This book is a Fallout 4 fanwork involving characters and properties owned by Bethesda Softworks, and all rights to those things belong to them. I’m just a fan who’s way too invested in my player characters and really, really wants to write for the setting someday.

This work was originally published on AO3 under my penname, Mnemoli. Anyways, I hope you enjoy it!

The catacombs under the Old North Church were horrifyingly pungent in a way that even nuclear fallout hadn’t been fully able to remedy. Perhaps it was just the all-too-familiar cool undertone of mouldering bones mixed with the piquant tang of raw sewage from the escape tunnel, but the place really could use a few air fresheners.

Still, the battered and broken band of synth’s rights activists who called the facility home could have done worse. At least some of them were still alive, and there was enough space for what little equipment they’d managed to salvage from their old base. It wasn’t quite as cush of a setup as what they’d so recently lost, but it would do for now until they were able to rebuild their infrastructure.

Deacon peered over the top of his current literary treasure, The Albatross Anthology of Russian Poetry (and wouldn’t you know it, not one of the poems felt like it was written by an albatross!), to survey his peers as they continued getting the new HQ as livable as possible.

Dr. Carrington had managed to salvage a new lab coat, which was for the best, as his old one was so soaked in blood that even a metric ton of Abraxo would never get it gleaming again. He was currently attending to a pretty severe cut on the head of one of the newer agents -- what was his name again, Roachy? Poor bastard needed stitches, and they were all out of stims, so he was going to have to heal the hard way.

Good ol’ Drummer Boy was helping place a few additional mattresses down between the tombs. Ugh, it still looked like they’d have to double up. At least the questionably-stained beds they’d been able to scavenge would be more comfortable than sleeping in the actual coffins, though Deacon was still determined to try that at least once, if only to horrify the others.

Glory was nowhere to be seen. The feisty synth was probably stuck running concurrent ops again. It was hard enough with only a handful of heavies, but now… it was a good thing she rarely needed sleep.

Tinker Tom, of course, had commandeered several of the newer agents to help him sweep the facility, even though they had already checked for every bug, nanite, and other tiny double agent possible in every mannequin, junk pile, and suspicious puddle of goo they could. He couldn’t exactly fault the eccentric genius. After all, they’d thought the Switchboard was secure, and look how that had turned out.

As he turned his head slightly to look for her, Desdemona was suddenly right in his face, her toffee-brown eyes fierce. The leader of the Railroad was a stealthy one, he’d give her that. Though, typically, Deacon was a hard man to sneak up on. Perhaps the trials and defeats of the past few days were finally impairing his abilities.

“Deacon, I need you to head to Concord right away,” barked Dez, peeling the book from his hands while he gasped in protest. “We’ve gotten word that a raider gang has recently been spotted in the area. We’re pretty sure they’re looking for synths to capture. Normally, we’d tell our operatives in the area to lie low, but we don’t have anyone up there right now. Worse, still, that group from Quincy has been spotted nearby.”

“You mean Garvey’s group, the one with the catch-and-release from a few years ago in it? Shit. They’re in real trouble if the raiders catch wind of them there, especially with a mind-wiped synth with them.”

“Exactly. So I need you to go make sure our asset is safe, and get them out of there if you can.”

“Sure, Dez, but isn’t that usually a heavy’s job?”

Desdemona sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. How long had it been since any of them had gotten a full night’s sleep? After the Switchboard fell, there had been little time for such luxuries.

“You’re absolutely right. Normally, we’d just eliminate the gang and move on. But, honestly, we don’t have time to spare for Glory’s schedule to open up, and with Tommy Whispers missing... Look, I need you to get up there, pull some recon, and do whatever you can to ensure the safety of any synths you encounter, known or unknown.”

“What about Preston’s safety? I mean, the guy’s kind of a killjoy, but he means well. He’d be an excellent ally, especially if he felt like he owed us one.”

“Deacon...the synth’s your priority. We don’t have time to worry about anyone else right now. You know that.”

Typical. Deacon gladly followed Dez, most of the time. She was a good leader, passionate and convicted. But he often found himself wondering if the Railroad could do more for the other denizens of the ’Wealth, not just the synthetic ones. It was one area they’d never seen eye to eye on, and he was sick of fighting the same losing battle over and over again. It was easier just to smile, nod, and do what he was going to do anyway.

“Ok, boss. I’ll do my best.”

“Oh, and Deacon?”

“Yes, Dez?”

“Don’t get killed. I can’t afford to lose anyone else today.”

“Aww, you do care!” He did his best to ignore her frown as he darted from the catacombs and into the pungent escape tunnel.

::::

The trip north was long, and after another 4-hour stretch of hiking, Deacon decided he needed a break. Finding a fairly secure spot within a tight cluster of trees, he sat down to rest and have a bite to eat. It wasn’t much, but the squirrel bits he’d palmed off a sleeping scavver the night before would be decent cold, and he still had some purified water in his canteen that would help to ease the gamey flesh down.

He’d ended up north of his destination, but this had been by design. The main road into Concord had been heavily guarded by rough-looking raiders, who he presumed were part of the gang Dez had been so concerned about, so he’d decided to find another way into town. Perhaps the road from the northwest would be less protected. As far as he knew, fewer people travelled it. Why would they? There was nothing up here but an old abandoned subdivision and a dead vault.

It was just downhill from this vault that he now sat, struggling through his gristly meal. The abandoned trailers and storage containers that surrounded the vault entrance would have provided more shelter from the late autumn chill, but less from prying eyes. If he was wrong about the placement of another raider patrol, he would have found himself very exposed indeed trying to leave the area. So instead, he made due in his natural blind, keeping his sniper rifle close by in case he spied any unusual movement.

Deacon pulled his tan duster tighter about himself as the cool October wind blew off the naked hilltop towards the river, piercing through his worn navy button-up shirt. Damn this wastelander camo. He’d kill for an actual coat. Well, at least he’d had the foresight not to wear his typical stained t-shirt.

Still, Dez hadn’t given him his book back, something about “results first.” Well, he’d give his leader credit for one thing, she sure knew how to motivate people.

Or did she?

He smirked, pulling an identical book from his coat pocket. He had these bad boys stashed in all sorts of fun places. Thank God for informants and small bookstores with basements, that’s all he had to say.

As he reveled in depictions of sleigh-rides and lost love, he suddenly heard a distant grating rumble from the direction of the hill’s summit. The ground shook under his feet as the huge elevator buried in the hillside surged to life like an ancient beast roused from its slumber, roaring and churning in primordial ire.

He rose to his feet, poetry and squirrel meat all but forgotten as he pressed the scope of his rifle to his face.

“Well, that’s interesting,” he mused out loud. “Guess that dead vault isn’t so dead after all. Damn. I owe you those 50 caps after all, Gouger.” Or, he would, if the raider hadn’t been shot in a bar brawl at the Combat Zone what, three months ago, now?

“Wow. Time flies when all your friends are being brutally massacred. Guess I’ll just have to have a drink to your memory instead, buddy. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” He smiled to himself before turning his attention fully to the vault at the top of the hill. Vault 111. Now there was something worth investigating, not that he would have suspected it.

Deacon’s contacts in the scavving community had written the damn thing off as a salvage destination years ago. There wasn’t even anything of value in there, as far as he knew, only corpses and clipboards. Well, there had been rumors of some sort of organ-harvesting operation being run out of the joint, but that had seemed a little far-fetched to him.

Now, however, the rumble and whir of long-stagnant machinery made him suspect that there was more to the place than any of his informants had suspected. What secrets were now fighting to be revealed, he wondered?

Through the streaked scope of his sniper rifle, he spied a lone woman emerging from the ground at the crest of the hill, clawing her way into the sun. Striking white hair billowed behind her as the late fall breeze caught it, sending strands dancing. Another snow-haired woman. Glory was gonna be pissed someone else was copping her look.

She was tall, taller than most women he’d met, and even some men, come to think of it. But then he’d heard that nutrition in the vaults tended to be a bit better than what they got on the surface. Her skin was almost as unnaturally pale as her hair, rendered even more blindingly white by the dark blue of the vault suit that clung to her curvy form in ways that would be much more alluring were she not in obvious distress.

The vault dweller was nearly hunched over, one hand wrapped protectively around her stomach and the other clutching a security baton for dear life as she trembled so violently he almost thought her body would split in two. She took one slow, staggering step forward before collapsing in a heap on top of the vault entrance.

Without giving it more than a moment’s thought, he slung his rifle over his shoulder and ran to her unconscious form. Deacon usually preferred the hands-off approach, but he knew of no one else around for miles, no one else who could help. And besides, it wasn’t like she was conscious anyway. His cover was hardly going to be blown.

“Come on, little cicada. I know it’s a big scary wasteland out here, but that doesn’t mean you’ve gotta pass out on me,” he muttered as he gently eased her over onto her back, exhaling sharply as he saw the red marks already forming on her left cheek. Oh, that was going to bruise.

She was cold as ice, so much so that he feared she’d died already until he held his hand near her mouth and nose, sighing in relief as he felt warm, shallow breaths against his skin. Well, that was the first bit of luck he’d had today.

Even from a cursory glance, it was obvious that she had a small dose of radiation poisoning and was likely close to hypothermia. Her limp frame was littered with radroach bites, angry and dark against the exposed skin of her hands, neck, and face. He cursed under his breath, pulling a pouch of Radaway from his pack and applying the IV to her forearm.

“Damn,” Deacon sighed, “These vault dwellers never have any tolerance for radiation.” He supposed that hardiness was one of the few gifts the rest of them had been blessed with. Frankly, he’d rather have had the creature comforts, the libraries, the decent food. But, hey, everyone had their perks, as well as their curses. Whatever had happened to the young woman at Vault-Tec’s hands was probably… no, definitely not worth having access to a few more books and a wider selection of tv dinners.

If it weren’t for her present condition, he might have found her quite beautiful. Her face was unblemished by the ravages of the wastes, a smattering of freckles radiating from her narrow nose like blood splatter on snow. A pair of streaky eyeglasses obscured her eyes, but he could make out soft, feathery brown eyelashes and matching, well-groomed eyebrows underneath. He wondered if her hair was supposed to match them. Who knew what horrors she’d witnessed in her time below the earth?

Vault dwellers didn’t survive long in the Commonwealth, at least not alone. There was a reason he called them cicadas. They burst out of the ground after a long time in hibernation, made a lot of noise, and died quickly. So getting the chance to actually meet one and ask them about “Your Future, Underground!™” wasn’t exactly a common occurrence. Most that made it past the first few months of life in the wastes quickly learned not to discuss anything that would single them out.

But the few hardy vault dwellers that Deacon had met all attested that these purported havens were anything but cozy. Whether these survivors were intentionally trying to protect their plush lifestyle from being plundered by wastelanders or they genuinely had lived through the sadistic experiments they described, he couldn’t say for sure. But there was something about the unconscious woman in his arms that gave him pause, that made him think that his acquaintances had been more honest than he’d given them credit for.

“Well, princess, let’s get you someplace warm,” he muttered, scooping her limp body against his chest and carrying her down the hill to the ruined cul-du-sac below. It wasn’t ideal, but there were probably some threadbare blankets or curtains somewhere in one of the old houses, and he’d heard rumor of a Mr. Handy nearby who could probably look after her well enough. He didn’t have time to babysit her, not with so few agents available and so many synths in play.

As he neared one of the houses, his information was proven correct. A silvery ball of flustered British charm drifted towards him, limbs flailing. “Unhand my mistress at once, you ruffian!” it scolded, three mechanical eyes boring into his soul.

“Your mistress?”

“Miss Myra! Oh, what has happened to you?” continued the robot, pointedly ignoring Deacon’s question.

It’s her robot, he realized. Of course it is. That’s two in the win column. Maybe I should hit up the Red Rocket down the way and look for some old scratch-off tickets. I’d love to see Stockton’s face if I tried to trade those bad boys in.

“I found her by the vault entrance,” Deacon explained, “She’s extremely weak and cold.”

“Oh, that won’t do! That won’t do at all!” the robot tut-tutted dramatically. “Sir will be so worried when he gets home. He always tells her that she needs to take better care of herself… you haven’t seen Sir, have you?”

Deacon shook his head. “No, she’s the only person I’ve seen in hours,” he replied honestly.

“Oh dear! Well, perhaps he and young Shaun are out buying a present for her. It is Miss Myra’s birthday, today, after all. Over 200 years, and I still remember the date! How’s that for General Atomic engineering?”

“200 years? That’s impossible. I mean, look at her.”

Deacon stared down at the woman in his arms in surprise. She wasn’t just a vault dweller. She was an original vault dweller. But how?

“She does look remarkably well-preserved, doesn’t she? Well, her hair’s gone white, but old age will do that, I suppose.”

Not her natural color. Called it. Damn, I’m on a roll.

“Now, please, bring her inside,” continued the Mr. Handy, sweeping past him. “The bed’s not made, I’m afraid, so we will have to let her rest on the couch for now. I’ll find some blankets, and then perhaps I’ll whip up a nice cup of hot cocoa for her. I do think I have a tin of the stuff saved away…” the robot continued, muttering incessantly to himself as he puttered about.

Deacon sighed heavily, following the butler inside the ruined house.

He eased the unconscious woman down on the couch, brushing a few stray white hairs from her gentle face. His body heat had warmed her somewhat on the journey, and a faint pink glow had begun to rekindle in her freckled cheeks. She was probably going to live. Good.

He looked through the paneless windows, noting how low the sun was getting. As novel as getting to play white knight to an actual pre-war housewife was, it had caused a heck of a delay. He needed to be in Concord hours ago.

“What’s the harm?” he asked himself under his breath. “Dez can wait.”

Dez cannot wait, his better judgement chided. She’ll kill you if you let anything happen to that synth, you idiot.

Deacon sighed. When he was right, he was right.

“Excuse me,” he called towards the back of the house, where the Mr. Handy was now feverishly rummaging through drawers, muttering something about blankets.

“What is it, sir?” chirped the bot in reply.

“I’ve made her as comfortable as I can, but I really need to get going. I have to make it to Concord before nightfall.”

“Of course, of course! Miss Myra is in the best of hands. I will guard her with my life, as is my duty and pleasure. But please, may I offer you some reward for bringing her home safely? I’m afraid we’re quite low on cash at the moment, but I would be remiss in my duties if I did not thank you in some way for your heroic actions.”

“You don’t owe me a thing. It was on my way, honest.”

“Oh, but I insist! And I do hope you’ll forgive my tone when we first met. The people I’ve had the misfortune of meeting as of late have not been of the most savory nature, if you get my meaning.”

Deacon rolled his eyes behind his sunglasses. Wow, this thing was persistent. Time for the cunning backstory for his cunning disguise. “Of course. This might seem like an odd request, but do you have any spare clothes? I’m a clothing merchant, you see, and I’m always looking for new stock.”

“Ah! Splendid! Yes, I know just the thing!” chortled the robot, floating over to the second bedroom.

Nailed it.

The Mr. Handy returned with a very handsome navy blue suit coat, freshly laundered and immaculate, with two silver buttons and a small white handkerchief folded in the top pocket, as well as a matching pair of navy pinstripe slacks, both perfectly folded. Deacon inspected the clothes admiringly. Not exactly subtle, but he could probably find a use for it next time he needed to gather information in the Stands of Diamond City.

“Sir never wears it any more,” sighed the robot, dejectedly, “claims the cut doesn’t suit him.”

“A shame,” replied Deacon, folding it carefully in his pack. “It’s a really nice outfit.”

Hmm. Maybe I could get some good use out of it in Goodneighbor.

“Indeed it is, sir.”

“Well, I suppose I should be going. Take care of her, all right? I’ll try to swing by on my way back to check on her if I have time.”

“Oh! Forgive me, but I nearly forgot! What is your name? I’m sure Miss Myra will want to know the name of her hero when she wakes up.”

“The name’s Billy...Billy Stitches.”

“Well, then, Mr. Stitches. A pleasure. Thank you for your help. You may call me Codsworth, and I wish you the best of luck in your venture.”

“Thank you, Codsworth. Goodbye.”

Deacon took one more glance at the young woman on the couch before heading out the front door, down the broken pavement that lead to Concord and the synth he hoped he wasn’t too late to save.

::::

“Ugh!” Deacon muttered under his breath. “Stakeouts are so boring sometimes! I knew I should have brought a word search.”

Ordinarily, he wouldn’t mind the quiet. It meant he had more time to read, plan new pranks, or ignore all the things he’d rather not think about. But he had to stay alert with so large a pack of raiders underfoot, and that level of concentration made every minute feel like at least six.

It was at times like these he almost wished he had a partner again. At least then he’d have another set of eyes, and a sounding board. Talking to himself was only fun for the first few hours of any mission. Then, even he got sick of him.

So far, he’d gotten nothing interesting from the group of raiders, apparently led by the ever-so-imaginatively-named Gristle, a brainless sack of sinew and brawn if he’d ever seen one. Well, he found out that some upstanding member of the gang named Hunk had been cheating on a raiderette called Slasher Debbie with another girl they called Vix, but that was hardly something worth reporting to Dez unless the girls decided to settle their dispute in a particularly violent or creative fashion. Unfortunately, the charming young women seemed content to just howl low-level insults at each other, which was hardly worthy of his attention.

As far as he could tell, the raiders had pinned the synth, his favorite sad-looking minuteman, and a few bedraggled settlers in the museum at the end of the street. But the idiotic raiders hadn’t been able to agree on what they were going to do with their prey, and so the hunt had devolved into a rudimentary siege on the top floor of the building. If Tommy Whispers were here, Gristle’s gang would all be dead right now, but Deacon was no Tommy. Hell, no one was.

“If these guys don’t start talking business or killing each other soon,” Deacon whined, “I’m going to rip my own ears off. It’s been almost three days. Make a damn move already!”

Suddenly, he heard movement outside the raider’s sandbags. They must have heard it too, because they all started commenting on it. Loudly.

A few well-placed small-caliber shots rang out over the din, and he watched as two of the raiders fell in the street. A tall figure bent over them, rifling through their pockets for ammunition and caps.

“Is that the cicada?” he whispered, eyes wide. “No way.”

She had traded in her vault suit for a green and black flannel shirt and jeans, and her long white hair was wound in a tight bun that hung low on her neck beneath a filthy newsboy cap that even Drummer would have probably burned rather than worn, but there was no mistaking it. Myra, the girl from Vault 111, was here in Concord. But how? What had drawn her here?

She wasn’t alone, either. Sometime since he’d left her asleep on the couch, she’d acquired a large German Shepherd who stood stalwartly beside her, a green bandana tied about his neck.

Deacon watched her from his perch on the top floor of the hardware store as she conversed animatedly with Preston, who addressed her from the museum’s balcony.

“Vault dweller, vault dweller. Wherefore art thou, vault dweller?” Deacon muttered mockingly, his mouth curling into a cat-like smile. Man, he cracked himself up.

At Preston’s request, Myra grabbed a discarded laser musket and stormed inside the Museum of Freedom, her fluffy companion at her side, and Deacon was alone with the increasingly agitated surviving raiders again.

It had been, what, three days since Deacon had found her? That was hardly enough time for her to recover, and yet here she was, already on her feet and carving her way through raiders like they were made of butter. Now that was something worth noting.

Who was she, anyway? As far as he knew, most pre-war women from the suburbs weren’t well known for their shooting skills. Had she been a criminal of some sort? No, that didn’t seem to fit. If she’d been on the wrong side of the law, she would have probably tried to join up with the raiders, rather than helping the trapped refugees.

Was she ex-military? She certainly had the skills, but she didn’t carry herself like a soldier. Was she really just that adaptable? Unlikely. There was something off about this Myra, and he was going to uncover her secrets if it was the last thread he ever pulled at. He continued his watch on the museum, his thoughts racing as he tried to piece together a puzzle with most of the pieces missing.

Suddenly, a loud thud shook him from his reflections as an ancient suit of power armor landed on the street below, minigun blazing as the armored figure mowed through the remaining raiders.

What the hell? Did they just jump off the roof? How did I miss that? I really am getting rusty.

The power armor wasn’t as flashy as some of the better-maintained suits he’d seen in his younger days, and the person inside wasn’t particularly great at walking in it, but it was at least a full set, more than what most people found scattered around the ’Wealth.

“I we could get Glory in one of those,” Deacon mused, “we might not even need another heavy.”

The armored figure made short work of Gristle and his band of merry men, leveling them in a spray of bullets. They lowered the gun at last when they reached the far side of the street before turning around and slowly, awkwardly stomping back towards the museum.

An unholy roar resounded in the crisp October air from behind them as the sewer grate on the end of the road exploded. An enormous, grey, scaly arm tipped with vicious talons erupted from the opening, followed swiftly by the rest of the hulking, reptilian monstrosity to which the limb belonged.

“Shit! Deathclaw!” Deacon yelled, forgetting for a moment that he was supposed to be hidden.

That suit wouldn’t help whoever was inside much, he feared. He’d seen deathclaws open the metal armor like a can of sardines, and this one seemed particularly peckish.

He shifted positions, bringing his sniper rifle to bear on the giant lizard. He watched in horror as the creature rounded on the armored fighter who hastily struggled with their minigun, trying to aim the heavy equipment. The combatant got a few good shots off, but the impact of the minigun rounds only seemed to enrage the beast more. It picked them up like they were a doll, slamming them into the ground with a force so great that they probably felt it back at HQ. The helmet popped off the suit, and all he could see was white hair streaked with blood, large green eyes wide in terror.

“Really, Myra?” he moaned. “Am I going to have to do everything for you?”

The deathclaw’s arm swiped towards her skull, and Deacon heard her shriek in horror right as his finger gently pulled back on the trigger.

The creature’s head exploded in a splash of viscera, and her cry of horror turned to disgust as the gore rained down on her, the cold-blooded beast’s fallen corpse tipping her over and pinning her in her suit like a turtle.

The doors of the museum flew open as Preston’s group ran towards their fallen rescuer, who was using all the strength the suit afforded her to try and lift the deathclaw off of herself.

“Jun, Sturges!” barked Preston, pushing futilly at the deathclaw corpse. “Help me get this thing off of her!”

“You heard the man,” replied the man in coveralls. Between the three of them, they managed to push the heavy corpse far enough to ease Myra out from under it.

She wiggled free, accepting a hand from Preston who helped her to her feet as best he could.

“Thanks,” she managed, struggling to catch her breath.

“It’s the least I could do, seeing as you saved all our lives,” Preston replied, a bright grin on his typically melancholy face.

Deacon shuddered. It was unnatural. He’d never seen the man happy, not once.

“Well, I’ll be, ma’am,” drawled the synth apparently now known as Sturges. “How’d you pull that one off?”

Myra scanned the buildings, but Deacon shrunk back from the window, cursing as her eyes found him. Had she seen him? Did she know?

“Just got lucky,” she replied in a husky voice.

“Well, lucky or not, we owe you our lives,” replied Preston, clapping a hand to her ironclad back. “We’re headed to this place Mama Murphy knows about, Sanctuary. You’d be more than welcome to come with us if you wish.”

“I’ll do that,” she chirped, “but first, I need to get this suit off. Can’t say I’m a fan of brains in my bra.”

Deacon could feel their flustered expressions from his nest. Well, she definitely wasn’t the demure housewife he’d been picturing when he’d first encountered her. Dez had told him to report right back when the raider situation had been dealt with, but maybe he should keep an eye on this girl for a while instead. The Railroad could do worse than recruiting her. With those skills and her brash personality, she’d be an excellent asset and a welcome diversion.

“Oh, Carrington’s just gonna hate you,” he snickered to himself, the wheels of his opportunistic brain already spinning out of control. She’d be a hell of an agent, even with her seemingly endless death wish. Besides, whether she realized it yet or not, they already made a hell of a team.

With Dogmeat scouting ahead of them, Preston Garvey’s weary band of refugees made their way slowly down the road, pausing every once in a while for Mama Murphy to catch her breath. He noticed that the enigmatic old woman had taken a real shine to the newcomer, but he wasn’t yet convinced that the feeling was mutual.

Myra Larimer, the young woman who’d saved their hides, had been injured a bit more than they’d initially thought in her battle against the deathclaw, and limped along as best she could on a swollen, possibly sprained ankle. The left side of her head had taken quite a beating when the deathclaw had torn her helmet off, leaving her with a deep gash across her hairline that almost looked like a coronet of blood. They had managed to slow the bleeding with one of their remaining stimpacks, but the wound would probably still scar. Fortunately for her, besides severe bruising, these were the worst of her injuries.

Unfortunately for her, her unsteady gait put her near the back of the group, so there was little she could do but try to politely listen to Mama Murphy as the old woman kept rambling to her about energy and children and other things Preston couldn’t entirely overhear from his position at the front of the party.

Preston still didn’t quite understand Mama Murphy’s “Sight,” but he couldn’t deny that the old woman’s visions had saved his life--hell, all their lives--more than once since the attack on Quincy. And given their situation, he couldn’t exactly afford to be skeptical. He needed all the help he could get.

But Myra had not lived through what he had. She had not lost the lives he’d lost, or been forced to carry the guilt of an entire militia on her shoulders. He couldn’t expect her to embrace the old woman’s counsel the way he had.

Myra kept looking around the wilderness that surrounded the fragmented roadway anxiously, as though hoping the wastes would conjure her a distraction, some excuse to peel away from the group. She idly ran her thumb down the stock of her little black 10mm pistol, having passed the laser musket she’d picked up to Sturges along with her other, heavier gear.

The great ox of a mechanic didn’t seem to mind wearing the battered suit of power armor as he bounded along next to Preston, chattering about all the improvements he wanted to make to the set.

“... and I can adjust the frame so it fits her better, too,” rambled Sturges, his voice tinny and almost robotic from within the battered helmet. “Poor girl could barely move during that fight, you know. I wonder if we can find some paint after I clean this thing up. What color do you think would look the best?”

“I don’t know, Brian,” replied Preston. “Maybe you should ask her yourself, once things settle down. It’s her suit, after all.”

As Preston stole another glance back at the young woman, her brilliant emerald eyes caught his.

“Save me,” she mouthed, and he suppressed a small chuckle.

“Keep an eye on the Longs, ok, Sturges? I need to go check on something. Just keep following this road for now.”

“You got it,” he mechanic’s familiar drawl echoed.

Preston slowed his pace, allowing Mama Murphy and Myra to catch up with him.

“Hey, Mama, how much further is it to Sanctuary, do you think?” he asked the older woman, glancing at Myra in his peripheral vision.

The white-haired young woman winked at him before quickly looking away, pretending she hadn’t noticed his arrival. So that’s the way she wanted to play it.

“Not far now, Preston,” croaked Mama Murphy, her bleary blue eyes staring into the distance. “I can almost see it… just past the gas station.”

“Excellent. Then we might make it there before nightfall. Listen, can I borrow Myra for a second?”

“Of course you can! I see a long and fruitful partnership between the two of you, you know, Preston. You’d do well to keep her close.”

He frowned as her words sunk in, pondering them carefully. Mama’s visions were usually quite cryptic, but there were only a few ways he could interpret what she’d said. She was either suggesting a romantic partnership or a business partnership. Possibly both. Either way, perhaps Myra was exactly what he was looking for.

The old crone turned to Myra, weakly clasping her narrow fingers in her leathery hand like an owl grasping a tree branch.

“I’ll talk to you later, kid,” she murmured with a weak smile. “Maybe after you bring me some Jet…”

Preston sighed, pulling Myra away. “Stop trying to get drugs from everyone, Mama.”

“Ah, Preston, I told you, we need the Sight. She needs it, too. Why do you insist on saving the life of an old woman at the possible cost of your own?”

“Someone has to protect you from yourself.”

“Mama Murphy was looking after herself long before you were even born, don’t you forget it.”

Preston sighed. There was no reasoning with the old woman sometimes. “We’ll talk about this later,” he muttered, leading their savior away. He helped Myra along as she hobbled painfully beside him, offering his arm to steady her. “Easy, hero,” he soothed. “I’ve got you.”

