Chapter Text
PROLOGUE
Deacon stands outside the door of the Agency.
It’s night, and the city is dark, so the glow of the neon light casts a pinkish hue inside the small hallway.
The light above the door is out.
It strikes him as odd because he knows that Nick is ever on top of that since the incident with Nitti and Ellie. His pulse races a little at the thought that someone might have tampered with it again.
Beyond the hall, the alley is indistinguishable in the dark. The glow of the neon hangs in the air, suspended on particles, but never touches the ground that must be there, nor the building across the street.
It’s like everything beyond this point has vanished into the dark, and it is the perfect allegory to Deacon’s life with Nick. Nothing matters but him. Everything else just…disappears.
For a time, anyway.
He turns back to the door.
The scuffs and scratches stand out starkly in the low light of the neon. That glow reaches impossibly everywhere; it should be darker. He raises a fist to knock and then stops. He doesn’t have to knock and hasn’t knocked for ages. He has a key, more than one, but when Deacon fumbles for the leather strap around his neck, there’s nothing there.
It’s then that notices what’s he’s wearing.
The light of the neon makes it look purple, but he knows a vault suit when he sees one. Deacon picks at the collar, supremely confused, wondering if this is some sort of sick joke at his expense, and though he can’t see the number on the back, he’d bet good caps he knows what it is.
The door of the Agency opens then, shining warm, bright light on him as Nick leans against the frame.
“Forgot somethin’?” he asks with a grin and holds up a Pip-Boy. Deacon stares surprised and slack-jawed at Nick.
“Uh…maybe?” Deacon answers after a moment, trying to understand. Then Nick steps back and makes some space for him to enter. “Actually, yeah, now that I think of it,” Deacon says following Nick inside. “My key.”
Nick picks up something from Leslie’s desk and tosses it at Deacon. He tries to catch it, but it seems to sail right through his fingers. He can’t quite focus.
The room is slightly blurred, with Nick being the only real clear thing in it.
He finds the thing that Nick tossed at him only because it twinkles slightly in the light. He scoops it off the floor and finds that it’s his leather strap and keys, how did he manage to forget those?
“You said you didn’t need those anymore,” Nick tells him.
“Why would I say that?” Deacon asks as he slips the strap around his neck. “How could I get in here if I didn’t have them?”
“Why would you want to?”
“Um...what?” Again, Deacon stares at Nick in confusion. “I live here.”
“You live in a vault, kid. Always have.”
Deacon looks at his vault suit again with building frustration. “What? No, I don’t. Where did this stupid thing even come from, anyway? And where did you get that?” He points at the Pip-Boy now residing on Leslie’s desk.
“It’s yours,” Nick replies as if that’s obvious and he doesn’t understand why Deacon is being so obtuse.
“I don’t have one. I sold it.”
“Why would you do that? You use it all the time. And since the thing is still here, I gotta call bullshit on that one, Jack.”
Deacon doesn’t know how to respond to that. It’s like Nick is talking about someone else that looks like him and has his name. Then a frightening thought occurs to him. If he’s in this damnable vault suit, then….
He rushes to the back where the bathroom is, and Deacon slaps the light on, staring in the mirror—
—and sees nothing.
At first, his brain doesn’t make sense of it, and he shifts around thinking maybe he’s not in the right spot to be reflected, but it doesn’t matter where he stands, Deacon isn’t showing up in the mirror.
He starts to freak out.
Nick enters the bathroom then, a concerned look on his face. A face Deacon can see in the mirror. It looks like Nick is alone in the space, staring at some ill-defined point that’s really the side of Deacon’s face. It’s too strange. He can’t take it.
He tries to push past Nick and get out of the bathroom, but Nick’s hands on his arms stop him. “Whoa, easy there, kid. Where’s the fire?”
“Uh, somewhere where I actually reflect in the nearest shiny surface and can confirm that I am not, in fact, a fuckin’ vampire.”
“Oh, is that all?” Nick asks eyebrow-raising and a smile curling around the edge of his mouth. “How ‘bout the mirror, genius?”
Deacon jabs a finger at it. “I don’t reflect in…it?” He trails off, a questioning surprise colouring his words. A second look shows him two people standing in the mirror. “What the…?”
“You were sayin’, Dracula?”
“But I swear…” Deacon turns slightly in Nick’s grip and confirms that there’s a 101 on the back of his vault suit. “Great,” he mutters, and now that the shock has worn off, Deacon notes how his face seems to blur in the mirror. It’s soft, much like the office was a moment ago, and ill-defined. He can tell the broad strokes, but not the details.
Not that this is the strangest thing that’s happened to him tonight.
“Gettin’ senile already?” Nick asks with a smirk. “At your age?”
“Oh fuck off, Nick.” Deacon huffs good-naturedly. “I was so sure—wait, am I high? Did Sun stick me with Med-X again?”
Nick chuckles. “Not that I know of, but can’t say for sure what you get up to when I’m not around. Maybe you ticked him off.”
“Surely he wouldn’t. That would be unethical.”
Nick shrugs. “You are a pain,” he says as if that explains everything.
“Hey! I’m utterly delightful, and you know it. But seriously, I think I’m high because I’m not processing things right. Everything is weird and blurry, and you said some strange shit that can’t possibly be real, so…”
“Must be Santa?”
Deacon bursts into laughter. That sounds exactly like the sort of joke he’d make and he’s so pleased that Nick beat him to it.
“Exactly,” he agrees, and Nick pulls him a little closer.
“So, bed rest to cure all your dubiously administered medication?”
“Oh, definitely bed. Maybe a little light on the rest part, though.”
Nick smirks, brushing back some of Deacon’s hair. “You still gotta leave in the morning. Well rested.”
“Sure,” Deacon agrees easily, not knowing where he’s supposed to go, but maybe once this shit wears off he’ll remember…in a couple of days when he doesn’t feel like dying from the comedown. “After you fuck me.”
A fleeting thought questions if that’s a good idea if he is Med-x’d out of his mind. A sentiment that Nick echoes.
“If ya think you’re incapacitated that’s not the best idea.”
“While I appreciate the chivalrousness of that, I am cognizant enough to consent.” Nick raises a disbelieving eyebrow.
“A moment ago you were convinced you were a vampire, now you’re tellin’ me you got enough sober sense?”
“First off, I was a vampire there for like 30 seconds until you touched me. Secondly, I have consented to sex under worse circumstances than—” Deacon abruptly stops, his brain doing a mental scratch take.
“Makin’ me feel so much better here, kid.”
“Let go of me,” Deacon says, humour vanishing.
“What?”
“Let go of me.”
“Kid…”
“Just do it, Nick.”
With a sigh, Nick steps back, hands falling and Deacon glances into the mirror. His looks back at him with something like surprise and Deacon’s about to be contrite for being a dramatic ass, but slowly, like steam disappearing into the air on a cold morning, his reflection fades until there’s nothing left but Nick standing with his arms crossed off to the side.
“Okay…that’s just unsettlin’, Deacon says, trying for levity.
“What?” says an unexpected voice and Deacon turns.
Moira is standing in the hall of her Megaton house.
It looks like she was passing by to grab a change of clothes since some experiment has blackened her coveralls.
Surprised and confused, Deacon turns back to the mirror. Instead of seeing Moira’s quizzical face and the rest of the bathroom reflected behind him, Deacon sees himself and Nick in the Agency’s bathroom, laughing about Deacon’s vampire assertion, which has fixed itself now that he’s here and that…doppelgänger is over there.
They leave Agency’s bathroom, and the image fades until the only thing reflected is Moira’s soot-streaked face and the hall behind her.
“Jack?” she asks, mildly concerned. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” She gets excited for a second. “Did you?!”
“Not exactly…unless you consider seeing yourself reflected in a scene that you were previously apart of but aren't any longer while also not reflecting in any mirror without help, ghostly.”
Moira’s eyebrows raise. “Well, that’s weird, but you’re in this mirror. So that’s good, right?”
Deacon turns to look at her face full on. “Are we not seeing the same thing? ‘Cause I am definitely not in this mirror.”
Moira puts a hand on his shoulder as she checks his temperature with the other. He can’t help but lean into her touch. God, he missed her so much. There aren’t words.
“Well, you seem fine. Physically, anyway. Not so sure about this brain of yours—” she gently pokes him in the forehead— “but who am I to judge?” —and laughs. “Anyways, if you still doubt, have another look.”
Moira turns him around by his shoulders and Deacon sees what he saw in Agency’s bathroom mirror. Himself. Vault suit and all. Face murky but the rest starkly clear.
