you’d rather leave, knowing what you know. But I...I want you to stay.”

Danse sighed heavily. Of course he wanted to remain by her side. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that there was nothing he’d rather do. But was it wise for him to put himself in this position? Was it right for him to remain, to influence her when he’d just told her to choose on her own?

Myra’s eyes darkened as he hesitated, and she released her grip on his arm. “I’m sorry,” she said blankly. “I’m acting like an idiot. You’ve indulged me enough.”

Danse eased down next to her with a heavy sigh, lying beside her on top of the sheets. Carefully, he pulled her into his arms, protecting her the only way he had left to do so. If she was in a firefight, he would have shielded her as he always did. If raiders were staging an assault on her home, he would risk everything to bring her to safely. But against the worries and decisions that hung over her head like a guillotine blade, all he had to offer was this awkward attempt at comfort.

Myra tensed with a hiss of pain, but soon settled into his unexpected embrace. The Paladin thought he might have imagined it, but it felt as though she’d placed a gentle kiss against the arm of his flight suit as she nestled against him. Tears still flowed heavily from her bloodshot eyes, and he lifted his arm to her face, wiping them dry with his sleeve. “Thanks,” she murmured softly.

“I’ll never leave you,” he said. “You’re my responsibility, after all.”

She chuckled weakly. “So what part of the manual is this tactic from?” she joked.

Danse smiled slightly. “Perhaps if it works, I’ll have to write an appendix,” he replied. “As it is, decorum prohibits actions like this, and with good reason. I trust you’ll keep this infraction just between us.”

Myra nodded. “You keep my secrets, Danse, and I’ll keep yours.”

In spite of himself, the Paladin liked the sound of that. He’d always been a paragon of decorum, never questioning the Codex that kept his adopted family alive. But ever since Myra had stumbled into the Cambridge Police Station, that weak black pistol blazing, Danse could sense a shift in his approach to his calling. Myra was changing him, and while that should have alarmed him, Danse found that realization surprisingly comforting to him. There was no way he could return to the man he was before. But with her beside him, he had no desire to do so.

Prudent or not, he loved her. And that, at least, was worth defending, even if she could never know the truth.

Fog clung to the Castle’s battlements like tufted fleece, obscuring the world beyond the fort. The concrete walls were stark and bare against the white mist, figures moving like shadow puppets as they went about their morning work. It was the third day of heavy fog, and tensions were high in the fortress as minutemen jumped at shadows that might be hostiles moving beyond the walls, only to find that they were harmless tricks of the light.

Still, work had to continue, and so the Castle’s staff labored ever onward, turning the once-vacant ruin into a command center to be proud of. Even in these conditions, their responsibility to the Commonwealth would not allow them time to relax. As far as anyone was concerned, what precious time they had could run out at any moment, and they had to be ready.

“Move that turret over to the left a bit, Guerra!” called Preston from beneath the reconstructed Castle wall. The Minuteman’s newest officer stood on top of the forty-foot-high concrete structure, struggling with the heavy machine gun. She threw her whole body into it, finally scooting the turret half a foot closer to the corner of the battlements.

Preston couldn’t help but laugh as he watched her struggle. Over the last month, he’d gotten to know Talise fairly well, at least well enough to know that she rarely did anything the easy way. Still, she’d relaxed since she and Preston had returned from Jamaica Plain, and the Colonel was glad to see it. While they hadn’t managed to find any surviving members of her deceased boyfriend’s family, the town having become completely overrun with feral ghouls, Talise had at least gotten the opportunity to learn more about Henry’s early life from a half-burned journal they’d recovered at his family’s old homestead. Preston had been more than willing to help her continue the search, but Talise had come to the difficult conclusion that their odds of finding Henry’s next of kin were slim at best, and she had insisted on returning to the Castle and joining up with the Minutemen. He couldn’t say that he was entirely unhappy that she’d decided to stick around.

“Is that better?” Talise huffed, her face red from exertion.

“Looks good,” the Colonel replied, giving her a thumbs-up. “That wall should have enough defenses set up on it now. Come on down and get cleaned up before breakfast.”

“Yes sir!” the young woman replied, heading for the stairs.

Preston looked about the courtyard with a satisfied smile on his face. It had taken months, but the Castle’s walls were finally finished. The heavy armor plating on the outside of the concrete walls had been a good first step. Now, every wall was being armed against a siege that seemed inevitable. The Commonwealth had taught Preston many lessons in his time serving her, but perhaps the most critical was this: for every fortune, misfortune was sure to follow. No power or security came without a price, and the Minutemen had grown dramatically in power. Every settlement they protected was diligent about sending recruits to the Castle, to the point where Preston had a hard time training all the new members himself. That sort of population was bound to garner the unwanted attention of the Institute. Preston knew they would come. It was just a matter of when.

Still, the Colonel wasn’t content to just seal the doors and wait. There was a whole world out there, full of people who needed a chance to determine their own future free from the fears that plagued their lives. And now that the Minutemen had the numbers, it was time to send dedicated squads to defend the settlements already allied with them. They needed to show those that remained neutral that today’s Minutemen, at least, kept their word.

A small stage had been constructed at the base of the northern wall the evening before, in preparation for the reassignment ceremony that would take place soon, if the damn fog would lift. Preston wasn’t a huge fan of pomp and circumstance himself, but he’d learned how valuable events like these could be for morale. The only thing that would make the ceremony better would be if the General herself bothered to show up to preside over the squad selection, but Preston wasn’t even sure where Myra was. He tried to pretend that he wasn’t bothered by her absence, that he didn’t blame himself for driving her away with his awkward declaration of love. He just hoped that she wouldn’t stay away forever. The Minutemen still needed her as a symbol of hope, a rallying point. Without Myra, Preston worried that the whole beautiful dream of a free Commonwealth would fall apart.

As Preston checked the stage’s structural integrity one more time, he heard a loud, grating voice from beyond the Castle wall.

“Hey!” cried the voice. “I heard this place belongs ta the Minutemen again! Yer General in there? I need ta speak with her!”

Preston dashed up the stairs to the top of the battlements. Below, he saw a lone figure in what appeared to be military fatigues, though the fog made it difficult to see many details. Whoever it was was standing with their hands on their hips. “Who are you, and what do you want with the General?” he asked cautiously.

“The name’s Ronnie Shaw, though ya young pups probably don’t remember me. I came ta see what all the fuss was about. Apparently, yah new General’s got quite the reputation. I thought maybe it was time I came back, offered what I know.”

“You’re a minuteman, then, aren’t you?” Preston asked.

“Was,” Ronnie replied coldly. “I was a minuteman, back when that meant something.”

“We’re hoping that it means something again,” the Colonel replied. “Hold on. I’ll let you in.” He activated his radio. “Davis, would you please open the door? We have a guest.”

“On it!” Kes replied from her station by the entrance, pressing the door release. The heavy wooden gate swung open, and the newcomer strode inside, glancing around the compound with disdain.

“Can’t say I love what ya’ve done with the place,” she called, “but I guess it’s better than nothing. Where’s yah General?”

Preston’s hackles rose slightly. They’d worked tirelessly to restore the fort to its former glory, and here was this stranger out of nowhere, criticizing his men? Preston wasn’t having it. At the same time, however, he didn’t want to risk aggravating Ronnie. If the old-timer really did have important information, the Colonel realized that he was going to have to play her games. “She’s away, currently,” he replied. “But we’ll reach out and see if we can get her here. Just sit tight.” He turned to Forrester. “Jake, send a message to the General. She needs to get here. Now.”

“What do I tell her?” Forrester asked over the radio.

“Just tell her that there’s someone here who wants to meet her, and it’s urgent,” Preston replied. “Emphasize the urgent part. I don’t want her blowing me off again.”

Ronnie scoffed. “Sounds like yah General’s a real piece-a-work. Who leaves their troops ta fend for themselves? Disgraceful.”

Preston sighed. “General Larimer’s a busy woman, but even still, she’s done a lot for the Minutemen. When you meet her, maybe you’ll see that.”

“Attention!” blared Forrester’s voice over Radio Freedom as he enunciated clearly and slowly into the microphone. “This is an urgent message for the General. If you’re listening, we have a...situation at the Castle. There’s a --what the--Hey! You can’t do that!”

Preston watched in disbelief as the newcomer pulled the mic out of Jake’s hands, pushing the young Lieutenant aside. “All right, listen up, General,” the old woman snarled. “Get yah heinie back here pronto. This is Ronnie Shaw. Ya've never heard of me, but yah'll want ta talk ta me.”

“Ma’am!” Jake protested with a grimace. “That’s delicate equipment!”

“All right,” Ronnie grumbled. “Don't get yah panties in a bunch. Ya can have yah precious mic back." She shoved the device back into the broadcaster’s hands, turning back to Preston. “That ought ta get her butt in gear. Now, are ya the one in charge here, in the meantime?”

Preston nodded, offering the ornery old woman a handshake. “Colonel Preston Garvey. I handle the day-to-day situations for the General while she’s away.”

“Huh,” Ronnie grumbled, accepting his hand. “Well, ya at least seem competent enough.” She pulled roughly on his arm, quickly turning it behind his back in a gooseneck. Preston yelped in pain as she forced his fist up his back just hard enough to incapacitate him. “Still, ya screwed up. Can ya tell me exactly what ya did wrong?”

Preston’s eyes watered as he glanced around the compound. At least a dozen guns were trained on them from around the keep, his Minutemen ready to destroy Ronnie at his command. “You’re outnumbered, Shaw,” he groaned. “If you’re here to hurt us, you’ll never leave the Castle alive.”

“I shouldn’t have even been able ta get through the damn door!” Ronnie said angrily. “What if I was a synth infiltrator, or a raider? Ya had no way of knowin’, but ya just let me waltz right in here. Idiots, the lot of ya. This isn’t playtime, kids. It’s war. And ya have to take it seriously, or the whole ’Wealth’s boned. Understand?”

Preston nodded. “It’s okay!” he called to the guards. “Stand down. We’re all friends here.” Ronnie released his arm from the lock. The Minutemen lowered their weapons, though many of them still watched Ronnie suspiciously. The Colonel rubbed his arm gingerly. “Well, thank you for the lesson,” he muttered. “You’re right. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

Ronnie sighed. “Ya can make it up ta me by tightening security on the door. Back in my day, we had a squad posted there 24/7. Ya have the manpower, don’tcha?”

Preston shook his head. “We’re reassigning most of the Minutemen currently stationed here to our settlements. I’m only keeping a skeleton crew at the Castle until we’ve trained more to take their place. I can’t keep all our manpower locked behind these walls while people are dying out there.”

“People are always gonna be dying out there, Garvey,” Ronnie said coldly. “Yah first priority should be ensuring that the Minutemen don’t die out with them. Now, I’ve got some ideas that’ll help with that, but yer gonna have ta let me implement them. Startin’ with screening yah current militia.” She produced a clipboard from her pack, a list of questions printed neatly on it in red ink. “I happened by a place called Covenant a couple years back. Crazy-ass folks there, but they’d been working on a way ta detect synths using simple logic questions. We should screen everyone here immediately.”

Preston frowned. “I’m not sure the General would approve of that,” he said. “She believes that free synths are welcome in our ranks, so long as they work hard and follow our rules like everyone else.”

Ronnie laughed in disbelief. “Next thing, yah’ll be telling me that she’s training up a squad a’ Deathclaws to fight for her. Because that, at least, is less dangerous than having synth spies in our ranks. Ya know a Deathclaw’s a Deathclaw, what they’ll do, what motivates them. A synth? Well, that’s just asking for trouble. No way to tell if they’re still workin’ for the Institute. Ya might as well just tear down these walls ya’self and wave a great white flag around.”

The Colonel sighed. “Still, it’s the General’s call. I trust her judgement. But you don’t know General Larimer like I do, so I can understand your hesitation.”

Ronnie rolled her eyes. “From what I’ve seen so far, Colonel, I’m not impressed. But who knows? Maybe this General Larimer will surprise me.”

::::

It was nearly midnight when the alarm went up from the front gate, rousing Preston from his fitful slumber. “What is it?” he groaned into his radio.

“General’s back!” Zev shouted, “and she’s brought company! Got a whole bunch of Super Mutants on her tail. Turrets are doing what they can, but I’m not sure it’s enough.”

Preston leapt out of bed, putting his boots on quickly. He didn’t have time to bother with much else, so he threw his coat on over his boxers and grabbed his laser musket from its hook on the wall as he ran past it. “Well, what are you waiting for?” he asked. “Open the gate and let her in!”

“Don’t listen ta him!” Preston heard Ronnie admonish Zev. “Ya open those doors, and we’ll be invitin’ all those muties in for a midnight snack. Yah General’s just gonna have ta fend for herself.”

“But, ma’am…” Zev protested, “that’s our General out there!”

“I don’t care if it’s the President of the former United States himself,” Ronnie snarled, “I’m not letting ya open that door!”

Preston, by that point, had cleared the hallway and was already on his way to the guard tower above the gate. The firing of the turrets was deafening, spouts of hellfire illuminating the starless night. He could hear the taunting cries of the mutants long before he saw them, and he shuddered as he thought about Myra being trapped beyond the walls. Hopefully, he wasn’t too late. “Damn it, Shaw, you’re not in charge here!” he screamed, firing a flare from his flare gun down towards the bellowing horde. He couldn’t risk hitting Myra. He had to get some light on the battle. “Open the gate, Zev! We’ll just have to risk it.”