“Thanks, Preston,” she replied, her hand gripping his forearm tightly as she leaned into him. “I thought I was going to have to start claiming psychic powers of my own, just to get her to leave me alone.”

“Don’t mention it. It’s not like I don’t owe you one.”

“Just one? Come on, man. That lizard was worth at least four. Not to mention the raiders.”

He smiled down at her warmly. “Well, you’re probably right about that,” he replied, “But I paid you for the raiders, remember?”

“Which I explicitly asked you not to. And, by the way, you paid me in bottle caps, so, not exactly a fair trade.”

He stared at her, confused. “Did I not pay you enough? It seemed like a fair price to me.”

“It’s the bottle cap thing I’m having trouble with,” Myra replied. “Is that really the currency people use now? Talk about one man’s trash.”

“What do you mean?” He stopped walking, turning his full attention to the young woman. He gently parted the hair around the savage gash in her scalp, analyzing the wound carefully. Maybe her head injury was worse than he’d thought. Did she have a concussion?

She hissed in pain as his fingers grazed a particularly tender spot, flinching away from him with wounded eyes. “Hey! That hurts, Preston!”

“I’m sorry. I’m a little worried about your head. We’ve used caps as currency since the Great War.”

“I...I’m sorry. There’s a lot about this world I don’t understand. I only got here recently.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m from Vault 111.”

So she was a vault dweller. That made a bit more sense, and explained the Pip-Boy strapped to her wrist. He’d assumed she’d looted it at some point. “Well, for a vault dweller, you definitely fight well,” he managed. “I wouldn’t have known.”

“Thanks, I guess,” she replied with a smirk. “But like I was saying, the world’s just so different now. It’s a little overwhelming. How do you deal with all the criminals and monsters all the time? I don’t suppose there’s an abundance of jails.”

He thought for a moment. If he was being honest with himself, he wasn’t dealing with the horrors of this world particularly well. After all, he was the last of a group of so-called “good guys” who had turned their backs on the people who needed them the most. Sometimes, he felt like the only person in the world who still gave a damn about other people, and that horrified him.

He hadn’t expected them to survive Concord, and he honestly wasn’t sure he even wanted to. What was the point? His group would make it to Sanctuary, and then what? How long would it take before they were run out of there as well? There were no safe havens, and no one who could protect them. At least, that was the case if Preston Garvey was the best thing the Commonwealth had to offer. He was a failure, and he would never be more than that.

But how could he tell Myra that? She was already so alone in this world. Preston couldn’t really save anyone, not even himself. But she was new to the Commonwealth, and had already proven her salt as far as he was concerned with how she’d handled that deathclaw. Maybe, if he told her what she needed to hear, he could save her from the fear that already consumed him. And, if he was very lucky indeed, she would save them all.

“Well, I just do the best I can,” he managed. “Help people when I’m able. And protect people who need it, if I can. Sometimes, though, all I can do is slog my way through another day, and just be grateful that I’m still here.”

“Sounds like a hell of a way to live,” Myra muttered.

“I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t,” Preston replied. “But you’ll see. I still believe that there’s more good than bad out here in the Commonwealth, if you know where to look for it. I mean, it brought us you when we needed you.”

Myra blushed slightly, turning away from him and limping towards a small trail that emerged from the underbrush nearby.

Preston wasn’t sure if she’d believed him. He wasn’t particularly accustomed to lying, and frankly, he wasn’t wanting to pick up the habit. Life was hard enough when you could trust the people around you. Quincy had taught him how much worse it was when you couldn’t.

“Come on,” she called to him over her shoulder. “You said you wanted to reach Sanctuary by sundown, right? I know a shortcut.” She whistled loudly, and Dogmeat came barreling down the road toward them, barking excitedly. “Come on, boy!” she exclaimed. “This way!”

“Do I even want to know how you already know about Sanctuary?” asked Preston, eyeing her curiously.

“I used to live there, before the War. Come on, I’ll show you!”

“Before the… hey! Wait! Before the War?”

He motioned to the others before following her down the trail towards what he hoped would become home.

::::

As they entered the dilapidated subdivision, an old Mr. Handy unit rushed towards them, its motor whirring frantically. “Miss Myra!” scolded the Mr. Handy. “You promised if I let you go alone you would take care of yourself! What do you call this?”

“I’m alive, aren’t I, Codsworth?”

“Oh, tut-tut, mum. You know as well as I do that survival is hardly the baseline for a successful venture. And who are your new friends?”

Preston removed his hat in salute to the robot. “I’m Preston Garvey, Commonwealth Minutemen, and these people are settlers, under my protection. We are… well, we were hoping to live here, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course not! If Miss Myra trusts you, then I shall trust you. It will be good to see the old place full of life again. It’s been so quiet since everyone went away, you know.”

“Thank you. I promise we’ll take good care of the place.”

“You had best, or you’ll have me to deal with, sir.” The robot swiveled its eyes back to Myra, clicking in annoyance. “Well, come on inside, then. Sit down on the couch, and let’s tend to those injuries, shall we?”

“I’m fine, Codsworth. Stop fussing.”

“You can barely walk! Oh, and your poor head! I really must insist you let me tend to you.”

“Oh, all right,” Myra sighed, “but I’m not waiting for a clean bill of health from you. I’ve got other things that need to get taken care of. These people need a place to sleep, for starters.”

“Whoa, there, young lady,” piped Sturges, “your robot’s absolutely right. You need to rest. Don’t worry. I can get started on the repairs to our little settlement without you. It’ll take long enough just to get the debris cleared.”

Preston nodded in agreement. “Trust me, there will be plenty for you to do once you’re back to full strength. You’re no good to anyone if you aggravate that ankle of yours.”

Myra sighed, rolling her eyes. “Fine. But I’m helping you first thing tomorrow, no matter what.”

Preston nodded. “Well, I’ll hold you to it, then. Good night, Myra.”

“Good night, Preston.”

::::

The next day, Preston awoke to the sound of hushed cussing and heavy dragging from beyond his room. He slipped out of his sleeping bag, grabbed his laser musket, and quietly stalked into the living room of the derelict house he’d laid claim to.

“Stupid piece of shit,” muttered Myra, grunting in effort as she tried to move a pile of twisted metal and fabric that had once been a couch towards the second bedroom of the house. Her face screwed up in pain as a piece of rebar fell from the pile, smacking her on her already sore ankle, but she stifled her scream of pain by biting her bottom lip.

Preston flung his musket over his shoulder and rushed over to her, lifting the far side of the junk pile fairly effortlessly. “Here, let me help you with that,” he offered.

“I’ve got it, Preston,” she replied coolly, glaring at the minuteman. “Please. Just...just let me do this.”

“And let you keep hurting yourself? Come on, Myra. What are you trying to prove?”

“Nothing. I’m just trying to build you and your friends some proper beds. I don’t need your help. Nor did I ask for it. Please, just leave me alone.”

He sighed heavily, lowering the pile of scrap to the floor. So this was how it was going to go. “Fine,” he replied. "But sooner or later, you’re going to realize that you can never have too many friends in this world. And I hope you won’t have burned every bridge still standing by the time you figure that out.”

He stormed out of the house and went to find something to eat. He’d need all the strength he could get if they were going to make this settlement secure.

As Preston moved towards the cooking fire, Brian Sturges caught his eye. His friend jogged towards him, concern darkening his handsome face. “What mole rat broke into your storeroom this morning, Preston?”

“Just that damned vault dweller. I’ve never met anyone as frustrating as her in my entire life.”

“That bad, huh? What did she do this time?”

“She’s just… I don’t know. I don’t understand how someone can care so much about other people, but still be such an asshole. She woke me up trying to rearrange the furniture in my house, and then bit my head off when I tried to help her.”

“Well, did she want help?”

“No, but she needed it. She’s going to hurt herself, trying to do that alone with her leg still messed up like it is.”

“Well, did it ever occur to you that maybe she’s scared of being seen as weak?” asked Sturges.

“I...what?”

“Think about it. She’s out of her element, here. The world’s not the same as what she’s used to. I’d bet she’s terrified that if she shows weakness, she’ll be picked off. Hell, even people who have lived in the Commonwealth their whole lives are afraid of that. Don’t you think that might be a possibility?”

“But she doesn’t have to be scared of us! Doesn’t she understand that?”

“No offense, Preston, but she just met us yesterday. And with the reputation the Minutemen have these days…”

Preston rubbed his eyes with a sigh. “You’re not wrong, Brian. But we need her. And that means we need her to trust us...to trust me.”

“Then give her some space, and let her get to know us before you start barking orders at her, ok? Being pushy will just alienate her more. Let her come to you.”

Preston nodded. “You’re probably right. Let’s see what’s cooking, and then you and I can get to work on fortifying the main road. I’ll let Myra figure her own schedule out for now.”

::::

Several hours passed in sweat and strain as the refugees from Quincy labored to turn the derelict subdivision into a passable home. Marcy and Mama Murphy had begun planting crops along the riverbank. Jun, for his part, was hard at work sorting through the rubble of the ruined houses for useful materials, which Preston and Sturges then used to build fortifications. Any extra goods were added to the storage room in Sturges’ house to be used later. It was a long, hot, exhausting process, even in the chilly October air.

Preston and Sturges had just finished building the frame for a large gate near the entrance to the island when Jun ran up to them, breathless. “Hey, um, did you guys hear that scream?” he asked in his soft, sad voice, his dark eyes wide with fear.

They looked at each other, shaking their heads.

“Well, um, it came from one of the houses, I think,” he continued. “Do you think it’s ghouls or something?”

Preston wiped his grimy hands on his pants before sliding the strap of his laser musket off his shoulder, readying the weapon. “I’ll go check it out,” he reassured the shell-shocked man. “Jun, stay with Sturges until I say it’s safe, ok?”

The slight asian man nodded in reply, and Preston shot a gentle smile of reassurance at him before heading deeper into the cul-du-sac.

He found the source of the noise quite quickly, thanks to Dogmeat. The large german shepherd paced frantically outside one of the houses, whining and scratching at the wall repeatedly with his paw.

“What is it, boy?” Preston asked. “What’s in there?”

“Um, hey Preston,” sighed a familiar voice from inside the house. “Don’t laugh, but I could really use some help.”

“Myra? What’s going on?”

“Quicker would be better,” she hissed in reply.

He entered the house carefully, looking around the living room for her. She was nowhere to be seen.

“Um, hey. Up here.”

He turned his gaze towards the roof, and had to stifle a deep chortle at the sight before him.

The vault dweller’s entire lower body dangled from the ceiling like an embarrassed chandelier, her chest firmly caught in the twisted wreckage of the roof. Her injured leg dangled uselessly while she kicked at the air with the other, desperately trying to knock herself loose to little success

.

“What the hell happened to you?” asked Preston.

“I was going after a duffle bag up here and I slipped,” her voice rang out from beyond the ruined roof. “Yes, I know, it’s ridiculous. Can you get me free or not?”

“Are you saying you’d like my help?” Preston asked, grinning at her.

“Yes, please.”

“I don’t know… maybe I should just make you wait it out for a little bit.”

“Please, Preston! I don’t want anyone else to see me like this.”

“Okay, Myra. Here’s the deal. I’ll get you out, but you have to promise me that you’ll take a lesson from this. You can’t do everything on your own all the time. There’s no shame in asking for help.”

“I don’t know about that,” she muttered angrily. “I’m feeling plenty of shame right now.”

“Or I can leave you there, and we’ll see how Mama Murphy likes her new ceiling decor. Personally, I think it’s a pretty interesting piece. Lots of drama.”

“Will you shut up and get me down?”

“Will you agree to stop being such a jerk when someone’s trying to be nice to you?”

Myra stopped kicking for a moment, contemplating his offer. “No promises. But I’ll try,” she added.

“Then I’ll try to get you down,” he shot back.

He thought for a moment. It would be little trouble for him to grab the ladder Sturges had made that morning and use it to reach the roof, or he could ask Myra how she’d gotten up there. But that still left her stuck in the ceiling. There was really only one solution. They had to widen the hole. “Hang on, Myra,” he called to her. “I’m going to go get a mattress.”

“What? Why?”

“Just… just hold on.” He headed to the bedroom, grateful that they’d at least gotten a basic mattress finished for this place, and hauled the lumpy rectangle back to the living room, placing it under Myra. “Ok, now, this is the hard part,” he said, readying his laser musket. “I’m going to need you to stay very still.”

“Why? What are you… did you just crank your stupid musket? Are you crazy? Preston, no! You’re going to kill me!”

“Only if I miss. Now hold still.”

The laser blast was deafening in the enclosed space. The crash that followed was a little more so.

“Oww! What the hell?” cried Myra, rubbing her midsection gingerly as she lay sprawled out on the mattress, covered in debris. “I think you singed me a little!”

“Well, if you can whine, I know you’re alive,” replied Preston cooly. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

“Thanks, I guess.”

He knelt beside her, peering into her angry green eyes. “Look, Myra, I’m sorry for earlier. I know I should have asked if you needed help before I tried to intervene. But I wasn’t meaning to imply that you were weak or anything. I just wanted you to take better care of yourself, and let the rest of us pick up some of the slack. You saved our lives, and helped us find a home. We owe you.”

“I know, Preston,” she replied with a sigh, glancing away from him to study the floor. “I’m sorry for snapping at you. I just… it reminded me of something Nate would do, helping me without asking, like I was made of glass.”

“Nate?”

“My husband. He...he died. In the vault. Someone murdered him, right in front of me. He was always so strong, so brave, and they just… He wasn’t even able to fight back. I guess I…”

“You’re afraid of the same thing happening to you.”

“Ever since I woke up, I’ve felt like I’m not in control of my own life. I barely remember even leaving the vault, do you know that? I remember seeing the sun, then waking up on my couch with Codsworth fussing over me. Apparently, some wastelander brought me home. I could have been killed, or worse, and I wouldn’t have even known.”

“That sounds pretty awful. I’m sorry.”

“Then, I got to Concord, hoping to find some help, and I found you guys instead. I had to help you, but I had no idea what I was doing. I killed people, Preston.”

“They would have done worse to you if you hadn’t.”

“I know that. But still...that’s not me. I’m not a fighter. I’m Myra Larimer, fresh out of law school, wife and mother. I’m not...I’m not cut out for this.”

“Myra,” Preston soothed, placing a hand on her shoulder, “do you really have a choice?”

She stared at him in surprise. “A choice?”

“The Commonwealth is brutal. You need to either continue adapting to it, or it will kill you. And you don’t seem like the kind of person who’s ready to die, not yet. Trust me. I know that kind of person all too well. So there will be times that you have to become more than what you think you are. And that’s not something to be afraid of. It’s just something that has to happen, like you killing that deathclaw.”

He saw a flash of something like guilt in her eyes, which she quickly swallowed away. “So it’s fight or die?”

“Exactly. Which are you going to choose?”

She thought for a long moment before hauling herself off the filthy mattress, using his shoulder as a handle. She stared down at him with defiant eyes, her mouth set in a firm line. “Well, then, I’m going to fight.”

“Excellent. That, I can work with. Now, let’s find a way you can help that takes weight off your leg, okay? At least for a couple days. Then, when you’re feeling better, I think I have a job you’d be perfect for.”

::::

A week passed quickly, and Sanctuary was swiftly becoming a functional settlement. With Myra’s help, the former residents of Quincy had managed to clean up much of the surrounding area. The houses that were beyond their ability to repair had been dismantled, and most of the other dwellings had been repaired to habitable condition.

At Preston’s insistence, they had built enough beds to house three or four people in every house, save one right by the main gate which Marcy Long, Jun’s wife, had turned into a bar and mess hall. It had given the fearsome woman her own domain, keeping her busy and the rest of the settlers safe from her ire. Preston thought this was for the best.

They were making steady progress on a wall around the island, punctuated every twenty feet or so with a guard post and turrets. Sturges had designed the whole defense system, and he made sure everyone knew it.

Myra’s leg had healed to the point at which she could put her full weight on it again, and she was restless. Preston could see it in her eyes as she threw the switch on the settlement recruitment beacon they had set up that afternoon.

“Excellent work, Myra!” he exclaimed, beaming at her. “With a little luck, our settlement can grow into a nice little town now!”

“We’ve certainly accomplished a lot. Sturges says the water purifier's almost up and running, so we won’t have to keep boiling the crap out of the river water and hoping for the best.”

“That’s great news.”

“Isn’t it? Well, hey, if you don’t need anything else right now, I thought I’d take a walk, check on the farm.”

“Actually, I do have something else for you,” he replied, “if you don’t mind.”

“I’m listening.”

“I got word from a settlement nearby, asking for help from the Minutemen. And right now, that’s just me. I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind running over there and finding out what they need.”

“You know I’d love to get out of here for a few days,” said Myra, “but why can’t you do it?”

Preston’s heart dropped. “I...I can’t. After what happened at Quincy, I can’t look those people in the eye and tell them they can count on me. But you have a way with people. Maybe, if they see you instead of the last remnant of a failed militia, they’ll be more inclined to trust the Minutemen again.”

She stared at him silently, her face blank, so after a moment, he continued.

“Look, I’m not asking you to lie to them. But we need to start gathering allies, or our little settlement here isn’t going to survive very long. We can build all the walls we want, but if no one’s out there to help us when we’re under attack, we’ll die. And the same goes for all the other settlements out there. The only way we all can stay safe is if we work together. I just need you to remind them of that.”

Myra sighed. “And you want me to, what, unite them under your flag again?”

He shook his head. “For now, I just want you to find out what they need and help them, if you can. Will you do that for me?”

“All right. But if they make me do something weird, I’m blaming you.”

“Noted.”

Myra dashed to her house, returning a few minutes later with a backpack full of supplies, her pistol resting comfortably on her hip. She grinned at him widely. “Ok, I’m ready to go.” Dogmeat plodded up to her, his tail wagging enthusiastically. She leaned down, scratching the large german shepherd behind his ears. “Keep Dogmeat with you, Preston,” she requested. “I’ll feel better if I know someone’s looking after him.”

“You’re sure?”

She nodded vehemently. “I can’t bear the thought of him getting hurt because of me. He’s a good boy, and I’ll miss him, but he’s safer here in Sanctuary.”

“Well, I won’t complain about having him nearby, that’s for sure,” Preston replied, a worried smile on his face,” but what if you need help?”

“Relax, Preston. I can handle myself.”

“If you say so. Look, Myra, I have to be honest with you, if there was anyone else I could trust, I wouldn’t be sending you out there. After what you went through for us in Concord, no one would blame you if you said no.”

“But you said it yourself, Preston. There is no one else. And those people need help. I’m not so vulnerable that I’ll turn my back on someone who needs me.”

“You’d make a fine minuteman, you know.”

“Well, let’s just see if I come back in one piece first, okay, Preston?”

“Sure thing, Myra.”

She waved goodbye lazily with one hand as she made her way to the bridge. He watched her for a few moments before pulling the gate shut behind her, obscuring the young woman from view.

“Well, I’d say she’s a keeper,” crooned Sturges, walking up from the side of house he was refurbishing.

“She’s certainly something,” replied Preston, smiling grimly at his friend. “Now, let’s go see what we can do about fortifying the northwest side of our new home. I have a feeling that the old trail there is a bit of a highway for wild animals.”

“I was just about to suggest that. Well, add it to our to-do list, at least. Even with Myra’s help, it’s going to take a lot more work to make this place a real home.”

“Here’s hoping we actually have the time to make it one.”

::::

A few days later, Myra appeared at the gate, caked in blood and gunpowder, her hair blown loose and wild about her filthy face. She shot Preston a thumbs-up, smirking up at him. “Honey, I’m home! Please tell me we have clean water finally.”

Preston tore down the guard post steps and opened the gate hastily, ushering her inside.

“What the hell happened out there?” he cried. “You look like death.”

“The good news,” Myra piped, “is that Tenpines Bluff has agreed to support the Minutemen again. The bad news is that they wanted me to clear a huge automotive factory full of raiders before they’d agree to it.”

“Damn,” he cursed. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting that. I thought they might need help scaring some raiders off, but they sent you after the gang at Corvega instead? I wouldn’t have agreed to that if we had a whole squad at our disposal! This is why we used to ask people to tell us what their problem was before we sent troops out.”

“Well, it wouldn’t have changed anything,” Myra replied. “I mean, I was the only one you could send anyway, so what difference would it have made?”

“I could have at least made you take a bigger gun.”

“But I like my gun. It’s compact, yes, but it’s comfortable and accurate. I don’t need anything else.”

“Or maybe I could have encouraged you to wear some actual armor.”

“What? And cover up my lucky shirt? I love this shirt.”

“Myra,” he warned, “can you please take this more seriously? You could have died.”

“But I didn’t. And most of this blood isn’t even mine. Okay, well, some of it isn’t mine. Are you just going to lecture me, or can I get a bath first?”

He sighed heavily. “Fine. Go ahead. But you and I need to talk when you’re cleaned up.”

“If you insist,” she muttered, stalking off towards her house.

Preston eased himself down on the steps of the guard post, resting his head in his hands. He had begged and wished for someone to help him, to save the Minutemen. And whatever twisted powers governed such things had sent him Myra Larimer. He wasn’t sure who was more insane, her for being so willing to throw herself into danger, or him for deciding to rely on her. Maybe it was better to give up now, to recognize that the Minutemen were really gone for good. At least then he wouldn’t be leaving their fate in the hands of a half-crazed vault dweller.

But was he really ready to let the dream of a united Commonwealth go, when he’d finally found another person willing to die for it? Boston itself was steeped in the stories of great men and women who had attempted even more ambitious things than that. How many of those powerful figures of the past were considered just as foolhardy as he now saw Myra? Perhaps she was exactly what he’d been looking for.

Either way, he knew he couldn’t wait around for someone else to lead them, and he certainly wasn’t up to the job. He could barely keep himself together, let alone the whole Commonwealth. But there was something about her that told him that she might be able to pull it off, if he just gave her the right guidance.

Myra returned to the gate a while later, her brilliant white hair once again tucked into a messy bun under her cap. Her favorite shirt was missing, probably soaking, and she was instead wearing a tattered brown leather jacket that was way too big for her frame, along with a ratty pink skirt. “Well, I feel worlds better. Thank God for Sturges, and thank Sturges for clean water!”

“It’s definitely a luxury,” he agreed. “Now, do you have time to talk?”

She nodded, saying, “I’ve braced myself for more lecturing. Let’s do this.”

“I wasn’t planning on a lecture. Unless you think you deserve one.”

“Nope. I’m good. What did you want to talk about?”

“Well, first, I wanted to give you this,” he said, handing her a flare gun and a few flares. “We used to use these to signal to other Minutemen when we needed backup. It’s not much use now, but hopefully it will be in the future.”

“You mean when there are more Minutemen again?”

He nodded, studying her face. What would she say, once he asked her? Was she ready? Would she ever be? “Myra, I...I wanted to ask you for another favor. I know all I’ve done is ask for help, but I promise that, if you say no, this will be the last thing I ever ask of you.”

“What is it, Preston?” she asked, her rich emerald eyes shining with curiosity as she palmed the flare gun.

“I… The Commonwealth needs the Minutemen, Myra. I think you already see that. But I can’t bring them back. Not alone. People need someone they can trust to rally behind, someone brave and strong and compassionate who can really give them something to believe in again. And I think… I hope, that that’s you.”

“Are you asking me what I think you’re asking me?”

“Myra, please, will you rebuild the Minutemen? Will you lead us?”

“Did you hit your head while I was away? Why on earth would you ask me to do that? I don’t know the first thing about leading an army.”

“I know. I know. But I’ll help you.”

“Then why can’t you do it yourself?”

“Because… because I don’t have what it takes. The aftermath of Quincy proved that. I’m not a leader, Myra. I’m a footsoldier, an advisor at the very most. But we need someone who can be more than that. I believe what we need is you.”

“Can I think about it? This is… this is a lot to take in.”

“Of course. Take as long as you need. And no matter what you decide, know that you’re always welcome here.”

“Thanks, Preston. I mean, I’d hoped so. This is my home, after all.” And with that, she wandered back towards her house, leaving him alone again.

“I really hope this works,” Preston muttered to himself. “I don’t know what we’re going to do if she says no.”

As Deacon slunk across the rooftops of some of Cambridge’s surviving apartment buildings, he wondered how Myra was adjusting to life in the Commonwealth since he’d last seen her. Thanks to the Railroad keeping him occupied with intel-gathering missions, it had been nearly a month since the last time he’d shadowed the young woman after her gore-filled romp in the Corvega plant.

He had to admit he’d missed watching her work. Deacon didn’t have much of a stomach for violence, but the way Myra weaved through the scaffolding on the roof of the factory like a vengeful spirit, laying waste to her targets…it was almost like art. Of course, he still had to cover her back a few times. The young woman may have gotten better at the dance of death, but she was still pretty awful at checking her corners.

But what had really impressed him was what happened afterwards, when she returned to Tenpines Bluff to tell them that they were safe…well, safer, at least. She had won them over to the Minutemen -- no, to her -- so easily with her calm reassurance. He doubted that any of them had even noticed she was covered in blood and filth. She was a natural. He had to have her on his team.

The enigma that was Myra Larimer had proven to be a tough one for him to solve. For someone adapting to life in the Commonwealth for the first time, she had taken a lot of its creatures and pitfalls in stride, which surprised him. He’d expected a lot more screaming, and a lot less precision firing.

The snow-haired cicada didn’t seem overly squeamish, but she also wasn’t very practical. She still wore the same threadbare flannel she’d sported in Concord with no armor, still carried the same old 10 mm -- though he noted with some interest that she’d modded a larger magazine on the weapon. Maybe the old girl could learn some new tricks. Not as useful as, say, how to sneak rather than just rain bullets on everything that got in her way, but it was something.

With her insistence on running at her targets with no regard for cover and not even having the decency to wear defensive gear, Deacon was honestly amazed she hadn’t died yet. She was either the luckiest woman in the world, or she had actual guardian angels backing her up. Having one incredibly charming spy with a sniper rifle watching her back probably didn’t hurt either, though, and he had to wonder if her luck had run out in his absence.

Deacon decided that he’d run up to Sanctuary after this next job, check in on her and Preston. He was certainly curious how the two of them were getting along. From what he’d seen on his last visit to Sanctuary, he couldn’t imagine that such a partnership was going smoothly. Still, she had agreed to be the General of Preston’s non-existent army, so either she was playing an extended prank on the minuteman or they got along better than he assumed.

Only time would tell if the Minutemen would fare any better under Myra’s leadership. Deacon had always wanted to like the militia more than he did. After all, they had been the main unifying force in the Commonwealth, and some of their members even seemed to care about the everyday people who lived there. But he was inherently mistrustful of any organization whose members had too much power, and the Minutemen were no exception. They claimed to be defenders of the people, but recent events had proven that most of the old guard were only in it for themselves.

Preston had proven himself one of the few exceptions to the rule, at least for now. He’d risked his life for the people of Quincy, had saved the ones he could. Deacon could respect that. Hell, he’d even like the guy if he’d learn to loosen up a bit. But one good soul did not sanctify an entire organization. He’d learned that the hard way back in University Point, and it was a lesson that kept him on his toes, even as he worked tirelessly for the Railroad.

“No group of people’s perfect,” he muttered. “And we’re sure as hell no exception.”

His current mission was certainly evidence of that. After all, he could be out saving synths, or helping people rebuild their lives. Instead, Desdemona had tasked him with tracking down a distress signal in Cambridge, with orders to destroy the people who sent it.

According to what he’d been told, a number of tourists had reported sightings of a Brotherhood of Steel patrol in the area. Now, with this distress signal, it was pretty obvious that the rumors were true.

Deacon thought it would have been crazy for the Brotherhood to send another team after what had happened to the last one a few years ago. Fortunately, he hadn’t been involved in that ambush, but the operation had Railroad written all over it. Thanks to the organization’s paranoid obsession with secrecy, he’d never know for sure, though, and spending too long speculating on it wasn’t doing him any favors.