He only appears when someone else is touching him. Why? This can’t be real. Dream? Simulation? He can’t say for sure.
“I can’t see my face,” Deacon grumbles, annoyed. “Why can’t I see my face?”
“Probably because you’ve had over a dozen in the last decade, silly. Not surprised you can’t keep them straight.”
“But I should remember this one,” Deacon replies, pointing at the mirror. “It was mine for 20 years.”
“You purposefully tried to forget it, and now you’re mad that you have? And people call me crazy.”
Deacon draws in a breath to be angry about that comment before it filters entirely through his brain. Then, he blows out the air with a huff. “Why do you always manifest as Moira?”
She shrugs. “Because you love her, and you should love yourself the same.”
Deacon almost starts an argument at that, wanting to point out all the ways he’s unworthy of such affection, but he hears Nick’s voice scold him for that train of thought, and he sighs.
“Should and able to are two different things.”
“I’m not looking for a miracle here, just a few steps in the right direction. You’re worth it, okay?” Moira’s hands hold the side of his face, warm and rough, and it’s hard to ignore himself when it’s wrapped up in one of his most cherished people.
“I bet you say that to all the bits of me that need reassurance that I’m not a terrible human being.”
“Honestly, you’re the only one. The rest think we’re great.” She lightly punches his shoulder. “So join the group, you big lug.”
He might have smiled at that, but a flair of sudden pain in his shoulder makes him grimace, and he grabs it. It’s much more than what a simple punch should inflict. “What the…?” He looks at his shoulder, thinking he might see the cause of the pain, but there’s nothing evident. Just the blue leather of the suit.
There should be something there, though, shouldn’t there? Something twigs in his brain that something isn’t right, but he can’t put his finger on just what that might be.
A sudden kiss on his cheek makes Deacon’s head snap up.
“Dinner after?” Amata asks, arms full of books on management. She’s on her way to her tutoring, pausing a brief moment in the hall with him.
He’s so shocked to see her that he can’t find any words. His mouth hangs open in what must be a supremely unflattering way. She closes his mouth with a finger on his chin, laughing. God, he hasn’t heard that sound in so long.
“5:30 in the caf, okay? And tell James I said hi.”
Deacon nods dumbly, and Amata heads down the hall, toward the Overseer’s office. It takes a moment for his brain to coordinate with his body, and Deacon lurches after her, not wanting to lose sight of her.
A hand on his shoulder stops him.
“Got a few terminals to repair, remember?” Jonas tells him with a laugh. “She’ll still be here after work.”
“…Right,” Deacon mutters, knowing that isn’t true and watching the last wisps of her hair as it disappears around the corner.
He wants so much to follower her, just Jonas’ hand feels like a lead weight as it leads him to the Clinic.
As they step through the door, Deacon starts backtracking. It’s bad enough jumping through this messed up reality or dream or clever simulation from one bit of the past to another, but seeing Amata is about his limit for talking with the dead.
“I can’t. Jonas, please…”
Jonas gives him a concerned look. “Jack?”
Just then, James peers around his desk at the far end of the clinic and calls out. “John, have you got a moment?”
As much as he wants to, Deacon can’t ignore a request from his dad, and his feet start pulling him forward. At this moment, he’d almost take an unpleasant visit from Braun to get out of this coming pain.
And as if in response, his shoulder flairs painfully.
Deacon stands stiffly in the entrance of James’ office, arms crossed as he holds his one arm close to ease the pain that’s settled in a hot spot between his clavicle and shoulder blade.
James looks up briefly from his desk before going back to the file on his terminal, a moment later he looks at Deacon again, a concerned frown coming over his face.
“Is something wrong? You don’t look well.”
“Yeah,” Deacon replies, “the fact that I have to be here again.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Look, seein’ Nick in this weird…thing is fine. Normal even. Seeing Moira is good, even if it’s really just me. Amata is a surprise, and so is Jonas, but I can work with that. But you, you’re almost as unpleasant as seein’ Braun.”
James gives him a confused look. “Braun? Nick? Moira? Who are they?”
“Out of all that, you only care about the names you don’t know? Really? Which is bullshit, by the by, since you’re clearly a projection of my own brain, so you know as much as I do, so you know exactly who those people are and why it’s an insult. Don’t play dumb with me.”
“Watch your tone, John. 19 or not, I’m still your father.”
Deacon lets out a hollow laugh. “But only, ‘til I was 19, right? ‘Cause you just fucked off and left me here, even knowing that Almodovar was mental when it came to that stupid door.
“After I rescued you from that hell in Vault 112, you didn’t even have the decency to stay alive.” Deacon advances on James, years of anger suddenly flooding out. “All it took was a little threat by the Enclave and you couldn’t fuckin’ wait to fall on your sword. Never mind the dozen other ways to deal with that situation that didn’t involve flooding the chamber with radiation. Autumn survived that, ya know, so if you had planned on takin’ bastard with you, you failed at that too.”
“It must be hard for you to understand my motives, given that you’ve never stood for anything aside from your own hurt feelings,” James replies, eerily calm, repeating an argument that Deacon used to tell himself all the time.
“Yeah, maybe, but the only thing you stood for was the fastest ticket outta this world to get back to her. Never mind that you hurt everyone around you to do it.” The pain in his shoulder spikes again and making him grit his teeth around his words. “And you know what, you’re right, I only really cared for my own hurt for a long time, and I can only imagine the kind of pain that reflected on to the ones I claimed to care the most for, but the difference between us, is that I’m still here and I won’t make the same mistake as you.”
James stares at him with something akin to shock and confusion, but it doesn’t move Deacon the way it might have once upon a time. At this point, he’s about had it with the self-hate that’s been his closest friend this last decade. Like hell he’s about to let this piece of his brain that decided dressing up in a James suit would be the best way to make him crumble and be pushed him back into that spiral of loathing and fear.
Fuck that shit.
“Good. It’s about time.”
Deacon turns at that voice, already knowing what’ll greet him. “Eden,” he says, feeling oddly relieved to be standing in A1 Level Server Room, the blue glow of Eden’s terminal nearly the only light in the space.
Isn’t it funny how he’s glad to see Eden in this place and yet moments before, he was annoyed with the part of himself that likes to manifest as Moira. Chances are it’s the same bit of himself, just changing faces to get him to listen. Who would’ve thought that Eden’s console would be the face of reason in his head?
It’s Nick’s voice tells him that he has worth, and it’s JH’s that tells him to get out of the pity party and start doing what he must.
“It appears this is the end of an era. Not that I’ll weep for its end.”
Deacon blows out a breath of laughter, his pain easing somewhat. “Yeah, I don’t think I will either. Seems like I’ve wasted a lot of time, though.”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps you wasted exactly the amount of time that was needed, and so it wasn’t wasted after all. You couldn’t have avoided this forever, anyway.”
“No, didn’t stop me from tryin’, though.”
Eden chuckles. “Can anyone stop you from attempting something when you’ve already decided on it? And think of all the things that you’ve learned in the interim. They’ll come in handy; I’m sure.”
“Yeah.”
There’s silence after that, disrupted only by the low humming of Eden’s servers. There isn’t much more for him to say that hasn’t already run a circuit in Deacon’s head a million times, and he can only wait for this dream, hallucination, whatever, to be over so that he can get back to what it was that he left behind.
Not that he’s managed to remember what that was, but one thing at a time.
With sudden ferocity, the pain in his shoulder flares. It’s like someone is driving a red-hot spike of metal through his flesh and Deacon chokes on a scream as he goes down on one knee.
Eden’s server room in Raven Rock warbles around him and his vision starts to go black.
//
Deacon wakes suddenly. Consciousness comes screaming at him and slams him into awareness, his pain increasing tenfold. Before it felt like hot metal piercing his skin, now it feels like a fire is consuming his left side, a burning pain that lances across his chest and down his ribs, making it hard to breathe.
There are bright lights above him, harsh and grating. His eyes only want to open a sliver against them, but its enough to turn his head and see the cause of his agony. He stares a long time at his left side, trying to make it make sense in his brain, but he can’t quite process the sight of someone working with strange instruments where his arm and shoulder should be.
He panics and tries to scream but only manages a weak moan instead. Every movement is excruciating, but he still tries to get away from whatever is cutting him up, dread filling his being as he believes himself at Braun’s mercy once again. Through the fog of pain, he can hear a male voice.
“Goddamnit, he’s conscious. H4, up his dose!” the man barks to someone out of Deacon’s sight range. “Damn wasters, so radiation and chem exposed they don’t have the decency to stay under.”