“Ya make one move towards that button, boy, and yer dead,” Ronnie hissed. Preston heard the unmistakable sound of a pistol being cocked. It didn’t take a genius to visualize what was happening down below. The Colonel’s heart pounded in his ears as his mind raced. He could run down and protect Zev, or he could help Myra by covering her from above. There was no time to do both.

Preston cried in frustration as he fired his laser musket at the nearest mutant. He grabbed at his radio angrily. “Zev, don’t be a hero, okay? I’ll do my best to cover the General from here. Ronnie, when this is over, we’re going to have words.”

“I expect that we will,” the old woman replied calmly.

With that, Preston returned his attention to the scene beneath him. Myra knelt on the very doorstep of the fort, her laser rifle held trembling in her hands as she fired round after burning round into the horde. From what Preston could see, he counted at least seven Super Mutants still standing, their wrath concentrated on the General’s failing form. Preston cranked his musket and fired, trying to take down the closest target, a large, ugly brute with a sledgehammer who was charging Myra’s position. He managed to catch it in the arm, sending the hammer spiraling off into the night, followed by a scream of rage from the green monstrosity. Still, the creature wasn’t downed, merely wounded, and it continued its ferocious charge. Myra screamed as the brute caught her around the waist, hurling her against the Castle walls like a rag-doll. She fell to the ground, unmoving.

“General!” screamed Preston, firing at the Super Mutant once more. This time, he caught the creature squarely between the eyes, and it keeled over, rage and confusion frozen on its dead face. “Damn it, you’d better live,” Preston muttered, his heart sinking. Zev was right. Even between Preston and the turrets, Myra’s chances were slim. If she was still alive, she wouldn’t be for long. “I need more men on the walls!” Preston cried into his radio. “Hurry!”

“Oh, fuck this!” screamed a gravely female voice from behind Preston, “Duck, Garvey!” Before he could react, he felt a blazing woosh as a missile careened past the side of his head. The shell exploded into the crowd, sending chunks of mutant flying in all directions as two of the beasts fell. The Colonel turned to see Kestrel Davis grinning at him as she reloaded her missile launcher. “Liberated this from the General’s quarters a few days ago,” the petite blonde explained. “And no, I’m not sorry.”

“Right now,” Preston replied as he took aim, “I’m not even mad. Just try not to kill the General. Or me, if you can help it.”

“You’re no fun,” Kes teased, firing off another missile. “This thing’s awesome. Can I keep it?”

“Absolutely not,” Preston said. “You’re a menace, Davis.”

“Says the guy parading around in his underwear,” she retorted.

Preston blushed. “There wasn’t time, so...oh, forget it! If the General lives, you can ask her.”

More bursts of laser fire joined the fray as the other minutemen found their positions along the wall. While not all made their marks, due to inexperience as well as the poor sight conditions, enough hit their targets to turn the tide. In a matter of minutes, the battle was over.

As soon as the last monster fell, Preston tore down the stairs to Zev’s position. He shoved Ronnie out of the way, slamming his fist down on the door release button. “Ignatius, I need you to prep the infirmary!” he bellowed into his radio, dragging Zev with him as he ran to the gate. “Let’s hope the General’s still got a need for it.”

“I’m sorry, Colonel,” Zev said, his eyes brimming with tears. “My life’s not worth all that much. I should have opened the door.”

“I’m not angry at you, Stern,” Preston replied, trying to sound calmer than he was. “It’s Shaw’s fault if anything happens to the General, not yours. We just need to-- Damn it!” he exclaimed as he neared Myra’s still form.

She was lying on her side, curled into a loose ball. Her laser rifle lay discarded a few feet away, partially submerged in one of the rivulets of mutant blood that flowed along the gate towards the lake. Myra’s body was covered in scrapes and bruises, including a rather nasty gash just above her right temple that stained her snowy hair with sticky clumps of half-clotted blood. Preston noted with alarm that she wasn’t wearing her armor, her soft body barely concealed by scraps of green fabric that were once a dress, now torn to shreds. Without armor, it would be a miracle if the Super Mutant’s blow wasn’t fatal.

With the exception of her head wound and a few other concerning lacerations, Myra seemed to be mostly unscathed. Still, as Preston knelt beside her still body, he noticed that her breathing was ragged and shallow. He scooped her up carefully in his arms. “Zev, grab the General’s gun,” he ordered. “I’ll take her to the infirmary.”

Zev nodded, picking up the blood-soaked rifle with a look of disgust. “Is she going to be okay?” the young man asked as they raced back towards the keep.

Preston sighed. “I honestly don’t know. She looks fine, but for all we know, her insides could be all busted up. We have to just do what we can, and hope that’s enough.”

Ignatius was already preparing a large dose of his usual herbal remedy when they entered the clinic, boiling strange roots and powders to create a bitter broth. Preston had been skeptical when the doctor had first started using his plant-based treatments, but he had to admit that whatever was in them seemed to work well. The medic’s eyes widened as Preston gently laid Myra’s unconscious body on one of the hospital beds. “What the hell happened to her?” the gruff giant exclaimed.

“For starters, a Super Mutant tossed her against the fort,” Preston replied. “Some of her wounds look older, so I’m not sure what caused them.”

Ignatius frowned. “Has she been unconscious long?”

Preston nodded. “Nearly six minutes, now. But she’s still breathing.”

“That won’t mean much if she never wakes up,” the medic replied, pawing through the ingredients on a tall set of metal shelves. “We have to assume there’s internal bleeding, probably at least some broken ribs. If we’re lucky, her major organs are okay, but we can’t bank on that either.” He grimaced, holding up a glass jar with some sort of dried purplish flower petals in it up to the light. “Super Mutants,” he grumbled, placing the jar back and selecting another. “I was really hoping there weren’t so many of them in the East. Well, at least you don’t have Nightkin.”

Preston wanted to ask what a Nightkin was, but he was frankly more worried than curious at this point. “Is there anything I can do to help?” he asked.

Ignatius nodded. “We’ll need to get her to drink an infusion of fever blossom, bloodleaf, and a tiny hint of glowing fungus to boost her body’s recovery. But we can’t wait for her to wake up, so we’ll need to get a feeding tube set up.” He grabbed a coil of thin plastic tubing from the shelving unit, tossing it into a pot of boiling water. “I’ve never had to use one on an unconscious person before, so I’ll need you to hold her head steady while I place the tube down her nose.”

“That seems...risky,” Preston replied. “What if you send it down her windpipe by accident?”

“It’s that, or we have to wait for her to wake up,” Ignatius retorted as he prepared the infusion, “but she might be dead by then. We have no way of knowing how bad the damage is. I’m sorry, but we have to risk it.”

“Damn it!” the Colonel cried. He turned to Zev, who was still clutching Myra’s gun, tears in the boy’s eyes. “Zev, you and Kes are to confine Ronnie in a cell until we know if the General’s safe. Don’t let her leave.”

“Yes, sir!” the young man barked, placing Myra’s gun on a table by the door as he left.

Preston sighed heavily, turning back to Ignatius. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

::::

Myra regained consciousness about halfway through the next day, though from the cries of agony, Preston was sure she wished that she hadn’t. He rushed to her bedside as soon as his duties allowed him to, cupping her hand in his as she whimpered in pain.

“Is there anything we can do to make her more comfortable?” Preston asked Ignatius.

The medic shook his head. “I’ve given her as much pain relief as I dared. From what I can tell, she’s got at least three broken ribs. Frankly, considering what you told me when you brought her in, she’s incredibly lucky to be alive.”

“Can we at least take the tube out?” the Colonel retorted. “She should be able to drink now, right?”

Ignatius sighed. “Just to be on the safe side, I’d like to leave it in. But you’re right. With the limited equipment we have to sanitize anything, we don’t want to risk infection. Hold her still, will you?”

Preston gripped Myra’s shoulders firmly, hoping that he wasn’t hurting her. “I’m sorry about this, General,” he said soothingly. “This is probably going to feel really strange, but I promise I won’t let anything happen to you.”

The medic took hold of the end of the feeding tube, slowly and steadily pulling on it. Myra’s eyes widened in shock and horror as the plastic began exiting her nose, moaning desperately against the blockage in her throat. It hurt Preston to see her so afraid, but he knew that they couldn’t stop now. After a few agonizing moments, the tube popped free, and Ignatius quickly tossed it back in another pot of boiling water to be cleaned.

Myra gasped deeply, her mouth opening and closing like a fish’s as she struggled to overcome the unpleasant sensation. “That…” she whispered hoarsely, “ugh...water.”

“Here, General,” Preston said. He poured her a glass, carefully tilting it to her lips as the General struggled to sit up. She took a few small sips before lying back down with a cry of discomfort.

“I really...ugh...I need to stop coming here,” Myra moaned.

“Or you just need to stop being so reckless, ma’am,” Ignatius replied. “I’m beginning to think you’ve made a deal with the devil, considering how many times you’ve avoided death since we’ve met. You’ve got more lives than a damned cat.”

“That too,” she muttered. “How long...argh...am I supposed to be laid up this time?”

“Considering that we still don’t know the full extent of your injuries,” the medic continued, “you’ll be lucky if you’re back on your feet by the end of the month.”

Myra shook her head slightly, grimacing in pain. “That’s not going to work for me,” she hissed.

“Well, like it or not, that’s the reality of it,” Ignatius said, holding out a shot glass full of pungent medicine. “It’ll go faster if you take your tincture regularly, though I can’t promise that it’ll taste good.”

She gagged as the liquid slid down her throat. “You weren’t kidding,” she replied.”What’s in this?”

“A few desert herbs I saved, plus some local plants that seem to work similarly,” the medic said cryptically. “So far, it’s the best cure for most things I’ve found out here. Should help the bruises heal quicker, at least.” He turned to Preston. “I have to go check in with Kes. Call for me if she gets worse, okay?”

Preston nodded, watching the large man as he ducked through the doorway and headed down the hall. The Colonel eased the door closed behind him before turning his attention back to Myra, glaring at her. “Why were you out there alone?” Preston growled. “Didn’t you bring anyone with you?”

Myra sighed. “I was with Deacon, but that didn’t exactly work out,” she muttered.

“Deacon?” he asked incredulously. “Where the hell is Paladin Danse? I can’t imagine he’d be stupid enough to let you come here by yourself.”

“Danse...ugh… he doesn’t know I’m here,” Myra replied. “I haven’t seen him in weeks. As far as I know, he’s still back at the Airport with the rest of the Brotherhood.”

Preston frowned. “Did something happen between the two of you?”

Myra shook her head slightly. “It’s not like that. I just...I learned something recently that might complicate things. A few weeks ago, I finally managed to get to the Institute.”

“What?” Preston exclaimed, his eyes wide. “How? You never told me that you’d found a way in!”

“I wanted to keep things as small as possible,” she replied, “so only the people directly involved in getting me there knew what I was up to.” She broke down in a fit of coughing, crying in torment as her body convulsed with the effort. “Fuck!” she cried once her fit subsided. “Where was I?”

“You were telling me about how you got into the Institute,” Preston replied.

“Yeah,” Myra said. “So, long story short, I learned how to hijack the Institute’s teleportation technology, and I used this crazy machine to launch myself into their facility. The how doesn’t really matter. But what I found there, that’s the problem.”

“Whatever it is,” Preston said, “I’m sure Danse can handle it. The guy almost died for you, General. I doubt he’ll leave your side unless you beg him to go. I know I wouldn’t, if I were him.”

“Are you sure about that?” Myra asked, her emerald eyes full of anxious energy. “Is this room secure?” she rasped.

Preston nodded, making sure to turn off his radio. “It is now. What’s the matter?”

“What if I told you that I found my son?” Myra asked bluntly.

“That’s great news!” Preston said, smiling. “I’m so happy for you!”

“Yeah, well, it’s not really,” she said, her face blank. “See, he’s the head of the Institute.”

“What?” the Colonel gasped.

“It’s the truth,” Myra continued. “The big bad monster everyone’s afraid of? That’s my child. Now do you understand why I’m here by myself?”

Preston nodded. He reached out to hold her, but before he made contact with her he thought better of it. It wasn’t his place, and even if it was, her body was battered and sensitive and he didn’t want to cause her any more pain.  “Are you okay?” he asked softly.

Myra shook her head, exhaling a long, shaky breath. “No. I’m not even a little okay. Part of me wishes that I’d found him dead. Then, at least, I’d still have someone to bury. I could move forward. But this?” She looked up at him, her eyes welling with tears. “Preston, what do I do? If I go back to the Brotherhood, they’ll want me to kill him. And maybe that’s the right call, considering who he’s become. The Institute can’t be allowed to keep hurting people. But even knowing that...that’s my baby boy. That’s my Shaun. How could I ever hurt him?”

“You said you were with Deacon,” Preston replied. “That means the Railroad knows about this. What did they suggest?”

Myra frowned. “I don’t know. I didn’t tell them. Well, I told Deacon, but he promised to keep it between us for now.”

Preston scoffed. “And you believed him?”

She sighed. “I...I don’t know. Not any more. Look, it’s all gone to shit. Everything’s all fucked up. I can’t even think clearly. I was on my way home to hide away from everyone for a while when I got your message, so I came here instead. And, well, I wasn’t exactly watching where I was going. Hence the mutants.”