He stopped on a rooftop near the Cambridge Police Station, the source of the broadcast, and peered through his scope at the scene below him. Deacon’s heart sank at the sight of the old gears and blade on the barricades outside. Part of him had been hoping that the reports were wrong, that the signal was an elaborate ploy by the Institute, that Dez was messing with him. Anything but this.

Unfortunately, the Brotherhood recon patrol was real. And now, he’d have to kill them before they compromised Railroad operations in the area. Damn, he hated these kinds of missions. He usually refused them, but these days, there weren’t a lot of other agents available. Besides, he’d done worse in the name of protecting his allies in the past.

“If you’re already going to Hell, what’s a few more murders on the old conscience?” he mused, chuckling bitterly to himself. “Might as well recruit some willing women and finally schedule that night of endless debauchery Hancock keeps pestering you about while we’re at it. Vary it up a little bit.”

He shook the thought from his head as quickly as it had arrived. Now was hardly the time to berate himself. Whether he liked it or not, he had a job to do. Now he just needed to figure out the best way to do it.

Deacon scouted the compound from his perch, watching for each sign of movement through his scope. There seemed to only be a small patrol in the station, just a paladin in a suit of T-60 power armor, a wounded knight, and a scribe who was tending to the injured man as best as she could. There were possibly a few others inside, but it was difficult to tell. The place was built like a fortress, with hardly any windows he could aim his scope through.

Even if a handful of Brotherhood soldiers lurked inside the police station, there were hardly enough to constitute a threat… yet. And it looked like they were running low on ammo and medical supplies. If Deacon could just coax a large enough pack of feral ghouls through the barricades, he might be able to wipe them out entirely before they became a problem.

And they would become a problem, he knew, even if he didn’t want to admit it. The current policies of the Brotherhood of Steel would hardly allow the militant order to be anything less.

As he often had before, Deacon wished that the East Coast Brotherhood of Steel would return to the way they’d been under Elder Lyons. The man was still deeply flawed, to be sure, but the Brotherhood had been almost a positive force back then. This new Elder was trouble for all non-humans, not just the really dangerous ones. And that made him trouble for the Railroad as well. It was in everyone’s best interest that the Brotherhood not gain a foothold in the region. The Commonwealth had enough dangerous bigots without adding highly trained soldiers with advanced technology to the mix.

At least Cambridge had a particularly large feral population. It would not take him long to attract a fairly sizable pack of the irradiated former humans. The only problem was organizing them. Feral ghouls weren’t particularly known for their ability to take direction. He needed to the right motivation for them to follow him.

There were three main ways to predict human behavior, he knew. But these did not apply to ones whose brains had been melted by radiation. Rather than caps, beliefs, and ego, ferals were motivated by food, pain, and noise. If he could generate those three things, he could turn himself into a feral-collecting machine.

Food was the easy part. He already had about 170 pounds of premium-grade Deacon at his disposal. Pain could be produced by hurling rocks and other debris at the shambling horde as he ran. The real question was how he was going to generate enough noise without immediately alerting the Brotherhood squad to his presence.

Noise was definitely not Deacon’s specialty, at least not in the field. Since a majority of his missions required him to slip by unnoticed, he had cultivated an almost-silent way of walking. But there was one method he could think of that, while not being particularly subtle, would be incredibly fun. Perhaps that would take his mind off of the reality of what he was attempting to do.

He rummaged through his pack, extracting a battered piece of silver metal that he’d found a few weeks prior -- along with a few other choice goodies -- when he’d stumbled upon the remains of an old joke and novelties store downtown. He’d mostly been using the kazoo to annoy Carrington, but he had a feeling that the ferals would be very curious if he started playing it. Besides, such instruments were not common in the wasteland, so even if the noise carried farther than he thought it would, the Brotherhood soldiers still would probably not be able to identify the source of the ominous buzzing.

Deacon clambered down from his perch, taking note of the building’s stairs and fire escapes, just in case he needed to return there to avoid his pack of ferals. Once they discovered the Brotherhood buffet, they would probably ignore him, but it was better to be prepared.

He crept towards College Station, where a large group of feral ghouls frequently hung out. There were easily fifteen in the immediate area, but he needed to find more, just to be on the safe side. After all, why kill when you could overkill?

It took him a few minutes to devise the best route through the blocks surrounding the station. He needed quick, efficient routes that also were mostly debris-free so the ferals wouldn’t get trapped behind any rubble as he lured them. Eventually, he found such a route, and headed to the far end of it, preparing his kazoo.

“Here goes…something,” he exclaimed, humming into the small metal device. He hoped the ferals liked Bing Crosby as much as he did.

To his delight, his mad kazoo skills seemed to do the trick, sending a snarling mass of ferals darting towards him. He continued to play softly to keep them interested as he ran through the streets of Cambridge, gathering more and more irradiated shamblers as he went.

“I’m like a pied piper of death,” Deacon mused, pleased with himself. This was going to make a hell of a story. It was a shame that no one would believe him.

Part of him would have preferred to just put a bullet in the soldiers’ heads, at least spare them a certain level of pain and horror before their inevitable demise. But he knew that an execution would be more suspicious, and would mean more interference. The Brotherhood might even send another recon team, like they had after the last one. No, an unfortunate incident would be better for everyone.

When he was within a block of the police station, he put the kazoo away, instead relying on the persistent hunger of the ferals to keep them on his heels. This was working. He was going to pull this off.

As he neared the compound, however, his heart clenched. There, standing beside the paladin in charge, was Myra. Her pistol was raised and ready, blood from a few stray ferals who’d gotten there before his horde already staining her shirt.

“I know I scouted this area thoroughly. How the hell did I miss her?” he moaned to himself, doing his best to stay out of her line of sight. “Three weeks without a sign, and she has to show up now?”

Deacon had to act fast. He’d been prepared to follow Dez’s unsavory orders. After all, he owed her quite a bit, and trusted her to keep their neurotic little family safe. But this was different. Myra wasn’t guilty of atrocities against synth-kind. She was an innocent bystander who couldn’t help herself when someone needed her, no matter who they were. That was a rare trait in the ’Wealth, and he’d be damned if he let her die just because she’d chosen to assist the wrong people.

Images of another young woman from a lifetime ago flashed through his mind, her soft honey-colored hair stained with blood, hazel eyes wide with terror. Her skull smashed open to reveal the horrible truth beneath. His beautiful, gentle Barbara, reduced to a nightmarish memory, her broken body forever etched in the back of his mind.

Although the two of them were different in their looks and personalities, he had to admit that Myra reminded him of her. They shared that same quickness of smile, that same empathy for suffering souls, that same strange ability to see beyond people’s sins and into their hearts.

Deacon frowned, trying to quickly analyze his options. He couldn’t let it happen again. He couldn’t let another good woman lose her life because of him. He had to do something, anything, to keep her safe, even if it meant defying the person he’d sworn his loyalty to.

“Ferals!” he yelled, alerting the recon squad to their impending destruction as he ran the other way. It wouldn’t help much, but he had to give Myra a chance to escape.

Deacon dashed off towards the river, shouting and carrying on, drawing some of his ghoul army away. But many, too many, continued to shamble towards the police station. Towards Myra.

Well, it was too late now. Hopefully she’d have the good sense to run. He tried to ignore the screams and the hail of laser and gunfire from the compound behind him, to ignore the guilt that gripped his chest like a vise. It was bad enough that Dez had ordered him to kill those soldiers. Losing Myra, the vault dweller he’d spent so long trying to protect, was a prospect he could scarcely bear.

It took him longer than he cared to admit to shake the last ghoul from his tail, and he was halfway to Bunker Hill by the time he figured it was safe to turn around. One thing he could say for the rad-crazed ferals was that they were persistent. Maybe it was the fact that they had once been human that made them so stubborn, so deadly. After all, what in the Commonwealth was more dangerous than humans?

Deacon crept quietly back towards the station, hoping Myra was still alive. If she wasn’t...he didn’t want to think of what he would do to Dez over this. Or what he’d do to himself.

He climbed back to his sniper nest across the street from the building, easing the strap of his sniper rifle off his shoulder. As he watched breathlessly through his scope, he was pleased to see a flash of green flannel entering the police station. Excellent. At least one thing had gone his way today.

But that was where his luck seemed to have run out. The good news was that Myra was alive. The bad news was that she seemed to have made some new friends in the heat of battle. A battle he’d forced her into. Damn it.

Minutes later, he watched in dismay as Myra and the paladin emerged from the stronghold and charged off together, towards God knew where. He thought about following them, but decided against it. He’d done enough damage today.

Besides, he was going to need to tell Dez that his mission was a failure. That was going to be a new one. Deacon never failed. Maybe he could just spin a lie, tell her that the recon squad was taken care of. Like that wouldn’t come back to bite him on his shapely ass.

He could slip into the station while the paladin was away, perhaps sabotage the squad’s remaining equipment. But he had no way of knowing how many Brotherhood soldiers remained inside. Was it just the two, or were there others? He was willing to bet it was just the two. Otherwise, why would the paladin have left with a complete stranger?

No, it wasn’t worth the risk. Even with his best disguise, the chances of discovery were too great. Especially if there were only the two soldiers inside. The old “I’m you from the future” trick never worked quite as well as he’d hoped.

Deacon sighed, easing himself from his perch and working his way down the apartment building’s fire escape as quietly as possible. He could leave Myra out of his report, at least. Maybe that would keep her off Dez’s radar until he had a chance to recruit her. That part of his mission was now more important to him than ever.

As General of the Minutemen, Myra had already gained a valuable position that could greatly benefit the Railroad. If she joined up with the Brotherhood of Steel as well? As much as the idea sickened him, he knew exactly how to spin that to appeal to Desdemona’s ambition. Myra could be their girl on the inside of two of the other factions in the Commonwealth. If he sold her to Dez correctly, the leader of the Railroad would be crazy not to sign the vault dweller up.

Once she was a member of the Railroad, then Deacon could work on molding her into the perfect agent. And maybe, just maybe, the Railroad would have the edge they needed to survive their war against the Institute.

But first, he had to pique Myra’s interest, and that was a challenge that was going to be infinitely more complicated if she was under the watchful eye of the Brotherhood. He needed a foolproof plan, something that Myra would be unable to ignore, but subtle enough that her new friends wouldn’t notice.

“This is going to take some planning,” he muttered to himself. “And at least three new disguises. Maybe even four.”

He had better get to it.

Paladin Danse stood at the monitor in the Cambridge Police Station, trying to catch up on the mission reports from the past week. Ever since she’d arrived at the station, Myra Larimer had been keeping him quite busy. The two of them had managed to check off quite a few items on the Recon Squad to-do list, from collecting pieces of pre-war technology for Scribe Haylen to clearing out some of the more dangerous areas around Cambridge.

As Danse tried to discuss why he’d granted Larimer the rank of Initiate, he had to admit that he was struggling to express his impressions of the young woman. There was something deeply worrying about her behavior, but he wasn’t quite sure what it was that bothered him so much. It wasn’t because she couldn’t follow orders, which was normally the issue with the civilians he’d had to utilize in the past. It wasn’t even her surly tone, which was unpleasant but no worse than anything he’d dealt with before.

No, it was her complete lack of any self-preservation instinct that troubled him the most. Larimer didn’t seem like she was trying to die, not exactly. It was more that she had a nasty habit of running in first and analyzing the situation second.

He’d learned this when they’d cleared out the old Arc-Jet Systems facility, their first mission together after they’d survived the attack on the police station. Scribe Haylen had sent them to find a deep-range transmitter that would allow Recon Squad Gladius to boost their distress signal enough to hopefully reach the rest of the Brotherhood’s forces. It was a simple retrieval mission, easy enough for two soldiers to handle. Or it would have been, had the Institute not gotten there first.

The place had been crawling with synths. Fortunately, they seemed to be a salvage team comprised of the more obviously mechanical generation 1s and 2s. Danse wasn’t looking forward to his next encounter with the human-like generation 3s. There was something so disturbing about those abominations, the Institute’s sick crime against the sanctity of human life. Fighting them set him on edge in a way he rarely felt on the battlefield.

Danse and Larimer had cleared the first few floors with relative ease, even if her pistol was not nearly as effective against the synths as it had been against the horde of feral ghouls the day before. She proved herself to be a decent shot, though she seemed to waste a lot of ammo filling her enemies with holes rather than doing the same amount of damage with a few precision shots as Danse had been trained. However, she more than made up for her wastefulness by picking the locks to storage rooms and filling her pack with all the ammo she could find. He had been amazed by how much she was able to acquire with the use of just a few bobby pins.

This was why Danse sometimes kept company with mercenaries, even though he found their practices distasteful. There were just some things he didn’t have the skillset to handle on his own, and lockpicking was one of them. He’d never had the aptitude for it, even as a street urchin.

When they had finally reached the bottom of the facility, they were stopped by a power outage in the main elevator, so he had sent Larimer to reroute power in order to continue their progression. That was where the trouble began, and where Danse first realized how foolhardy his new ally could really be.

As Larimer had powered up the generator, Danse’s position had been overrun by synths, far more than they had previously encountered. She’d dashed back to help him without a moment’s thought, even though the number of hostiles was completely absurd for her to try to handle.

Danse had seen the trap coming, which was why he’d sent her ahead. Synths always used such insidious tactics, and he’d wanted to protect her. After all, she wasn’t wearing any armor, just a worn flannel shirt and that stupid hat that couldn’t even keep rain off her.

He’d expected her to lock the blast doors and wait it out, or hopefully cycle the jet engine perched ominously above the room, blasting everything inside with a massive inferno. He wasn’t thrilled about the idea of being cooked alive, but he knew his suit would take the brunt of the damage in that case. And, at least then, she would be safe from all the laser fire. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d put himself in harm’s way to protect someone weaker than himself. Knowing the world he lived in, it would hardly be the last.

Of course, Larimer never considered the tactically wise choices she had at her disposal, choosing instead to take down a horde of gen 2s with her tiny pistol and sheer bravado alone. Yes, they had both survived, and they retrieved Haylen’s transmitter. That was hardly the point. It was sloppy, unnecessarily dangerous, and completely counter to the spirit of the order he had given her.

Danse had given her his favorite laser rifle after that mission, less as a reward and more as a safeguarding gift. If she wasn’t willing to use good tactics, then she’d at least carry a decent gun. Thankfully, she seemed to adore Righteous Authority, and never used anything else so long as she had ammo for it. Because of this, their next salvage operation had gone considerably more smoothly, though Larimer still managed to take a bullet to the right shoulder as she charged a nest of raiders. After that incident, he’d finally been able to talk her into wearing a few pieces of leather armor.

He wasn’t sure what possessed him to offer her a place in the Brotherhood of Steel, but he had to admit that, in spite of her impulsivity and sloppiness, he was damn glad to have her in his squad. While there was plenty in her personality that bothered him, there was something beneath all the foolhardiness and sarcasm that resonated with him on a deep level. There was a spark in her, a fiery passion that he knew would make her an excellent soldier someday, as long as it was properly disciplined.

Danse sighed, finishing his reports, then powering down the monitor to conserve energy. The generators Recon Squad Gladius had rigged wouldn’t last forever, and they needed all the power they could get for their distress signal to reach headquarters in time.

He’d come no closer to understanding Larimer’s impulsive behavior. In all other respects, she seemed quite competent. So why was she so determined to throw caution to the wind?

Danse got the chance to ask her when they were camped out on the roof of the Police Station on watch later that night. He’d been reluctant to post the two of them together, preferring to have each of his men take their own watch. After all, more watches meant that everyone got more rest, and with so few of his squad left, Danse was more concerned about his soldiers’ wellbeing than ever.

In spite of this, Scribe Haylen had suggested that he spend more time with the new recruit. Not only would having watch together provide them an opportunity to talk, but it would keep Initiate Larimer and Knight Rhys separated before they murdered each other through dirty looks alone, which every day seemed like a greater possibility. So, against his better judgement, he agreed.

He suspected that Haylen just wanted an excuse to spend more time alone with the disgruntled knight, but he’d never press her on the issue. Danse had seen how Haylen looked at Rhys when she thought no one was watching. It would have bothered him if there had been any indication that Rhys was interested in her. Although the Brotherhood’s fraternization policy wasn’t as strict as its pre-war counterparts had been, it was still incredibly dangerous for people in the same unit to become romantically entangled. However, there were worse things than unrequited longing in this world, so Danse tried to pretend he didn’t know about Haylen’s interest in Rhys. As long as no one was breaking any rules and no one was neglecting their duties, he could care less what his soldiers spent their limited free time doing.

Regardless of Haylen’s motives, he was grateful that she’d convinced him to spend some time alone with Larimer. The Initiate needed to change her ways, and he had a feeling that an official reprimand was not going to get the results he wanted. Perhaps a friendly chat, as much as he dreaded struggling through one, was the way to go.

“Initiate,” he began, “I’d like to ask you something, if you don’t mind.”

She stared up at him with suspicion in her brilliant green eyes, but she took a few steps closer to him on the rooftop. “What is it, Danse?” she asked.

He ignored her casual drop of his rank. He had bigger issues to deal with. Now, he just needed to broach the subject gently, ease her into a casual conversation...

“Why do you always charge in headlong when you are entering a combat situation?” he blurted. “I’ve tried so hard to teach you how to use your surroundings, how to win a battle in your head before you even begin fighting. But you seem to disregard everything I say.”

She bit her lower lip, her eyes dropping to the courtyard in front of her. “I’m sorry, Paladin,” she replied softly after a long moment. “I really don’t mean to cause you trouble. I just can’t help myself when something awful is happening and I know I can do something about it.”

She was already putting up walls. Danse had to fix this, and soon, or the whole mission was a bust. He thought for a moment, trying to find the right words to say what he needed to say. “If you know it’s a problem,” he asked as gently as he could manage, “why don’t you try to fix it?”

Larimer bit her lower lip anxiously as her hand traced the markings on his…no, her laser rifle, the name he’d carved on its stock when he’d built it. How many times had he used the same gesture to ease his mind and calm his thoughts before battle? Was that how she saw this exchange? “Why do you care, anyway?” she snipped. “I get the job done.”

“That doesn’t matter if you get yourself killed!” he exclaimed. “How can you help anyone if you’re dead? You take too many risks.”

“What I do with my stupid, fucked up life is my business, Danse.”

“Yes, but you agreed to serve under my command. That means it’s my business as well. And I am not about to watch one of my soldiers die just because she refuses to take basic precautions.”

“I’m wearing this stupid leather armor, aren’t I?”

“Larimer,” he replied, his eyes meeting hers, “I’m not trying to reprimand you. I just want to help you. If something’s wrong, I want you to be able to talk to me about it. It’s part of my job as your commanding officer to be there when you need me.”

Larimer laughed bitterly. “Right, because you can totally help me with what’s wrong. Sorry, Paladin, but I think my issues are above your paygrade.”

“Try me,” Danse retorted. “I promise not to judge.”

“I’m like this because…because I don’t know how to do it by myself, ok? As long as I can remember, I’ve always had someone with a cooler head nearby to keep me grounded. My family, Nate...my husband...well, Nate was the best impulse decision I ever made, and he kept me from making a lot of other ones. And now they’re all gone, and I’ve got no one watching my back, and I can’t…I can’t...”

She trailed off, her voice shaking. Obviously, the trauma of waking up 200 years in the future had done quite a number on the Initiate. Danse couldn’t begin to imagine what she had gone through, waking up to find her entire world gone. It was hard enough losing his best friend, his mentor, members of his squad. How would he cope if everything he knew was suddenly stripped away from him?

“You’re wrong,” he managed, looking anywhere but at her. Her gaze, once hard and defiant, was too intense, too vulnerable after her confession. If he returned it, he might see more than he wanted to. He couldn’t afford to get sentimental.

“What am I wrong about?” she muttered dejectedly.

“That you’ve got no one watching your back. I’m here, aren’t I?”

“But you don’t even like me!”

He stared at her in shock, his nervousness about meeting her gaze all but forgotten at the absurdity of her statement. Was that really her concern, whether or not he liked her? How ridiculous. “That’s…”

Larimer snorted in derision. “Don’t. I know I drive you nuts, Danse, I can see it on your face, even now.”

He sighed, shaking his head as he tried to finish his thought. “Listen to me,” he barked in a commanding voice. “Whether or not I like you is irrelevant. I don’t have to like you to fight by your side, Initiate. You’re one of my soldiers now, and that means that I will gladly do all I can to train you into the strong, disciplined warrior I know you can be. But I can’t do that if you refuse to trust me.”

They stared at each other for a long moment, her brilliant emerald eyes fixed on his deep brown ones. For what felt like an eternity, neither of them spoke, each of them analyzing the other. Danse could feel the pit of his stomach twist as he felt her gaze bore to the heart of him, plumbing depths he tried to keep locked down. It was invasive, unsettling, like everything he was being laid bare. There was only one other person in his life who had that kind of effect on him, and even Maxson’s intense glare seemed easier to endure than Larimer’s gentle, probing gaze in that moment.

Danse was not the sort of man to easily surrender, however. He took the Brotherhood motto, “Ad Victoriam,” to heart. He would always press on to victory, and this contest of wills was no exception. He returned her look pointedly, studying her eyes and the secrets that he knew must lie beyond them. He could see the pain and heartache in her eyes, scars of loss that he knew must be echoed in his own. There was a quiet, defiant rage that burned just beyond, that spark of will he’d hoped to find there.

He knew from personal experience that pain and anger, if trained properly, could be the fuel for true and genuine strength. The secret was ensuring that the darker sides of these emotions were properly tamed. If one failed to control their heartache, their need to destroy, it could very easily tear them apart. A certain defiant strength of will was necessary to prevent this, and from his interactions with Larimer, Danse believed that she might possess that trait.

Everything he saw reaffirmed his belief that Larimer could be a great soldier. Possibly even one of the best, if he could just figure out how to get through to her, to convince her to learn, to adapt to the Brotherhood way.

Larimer was the first to look away, a faint blush rising on her pale, freckled cheeks as she bit her lower lip anxiously. “How about this?” she asked finally. “I’ll try to be less of a pain in your ass if you agree to cut me just the tiniest bit of slack every once in a while, ok? I may have married a soldier, but I sure as hell am not one.”

“Yet.”

“Yet,” she agreed. “Well, Paladin?”

He thought for a moment before replying. “Very well. But I hope you’ll at least try to refrain from getting us both killed. And stick by me. You shouldn’t run off on your own all the time. That’s how good soldiers become dead soldiers.”

“Is that why you didn’t want to leave Rhys and Haylen alone when I asked you to come to Diamond City with me yesterday?” she asked.

He nodded slightly, and she smiled back at him, her eyes suddenly warm.

“I understand,” she continued. “Perhaps, if you don’t mind, I could leave tomorrow, head on to Diamond City by myself.”

Danse sighed. What had he just said? Did she have any idea how dangerous it was to be out on her own like that? He had to remind himself that she’d been alone when he met her just over a week prior, had been on her own for who knew how long. Perhaps, just this once, he could let her bend the rules. “I’d prefer it if you’d stay here with the rest of the team,” he replied, “but if you must, I won’t stop you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Perhaps Initiate Larimer was willing to adapt after all. If he could reason with her, he could train her, could help her reach that potential he believed she possessed. And he had just the thing to start with.

“Initiate, if you don’t mind, I need to go below for a moment. I’ll return promptly.”

“Already eager to get away from me, huh, Danse?” she replied with an impish grin, the vulnerability she’d allowed him to see already concealed again.

He sighed heavily, hoping his eyes conveyed his displeasure at her tone. “Just...Just don’t blow up anything before I get back,” he muttered impatiently. “Is that clear?”

“If God didn’t want me to blow things up,” she chirped playfully, digging around in her pack, “why did he give me so many grenades?”

He didn’t dignify her question, instead turning on his heels and walking steadily down the narrow stairs of the police station to his temporary quarters. If she wanted to get a rise out of him, she was going to have to try much harder than that.

Danse knelt by his footlocker, extracting a worn chessboard and a few handfuls of bullets in different calibers. He missed his chess set, he reflected as he counted out the appropriate numbers of each caliber. Hell, he missed his quarters. As hard as it was for him to sleep in general, it was so much harder to rest out in the Commonwealth without the noise from the engines humming beyond the walls like a mechanical lullaby. But most of all, he missed having someone he could confide in.

He wondered how Arthur was getting on without him. His friend had grown into a fine leader, strong and confident, but the quiet squire he’d first met when he joined the Brotherhood still peered nervously out of those steely eyes when he was in private. Danse had spent almost a decade by his side, doing his best to support the young man who bore the weight of such a tremendous legacy on his shoulders.

Before Danse had been assigned to scout the Commonwealth, they had rarely spent more than a month away from each other. Now, it had been the better part of half a year. He wondered if Arthur missed him as much as he missed the young Elder.

Not that it would matter much either way. Either the bulk of the Brotherhood’s forces would arrive soon and he’d be reunited with his friend, or Recon Squad Gladius would be wiped out before that happened. Sentimentality would only lead to the increased likelihood of the latter option. Danse needed to think about the task before him, and that was all.

He looked down at his collection of bullets and shells and nodded to himself, pleased. It wasn’t perfect, but it would do. If Larimer refused to learn tactics the traditional way, perhaps he could trick her into learning them. Besides, he was itching for a match.

A slight smile spread across his rugged face as he closed his footlocker. Larimer didn’t know who she was dealing with. One way or another, she’d become the soldier she was born to be.

When Danse returned to the rooftop, Larimer was sitting on the edge of the concrete roof, staring out across the courtyard of the police station. Her eyes scanned a distance beyond the farthest ruined skyscrapers, as though watching for some sign to pierce the starry sky.

Danse wasn’t particularly stealthy in his power armor, one of the few disadvantages to the suit, in his opinion. Yet Larimer hardly seemed to notice as he sat down beside her, heaving himself down on the roof’s edge with a clang and a sigh.

She didn’t acknowledge him for so long that he’d honestly thought she’d fallen asleep with her eyes open. No matter. His new Initiate was still not used to their sleep cycles, and, from what Haylen had told him, was a loud and restless sleeper when she did attempt to bunk down. She would adjust to their watch cycle in time. They all did.

The night terrors would be a more difficult matter to resolve, but it wasn’t as if he didn’t have personal experience with that problem. There was a reason he frequently took the more difficult watches at night, and it wasn’t just to be kind to his fellow soldiers. If he wasn’t going to be able to sleep anyway, he might as well let someone rest who would actually benefit from it.

As Larimer’s eyes continued gazing beyond the horizon, Danse took the opportunity to study her face in closer detail. When they had first met, many of her features had been obscured in blood spatter and ash, and he wasn’t exactly the kind of man who could be caught staring at someone under his command, even if it was merely fueled by curiosity.

Larimer’s hard, fierce eyes that he knew so well by now were a hard juxtaposition to her soft features, which seemed to glow and shift in the firelight as shadows danced across them. She had high cheekbones, obscured by fleshy cheeks that gave her an almost impish look in the half-light, a scattering of freckles encircling her thin but noble nose.

She reminded him of a shrike, one of the birds of prey whose pictures adorned that old field guide Arthur had once let him borrow, a present from the West Coast Elders. He’d always found the species fascinating, if deceptive.

The shrike was a simple-looking bird, songbird-like in its build and mannerisms, with only its hooked beak and tiny talons betraying its true, predatory nature. It would use its mundane appearance to lure weaker birds, lizards, and rodents into underestimating it, seeing it as no threat to them. But it was a vicious hunter, and was known for impaling its victims on thorns to eat later.

He supposed that quiet viciousness he saw in her was what made him recruit her in the first place. Yes, she was a vault dweller, and before that, a housewife. Hardly the most dangerous fighter in the Commonwealth. But underneath, he knew there was a fierce warrior just waiting to be unleashed. Larimer’s enemies would underestimate her at every turn, and she would utterly destroy them. All she needed was the discipline and training to use her gifts, and Danse was more than willing to teach her.

Of course, first he had to keep her alive.

“Like what you see, Danse?” Larimer mused, her intelligent eyes flitting over to meet his.

He felt a slight heat kiss his ears as he looked away from her quickly. How long had he been staring?