The panic doesn’t allow the words stick in his brain very well, and whatever bit of consciousness he can hang on to through the haze pain is urging Deacon to get away, to run and hide from this. He babbles incoherently about Braun, begging to be put back together, promises to be good this time; he won’t try messing around in the program again, please, please…
The words seem to fall on deaf ears as the instruments still move, the pain is still eating away at him, and Deacon thinks he might actually die this time. Honestly hopes for it, if it means an end to the suffering. Then from somewhere far away, there’s a screech of outrage and the instruments still. He can hear the beginnings of a fight, but it’s mostly lost on him. Things get hazy after that and warble weirdly around the edges in a familiar sort of way, as the pain begins to fade and ease away with the beating of his heart—
—darkness.
- - - - -
Nick stumbles through the streets of Goodneighbour, shoving his way through the people that are on their nightly pilgrimage to The Third Rail. There’s a chance he offered apologies for pushing, but he can’t be sure. His processor is drowning in white noise from his inability to process the news he got from MacCready, and his systems are malfunctioning sporadically.
His cooling system is finding it hard to draw breath, leaving him gasping for air; while simultaneously making his coolant pump work overtime, so that it knocks hard against his metal ribs and jars his frame.
Signals for his motor functions are getting lost in the static and aren’t always making it to his limbs. He’s missing a step out of every two, and Nick finds his hands shaking from the overload when a rush information suddenly makes it through.
The Watch at the gate looks at him in concern as he heads through the door, asking after him, wanting to know if he’s alright. His vocal speaker is on the fritz though, because even as he opens his mouth to speak, all that comes out is the static that’s running rampage in his processor.
One of them might have rushed back to the Old State House, but Nick can’t stop moving forward. He needs to go, to move, to do something. If he stops, he might start coming apart at the seams.
Boston passes by him a blur of darkness. Streets are meaningless. Mutants, ferals, raiders, Triggermen, they barely register at all. He’s lucky that none of them appears willing to engage with him because he’s not sure he’d been able to coordinate enough to take them out.
Somehow, somehow, he makes it back to Diamond City.
The lanterns placed around the entrance plaza give it a faint orange glow—Jack would have likely called it ethereal—and the circle of them around Sammy Swatter’s feet gives the mascot an eerie quality. It seems to stretch impossibly tall in the darkness and looking at it calms the noise in his processor.
Nick looks around the plaza, remembering the first time he met Jack, almost dying like the trouble magnet he is. Then his reaction to Barbra Long when she was strung up on Sammy, and how Nick felt a mix of concern about how quickly he shifted between laughing a moment before and being furious, and amazement that anyone would be angry on behalf of a synth without knowing them. Nick wanders over to the spot where Tom died, practically seeing the moment like a movie reel when that woman came at him with her deathclaw gauntlet and how Jack put his knife in her neck.
He moves away from that spot and the memory, thinking instead about the hundreds of times they had gone in and out of this gate. His processor runs all the memories at once like it’s trying to overload his senses again, each one tripping over itself to be at the forefront.
Nick can’t even imagine going back to doing this alone, to just walking in and out of this gate, existing in this city, working cases, living without Jack.
He turns and stares at Sammy once again, his processor failing silent as he considers how bleak everything suddenly appears. The idea of going into Diamond City and having to go back to the Agency only to see all of Jack’s stuff with mixed with his.
Nick turns on his heel and starts heading north out of the plaza. He doesn’t have a destination in mind, only that he can’t be anywhere near Diamond City right now. It’s not lost on Nick that he’s running from the situation like Jack does from time to time when he can’t deal with something. Maybe he should take a page from Jack’s book, and head to Ticonderoga like Jack did last week when he had a melt—
Nick stops in his tracks.
The thought was made in jest, but as it sits in his processor longer, it sounds like that’s exactly what he should do. Whether or not they know what happened at The Switchboard, Henry might actually have a plan for this. That is his speciality, right? Planning for outcomes, processing data, being the fucking Oracle of Delphi in his spare time.
Nick starts forward again, steps quick and full of purpose. It’s probably a long shot, but it’s better than sitting alone, in the dark of the Agency.
- - - -
CHAPTER ONE
They’re still mostly in shock by the time Cambridge arrives on the horizon.
It’s quiet in the afternoon sun, idyllic almost if it weren’t for the fear that follows them. Carrington fumes in silence as they walk, thinking about Deacon’s sacrifice, thinking about how they should’ve listened to him about Mender. About how Sly Nicholas lost his life for that lack of trust. That also cost them the lives of Glory, Ms. Boom, Tommy Whispers, Rogers, Maven, Francis O’Dell, Songbird, and another two dozen other agents that Carrington sees in his mind's eye, overlapped with the dozens he ran past the last time his home was destroyed in blood and laser fire.
He’s not sure who he’s angrier at right now, himself for not pushing harder for Deacon’s warning to be heeded, or Sly Nicholas for being so short-sighted, or Rave for demanding a doctor because she was tired of seeing him drag his ass back and forth between the two safehouses.
Oh Christ, Rave.
It hadn’t crossed his mind until this moment that Augusta must be…
The horror must show on his face because Desdemona touches his arm briefly. “What?” she asks quietly, voice heavy and worn.
“Rave,” Carrington blurts.
“Yeah…I know.”
She’d already got there, made the connection before him. Probably realized it the moment Mender showed up and had been regretting the decision to place Mender at Augusta ever since.
Well, good. She should, and she had better learn from Sly Nicholas’ mistakes. Just like he’d better learn from hers.
“I’m going to Ticon,” Carrington tells her, having decided at this moment that he must.
“Absolutely not. If they aren’t compromised, you could lead the Institute right to them.”
“They aren’t compromised because Deacon told them not to have any direct contact with Augusta. He had the foresight we did not.”
Desdemona gets a pained look on her face. “But you knew well enough to trust him.”
“That was the reason he was chosen to vet the tourists: for spies. Not trusting his recommendation was idiotic. Doubly so in light of this…catastrophe. And it’s for that reason I’m going to Ticon. Glory’s sacrifice won’t be in vain.”
“It’s too dangerous. For them and you. No.”
“I’m not asking.”
Desdemona sighs in frustration. “And what sort of miracle do you suppose you’ll find at Ticon that will make all this death and destruction shake out even? What could possibly balance out Glory’s loss?”
“Deacon hasn’t been idle between missions.”
“Ooooh! That computer he wouldn’t let me touch,” Tinker Tom blurts, rushing to Carrington’s side. “I knew, I just knew there was something hinky with that thing. Take me with you, Doc. Please!”
“No!” Desdemona says at the same time Carrington asks, “Do you have your Courser chip data?”
“Does Tinker have the data? Ha! Doc, I always have my data!” Tom fishes out a holotape he has woven into a leather cord from under his shirt. “We’re never parted.”
“Carrington you cannot take Tinker Tom with you. If we lose him too…”
“If I might interrupt,” says one of the Minutemen that Deacon brought with him, “I’m willing to escort these two where they need to go. Lieutenant Davis and Corporal Asif will stay with the main group and see you safely to your fallback point.”
“You’re injured,” Lieutenant Davis hisses at the Minuteman. “The only place you're going is Diamond City, to the doctor.”
“Or the grave,” a small, angry man with a sniper rifle nearly as long than him mutters. Deacon always did have the strangest taste in company. Lieutenant Davis whacks the man’s arm and tells him to shut up.
“Ticon is closer,” Magpie points out. “And you’re a doctor, Doc. I can get you to Ticon safe. Nobody can track me. And he can shoot at things if it goes south.” She peers at the Minutemen’s slightly ashen face. “He looks like he’s got enough life left for that.”
“This is not up for debate people,” Desdemona snaps. “No one is going to Ticon. We are all falling back to the emergency safehouse. End of.”
“No, not the end of,” Carrington says. “The last time I didn’t speak out over a wrong decision, we got this. This time, I am going to respectfully ignore you and go to Ticon. Tom, I would like your expertise, but please be aware of the risks.”
“We could all die any day now, Doc. The nanites, ya know. But I have see this computer of Deacon’s.”
“The nanites aren’t real, Tom,” Carrington says with a sigh.
“Shhh, shhh, shhh. It’s okay. I’ll keep you safe, Doc.”
Carrington pinches the bridge of his nose, he doesn’t have time to argue. “Fine. Thank you,” and turns his attention to the Minutemen, “Sir…”
“Garvey. Captain Garvey.”
“Captain, I can see to your injury at Ticon if you think you can make it that far.”