“Damn,” Preston swore under his breath. He smiled sympathetically at her. “I know things seem bad right now. And hell, you’re right. In a lot of ways, they really are bad right now. But if anyone can find a way through this, General, it’s you. Whatever you need, the Minutemen are behind you.”

“Thanks,” Myra said sincerely. “I know I can count on you, Preston. That’s why I came back as soon as I got your message.” She grimaced. “Speaking of, who is this Ronnie person, and why does she seem to think she’s in charge around here?”

Preston sighed. “She’s one of the old Minutemen, from before my time. Seems like she doesn’t love the way you’ve been running things. Or maybe she does? It’s kind of hard to tell with her. Apparently she wants to help, but so far, all she’s been doing is second-guessing my orders and nearly getting you killed.”

Myra groaned. “Sounds like a real peach. Well, I guess we should get this over with.”

The Colonel shook his head. “General, you’ve been through hell. We can deal with Ronnie in the morning. Right now, the best thing you can do is rest.”

“Is that an order, Preston?” Myra asked. “Because as far as I’m aware, I’m still the General here.”

He laughed. “No, it’s not an order. Consider it a request from someone who cares about you.”

“Well, in that case,” she replied with a weary smile, “I guess I’ll comply. I am pretty exhausted.”

“I’ll leave you be, then,” Preston said, heading for the door.

“Thank you, Preston,” she called after him. “For everything.”

“You’re welcome,” he replied, closing the heavy wooden door behind him. His eyes misted as he thought about what Myra must be going through right now. After everything she’d lost, to find out that her son was...no wonder she didn’t seem to care if she lived or died. Carrying that kind of a burden was something that Preston couldn’t even imagine, and the Colonel had plenty of demons of his own. His survivor’s guilt had almost led him to his death. It came as no surprise to him that Myra had been taunting fate again. The drive to find her son had kept Myra alive. Now that she knew who he was, what that meant for the people who believed in her, it was a testament to her strength that she was still alive at all.

Preston wondered if Myra had picked a fight with the Super Mutants on purpose, knowing that she might die. It would probably be the easy way out of her situation. But it pained him to think that the people who cared about her mattered so little to her. Didn’t she know how desperately she would be missed?

He felt hot tears on his cheeks, and he wiped them away in frustration. So what if her son was the devil himself? It wasn’t Myra’s fault. She hadn’t gotten the chance to raise him. He was brought up as a creature of the Institute, molded by their ideology into the formidable head of their organization. As far as Preston was concerned, the only thing Myra and her son shared were their genes. Now, he only needed to help her see that.

Myra’s strength and determination had saved Preston’s life. She had given him something to believe in again, had shown him that his dreams of a free Commonwealth were still worth fighting for. If he had to, he would be that strength for her as well. One way or another, Preston vowed, he wasn’t going to let Myra fall. For the sake of the Commonwealth...for his own sake, he would help her as long as he was able to.

He continued down the hall to the Castle’s brig, a small room full of cages. Until Ronnie Shaw had shown up, the rusty iron bars had held no prisoners. Preston had even argued with Kes and her men when she’d told him that they needed a place to put prisoners. A shame that the fearsome Fox had been right, after all.

The Colonel smiled at Zev, who stood nervously outside Ronnie’s cage. The young minuteman returned his smile awkwardly. “Any news?” the boy asked.

“The General’s going to live,” Preston replied. “No thanks to you, Shaw,” he added with a glare towards the old woman. She sat on a simple stool in the middle of her cell, her battle-hardened eyes meeting his defiantly.

“I stand by what I did, Garvey,” Ronnie replied. “If you’d opened those doors, we’d mostly be dead right now. A good leader needs to be prepared ta sacrifice the one for the many. I’m sure when she’s better, yah General will agree with me, if she’s got any sense in her head.”

“And fortunately for you,” Preston shot back, “we have a chance to find that out.” He crept closer to the cell, placing his hands on the bars. “I know things were different when you were a minuteman,” he growled, “but don’t expect General Larimer to have any patience for you if you yank her around like you’ve done with me. If you do anything to compromise her authority, you’ll be wishing I left you in this cage and tossed it into the ocean. Is that clear?”

“Crystal,” the old woman said with a smirk. “Looks like ya have some balls after all, Garvey. I guess ya feel tougher when yah General’s behind ya, huh? What, ya sleeping with her or somethin’?”

Preston clenched his fists. “Don’t talk about her like that,” he said as calmly as he could muster.

Ronnie laughed. “So that’s a no, then. No wonder yah’ve got such a stick up yah butt. Look, I’m sorry that the General got hurt. I really am. Lord knows I’ve seen enough a’ them come and go over the years. But if the Minutemen are going ta survive what’s coming, yer gonna have ta learn that ya can’t make exceptions, not even for leaders. Everyone’s gotta be willing ta die, but smart enough ta live. Got that? It’s a hard lesson, but a true one.”

Preston sighed as he contemplated her words. What would he have done if the situation had been different, if it was someone else beyond the walls and not Myra? He wanted to believe that he would have made the same call, but he honestly wasn’t sure. Would he have risked his men for anyone else? Or would he have played it smart, the way Ronnie suggested? Perhaps, in her own callous way, Ronnie was right. The Minutemen couldn’t save everyone, no matter how hard they tried. And if they fell because of a single liability, they wouldn’t be able to help anyone at all.

But was that the type of organization Preston wanted to work for, one that turned its back on the suffering and desperate to save its own hide? No. That had been the way of the old Minutemen, the cowards who had abandoned the people of Quincy and their own brothers-in-arms to save themselves from the wrath of the Gunners. And even if it killed him, Preston would do anything to prevent something like the Quincy Massacre from happening again.

“You’re right that we need to be prudent,” he said firmly. “And I know that you think you’re helping. But I’ve seen what your methods can do in action, Shaw, and I can tell you that the path they lead down is not worthy of the Minutemen. We have to stand for all people, be willing to risk our lives for anyone who needs us, even if it’s not the smart play. We’re supposed to be the good guys, and that means that we don’t turn our backs on anyone, especially our own.”

“Then yah’ll all die,” Ronnie said, her eyes cold and determined. “But I’ll be damned if I let ya go down without a fightin’ chance. When yah General’s up for it, I’ve got somethin’ to show ya. Took a look around before ya locked me up, and I think the ol’ armory’s still intact. That means we can build artillery, really give it ta those synth bastards and anyone else who tries ta get in our way.”

Preston’s eyes widened. “No kidding! You know how to build artillery?”

Ronnie nodded, grinning. “I was in charge of the damned armory, back in the day. It’d be more right ta say that no one knows how ta build artillery as well as I do. But I’ll need my workshop back, if ya want my help.”

“That’s General Larimer’s call,” Preston replied, “but as long as you stop trying to act like you’re in command, and you follow the General’s orders, I think we might be able to work something out.”

“Great!” Ronnie exclaimed. “So when are ya gonna let me out?”

Preston shook his head. “Oh, you’re not leaving the brig until the General’s better. I appreciate any help you can give us, but that doesn’t excuse what you did. Still, I’ll make sure someone brings you a sleeping bag and something to eat. Don’t want you to be too uncomfortable.”

“Yer too kind,” Ronnie mumbled sarcastically, “but fair’s fair, I suppose. I’d do the same ta ya if it was me makin’ the rules. Gotta keep the peace.”

“I’m glad we understand each other,” Preston replied. He turned to Zev. “Stern, I’ll send someone down with bedding and a meal. Just slip them through the bars, okay?”

Zev nodded. “You’ve got it, sir. I promise, I won’t open the door for any reason. Well, except if there’s a fire. That’d be okay, right?”

Preston sighed. “If it’s a really big fire, I guess.” He shot Ronnie one more pointed look before leaving the room, still trying to figure out her play. Was she sincere in wanting to help? Or was this just a ruse, acting cooperative and...well, not really repentant, but at least placid enough until she got another chance to start a one-woman coup? It was hard for him to tell. Preston wasn’t a duplicitous soul. It was impossible for him to think that way. But Myra understood manipulation. If anyone could tame Ronnie Shaw once and for all, it’d be her.

The way things stood now, she’d certainly have time to do it. Poor Myra. Preston knew her well, and nothing would be harder for her than sitting still while she healed. He chuckled as he remembered the young woman he’d met in Concord, stubborn and insistent on doing everything herself. She’d changed a lot from the girl who’d gotten stuck in Mama Murphy’s ceiling. In a lot of ways, she’d grown into the kind of leader he could really respect. But some things would never really change, and her refusal to ask for help when she was in trouble was still as frustrating as ever.

Preston made his way back to his room. He extracted a device from his coat pocket, a small cylinder-shaped flare, and set it on his desk with a grin. It was one of Myra’s vertibird signal grenades, snagged from her pack after the Colonel had gotten her to safety. Preston wasn’t a thief, not exactly. He was doing this for her own good. With a sigh, he pulled a sheet of paper out of one of the drawers and began to write a letter.

After a week of no contact from Whisper, Deacon was starting to get restless. Had she been captured by the Institute? Killed? From what he’d overheard at his surveillance station outside the Boston Airport, even the Brotherhood wasn’t certain what had happened to her. The explosion that had rocked the terminal a week prior had been extraordinarily violent. What if Whisper hadn’t made it out in time?

In spite of wanting to wait around for news about his partner, Deacon had left the warehouse after four days. He still needed to find Trailblazer, and whether he liked it or not, the work of a Railroad intelligence operative was never done. With Whisper MIA, he was once more the only agent in his department. The spy could put off the search for Trail for another week or so, if he made himself useful in other ways. If he got extremely lucky, Trailblazer would resurface on her own and save him the discomfort of having to coax her back into the fold.

Deacon wasn’t a coward, not exactly. There were facets of his personality that had been locked away in the deep dungeons of his heart, and there they had to remain, no matter the circumstances. The blood-rage that came along with his anger could never see the light of day again, not if he could help it. The spy typically found it easier to avoid confrontation rather than risk letting himself lose control.

But now, by running away from an uncomfortable situation, Deacon had made things so much worse. If he’d just talked to Trailblazer about Tommy’s death, the naive and kind agent might still be safe in Stanwix Safehouse. Instead, she was out on her own in a world that would show her no mercy. Deacon couldn’t help but feel responsible for her fate. At the same time, he couldn’t bear to find out what had happened to her after she’d vanished into the Commonwealth.

So instead of actively looking for her, the spy headed northeast, following the highway towards Salem. It had been months since the last time he’d had a chance to check in with his informants there. After the Switchboard had fallen, the Railroad’s safehouse in the region, Randolph, had gone dark, leading HQ to cut off most of their contact with the area until things cooled down again. Technically, Deacon still wasn’t supposed to operate along the northern coast, but as it was, he needed to clear out a few of his old caches. If he happened to determine the fate of Randolph Safehouse while he was nearby, that would just be frosting.

As he neared the bottom of the peninsula, however, his inner turmoil compelled him to head east instead of continuing north to Salem. His troubled steps, as they often did, steered him towards Nahant Island. The small island community had been decimated by the War, its peaceful rows of wooden cottages never designed to endure the punishment of nuclear fire. Of those structures that remained, only a few had anything worth exploring, and Deacon knew them all backwards and forwards. Nahant, in spite of its proximity to the raider stronghold of Libertalia, was still a peaceful place. Exploring it always calmed his nerves, gave him a renewed focus.

Arguably his favorite building in the town was the chapel, its tall, white spire providing a gorgeous view of the bay. Sometimes, when he found himself in the area, Deacon would spend hours tucked up in the steeple, enjoying the chance to relax while he could take it. There was a serenity he found there, in spite of the ever-present danger of Mirelurks and raiders. It was towards the small church that he now headed. If nothing else, it would do him some good to feel the breeze off the bay, to let his worries drift off into the crashing waves for a few moments. Besides, it was getting late enough in the day. He could camp there, and resume his journey to Salem in the morning. Anything was better than bedding down on the freeway.

Instead of blissful silence, however, when Deacon approached the chapel door he heard a muffled voice from inside the building. The spy froze, listening carefully as his heart thudded in his chest, adrenaline surging through his veins. Someone was intruding on his sanctuary, and he wasn’t thrilled about it. It was hard enough finding any quiet place in the Commonwealth, let alone quiet and relatively secure. That someone else was in his space was irritating, and potentially dangerous.

“...but why?” the voice cried softly, filled with unbearable anguish. “How could you do this to me, after everything I’ve been through?”

Deacon frowned. He knew that voice. It was Whisper’s. But who was she talking to? What was she doing here? He eased the door open quietly, sneaking into the narthex. Whisper knelt in the small sanctuary in front of one of the few remaining pews, her head inclined upwards as she continued to speak.

“I don’t understand, Lord,” she continued, her voice contorted in pain. “I’ve been trying so hard to do the right thing, to help as many people as I can. Why are you punishing me like this? My son…of all the things you could have willed, why do this to us? Do you even give a shit about us? Or did they kill you too, when they destroyed the world?”

She was oblivious to Deacon’s presence as he crept closer, which was for the best. As curious as he was, the spy did not want to disturb her. Deacon’s heart ached for her. It was hard to believe after all she’d endured that Whisper still clung to her faith. Perhaps it was a comfort to her, a source of strength. He wasn’t entirely sure.

The only people Deacon knew with any sort of religious fervor were the Children of Atom, and they weren’t exactly known for their serenity. Well, there was the Brotherhood of Steel, he supposed, and their nearly religious obsession with technology, but that was its own form of crazy. Whisper didn’t seem insane, or even a zealot. She just seemed...lost.