“I didn’t want to disturb your reflections, Initiate. I apologise.”

“That’s ok. I wasn’t thinking about anything important anyway. Just trying to remember how mint chocolate chip ice cream tastes.”

One of those pre-war treats. He’d heard of it. “I’d assume it tastes like mint,” he mused. “And chocolate, if I’m not mistaken.”

She chuckled slightly at his observation. “You’re a real comedian, you know that, Danse?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Her gaze turned to the object in his hands, and her eyes widened in disbelief. “Seriously?” she asked. “Is that a chess set?”

He nodded. “It is. Do you play?”

“Checkers was always more my game of choice,” she replied, grinning. “Similar concept, way less involved rules. But yes, I’ve played before.”

“Well, then, you’re at least familiar with the basics,” he said simply.

“I was, like 200 years ago. It’s safe to say I might need a refresher.”

He set the board down between them, placing the bullets he’d gathered on either side of the square plank of faded wood. “We obviously have to make due with the materials we have, so you can use this game to learn your bullet calibers as well. Now, we’ll use these shotgun shells as our kings,” he added, placing them in their appropriate squares.

“I know what a shotgun shell is, Danse.”

He pointedly ignored her, continuing to set up the board. “We’ll use .50 calibers for the queens, .308s for the bishops, .45s for the knights, .44s for the rooks, and your beloved 10mm rounds as pawns.”

“But they’re all the same color,” she pointed out. “How will we tell whose pieces are whose?”

Danse extracted a small pot of orange paint and a fine brush from his pack. He didn’t want to waste the paint on something trivial, since he’d only been able to find a few pots of the stuff since arriving in the Commonwealth, but Larimer was right. Once they started playing, it would be impossible to tell the pieces from each other. At least the paint was thin, and wouldn’t affect the ammunition too much if they had to use it later.

“I use this to touch up the paint on my armor,” he told her, popping the plastic bottle open. “It dries pretty quickly, so if we apply it to one set of pieces, the first ones should be dry by the time we’ve finished.”

Larimer took the paint from him, a faint and mysterious smile on her face. He wondered what was so interesting about a little container of paint. “I know this brand,” she said, smirking at him. “Danse, is this hobby paint?”

His eyes narrowed in confusion. “I don’t know what that is. Something from before the War?”

She smirked. “Oh, Danse, if you only knew. Nate, my husband, had tons of this stuff, in all different colors. Honestly, I’m amazed it hasn’t dried out by now.”

Danse wanted to know more about this “hobby paint,” but he decided not to pursue this line of questioning for the time being. Right now, he had one thing on his mind, and that was getting the board ready so they could play. True to his word, the bullets on his side of the board were soon marked and dry enough to touch. “Now, you’re black, which means I’ll go first,” he mused, moving one of his pawns towards her side of the board.

She retaliated almost immediately with a pawn of her own, and the match began.

It wasn’t the worst chess match he’d ever played. That dubious honor belonged to Aspirant Reinhardt a few years back, who’d managed to lose the game by default when he knocked his own king through a crack in the floorboards, losing it forever. It had taken Danse almost three months to replace that piece, and he was still angry about it. It wasn’t the only reason why he’d kept advising Maxson not to promote the young man, but it certainly had contributed to his negative assessment of the Aspirant’s abilities.

It was an admittedly low bar, and Initiate Larimer managed to ease just above it. As she was in real combat, her movements were sloppy, impulsive, and imprecise. She sacrificed pieces unnecessarily, giving him the advantage so often that he would have found it insulting if there was any indication that her moves were deliberate. Within the span of fifteen minutes, most of that time eaten up by him planning his moves, it was all over.

“Checkmate,” he said blankly, trying and failing to hide his disappointment.

“I swear, Danse, I’m going to win next time,” Larimer exclaimed in frustration. It was obvious that she didn’t like to lose.

“Are you certain about that?” he asked bluntly. “If your skills this match are anything to go by, I think it’s safe to say that you have your work cut out for you.”

“Absolutely,” she shot back. “If not next time, I’ll beat you eventually. And when I do, I’m going to make you regret not believing in me.”

He sighed, carefully collecting the ammunition from the board. “If that’s what it takes to motivate you to actually try, fine.”

“Then let’s bet on it. We’ll play as many matches as you want for, say, the next year. If I don’t manage to win any of them, I promise to never question you again.”

“And if you win a match?”

“Then you’re going to have to do anything I tell you to for a whole day.”

“For winning a single match in a year?” Danse retorted. “That’s unacceptable.”

“Fine. Then I’ll just make you take off your power armor.”

He stared at her in confusion. What was this woman’s problem? Why on earth would she consider that a reward? “Very well,” he sighed. “But I will raise the stakes on my end to compensate. For every match you lose, you will have to cook one meal for our squad.”

“Enjoyed tonight’s dinner, did you?” she asked, smirking at him.

He had, but that was hardly the point. “Just utilizing your skills to our advantage, soldier. It is my job as the commanding officer of this unit to use every strength of every soldier to the benefit of the others. As you yourself said, you were a housewife, which makes you the best cook in our unit by far.”

“Don’t let Haylen hear you say that.”

“Actually, Rhys was the one who made most of our meals before you arrived. I think we’re all grateful to have you, if only for a reprieve from Cram Surprise.”

“What was the surprise, exactly?” Larimer asked.

He smiled slightly. “More Cram.”

“Oh, that’s unfortunate,” she chuckled. Larimer stuck out her hand for him to shake.

“Okay, you’re on, Paladin. Hope you’ve got something nice on under that hulking metal suit.”

He returned her handshake firmly. “As if you will ever see it, Initiate. Now I’d better take this board back downstairs.”

She nodded. “Do you need help?”

“Negative. One of us needs to remain on watch. I’ll be back in a moment.” The one problem with sitting in power armor was getting back up, but their spot on the edge of the roof made it surprisingly easy. Danse gathered the board and ammunition before pushing himself off of the ledge, landing on the courtyard below with a bang that he was sure would startle Rhys and Haylen. No matter. He could just tell them that he’d been testing the shocks in his leg armor for wear again. They’d never question it.

They spent the rest of their watch in relative silence, scanning the area for hostiles and listening for suspicious noises in the night. However, the air seemed lighter, somehow, than it had been, as if a storm that had been bearing down on them had changed direction, the pressure fading like mist in the morning light.

::::

The next morning, Danse put the finishing touches on his report on Larimer. After their discussion the night before, he realized, he needed to add something.

...In conclusion, I believe that Initiate Larimer will be an excellent addition to the Brotherhood of Steel, and I would like to formally request that I be allowed to oversee her sponsorship. With how well Larimer and I have been working together, I believe that I would be the ideal candidate.

Outstanding. He could submit his reports when the Prydwen arrived, and then it was all up to Elder Maxson. He hoped that his old friend would honor his request. After all, Danse had rarely asked him for anything before.

After he shut down the monitor once more, Danse paced the area behind the reception desk, his mind racing. He couldn’t believe he’d agreed to let Larimer go off on her own. He was her commanding officer now. He could have easily ordered her to stay put. So why had he allowed her to leave so easily?

“She’ll be fine, Top. She got here alive, after all,” muttered Knight Rhys, his eyes narrowing as Initiate Larimer appeared behind him.

“Aww, is Danse worried about me?” she asked, grinning. “That’s kind of sweet.”

“That’s Paladin Danse to you, Initiate,” growled the knight, his face ablaze with fury. “I won’t tolerate you disrespecting our commanding officer. Do you understand?”

She rolled her eyes, but nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Rhys huffed in displeasure before storming back to the side office he’d claimed as his own. Danse knew the young man was volatile, but he really wished that Larimer would at least try not to irritate him. Basic decorum really shouldn’t have been too much to ask.

“Do you have everything you need, soldier?” Danse asked her.

“Yes, sir,” Larimer replied. I even packed the extra fusion cells I found outside my door this morning. I assume those were from you.”

He nodded slightly, doing his best to ignore the pointed look Haylen was giving him. He knew they were rationing ammunition, but they had a fairly secure base. Larimer was going out alone, with no backup. It was only logical that she would need the ammo more.

“Outstanding!” he exclaimed. “I just wish I had a spare man to send with you, Initiate. I’d feel far less concerned if I knew you weren’t travelling alone.”

“You could go with her, sir,” managed Haylen, a slight blush darkening her cheeks. “We’re more than capable of holding this position ourselves for the time being. And besides, if we can’t help one woman find her kidnapped child, do we even have any hope of protecting the Commonwealth?”

He turned to his newest team member, his mind reeling. Kidnapped child? “What is she talking about, soldier?” he asked Larimer, who seemed to melt under his gaze.

Haylen gasped. “You haven’t told him?”

The taller woman shook her head, brushing a rebellious strand of white hair behind one ear. “Look, Danse,” she stammered, “I...Before I got your distress call, I was looking for someone who could help me find my son. My baby boy, Shaun. He’s less than a year old.”

“Is that why you are so determined to go to Diamond City?”

She nodded. “I was told that there might be someone there who could help me find him.”

“Why didn’t you inform me of this sooner, Larimer?” Danse asked angrily. “I would have...” That changed everything. No wonder she had been behaving so erratically. He had thought that it was simply grief over her late husband, her lost world. But if her son was out there, alone, held captive by some unknown person, well, could anyone blame her for behaving as desperately as she did?

His eyes misted slightly as he thought about what his own parents may have been like. Were they like Larimer, determined to protect their child at all costs? He hoped that his own mother had possessed My...Larimer’s tenacity, had fought for him until the end. He feared that his parents had instead given him up willingly to the streets. At least Larimer’s son was wanted, even if he was lost.

As he shook away the thought, Larimer stared up at him with cloudy eyes, her hands nervously clasped together. “I… I’m sorry, Paladin,” she murmured, crestfallen.

And now she thought he was disappointed in her. Nothing could have been further from the truth. He was proud of her resilience, her dedication to her family. How could he be upset with her, knowing what she was going through?

He placed a hand gently on her shoulder before turning towards Rhys’ door. “Knight!” he barked. “Can you come out here for a moment?”

Rhys strode back into the room, avoiding eye contact with Larimer. “What is it, sir?”

“Knight Rhys, I’m leaving you in charge of this outpost. If anything goes wrong, you or Haylen are to radio me immediately, understood?”

“Yes, sir!”

Danse turned back to Larimer. “If we leave now, we can be in Diamond City by the time the market opens tomorrow. It’s as good a place as any to look for information.”

Larimer stared at him, her mouth agape. “You mean you’re coming with me?”

“I’ll escort you at least as far as Diamond City. I told you yesterday that I would watch your back, correct?”

“Well, yes,” she replied nervously, “but this is my own personal problem, sir. I’d never ask you to…”

“Then it’s a good thing you didn’t think to ask me, soldier,” he glowered. “In case yet another of my lessons has failed to penetrate that thick skull of yours, I will remind you. You’re a member of the Brotherhood of Steel now. You are part of our family, and I will gladly do all I can for one of my brothers or sisters.”

He leaned down, whispering in her ear. “Besides, we will be doing Knight Rhys a favor, giving him a temporary command. He might finally get himself a promotion.”

She nodded, struggling to keep a straight face.

“Well, Danse, It’d be nice to have backup,” she replied. “Just as long as you honor our agreement.”

He tried to ignore the look Rhys and Haylen passed each other as he gathered his belongings. He didn’t want to even think about how they might interpret Larimer’s words. “Affirmative,” he commanded. “Let’s move out.”

“Ad Victoriam!” cried Haylen and Rhys.

“Ad Victoriam!” Danse and Larimer echoed as they left the station, heading south towards the best lead they had to find the Initiate’s missing son.

The journey from Cambridge into the resurrected remains of downtown Boston was a long one, even though they appeared fairly close together on Larimer’s map. The natural hazards of the post-apocalyptic world ensured that even a simple trek across the river was a difficult task. There were only a few bridges that had survived the nuclear hellfire that had forever scarred the Commonwealth’s landscape, and the local waterways were so contaminated with radiation that swimming from bank to bank was not a viable option.

Had Danse chosen to, of course, he could have worn his helmet and walked across the riverbed from one side to the other, as his complete suit of power armor was airtight. But the thought made him shudder. He knew what water did to power armor, and he was not prepared for the hours of deep-cleaning it would take to undo that kind of corrosion. Besides, Larimer did not have a suit of power armor with her, and there was no point in abandoning her to fend for herself.

The safest route took them west of Diamond City across a relatively narrow part of the Charles River, so the pair ventured through the labyrinthine streets of southwestern Cambridge, battling feral ghouls and small bands of raiders along the way. Fortunately, they had cleared out quite a few hostiles from the area in the weeks prior, so it was not as slow going as Danse had anticipated. He was pleased to note that they’d arrived at the bridge far earlier than he’d hoped. At this rate, they would enter the heart of the city in no time.

Larimer began to walk across the concrete bridge, but Danse grabbed her arm, holding her back. “Careful, soldier,” he admonished. “Look at the way those cars are arranged, obscuring our sightlines. I’m willing to bet that there are traps all over this bridge. We need to take it slow, and keep our eyes open for mines or tripwires.”

Larimer nodded. “You’re right. I’ll take point, since I’m more agile.” She started forward again, this time making sure to check her feet and surroundings as she slowly maneuvered her way through the wreckage. Danse followed behind her at a safe distance, far enough to avoid any detonations she might trigger but close enough that he could provide additional visual support.

As they often were, his instincts were on point. The bridge was littered with fragmentation mines, presumably left by settlers to defend themselves from Cambridge’s feral ghoul population should the abominations decide to cross the river. Larimer deftly avoided most of these traps, and was almost to the other side when a shrill beeping pierced the air. She turned to look at Danse in horror.

“Move, Larimer!” he yelled, his heart in his throat. “Run!”

She shook her head, instead dropping prone on the bridge, fiddling with the active mine in front of her. After what felt like an eternity, he heard a small click, and watched as she held the mine aloft, waving it at him. “Got it!” she exclaimed. “Just like turning off a smoke alarm.”

Danse cleared his throat as he came up beside Larimer, helping her to her feet. “Damn, it, soldier!” he muttered, “I told you to run. That was extraordinarily dangerous. What if you had failed to disarm that mine?”

She stared up at him, the cold December wind off the river playing through the loose strands of her silvery hair. Her eyes were still wide with fear, her skin paler than he’d ever seen it. “What did you expect me to do, Danse?” she whispered almost reverently. “If that mine had gone off, it would have triggered all the others, and I counted at least a dozen on my way across. Power armor or no power armor, that explosion could have killed you. I couldn’t let you get hurt.”

“That is a risk I take every morning when I get out of bed, Larimer,” he replied. “Just like you. It was foolish of you to risk your life for mine.” Danse paused for a moment, waiting for her eyes to meet his. “But it was also incredibly brave. Thank you.”

“Any time, Paladin,” she replied, a faint smile playing about her lips.

“Hopefully not. I’d prefer it if we could both avoid getting nearly blown up in the future.”

“Where’s your sense of adventure?” she retorted, her grin wider now, more mischievous.

Danse sighed heavily before continuing across the last few feet of bridge to the safety of the bank beyond. Even after their discussion the night before, Larimer was still Larimer. At least she was feeling better.

The pair continued without further incident until they arrived at a small settlement based out of an old train station. There was little there save for a small tato farm and a handful of settlers, but Larimer seemed to have a keen interest in the site. “Danse! I think this is Oberland Station! I need to stop here.”

He gave her an odd look. What could the Initiate possibly need to do at such a small, impoverished settlement? Still, he followed her as she strode up to one of the civilians, a dirt-encrusted young woman with dead eyes and a somber frown.

“Is this Oberland? I heard you folks needed help,” Larimer said with a lazy drawl Danse had never heard from her before.

“Oh, thank God,” the woman replied. “We didn’t think anyone was going to come! There’s a big nest of feral ghouls nearby. They haven’t been much of a problem yet, but we’d feel much better if someone cleared them out for us.”

Larimer smiled warmly. “Not to worry. Those ghouls are as good as dead.”

After the settler thanked her and returned her attention to the tatos she was cultivating, Danse pulled Larimer aside. “Do we really have time to help these people, soldier?” he asked. “And why are you talking in that absurd accent?”

“First of all, it’s not absurd. It’s just a more casual way of speaking. I find it works wonders to set people at ease if they think they’re smarter than you. I used the same technique back when I was a lawyer to convince witnesses to tell me all sorts of things.”

Danse didn’t know what a lawyer was, but he didn’t feel like asking was going to help him understand. “That’s all well and good, Initiate,” he continued, “but my first question stands. Do we have time to clear out a horde of ghouls right now?”

She smirked at him. “Are you telling me that the Brotherhood of Steel doesn’t have time to exterminate some, how have you put it, ‘godless heathens’? Who are you and what have you done with Paladin Danse?”

“I’m simply suggesting that finding your son is our priority.”

Larimer gestured to the settlers laboring in the fenced-off field. “That’s true, Danse. But look at these people. They’re terrified. If we don’t help them, who will?”

Danse sighed. Larimer was right, of course. Normally, he’d be the first to suggest that they help the settlers, not just to sow good will for the Brotherhood in the hearts and minds of the Commonwealth, but also because it was simply the right thing to do. However, there was something in Larimer’s desire to assist these particular people that didn’t sit right with him. She wasn’t telling him everything, he was sure of it. Why would a mother, supposedly desperate to find her child, take so much extra time to help others?

That particular question had dogged him since he’d found out about her son’s kidnapping. Before, Danse hadn’t questioned why Larimer had decided to remain at the Police Station and join the recon team. She was eager to help, and she was competent, so he was glad to have her. Yet, knowing that her child was missing, Danse couldn’t help but feel like something in her behavior was off. Why would someone in her position waste more than a week helping a team of people she didn’t even know?

“That bleeding heart of yours is going to get you killed someday,” he muttered.

“Don’t forget that my bleeding heart is one of the reasons you’re alive right now,” Larimer retorted. “And don’t tell me you wouldn’t do the same thing in my position. I’m like, 80 percent sure there’s a big softie under all that armor.”

Danse analyzed her reply carefully. She was doing nothing except dodging his questions, offering no defense except an appeal to his better nature. It left him conflicted, and more than a little hurt. He was proud of Larimer for being the sort of person who would stand up for anyone who needed her help, but he just couldn’t shake the feeling that she wasn’t being completely honest with him. There was nothing that bothered Danse more than being lied to.

Still, they were wasting time, and if he couldn’t get Larimer to be honest with him, he could at least help her do right by the civilians she’d agreed to protect. Perhaps if they completed this task quickly enough, the delay would not set them back too far. They might still reach Diamond City before dark.

“So where are these feral ghouls?” he asked.

“Over at Fiddler’s Green. I know it’s a bit out of our way…”

“A bit?” he retorted. “Larimer, Fiddler’s Green is west of here. We’re headed east. Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Positive, Danse. Don’t worry. We’ll be back on the road before you know it.”

::::

When they returned to Oberland, the sun had already set. The ghouls had not put up much resistance, but neither of them had counted on the three radscorpions they’d stumbled upon on their way back.

“You don’t have to worry about those ghouls any more,” rasped a slightly-poisoned Larimer to the settler who’d given her the mission as she wiped a grime-covered hand across her brow.

“That’s great news!” exclaimed the young woman. “Thank you! If there’s anything we can do…”

“Well, do you mind if we camp here tonight?” asked Larimer. “We’ll head off in the morning, I promise.”

“Of course! Of course! Here, come sit by the fire! You two must be freezing!”

Larimer eased herself down on the ground by the firepit, her legs crossed, and held her hands towards the flames to warm them. Danse, not wanting to go through the struggle of standing back up, stood nearby in his power armor, watching carefully as the Initiate made small talk with the young woman and a few of the other settlers.

He was glad that they’d taken the time to help this settlement. The relief on the faces of the handful of people who lived at Oberland was palpable. They had been afraid for so long, but now, because of Larimer, they had hope again. That was an incredible gift she’d given these settlers, and he was honored to have been involved. At the same time, however, his unease from the morning had continued to gnaw at him. Something was wrong. Where was Larimer’s sense of urgency?

His concern about Larimer’s behavior was compounded by his own growing dread about having left Rhys and Haylen behind. The longer Danse was gone, the more risk there was to the rest of his squad. What if the station was attacked, and neither of them were able to contact him? He should have insisted that Haylen check in every few hours, instead of the standard twelve.

“I think we should head out, soldier,” Danse said to Larimer softly. “We’re wasting too much time.”

“What are you talking about?” Larimer replied. “We can’t travel at night. It’s too dangerous. We can leave in the morning, can’t we?”

“What about your son? Can he really wait that long?”

She sighed. “If I thought that us pressing on to Diamond City tonight would really help us, Danse, I’d already be on my way there. But it’s been two months since I woke up, and I don’t know how long I was asleep before that. It might have been months between when those bastards took Shaun and when I left the vault. Any leads there were are cold by now. We can afford to wait a few more hours until it’s safer to travel.”

“Two months?” Danse asked, his eyes wide. He’d never considered that she’d been in the Commonwealth for longer than a few weeks. With her impulsiveness and distaste for armor, it was hard to believe she’d managed to survive that long. Not without help.

“Yeah. I was laid up for a lot of the first month with injuries, so I wasn’t able to really begin looking for Shaun until last month. Then, well...then I met you, and you needed my help, so I stayed a bit longer than I meant to.”

That explanation still didn’t satisfy him, but he knew her well enough by now to realize that it was the best explanation he was likely to get. He knew for certain now that she was hiding something, but he had to trust that whatever it was, she’d tell him when she was ready. For now, he decided to keep his promise and cut her some slack.

“Very well,” he said. “I suppose we can wait until morning. But then, we really should get going. Try to get some rest. From what I’ve heard, the road to Diamond City is fairly treacherous.”

“Will do. Good night, Paladin.”

“Good night, soldier,” he replied before walking into the darkness to patrol the settlement’s perimeter.

As the night wore on, Danse paced around the small settlement, his mind not allowing him any rest. He had a hard enough time sleeping, but the problem was substantially worse when he was on the road, especially in a settlement like this. The perimeter of the small farm was completely unsecured, and there was only the tower of the old train station to provide any real shelter. Larimer had bunked down in her sleeping bag next to the fire, completely exposed to the elements and any hostiles that might ambush their location. He almost envied her ability to ignore the obvious danger of remaining at Oberland overnight. Almost.

Given the lack of any real protection, they were almost better off travelling through the night after all. At least then they had a chance of reaching Diamond City sooner, of hopefully finding out what had happened to Larimer’s son. How could she rest easy, knowing that answers could be only half a day’s walk away?

Danse returned to Larimer’s slumbering form to find that he had perhaps overestimated how easily she was resting. Yes, the Initiate was asleep, but as he drew closer, he realized that she was muttering to herself and thrashing in her sleeping bag.

“Nate…” she murmured, “Where am I...so cold… I can’t… no. No, no! Stop! Not my...no!”

Her moans turned to frantic cries as she tried to kick her way free, her movements restricted by her sleeping bag. The tight grip of the insulated fabric only seemed to panic her more. Her breathing quickened to shallow gasps as she flailed, and Danse was worried that she would roll into the fire if she didn’t calm down. He had to do something.

Danse quickly unzipped her sleeping bag and freed her as fast as he could, scooping her into his arms before dragging her bedroll a few feet away from the fire. It wasn’t ideal, but he could at least prevent her from hurting herself.

“You bastards!” she wailed, her freed arms smacking aggressively against his torso plate as he carried her to a safe distance. “Give him back!”

“Shh, shh,” Danse soothed, doing his best to calm her. “It’s ok, soldier. You’re just having a bad dream. None of it is real. You’re completely safe.”

Larimer muttered something unintelligible as he laid her sleeping bag back down and gently placed her on top of it. Then he unrolled his own bedroll, opening it up and spreading it on top of her restless form like a blanket. Perhaps having fewer restrictions on her limb movement would help her sleep more peacefully. Besides, it wasn’t as if he was going to get any rest tonight.

Gradually, her breathing slowed, and as he withdrew from her, she smiled gently in her sleep, one hand snaking out from under the makeshift blanket to capture his own. Danse froze at the contact, trying to decide if he should pry her fingers free or just remain where he was. Eventually, as her breathing continued to deepen and she faded into a more restful sleep, her grip relaxed and her arm dropped to the ground, rendering his dilemma irrelevant. He tucked her arm back under the blanket before he continued his rounds, making a mental note to check in on her more frequently when they were on the road. For now, at least, Larimer was at peace.

::::

“Ready to go?” Danse asked as the morning light filtered through the skeletal trees that surrounded Oberland.

“Almost,” replied Larimer, yawning groggily. She looked him over appraisingly as she finished off her cup of coffee.

Oberland Station was a poor settlement in many ways, but their scavvers had managed to obtain several tins of the pre-war beverage, which had greatly warmed Larimer’s spirits. She insisted that it tasted better before the War, but was still grateful when the settlers had gifted her with a tin as payment for killing the nearby ferals.

Danse had tried a cup, but the bitter, metallic flavor was not particularly palatable to him. Larimer told him that it was an acquired taste, but he wasn’t sure it was one he wanted to acquire.

“Did you sleep at all?” she asked him. “No offense, but you look like shit.”

He sighed. “I’m just fine, soldier. Give me an hour on the road, and I’ll be completely alert.”

“If you say so. But please, if you need to rest, just let me know.”

He was about to reply when an elderly man, one of the settlers they’d met the night before, gestured to them from his mattress under the stairs. “Excuse me, soldiers?” rasped the old man, his weakened body quaking with effort as he waved them over.

“What is it?” asked Larimer, smiling sweetly down towards the man.

“If it’s not too much trouble, could you…could you deliver this letter for me?” he asked, holding an envelope out to her with a shaking hand as he coughed into the other, leaving the telltale stain of blood behind. “I’m not sure I’ll make it to the next caravan, and I want to make sure it gets to my boy.”

“Your boy?” asked Larimer, instantly invested. “What’s his name?”

“Finn. He lives…” the man’s coughs intensified, wet and deep. “He lives in Goodneighbor, last I heard. Haven’t spoken to him in years. But he…I want him to know I still love him...that I forgive him.”

“I think we can manage that. Danse, how far is Goodneighbor from here?”

“Goodneighbor is on the other side of Diamond City,” Danse replied. “I recommend we stop there after we find your son.”

“But, Danse, won’t it be too late by then? Look at the state he’s in. No, my problems can wait. If there’s a chance he can see his son again before he dies, we have to help him. It’s the right thing to do.”

“Larimer…” Her emerald eyes bored into his soul, entreating him. Danse sighed resignedly. “Very well. But we cannot keep neglecting our mission like this. Just this one errand, and then we are going to Diamond City, finding your son, and returning to base.”

“Thank you, Danse! You won’t regret it!”

He already regretted it, but what else could he do? If she only knew how much power she held in her gaze, the woman would be unstoppable.

::::

The moment they arrived in Goodneighbor, Danse was ready to leave. Corruption clung to the town like cigar smoke, thick and nauseating. Even the buildings seemed to steam like bloated corpses in the brisk December air as fog caught the light from garish neon signs, their muted colors casting strange putrefying illusions against the grey winter sky.

Every person who passed by gave the pair an appraising look, as though they were deciding how much the newcomers’ lives and belongings were worth. Danse tried to avoid eye contact, mentally checking that he was prepared for battle should anyone start something.

The most unsettling of the onlookers was a man who leaned lazily against the side of the general goods store, trying to look inconspicuous as he watched Larimer from behind dark sunglasses. Something in the way the man looked at her set Danse on edge, and he pulled the Initiate back towards the town gates.

“I know we agreed to help that old man, but I don’t think we should stay here,” he whispered, glancing around furtively. Heaven help the drifter who tried to sneak up behind him and remove his fusion core. He wasn’t ever going to let that happen...at least not again.

“What are you talking about, Danse?” Larimer replied. “I get that this place is sketchy, but we can’t leave without trying to find Finn. Don’t worry. I won’t let anyone steal your wallet.”

“That’s not exactly what I’m concerned about,” he muttered, but he conceded, allowing her to steer him back towards the market.