“One of…Deacon’s—” he clearly stumbles over what to call Deacon; they all heard what Mender called him instead: Jack. “—stims is holdin’ me together. I’ll be alright.”
Carrington nods. He’s doubtful, now having a good look at the man, but he’s not likely to make it to Diamond City without slowing the whole group down, so this is the better option for them all.
“Magpie, you know the risks. Of both what could be waiting for us and disobeying a superior agent. I won’t ask you to come.”
“You don’t have to, I volunteered.” She looks at Desdemona. “Sorry Dez, I know you want to keep us safe and together, but Glory would’ve have gone with him, and I…chickened out last time, so I gotta make it right.”
“Making it right doesn’t have to include dying. Please remember that,” Desdemona says, and her tone of voice indicates she’s given up on persuading them otherwise, but still as worried for them as ever. “Please make it back in one piece; I’ve had enough death for one day.”
And hadn’t they all.
They split up just outside the old C.I.T. ruins, north of the Charles River. It’s the best spot to avoid both the smouldering heap that Augusta surely is and the Gunners’ that have taken up residence in the Greenetech building. Desdemona gives them one last frown before leading the rest of the group on. He has no doubts that they’ll make it to the Old Church intact, between the two Minutemen, Harkness, and rifle-boy, they have plenty of protection.
The only thing working in Carrington’s favour in regards to safe arrival is that Ticonderoga isn’t that distant. They are far from protected with a severely injured Minuteman who looks like he doesn’t know the meaning of undetected, and a stealth agent that has to wrangle the three of them safely.
Magpie makes them circle the area around Ticon once before she lets them near the building. She probably would have demanded more than that if Captain Garvey wasn’t looking so peaky. One stim probably only managed to keep the bleeding internal, so Carrington is going to have a job ahead of him once they land at Ticon.
The camera above the door is new to Carrington, but not Magpie. She gives it a little wave before leading them into the ruined first floor. Glory and her have probably spent some time here throughout the last couple of years, more than he has certainly. In all honesty, Carrington hasn’t been back since the initial discovered of Henry in Deacon’s old room, and he’s not looking forward to seeing Jolene after the way he left things with her.
Tom is practically bouncing off the walls of the elevator as it climbs up to the safehouse, giddy with the prospect of finally getting to look at ‘Deacon’s’ computer. Captain Garvey is worse for wear and is probably only managing to keep himself upright out of sheer stubborn will. Carrington can’t help but be impressed by that, and curls a hand around his upper arm, positioning his body to take any extra strain in case the Captain’s body decides to collapse upon the realization that they’re safe.
If they are safe, that is.
The elevator chimes, indicating they’ve reached their floor, and Carrington’s breath is caught in his throat as the doors slide open. Please, please, don’t let this be another Switchboard.
The moment the doors are open far enough, High Rise and Parade rush in to take hold of Captain Garvey and Carrington puts his hand on the railing of the elevator to keep himself from collapsing in relief.
“Jesus, what happened? Did Deacon send you?” High Rise asks immediately.
“Pretty sure sending one of his Minutemen here wasn’t part of his initial plan. You guys get jumped on the road or something?” Parade follows-up, her words almost running over High Rise’s as they lead Captain Garvey into the main living area and over into the small clinic they have set up in one corner.
Magpie shots a look at Carrington as they exit the elevator, waiting for his direction about how to go about informing them of the news.
“The fuckin’ Institute took, Dee!” Tom exclaims, beating them both to the punch. He fishes for his holotape, but his excitement has him tangled in his overalls.
“What?!” High Rise and Parade shout at the same time. From other parts of the safehouse, the rest of the agents start to appear. Carrington catches sight of Jolene from the corner of his eye.
“There was undoubtedly a better way to say that,” Carrington replies, glaring at the back of Tom’s head and then sighs. “This afternoon, two Coursers along with a group of Gen 2s attacked and destroyed the Switchboard. Sly Nicholas is dead. Desdemona is leading the survivors to the Old Church fallback point. We’re here because Deacon asked me to speak to Henry, and because Captain Garvey here was injured trying to save him.”
The whole safehouse is dead silent.
Carrington would have much preferred if they hadn’t gotten into this just now. “I know this is a shock, but the questions will have to wait. Captain Garvey needs medical aid. High Rise, do you have a stocked trauma kit?”
“Stocked and ready,” High Rise replies after taking a moment to collect himself. “We always keep it ready for you, Doc.”
“Good. Fetch it while I wash my hands,” Carrington replies as he strides to the sink. “Magpie, Uncle please assist the Captain out of his upper layers of clothing. And who has steady hands? I’ll need some help.”
“I’m out,” Parade says. “Mentats make my hands shake.”
“I don’t…uh, do so well with blood,” High Rise says as he pulls a battered toolbox from under the makeshift gurney they have set up in their little clinic.
“I’d volunteer myself, Sir,” Codsworth says, “as I’m steady and unaffected by blood, but I don’t have the hands you seek.”
Uncle and Drummer Boy bow out for reasons of age and comfort, and Callie does too for reasons of squeamishness. Carrington’s to the point where he’s going to try and make Codsworth’s pincers work when Jolene speaks up.
“I’ve got steady hands,” she says, “and blood doesn’t bother me.”
“It wouldn’t, would it?” Parade says with a smirk and pulls out a cigarette. “Bet that Courser buddy of yours was wishin’ he thought of that before you axed his head off.”
Jolene colours as Carrington’s and Magpie’s eyebrows raise.
“Yes, well…how else was I supposed to get that chip back here without cracking his skull open on the street?”
Parade saunters over to her and gives her a peck on the cheek. “Not denying the effectiveness of it, babe. It’s kinda hot, actually.”
Jolene’s blush deepens. “Anyways…ah, should I wash my hands too?”
“Yes,” Carrington replies, hoping the grizzly turn of the discussion is now over and sets about checking the supplies in the box.
He finds a couple syringes of Med-X and grabs one to administer to the Captain.
“Do you have any known allergies to Med-X,” he asks, needle poised.
“Not that I know of.”
Carrington nods and continues. It's not something that many people have, but throughout his career, he’s met a few individuals with varying levels of tolerance to it. Deacon is the most prominent since he’s had to patch the man up on more than one occasion.
He injects the Med-X near the new scar where the knife wound was to ensure the area is numb when he cuts back into it.
Then, Carrington directs the Captain to move so that his side clears the edge of the gurney. He’s going to make a bloody mess and more they can catch in a bucket, the better. The faster he can heal the internal mess, the less blood loss overall, but the Captain will be out of commission for several days at the very least while it heals, and something tells Carrington he’s not going to be happy about that.
Once everything is in place, Carrington uncorks the half-full bottle of Bobrov’s Best and sterilizes the scalpel he’s about to use, then reopens the knife wound. Blood escapes in a gush before settling down, and that only further crystalizes that there’s internal damage that hasn’t been fixed by the application of a stimpak. Carrington directs Jolene to hold the edges of the incision open with a tool one side and her hand on the other, while Carrington looks for the problem areas, stimpak at the ready to close any spots he sees that are leaking blood and shouldn’t be.
It takes a little longer than he would like to find all the spots that the knife caught on its way in, but Carrington is satisfied with his work, and the blood loss is within acceptable levels. He directs Jolene to hold the incision closed while he uses the last of the stimpak to suture the skin back together. If he thought the Captain could stomach another stim, he’d give him one more to be sure that nothing else will go awry. However, two is enough for even the most hardened Wastelanders, so he settles for setting up a saline drip, elevating the Captain’s legs and covering him up so that he stays warm and shock is kept at bay.
As Carrington washes his hands at the sink, he informs the house that the Captain will need to be watched closely for the rest of the day and through the night. Garvey looks blearily at him from the gurney and Carrington assures him that it’s precautionary only. He suspects that the Captain will make a full recovery in less than a week, but it’s best to be on the safe side.
“Now,” Carrington says as he dries his hands. “I suppose we’d better talk about what happened at the Switchboard.”
- - - - -
Nick practically sprints to Ticonderoga and makes it in record time. Not for the first time, he’s grateful for the ability to see clearly in the dark and, oddly, recalls the time he was in Jack’s mind and trying to traverse the old Jefferson Memorial in the dark without the ability to see in it.
When he arrives on the same block as the safehouse, Nick takes shelter in a bombed out building and waits. He lights a cigarette to calm himself as he listens for anyone or anything that might have followed him to this point. After everything the Railroad has suffered in the last few hours, they don’t need any more trouble. After about an hour waiting in the dark and listening to the buildings creak in the slight breeze, Nick heads back out onto the street.