“I...I don’t know if I can go on,” Whisper prayed. “I need a sign, some way to know you have a plan to get me through this mess. I know it’s terrible to ask, but I can’t do this on my own. I need help. Please, just give me the grace to carry on.” She knelt in silence for a few minutes, her eyes still fixed on some blank space above the ambo. What she was looking at or for was anyone’s guess. Her lips continued to move even as she watched and waited, continued silent pleas for help spilling from her.

Deacon gently eased himself into the pew behind her, careful not to intrude on her meditation. Even still, the weathered wood seat creaked in quiet protest as he sat. He saw Whisper’s shoulders tense, though she continued her silent vigil. After what felt like an hour, she finally looked away, sitting on the pew with a melancholy sigh. “I don’t know what I was expecting,” she mumbled. “You sure as hell never listened to me before. Why start giving me anything now?”

“Well,” Deacon said softly, “I might not be a god, but if it was up to me, I’d have given you laser vision. That’d be cool as hell.”

Whisper’s abrupt laughter echoed through the empty church, mingling with her residual tears in a choking cry. “I thought it was you, Deacon,” she said, gasping for air as she calmed down. “What are you doing here?”

Deacon grinned. “Oh, you know, I was just out for a stroll. But what about you? How long have you been back?”

“It’s been a few days,” she said, sniffing as she wiped her runny nose and tear-worn eyes on her sleeve. “I...I wasn’t sure what I should do, actually. And when that happens, I usually find myself here.” She tilted her head back to look at him. “Did you know that I grew up just a few doors down from here? My dad’s house is gone now, of course. But we always used to come here for Mass. Hell, I even got married here. St. Tom’s has always been my special place, I guess.”

Deacon grinned. “Mine too! I like to come here sometimes. Not to pray, or anything. But I love the steeple. It’s a good place to sit and reflect.”

“That’s really crazy,” Whisper replied. “Of all the places in the Commonwealth…”

“Tell me about it,” the spy agreed. He stood from his pew, climbing over the back of the bench in front of him to sit next to her. “So, I’m sure you realized that I heard, like, that whole thing,” he continued. “Spy habit, and all. You might as well fill me in on what happened.”

Whisper shook her head. “I’m not sure I should. It’s not that I’m unhappy to see you, Deacon, and I do want to talk,” she added hastily. “I just...I’m not sure I want Dez knowing about any of this yet.”

Deacon chuckled. “Well, what if I promise not to tell her anything until you’re ready for her to know?”

She frowned. “You’d do that for me? No offense, Deeks, but you’re not exactly the most trustworthy when it comes to keeping secrets. Gathering intel is literally your job.”

Deacon had to admit that she had a point. And most of the time, he’d eagerly offer up any kernel of information to his boss without hesitation. But something in the way Whisper looked that night, the way she held her arms crossed over her abdomen like she was guarding a wound… he couldn’t bear to see her suffer.“Yeah, but blabbing your business isn’t,” he replied. “Look, I know you don’t have any reason to believe me, Whisp, but I just want to help you.”

“And you won’t tell anyone?”

Deacon nodded. “I mean, if it makes you feel any better, we could go sit in the old confessional over there,” he joked, gesturing to a half-decayed wooden box against the wall. “Seal of Confession and all that.”

Whisper snorted. “I’m pretty sure that only applies to priests,” she mused. “And you’re just a Deacon.”

“Hey, how do you know I’m not ordained?” the spy retorted. “I was pretty close with an old priest back in Rivet City, you know. Fr. Clifford. He was one heck of an agent. A shame his parish closed down after his death.”

“Something tells me, in spite of your codename, that you’re not the holy orders type,” Whisper replied. “My Bible’s a bit rusty, but I’m pretty sure lying’s a sin.”

“The Ink Spots certainly think so,” Deacon mused, humming gently.

Whisper smacked him playfully on the arm. “You know what I mean, you ass.”

“My point stands, Whisp,” the spy said. “I might not be the most reliable man in the world, but if you need me to keep your secrets, I will. But act now!” he continued in his best advertiser voice, “This offer is limited!”

She sighed. “Fine. I...God, where do I begin?”

“Well, you’re not a ghost,” Deacon offered, “so obviously the Signal Interceptor worked. Maybe start with what happened after that.”

Whisper took a shaky breath. “It was strange. When I arrived, there wasn’t anyone around, just a few computers in a startlingly clean room. When I stepped inside, I expected the Institute guards would swarm me right away. But instead, I heard a voice over the intercom. A man’s voice. He welcomed me, told me his name was Father.”

Deacon snorted. “He actually called himself Father? Well, that’s not creepy in the slightest.”

“It gets worse,” Whisper continued. “He told me that he was going to let me see my son, kept telling me about how I was misinformed, that the Institute wanted to save humanity. I took this elevator through this huge, clean facility...and then there he was. My boy, Shaun. He looked exactly like I saw him in Kellogg’s memories, with my eyes and Nate’s wavy ginger hair that never fucking behaved...” she trailed off, trembling slightly. Deacon didn’t ask her any further questions, just waited for her to continue. “Deeks,” she said at last, her voice full of trepidation “it was terrible. Shaun was terrified of me. He cried out for that man, Father. And then, this old man entered the room and used some sort of recall code on him. Shaun...he was a synth the whole time, Deacon.”

“Shit!” Deacon exclaimed. He honestly hadn’t been expecting that. As far as he knew, the Institute had never created a synth child before. That bit of news definitely had some serious ramifications for the Railroad’s work. “So, what happened to your real son?” he asked. “Do you know?”

Whisper looked up at him, her emerald eyes bloodshot and full of uncertainty. “My son...he’s Father. He’s the fucking head of the Institute.”

“What?” Deacon stared at her, gobsmacked. “How’s that possible?”

“Apparently, my husband didn’t die a decade ago,” Whisper replied softly, wringing her hands. “He died almost 60 years ago. I was...I was frozen for that long.”

Deacon frowned. “Whisp, it wouldn’t be the first time that the Institute lied. Maybe--”

“That’s the worst part,” she interrupted, her voice shaking. “I know Father’s telling the truth. He looks so much like Nate’s dad, there’s no way he’s not our son. But I missed everything. He’s an old man, now. I never got to see him take his first steps. I never got to teach him to ride a bicycle...” She laughed bitterly. “Most importantly, I guess I never got to teach him not to be a slave-making monster. The Institute...what they’ve done to my baby…” Whisper broke down in deep, soul-wrenching sobs.

“Damn it,” Deacon muttered, taking her hands in his. “Whisp, I’m so sorry. Damned Institute. Is there nothing they won’t destroy to further their own ends?”

Whisper squeezed his hands tightly as she continued to weep, gasping, shallow breaths punctuated by heaving cries of torment. Deacon wished there was more he could do for her. Part of him wanted to just take her in his arms, to protect her was much as he could from the pain that consumed her, and he nearly acted on that impulse. But he held himself back. No. He’d already crossed one too many lines with her. If things went any further, if anyone saw and misinterpreted what was going on...he couldn’t risk it. So instead, he just sat awkwardly next to her as she wailed, hoping that his presence, at least, might give her some comfort.

Eventually, Whisper’s breathing slowed, and she blew her mucus-filled nose on a small scrap of cloth she’d extracted from her bag. She stared at the filthy cloth for a long while, her bloodshot eyes filled with guilt. Deacon couldn’t even begin to guess the cause, at least until she spoke.

“Deeks, I can’t go back to the Brotherhood,” Whisper said emphatically, standing from her pew. She paced across the floor in front of Deacon, rambling almost hysterically. “I just can’t. How am I supposed to look Danse, Maxson, any of them in the eye, knowing what I know? They want to kill my son...a man I don’t even know. But he’s my son, my baby...how can I hurt my baby?”

“Then don’t go back,” Deacon replied calmly. “You have no obligation to, Whisp. They don’t know you made it out of the Institute yet, right? They probably think you’re dead. If not, we can fake your death or something. They never have to know. How’s a freak deathclaw-riding accident sound? Too much?”

“Deacon…” Whisper warned.

“Not enough?” he asked. “Well, I could say you ran off and joined the Children of Atom. I did that for a few months, you know. The chanting was a bit maddening, but the outfits were fun.”

Whisper groaned. “Deacon, I can’t. I have to report in, or Danse will be punished. I can’t do that to him, after everything. He deserves more than that. He deserves the truth.”

Deacon shook his head, standing to meet her. “No. Whisper, I can’t let you do this to yourself. Just...damn it, just stay with me. Together, I know we can figure out a solution.”

“I...I can’t,” she replied, looking down at her feet as she fussed. “I can’t tell the Railroad about Shaun either. What would Dez do, if she knew the truth? There’s no one I can turn to, Deacon. I don’t have anyone I can trust.”

That was it. Before he had a chance to stop himself, Deacon caught her wrist as she paced frantically past him, pulling her into a tight embrace. Whisper struggled against him for a moment before settling into his arms, her cheek flush with his. The soft, subtle scent of her homemade shampoo filled his nose, and he had to fight the instinctual urge to bury his face in her brilliant white hair.

“You have me, Whisp,” he said softly. “Whatever you need, I’ll help you.” And for once, he knew that he completely meant it. In spite of his best efforts, in spite of his own reservations, Deacon would do anything for Whisper...for Myra. The realization was terrifying, but somehow, he couldn’t back down. Not now. Not as long as she needed him.

“I thought you weren’t a hugger,” she mused after a while as he held her.

“I’m not,” he replied with a smile, “but who’s gonna believe you if you tell them this happened?”

She chuckled. “You’re an absolute bastard sometimes, Deacon, you know that?”

“Eh, I’ve been called worse,” Deacon said, releasing his grip on her. “So, how about it? You and me, the open road, some awesome undercover hijinks?” The spy grinned warmly at Myra. “Come on, a little danger’s just what you need to take your mind off things. And I’ve got just the plan. Before I ran into you, I was on my way to Salem. I’ve got a contact up there, real nice guy. Frequents a bar run out of an old garage across the North River. I’ve been meaning to reestablish contact for months. It should be a nice, easy job. Are you in?”

“I guess,” Myra said glumly. “But you know that running away from everything isn’t a solution. Sooner or later, I’m going to have to face this.”

“Yeah,” Deacon replied, “but let’s worry about that later. Right now, what you need is a distraction.”

She sighed. “Okay. I guess I could use some fun. But only if I get to wear something cute. It’s been a while since I’ve had an occasion.”

Deacon nodded. “We’ll stop by one of my caches first. I don’t keep a lot of women’s clothes lying around, but I should have a few things you could try on.” He eyed her carefully. “I mean, you’re taller than the last woman I stocked clothes for, but I think we can make it work.”

Myra’s tear-worn eyes lit up like those of a dog who had been promised a scrap of meat. “The last woman? Oh, I can’t wait to hear all about that.”

Deacon shook his head. “Come on, Whisp. You know I’ll just make something up anyway. Why do you even bother?”

“One of these days, you’ll tell me the truth,” she replied with a soft smile. “You won’t be able to help yourself.”

The spy chuckled, trying to cover his doubts. “Like I’m that easy. Besides, if I told you the truth, I’d lose all my mystique, and then you’d leave. I can’t have that, now, can I?”

Myra echoed his laugh. “Definitely. I bet you’re actually boring as hell.”

“Not that boring seems to be a problem for you,” Deacon replied. “I mean, you like Danse, and I’ve never met anyone more boring than that guy.”

Her smile faded. “I don’t want to talk about Danse right now,” she said. “Not until I’ve figured out what I’m going to tell him about Shau...about Father.”

Deacon cursed himself inwardly. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s not think about any of that stuff. Hell, if you want, we don’t have to think about anything at all.”

She nodded. “Yeah. Not thinking for once sounds great. Now, you mentioned a bar. I assume there’s alcohol there.”

The spy grinned. “You know there is.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” Myra replied. “Let’s get going!”

“Whisp,” Deacon warned. “We’re going to work, not to get drunk.”

She frowned. “I can do both.”

Yeah. This was a really terrible idea. But Deacon couldn’t bring himself to tell her no. After what Myra had been through in the last week, she’d earned a little stupidity. And hell, what was the worst that could happen?

::::

The Puritan’s Vice would have been an unremarkable pub, except for its location on the ridge of a tall spit overlooking the river. It was evening when Deacon and Myra arrived at the bar, and the gentle neon glow from its exterior shone like a beacon against the brackish waters like a siren call for boozehounds. The building itself was fairly small, four or five diner booths and a long bar taking up a great portion of the available space in the dining area. Behind the bar was a small but respectable kitchen, offering a selection of well-curated snacks to ease the flow of alcohol. Outside, several rowboats had been converted into the roof of a large deck, where a handful of additional tables in various states of disrepair served to expand the dining room.

“So when’s this contact of yours supposed to show up?” Myra asked quietly, swirling her second whiskey gently in her glass. She sat beside Deacon in one of the weathered old diner booths, her striking hair brushed and pinned elegantly around the top of her neck. The dress she’d chosen from the cache, a simple green cotton number, clung to her every curve. It might have been slightly too tight, but hell if the spy was going to complain. As far as Deacon was willing to admit, she looked stunning.

“We’re early,” Deacon replied with a sigh. “Always best to check out the crowd before any secret dealings. ‘Hasn’t that idiot Deacon taught you anything?’” he added in a pretty spot-on impression of Dr. Carrington.