As the pair continued into town, a young man in a leather jacket approached them, his eyes calculating, snake-like, as he neared their position. Danse pushed Larimer behind him, ignoring her squeak of protest as he glared at the stranger.

“First time in Goodneighbor?” the man crooned, shooting them an evil grin, “Can’t go walking around without insurance.”

“Really, civilian?” Danse warned. “You’re going to try to extort a Paladin of the Brotherhood of Steel? I think you might want to reconsider.”

The man didn’t reply, instead flicking his tongue lazily across his top teeth as he cracked his knuckles. Danse huffed in annoyance, stepping closer to the street punk. In his power armor, he easily towered over the man. The thug would be a fool to press the issue.

“Well, now, look at this,” mocked the would-be mugger. “Soldier-boy thinks he’s tough. I’ll bet you won’t think insurance is such a bad idea when something happens to your girl, now, am I right?”

Danse felt a burning rage descend on him as the man leered at Larimer with hungry, dangerous eyes. How dare this lowlife threaten one of Danse’s soldiers? Threats to himself he could tolerate, but not threats against his newest sister-in-arms. He clenched his left fist, reaching for the man’s collar with his right hand.

Before he could do anything more, however, he was interrupted by a quiet, rasping voice. “Whoa, whoa! Time out!” a man in a red frock coat called as he approached from behind Finn, hands raised in a passive gesture.

Danse’s eyes narrowed as he got a better look. No, not a man. A damn ghoul. Just what he wanted to deal with today.

“Someone steps through that gate for the first time, they’re a guest,” continued the ghoul as he stared the heckler down, his black eyes glinting dangerously.

“What do you care, Hancock?” the man replied angrily. “They ain’t exactly from the neighborhood.”

“No love for your mayor, Finn?” the irradiated monstrosity hissed. “Let them go.”

Larimer gasped. “Wait! You’re Finn?”

The man ignored her, too busy squaring off with the ghoul. “You’re soft, Hancock. You’d better watch yourself, or someday there’ll be a new mayor.”

Hancock shook his head sadly as he pulled a long knife from behind his back, stabbing Finn repeatedly until the young man lay crumpled and bloody in the street.

Larimer screamed in horror, running to Finn’s side. She cradled the young man’s body in her arms, checking for any indication that he was still alive. Danse suspected that she would find none.

“No!” she cried. “No, damn it! What the hell did you do that for?”

The ghoul eyed her in confusion. “That might be the first time anyone’s yelled at me for stabbing the guy who was mugging them. Not that it happens often, just probably more often than you’d think. Name’s Hancock. I’m in charge around here. I hope you won’t let this unfortunate incident taint your view of our little community.”

“As if my opinion of this hellhole could be any worse,” muttered Danse as he approached Larimer’s side.

“Hey, man, don’t be like that,” crooned Hancock. “Goodneighbor’s of the people, for the people. Everyone’s welcome here, just as long as they don’t screw around with the only rule we got: don’t let your shit interfere with anyone else’s shit. You feel me?”

Larimer looked up at Hancock with teary eyes. “What the hell is wrong with you? Finn’s father is dying! We came here to bring him home, and you just killed him in the street! I’d say that’s interfering with someone else’s shit.”

Hancock’s pitch black eyes widened. “Damn. Of all the coincidences…”

Larimer placed the letter the old man had given her in Finn’s jacket pocket, folding his hands lightly over his chest as she knelt above his lifeless body, her eyes closed reverently. After a long moment, she stood, wiped her bloody hands on her pants, and walked past Hancock towards the town.

“Come on, Danse,” she barked, “I need a fucking drink. This town better have a good bar.”

He followed her in silence, unsure of what he could say to ease her pain. It might not have been just Finn’s death that was bothering her, but he had no easy way of broaching the subject. Instead, he would try to just be there when she was ready to talk.

When they arrived at the local bar, a dive called The Third Rail, she stopped, looking up at him with deadened eyes. “I think I’d prefer to drink alone, if that’s ok with you.”

“Are you certain?” Danse asked. In his experience, drinking alone was never a great idea.

“Do you even drink, Danse?”

“Not often,” he admitted. “But if you need to talk, I…”

“I just want to be alone, ok?” she snapped. “Just…I don’t know, buy some ammo or something. I’ll come find you when I’m ready to go.”

Danse clenched his jaw as he looked at Larimer, displeased with her tone. He was tired of his advice being pushed aside in favor of her self-indulgences, but he knew this was not a battle he could win, not currently at least. “Affirmative,” he replied bluntly. “Just...be safe, soldier.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” she quipped bitterly, skulking down the stairs into the bar.

Danse waited by the door for almost an hour before one of the town guards told him to stop loitering. After that, he begrudgingly explored the wares at the local shops until they closed for the night. As he’d suspected, there wasn’t much in Goodneighbor for a man like him, not unless he wanted to start an all-out war with the vice-ridden flea heap of a town.

Finally, Danse leaned against one of the metal shacks near the bar with a sigh, just daring the guard to do something about it. Instead, the ghoul shrugged before turning his attention elsewhere.

It had been almost four hours since Larimer had entered the bar. Should he go in after her? Was she in trouble?

His thoughts were interrupted by a tipsy giggle from the bar’s entrance as Larimer tumbled out, arm in arm with a man he’d never seen before. He stood a few inches shorter than the Initiate, his thin frame wrapped in a ragged duster that had definitely seen better days.

What truly set Danse on edge, though, was the faded army green of the man’s scarf and weathered military cap. Larimer’s new friend was a Gunner. Outstanding. As if her judgement could get any worse.

“Are you serious?” she asked her companion, still unaware that Danse was watching her. “Man, that sucks! You know what you should do? You should just kill those guys. Hell, that seems to be how everyone else solves their problems around here.”

The man shook his head, smirking at her. “If it were that simple, boss, don’t you think I would have done it already?”

“Well, grow a pair, then, Mac...MacCribbley,” she slurred slightly. “Because you’re a pretty cool guy, and those guys are losers.”

“It’s MacCready, boss. I told you.”

Danse cleared his throat angrily as he approached the pair, and Larimer turned to look at him with bleary eyes. “Initiate,” he growled.

“Paladin,” she replied, smiling tipsily at him. “Hey, what’s up?”

“Do you know what time it is, Larimer?” asked Danse harshly. “I’ve been waiting for you for hours. And who’s this civilian?”

The scrawny man she’d dragged out of the bar after her smirked, his piercing blue eyes analyzing Danse before rolling dismissively. “Great,” whined the civilian. “And you’re with the Brotherhood. Thanks, boss. If you’d have told me that, I might have passed on your offer.”

“Don’t mind him, MacCreaky,” Larimer soothed. “Paladin Danse was just leaving. He’s needed in Cambridge.”

“What?” barked Danse, frowning. “That’s incorrect. We have not yet arrived in Diamond City, soldier. I promised you I would take you at least that far.”

“And I know you’re worried about the rest of the squad, Danse, so I’m letting you go back. I can take care of myself.”

“You call getting inebriated and consorting with strange men taking care of yourself? Have you completely lost your mind? Do you really think you can trust him? I mean, look at him.”

“Hey!” piped the smaller man, “I’m right here!”

“Danse,” warned Larimer, “remember what I said about cutting me slack?”

“I had assumed that was in reference to your difficulty adjusting to a military lifestyle, not your terrible tactical decisions or drunken shenanigans.”

“So you’re not going back to the police station?” she asked.

“Affirmative. I will not be leaving your side until you safely return to Cambridge.”

“Hey,” piped MacCready, “that’s nice and all, but the lady hired me, and I’m not going anywhere with a Brotherhood Paladin.”

Larimer turned to the smaller man with a dramatic sigh. “I’m sorry, MacCrispy. I should have known he wouldn’t take no for an answer. Listen, I’ll let you keep the money…”

“For the last time,” he huffed, “it’s MacCready. Also, heck no! I don’t take charity. You hired me, and I work for you now.”

“Well, I don’t need a hired gun right now… but how do you feel about going to help a settlement for me?”

“So I’m an errand boy now?” he asked, his eyes narrowed. “Great. No one will ever take me seriously again after this.”

“How about an extra 50 caps, and I promise to help you with those two guys who were harassing you in the bar sometime?” Larimer asked, her green eyes wide and pleading.

Danse knew that look. In their brief time working together, he’d seen it many times. By his count, it had only failed twice, and both times were with Knight Rhys. He took back what he’d thought at Oberland. Larimer knew damn well how powerful her gaze was, and she had no problems using it to get what she wanted.

“I guess, but you’d better not wait too long to make good on that promise. I’m not a patient man.” The scrawny mercenary sighed, holding out a hand for Larimer’s caps. “So, boss, what’s the job?”

“I need you to go to Sanctuary and check in with the minuteman there, Preston Garvey.” she instructed, handing over the caps. “Tell him that everything is fine, and that you work for the General. Make sure he knows I’m still alive, and I’m sorry I’ve been out of touch. Oh, and I took care of Oberland. Also that he has a nice ass.” She reflected for a moment. “No, sorry, don’t tell him that last part.”

“Wait,” said MacCready, staring at her. “You’re the General of the Minutemen I keep hearing about?”

“Apparently,” she replied sarcastically, flinging her hands in the air. “I haven’t really done much. There aren’t exactly a lot of Minutemen to be General of.”

“Well, I’ll be. Always figured the General was some old fuc...uh, I mean, guy. Fine. I’ll head to Sanctuary. But I hope you know I’m not thrilled about this.”

“Take it out on Preston,” she giggled. “He’s used to it.”

“From you?” MacCready replied, rolling his eyes. “No, I would never have guessed.” he shook his head, muttering under his breath as he left Goodneighbor behind.

Once the mercenary was out of sight, Danse rounded on Larimer, barely able to control his fury. “What the hell is going on here, soldier?” he interrogated. “Why are you trying to get rid of me? And when were you going to tell me about you being the General of the Minutemen? That is information that I should have had at my disposal, Initiate.”

“Danse, please,” she pleaded with glassy eyes. “It’s not like that.”

“Then explain. Why would you try to send me away, after I promised to help you find your son? Why would you hide things from me?”

“I was going to tell you about the Minutemen eventually,” she whined. “I just never found the right time to bring it up, honestly. It’s not really a big deal.”

“Yes, Initiate,” he stated plainly. “It is. It is highly unusual for members of the Brotherhood to hold positions in rival organizations. It’s a conflict of interest. I might not have accepted you so readily into our ranks had I known.”

“The Minutemen aren’t your enemy, Danse. I promise. They’re just good people trying to take care of the little guy. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

He shook his head. “You obviously don’t understand my concern, Larimer. Think about it. What if your Minutemen decided to attack our outpost? Who would you side with? Or, let’s not even go that far. What if they asked you to share dangerous technology with them, that you knew would help them fulfill their mission. Would you offer it to them, or follow the Brotherhood tenets and refuse to give them technology?”

“I mean, it would depend…” Larimer started.

“That is exactly my point,” Danse interrupted. “If you remember one thing I try to teach you, remember this: there’s Brotherhood, then there’s everything else. Nothing in-between. The Brotherhood and our rules come first. No exceptions. Can you definitively say that you agree with that sentiment?”

Larimer rubbed her eyes. “I don’t think I’m sober enough for this conversation, Danse. Let’s talk about this later.”

He thought for a moment. Danse needed to know that Larimer really was committed to the Brotherhood, to his team. They needed to have absolute trust between them if they were going to survive, and at this moment, he wasn’t sure which one of them trusted the other less. At the same time, was a park bench in the middle of Goodneighbor really the place to discuss her allegiances?

“Very well,” he sighed. “You’ve already proven how terrible your decisions are when you’re inebriated. However, don’t think I’m going to forget that we need to further discuss your commitment to our cause, Initiate. And I still want you to tell me why you thought it was a good idea to replace me with a mercenary.”

Larimer looked up at him, her eyes struggling to focus on his face. “I know you regret leaving the police station, Danse. You think it was a terrible decision, and you’re worried about Rhys and Haylen. I was trying to give you a way out.”

“That isn’t your call to make, soldier!” Dance replied, exasperated. “I am in charge of our squad, and I stand by every order and every decision I have made. It is not your place to question that or undermine my authority. Do you understand? What did you expect me to do, return to the station without you?”

“Why not?”

“What would I tell the others? That I abandoned a member of our team? Or that I let a subordinate order me around? Don’t you think that would make me look incompetent? Or foolish?”

“I...I didn’t think…”

“That’s the problem, Initiate! You never think! You just do whatever you feel like doing, rushing into situations you haven’t even begun to understand! If you can’t learn to trust that I know what I’m doing, I don’t know if there’s a future for you in the Brotherhood. At least not under my command.”

Larimer’s eyes brimmed with tears as she stared up at him, her lower lip quivering slightly. “I’m...I’m sorry, Paladin. I’m really, really sorry.”

Danse sighed once more, digging in his pack for a can of purified water, which he popped open and handed to her. “Drink.” he commanded. “If you aren’t going to be responsible, you at least need to stay hydrated.”

She nodded, taking a large swig from the can. “I...thank you, Danse. I really am sorry.”

“I know, and I wish I didn’t have to be so hard on you,” he replied, shaking his head as he led her to a nearby bench, which she slumped on dejectedly. “However, this is an important lesson, Larimer, and I want you to understand it. You’re a member of the Brotherhood of Steel. Your actions reflect on all of us. I know it’s been an awful day, but the answer to that isn’t getting inebriated and making a fool of yourself. There are certain things that are simply not appropriate.”

She gulped down the rest of the water, her eyes tearing up. “I’m sorry for embarrassing you, Danse. And for not telling you about the Minutemen. And for trying to send you away. I’m sorry for everything, really.”

Danse’s gaze softened. “You don’t have to be sorry for everything, soldier. Don’t be sorry that you were affected by the death of another human being. Don’t be sorry that you were trying to be considerate of my feelings, even if you were woefully misguided.”

“I really was trying to do the right thing,” Larimer sniffed.

“The right thing to do is to trust me, Initiate. I promised you that I was going to help you find your son, and I will, no matter what it takes. But it’s more than that. You’re my sister-in-arms now. Whatever battles we fight, we should be fighting together. You have to stop trying to shut me out or send me away. And you have to be honest with me. Understood?”

Larimer nodded. “Understood.”

“So, are you ready to tell me what is really going on with you, or do I have to pry it out of you? Why are you really delaying our arrival in Diamond City? You can’t hide it from me. It’s obvious that you’re stalling.”

She stared up at him, her damp eyes panicked like those of a cornered radstag. “I...Danse, please, don’t ask me that.”

“Too late, soldier. Now, please, trust me enough to tell me the truth. I promise to hear you out.”

“Even if it’s stupid?”

He nodded. “It can’t be that stupid if it’s bothering you so deeply.”

She took a deep breath, holding back her emotions as best she could. “What if he’s already dead?” she whispered, as if speaking the words aloud would make them true. “What if they killed my baby, and I’m just chasing a ghost?”

Danse stared down at her, the pieces finally starting to click together in his mind. “Is that why you’ve been trying to avoid finding your son? You’re afraid he’s dead?”

She nodded as tears fell heavily from her eyes, and she wiped at them in frustration. “It wouldn’t surprise me. I mean, look around you. Even if the people that...that took him didn’t hurt him, anything else in the Commonwealth might have. And I don’t know if I could survive that, Danse. Shaun’s...he’s all I have left.”

Danse moved a few inches closer to her, placing an armored hand on her shoulder. She leaned against it,resting her head on his forearm as she wept. He remained quiet for a long moment, just letting her cry against his arm. He contemplated brushing her rebellious hair out of her bloodshot eyes with his other hand, but he hesitated, his arm remaining at his side. It was inappropriate enough that he was allowing his drunken subordinate to cling to him, particularly in the middle of a public square. Anything more was just inviting scandal.

Finally, Danse broke the silence. “So in your mind, it’s better not to know what happened to your son, so you can cling to the hope that he’s alive?” he enquired. “Larimer, you have to know that what you’re doing is crazy. Isn’t it better to know, one way or the other?”

“Is it better?” she sobbed. “Think about that old man, Finn’s father. Is it better that we let him die in peace, hoping his son is on his way home? Or is the kinder thing in your mind for us to return to Oberland and tell him the truth, that his son was stabbed to death right in front of us? He’ll be dead soon either way. Isn’t leaving him in the dark a mercy?”

Danse frowned slightly. “I don’t know which option is the more merciful. But I do know that the truth is one of the most important things in the world. I don’t believe in concealing it, no matter how much it hurts in the short term. It is always better to be armed with the truth than to be burdened with a lie.”

She snorted. “That’s naive, Danse.”

“Is it? Just look at us, Larimer. How much worse has it been for both of us because you concealed things from me? If you had just been honest from the beginning, I could have helped you more. Instead, you kept me at arm’s length. Now, you’re doing the same thing with the truth about your son, and all that’s doing is hurting you.”

Larimer sighed, sitting up straighter on the bench as she shrugged his hand off. “You’re probably right, Paladin. I’m sorry for dragging you into my bullshit. You’re a good man. You deserve better from me.”

“I do,” he agreed, “but I’m still here for you. Just say the word, and we’ll go to Diamond City and finally get you some answers.”

“You still want to travel with me?” she asked, surprised. “After everything I’ve put you through today?”

“Of course,” Danse replied. “I promised you, didn’t I? Why would I leave you behind, now that you’re finally starting to be honest with me?”

“And if I decide not to go?” she asked, gazing into his eyes plaintively.

“Then we will return to Cambridge, but I know that’s not what you really want. You are a relentless fighter, Larimer. This is just another skirmish, even if the battle is inside yourself. Don’t forget, you are a member of the Brotherhood of Steel. You will not retreat from battle, no matter the odds. And I will fight by your side until the day is ours, I promise. Ad Victoriam, sister! We will find your son, I promise.”

She chuckled sadly. “Well, how can I resist when you put it like that, Danse? All right. Let me just sober up a little more, and we can be on our way.”

“No more delays?” he asked.

“No more delays.”

“No more lies?”

“No more lies.”

“Outstanding! Then let’s find you a place to rest. We can leave in the morning.”

She nodded, standing up slowly, and the two of them made their way towards the Rexford Hotel.

“Hey, tin man,” hissed a familiar voice from above, “Wait. You can stay at my house. Unlike the Rexford, the locks actually work.”

They looked up to see Hancock peering at them from the balcony above their heads.

“Why would we ever accept a favor from you, you murderous monstrosity?” growled Danse in reply.

The ghoul shrugged. “Yeah, I guess I deserve that. But look, I’m sorry about the kid, I really am. I liked Finn, even if he liked to run his mouth. Can you at least let me apologize for the trouble by giving you a safe place to sleep, maybe some breakfast? My state house is your state house.”

Danse drew in a deep breath, but Larimer touched his arm gently, stopping him from replying. “Thank you, Mayor Hancock. We appreciate your hospitality.”

Danse leaned down to whisper in her ear. “Are we really going to trust that freak?”

“No,” she whispered back, “but I think he really does want to help. And if he’s not lying about the Rexford, I’d prefer to limit my chances of being stabbed in my sleep, wouldn’t you?”

Danse sighed. “Very well. But if anything happens, this is on your head.”

“Noted,” she replied, as they cautiously entered the Old State House.

Deacon watched as Finn, that smug lowlife, approached Myra and her companion. “Well, that’s a mistake,” the spy muttered under his breath. He hoped the young man’s error wouldn’t come at too high a cost.

As Deacon observed their interaction, he mentally flipped through the imaginary dossier he’d compiled on Myra’s soldier friend: Paladin T. Danse, head of Recon Squad Gladius and trusted advisor to Elder Maxson. In the art of non-human extermination, the man was a prodigy, his record filled with the blood of ghouls, super mutants, and synths alike. Deacon shuddered to think what would happen if he were ever to find the Railroad. It had probably been a mistake to let the Paladin live.

He overheard Danse threaten the interloper, “I think you might want to reconsider.” The soldier’s dark eyes fixed on Finn as he towered over the young man, sheltering Myra behind him protectively.

Keeping his head down, Deacon slipped out of Goodneighbor’s gate once the commotion started. Thank God for Finn and his idiotic extortion scheme taking the heat off of him. He wasn’t sure he could have taken much more of the Paladin’s scrutiny.

He sighed as he skulked down the last leg of the Freedom Trail towards the Old North Church, kicking the top half of a shattered beer bottle idly with his left foot as he walked. His worst fears about Myra’s involvement with the Brotherhood of Steel seemed to be coming true. There was no way a man as protective as her companion would let her out of his sight for a moment, and Deacon couldn’t afford for Danse to catch wind of the Railroad’s activities. The spy’s job was about to get much, much harder.

Of course, first he had to deal with his actual assignment, which was gathering intelligence on the Institute’s activities in the Commonwealth. He suspected something truly terrible was about to go down in Goodneighbor, something that would make the town’s usual petty crimes look like a neighborhood bake sale. Something that, for now, trumped the danger presented by the Brotherhood of Steel.

For months now, he’d had the sneaking suspicion that the Institute was finally beginning to get bold enough to infiltrate the seedy settlement. If he was reading the situation right, the Railroad’s whole operation was likely in jeopardy.

The mind wiping procedures run by Dr. Amari out of The Memory Den were a crucial part of the Railroad’s synth liberation process. Without the ability to implant new memories into the synths they rescued, the risk of their operations being exposed increased tenfold. If the Institute recaptured a synth with memories of which safehouses they were processed through, the Railroad would certainly find themselves under attack again. This time, they might not survive.

The signs of Institute infiltration were always subtle. A strange glance from an old informant here, a relationship between two drifters suddenly on the rocks for no reason there...anyone without a trained eye might miss the writing on the wall. Deacon, however, had seen this all before when they’d lost University Point a few years back. If the Institute’s infestation was left unchecked, it was only a matter of time before Goodneighbor, too, would fall.

“Dez is going to lose her mind over this,” he muttered to himself. “It’s not like we have enough agents to spare to protect Dr. Amari if Kellogg comes calling.”

Conrad Kellogg, faithful attack dog of the Institute, had long been a thorn in the Railroad’s side. The fearsome mercenary had led the massacre of several prominent safehouses and friendly communities over the years, including University Point. His actions sent a clear message: if you side with the Railroad, your entire family, everyone you know, will die. No wonder recruitment was down.

More than ever, the Railroad needed numbers. More than ever, they needed agents like Myra Larimer, fearsome fighters with nothing to lose. If they were able to recruit her, maybe they stood a chance. If not, there was a pretty good chance that the Railroad was in for rougher weather than they’d ever seen.

As Deacon hauled the door to the church’s escape tunnel open, trying not to gag on the noxious fumes emanating from the old sewer, he cocked his head, listening intently to the faint mumbling of voices from inside HQ. For him to be able to hear them from this far away, there must be quite the argument going on in there.

“...If we don’t establish more…” Desdemona’s voice resounded.

“With what personell? We are completely...to spare!” exclaimed Carrington.

Deacon sighed. The old safehouse argument. Ever since the Switchboard massacre, the Railroad had been down four safehouses -- two which had been definitively wiped out and two which had gone dark -- leaving their infrastructure severely weakened. It had been a sore spot between the Railroad’s leaders for months, and Deacon knew that it wasn’t going to get resolved any time soon. He approached the door to the main crypt, sliding it open quietly.

“You know as well as I do that we can’t continue operating like this,” Dez shouted. “I don’t care what we need to do, Carrington. Something’s got to give.”

Deacon cleared his throat as he entered the room, drawing Dez’s attention to him. “You guys know this is supposed to be a secret hideout, right?” he asked playfully. “I could hear you arguing from the street.”

“Deacon. Where have you been?” replied Dez, her brown eyes sweeping over him. “And what the hell are you wearing?”

“Like it?” he asked, taking a slow turn to show off every angle of his new outfit. He’d picked up the greaser jacket off of a caravanner a few weeks before, but it was his first time wearing the disguise at HQ. “I think it makes me look tough.”

“I think it makes you look ridiculous,” muttered Dr. Carrington. “I don’t understand. If the point is for you to blend in, why are you dressed like you’re on your way to a back-alley brawl?”

Deacon shrugged. “Hey, I wanted to spice up the rotation. The lab coat gets boring sometimes. You should know.”

Carrington fumed under his breath as he went to check on his supplies. Deacon knew it was probably a bad idea to piss off the Railroad’s main physician, but it was just too damn easy...and too much fun.

Desdemona sighed. “Thanks for that, Deacon. Now I’m going to have yet another crisis to deal with today.”

“Sorry, Dez. I just can’t help it if Carrington still refuses to grow a sense of humor. At this point, I think he just likes being angry.”

“You might be right. All the same, I’d appreciate it if you’d stop antagonizing him and fill me in. So, I ask you again, and I do expect an answer: where have you been?”

“I was in Goodneighbor, taking in the sights. Gotta say, Dez, things aren’t looking great there. Lot of potential Institute spies in play. We may need to pull Amari out.”

Dez’s eyes hardened. “Shit. You know she won’t evacuate. She’s too well-known, has too many important clients.”

“Well, if you have any better ideas,” the spy shot back, “I’d love to discuss them with you. But the way I see it, we got three, maybe four months tops before Goodneighbor’s no longer hospitable to our cause.”

“I…” Dez frowned, her brow furrowed in concentration. “Damn it! We need more agents. That’s the problem, no matter how we look at it.”

Deacon nodded. “That, I might be able to help with. I’ve been following a lead on a pretty promising recruit. She’s fearless, smart, charismatic, and best of all, doesn’t have any family to speak of. You’d love her. She’s pretty much the perfect candidate.”

“I’m sensing a ‘but’ here,” Dez replied coldly. “What’s wrong with her?”

“She’s… well, she’s a vault dweller, so I’m not sure she’s met enough synths to care about them one way or the other. And she’s made some interesting friends since she emerged, not all of them Railroad-friendly. It might be hard for us to approach her.”

“A vault dweller? Which vault?”

Deacon understood Dez’s hesitation at bringing in a vault dweller. There were several known vaults in the Commonwealth, but most of them were destroyed or abandoned. Some had simply never been found, their locations lost to time. Then, there were the ones like Vault 81, known for being so xenophobic that they didn’t even trust other humans, let alone synths. Not exactly Railroad material.

“She’s from Vault 111. You know, the one up by Concord. I saw her emerge myself.”

Dez sighed heavily. “Deacon, you haven’t been following this woman since your mission in Concord, have you?”

“Maybe...I mean, just to gather intelligence on her.”

“So every time you take off without a word, you’re stalking her? You know how creepy that is, right? It’s been months. Why haven’t you approached her yet?”

“Like I said, some of her friends aren’t exactly the sort of people I’d invite to my next dinner party.”

Dez frowned, her eyes glowing dangerously. “If you really want to bring this woman in, I think it’s time you elaborate on who these ‘friends’ are.”

Deacon gulped. This was a can of worms he didn’t particularly want to open. So many of his decisions in the past few months had been entangled with his choice to recruit Myra. But Dez deserved to know, even if it was going to come back to bite him in the ass.

“Well, the good news is that she’s the new General of the Minutemen,” he replied. “We still tolerate those guys, right?”

Desdemona thought for a moment. “We’ll see. You know as well as I do that the Minutemen have traditionally had a fair number of anti-synth bigots in their ranks. Still, it could be very useful for us to have their General on our side. But I know what you’re doing, Deacon. Tell me the bad news.”

“She...may have also joined the Brotherhood of Steel.”

Dez stared at him in shock, the surprise in her eyes slowly morphing into anger as the implications of his words set in. “Deacon. You didn’t happen to fail your mission because of her, did you?”

“Does that sound like something I’d do?”

“Deacon…” Dez warned, “you told me that you weren’t able to eliminate that recon team because they were too well-armed.”

“Well, that, and I figured a double agent in the hand was worth more than three soldiers in the ground.”

“But she’s not ‘in the hand,’ now, is she?” cried Dez, prowling towards him angrily. “Christ, Deacon! Do you have any idea how bad this is?”

