3. The Bad Decision Tour

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

::::

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

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

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

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

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

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

Deacon frowned. “Myra, your hair…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can’t say that I do,” he replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not hungry,” he retorted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

::::

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How long was I out?” Deacon asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Deacon nodded. “Have you heard from her?”

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

Deacon frowned. “What makes you say that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Was it really better to leave things with Myra as they were, to drive her away when he’d spent so long trying to bring her into the fold? Regardless of his personal feelings for her, he still believed that she could be the force for change that the Railroad needed. Was he willing to throw away all their futures just because he might have let himself catch feelings?

“Damn it, I’m really going to have to go after her, aren’t I?” Deacon moaned.

Hancock wheezed contentedly beside him, his eyes glazed over. “Yeah, that's what I’m saying. But it can wait. She’s not goin’ anywhere, right? Try an’ get some sleep.”

The spy nodded. “I’ll try.”

Just as he was about to drift off, however, loud and angry voices filled the night. Hancock groaned in frustration. “Damn it, what is it this time?”

The door to the living room flew open, and Irma rushed in, blood coating her corset. “Hancock! You’ve gotta do something!”

The men both sat up straight, staring at the madame of the Memory Den . “What is it, Irma?” Hancock asked, all peace drained from his face. “What’s goin’ on?”

“I tried to stop them,” Irma gasped. “I told them we weren’t helping the Institute, but they...there were so many of them! It must have been half the town.”

“Easy,” Hancock commanded gently. “What happened? What did those idiots do?”

“It’s Doctor Amari,” she said breathily, her face clammy and pale with shock. “She’s been shot.”