She chuckled, “No, he’s usually too busy fooling around to tell me anything important.”

Deacon huffed, casually throwing an arm over her shoulder. He leaned in close to her ear, nearly pressing his lips to the delicate skin. “As if anyone could ever fool around on you, beautiful,” he whispered. The spy did his best to ignore the alarm bells in his mind. Just for tonight, he’d decided, Railroad protocol could fuck right off. Myra had been through hell. She deserved some fun.

Myra gasped as his breath tickled her skin, her shoulders tensing. “God damn it, I’m trying to concentrate on the job.”

“So am I,” Deacon protested. “You’re the one who said it’d be fun if we went undercover as a couple when I asked what cover you were comfortable with. I recommended that you play my sister. Or did you forget?”

“There’s undercover,” she hissed back, “and then there’s...whatever this is. I’m getting tired of your games.”

“Liar,” he protested. “You love my games.”

“Takes one to know one,” she replied, pulling away from him. “Fine. Let’s play. First one to slip out of character owes the other one dinner. And I want that awesome brahmin steak they serve at the Colonial Taphouse . The one that costs 300 caps.”

Deacon smirked. “Oh, you foolish fool. Don’t you know I never break character?”

“Then this should be easy for you, shouldn’t it, handsome?” she asked, gazing up at him with those damned emerald eyes.

Deacon was once again extraordinarily grateful for his sunglasses, though he wished the lights in the bar were a little dimmer to hide his blush. His subconscious berated him for his behavior. She was the one drinking, so why was he letting his guard down? Why was he so eager to play with fire, after everything he’d witnessed? “Like taking caps from a dead man’s pocket,” he replied, “darling.”

Myra laughed hoarsely, tossing back her drink. “Barkeep!” she called, shaking the glass in the air. Deacon frowned, pulling her arm back down.

“I know you’re new to this business, Hope,” he hissed, “but we’re supposed to be avoiding drawing attention to ourselves. Don’t want to spook our supplier.”

“Oh, so that means I can’t have another round, Davey?” she asked, pouting slightly. “I should have listened to my mother when she told me not to marry you, you cheapskate.”

Deacon stifled a laugh, taking her glass. “Fine. Wait here.” He walked to the bar, eyes scanning the room for any signs of trouble. So far, everything looked fine, which worried him. The Commonwealth was teeming with suspicious people. That a bar at this time of night would be bereft of a few rough bastards was unlikely. Something told him that this was a setup.

“Seems quiet tonight,” he said to Myra when he returned with her whiskey.

Myra nodded. “Like the world itself is stopped, just for us,” she murmured demurely. Her eyes flashed with concern as they met his, but she quickly played it off with a gentle smile.

Deacon sat back down next to her, resting an arm casually around her shoulder. “With you here,” he mused, “I think I could handle that.”

“One of you two had better have a geiger counter,” grumbled a gravelly voice as a figure approached their booth. The newcomer was short and lean, wearing a filthy gray suit that was about two sizes too big for him. His dirty blond hair was matted and long, kept contained somewhat by a dark fedora. Deacon grinned as the man slid in across from them.

“Sorry, pal. Mine is in the shop,” Deacon replied. “Remind me to teach you the new code before I leave,” he added in a low whisper.

The newcomer looked Myra over appraisingly, his rheumy eyes curious. “Long time no contact. I thought you were dead. Who’s the broad? Another of your... packages?”

Deacon shook his head. “Who’d kill little old Scavver Dave? I’m too lovable.” he gestured to Myra. “This here’s my wife, Hope. We’re celebrating our honeymoon. I told her to stay back at camp, but she insisted on coming along for this meet and greet. Hope, honey, this is Mr. Morrow. He’s in the scavving business too.”

Myra shot Morrow a winning smile. “It’s a real pleasure,” she said. “Davey never introduces me to his friends. I keep telling him, how am I supposed to be a good hostess if I don’t ever get a chance to entertain?”

“Well, if you stopped inviting your brothers around so often,” Deacon said playfully, “my friends might be more comfortable with you.”

Myra chuckled, kicking him under the table. “So, have any scrap we might be interested in buying off of you? My dear husband promised me something nice for a wedding present, as if being with him wasn’t a present in itself.”

Morrow nodded with a chuckle. “You lucky dog. As a matter of fact, I have a nice watch here that would suit the lady perfectly,” he replied, pulling a beautiful silver wristwatch out of his blazer pocket and sliding it across the table.

Deacon intercepted the piece, studying it closely. He noted with satisfaction that the battery compartment was slightly loose, a tiny scrap of paper peeking out around one of the seams. “How much?” he asked.

“There are quite a few fellows interested in that particular item,” Morrow said quietly. “You’d better make me a pretty good offer...Scavver Dave.”

The spy frowned. So the tourist was being followed. Fantastic. “Hope, honey,” Deacon said, “would you like to try the watch on?”

Myra gasped. “Oh, darling, it’s beautiful!” she gushed as she clasped the metal chain around her slight, ivory wrist. “I love it.”

“Well, I love you,” Deacon replied with a warm smile. “Only the best for my little woman.”

Myra blushed, a gorgeous rosy hue igniting her freckled cheeks. “Oh, stop!” she giggled. “You’re too much!”

“That’s why you married me,” Deacon mused. “Well, Morrow, I guess we’ll pay up. She’s fallen in love, and how can a guy like me ever say no to a girl like her?”

Morrow smiled nervously. “20, no...30 caps should do,” the man replied. “Let me settle my tab from the other night with the barkeep, and I’ll be back to collect.”

Deacon nodded, and the tourist slipped from the booth, carefully making his way over to the bar. “He’s hot,” the spy whispered in his partner’s ear as he caressed her other cheek. “Keep an eye out for trouble.”

“I hope you have a plan,” Myra murmured, smiling coyly as she pulled his hand from her face, rubbing her thumb slowly across his fingers.

“You’d better be cool with improvising,” Deacon mused, “because I think we’re out of time.” Myra shivered as the spy’s lips grazed her neck. “You see those two guys who just came in?” he murmured into her skin.

“Y...yeah,” she moaned softly. “And the other one who’s been clocking Morrow from the deck?”

“Mmhmm,” he replied. “I think those are the guys who are after our tourist.”

“What’s our play?” Myra asked, her free hand already reaching for the knife she kept at her hip. “Distraction, or do we risk a fight?”

Deacon sighed. “Given the tight quarters, I’m going to vote for distraction. There’s too many people in here to risk a brawl.”

“I think we can manage that,” Myra said, leaning in and capturing his lips with her own.

Deacon froze, his whole body tensing up at the contact. This was not in the script. He’d told Myra to improvise, but he hadn’t meant for her to kiss him. Still, Deacon knew they were committed to this bit now, for better or worse. And, once he got past the smoky heat of whiskey on her lips, it wasn’t the most unpleasant choice he could think of.

The spy kissed her back hungrily, trying to sell the role of a newlywed. Myra’s soft lips felt like satin against his as they parted with a heady gasp. She moaned against him, her fingers digging into his shoulders as he scooped her out of the booth, lifting her into his arms. She was lighter than he would have expected, though Deacon suspected that the adrenaline surging through his veins might have had something to do with it as well.

Deacon broke their kiss as he staggered to the bar, depositing Myra on the counter. His lips trailed slowly down Myra’s throat, leaving gentle nibbles in their wake as his eyes swept the room. Excellent. Everyone was staring at them, including their marks. Some of the bar’s patrons glared at the pair, clearly unhappy with their antics. Others grinned lasciviously, eager to see more. Deacon smiled as he saw the kitchen door swing shut. Morrow was on the move. Just a little bit longer, and the tourist would be home free. Myra gasped as the spy’s hand ran down the side of her stomach, finding a sensitive spot. He smirked. So she was ticklish. He’d have to remember that for later.

Deacon tried to keep his mind on the mission and off of his fellow agent, but the longer their ruse continued, the harder it was for him to remember that this was all an act. It felt so damn good to touch her, to have her touch him. He felt a gentle heat rising just beneath his skin, a fire that had not stirred in many long years. Not since…

“I love you so much,” Myra gasped, leaning down to capture his lips.

With a sudden burst of trepidation, Deacon pulled away from her, breathless. His heart raced in his chest so quickly that it felt like he was going to pass out. What the hell was he doing? This wasn’t how things were supposed to go. He was supposed to be keeping Whisper at arm’s length, not ravishing Myra in front of a live audience. Distraction or not, this was too much. And hearing those words from her...

“I’m sorry,” he managed before running out into the night, his mind reeling as he struggled to breathe.

“Davey, come back!” Myra’s voice called after him.

Deacon sighed, feeling incredibly foolish. He’d forgotten about the damn bet. She was still playing, still committed to her character. She hadn’t meant any of it. But he’d stopped pretending minutes ago. He stared down at his hands in disgust, his fingers haunted by the memory of her supple body.

What the hell was his problem? He’d run these sort of undercover missions before. Hell, he’d even engaged in similar gambits with other assets for one reason or another. But in the past, he’d always been able to keep his head. He’d compartmentalized, never forgetting that it was business. With Whisper, though, things were different. He’d wanted things to get out of control. He’d wanted to forget that it was work. He’d wanted it to be real.

“This can’t be happening,” he murmured. “Not now. Not to me.”

“Deacon?” Myra asked, startling him. She appeared beside him, her concerned eyes focused on his face. “Is everything ok?”

He nodded. “Morrow is in the clear. We did it.”

“I wasn’t asking about the job,” she continued softly. “Deacon, what happened back there...I...that was…”

“That was business,” he replied coldly, turning away from her. “You did well.”

Myra drew in a sharp breath. “Deacon, that didn’t feel like business. Maybe I’m just not used to this, but I…”

“That’s right,” he retorted harsher than he meant to, exactly as harshly as he needed to. “You’re not used to this. Look, I’m sorry, but whatever you think that was, I promise you, you’re wrong.”

“Then why can’t you look at me?” she asked, walking around to face him. “Why did you leave, if I’m wrong?”

“Just leave me alone,” he hissed. “Go back to the Brotherhood before your precious Paladin gets in trouble.”

Myra’s eyes widened. “What happened to me staying with you?”

“You can’t,” Deacon said. “You were right all along. You have a responsibility to report back in. I was selfish to ask you to stay.”

Myra took his hands in hers gently. “Maybe I want you to be selfish,” she replied. “Deacon, please. If I did something wrong, just tell me. I know that was a little intense but I--”

He pulled away from her, his face contorting in disgust. “Don’t touch me! I told you to go!”

She stared at him for a long moment, her eyes brimming with tears. “Damn it, Deacon, I thought we were friends. Maybe even…” she sighed. “If you want to be miserable, fine. I’ll leave. When you come to your senses, come find me.”

Myra pulled her pack tighter over her shoulder before running off into the night, a strangled sob lingering after her, replaying over and over in Deacon’s ears.

The spy sank to the ground, his lower lip quivering slightly. It had been the right thing, putting a stop to their game before things had gone too far. He’d done his duty by the Railroad, and he’d saved her the trouble of getting too invested in a charade. So why did it feel like he’d just made one of the biggest mistakes of his life?

It was the heat of the moment, Deacon rationalized. He wasn't thinking clearly. His worry for Myra and desire to cheer her up were natural. That he'd felt attached to her was normal, given the circumstances. Sure, he'd overreacted after the fact, but he had rules to abide by. He'd give her a few days to forgive him, and then he'd track her down, would apologize for his bad behavior. They had only been toying with each other. She'd forgive him, definitely.

A strangled cry pulled Deacon out of his thoughts, and he ran behind the bar, his stomach clenched. There, gurgling on his own blood, was Morrow, his throat torn open. The dying man locked eyes with the spy, desperately reaching for him. His body contorted in pain, making his fingers look like the claws of some cursed beast as they curled. Deacon glanced around in panic, trying to see who had attacked his informant, but there was no one around.

"It'll be okay," the spy soothed as he knelt to examine Morrow's injuries. The tourist took a few shuddering rasps before life left him, his eyes frozen wide in horror. Deacon groaned. There was nothing he could do for the man now. All the spy could do was gather intel that would hopefully prevent more tourists from facing similar fates.

The wounds Morrow bore were strikingly similar to others he'd seen recently on the bodies the Railroad had recovered from fallen safehouses. Small cuts and scratches in various depths dotted the man's body, as though a flock of crows had confused him with carrion. But there were no real crows, not any more. Those that remained were artificial, the spies and agents of the Institute. Watchers, trained to observe and recall, apparently now also authorized to kill. If they'd seen Myra with Morrow and Deacon, given her recent trip to the Institute, she could be in real danger.

Choking back a cry of fear, Deacon ran into the night, following the path that Myra had taken. How the hell had he let himself be so stupid? He searched the area for hours, trying to determine where his partner had gone. But it was hopeless. Myra had vanished like a wraith, leaving behind only regret and the faint taste of whiskey that still lingered on Deacon's lips.

Senior Paladin Danse, for all his love of routine and order, was not the world’s most patient man when there was a mission on the line. He stood on the Prydwen ’s foredeck, tapping his fingers anxiously against the safety railing as he looked out over the remains of Boston Airport. The Brotherhood of Steel had worked tirelessly since their arrival in the Commonwealth to transform the remaining terminal and outbuildings into a secure base worthy of their technological might. While the hollowed carcasses of several large passenger jets remained, much of the debris surrounding the terminal had been cleared away, re-purposed into the construction of concrete and steel fortifications. The main terminal had only two entrances through the solidly-built walls, and both were heavily guarded by Knights in power armor, miniguns at the ready. It was as secure as anything could be in the Commonwealth.