Deacon retreated until his back was pressed against the wall, Dez inches from his face as she leaned up on the brickwork with one hand. If there was one thing Deacon hated more than anything else, it was being cornered. But he had done this to himself, and had no one else to blame.

“I...I can fix it,” he said, his mouth set firmly. “You know I can fix it. All I have to do is convince her to work for us. I swear, Dez, this one’s worth it. I can feel it.”

For a moment, he was terrified that Desdemona was going to punch him. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time. But she just inhaled sharply, staring past his sunglasses, her fist clenching and unclenching at her side. Finally, she heaved off the wall with a sigh before turning away from him, heading back to her post.

“You’d better be right, Deacon,” she hissed over her shoulder. “Because if you’re wrong, you may have just put the final nail in our coffin.”

“I promise, Dez. I won’t let it come to that.”

He collected himself as best he could before going to chat with Tinker Tom. The man was crazy as a suitcase full of bloodworms, but he was damn good at high-tech solutions for absurdly difficult problems. If anyone could help him figure out the best way to get to Myra, it was Tom.

“Hey, Deacon! You’re just in time,” called the eccentric inventor. “I’ve been testing out a new version of my anti-nanite vaccine! I really think that this one’s gonna be the one, man!”

“Well, I knew you’d figure it out, buddy! What’s in this one?”

Tom eyed him cautiously. “You really expect me to tell you? How do I even know you’re the real Deacon?”

He chuckled. “You got me. I’m a clone of the man you know as Deacon, sent to my past to protect your future. The world is in grave danger, Tom! And only you and I can stop it!”

Tinker Tom grinned. “I knew it! I fucking knew it! So what do you need me to do?”

Deacon almost felt bad for stringing the older man along. Almost. “There is a great warrior from your time, a woman named Myra Larimer. She is the most important part of our mission. But she is guarded by a powerful enemy. I need to get a message to her without her guard noticing. Can you help me?”

“Well, future Deacon, you came to the right guy! I’ve got all kinds of bugs and gizmos I’ve been dying to try out. Take anything that you think will help.”

Music to his ears. Deacon rummaged about in Tom’s footlocker for a moment, picking out a few bugs, a receiver, and a few other things he couldn’t quite identify but looked like they’d be fun to play with.

Tinker Tom snatched one of the whatsits, a small box wrapped in copper wire, out of Deacon’s hands. “Sorry, that’s not ready yet.”

“What is it?” Deacon asked.

“You’re kidding, right? Aw man, I thought for sure these things would be everywhere in a few years. It’s an adapter for those old decontamination units, nullifies the mind control serum the Institute pumps into them before your skin can absorb it...or at least it’s supposed to. You’re sure you’ve never seen one?”

“If I did see one,” Deacon countered, “how would I know it was working? I think you’d probably put them somewhere discrete, right?”

Tom thought for a moment. “You know, you’re absolutely right, Deacon! Aw, man, now I’ve got to redesign the whole mounting system! Now where did I put those blueprints…”

Deacon snickered to himself as he quietly slipped away from Tom’s station to his own locker, retrieving a few important items of his own. Diamond City Security uniform? Check. Railroad recruitment holotape? Check. Taxidermied owl he’d found a couple years back and had affectionately named Constable Snickers? He patted the lifeless little guy on the head before closing the locker.

Well, it was time to get back on the road. If he was going to have enough time to set his plans in motion, he needed to beat Myra to Diamond City. Desdemona was right: If the Railroad was going to survive the coming war, he absolutely couldn’t afford to fail.

After a harrowing night in the Old State House, Danse was more than ready to leave Goodneighbor in the dust. Larimer’s room was right above his, and the thunderous echoes of her alcohol-induced snores had made it quite difficult to sleep. This was further compounded by Hancock’s incessant humming as the ghoul wandered the halls of his home. It was a miracle that Danse had managed to get any rest. As he thought over the events of the past 48 hours, the Paladin realized that he hadn’t had a proper night’s sleep in days. No wonder his head was killing him.

“Morning, trash can!” exclaimed Hancock as Danse emerged from the room he’d been offered for the night. The Paladin groaned, squeezing his temples as he tried to will the pain away. Hancock paused, looking Danse over appraisingly. “Migraine, huh? I have something that might help with that, if you’re interested.”

Danse glared at the ghoul. “I don’t require chems to handle a simple headache. I will be fine once I’ve left this wretched town.”

The mayor sighed, his beady black eyes narrowing at the Paladin. “Now, now, I know you’re hurting, crewcut, but let’s be civil here. It’s not Goodneighbor’s fault your head hurts, is it?”

Danse shook his head. Hancock was right, but he wasn’t about to share medical information with the freak. He was grateful that Larimer had been given a safe place to sleep off her overindulgence of the night before, but that had only earned the ghoul so much good will.

“Is Larimer awake yet?” the Paladin asked in a low moan. “We really ought to get back on the road.”

Hancock shook his head. “Haven’t seen her. You wanna go check on her, or do I get the pleasure?”

“She’s my responsibility,” barked Danse. He didn’t much care for the lascivious look in the ghoul’s eyes. It was bad enough that he and Larimer had been separated for the night. Though it was more appropriate for them to have separate rooms, he was nervous about leaving her alone in her impaired state.

He walked up the weathered spiral staircase to an ornate wooden panel with delicate carvings of vines that neither time nor the apocalypse had managed to destroy. The Paladin knocked gently a few times, but received no reply. “Larimer,” he called, “I’m coming in.” With that, he swung the door open, his eyes widening in surprise at the sight before him.

To say that her room was nicer than the one he’d had would be quite an understatement. When Hancock had offered Larimer this particular room for the night, the ghoul had let slip that he usually used the room for entertaining, and it was easy to see why. As Danse crossed the threshold, he could have sworn he was transported back in time.

The windows of the large bedroom were boarded up, beams of early morning light filtering in past the barricades, and everything in the room was as worn and battered as any furniture which had survived the war. Thanks to Hancock’s decorating choices, however, it was easy to look past all that and see a little glimpse of what life had been like, what Danse hoped life would someday be like again.

The room was painted in light blue, with a large four-poster bed taking up much of the far wall. There was a small end table on the left side, holding both Larimer’s glasses and a teal vase of hubflowers, which gave the space a comforting, old world charm. Sheer drapes that must have once been white hung about the bed, swaying gently in the breeze from a nearby window.

There, dwarfed by her surroundings, lay Larimer, her head cushioned by the softest pillows Danse had ever seen. Her face looked more at peace than he’d ever seen it, her pure white hair framing her features in a silvery halo. She was still sound asleep, it seemed, and Danse backed out of the room quietly, closing the door behind him. He could give her another half-hour. After all, accommodations like these were rare in the Commonwealth. It would be a shame not to let her enjoy them.

As he waited for her, Danse began re-packing their belongings. Larimer had a terrible habit of just throwing everything into her pack without regard for what was already in there, and he was tired of finding bits of circuitry and plastic embedded in their provisions. Fortunately, Hancock elected to give the Paladin some space, and remained out of the meeting room while Danse carefully sorted his and Larimer’s belongings.

Danse managed to clean up both their packs, taking care to place most of the heavier items in his bag. His power armor greatly increased the load he could bear, and he knew from basic training how terrible it was to have to march with a full pack while nursing a hangover. There was a reason why the Paladin only infrequently indulged in alcohol.

While he was returning the last few items to Larimer’s pack, he caught sight of a small, leather-bound book, which he picked up. Danse held the small volume in his hands for a few moments, trying to decide if he should take a peek inside or not. He wasn’t the sort of man who enjoyed prying into people’s private affairs. At the same time, however, he found himself filled with a burning curiosity that needed to be sated. He opened the cover, his curiosity getting the best of him.

Danse’s eyes widened as he took in the contents of the small book. It was not, as he had feared, a diary. Instead, it appeared to be a small album of faded color photographs, a rarity even before the war. Either Larimer’s family had been quite wealthy, or...these were wedding photos.

His curious eyes met Larimer’s own as she smiled off the page, her rosy cheeks and full, red lips blossoming in sharp contrast to the clean, white lace dress she wore. Her hair was a rich chestnut brown, pulled into a sophisticated updo that twisted elegantly behind her head before being hidden beneath a delicate white veil. He almost didn’t recognize her without the deep sadness that now rested behind her stunning eyes.

Danse couldn’t help but want to see more. He had always wondered what life had been like before the war, had always secretly wished that he could have seen it. What hints he’d found in advertisements and stories painted a picture of an ideal life of peace and quiet prosperity, of strong, loving families and clean, airtight homes. He found himself torn by a deep nostalgia for a world of picket fences and strawberry lemonade he had never known. But Larimer...that had been her world. Perhaps her life could give him a clearer window into the past he’d never know.

He turned the page, his eyes glued to the album. There was a small chapel, its red brick exterior clean and warm beneath a gentle sun. Against its wooden doors stood a small cluster of people, all smiling brightly. In the center of the group was Larimer again, this time with her head thrown back, laughing. Beside her was a tall, copper-haired man in dress blues, his arm wrapped tenderly around her waist. This must be Nate, Danse realized. He studied the man carefully. Larimer’s husband was the model of a pre-war soldier, all lean muscle and strong posture, his tanned, clean-shaven face alight with pride as he watched his new wife with steely blue eyes.

On the opposite page, a yellowed newspaper clipping caught his eye.

“Myra Isolde Taylor and Captain Nathaniel Sebastian Larimer were married October 20, 2076. Their wedding mass was held at St. Thomas Aquinas Catholic Church in Nahant, MA. The bride is the daughter of Sheriff Martin Taylor and the late Harriet Taylor of Nahant. The groom is the youngest son of Dr. Walter and Anna Larimer of…”

As Danse read the wedding announcement, he heard the door to the meeting room open with a low creak. He hastily closed the small album and quickly shoved it back into Larimer’s pack. He did his best to shake off his guilt from intruding on her private life as the Initiate entered the room.

“Good morning, Paladin,” Larimer said softly, her deep green eyes gazing up at him cautiously. Something was different about her this morning, but Danse couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Perhaps it was merely his imagination, stray ghosts of the woman he’d seen in her photographs coloring his view of her.

“Good morning, soldier,” he replied. “I’m glad you’re awake. I was starting to think you’d be unconscious all morning.”

“Well, I did get pretty drunk last night,” Larimer mused. “Nate always used to tease me about how low my alcohol tolerance was, and the stuff we drank before the war was pretty tame compared to the moonshine you have now.”

“I hope you’ve learned your lesson, then,” Danse said gently, not wanting to berate her further. “A good soldier knows their limits.”

Hancock walked into the room, his scarred face broken by a cheeky grin. He was followed by a menacing woman, her eyes cold and calculating as she glanced at Danse and Larimer. The woman set a large metal tray loaded with packaged food and a pitcher of dark violet liquid on the meeting room table before retreating, clearly eager to be elsewhere. “Breakfast is served,” the mayor announced. “I hope you’ll forgive the spread. We’ve been having some trouble getting meat lately. Our usual hunters haven’t stopped by in a few days. But the mutfruit juice is fresh, hand-squeezed by Clair down at the Rexford.”

“Thank you, Mayor Hancock,” replied Larimer quietly, pouring a glass of juice. She handed it to Danse without making eye contact before pouring another for herself.

“You can just call me Hancock, gorgeous,” the ghoul replied. “I’m not the sort of guy who gets off on titles, unlike some people I’ve met,” he added, eyeing Danse with a smirk.

The Paladin grimaced as he choked on the tart juice. He wasn’t sure he liked what the ghoul was implying.

Larimer snagged a few snack cakes from a yellowed ceramic plate, passing two of them to Danse. “Here. These are super gross, but the sugar will help your headache, I promise.”

“How did you…” he started, and she greeted him with a hollow chuckle.

“I used to get really awful headaches all the time when I was pregnant, probably from all the vomiting. Trust me, I recognize that corpse-like pallor from the mirror. What you really need is sleep, but the sugar and fat in those things are a good temporary fix.”

“Thanks,” he replied sincerely. Why was she being so nice to him all of a sudden? Larimer had never been hostile towards him exactly, seeming to delight more in getting on his nerves than in deliberately causing him trouble. But this was different. She was acting like she actually cared about him, or perhaps worse, like she was afraid of him. It was unnerving.

Mercifully, Larimer and the mayor ate their breakfast in relative silence, presumably out of respect for Danse’s pounding head. He wondered at Larimer’s own resilience. She’d been three sheets to the wind when they’d arrived at the Old State House, and yet she didn’t seem to bear the faintest trace of a hangover. Either she’d been faking how inebriated she was the night before, or she had one hell of a metabolism. Seeing the way she threw back her breakfast, Danse found himself leaning towards the latter explanation.

Finally, Larimer’s hunger was sated, and she stood from the table, stretching lazily. “We should probably get going, shouldn’t we? Thank you again, Hancock.”

The ghoul nodded to her. “Don’t mention it, sweetheart.” His black eyes flashed dangerously as he grinned at her. “Seriously. Don’t mention it. I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

Larimer nodded. “Listen, is it possible for us to arrange a caravan to Oberland Station? I’d like...I’d like to get Finn home, but we don’t have time to head back right now.”

Hancock smiled gently at her. “I’ll talk to Daisy and see what we can do. That’s...that’s really fucking civil of you.”

“It’s the right thing to do. We’ll cover the expense. Danse and I did promise to try and bring him home. It’s not the way we wanted, but…”

Danse listened on in surprise. He’d hoped Larimer had taken their argument the night before to heart, but he hadn’t expected this. With everything on her mind, she was still determined to do right by the old man they’d met at Oberland. The gesture frankly amazed him.

Hancock waved a hand at her dismissively. “No deal. I’ll pay for the caravan. I mean, I’m the one who killed him. Consider it one last apology, if you want.”

“You’re actually a pretty nice guy, Hancock,” replied Larimer, offering a hand to him which he shook firmly.

“Like I said, please, please don’t mention it.”

She smirked, nodding as she grabbed her pack. The Initiate frowned slightly, bouncing the bag in her hand for a moment before looking over at Danse with questioning eyes. “Danse, did you take anything from my bag?”

He felt his cheeks burn slightly as he nodded. “Affirmative. I apologize for taking such liberties, but your pack was quite overloaded, so I transferred some of the heavier items to mine. I hope you don’t mind.”

“No, it’s ok,” she replied quickly, her eyes flitting away from his. “Just maybe ask first next time, okay? I almost accused our host of petty theft.”

Hancock grinned at her. “Trust me, beautiful, it wouldn’t be the first time.”

“All the same,” Larimer replied, “If I’m going to yell at you again, Hancock, I’d prefer that you deserved it.”

The ghoul chuckled. “Well, then. I’ll have to keep that in mind.”

Danse grabbed his pack, eager to get back on the road. As calm as their morning had been, he still wanted to leave the stench of Goodneighbor behind them as soon as possible. Besides, if he had to watch Larimer charm the foppish ghoul any longer, he might be sick. Kindness notwithstanding, Hancock was still an unknown variable, and the Paladin worried that Larimer’s trusting nature might lead her to reveal more than she should to someone they’d just met. “We should be on our way,” the Paladin grumbled, trying to ignore the throbbing in his skull, “The earlier we arrive in Diamond City, the more likely we are to find someone who can assist us in our mission.”

Larimer’s eyes met his, “As long as you’re up for it, Paladin,” she replied, her voice thick with concern.

Danse nodded. “I’ve marched farther in worse pain, Initiate. I can handle a headache.”

“If you say so…” she mused, waving to Hancock as she and Danse exited the State House, heading out of town and into the ruined streets of Boston.

::::

As Danse and Larimer passed through Boston Common, Danse found his mind wandering. He thought back to his argument with Larimer the night before, how she had tried to get him to return to Cambridge. She was right, after all, when she’d questioned him. What was he doing, splitting his team like this? Would he really be able to protect Rhys and Haylen if things went sideways? What would they do if something happened to him, and he never returned to base?

They weren’t exactly taking the safest route to Diamond City. Every map of the Commonwealth Danse had ever seen had a big red X over this sector. He wasn’t exactly sure what that meant, but it couldn’t be good. With his focus impaired and Larimer’s unnatural talent for finding trouble, he was quite nervous.

For her part, Larimer seemed strangely reserved, quietly walking next to him with an unreadable expression on her face. The brash, confrontational Initiate Danse was used to had seemingly melted away in the night, as though all her fight had evaporated with the dawn. He should have been pleased that she seemed to be taking his words from the night before to heart. Instead, he found it deeply worrying.

“Larimer,” he asked quietly, “is everything all right?”

She glanced up at him quickly before her gaze returned to the road ahead. “Everything’s fine, Paladin. I’m just thinking.”

He sighed. It was as he’d feared. Rather than using their argument as a reason to be more open with him, she was instead retreating farther away. Was she really that afraid of him being angry with her?

Danse was about to reply when they were interrupted by a hail of bullets and guttural screaming from above. Of all the times for them to stumble into a pack of Super Mutants...

“Get to cover!” he bellowed to Larimer, who was already sprinting towards the ruined skyscraper full of hostiles, Righteous Authority spewing red laser fire into the massive green torso of the nearest mutant.

Danse cursed under his breath, racing after her. When would she learn not to charge headlong into danger? He caught up with her quickly, grabbing her arm roughly and forcing her behind a ruined wall. “Super Mutants aren’t like raiders or ghouls,” he admonished as a hail of minigun fire blazed past them. “They pack far more firepower and are far harder to kill. Aim for the head, and stay in cover if you can. If you can’t, at least stay behind me so my armor can protect you. Do you understand?”

She nodded, rubbing her arm as she stared up at him, terror in her eyes. “I...I understand. Let’s go.”

Together, they plunged into the building, Danse carefully clearing each floor as Larimer picked off each super mutant she could from behind cover. Within minutes, the group was dead, the floor slick with blood and brains. Fortunately, it seemed like the building had only housed a small patrol, and none of them had mini-nukes.

Danse found his way back to the Initiate, who smiled at him warily as he approached. Larimer touched her right cheek, chuckling under her breath. “You got a little something there, Paladin,” she teased.

He reached up, wiping a glob of viscera from his face with disgust. “Thanks. How is your arm? I hope I didn’t hurt you.”

She shook her head. “It’s not as bad as a minigun burst to the skull, that’s for sure. You saved my life. I’m sorry for putting myself at risk. I didn’t realize how tough those things were.”

He smiled slightly before turning towards the stairs. “Well, now you’re aware. Next time, I know you won’t make the same mistake. Come on. We’re still a few blocks from Diamond City, and who knows what else this place has in store for us? I wouldn’t be surprised if there are worse things than Super Mutants hiding in these ruins.”

Larimer started down the building’s skeletal staircase, her eyes glued to the steps in front of her. Danse followed behind her carefully, trying to find a way to clear the air between them before things got any more uncomfortable.

Fortunately, as they continued towards Diamond City, Larimer gave him the perfect opportunity. As she clambered up a debris pile to get her bearings, her boot got stuck under a piece of rebar and she lost her balance, twisting backwards.

Danse ran to her aid, catching her just before her back connected with a pile of broken glass. “Careful, soldier,” he said gently, as he helped her up “this terrain is quite uneven.”

“I… Why are you being so nice to me?” she hissed. “Shouldn’t you be lecturing me about what a liability I am or something?”

It pained him to see her like this. “I just…” he began with a sigh. “Look, Larimer, I’m not intending to lecture you. I just want to make certain that you are alright.”

“I told you, sir,” she replied, “Everything’s fine. I’m just…”

“Just thinking,” he finished. “I know. But you’ve been behaving abnormally all morning. I’m concerned that you might be having difficulty, in light of our discussion last night.”

“You mean our fight,” she replied with a sigh. “Look, Paladin, I’m really sorry for how I behaved. I’m sorry for acting like your advice and opinions don’t matter to me. I was just...I’ve just been...I didn’t mean to take that out on you.”

“You’ve apologized enough,” said Danse solemnly. “Elder Maxson, our leader, says that Brotherhood soldiers don’t apologize. They accept their punishment, learn from their mistakes, and move on.”

“So, what’s my punishment, then?” she asked, her voice a tired attempt at her usual snarkiness. “Do I have to shine your armor? Carry a backpack full of rocks?”

Danse shook his head. “I was considering assigning you to a full day of intense physical training. With Knight Rhys supervising you.”

Larimer’s smirk didn’t make it to her eyes. “If you wanted to kill me, Danse, it’d be easier just to shoot me.”

“Damn it, Larimer, I’m trying…”

Danse’s reply was cut off by the sound of frantic yelling from the next block over. It sounded like a woman in distress, her high-pitched voice carrying through the ruins.

Danse and Larimer glanced at each other before running in the direction of the voice, their weapons drawn.

A short, black-haired woman in a red trench coat stood outside the Diamond City gate, screaming at the intercom and waving her hands about wildly as she berated the security guard on the other end. The guard was clearly following orders, and Danse felt more than a little sorry for the man as the woman’s wrath enveloped him.

“Protecting Diamond City means keeping me out, is that it?”, the woman fumed. "’Oh look, it's the scary reporter!’ Boo!”

“I’m sorry, Piper,” replied the man on the other end, exasperated, “but Mayor McDonough's really steamed. Saying that article you wrote was all lies. The whole city's in a tizzy.”

“Damn you, Danny Sullivan,” she screamed, “you open this door right now! I live here! You can’t just lock me out!”

After a few more minutes of pointless yelling, the woman turned with a sigh, her eyes meeting Larimer’s. Suddenly, her face brightened, her piercing hazel eyes shining with crafty intention.

“Hey,” she rasped, “You want into Diamond City, right?”

Larimer nodded. “Yeah, I’d like to get in.”

“Just follow my lead. I’ll get us all in, just you watch,” the shorter woman whispered, smirking. She turned back to the gate. “What’s that? You’re a trader, up from Quincy? With enough supplies to keep the market going for a whole month?”

Larimer grinned. “No, ma’am,” she exclaimed in her affected drawl. “I came down from Concord. Found a whole lot of medical supplies just sitting around up there. Stims, blood packs, bandages, you name it.”

Danse frowned at the Initiate, disappointed in her choice. Lying to local law enforcement? Was there any action that was beneath her?

The woman in red, however, nodded with a mischievous smile that almost matched Larimer’s. She was clearly impressed at Larimer’s capacity for lying. “Well, well, I’d hate to be the guy who turned away that kind of supply.”

The voice on the intercom sighed. “Fine, fine. I’m opening the door. This better not be a trick, Piper, or I swear…” In a moment, the gate began to rise, creaking and clanging as its metal shutter lifted on rusty hinges.

“Good job. Better head inside quick before ole' Danny catches on to the bluff,” the reporter said slyly, gesturing at the gate.

Larimer, however, stared up at the wall in trepidation. “What is this place?” she asked.

“Oh, the ‘green jewel’?” The reporter asked. “She's a sight. Everyone who's anyone in the Commonwealth is from here, settled here...or got kicked out of here,” she added, gesturing to herself with a smirk. “A big wall, some power, working plumbing, schools, and some security goons are what make Diamond City the big monster it is. Heh. Love it or hate it. You'll see for yourself, soon enough. Let's go. We need to get in there before the…”

As she was speaking, a short but well-fed man in a grey suit stormed in next to the security desk, his rat-like eyes honing in on the young woman’s face.

“...mayor shows up,” Piper finished in disgust.

“You devious, rabble-rousing slanderer!” cried the man, who Danse presumed was the mayor. “The...the level of dishonesty in that paper of yours! I'll have that printer scrapped for parts.”

“Oooh, that a statement, Mr. McDonough?” she shot back, her hazel eyes flashing dangerously. "You want my next headline to read: ‘Tyrant mayor shuts down the press?’ Or maybe we should ask the newcomers. Do you support the news? Because the mayor here’s threatening to throw free speech in the dumpster!”

Danse’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t know what problems the two of you have,” he growled, “but I’d prefer it if you left my companion and myself out of it. We just want to enter the city, handle our business, and leave.”

The suited man smiled at him, the sort of saccharine grin that belonged to salesmen, con artists, and their ilk. Danse instantly disliked the man. There was no honesty in his face.

“Of course,” the mayor crooned, either not recognizing or foolishly ignoring Danse’s rising annoyance. “I’m sorry to drag you into the middle of this. I’m Mayor McDonough. Welcome to Diamond City! You seem like exactly the kind of upstanding, level-headed people we like in this town. Please, do come in, visit our market, maybe settle down.”

“We’re not planning on staying long,” Larimer offered. “We just need information.”

Larimer’s statement seemed to intrigue the reporter. “Information?” she asked. “On what?”

“We’re trying to find my son, Shaun,” the Initiate replied, her voice breaking slightly. “He was kidnapped. He’s less than a year old.”

“Oh.” replied the woman, her eyes softening. “That’s terrible. I’m so sorry. Hopefully, the mayor here will get off his ass and, you know, do his job and help you.”

The mayor sighed heavily. “Piper, you know as well as I do that we don’t have the manpower…”

“Are you kidding me? This woman’s baby is missing, and you can’t spare one security guard to help her?” Piper threw up her hands in disgust. “And you wonder why your popularity in the lower field is worse than ever. Fine. If you won’t help, then I will. And I’ll make sure the whole town knows that their mayor did nothing when children went missing.”

Piper turned back to Larimer. “I know a guy who can help you. His name’s Nick Valentine. He has a detective office here in town, and specializes in missing person cases.”

Danse sighed. “At least someone here is willing to help.”

The reporter smiled back at them. “Hey, don’t mention it. If you want to return the favor, though...After you see Valentine, if you don’t mind, you and I should have a little chat. I’ll bet you two have one hell of a story to tell.”

“We’ll see.” Larimer replied, waving at the young woman as she climbed the steps into Diamond City proper, ignoring the blistering glare the mayor fixed on her as she passed. Danse felt his hackles rise as he passed the mayor, following Larimer into Diamond City. Something really unnerved him about that man, and his instincts had rarely steered him wrong.

He wished that he and Larimer had gotten the chance to finish their conversation before they entered Diamond City. She kept insisting that she was fine, but he could tell just by looking at her that she was frightened and hurting. If she wouldn’t let him help her, there was very little he could do, but Danse was determined to be there for her in any way that he was able. She was his subordinate, and she was in trouble, whether she’d admit to it or not.

Perhaps he should have done what she’d wanted and left her in Goodneighbor with the mercenary. He was taking quite a risk leaving Haylen and Rhys on their own, all for the sake of a woman who didn’t seem to even want him around most of the time.

But as Initiate Larimer walked ahead of him into the shanty town, tucking a stray strand of white hair back into her cap, he knew he’d made the right choice. There was something about her that just made him want to stay by her side, no matter how foolhardy it was. And while that terrified him, he also felt strangely at peace with his decision to help his newest soldier. Perhaps…

“Danse!” cried Larimer, turning to look at him with childlike awe on her freckled face, “Look! The bases are still here! I’m gonna try for a home run, finally check that off the bucket list!”

She was deflecting her feelings again, he realized. He had to get her to open up, and quickly, before the small chink he’d made in her armor the night before closed up again, sealing her away with her misery somewhere he could not follow.

“Larimer!” he replied, “Wait! We have to…”

Before he could stop her, she was off, laughing breathlessly as she tore through the market. He sighed before bounding after her, his heavy armored footfalls beating the ground as he ran. Before he knew it, his cares and worries seemed to break free, Larimer’s infectious energy easing his troubled mind.

One thing he had to say for Larimer was that she constantly surprised him, which should have irritated him far more than it did. He was a man of order and routine, concepts she hurled out the window at every turn. But maybe, just maybe, he was beginning to enjoy Larimer’s brand of impulsive chaos. Perhaps there was more order to her chaotic nature than Danse had seen before. Maybe there was also more chaos in his ordered life than he’d realized.

Either way, he was curious to find out what they could learn from each other. Something told him that choosing to help Initiate Larimer find her son would be the most important decision he’d ever made in his life, and he couldn’t wait to find out where the road would take them, or who they both would become along the way.