He spares the camera above the door a momentary look but doesn’t stop to wave. It’s pretty obvious who it is, and if they’ve already been informed of what happened, they know why he’s here. The elevator is on the top floor, so it takes a moment for it to lower to him. Nick’s nerves get the best of him, so he lights another cigarette to have something to occupy his hands with.
The ride up is quiet save for the faint noise of the elevator working. He’s never ridden in this elevator and had it been this quiet. He’s always riding with someone and that someone is almost always talking. It hits him again that Jack is gone, and he leans back against the car’s wall to keep from collapsing in a heap.
When the doors open to the main floor, High Rise is waiting for him, a somber look on his face. “You heard?”
Nick takes a deep breath and steps off the elevator. “Yeah. Had the misfortune of bumping into MacCready in Goodneighbour tonight.”
“Yeah, he was pretty angry at…Deacon,” a familiar voice says, and Nick looks over to see Captain Garvey lying on a couch.
“Preston? What’re you doin’ here?”
“Got stabbed trying to help Deacon. Then helped a few of them make their way here and their doc, Carrington patched me up.”
Nick moves to stand at the back of the couch opposite Garvey’s. “Glad to see you’re still kickin’. The others?”
“Escorted the other survivors to their fallback point. Or as close as they’ll allow, I suppose. Probably camped out to wait for mornin’ before going back to Diamond City to wait for me.”
“So much for finding a settlement.”
“I haven’t given up. Even without Deacon, we gotta keep going. He won’t be happy when he gets back and finds we’ve been stuck in a holding pattern.”
Nice to hear the Captain has faith Jack will make it back, but Nick isn’t so sure himself. Not that he doubts Jack abilities, far from it, but the Institute is an enemy that isn’t to be taken lightly, and no one’s ever come back after being taken.
“No, he wouldn’t,” Nick agrees sadly and turns to High Rise. “Henry busy?”
“Carrington and him have been talking for the last few hours,” High Rise says with a shrug as if to say he isn’t quite sure.
“Join us, won’t you Mr. Valentine?” Henry’s voice interrupts from the speaker above them.
Nick glances up at the camera watching them before looking back at High Rise. “That doesn’t bother you? Him just randomly speakin’ like that.”
High Rise shrugs again. “Not anymore.”
“To be fair,” Garvey pipes up from the couch as Nick turns to ascend the stairs, “that wasn’t random. He answered a question you implied but didn’t ask.”
“You’ve spent too much time with Deacon,” Nick replies, remembering the cigarette still in his hand and twists out the embers. “He’d like that answer.”
The pocket door to Jack’s old room is closed when Nick reaches it. Unusual given that it tends to get hot in that enclosed space without any airflow, but not unexpected. Nick has no idea the level of knowledge this Carrington has about Jack, but if he’s having a tête-à-tête with Henry, he must know something more than the others.
Nick slides the door open and his sensors pick up the dramatic increase in heat that flows out of the room, but the man seated in the room’s only chair has sacrificed only a tattered lab coat to the heat and seems mostly unaffected by it. Nick slides the door closed again and looks for a place to stand that isn’t taken up by salvaged and constructed servers.
“I’m afraid Doctor Carrington has taken the chair, but I’m certain High Rise wouldn’t mind if you borrowed the one in his room,” Henry says as Nick settles to the right of the door.
“I’ll stand, thanks.”
“Suit yourself. The Doctor and I have been discussing how to handle the fallout from the Switchboard’s destruction, including what to do about John.”
Nick’s eyebrows raise slightly. He wasn’t aware that Carrington was that informed.
“You needn't worry about Doctor Carrington’s discretion, Mr. Valentine. He spent time in the Capital at the same time John, and I did. He is well aware of who John is and what he’s capable of.”
There’s an amused snort from Carrington at that. “Spent time? Henry, in a previous incarnation you were my president and I saved Jack from a crippling injury.”
“I wasn’t certain how much you wished to reveal about yourself, Doctor. Forgive my, oversimplification.”
“The time has come to stop hiding. The Institute has declared open war on us, and the Brotherhood approaches. Decisive action must be taken now, and that includes being clear about where we all stand on how much information we have.” Carrington turns to look at Nick. “I am formerly a scientist with the Eastcoast Enclave. I was working on improving the performance of and trying to rid the psychological effects that come with long-term stealth boy use before we were destroyed first by a civil war, where I met Jack, and then by Brotherhood forces in 2278. I left shortly before the Brotherhood descended on us with a group of scientists that eventually landed in JFK in the ruins of New York, before growing restless and moving further east. I joined the Railroad in 2279. I didn’t know that Deacon was Jack until a couple of years ago.”
“You’re the doctor that treated Jack’s plasma wound. The one that left the nasty scar on his hip.”
Carrington nods. “I washed the plasma out of it, preventing the loss of the limb, and patched it as best I could given the situation, but someone else is responsible for mending the muscle and the physiotherapy that keep Jack on his feet.”
“So, this is the point where I give a brief history of myself, then?”
“Some of it is evident looking at your person,” Carrington says, “but, yes. If you would.”
Nick nods and takes a moment to explain his past as best as he can remember, about how his personality is from a pre-war cop, and how he knows nothing about the Institute or how he escaped its confines.
“Sorry I can’t be of much help on that front,” he says. “Given the current situation, I wish I did know more ‘cause it might help get Jack out.”
“That particular situation isn’t as dire as you might imagine, Mr. Valentine,” Henry says. “It was John’s plan to one day get inside and route it from there. He didn’t expect to be kidnapped, but that has solved the problem of how to get inside, which until this point, we weren’t entirely sure how to overcome.”
“But it isn’t as if he stormed the place,” Carrington adds, “So, we have to add on additional time for him to either break free or gain enough trust to be allowed access to his belongings.”
“I doubt one plasma pistol is going to make much of a difference,” Nick points out.
“It isn’t his plasma pistol he’ll be after. Shortly before he was taken, Jolene and I gave him a holotape with a virus on it that will allow me access to the Institute’s servers when plugged in. It’s only a matter of time before that happens.”
Nick frowns. Jack didn’t mention that in all their talks about Henry. Probably wasn’t sure Nick would approve of that move, and honestly, he doesn’t.
“I don’t like the idea of just waiting around for Jack to do all of the heavy liftin’. We’ve got no idea what shape his in down there and what sort of bullshit they might pull to keep him neutralized. As much as they might have wanted him to join them, they aren’t gonna play nice when they realize he can’t be swayed.”
“I agree,” Carrington says, “I don’t like the idea of leaving him on his own. There’s got to be something we can do out here to help.”
“As we still don’t know where to strike, that is a difficult thing to organize, however with the addition of Tinker Tom’s data, I may have a starting point,” Henry begins. “The data was taken from a Courser chip recovered a few years ago, but it is fractured and missing large chunks where the encryption was cracked and the data partially erased before Tom could put a stop to it. Frankly, I’m impressed that anyone short of myself could salvage so much.”
“He’s a savant when it comes to data,” Carrington agrees. “We’d be lost without him.”
“Indeed. Now, there are indications of important Institute information in the data, but given their sensitive nature, they were likely the first things to be erased when the encryption was cracked. With this as a starting point, and Tom’s data on how he cracked the encryption, if other Courser chips are recovered it could shed some light on where and perhaps how to access the Institute.”
Nick is starting not to like the sound of this. The memory of the last Courser he encountered is seared on his hard drive. “Just how many chips are we talkin’ here?”
“A minimum of five. More would be better, but given the danger in killing one of them, five is the least amount we’d need.”
“Five!” Nick and Carrington say with varying levels of ‘what the fuck! are you kidding me?!’
“I am aware that this seems like an insurmountable number.”
“Just setting aside the fact that killing one of those things is extremely difficult, they’re almost impossible to track. You never know when one is going to show up,” Carrington says after recovering from his initial surprise.
“I understand you know someone who did just that. Perhaps they have some insight? Failing that, you could set a trap for one of them using a safehouse as bait, but that would likely only work for the first one or two before they figured out what was going on. If two were killed using that method, their chips might shed some light on how to track additional Coursers. At this point, my data is limited. More data, more options.”
“So, right now our only choices are either wait for Jack to pull off some miracle, or somehow manage a miracle of our own and track and kill five Coursers for their chips, which may or may not end up helping us,” Nick summaries somewhat incredulously.
“The data will be useful,” Henry says, “if for nothing else, how to destroy Coursers in the most expeditious fashion, as they are undoubtedly the Institute’s shock troopers. With those handled, destroying any hostile Gen 3s will seem simple, and Gen 1 and 2s, a cakewalk.”