Sometimes, Danse wondered what it was like to fly in one of the large passenger jets before the War.  From the promotional images he’d seen in various magazines over the years, it seemed like a luxurious adventure. Spacious and enclosed cabins, pretty girls in flattering uniforms...they even served meals on flights before the War, according to the ads. When Myra came back, he’d have to ask her if she’d ever flown, if that was what it was really like.

Danse loved flying almost as much as he’d loved power armor. When he’d joined the Brotherhood, he’d honestly had a hard time choosing what career path to take. Ultimately, he was too tall to be a Lancer, and once he’d become a Knight, he’d never looked back. But any chance he had to be up in the clear blue sky, to feel the wind on his face, he relished. Being a Paladin in a way, he supposed, had allowed him to have the best of both scenarios. He was able to use a vertibird any time he needed to deploy somewhere, and he got to wear power armor. No Lancer was ever issued a set of the precious armor.

The Paladin frowned as his mind drifted to Myra once more. She had been out of contact for more than a week, which as far as he was concerned was more than enough time to head into to the Glowing Sea and return to the Airport. Even if she was taking her time coming back, Myra should have at least reported in when she returned to the Commonwealth. Had something happened? What if she was injured, or worse, dead?

Danse gripped the safety railing in his armored hands tightly enough to dent the metal. Proctor Ingram would be furious, of course, but right now, he wasn’t particularly concerned with the engineer’s reaction to the damage. His mind churned, filled with scenarios of what might have befallen Myra. He should have gone with her. How many times had this happened now, where they were parted only to have something terrible befall her? Danse could kick himself for deciding to return to base without her.

Still, Myra hadn’t seemed all that interested in having him along. When she’d asked if he was ready for the next phase of her plan, her tone was guarded, almost dismissive. Danse couldn’t shake the feeling that somehow, he’d messed up, that he’d driven her away. He wasn’t sure what he’d done, exactly, but he felt guilty nonetheless. He should have tried to find out, tried to make things right. Instead, he’d returned to the Airport, and she was out there somewhere, possibly alone, but likely with Deacon.

The Paladin grimaced as he thought about Myra’s shady friend. There was something deeply off-putting about Deacon. Danse had felt it the minute he set eyes on the man. Deacon wasn’t just hiding something. He seemed to be hiding everything. It was a massive understatement to say that Danse didn’t trust him. And he’d left Myra in the man’s care. How could Danse have been so stupid? What if Deacon hurt her?

Danse shook his head. No, he had a hard time believing that Deacon would intentionally cause Myra harm. He’d seen the way the man looked at her when he thought no one else was watching. There was a bittersweet admiration in Deacon’s eyes when he looked at Myra, and though that look triggered alarm bells in Danse’s head for other reasons, it wasn’t the face of a man who would wish her ill. The Paladin had to believe that Deacon would do everything he could to keep Myra safe.

Perhaps most importantly, Danse had to remember that Myra was more than capable of protecting herself. She was a good soldier. Her instincts were right on target, even if she was still a little too trusting. Danse had taught her everything he knew, and he had to trust that she would use the lessons he’d taught her, no matter the circumstances.

The radio in his armor crackled to life, and Danse sighed in relief as Myra’s voice garbled through the static.

“We...the plans...I’ll...a few hours,” she said.

“Please repeat, Larimer,” Danse replied. “There’s some sort of interference with your signal.”

“...strange...you soon,” Myra continued. There was a low whine as the signal cut out, and Danse frowned. He couldn’t be certain, but it did seem like her radio was being almost purposefully jammed. Still, he tried not to worry about the implications. Myra was alive, and if he understood her message, she was going to be home soon. That was good enough news for the time being.

Danse returned to the Prydwen ’s interior, heading for Maxson’s quarters. The Elder would want to know Myra’s status. After all, the next stage of the Brotherhood’s mission hinged on her being able to get inside the Institute. He stopped just outside Arthur’s door, rapping as gently as he could on the metal hatch.

“Come in,” Maxson’s voice responded, low and muffled by the bulkhead.

The Paladin eased the door open, stepping inside. Arthur Maxson sat next to his desk, typing away furiously on his computer. “This had better be important,” he warned in a low growl.

“I’ve just received a radio transmission from Knight Larimer, sir,” Danse responded professionally. “The signal was weak, but from what I could understand, she’s on her way to the Airport.”

Maxson turned in his chair to face Danse, his face relaxing slightly. “That is excellent news, Danse. Hopefully she’s bringing us something useful.”

The Paladin nodded. “From what I heard, it seems she did manage to acquire some schematics from Dr. Virgil. If we’re fortunate, she may have just found us our path into the Institute.”

Maxson frowned. “That is if we can trust this Virgil. You said that it was a Super Mutant? I’m surprised you didn’t shoot it on sight, Danse.”

“Believe me, Arthur, I wanted to,” Danse replied. “But as Knight Larimer pointed out, there was a greater tactical advantage to keeping it alive for now. I will be more than willing to go back and finish the job if it becomes necessary.”

“I suppose that’s all I can ask,” Maxson replied. “But, Danse, is something else bothering you? I’m not critiquing your performance,” he added hastily, “but you’ve seemed...off since you returned to the Prydwen .”

Danse sighed. “My headaches have returned,” he muttered. “They aren’t as debilitating as they have been. The medicine Cade gave me has helped substantially. However, in the last week, I have noticed a resurgence in the number of attacks I’ve suffered.”

Maxson’s eyes narrowed. “Danse, you should have informed me of your condition immediately! Have you been to see Cade?”

The Paladin nodded. “He’s unsure of the cause, or why the medication isn’t as effective as it had been. Medically, he says that I’m the peak of health, and I have been getting adequate levels of sleep due to the sleeping pills. Unless Cade discovers something new about my condition, he has no real solutions except to continue my routine and try not to overtax myself, whatever that means.”

“If I have to pull you from active duty, Danse, I will,” the Elder replied. “I would prefer it if you were able to continue your mission, but your health has to come first.”

“That is the other reason I hesitated to bring the headaches to your attention, sir,” Danse muttered. “The pain is...significant, but not enough to affect my performance.”

“For your sake, Danse,” Maxson continued, “I hope that you’re telling me the truth. I would hate for any of my soldiers to suffer unduly simply because they were too stubborn to rest.”

“Have you ever known me to be dishonest, Arthur?” Danse asked, trying not to be offended by the implication.

“No,” Maxson replied. “You’re pretty much the worst liar I’ve ever met. All the same, please try not to get into the habit. I can always tell when you’re hiding something from me, Danse. You get that shifty look in your eyes. So are you going to tell me what is really bothering you, or do I have to interrogate you more formally?”

Danse sighed. They really had known each other for far too long. “You’re absolutely right,” he said. “Something else is worrying me. But I don’t know exactly what to do about it, yet. If you don’t mind giving me more time, Arthur, I promise I’ll come to you when I’m ready.”

The Elder nodded, his steely eyes fixed on Danse’s. The Paladin froze under Maxson’s analytical gaze as the younger man studied him carefully. Finally, Maxson sighed, shaking his head as he broke eye contact. “You think too much sometimes,” he muttered. “Go get some rest, Danse. Once Larimer returns, I have a feeling that you’re going to be too busy for anything else.”

“Thank you, sir,” Danse replied, feeling a little like he’d just been vivisected. Maxson’s gaze often had that effect on people. It was one of the reasons why the young Elder was such a powerful force to be reckoned with. He’d been the same way when he was a child, intelligent and calculating, able to understand most people he met with a glance. In the decade they’d known each other, Danse had yet to adjust to being in Arthur’s sights. It

was eerily disconcerting.

While he waited for Myra’s arrival, Danse decided to head to the mess hall and grab a quick bite to eat. The food served on the Prydwen wasn’t the most appetizing, but it did fulfill all the daily requirements that Cade had put in place for a healthy diet. Danse missed Myra’s cooking. While the mess offered bland but filling meals, Myra prepared robust, flavorful fare. There was a warm, comforting quality to her cooking that the Paladin found quite soothing. If he’d have known how hard it would be to adjust back to Steward Gardener’s specialty -- grey meat over sprouted razorgrain -- Danse would never have tried Myra’s food.

The Paladin carried his plate to the Officer’s Mess. It had been an adjustment, dining in the small, well-decorated lounge. As a junior officer, he’d been given the option to eat where he wished, and Danse was the sort of officer who preferred to eat with his squad. Now that he was officially a Senior Paladin, he no longer had such a luxury. As the most senior of the Brotherhood’s ground officers, he had the mandatory privilege of dining in the lounge, which typically meant that he ended up eating alone.

Danse picked idly at his food as his mind wandered. The room was as silent as any place on the airship ever truly was, and that made it tough for him to rein his thoughts in. He found himself thinking about his old squad. How were Rhys and Haylen holding up, now that they were effectively in command of the Cambridge Police Station? It was strange. When Danse had first left them behind to follow Myra on her quest, he’d been so worried for the remnant of Recon Squad Gladius. Now that he’d been assigned officially as Myra’s sponsor, he’d barely had a chance to visit them. Scribe Haylen, at least, checked in with him fairly regularly, typically to ask how the Paladin’s health was. Rhys was often too busy to contribute to Haylen’s radio calls, but he seemed to be taking to command like a bloatfly to a swamp, even if his post had yet to garner him the promotion he longed for.

There was a slight miasma of guilt that clung to the corners of Danse’s mind when he thought of Rhys and Haylen. Had he abandoned them, when he and Myra had been reassigned to the Prydwen ? Intellectually, he knew that he was merely following orders. But if Danse hadn’t been so eager to bring Myra into the fold, he might have still been at the Police Station, working alongside the squad he held an almost paternal affection for. Did they begrudge him his new assignment? Did they blame Myra for it?

Rhys had never been fond of Myra. Danse knew that. But Haylen had warmed to the former vault-dweller almost immediately. The Paladin had a hard time seeing Haylen holding much of a grudge against anyone. She was an incredibly sweet person, almost too gentle for the Brotherhood. Perhaps that was why Haylen was the subordinate Danse worried about the most.

Danse sighed, shoveling his lukewarm, congealing lunch into his mouth. Once Myra had found her son and his promise to her was fulfilled, he’d go back to the Police Station for a visit. It had been too long since he’d had a chance to check in. But it did him little good to think about that now.

“Senior Paladin Danse,” Captain Kells’ voice commanded over the ship’s intercom, “report to the Command Deck immediately.”

Danse groaned, tipping his plate into a nearby bussing bin. Flavorless though it was, he would have at least liked to have finished his meal. Though perhaps if he’d spent more time eating and less time thinking, he wouldn’t have found himself in this predicament. He made his way downstairs to the deck as quickly as he could.

There, sitting on one of the couches, was Myra. She had her back to him, chatting animatedly with Maxson, but he’d recognize her snowy hair anywhere. “...so, that’s when I realized that I was almost out of RadAway,” she explained, gesticulating.

“You realize that you would not have needed so much medication if you’d worn your power armor,” Maxson replied.

“I know,” Myra shot back, “but I’m really not comfortable wearing power armor all the time. I’m not Danse. Honestly, I think he’d sleep in his armor if no one stopped him.”

Maxson’s eyes shone with amusement. “I’m fairly certain he’s attempted it at least once, actually.”

“I’m well aware that my bed was not designed to handle that much weight,” Danse said sternly.

Myra’s shoulders tensed in shock at the sound of his voice. She turned to look at him with an embarrassed smile. “There you are, Danse! I was just telling Elder Maxson about my trip.”

The Paladin sighed. “And having a laugh at my expense. Typical.”

Myra grinned. “I missed you too.”

Maxson cleared his throat. “Once Paladin Danse arrived, Knight, you were going to tell us what you learned.”

“Oh, yeah,” Myra replied, pulling a few sheets of crayon-covered paper from her pack. “So, according to Dr. Virgil, we just need to build this machine, called a Signal Interceptor, and tune the receiver or something to the classical music station. That’s what the Institute uses to conceal their relay transmissions, though I don’t really get how. Virgil explained it, but that didn’t help me understand it any better.”

Maxson looked over the drawings, frowning. “This looks complicated, even for us. But if anyone can help you, Larimer, it’ll be Proctor Ingram. I’ll ask her to put her other projects on hold for now. Well done.”

“Thank you, sir,” Myra said, smiling. “I really hope this works.”

“As do I,” Maxson responded. “If this machine can do what you say it can, we may have finally found a chink in the Institute’s armor. Together, we will rescue your son, and ultimately free the Commonwealth of this great evil. I couldn’t be prouder of you, Knight.” He turned to Danse. “Paladin, please escort Knight Larimer to the Airport. I’ll ask Ingram to meet you both there.”

“Affirmative!” Danse replied, saluting the Elder. Myra followed suit, and Maxson returned the gesture before leaving the room. Once he was gone, Danse sighed, frowning down at Myra. “Larimer, did you determine what was affecting your radio?”

She shook her head. “I don’t understand it, Danse. I could hear you just fine. Is that why you didn’t respond before?”

The Paladin’s frown deepened. “Before?”