Deacon, disguised as a Diamond City Security guard, couldn’t help but smile as Myra blew past him, tearing through the market at breakneck speed. He’d hardly noticed it in Goodneighbor, his investigation taking precedence, but the past few months had changed Myra from the weak, frozen vault-dweller he had stumbled upon and rescued into a force to be reckoned with.

Myra’s pale skin had tanned like a peach ripening in the sun, pale scars from scrapes and skirmishes creating a map of experience on her face. The vault-dweller’s signature flannel was now accentuated by mismatched pieces of leather armor. Her pistol still hung at her hip, but it was now joined by a large laser rifle slung across her back, as well as a variety of knives tucked into her belt and boots. She no longer looked like a fragile pre-war housewife. She looked like a warrior.

Deacon’s smile soured when Paladin Danse stomped past a few moments later, fighting to keep up with Myra as she rounded second base. The soldier seemed almost relaxed, his dark eyes shining with something akin to mirth in spite of the scowl he wore like a badge of honor.

“Slow down, Larimer!” the Paladin exclaimed.

“And...let you...catch me?” Myra huffed with a cheeky grin. “Not...on your...life!”

Deacon lost sight of them as they veered past the town’s mutfruit farm and turned down Third Street. He slowly walked back towards the gates, curious to see how Myra’s run would pan out. He’d run the bases himself once, a lifetime ago. The look on Barbara’s face when he’d…

Myra reappeared in his vision, breathless as she crossed home plate, Danse only inches behind her. She collapsed to the ground, laughing. “That was awesome!” she exclaimed.

Danse frowned down at her. “Come on, soldier. You’re causing a scene.”

“You’re just upset that I beat you,” she wheezed.

The Paladin scoffed. “Hardly. I’d like to see you try that again with 300 pounds of metal strapped to you.”

“Oh yeah? Well, challenge accepted. But not today.”

Danse nodded, helping her up with a warm smile. “Affirmative. Today, we need to go speak to that detective.”

Myra’s face fell. “Yeah. I guess we do. But can we please swing by a few of the shops first? We’re running low on stimpacks, and I’d like to sell some of the extra gear we’re carrying.”

The Paladin thought for a moment. “Very well,” he said finally. “I suppose we can wait just a little longer.”

As they talked, Deacon quietly vanished into the crowd, making his way carefully towards Valentine’s Detective Agency. He had to admit, he was impressed. Was there anyone Myra couldn’t win over? From the looks of things, Paladin Danse was almost as charmed by her as Preston had been, and the dedicated soldier seemed like a much harder person to win over. How long would it be before Myra was ruling the whole damn Commonwealth with that infectious smile of hers?

Myra was adapting -- no, thriving -- and Deacon wasn’t quite sure how he felt about it. He’d seen what the Commonwealth could do to good people. The place was a meat grinder, chewing up the kind and compassionate and spitting them out raw, bloody, and jaded. While a certain amount of toughening-up was important if one wanted to stay alive in the wasteland, he’d seen too many people completely consumed by their drive to survive, and it saddened him to think that the same thing could happen to Myra. She was special, a radiant light in a dark world. What was the point in her survival if she lost her soul along the way?

Furthermore, Deacon was concerned that the Brotherhood’s influence on her might be too much for even his ample charm to break. If Myra was going to be of any use to the Railroad, he needed to do something. And he needed to do it quickly. It was time to enact the first phase of his plan.

He slipped into an alley, trading in his guard outfit for one of his scavver disguises. When he emerged, he meandered casually down Third Street towards the detective agency, looking around for an excuse to be there. Andy Gaines, one of the town’s maintenance workers, knelt by a corner of the wall with a portable blowtorch, trying to repair the pitted metal. Deacon smiled. Andy was a tourist, one of the Railroad’s many informants in the Commonwealth. In other words, he would more than likely be willing to play along with whatever scheme Deacon cooked up.

“Hey, man, how’s it going?” Deacon asked casually.

Andy looked up at him briefly before returning to his work. “Do I know you, scavver?”

“That depends. Do you have a geiger counter?”

“Mine is in the shop,” the man muttered, replying with the appropriate countersign. “So you’re from the Railroad. I should have known. You probably shouldn’t be seen around town. You know the Institute’s got eyes here.”

Deacon rolled his eyes behind his sunglasses. “Well, yeah. Where don’t they? Look, I could use an assist, if you’re up for it. Nothing big, just recruitment stuff.”

“Sure. I mean, I’ve got a fair bit of work to do here. I wouldn’t mind a casual conversation while I do it.”

Deacon grinned. “Good man. But I’m afraid it’s a little more complicated than that. There’s a Brotherhood of Steel Paladin in play. I need to get him out of the way, or we risk exposing the whole operation.”

Andy nodded. “Hey, I’ve got you covered.” He knocked twice on the wall, and Deacon heard movement within. A moment later, a small, bedraggled girl pulled herself around the corner, her brown eyes bright with curiosity as she noticed Deacon.

“Yes, dad?” the child asked.

“Rachel, my friend here needs a distraction. Do you think you can be a brave girl and help us like you did before?”

She nodded, a bright grin lighting up her round face. “Can I keep what I take?” she asked.

“Only if you don’t get caught. Otherwise your uncle Danny will be very upset with you.”

Deacon glanced from Andy to his daughter in concern. “You’re really willing to put her at risk like that?”

Andy nodded. “She’s a smart kid. It’s not like we’ve never done this before.” He turned to the child. “Ok, now. You go wait around the corner, and when you hear daddy say ‘I wish we’d get more rain,’ it’s your turn, ok?”

The girl nodded, slinking off down the narrow street.

Andy turned his attention back to Deacon. “I heard a rumor that Takahashi recently changed the recipe for his Power Noodles. People say they don’t taste as good as they used to.”

Deacon smiled slightly. “Really? That’s a shame. I really enjoyed them.”

The two gabbed on, covering about the state of the wall, prices of brahmin meat, and other safe but boring topics as Deacon waited for Myra to show up.

Finally, he caught sight of her, skin still slightly flushed from her turn around the bases, hair windblown and tangled as she furiously tried to brush it out of her face with one hand. Danse walked a few steps behind her, his watchful brown eyes scanning for threats.

Deacon looked towards Andy, clearing his throat quietly. “Man, I can’t get enough of all this sunshine,” he said with a yawn. “It’s beautiful out. Makes you just want to take a long nap, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t know,” Andy replied. “All this sun’s bad for the crops. I wish we’d get more rain.”

“Well, don’t plants need both? At least, that’s my understanding.”

As they continued debating the matter, Deacon caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye as Rachel ran past, swiping Myra’s pack from her shoulder and taking off through the winding streets.

“Hey!” yelled Danse, “Get back here!”

“Did that really just happen?” asked Myra, her eyes wide. “Danse, I...I need that back. There’s things in there I can’t replace!”

“Wait here,” Danse replied. “I’ll get your belongings back, I promise.” He stomped off after the girl, scowling.

“I can’t believe that worked,” Deacon said under his breath.

Myra sighed, glancing around for a moment before finding an empty patch of wall to lean on. “Well, I guess Boston hasn’t changed that much after all,” she muttered. “Damn pickpockets.”

As she sulked, Deacon turned back to his companion. The hook was set. All they needed to do now was reel her in. Easy as lying. “Hey, you hear about the Railroad?” he asked the repairman.

“You mean that secret organization that supposedly protects synths?” muttered his gruff companion, rolling his eyes as he returned to his repairs on the side of the building. “Aren’t they a myth?”

“I dunno, man. My friend’s cousin says he found their headquarters or something. Apparently they’re the real deal.”

Andy laughed. “Yeah, and next you’ll tell me the West Stands are haunted.”

“I’m serious. He even told me they have some sort of code sign: if you want to find the Railroad, follow the Freedom Trail.”

Deacon glanced up at Myra, but she didn’t even look his way as she stared off in the direction Danse had gone, her lips parted slightly. The joy he’d seen on her face earlier had evaporated, leaving behind a hollow shell. Something more than the theft had happened, he realized. Something that he had not been party to.

After what felt like ages, Danse reappeared, Myra’s pack in his hand. The Paladin offered it to her with an apologetic smile. “Sorry I took so long. That street rat abandoned your bag on the other side of town and vanished. I looked for her, but she knows this city far better than I do. I’m sorry.”

“That’s ok, Danse,” Myra replied. “You got it back. That’s what matters. Thank you.”

“I checked to see if anything was missing,” the Paladin continued. “Besides that gold watch you found last week and a few other small items, I believe that everything is where it should be.”

Myra smiled. “Well, I have to admit, that took guts. I think the kid deserves whatever she took, don’t you?”

Danse stared at her for a moment, his eyes wide. “You...what? She stole from you. Most people would want justice for that.”

“Hey, all I’m saying is she was desperate,” replied Myra. “That means she probably needed what she took more than I did. I think we can leave it at that.”

Danse smiled gently at her. “Larimer, you really are an unusual woman.”

“And proud,” she replied with a grin. “Now, since you so graciously returned my bag to me, I suppose I can repay the favor by not dragging my feet. Let’s…” she sighed softly.

“Oh, come on, let’s go see the detective.”

“Outstanding,” the Paladin replied, and the two of them continued towards Valentine’s office. Danse held the door open for Myra, gesturing her inside.

Deacon turned back to his companion with a heavy sigh. “Well, I’m pretty sure that was a bust. Thanks for trying, though.”

Andy nodded. “Any time. You guys saved my sister’s life when everyone else in town tried to kill her. It’s the least I can do.”

“Here’s a little something for your kid, too,” the spy added, handing the repairman his kazoo. “She more than earned it.”

Andy smiled. “Rachel will love this! Thank you.”

Deacon nodded in reply before continuing down the narrow street back towards the noodle stand. The stall was well-situated in the heart of the Diamond City Market, providing an excellent vantage point in several directions. Myra would not leave the city without him knowing about it, so long as he paid attention.

A few minutes later, Deacon watched as Myra appeared from around the corner, her disappointment palpable as she shuffled towards the town gate once more. She worried her lower lip between her teeth, trying to keep her composure.

“So now we have to go back the way we came,” Myra sighed to her companion. “Great. I knew getting help wouldn’t be that easy.”

Danse smiled grimly, placing a hand gently on her shoulder. “Don’t worry, soldier. We’ll find this Valentine, and he’ll be able to help us. If not, we will find another way to locate your son. We’re not going to give up until you know the truth, I promise.”

Myra stiffened at the contact, her eyes brimming with tears. “I hope you’re right, Danse. I just hope we’re not too late.”

Deacon wondered what would happen if they did find Nick Valentine. He was reasonably sure that Danse wouldn’t take the detective’s identity well. Perhaps the man’s own prejudices would do Deacon’s work for him and get the soldier out of his way. But he was getting ahead of himself. First, he needed to find out exactly where Myra and the Paladin were headed.

The spy slipped quietly into the detective agency as they walked away, easing the door closed behind him gently. The detective’s secretary, a bright-eyed young woman named Ellie Perkins, eyed him warily.

“I’m sorry, but the office is closed,” she said sternly.

“So I’ve heard,” Deacon replied. “Don’t worry, I’m not here to bother you. I was just wondering if you could tell me what you told the woman who just left.”

Ellie frowned. “You’re not a raider planning on ambushing her or anything, right? Nick always warned me not to give too much information away.”

Deacon flashed a charming smile at her. “I promise, I’m not up to anything of the sort. See, Myra’s a...my...well, she’s very special to me. I know she’s been having a hard time coming to terms with her husband’s death, and I...I’m worried about her. I just want to make sure she’s not going to get herself hurt. I don’t know if you’ve ever had to watch someone you care about put themselves in harm’s way like that, but if you have, you know why I want to help her.”

The secretary’s face softened, a bright glow in her eyes. “That’s...that’s incredibly kind of you. And I know exactly what you mean. If I could have talked Nick out of...oh, hell. They’re headed for Park Street Station if you wanted to meet her along the way.”

He couldn’t believe that angle had actually worked. “Thank you!” he replied eagerly, shaking the woman’s hand. “You’ve helped me a lot, Miss! I won’t ever forget it!”

“Good luck!” she replied, smiling back at him. “Bring her home safe, ok?”

Once he was out of the secretary’s sight, Deacon grimaced. It wasn’t that he minded lying, exactly. After all, misrepresenting the truth in order to get information was his life’s work. More than that, his lies were all he had left. There was nothing else in his life that he could really call his own. But he’d played with a more open hand than he normally did when he’d talked to Ellie, skirting the line between truth and fiction a little too well.

The core of every good lie, in his experience, was a kernel of truth, some detail or nuance that was so authentic that it gave the one weaving the story the same degree of trustworthiness. The best lies, told by the best liars, were so convincing that even the person weaving the story believed that they were true. And Deacon was an excellent liar, really in a class of his own. What made him special was that he was always able to believe his own lies, no matter how far-fetched. His sincerity was his greatest weapon, and his greatest enemy.

Telling lies so colored by the truth was a dangerous game, especially when the pieces on the board were all so very precious. And the more true the lies were, the harder it was to avoid getting caught up in their web. He had to be careful, and his conversation with Ellie had not been careful.

Deacon tried to ignore the memory of Barbara’s homemade floral perfume as he almost caught a hint of it in the air. Even now, after all this time, he could still smell it, a ghost of his memories hanging about him like the faintest hint of smoke on a winter’s day. He shook his head. It wasn’t real. Nothing that really mattered was part of this world anymore. He had to stay focused on his mission. He could let the guilt set in again later, when he stopped by for his monthly visit to The Memory Den. He didn’t need the memory loungers to remind him of all he’d lost, but at least in the twisting corridors of his memories, none of that heartache had come to pass yet. He could still pretend to be a simple farmer, and the woman he loved would still be by his side.

After doing his best to set aside his melancholy, Deacon headed for the town gate. He’d given them a good head start, but now that he knew where Myra and Danse were heading, he’d be able to track them fairly easily. It didn’t take long for him to catch up with the pair.

Deacon did his best to stay out of sight, but still tried to stay close enough to catch snippets of their conversation. If he’d learned anything in his long career as the Railroad’s intel guy, it was that any piece of information he could gather might prove useful in the long run. He couldn’t count the number of times his life or the lives of other Railroad agents had been saved by overhearing something as mundane as someone’s shopping list.

“...wondering if I could get your advice,” Deacon heard Myra say to the Paladin. The spy inched nearer.

“Of course, soldier,” Danse replied. “What’s troubling you?”

“Oh, no, it’s not like that,” Myra protested. “I’m fine. Well, as fine as can be expected, given the circumstances. I was just wondering what you think I should do about Knight Rhys.”

The Paladin frowned at her. “Why are you asking about Rhys all of a sudden?”

“It’s been bothering me, ever since we left the station. I know it probably seems silly, but if we’re going to be working together, I suppose I was wondering if you had any idea how I can make him less...I don’t know, mad at me for existing, or whatever his problem is?”

Danse sighed. “First of all, perhaps the two of you would get along better if you didn’t assume he was out to get you. I’ve worked with Knight Rhys for years. He’s a good, fair man.”

“Then what’s his problem with me?” Myra asked.

“I’m not entirely sure. Have you thought about asking him yourself?”

She snorted. “What, and give him another excuse to yell at me?”

Danse shook his head. “I won’t pretend that I understand Knight Rhys, but I think you should give him a chance. Maybe he’ll surprise you. I think that he might just be confused by you, and things that confuse him make him upset.”

“What’s confusing about me?” Myra asked. “I’m as normal as they come.”

The Paladin stared at her in disbelief. “You’re joking, aren’t you?”

“What are you talking about, Danse?”

“You’re… um… how to put this…” he muttered, lost in thought for a moment. “You’re a very intense and challenging person. I can certainly understand why a man like Rhys might find that confusing, or even threatening.”

Myra stopped walking, her eyes meeting Danse’s. “Tell me, Paladin. Do you feel that way too?”

“I…” he began, trailing off as his gaze dodged hers, a faint blush staining his cheeks. “I guess I haven’t given it much thought. I’m just speculating, that’s all. If you want to know what Knight Rhys thinks about you, you really ought to ask him yourself.”

“Uhuh,” muttered Myra, smiling slightly as she resumed her walk. Danse trailed behind, watching her for a moment before following.

Deacon smirked as Myra and Danse continued on their way. That was definitely an interesting conversation. It was obvious that neither Myra nor Danse were completely comfortable with each other yet, and that was something Deacon could use to his advantage. There was still time for him to drive a wedge between them and save Myra from the Brotherhood’s influence. He just had to make the right move at the right time.

Myra hesitated as she and Danse entered the area around the Swan Pond, her eyes distant as she glanced around the small park. Her movements were slow, deliberate, as though she were walking through a dream, or… living a memory. Deacon knew that trance-like look well. Myra may have been standing in 2287, but her mind had traveled centuries back to a time before her world had ended. She walked calmly towards the edge of the pond, a ghost of a smile gracing her face.

Deacon bit his tongue, forcing himself to remain silent. He wanted desperately to warn her to stay away from the water’s edge, to slowly back away before she could awaken the terror within. However, to do so would expose him, undoing all his preparation and hard work. He had no choice but to watch from a distance, his sniper rifle readied at a large mass of debris in the center of the pond.

“What are you doing, soldier?” he heard Danse ask, concern coloring the Paladin’s gravelly voice.

Myra turned to look at Danse, smiling wistfully at him. “Nate and I used to come here, before the war. I swear the pond was bigger then. On summer evenings, when the weather was right, bands would play in that gazebo over there, and people would come and ride the swan boats and dance on the shore.”

Danse smiled at her softly. “That sounds ideal, Larimer.”

Deacon had to agree. He tried to imagine what Boston Common must have been like before the war, full of happy families and picnics, businessmen and statesmen going about their business, unaware of how quickly everything could be snatched away from them. What was it like, living in a world without constant radiation, a land of green trees and cleansing rain? He imagined that such a world would be a place of exquisite boredom. Would he have thrived there?

“It was pretty wonderful,” Myra replied. “I remember, Nate...he never liked being out on the water. I suppose that’s why he didn’t join the Navy. On our fourth date, we rented one of the boats. He was terrified the entire time, gripping the sides of the boat with white knuckles and probably hoping I wouldn’t notice. But he wanted to make me happy, and so he pretended he wasn’t scared out of his mind. It was...it was one of the sweetest things anyone has ever done for me. I never asked him to take me boating again. Instead, we would sit on the edge of the water and skip stones.”

She reached down, grasping something from the dirt, brushing it off in her hands. Deacon’s stomach clenched, his daydream forgotten. She couldn’t seriously be considering…

Myra’s arm stretched behind her as she twisted at the hip, slinging a palm-sized stone towards the water. The spy watched in horror as the rock skipped cleanly across the ruined pond, heading directly towards the center. He winced as he heard the stone connect with the debris pile.

“That was quite impressive, soldier,” he heard Danse say. “Perhaps someday you’ll teach--”

The man’s words were cut off by a loud splashing, a deep bestial roar rending the peaceful scene. The debris pile shuddered and creaked as it rose from the pond, a massive green hand reaching from the water towards Myra and Danse.

“Behemoth!” yelled Danse, readying his laser rifle. “Larimer, get to cover immediately!”

“What about you?” she cried.

“I’m right behind you! Go, now!”

The Paladin fired round after round into the giant Super Mutant, doing his best to draw the monster’s attention and allow Myra time to escape. The young woman fled towards Park Street Station, desperately scanning the area with her eyes, presumably looking for adequate cover. She darted into the gazebo, heaving her pack down next to her as she rummaged inside.

“Damn it, Danse! Where did you put my grenades?” she bellowed.

“They’re in my pack!” he shouted in reply. “Stay there, and cover me!”

The Behemoth hoisted a large, jagged rock from the pond, readying it in his massive hands as it glared at Danse. The creature cried out in rage, drawing its arm back to hurl the car-sized projectile at the Paladin.

Time froze for a moment as Deacon inhaled deeply, training his rifle at the Behemoth’s hand. His mind raced as he considered his options. On the one hand, he was under no obligation to help the Paladin. He could let Danse be crushed, possibly even killed. It would be in the Railroad’s best interest for him to not intervene, after all, and it would make it far easier for him to recruit Myra if the soldier were out of the picture. The man was an enemy to synth-kind and to all those who helped them.

However, there was something about the situation that gave Deacon pause. Looking back, he could never be entirely certain what it was that compelled him to intervene. It might have been concern for Myra’s well-being if the creature came for her next. Maybe it was the sheer bravery and gall the Paladin showed in that moment as he stared death in the face defiantly. It could have even been as simple as Myra’s gentle smile as she reflected on long-distant summers, and Deacon’s desire not to ruin another happy memory for her. There were so very few of those left in the world.

Deacon exhaled slowly as he squeezed the trigger, cursing himself under his breath as the bullet found its mark. The Behemoth roared in anguish as the flesh of his thick, green thumb ruptured in bright spurts of blood. It dropped the massive boulder with a splash that sent a circular tidal wave rushing towards the pond’s shores, covering Danse with a deluge of irradiated, filthy water.

The Paladin growled in disgust, wiping water from his eyes with one hand as he trained his rifle at the gargantuan monster once more. The beast swung down with his other arm, knocking Danse from his feet and into the side of a large dead tree. The soldier groaned in pain, dropping to one knee as he fell.

“Danse!” cried Myra from the gazebo as she laid down cover fire for her companion, “Are you ok?”

“I’ll live, soldier!” he hissed. “Aim for the eyes, if you can! Let’s take this bastard down! Ad Victoriam!”

“Ad Victoriam, sir!” she shouted in reply, correcting her aim.

The Behemoth roared as bolts of red laser fire hit him from two directions, burning his face. Within the course of a few minutes, the creature wobbled and fell, one final groan of agony wheezing from his body as he succumbed to his injuries.

Myra ran to Danse’s side, her pack forgotten. Her eyes burned with righteous indignation as she stood over him. “Are you fucking kidding me, Danse? What happened to being right behind me? Don’t you ever do that to me again! You could have been killed!”

“Fortunately, I was wearing power armor,” he replied, using the trunk of the tree to hoist himself back to his feet, “and someone needed to draw his attention. I made a calculated choice, and it paid off. You and I both survived.”

“That’s not the point, Danse! How could you put yourself in harm’s way like that?”

“I would gladly spill my own blood if it meant that my brothers and sisters were safe, soldier. I had hoped that you’d understand that by now. If you refuse to wear adequate protective gear, I --”

“Don’t you dare put this on me! I’m not the one with a fucking martyr complex! Get over yourself, Paladin. You’re no good to me dead.”

“I can’t believe that after…”

Deacon crept towards the gazebo as Danse and Myra argued, their voices falling out of range. He almost felt bad for Danse, being on the receiving end of the young woman’s anger. Still, the Railroad agent couldn't’ have asked for a better opportunity. Deacon sneaked a recruitment holotape as well as one of Tinker Tom’s bugs into Myra’s bag before slinking back into the overgrown hedges around the park.

Eventually, Myra sighed, throwing her arms as far around Danse’s torso as she could manage, her fingers gripping the battered metal tight. He hesitated for a moment, staring down at her with wide eyes. Then he wrapped his arms gently around her, letting her settle against him.

“I’m sorry for yelling at you, sir,” Myra said, her voice hoarse from her outburst. “I’m just glad you’re ok. I don’t know what I would have done if you’d died because I made a stupid mistake.”

“I should have realized,” Danse replied. “I’m sorry.”

She pulled away from him, blushing slightly as she turned away. “Well, I guess we should get to the station, huh? Though after all that, I think a surprise attack is out of the question.”

“Larimer, I…” Danse started to say, his words failing him as she turned back to look at him. He cleared his throat. “You’re right. Let’s get moving before any other threats get drawn by the noise.”

Deacon rolled his eyes as the two of them walked towards the station. The gap he’d noticed between them seemed to be closing, and swiftly. One thing was for certain, next time he followed the two of them, he was going to bring popcorn.

He waited for a long while after Myra and Danse descended into Park Street Station before moving out of cover. Hopefully, Myra would find and listen to the holotape without Danse nearby, and she’d be intrigued enough to find her way to HQ. It wasn’t the most precise plan, but his decision to help the Paladin had left Deacon with limited options.

Just to be on the safe side, Deacon activated the protectron near the back side of Park Street Station. The robot had been programmed to draw attention to the Freedom Trail, the historic path that would lead interested parties straight to HQ, if they knew the right code.

“It’s all up to you, Caboose,” he muttered as the yellow, cone-headed robot hissed out of its charging pod and began patrolling the area, looking for visitors to greet.

Something told him this latest plan wasn’t going to work either. Myra was too focused on -- or perhaps too distracted by -- her mission to notice Deacon’s subtle attempts to intrigue her. He needed to be more direct, but he couldn’t approach her with Paladin Danse always by her side.

The best he could hope for was that his bug wasn’t detected and he’d be able to keep an even closer eye on Myra’s activities until he had a chance to recruit her directly. The Paladin couldn’t really be around her every hour of every day. If Deacon got lucky, he’d find the window he needed. Otherwise...well, it wasn’t helpful to dwell on that.

With a final glance back at the station, Deacon tightened the straps on his backpack, heading northwest. It was a long walk to Stanwix, and the sun was already dipping below the horizon, the cityscape devouring its light with crooked concrete teeth.

 As the sun set over the patchwork roofs and skeletal trees of Sanctuary, Preston Garvey patrolled along the palisades surrounding the small island, his eyes trained on the fiery horizon. The fortifications had been finished nearly a week ago. The fearsome ramparts and guard towers built of wood and steel stood as a proud reminder of everything the Minutemen and the settlers under their protection had accomplished.

Since Preston’s group had arrived in Sanctuary, the once-deserted subdivision had begun to grow into a small town, complete with a marketplace, farm, and even a school for the handful of children who lived there. Sturges had converted one of the buildings into a full-blown garage, and had made great strides towards building an electrical grid to provide power to the whole community.

Marcy Long’s bar and hotel, The Last Minuteman , had become a popular stop for locals and caravans alike, and the formidable woman had taken to her new role as a business owner remarkably well. Though her fierce personality hadn’t changed much, at least her brimstone eyes ensured that everyone always paid their tabs on time.

Sanctuary was no Diamond City, but they were holding their own up in the northwestern corner of the Commonwealth. People seemed happy and secure. It was more than Preston could have hoped for.

Yes, Sanctuary was thriving. But Preston knew that his job was far from over, not if the Minutemen were to gain a foothold in the Commonwealth again. They needed more settlements to ally with them. Tenpines Bluff alone would not provide the support they would need.

He wondered--as he often had over the last few weeks--where the General had gone. Was she even still alive? He’d heard nothing from her since she’d left for Diamond City, and he had to admit that he was anxious and more than a little upset. If she’d gotten herself killed, he was going to have to find a new person to lead the Minutemen. If she was alive, Preston was concerned that she’d abandoned their cause.

As he was contemplating who could fill Myra’s shoes, the alarm bell near the gate rang twice, the settlement’s code for “stranger at the gate”. Preston ran back along the ramparts, laser musket at the ready. Only rarely did good news arrive at dusk.

He situated himself in one of the watchtowers, warily eyeing the newcomer who stood below. The man was dressed in what looked like the remnants of a Gunner uniform, tattered green and grey fatigues offset by the remains of a light brown duster. Preston gritted his teeth as he aimed his musket at the stranger.

“What are you doing here?” the minuteman demanded. “This is a peaceful settlement. We don’t pay tribute to Gunners.”

The stranger held his arms up in surrender, his eyes wide. “Whoa! Whoa! Hey, I come in peace. I’m just looking for Preston Garvey. The General sent me, said you needed help.”

“The General? Where is he?” demanded Preston. “We haven’t heard from him in ages!

“You mean she?” the man asked, confused. “Unless that bit… I mean, that woman lied to me…” The newcomer’s face paled as the implications sunk in. “Oh, God, did I really come all this way on the word of a drunk?”

Preston’s curiosity was piqued. “A drunk? What did she look like?”

The stranger thought for a moment before answering. “Long white hair, pretty green eyes, kind of a frustrating disregard for other people’s feelings? That sound like anyone you know?”