There’s a moment of silence as this information is processed.
“This route also comes with an additional caveat,” Henry continues. “Asking the Railroad and all those that know and care about John to participate in something so dangerous should not be done unless everyone is clear for who and why this is necessary. Once this course of action has begun, I suspect things will begin to move exceedingly quickly, and to avoid any further problems, like the one John created with Mr. MacCready, we all must be on the same page.”
“Jack wouldn’t want that,” Nick says.
“I am aware. However, it isn’t about John. It’s about all the people you may end up asking to risk their lives for him, and they should know exactly who they’re risking it for. If they know anything about John, it may make them believe in a greater chance of success than simply for ‘Deacon’.”
“And I suppose it wouldn’t hurt for the Brotherhood to get wind that the Lone Wanderer is still alive and coming for them,” Carrington adds.
“My thoughts exactly,” Henry agrees.
It’s never just a single dimension with this A.I., is it? Nick sighs and scrubs a hand over his face, tipping his hat back. He wanted answers and something to do, so he shouldn’t be complaining that Henry managed both, but five Coursers? Shit…
“Okay, so say I’m on board with the crazy idea of killin’ five Courser by enlistin’ help from people who know the truth about Deacon and Jack. It’s ultimately up to you, Doc. You’re the one with the friend, and it’s your organization with the safehouse bait. Whadda you think?”
Carrington considers for a moment. “I think…that we’d better figure a reliable way to kill a Courser first.”
- - - - -
The second time Deacon wakes, it's slowly and with a headache to end all headaches. The light is still too bright, but this time it isn’t shinning in his face. His body aches, especially near his left shoulder—
Pieces of memory float jagged through his brain, and he snaps his head around, right arm moving to touch. His arm is there, but when he tries to move it, it's too heavy to lift and makes pain radiate through his chest.
“Lie still, you've just been put back together,” a sharp voice says to his right. A familiar voice. “You came out of anaesthesia in the middle of surgery and caused excess trauma because Volker is a fucking idiot. I hope you don't remember that.”
Deacon turns his head and peers through the haze of his headache and general dopiness at the person next to his bed. It takes a few seconds for his brain and mouth to communicate. “Madison?” he croaks, voice drier than the Mojave.
“Yes. I'm here, and you're still in the Commonwealth,” she replies, clearly remembering that when he came out of his radiation exposure coma after the Purifier, he insisted that he was still in the Vault for a full five minutes. He was confused as to why there were so many people around that he didn't know, wondered at their clothing, and kept asking to see his dad.
Deacon relaxes somewhat.
Madison hands him a plastic cup and inside are ice chips. Christ, he hasn't seen ice since the Vault. He clumsily shakes one into his mouth. It helps with the dryness.
“What...?” he asks, a hundred questions crowding his brain, and none managing to get out beyond that simple word.
She sighs, leaning back in her chair, looking suddenly old and haggard. “This isn't really the time, Jack. You've barely got your wits about you.”
“Just tell me,” he whispers.
Madison gives him a hard look. “No. You're going to fall asleep again anyways, and you need several full days of sleep. We'll talk more, then.”
“Madison...”
“No,” she snaps and rises. “Sleep.” Then, after a moment's hesitation tempers her harsh tone by gently touching his hair. Deacon's surprise keeps him from protesting further as she draws away and leaves.
And true to her words, Deacon falls asleep not long after.
Later, he wonders if he dreamed it.
He wakes several times briefly after that. Mostly long enough for a young man with a kind smile, who surely must be a nurse of some sort, to poke some tasteless, colourless sludge into him and exchange a few witty remarks (Deacon hopes so anyway) before exhaustion pulls him under again. He has no idea how much time passes between each moment of consciousness, but each time he wakes, he tries to move his left arm and can’t. The pain is less each time like he is perhaps healing, or at the very least is chemed within an inch of his life, but his arm is a dead thing attached at his shoulder.
He'd rather they just cut it off than to have a useless piece of flesh attached. (Wasn’t it gone before?)
He doesn't see Madison again until he's strong enough to sit upright in bed with minimal help. He’s complaining to the nurse—whose name he's probably gotten at one point but can't remember for the life of him—about the sludge they keep feeding him. “Do you guys eat anything that actually tastes...like something? I'm dying here, buddy.”
The nurse gives him a small amused smile. “This supplement has all the nutritional values needed for a rapid recovery.”
“But it's boring,” Deacon says, a little petulantly.
He's been cooped up in this bed for what feels like forever, in a medical lab that has frosted glass windows so he can't see anything beyond the 20 by 15-foot room. He only ever gets this nurse, who is likely a synth since he's pretty sure this white-walled, impeccably clean place is the Institute, and he can't see people who like this much clean and white being okay with spending time with a dirty Waster like him.
Deacon’s starting to go stir crazy.
“I hear Supplement 489 is popular right now, would you like that instead?”
“Does that have chewable chunks or is it just colourless sludge?”
“I'm not sure.”
Deacon sighs. “How 'bout a nice mirelurk steak with some tato salsa?”
The nurse makes a disgusted face. “You'd rather eat mutated meat instead of this?”
“Made right it's delish.”
“That's not healthy. The radiation alone...”
“Is no big deal. It's either starve or get a RadAway treatment every once and a while.”
“Always under duress in your case,” Madison says from the doorway as they slide almost silently closed behind her. Deacon saw the doors open out of the corner of his eye while he was talking with the nurse, but the area beyond them is always purposefully dark so he can never make out much beyond them. “You can go, H4-32. I'll make sure he finishes his portion.”
The nurse gives a small nod and leaves the room, sparing Deacon a quick knowing grin before he disappears.
Madison watches the nurse leave before taking a seat at Deacon's bedside. “You've charmed him. Most synths are wary of Wasters down here.”
“What can I say? I'm a catch.”
“Who's already caught.”
Deacon stills. His relationship with Nick isn't a secret, but he hadn’t realized they'd been keeping tabs on him that closely.
“It was as a favour to me,” Madison explains, watching him. “Most of it didn't make it beyond that. You think they'd still want you down here if they knew? It's one thing to be 'misguided' and aid escapees; it's quite another to—”
“Don't,” Deacon snaps. “Don't cheapen it by finishing that sentence. He's much more than that.”
“Is he? Well, I'm glad then,” she replies, and Deacon can hear all the unsaid words in those two sentences. Like, ‘I'm glad you didn't take after James in regards to love’; ‘I’m glad you didn't pine for Amata forever’; ‘I'm glad you found someone’.
Sometimes, he's never quite sure what he'll get from Madison. They were friends back in Capital, but only because of James and Deacon only sort of understood her then. Out here in the Commonwealth, after everything he’d experienced, Deacon felt he had a better idea of her person but finding her out here proves he didn't. Not really, and maybe not ever.
At the very least, he's a little surprised she doesn't have anything else to say about Nick, considering where she seems to have spent the last few years.
“They think I'll convert you,” she says somewhat abruptly after a moment of silence.
Deacon frowns slightly at her. “But you don't.”
Madison snorts, and that says volumes more than any words might.
“You could get me my stuff and help me get out of here.”
“I don't have access to it, it's in quarantine,” she replies, ignoring the second part of Deacon's request. His frown deepens.
“What, I don’t warrant a rescue? After everything?”
“What favour do I owe you that makes it imperative I risk myself on your account?”
His eyebrows raise in surprise. “So, you’re just going to let them torture me for info about the Railroad? Gaslight me into accepting their synth slaving ways? Kill me if I don't?”
“Have you considered pretending to agree to their words in order to free yourself?” Madison says with a sigh as if she's annoyed at Deacon for jumping immediately into martyr mode. “I hope you see the irony here.”
The moment she says it, he does and winces slightly in remembrance of JH's tirade. JH would be shaking his metaphorical head in frustration right now if he’d heard that.
“Good,” she says with a sharp nod. “There are a lot of things to emulate about James, but that’s not one of them. It’s suspicious enough me being here with the doors closed and no nurse so the synths can’t record our conversations. Don’t make me choose between you and the people of the Wastes.”
She didn’t explicitly say he'd lose that particular choice, but if he didn’t, he doubted either one of them would be able to handle living with the consequences. Better that they don’t find out.
“So why are they letting you get away with this?”
“Because of said conversion. I told them this would make you more amenable, but this grace period won't last long.”
“Long enough that they’ll cut this stupid limp thing off?” Deacon gestures to his left arm. “I’m tired of having a limb that doesn’t work.”
Madison frowns in confusion. “You haven’t been told?”