Myra nodded. “A few days ago, when I left the Glowing Sea, I tried calling you, but you didn’t respond. I thought maybe my radio was damaged by all the radiation, but Deacon checked it for me and said it was fine.”

So she had taken Deacon with her. Danse felt a sick weight in his stomach. “May I take a look at it?” he asked.

“Be my guest,” Myra replied, unbuckling her Pip-Boy and handing it to him.

Danse turned the divide over in his hands, looking for any sign that the radio had been tampered with. Everything seemed to be in working condition. The only damage was a bit of wear-and-tear, nothing abnormal as far as the Paladin could see. Perhaps it was just a fluke, some sort of atmospheric influence. Danse wasn’t quite convinced. All the same, he handed the Pip-Boy back to Myra. “Seems to be in perfectly serviceable condition,” he offered. “All the same, perhaps you should have Ingram take a look at it while we’re with her.

Myra nodded distractedly as she re-buckled the device around her wrist. “I’ll do that. The last thing I want to do is to be unable to contact you.”

“Then don’t go anywhere without me!” Danse exclaimed before his mind had a chance to catch up to his mouth.

Myra stared at him incredulously. “You’re the one who wanted to stay behind this time, Danse.”

“Yes, but only because you seemed like you wanted me to leave,” he muttered.

“What?” Myra replied. “That’s not what happened at all! Of course I wanted you to stay with me! You’re my friend!”

Danse scowled. “Then why do I get the impression that you’re keeping secrets from me?” he bellowed. “What are you hiding?”

Myra’s eyes widened in shock, and he could see the hurt and anger boiling beneath the emerald surface. She stared at him for a long moment, barely blinking, just completely silent.

Danse paled. “Larimer, I...I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have--”

“I’m going to go see Proctor Ingram,” Myra finally said, her voice cracking slightly. “I...I need to think. Don’t follow me. I don’t care what Maxson said.” She fled from the Command Deck, from him, leaving the Paladin alone with the pain she left behind.

Danse stood, stunned, his eyes fixed on her passing long after she’d disappeared. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was feeling, but it was unpleasant. The Paladin hadn’t meant to raise his voice. He hadn’t meant to hurt Myra. But somehow, he’d still managed to screw things up, and this time, he wasn’t certain how to make it better.

::::

Danse didn’t see Myra again until the next evening, when he was called down to the Airport to watch Ingram power up the Signal Interceptor. The risk of Institute discovery prevented the Brotherhood from testing the device, and there was only enough power to send one person anyway. Myra would be going in alone, using a device no one had ever built before. Danse would be lying if he said that he wasn’t terrified for her.

The Interceptor itself was huge, a tower of steel and wires surrounding a large platform. Attached to the device was a control panel, which Ingram already stood at, her eyes scanning the screen. Myra stood next to one of the tower’s pillars, carefully adjusting a bolt with an adjustable wrench.

When the Paladin approached her, Myra looked up at him with a sad smile. “Hey, Danse. I wasn’t actually sure if you were going to see me off or not.” She sighed heavily, her eyes bright with tears. “Look, I’m sorry for yesterday. I shouldn't have stormed off like that. It was incredibly disrespectful.”

“On the contrary,” Danse replied, “I was out of line, Larimer. I shouldn’t have raised my voice. I’ve just been...concerned by some of your recent behavior. I’m worried about you.”

Myra flashed him a sad, nervous smile. “You don’t have to worry about me. I’m pretty tough.”

The Paladin nodded. “All the same, I do.”

Myra’s eyes met his, warm and tender as they searched his face for more information. Danse found himself unable to look away, his breath catching in his throat as she smiled at him. They looked at each other for a long time, neither saying a word. For once, Danse felt that words weren’t needed. For the first time in his life, the Paladin felt completely seen, completely understood. It was overwhelming.

“Stand clear!” Proctor Ingram called, interrupting the moment. “Let’s fire this up and see what happens!”

“Well, I guess it’s time,” Myra said nervously as she backed away from the Signal Interceptor. The massive machine came to life like a raging beast. It hissed and surged with power, great showers of sparks and streams of steam emanating from the vibrating framework.

“Proctor Ingram,” Danse said, concerned, “are you certain that this machine is safe?”

The Proctor sighed. “Well, I can’t guarantee anything, Paladin. There’s a huge difference between keeping that hunk of junk we call home in the air and adapting Institute technology. The best I can say is that no one else could have built a safer version of this machine.”

Danse frowned as he eyed the rickety framework, his gut twisting with anxiety. He hated the feeling. Anxiety wasn’t exactly something he’d struggled with before. He wasn’t afraid for his own life, and though he worried about those under his command, he was able to comfort himself by knowing that they all knew the risks, that they were soldiers dedicated to their mission and the ideals that the Brotherhood had taught them. There was no reason to fear death if one died with honor.

But this was different. He hated the idea of Myra using the Signal Interceptor. The machine reeked of Institute technology, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was a horrible trap. Were they sending Myra to her death? Or to something somehow even worse?

Arthur strode up to them, his steel blue eyes bright with determination and awe. “A fantastic job as always, Ingram,” the Elder said.

“Thank you sir,” the engineer replied with a slight smile. “Tell me that again when the damn thing works.”

Maxson turned his attention to Myra. “Knight Larimer, are you prepared for your mission?”

Myra nodded. “I think so, sir,” she replied, “as ready as anyone could be, stepping into the unknown.”

“Your bravery is admirable, Knight,” Maxson continued. “There’s one more thing, before you go.”

“Of course, Elder,” she replied. “What do you need?”

“Once you reach the Institute, we’ll likely lose contact with you, so please do your best to remember what I’m about to tell you,” the Elder commanded. “About ten years ago, the Brotherhood gained the services of a few prominent civilian scientists to assist us in...various projects. One of these scientists, Dr. Madison Li, had a falling out with us a few years ago, and left the Capital Wasteland. We have reason to believe that she’s now working for the Institute.”

Myra frowned. “Do you want me to eliminate her?”

Arthur’s eyes widened in shock. “Of course not, Knight! We aren’t monsters. No, I would like you to persuade her to return to the Brotherhood. We have a project that requires her expertise. Dr. Li is an incredibly gifted individual, and a valuable asset.”

“So why did you let her leave?” Myra asked.

Maxson sighed. “If I’d been in charge, I wouldn’t have. Unfortunately, my predecessors weren’t particularly known for their forethought, and had no intention of keeping anyone within the Brotherhood’s ranks who wanted to leave.” His eyes darkened. “Perhaps if they’d been a little more tactically-minded, a lot of things would have been different. But it is my task to make sure that such...oversights do not occur again.”

Myra nodded. “I understand. So I’ll make contact with Dr. Li and convince her to come back with me. Is there anything else?”

“Now that you mention it,” Proctor Ingram chipped in, “here.” She tossed Myra a holotape. “This program will scan the Institute’s computer network and automatically download information from it. I’m not sure what we’ll be able to get before the system locks you out, but whatever you bring back could be very useful in understanding our enemy and their technology. Just plug it in to any terminal, and give it a few minutes. Bring it back when you come home.”

“I’ll do my best,” Myra replied. “I’m still not certain how much time I’ll have inside. But if they don’t shoot me on sight, you’ve got a deal.”

Ingram smiled. “That’s all I can ask, Larimer. So, are you ready to try something no one’s ever done before?”

Myra laughed. “When you put it like that, how can I say no?” She saluted Elder Maxson, their eyes meeting for a few significant moments before Maxson looked away with a troubled expression. Then, she turned to the Paladin. “Hey, Danse?” she asked softly.

“What is it, Larimer?” he replied gently as she looked up at him.

“If anything...If I don’t make it back…” Myra trailed off with a sigh. “Aw, screw it. Take care of yourself, sir,” she finished with a grin that almost disguised the uncertainty in her eyes.

Danse felt sick as he watched her climb up onto the platform. He desperately thought of something to tell her, to give her the courage to see this mission through. What could he say? Should he beg her to be careful, or not to go at all?

It killed him that she was going into one of the most dangerous places in the Commonwealth without backup. He should be going with her, fighting by her side as he always did, protecting her from the unsettling unknowns that waited beyond the relay. But they could only send one person, and it had to be her.

The Paladin glanced over at Maxson, trying his best to suppress his irritation at the younger man’s orders. Why had Arthur condoned this mission, knowing how important Myra was to Danse? How could the Elder send her where Danse could not follow? It was one of the cruelest things his friend had ever done to him, and though he knew it served the greater good, part of him was furious with the Elder for his part in this ridiculous operation.

What would happen if the Institute knew she was coming? Even if the Interceptor worked and didn’t vaporize her immediately, Institute synths might gun her down before she could even blink. The whole operation was suicide.

Danse stared into Myra’s eyes, searching for that haunted desire for the void that he’d seen in Fort Hagen. But all that greeted him was the fierce determination of a soldier ready to do her duty, of a mother willing to risk everything for her child. Myra wasn’t marching to her death, not this time. She was fighting for the most sacred thing left in the world. And perhaps that would be enough to save her life.

“Don’t get killed, soldier,” he finally managed, hoping that she understood the true weight of that command.

“I know,” Myra replied with a determined smile that almost masked the sadness behind it. “I know. The paperwork. I’ll try my best.”

“I’ve got the signal!” Ingram shouted from the command console as the device came to life, shaking so hard that Danse was certain that the thing would fall apart around Myra. “If you’re going to go, it’s got to be now.”

“I’m ready!” Myra replied. She looked back at Danse, smiling grimly at him. “Danse, when I get back, I need to tell you--”

With that, there was a bright, blinding flash of blue light, followed by a violent and ear-splitting explosion that sent the three Brotherhood soldiers staggering. Danse blinked rapidly, trying to clear the spots from his vision.

“Proctor!” Maxson shouted, clutching his ears, “Was that supposed to happen?”

“I don’t know!” Ingram yelled. “The Interceptor’s fried! I guess we just have to hope she made it.”

Danse muffled a cry of alarm as he looked back at the platform where Myra had been standing just moments before. The framework was blackened and twisted, barely recognizable as the device Ingram had created. The platform itself had been mostly reduced to ash, still flickering with residual electricity. Of Myra, there was no sign. Either the Signal Interceptor had worked and she was already inside the Institute, or what remained of her was lost among the ashes.

“We should return to the Prydwen ,” Arthur said to him gently but firmly. “There’s nothing we can do now but wait.”

Danse nodded, his vision blurring once more as he fought to hold back tears. That was a response he hadn’t anticipated. In spite of everything he’d been through, Danse wasn’t prone to crying very often. But faced with the possibility of Myra’s death, there was little else he could do. Fear trembled within him, a delicate, flighty thing. More than anything, however, he just felt...lost.

The Paladin glanced up at the fiery sunset, at the magnificent bow of the Prydwen silhouetted against the sky. Was it just him, or did everything seem muted somehow, like the colors of the world had lost their lustre? Perhaps the explosion had damaged his eyes. He’d have to check in with Cade about that.

As he and Arthur stood inside the vertibird back to the airship, Danse slipped his hand inside the torso of his power armor, extracting a small, worn card. Our Lady of Victory . The card Myra had given him. Danse stared at the gentle face of the woman depicted on the timeworn paper. Her eyes were downcast, focused on the infant she held in her arms. There was a serene and mysterious expression on her face, like the woman knew a comforting secret. The Paladin sighed as he studied her. There was something...Myra-like about the woman, though they could not have looked more different. He felt the same peace when looking at her. Was it because Myra had given him the card in the first place, or was it something deeper?

Danse sighed, tucking the card back into his armor. If nothing else, it was a comforting reminder of the esteem Myra had for him, a consideration that, deep in his soul, he hoped was something more. Perhaps now, he would never get the chance to know. But one thing was certain. If Myra was alive, if she returned to him...he wasn’t about to waste the chance to find out.

::::

The next morning, Danse knocked nervously on Elder Maxson’s door, a sheet of paper clenched in his hand. B64-14: Request for Subordinate Transfer was written across the top in bold letters. He’d stayed up all night trying to decide if he’d fill the form out or not. Now that he was here, ready to hand the paperwork over, he really hoped he was doing the right thing.

“Come in,” Maxson called from inside. Danse sighed, easing the door open and crossing into the room.

Arthur sat in his desk chair, back to his monitor as he watched the Paladin enter with interest in his steely eyes. “Ah! Danse. I was wondering when you’d be by. I think I’ll have to move my bed to the other side of the room if you make a habit of pacing all night.”

“I hope I didn’t disturb your sleep too much, Arthur,” the Paladin replied.

“It wasn’t just you, Danse. I was awake for most of the night myself, thinking about our next move. I hate just waiting around for something to happen. The second Knight Larimer is back from her mission, we need to be ready to move on whatever information she manages to acquire.”

Danse nodded. “Actually, Elder, I was hoping to talk to you about Larimer. I’ve been thinking, and perhaps you’re right. Maybe she would be better suited to another sponsor. I took the liberty of beginning the paperwork.” He handed the completed form to his old friend.

Maxson took one look at the form before tossing it aside.“Request denied,” he replied coolly.

Danse felt his skin crawl. How could this be? The last time a transfer had been mentioned, Arthur had been all for it, had practically pushed Danse into it. What had changed? “May I ask why, sir? Just a few months ago, you said that--”

“I know what I said, Danse,” Maxson interrupted brusquely. “But circumstances have changed. If Knight Larimer has indeed been successful in her infiltration of the Institute, her role in our plans just became critically important. We don’t have time to reassign her and have her build up that level of trust with someone else. And I don’t intend to compromise our primary mission just because you’ve decided to finally show some initiative.”