Preston smiled slightly, lowering his musket. “Good. Sounds like you’ve actually met the General. She’s…not the easiest person to get along with.”

“I’m getting that impression,” the man replied. “So why did you pretend your General was a man?”

Preston chuckled. “You’d be amazed how many people have tried to get in here by saying they ‘know the General’. Very few of them seem to know she’s a woman, let alone what she looks like. I guess that makes sense, when no one’s seen her in more than a month.”

“Yeah, I certainly hadn’t expected someone like her to be in charge. Frankly, I was surprised to see the General of the Minutemen paling around with the Brotherhood of Steel.”

“Hang on,” Preston replied. “The Brotherhood of Steel?”

“So you didn’t know?” asked the stranger. “Huh. I guess she really is like that with everyone. I’ll tell you what I know, but only after I have a chance to talk with Preston Garvey. The lady said it was important. Now, are you going to let me in, or not? I don’t like being out in the open like this.”

Preston nodded to Frank Harris, the town’s gatekeeper, who stared at him incredulously. “Ya sure you wanna let him in, Colonel?” muttered Frank, his mouth drawn in a tight line. “Like they say, where there’s one radroach ya see, there’s ten ya don’t. How do we know he ain’t got buddies nearby, waitin’ to jump us?”

“You’re not wrong,” Preston replied. “But if the General really did send him, we ought to trust her judgement.”

“No offense,” the older man continued, rolling his mud brown eyes, “but I ain’t never met the General, and I don’t give two shits about her judgement. But I trust yours, Preston. If ya think lettin’ vermin like this in’s the right thing to do, I ain’t gonna argue. If he so much as looks at me funny, though, that’s another story.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way, Frank,” said Preston before turning back to the stranger. “You heard that, right?”

The man outside the gate nodded. “Hey, I get it, I do. If I were you, I wouldn’t trust me either. But I promise, I’m only here to help.”

“Well, we can always use more help,” mused the minuteman. “Open her up, Frank!”

Frank muttered under his breath as he unlocked the gate and swung the huge doors open. Preston climbed down from the watchtower to greet the newcomer properly. “I’m Colonel Preston Garvey, Commonwealth Minutemen,” he said, offering the stranger his hand. “And you are…?”

“Name’s MacCready,” the man replied, shaking Preston’s hand with a tight grip that betrayed the lean boniness of his fingers. “Gun-for-hire, currently working for your General.”

Preston’s eyes narrowed. “See, that’s where I’m confused. If you’re a hired gun, why did she send you here? Wouldn’t she want you to, you know, protect her?”

“It’s that fuc...that stupid Paladin she’s with,” MacCready fumed. “She hired me to go with her to Diamond City, but then the guy just refused to leave, so she sent me here instead.”

Preston frowned. “Did she seem like she was being coerced? I’ve heard rumors about the Brotherhood of Steel. From what I’ve heard, they sometimes force people to work for them.”

MacCready shook his head. “Seemed more like a spat than her trying to get away from him, honestly. Far as I could tell, she was in Goodneighbor by choice.”

Preston’s eyes widened. “What in the hell was she doing in Goodneighbor?”

“Like I’d know,” the mercenary scoffed. “It’s not like we read each other’s diaries or anything. She just hired me to watch her back, then changed her mind and sent me here when that Brotherhood toolbelt got upset about it.”

That was concerning. What had forced Myra so far off track that she’d wound up clear on the other side of Boston from where she was supposed to be, and with the Brotherhood, no less? Preston puzzled over the possibilities as MacCready continued telling him about the mercenary’s encounter with the General. If she hadn’t been coerced, that meant that she’d joined up with the Brotherhood willingly. Did she know their stance on non-humans, their insistence on hoarding technology for themselves rather than using it to better the lives of everyone around them? Did she agree with their rhetoric? Was that why she’d abandoned the Minutemen, leaving Preston to fend for himself for weeks?

“Anyway,” MacCready finished, the tone of finality drawing Preston’s attention back to the man, “she told me to tell you that Oberland Station is clear, whatever that means.”

Preston sighed in relief. Myra had taken care of Oberland? Well, that was better news than he’d been expecting. Maybe she hadn’t abandoned the Minutemen after all, at least not completely. “So, when she sent you here, did the General tell you what she wanted you to do?” Preston asked.

MacCready shrugged. “She just said to report to you and offer you any help you need.”

“Well, are you any good with that sniper rifle you’ve got there?” asked Preston, gesturing to the battered old gun that hung on a thin braided strap from the man’s shoulder.

MacCready’s eyes glinted dangerously. “Any good? Are you serious? I’m the best shot in this wasteland.”

“Well, if that’s true, we could always use someone to man the walls here. But I’ve got a different sort of task in mind. How do you feel about helping me establish a new settlement?”

MacCready thought for a moment. “I’m not sure...I mean, I don’t really know anything about building settlements, but if you think I can help, that’s what I was paid to do. And I always finish the job, long as I’m getting paid.”

Preston smiled warmly at the shorter man. “Good enough. I’m actually really glad to have the extra help. See, a few weeks ago I sent a couple scouts out, and they found a perfect spot for a new settlement just down the road from here. Apparently, there’s a pretty bad mole rat problem there, though. So I’m thinking we go there, clear the place out, and then help a few settlers get started there.”

MacCready nodded. “If things need to be killed, I’m your guy. I’m not a huge hammer and nails man, but if you agree to do most of the building, I can manage most of the shooting.”

“Sounds like a plan, then,” replied the Colonel. “We’ll head out first thing in the morning. There’s a free bed over at the bar there, and Marcy’ll feed you if you’re hungry.”

“Better than sleeping out in the open again,” MacCready replied gratefully. “Thanks for letting me in, and not...you know, just blowing my brains out.”

Preston’s eyes narrowed. “We Minutemen aren’t usually the shoot first, ask later type.”

The mercenary nodded. “I know, just...I heard what happened at Quincy. Made me glad I made the right choice and quit the Gunners when I did. I’ll do just about anything if the pay’s good enough, but...I don’t know how anyone could look at themselves in the mirror after something like that.”

Preston stared at the young man for a long moment before replying. “I...I was at Quincy,” he said softly. “Only a handful of us made it out. Only five of us made it here.”

MacCready’s face paled. “Well, thank you even more for not shooting me, I guess. I don’t know if I would have waited for an explanation before I pulled the trigger if I’d been on your side of the fence.”

Preston watched as the man nervously shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He wanted to reassure him, to let him know that his past didn’t matter, that if the General trusted him, so did Preston. But he couldn’t lie to MacCready, even if it was a comforting lie. “See you tomorrow,” Preston replied, watching cautiously as the mercenary made his way to the bar. Could he really trust this man, who’d freely admitted that he’d been a Gunner? It was hard for him to believe that Myra would really have sent someone like that to Sanctuary. But, if the man was telling the truth about seeing her with the Brotherhood of Steel...maybe Preston didn’t know his General as well as he thought he did.

After all, how long had he really known Myra Larimer? She had only been in his life for a couple of weeks before she’d vanished into the Commonwealth. Until MacCready’s arrival, no one had even heard from her. She had saved Preston’s life, of course, which was about the closest bond that could be forged between people in this chaotic world as far as Preston was concerned. The way she fought to help rebuild Sanctuary, the swift justice she’d dispatched in the Corvega Plant, how easily she’d won over the people of Tenpines Bluff...Preston had been so sure that she was the General he’d been looking for. But now, as the last gasps of December’s biting cold brought longer, darker nights to the Commonwealth, he began to doubt himself.

He hadn’t asked Myra to be the General of the Minutemen because she was the perfect candidate. He had asked her to lead them because he was desperate. Preston knew someone had to be in charge, and he firmly believed that anyone would be a better choice than he would be. Now, however...Myra was consorting with ex-Gunners and Brotherhood soldiers, freely partnering with people who Preston considered to be some of the largest threats to the Commonwealth. Had his desire to remain out of the spotlight put the Minutemen that remained even further at risk?

::::

The next morning, Preston blinked the remaining weariness from his eyes as he walked towards the Last Minuteman to find his new companion. The early morning sun bathed the street in a golden glow, illuminating the last traces of icy dew that clung to the remains of the subdivision, casting everything in shimmering light. He smiled softly as he took in the sight. Even in the bleak wasteland, there was beauty to be found.

As he entered Marcy’s bar, Preston spied MacCready perched on a bar stool, looking out through the window at the settlement beyond. The mercenary seemed quite refreshed, his deep blue eyes glinting with interest as he watched the people of Sanctuary go about their day. A curious smile played about his lips as he sipped on a glass of water. When he saw Preston approaching, MacCready greeted him with a bold grin.

“Well, Garvey, this is quite a place you’ve got here!” the man exclaimed. “You must be proud.”

“I am,” Preston replied. “These are good people. The Minutemen gave them a chance, and look at what they’ve done with it. It’s pretty amazing.”

“And this is the sort of thing we’re gonna build at your new settlement?” MacCready asked.

The Colonel nodded. “That’s the hope. It won’t be quite like this, but I’m hopeful that with the right help and a lot of hard work, we can make a settlement there that’s just as safe as this one.”

MacCready’s eyes returned to the window, their gaze distant. “Well, hey, I mean, if the rest of the Commonwealth looked like this, I’d bring…” he trailed off, frowning.

“What’s wrong?” asked Preston.

MacCready looked back at him with a shrug. “Look, I think your idea’s good. I’m just not sold on the execution. Do you really think these settlers will be able to protect themselves against, say, a hive of Super Mutants? That wall of yours is pretty intimidating, but it doesn’t mean much without the firepower to back it up.”

“Ideally, our settlers wouldn’t have to fight on their own,” Preston replied. “The Minutemen will come and help whenever they need us.”

“Ideally,” MacCready fired back, smirking, “I’d have a million caps and all the ammo I could need. How many Minutemen do you have at your disposal, exactly?”

Preston thought for a moment. “Well, there’s me, the General, Frank, Sturges, those two new recruits from Tenpines...and you.”

“Hey, I don’t remember pledging myself to your cause,” the mercenary sputtered. “I’m just doing the job I was paid for. That’s it.”

“Then where’s the General?” Preston retorted. “If I’m recalling correctly, didn’t she actually pay you to watch her back?”

“That’s…” MacCready started to reply, his eyes widening as he realized that Preston had a point. “I...ugh! Fine,” he sighed. “You’re right. But I’m still not joining your stupid militia. I’ve had just about enough of working for someone else for one lifetime. I work for me, and that’s that.”

“No offense,” replied Preston with a faint smile, “but you work for whoever’s paying you. That’s sort of what being a mercenary is all about.”

“Well, yeah,” MacCready conceded, “but at the end of the day, I take the jobs I want to take. If I work for someone else, I have to take the jobs they order me to take.” His deep blue eyes shone with pride as they met Preston’s. “See? There’s a difference, and it’s an important one. At least to me.”

The Colonel stared at him, curious. It seemed like such an arbitrary difference to Preston. He’d never been particularly fond of mercenaries, seeing them as merely thugs for hire who’d do anything for a quick cap or two. But there was something about MacCready that seemed earnest, different than what Preston expected from a hired gun. Was this what Myra had seen in the scrawny fellow, some spark of humanity that set him apart from others in his profession? Or had Preston gone soft in his desperation? Was he placing virtue where there was none just to feel better about using MacCready’s services?

“I guess I never thought of it that way,” the Colonel said finally. “Huh. Well, I can respect that. But, if you ever change your mind, I’ve got a uniform with your name on it. All you’d have to do is agree to work exclusively for the Minutemen.”

MacCready grinned. “Does it come with one of those funny hats you guys wear? Because if so, that’s kinda tempting.”

“I’ll have to keep that in mind as a recruiting tool,” Preston said dryly. “Now, come on. We’ve got a long walk ahead of us, MacCready, and a lot of work to do when we get there.”

::::

The sun was high in the frozen sky when Preston and MacCready arrived at the old Starlight Drive-In. Preston had to admit that he was impressed with the site. His scouts had done exceptionally well.

The parking lot was full of rusted old vehicles, the last moviegoers lost forever to the radioactive dust that clung to the seats. Preston wondered what had been playing that night, the night before everything came to a fiery end. Did any of these people suspect as they sat in their cars that this would be the last film any of them would watch?

The rows of metal wrecks gave way to a large, weathered screen in one direction. An old diner and projection booth capped the other side of the site. Both buildings were remarkably well-preserved. Though the screen had lost quite a few panels over the centuries, its steel frame buckling and twisting as radstorms and vandals took their toll, the structure that supported it was mostly intact. It would be fairly easy for them to convert the old storage rooms into dormitories while work proceeded on the small family homes Preston hoped would someday litter the lot. He could see it now, a fully-formed trading settlement sending supplies all over the northern part of the Commonwealth. It could be the envy of Bunker Hill, if the Minutemen played their cards right, a caravaner's dream destination.

MacCready, on the other hand, looked around the remains of the old drive-in with displeasure. “This is your great location for a new settlement? You’ve got to be kidding me. Look at this dump.”

Preston frowned. “What’s wrong with it? Look, once we clear all these old cars out of here, there’s going to be so much open space! We can build anything we want here. There’s even a water source right in the middle of the lot! Do you know how rare that is?”

“I’d be more concerned about defense if I were you,” the mercenary replied. “Look at this place. There’s hardly any cover here.” He gestured towards the old movie screen which towered over the crumbled parking lot. “All someone would need to do is to get on top of that screen there, and boom, your whole ‘wonderful new settlement’ is a shooting gallery.”

“So we’ll post our own guards there first,” retorted Preston. “I know it’s not much to look at right now, but trust me. I’ve got a plan. When we’re finished with it, this place is going to be incredible.”

“If you say so,” muttered MacCready. He walked between a few of the cars, glancing about warily. “So where are those mole rats you brought me along to kill? One of their burrows has to be around here--argh!” he yelped as his left foot vanished into the ground, his body falling backwards as he lost his footing. His head connected with the side of one of the cars with a resounding clang.

“Are you ok?” cried Preston, rushing to the mercenary’s side.

“Hey, would you look at that?” hissed MacCready as he rubbed his head. “I found one! Fortunately for my foot, looks like no one’s home.” He pulled himself off the ground, dusting off his rear with a few quick slaps.

“Is your head--”

“I’ll be fine, Preston,” the man interrupted sourly. “My friends always said I had a thick skull. All the same, though, I think I’ll be charging your General for hazard pay after this.”

Preston watched him, concerned. “Let me know if your vision gets blurry or anything. I’ve seen plenty of folks killed from less severe blows than that. You can never be too careful.”

“I appreciate the concern,” replied MacCready, “but right now, we’ve got a rodent problem to take care of.” He pulled a frag grenade out of his pack, arming it and tossing it down the mole rat burrow. “I’d run, if I were you,” he continued, sprinting for the edge of the lot.

“A little warning, next time, please?” cried Preston, darting after him.

A small explosion rocked the site, tossing dirt, chunks of concrete, and bits of meat in the air. As the dust settled, the two men glanced at each other, grinning.

“Well, that’s one way to take care of mole rats,” Preston said with a laugh, clapping a hand on MacCready’s back. The man stiffened, shying away from the contact.

“I wouldn’t be so sure it’s over if I were you,” MacCready replied, readying his rifle. “Place like this, there’s bound to be--”

He was cut off as the ground beneath their feet seemed to rumble and convulse, cars shuddering as the terrain shifted violently beneath them. Before either of the men could do or say anything more, swarms of large, hairless rodents poured from underneath a few of the cars, squeaking in fear and rage as they charged towards them.

“Well, this is pretty damn terrifying!” cried Preston, firing his laser musket at one of the mole rats, decapitating it mid-leap as it flung itself at him.

“This is why I usually don’t take exterminator jobs,” replied MacCready, frantically firing and reloading. “Sure, it’s easy to kill a few mole rats, but there’s always more of them than you think. If you don’t get them all, you have the same problem next month when they breed again.”

The quivering mass of bare, wrinkled flesh and yellowed incisors seemed to hardly notice as members of the horde fell, each rat clambering over the corpses of its fallen comrades without a pause. There must have been over two dozen of the massive rodents remaining, and they were skittering ever closer, red beady eyes filled with rage and hunger.

“So you decided to get all of them to charge us at once instead?” Preston hissed, cranking his laser musket as fast as he could. “Are you insane?”

“Hey, I didn’t see you coming up with a better plan,” snarked the mercenary. “At least now they’re all out in the open. Now stop bit...I mean, stop complaining and keep firing at these things while I get to the top of the screen!”

“You’re leaving me here? Are you serious?”

“Remember what I said earlier about a shooting gallery?” MacCready asked, firing into the fleshy horde. Another rat fell in a cloud of blood and brain. “I’m gonna show you exactly what I was talking about. Once I start shooting again, follow me up, ok? I’d tell you to come now, but if we don’t keep them focused on something, those little jerks will just go back underground, and I only had one grenade on me.”

“For the record,” replied Preston as he drove the butt of his laser musket into the open maw of a mole rat, breaking its teeth, “I hate this plan.”

“Just shut up and shoot, Preston!” yelled MacCready. “I need that cover fire!”

The Colonel watched out of the corner of his eye in dismay as MacCready retreated, his rifle slung over his back, the cracked wooden stock bouncing against his pack as he ran. Preston didn’t have time to waste in hoping the mercenary wasn’t about to betray him and leave the drive-in altogether. He was severely outnumbered. Whether MacCready was planning on resuming shooting or not, Preston had little choice but to keep fighting.

After what felt like a lifetime of shooting, bashing, and stabbing, Preston heard a shot ring out from above, then another. One by one, the dog-sized rats fell, spurting blood. The ground was slick with gore and viscera, and Preston nearly slipped as he placed a shot through the abdomen of one last rodent, which fell with a horrific, gurgling shriek. He ran for the stairwell, a half-dozen or so mole rats still hot on his heels.

When he reached the top, he spied MacCready perched below the railing, continuing to pick off the remaining creatures. The man’s eyes glinted dangerously as he fired, each movement as natural as breathing. He hadn’t lied to Preston. The young sniper was one hell of a shot.

“You made it,” MacCready called between shots as he reloaded his sniper rifle. “I was starting to think you were rat food. Quick, grab that metal sheet over there and use it to seal off the stairs.”

Preston did as the man requested, covering the narrow opening with a large panel from the movie screen. It wasn’t quite heavy enough to act as a barricade, but the noise it made might be enough to warn them if any rats were smart enough to use the stairs and sneak up behind them.

“So what’s the plan now?” he asked, returning to the mercenary’s side. “How long do we stay up here?”

“Until we’ve killed every mole rat we can find,” replied MacCready, shooting one of the remaining creatures through the left eye socket, “and then we should wait a few hours just to be sure we got them all. Last thing you want is some over-sized mouse taking a bite out of your butt just because you didn’t wait for an all-clear.”

“But how will we know when they’re all gone? We can’t blow one of their tunnels again. Didn’t you say you were out of grenades?”

The mercenary grinned at Preston, tossing him a bottle of whiskey. “Found this up here. If you have a lighter and some cloth, we should be good to go for round two. It’s a shame, though. Looks like a pretty good bottle.”

Preston glared at him in disbelief. “Is that why it took you so long to start shooting again? You were looking for scrap?”

“Hey, I checked on you first. Looked to me like you were holding your own. Besides,” he added, gesturing to a wooden box by his feet, “I only checked that one. Feel free to look around, see if there’s anything else useful up here.”

“I’ll do that,” replied Preston, shaking his head as he walked towards a small patio table on the right side of the screen roof. “Unbelievable,” he muttered under his breath.

There wasn’t much to salvage on the roof, but Preston did manage to find some scraps of cloth and another bottle of liquor. He returned to MacCready, his temper having cooled somewhat during the course of his search. The man was frustrating and impulsive, but he had managed to keep them both alive so far. If Preston had come alone, there was a fairly good chance he would have been overwhelmed by mole rats long before now. Even if he hadn’t had to face the horde at its full strength, he probably wouldn’t have lasted very long without someone watching his back.

By the time he returned to MacCready’s perch, the man had lowered his weapon and was relaxing, leaning up against the steel railing with a wistful look on his face. Preston cleared his throat, startling him back to reality.

“Oh, hey,” MacCready said hastily, his cheeks reddening slightly as he stood. “Find anything good?”

Preston held the bottle out to him. “Not much, but there was some vodka over by that skeleton.”

“Awesome! That shi...I mean, that stuff burns really well. Maybe we can keep the whiskey.”

“You know,” said Preston, watching the man curiously, “I’m not going to get angry with you for swearing.”

“I know. Look, it’s not about you. I just…” MacCready trailed off, a deep sadness resting in his eyes.

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” the Colonel continued, cracking the cap on the bottle of vodka and stuffing the opening with cloth. “I’m sorry for prying, it’s just, well…”

“Well what?” asked the sniper, watching him with curious eyes.

Preston set the Molotov down beside him before leaning on the rail next to MacCready. “I’m not sure why you came to help us,” the minuteman continued. “You’re not exactly the type of person I’d expect to be willing to travel halfway across the ’Wealth just because a drunk woman told him to.”

“You mean I don’t look like a sucker,” replied MacCready with a slight chuckle.

“Something like that.”

“Well, I’m not. Not normally, anyway. I guess…” MacCready sighed, his eyes scanning the horizon. “Look, I don’t really know you, or your General. But you’ve got that thing, you know? That fire, or something. Both of you have it. You’re the kinds of people who really seem to care about what happens to other people, I guess.”

Preston nodded. “That’s how I got involved with the General too. She saved my life, the lives of everyone I brought with me from Quincy. Hell, she killed a whole group of raiders and a Deathclaw to protect us within an hour of meeting us.”

“What?” asked MacCready, his eyes wide in disbelief. “Really? That’s insane! Why would anyone take a risk like that for someone else?”

“Well, she did. And I’m here thanks to that, so you can say she’s earned a little faith from me. But you said you met her in a bar. Why do you care what happens to her?”

“That shi...that sort of thing you’re talking about is rare these days,” the mercenary replied with a sigh. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that I feel like if I help her and her friends, maybe that makes me a good guy too. Or at least a better one. And I have someone...someone who I want to see me as a better guy, ok? Maybe that’s why I’m here. I don’t know.”

Preston eyed the mercenary carefully as he thought about what the man had said. So far, he hadn’t acted like any of the Gunners Preston had had the misfortune of meeting before, brash and sadistic warmongers who cared for nothing except how much they were getting paid. MacCready seemed...human, he supposed. It was easy for Preston to demonize the people who destroyed his life and snuffed out so many others. After all, only a group of monsters would slaughter innocents the way the Gunners had done at Quincy. To see one of their former members like this, trying to be a better person for someone he cared about, gave him pause. How many of the mercenaries and raiders he’d killed had been like MacCready, just trying to survive the only way they knew how? How many of them might have also quit working for the wrong side if they’d been given a chance to get free of that life? How many of them had families to protect, children to provide for?

Preston cleared his throat, calming his thoughts as best he could. He couldn’t afford to think like that. If the men and women he’d put down had wanted to, they could have stopped raiding settlements at any time. MacCready was proof of that. The world may have been blown to hell, but there were still such things as right and wrong. No matter what, killing innocent people was wrong. Protecting innocent people, even if that meant killing those that threatened them, was right. There was comfort in that simplicity.

MacCready sighed, cracking open the whiskey. “Well, I’m parched. Think we can make due with one Molotov? I can’t imagine there are that many more mole rats under this place, or it’d be a sinkhole by now. Besides, if we aim it right, those cars will do most of the work for us.”

Preston smiled over at him. “Yeah, I could use a drink myself. It’s not every day I end up forty feet in the air covered in rat blood.”

The mercenary chuckled, taking a swig from the bottle and passing it over. “It’s not? Well, you’ve been missing out, haven’t you?”

Preston sipped from the dusty glass bottle, rolling the amber liquid around in his mouth as he enjoyed the slight burning sensation it left behind, a smoky tingle coating his tongue. He swallowed carefully, feeling the warmth permeate his frozen flesh. “I can’t say it’s how I’d prefer to spend an afternoon, no,” Preston replied. “But once we get this place cleaned up, I know it’ll be worth it. To give people a place they can really call their own...I don’t know if there’s anything worth more than that.”

“So long as you’re not using it as an excuse to control people,” MacCready countered, taking the whiskey back. “Land’s not the important thing. Neither is safety. The most valuable thing we have, I think, is freedom. I’m all for turning the Commonwealth around, don’t get me wrong. But I’m not sold if it’s at the cost of our freedom.”

“Well, you can’t have freedom without some form of law and order, MacCready,” Preston retorted. “Otherwise, it’s just anarchy, and there’s enough of that in this world. Freedom’s only useful when it’s tempered by justice.”

MacCready shook his head, taking another deep swig before offering it back to the minuteman. “Hey, I get it, I do. And I’m not sure you’re wrong, but just...I dunno, Preston. From what I hear, the Minutemen haven’t really stood for justice in a long time. If you and your pretty General are really determined to change that, well, maybe I’ll stick around. But if you start down that road to tyranny again, I’m walking. I had my fill of living under a so-called benevolent regime in the Capital Wasteland.”

The Colonel sighed. “Honestly, MacCready, if the Minutemen ever head down that road again, I’ll gladly leave with you. I joined up to help people, not to push them around. We’ve got a chance here to rebuild the Minutemen again, to learn from the last few decades and avoid making the same mistakes. I just hope it’s not too late.”

“Me too, Colonel,” the mercenary said with a sad smile. “It’d be nice to know that there really are some good guys left in the world.”

They stood, leaning against the railing on the top of the movie screen for a long while, sharing their ancient whiskey and the quiet that came with the close of the day. As the hours passed without a squeak or whisker from the parking lot below, the sun began its descent into the western hills.

“Well,” said MacCready with a tipsy smirk, “You ready to torch this place?”

“Hell yes!” Preston replied. “Just, you know, not the buildings. We need to get rid of the cars anyway, so aim for those.” He pulled out a lighter from his duster pocket as MacCready held the vodka bottle steady. The alcohol-soaked rag caught fire quickly, and Preston watched as the mercenary drew his arm back to throw the homemade explosive.

The glass shattered against the hood of one of the old cars, and fire spread quickly across the front of the vehicle, illuminating the area around it in warm light. Preston smiled as he watched the flames. It would still be a pain to remove the smoking chassis after the fact, but for now, this felt good, and maybe that was worth the hassle.

After a few minutes, the car exploded, starting a massive chain reaction across the parking lot. MacCready whooped in delight like a child, bouncing eagerly on his heels as the fire consumed the remnants of the drive-in lot. Preston watched him, bemused, as the younger man laughed uproariously. Before he knew it, he was laughing too, gasping as his sides began to ache from the strain. How long had it been since he’d last had the chance to genuinely laugh?

The flames slowly died down, leaving behind nothing but twisted metal and ashes. No new rodents had emerged from the ground.

“I guess we’re good to go, then,” chirped MacCready, wiping the tears from his eyes. “Man, that was pretty incredible.”

“It was,” Preston agreed with a slight sigh. The fun was over. Time to get back to work. And with the day now mostly behind them, there was a hell of a lot to get done before they could sleep. “We’ll deal with the wreckage tomorrow. Let’s clean out these storage rooms and see if we can pull together a few beds, start making this place a home.”

“Sounds like a plan,” MacCready replied. “But first, we should eat. Mole rat sound good to you?”

Preston groaned. “Ugh, I mean, I guess we should. Seems an awful waste of meat otherwise.”

MacCready nodded. “Grab that metal sheet we used to block the stairs so I can toss it on one of the cars and make an oven. Trust me, by the time I’m done with those bas...um, those rats, you won’t believe what you’re eating.”

The Colonel nodded warily as he pulled the sheet from the stairwell. He wasn’t sure if that was a promise or a threat, but either way, he was starving. If they were going to get anything else done tonight, they’d need their strength and sobriety. The town of Starlight, as he’d taken to thinking of the future settlement, was going to be an incredible place, but that wasn’t going to happen overnight. It was going to take weeks of hard work, and Preston was eager to get started.