“That I lost the use of my arm after being shot? No, but it is pretty damn obvious.”
“That hack,” Madison hisses, anger flaring. “You should have had use of it days ago.” She stands and heads to the door, opening it. “H4-32, why isn’t Jack's neuro-interface active? The muscles will heal incorrectly if they aren’t used.”
“Doctor Volker was waiting for the stitching to heal slightly,” the synth replies blandly from where it is patiently waiting to be let back in.
“He thinks his arm is permanently damaged. Volker didn’t think a conversation prudent?”
“The Doctor didn’t wish to scare him. Wasters don’t understand the level of—"
“Don’t repeat Volker's garbage to me, H4. You’ve sat with him long enough to know whether or not Jack scares easily.”
He looks visibly conflicted for a moment be for saying. “It’s not my place to suggest patient treatment, Doctor Li.”
“No, of course not. Volker wouldn’t know a good idea if it bit him in the ass,” Madison huffs. “Tell Volker to get down here and activate the interface. I’ll worry about ‘scaring’ the Waster.”
“How about you stop talking about this Waster like he isn’t here?” Deacon calls from his bed more than a little annoyed.
Madison turns from the door, and it closes smoothly behind her. Deacon eyes her as she sits down again.
“My arm—"
“Is an advanced prosthetic. Your original one could not be saved, despite what I had first heard. There was more damage than was readily apparent.”
Deacon blinks, a slew of emotions running through him. He was semi-prepared to lose his arm but to have it replaced without his consent…
The look on his face must be extreme because Madison says quietly, “There wasn’t exactly time for consultation. Not that Volker would. I’m sorry.”
“…Yeah.”
And to her credit, she doesn’t try to sell him on the replacement. Just lets him mourn the loss. There’s silence for a time after that, conversation all but dead after that bombshell and eventually Doctor Volker himself shows up. Madison doesn’t leave right away. She watches like a radhawk as Volker activates the neural interface and explains how it works to Deacon. Only half of the information is absorbed; the rest is lost to the sound of rushing blood in his ears and anger pooling in his chest.
It takes days for Deacon to gain even a semblance of control over the arm and hand. He crushes countless plastic cups and bends utensils all in an effort to regain the level of dexterity and finesse he spent a lifetime honing. It feels like a futile effort. The hand, in particular, is so jumpy and responds to input so fast that Deacon literally can’t think fast enough to get it to listen. Everything is an overcorrection and a reaction. He desperately feels like crying in frustration and burning down the Institute in a hellfire blaze.
That’s about the only thing that will ease the rage that has taken to burning in his chest lately. And honestly, if he wasn’t still on bed rest, he might actually attempt something. He’s never been this continuously frustrated in his entire life. His brain aches from the constant effort and most of his fine motor skills died with his real left hand, so using his right is almost as much of a challenge. Before this, Deacon thought he was fairly ambidextrous, but this experience has shown he isn’t quite that skilled. He wishes he had the foresight to use both more equally so this situation wouldn’t be so brain-meltingly awful.
He's decided that Madison is right concerning the Institute and how Deacon should play it while a guest in their white prison of doom, but it’s difficult to appear open to their invitation. There is at least a little bit of give in that since apparently, very few Wasters whisked from their lives in the Commonwealth are immediately on board with joining up, so he’s allowed a bit of wariness and distrust of an organization he’s been fighting to end for a good five years.
However, just because Madison is right, doesn’t mean he’s going to be able to manage it.
Eventually, Madison comes by with X6-88 flanking her and tells Deacon that he’s being allowed out of the med bay for a tour. It’s probably been two or so weeks since he first arrived, and he’s still sore and not able to control his hand, but clearly stir crazy from being cooped up. At this point, he doesn’t much care why he’s being let out, only that he is. Deacon is so ready for some recon because the sooner this place gets an A.I. upgrade, the better.
Though a Courser escort does put a dampener on things. Especially this one.
It’s clear he’s not trusted, even though he’s been given the opportunity to explore. Not that they’d be wise to trust him, and he appreciates their caution, but it does make it harder for him to fool them. Deacon might be able to convince Madison of a more active part in this coup, but ten years and no goodbye has probably soured any goodwill he earned of his own. Right now, he’s running on whatever residual affection Madison still has for his father.
Which is surprisingly more than he might have thought given how she kept tabs on him.
As they tour the main level, staying well away from the black path that Madison says leads to Synth Retention, Deacon's only real impression of the place is how sterile everything is. Growing up in a Vault, Deacon appreciates cleanliness and tries to strive for as much as he can in the Wasteland, but this is just…cold and clinical. Too perfect, too exact, too…plastic.
Braun would love it, and that thought immediately makes Deacon hate every inch of the Institute. Their technology is impressive, and he is amazed at the things he gets to see in that regard, but Braun lingers in the back of his mind and sours the taste of it.
“You’re quiet,” Madison notes as they walk the upper-level bridge. The view is amazing, but Deacon doesn’t enjoy it.
He shrugs. It’s about the only thing he can manage smoothly anymore with his left arm. “It’s…white? I’m not sure what you want me to say here.”
“Nothing, if you’d rather not. But I thought Advanced Systems might get a rise out of you.”
“Your tech is impressive. Better than anything I’ve seen before.”
“And yet you don’t sound impressed.”
“What good is it if it's hoarded down here? It’s like the Brotherhood all over again.” He purposefully doesn’t mention anything to do with synths. He’ll never be convinced to change his view on them, but he can pretend to be open to having his mind changed about the rest.
Madison makes a noncommittal noise, and he isn’t entirely sure if that’s because she agrees but can’t say anything in their current company or if she doesn’t agree but doesn’t want a fight. After all the bullshit she’s had to put up with through the years from the Brotherhood, he wouldn’t be surprised if it was the former.
“That would only prolong the enviable collapse of the Wastes,” X6-88 says.
“If that were going to happen, it already would have. It’s been 200 years since the Old World bombed itself into near extinction and the Wastes still survive, thrive even.”
“Your definition of ‘thrive’ is lacking.”
“And your definition of self is non-existent, so any ‘opinion’ you give is just Institute rhetoric and therefore invalid. Want to give a real opinion, be a real boy,” Deacon snaps.
Madison briefly touches Deacon arm, silently asking him to stop as she says, “Please don’t volunteer to speak when not invited to do so, X6.”
“My apologies, Doctor.”
That’s the end of the tour then, and Deacon's relieved. The idea of having to make nice with horrible people is hard for him to contemplate after his experience with the Deathclaws. If he hadn’t have had to do that, he would have been better able to handle it, but now it’s a question of how long it’ll take him before his mouth gets the better of him, and he ends up in trouble.
- - - - -
Madison dismisses X6 as they near the doors to the medical bay. Jack is still visibly upset by what should have been an opportunity to marvel at the advancement of the Institute—she understands why he feels the way he does. She feels a twinge of something similar most days, but she can’t help baulking at the scorching disappointment he’s levelling at her for being apart of something he disapproves of. It’s…uncomfortable. Likely because it reminds her of her own initial reaction.
Along with the fact that he’s still struggling with his strength and stamina levels after his injury, Madison is regretting pushing him so hard to go to the upper-levels just so that she could get some kind of positive reaction from him.
As the doors close behind them, she directs Jack back to his bed so he can rest. There’s a lunch tray waiting for him with some more that colourless glorp (her word, not theirs; what she wouldn’t have given for a root vegetable or a slice of brahmin meat) that H4-32 brought while they were out. Jack eyes it with the same level of distaste Madison always does and ignores it in favour of sitting on the bed. He cradles his cybernetic arm close like it was a lifeless hunk of meat, rather than a sophisticated tool he will learn to use with great dexterity.
“Why are you here?” he asks. “I’m pretty sure you brushed me off last time, though I don’t remember it too well.”
“Because it’s somewhere where the Brotherhood won’t find me.”
“Ha. Well, guess what, Doc, the Brotherhood has taken their first steps into the Commonwealth. It’s only a matter of time before they blow a hole in this the underground bunker.”
Madison frowns, a small spike of fear stabbing her. “How do you know?”
“What? The underground bit? Recycled air has a very distinctive taste. Plus, it just feels like its underground. Or did you mean the Brotherhood? I’ve been watching for them for nearly three years. They finally showed up in the spring.”
“I…didn’t know. I—”
“They didn’t tell you? Huh. I doubt they missed their arrival.”
“I’m not privy to every bit of logistics,” she snaps. “The Director would’ve said something if he thought it was something to be concerned about.”