“So what do you expect me to do, Arthur?” Danse said a bit more forcefully than he intended.

“I expect you to do your damn job, Paladin,” Maxson growled impatiently. “You will work with Knight Larimer. You will get us inside the Institute. And you will help us secure our victory. That is an order.”

Danse sighed. “Yes, sir.”

“Oh, and Danse?” Arthur asked, his eyes meeting the Paladin’s.

“Yes, sir?” Danse replied, a nervous tingle in his stomach.

“Be careful,” Maxson continued, his eyes softer than they usually were. “I’d hate to see you lose your focus, after so long. We may not be as strict as the military in the Old World, but you know as well as I do how dangerous it is to be too close to your soldiers. If it comes down to Larimer’s life or your mission, I have to know you’ll make the right call.”

“How can you say that?” Danse replied angrily. “Damn it, Arthur, you’ve known me for more than a decade. When in that time have I ever hesitated from doing my duty, no matter the personal cost?”

Maxson sighed. “Never. But Danse, in all that time, I’ve also never seen you put your reputation on the line for someone like this. I’ve never seen you question my orders. I know Larimer is special to you. I hope you realize that she is to me as well, if not in quite the same way. If anything happened to either of you…” The Elder’s brow furrowed. “That’s why you have to be careful. I can’t protect you forever, Danse. Not even if I agree with you. I don’t have the luxury of bending the rules. You know the position I’m in. And if there was another method we could use to accomplish our mission with even remotely the same odds of success, I would employ it in a heartbeat. But there isn’t. I’m sorry, but we all have to make sacrifices, Danse.”

“I’m aware of that, sir,” the Paladin replied solemnly. “I just wasn’t aware that Larimer was meant to be one of those sacrifices.”

“That’s quite enough, Danse,” Arthur warned. “Knight Larimer knew the risks before she accepted this assignment, and she freely chose to use the Signal Interceptor. I didn’t order her to, nor would I have. I would have thought that you knew me better than that, old friend.”

Danse sighed. “I apologize for speaking out of turn. I’m just...I suppose I’m anxious, that’s all.”

The corners of Maxson’s lips upturned slightly in amusement. “I would be too, I suppose, given the circumstances. But you know how pigheaded Larimer is. She might even be as stubborn as you. I believe she’ll return to us, Danse, if that’s her intention. And for your sake in particular, I certainly hope it is.”

Danse nodded. “As long as Larimer’s alive, Arthur, I believe you’re right. I can't imagine anything that would cause her to shirk her duty. Even though she has an unpleasant habit of going off on her own, Knight Larimer is a dedicated soldier. I trust her with my life.”

“Which is exactly why I intend to keep you together as a team,” Arthur continued. “As long as you do your part, Danse, and help her to accept her responsibilities to the Brotherhood, I will do everything in my power to keep her by your side.”

“Thank you,” Danse murmured. “I’ll leave you be, sir. I apologize again for my outburst.”

Maxson nodded. “It’s quite alright, Danse. Just…” The Elder sighed. “If you need to talk, or if she doesn’t return...I’m still your friend. You can always come to me. I hope you don’t forget that.”

“How could I?” Danse replied with a gentle smile. “You remind me often enough.” He picked the discarded transfer form off of the Elder’s desk before leaving the room. His heart was unexpectedly heavy, his thoughts filled with images of Myra in various states of death and distress. The Paladin shook his head, plodding to the armor bay. He’d drop off his armor and then head to the gym for a few hours. Anything to take his mind off of the possibility that he’d never see Myra again.

::::

Days became weeks, and still, there was no word from Myra or any of the Brotherhood’s intelligence network. She was either still in the Institute, or…

Danse shook his head, banishing the thought for the upteenth time as he furiously scrubbed at his power armor’s elbow joints. Myra was alive. She had to be alive. The Paladin refused to accept any other possibility. Instead, he tried to think about what she had been trying to say to him before the explosion. Myra needed to tell him something. But what? What was so difficult for her to say that it had to wait until she returned from the Institute?

The Paladin’s head swam with possibilities, both pleasant and unpleasant. Myra, in many ways, was still a mystery to him. Every time he’d begun to understand her, he’d learned something new about her. Not that he minded. He would happily spend the rest of his life unraveling Myra Larimer if he was able to. She fascinated Danse in a way that no one really had before. There was something so magnetic about her that he’d been drawn to her from the start, even before he’d seen her better qualities. Danse still couldn’t quite explain why he was so invested in Myra. So many things about her should have irritated him. But her impulsiveness, her stubbornness, her blatant disregard for order...those pet peeves of his were somehow almost endearing when they manifested in her.

So what was so important that she’d wanted to have a dedicated conversation about it? Was she wanting to share another story about her past? Danse wasn’t convinced. She’d always been forthcoming about that information before, and somehow, a story about the Old World didn’t seem urgent enough to merit special consideration. It had to be something else, something important. Either she wanted to talk to him about how close they’d become, for better or worse, or…

Danse had suspected for a few months now that Myra had been keeping something from him, something big. He wasn’t the best when it came to reading other people, not usually. But he knew Myra better than he knew almost anyone. Danse could tell when something was off with her. And over the last few months, something had definitely changed in her.

He thought back to his conversation with Arthur in Sanctuary, about Myra’s association with Deacon. Danse freely admitted that there was something about the other man that got under his skin. It wasn’t just that he took too many liberties with Myra. All of her friends did that, unfortunately, and while their playful flirting got the Paladin’s hackles up, he recognized that his response was a little ridiculous. After all, there was no reason why Myra shouldn’t receive affection from others. She wasn’t in a committed relationship with anyone at the moment, and it wasn't entirely his business what she did, even though an ever-growing part of him wanted it to be. No, there was something else, something deeper than that. He didn’t trust Deacon, and the more time Myra spent with the man, the more Danse worried that he’d stop trusting her as well.

Danse sighed heavily, wiping his greasy hands on the Brotherhood fatigues he wore. He needed more information, and even though he wasn’t overly fond of the man, he knew exactly who could help him.

Proctor Quinlan looked up with keen interest as Danse walked into his office. “Well, now,” the man crooned in his soft accent, “Senior Paladin Danse. This is a rare occasion. What brings you to my little corner of the world?”

“I was wondering if I could see your file on a certain individual in the Commonwealth,” Danse replied.

Quinlan nodded. “For a member of the senior staff, almost nothing is off-limits. Whom, may I ask, are you inquiring about?”

“His name’s Deacon,” the Paladin said. “Elder Maxson mentioned that you knew of him.”

Quinlan’s pale eyes shone with curiosity as he rummaged in one of his filing cabinets. “And what makes you so interested in a man like him, I wonder?” the Proctor murmured.

“He’s...something of an acquaintance of mine,” Danse replied.

“Of yours, or of that pretty little Knight you’re sponsoring?” Quinlan crooned. “From what I’ve observed, Larimer’s associated with all sorts of shady individuals. Did you know that she regularly visits a certain mayor of Goodneighbor, for instance?”

Danse frowned. “You’re spying on her,” he growled.

Quinlan chuckled, “Oh, Danse, don’t take it personally. I spy on everyone. You should see your file. It’s quite fascinating, really.” The older man continued searching through his files, long, spindly fingers gently pushing folders aside like a spider wrapping up a particularly tasty fly.

Danse shuddered. Quinlan always disconcerted him. The man was too calculating, too cunning. There was nothing but guile in him, and no one was safe from the man’s machinations, not even Elder Maxson. If the Proctor wasn’t so well-loved by the Elder Council, Danse suspected that Arthur would have found a way to dispose of him by now.

“Ah! Here it is!” Quinlan exclaimed, extracting a fat dossier from his cabinet and offering it to Paladin Danse. “Your acquaintance is quite a nuisance, it seems,” he continued. “Our records of him date back more than a decade, though in some cases, he seems to be almost a different man entirely. To this day, we’re not sure if he’s one man who’s had a lot of facial surgery, or a series of men with the same codename.”

“Deacon is a codename?” Danse asked, flipping the dossier open. There, at the very top, was a charcoal drawing of a man in sunglasses, his familiar, cheeky smile almost coming to life on the page. Underneath, Quinlan had listed quite a few dates, each one with a number next to it referring to a particular incident file.

“Yes,” the Proctor replied. “It seems the Railroad, those damned thorns in our side, are quite fond of their codenames.”

“The Railroad?” Danse’s eyes widened in shock. “What is Larimer doing with a Railroad agent?”

“There are several possibilities,” Quinan said coolly. “Perhaps she is unaware of his identity. Or, more likely, your Knight is also a member of their organization. She wouldn’t be the first Brotherhood recruit to have found her way into their circle, nor is she likely to be the last.” The Proctor sighed. “Imbeciles, the lot of them. Can you believe that they actually think that synths are people? The Commonwealth will be better off once we crush the lot of them, I think.”

Danse frowned. He’d had several run-ins with the Railroad back in the Capital Wasteland, and none of them had ended well for the secretive organization. “The Railroad’s hardly a threat to us, are they?” he asked. “From my experience, they’re little more than a nuisance.”

“Even a nuisance can get lucky,” Quinlan replied. “As you know, Paladin, the Railroad and the Brotherhood are quite ideologically opposed. That alone makes them far more dangerous than any aggressors. Bullets, you can protect yourself from. Ideas?” the older man smiled cryptically, tapping the side of his nose. “Ideas are the real threat, aren’t they? Impossible to kill, difficult to defend against...Give a man something to believe in with his whole being, and not even death will hold him back.”

Danse pondered this as he continued to look over Deacon’s file. He noticed several known associates, along with known information about each of them.

Desdemona. Female. Leader.

Drummer Boy. Male. Courier.

Carrington. Male. Doctor.

The Paladin froze as he read the third line. Dr. Carrington. He was the man that Myra had brought to the Castle, the one who had treated Danse’s injuries. If he was also a member of the Railroad...Danse’s heart sank as the implication set in. One Railroad associate could be written off as a coincidence. But Myra was familiar with two Railroad agents, at least. It was becoming more and more likely that she was, in fact, a spy. He choked back the bile that rose in his throat, continuing to read down the list.

Glory. Synth. Agent.

Tommy Whispers. Male. Agent

Trailblazer. Female. Intelligence.

High Rise. Male. Safehouse Operator.

Whisper. Unknown. Unknown.

“Who’s Whisper?” Danse asked curiously. “They’re listed under known associates, but there’s no additional information about them.”

Quinlan nodded. “That’s because we have no information on them, I’m afraid. Our intelligence operatives have overheard the name a few times, but other than that, Whisper is a mystery. We have no idea what they do for the Railroad or who they are.”

Danse frowned. Whisper. That name seemed familiar to him, but he couldn’t quite place it…wait. Whisp. Deacon had called Myra Whisp, before they’d left to rescue MacCready. He paled. Danse's skin felt suddenly itchy, his throat dry as old bones. “I’m sorry, Quinlan," he rasped, "but I just remembered that Elder Maxson asked me to report to him this afternoon. Thank you for lending me this dossier,” he added, handing the file back to the amused Proctor.

“It’s unlike you to be so absent-minded, Danse,” Quinlan noted with a glint in his eye.

“It has been a trying few weeks,” Danse replied, leaving the room quickly and heading for his quarters.

When the Paladin’s door closed behind him, he dropped to his knees, shallow, shuddering breaths aching out of him as he tried to process what he’d learned. Suddenly, so much of Myra’s behavior made sense. The way she dodged his questions, how she simply vanished sometimes without a trace...How long had she been working for the Railroad? Had she been an agent before they’d even met? Was her dramatic entrance into his life just a ploy to win him over?

Danse didn’t want to believe it. He wanted to trust Myra, to have faith in their friendship, the bond they’d built between them. To learn that she was betraying the Brotherhood, was betraying him, for the sake of abominations like synths? That was a crippling blow. He punched the edge of his bed, gasping in pain as his bare fists connected with the rusty metal. Damn it! What was he going to do?

The right course of action, of course, would be to report Myra’s crime immediately to Elder Maxson. Arthur would either banish her or order her executed for treason, an example of the cost of betrayal. And that would be no less than what she deserved under the Codex, the laws every Brotherhood soldier was sworn to uphold.

But Danse, for all his devotion to the law, to everything the Brotherhood stood for, couldn’t bear to think of turning Myra in. Not without giving her a chance to explain herself. She’d earned that much latitude, as far as he was concerned. He owed her that.

It wasn’t the betrayal of the Brotherhood that hurt the most, he realized. It was the personal betrayal. Danse had given everything he had to Myra, had taken her under his wing. Hell, he even was beginning to think that he might love her. To be repaid with such outright deceit angered and devastated him beyond words. If Myra had played him from the start, she was a damn good liar, and there was nothing he hated more than being lied to.

“I’ll hear you out,” Danse whispered to himself as he laid on the cool floor, staring up at the ceiling. “If you truly are the enemy…” he sighed heavily, trying to calm the nausea that welled inside him at the thought of Myra lying cold and dead at Maxson’s feet, of her body being unceremoniously thrown from the foredeck, a traitor’s end. It was unbearable even to contemplate.

“I don’t know if I could endure that,” he murmured, closing his eyes against the harsh lights. “So please, Myra, I’m begging you. Have a good explanation when you return.”