“Problem is, he doesn’t know he should be concerned.” Jack gives her a steady look. “Doesn’t the hubris of this place make you recoil? It’s like the Brotherhood and Enclave mixed and given a shot of Psycho.”
“It…used to, but I’ve stopped noticing on a daily basis. I have my work, and I don’t—”
“Get tired of these assholes?” Jack interrupts again, eyebrow raised in mocking disbelief. “You picked the most obvious place to hide from the Brotherhood. Didn’t you think that this would be the first place they’d attack, what with all the technology and weapons just lyin’ about?”
Madison sighs. Jack is being exceedingly dramatic, but he is making a valid point. “To be honest, after Lyons death, I thought they’d crumble. There was so much infighting over who should lead. They were lost and hoped it would stay that way.”
“I know Sarah didn’t make everyone happy, but they didn’t seem lost to me. Just hell-bent on patching the divide.”
“You don’t know…” Madison says, surprised. She fumbles for words. “I mean, why would you…being out here.”
Jack’s eyes narrow. “Don’t know what?”
Damnit. Why did it have to be her giving this news? Best to do it quick and clean.
“Sarah Lyons was killed in action in June 2280. They were attempting to clear Vault 87 and eventually succeeded but at a great cost of paladins and knights.”
Jack’s face crumples, a mix between pain and surprise, before shuttering completely. Then he lies down on the bed and curls in on himself.
“I’m sorry you had to find out so late. I know you were…close at one time.”
There’s no acknowledging sound from him, and Madison decides to leave him be. He needs some time to grieve, so she excuses herself from the Med Bay. Outside, H4-32 is waiting to be allowed access again; Madison stops him with a hand.
“He needs a couple of hours on his own, H4. I had to inform him about the death of a friend he was unaware of. Give him some time to mourn.”
H4-32 nods. “As you say, Doctor. And I’m to inform you that Father would like to speak to you as soon as you’ve got a moment.”
Madison tries to keep the frown that conjures off her face. “Thank you.”
She climbs the stairs to the Director’s office with some trepidation. This is clearly about Jack and the progress, or lack thereof that she’s made with him. Madison’s never been good at saying things in a kind or charming way like Jack does, or James did. She prefers concise speech, with facts and solutions. Which means anything she might say about Jack will come off as inherently negative since few people seem to appreciate cold hard facts.
James learned to appreciate her clipped way of speaking once he realized flowery words weren’t her style. Though in the end, he cared for Catherine’s soft way of speaking than hers. And for all his shortcomings as a Brotherhood member, Rothchild preferred facts and solutions as much as her. It was about the only thing she could stand about the man. If he had been more prone to effusing speech, she probably would’ve told the Brotherhood to stuff it a long time ago.
These days, she’s friends with a bioengineer who enjoys having lunch with her to talk about projects and numbers and science, rather than engage in the tedious task of small talk—her most loathed form of conversation.
Z8-44 is standing guard outside the Director’s door today. For a place that claims to be the last bastion of safety and intelligence in a ruined world, it’s somewhat ironic that the Director wastes resources in this manner. She knows for a fact that Ayo is always bemoaning the lack of Coursers and yet there’s always one on guard here.
Out of the total of ten they initially started with, based on Zimmer’s prototype A3-21, they’ve lost one to defection (though Ayo prefers to call it a subroutine error; Zimmer called it a weakness of the Courser’s gender), one to some sort of virus going by the name of a dead pre-war scientist, and there’s always one stationed outside the Director’s door. Which means that a total of seven are available to retrieve defective synths, and it’s not enough.
(Madison doesn’t count A3-21 or S3-47 as a Coursers since they were regular Gen 3s that Zimmer personally modified when synths initially started defecting and thus aren’t built to the same standard that present Coursers are. Also, after A3-21 was recovered, Zimmer never let it out of his sight, so it couldn’t really be considered an SRB asset as it didn’t do recovery missions alone. S3-47 was decommissioned several years ago, and since A3-21 disappearance, synth retention stats have remained the same. Dismal.)
Madison gives the Courser a short nod as she goes by, not concerned with stopping or announcing herself this time. Inside, she finds the Director at his usual spot in his sitting area, a slew of papers spread out on the table in front of him. She stops a few feet from a table and says,
“You wanted to see me, Director?”
He looks up and smiles slightly. “Madison, yes. Please have a seat. I wanted to hear an update on Jack’s progress. Dean tells me that his adoption of the cybernetic prosthesis is slow.”
“Yes. He’s angry about the lack of consent and the difficulties he’s having in learning to control it.”
“How could he be displeased about getting such a useful tool. Kellogg never is.”
“They aren’t the same kind of people.”
The Director shakes his head slightly, willfully misunderstanding. “How goes your conversations with him?”
“As well as I expected. Progress is slow. I must reiterate, once again, that I am not the best candidate for this.”
“Madison, don’t sell yourself short. Your relationship with him in the Capital—”
“Means nothing. Forgive me, Director, but Jack has lived most of his adult life in the Wastes, half of that literally changing the landscape of the Capital. He is brilliant and charming and has had to frequently put both of those things to use in avoiding conflict. His ability to persuade and influence means that he cannot be duped by anyone less talented than him.
“My talents lie elsewhere. I am not a strong conversationalist, nor am I capable of changing someone’s mind or beliefs through words. Frankly, I know of no one here that can manage that. Down here you’ve had little need for those sorts of talents.”
“…I see. Are you suggesting then, that we employ Acclimation Therapy?”
That’s the last thing she wants. The very last.
“No. I’m suggesting that you drop him back in the Wastes and forget him. Then, cease doing the things that are pissing him off. Forgive my language, Director, but you only have to look at The Enclave or The Brotherhood of Steel, or The Pitt to see what happens when you get on his bad side.”
The Director gives her a patient smile, one that seems to suggest he’s privy to something she’s not. It irritates her to no end. “I believe that we are unlike any force he’s come across to date. And I am not about to cease activities simply because it has ‘pissed off’ one, albeit unique, Waster.”
Madison nearly sighs in frustration at the Director’s delusions. She honestly wishes for a moment she did have half the acumen that Jack does for talking. She switches tactics. “Did you read Silver Shroud comic as a child? Is that something you people have access to down here?”
“Of course. We aren’t barbarians,” the Director says with a small chuckle.
“Good. Then maybe this will make it clear. Jack has the black and white sense of justice that the Shroud employees and the charm of the Mistress of Mysteries. He can gather people to him that form something akin to The Unstoppables and with them the ability to shape an entire Wasteland. The first time he didn’t do it on purpose, the second he did, and you can be sure that he’ll do it a third time if you continue on this path.”
“You make it sound as if he didn’t have a choice.”
“Because he doesn’t.”
The Director huffs, starting to get annoyed. “I will not change the entire direction of The Institute to fit the fancy of one Waster, regardless of his history. He will adapt to us, not the other way around.”
“If it were anyone else, I would agree. However, Jack tends to be the spearhead of a larger movement, and you will quickly find yourself in the position of the few that have to adapt, not the many.”
There’s silence from the Director for a moment, and his face is unreadable. “Well, thank you for your input on this, Madison. I have a few things to consider in light of this. Perhaps, I should visit Jack to witness this charm first hand.”
She doubts that will change the man’s mind, but it will at least give Jack an idea of what he’s up against.
“Now, before you go, there is something else that I wanted to discuss. As you know, the SRB is short of Coursers, and we can’t produce any more until we get our reactor online. Justin wanted to know if you were working on X2-43 and if he could be of assistance in getting the unit back on duty.”
“No.”
The Director raises an eyebrow. “No?”
Madison frowns, irritated that this subject is being brought up again. “You read X6-88’s report. He made it clear that this Braun character had all but destroyed X2-43’s programming in favour of his. If I had to guess, it’s a virus of some sort, a very sophisticated one, and it will require delicate handling. Something Ayo knows nothing about.”
The Director attempts to cover a laugh under a cough. “Reclamation isn’t an option here?”
“I doubt there’s anything to reclaim. The Courser’s entire programming must be wiped, and anything missed could potentially lead to the virus replicating again. Rosalind and Janet are working on a program to isolate and destroy the virus. They don’t need any help.”
“Do you have a timeline?”
“No. As I said, it is a delicate task. It will be done, when it’s done. If Ayo really needs another Courser, perhaps you can temporarily allow him use of the one outside your door.”
The Director gives her a slight, forced smile. “Perhaps I shall. Thank you for your time, Madison. It has been…illuminating.”
“Of course,” Madison says as she stands. She knows a dismissal when she hears one. “Director.”