Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

MacCready groaned in disgust as raw, ancient sewage seeped into his boot. "Explain to me again why we can't use the front door. 'Cause here I'm thinking you just like making me crawl through sewers."

Deacon grinned back at him. "I'm not going to pretend that isn't a bonus. But it's safer this way. The Railroad's always at risk of being destroyed, you know. Especially now. Not all of us have the privilege of being buddy-buddy with the Brotherhood like your Minutemen are."

"I've been to the Castle recently, Deacon," the sniper retorted. "Trust me. It's not a privilege."

"Now, if only someone had warned Preston that playing nice was a terrible plan," the spy muttered, continuing his trudge through the grimy stench. "Oh. that's right. I did. Still, I can't be too upset at the guy. He's got all those settlers to look out for. That's why the Railroad doesn't keep our strays. Caring for people, Mac. it'll get you killed every time."

MacCready rolled his eyes. "Sure, Deacon. That's why you keep getting involved. Because you don't care."

"Well, I care about saving my own sorry hide," Deacon acquiesced. "And doing my job. Sometimes it just so happens that my job requires me to look like I care."

"That's bulls...that's garbage, Deacon, and you know it. You might be able to fool everyone else with your lone wolf routine, but I've known you too long and too well. There's a big ol' bleeding heart buried under all that Deacon-ness. You can pretend it's not there as much as you want."

The spy stopped, spinning on his heel to face MacCready. He sneered coldly at the sniper, his face rigid with a cruelty MacCready had never seen from him before. It chilled him to the bone.

"You don't know me at all," Deacon stated, his voice icy and brittle. "It'd be better if you remembered that. I'm a liar. Nothing about me is real." The severe look on his face faded as quickly as it arrived, replaced by an affable grin. "Now, keep up! I heard it's chili night at HQ and I don't wanna be late to witness the aftermath."

MacCready took a few steps backwards, nearly slipping into the muck. "What the f...what was that?" he whispered anxiously to himself. In the years since he'd first encountered Deacon, MacCready had been surprised by him, annoyed by him, nearly killed by him, and saved by him more times than he could count. This was the first time he had ever found himself afraid of him. Something had gotten under Deacon's skin in a big way. Something was tearing him up inside, and if the sniper was smart, he'd try to stay out of the way.

Unfortunately, MacCready wasn't known for his good judgment. He cleared his throat. "I'm worried about her too, Deacon."

The spy's shoulders tensed, but this time he didn't look back. "Yeah, that Piper's totally gonna get herself kicked out of Diamond City one of these days," he joked.

The sniper sighed. "You know what I mean. What happened between you and My...neither of you want to tell me, and that's fine. You can have your stupid secrets. But you're not the only one who's worried. I don't even know why we're down here. We should have gone with her."

"We're here because she asked us to come," Deacon fired back. "Because you know how she is. This is how we help, because this is how she lets us help."

"Yeah, and that's where I don't follow," MacCready argued. "Since when have either of us been big on following orders? What if she's in trouble? What if we--"

"Don't worry, Mac. It'll be an easy in and out, and we can get back on the road by..." Deacon's voice trailed off into a nervous silence. He quietly pushed open the back door to HQ. "You hear that?"

MacCready crept up silently behind him, listening carefully. There was some slight static, the sound of fan blades. Nothing else. He shook his head.

"Exactly." Deacon nodded, pulling MacCready into the room by one arm. The two men crouched behind a bookcase, weapons drawn.

"What is it?" the sniper mouthed.

"Something's up," Deacon hissed. "And I don't think it's just because of chili night. I'm going to circle back to the front entrance. Stay here and out of sight. Oh, and if you've got a gas mask, now might be the time. Air smells strange."

MacCready pulled an old filtration unit out of his pack, adjusting the straps around his head. Usually, he'd pass off anything Deacon said as a joke or a prank. The spy was a tricky bastard, but when he got serious like this, MacCready knew to listen. Deacon was genuinely afraid, and not even hiding it. As bad signs went, that was a pretty huge one.

The sniper waited in the hiding spot for what felt like forever, his breath raspy and labored in the old mask. He really needed to spend some caps on new equipment every once in a while, he noted begrudgingly. MacCready wanted to send as much money home to Cheverly as possible, of course. The farmstead was in constant need of maintenance, not to mention the cost of clothing and feeding a growing boy. He owed Heather every cap and more, and he wasn't a fan of being indebted to anyone. At the same time, there'd be no more caps for anyone if he got himself dead because of faulty equipment. Not to mention that death by lousy gas mask was a pretty stupid way to go out.

Finally, MacCready's impatience and need for air that didn't taste like the back end of a brahmin overrode his fear. He peeked around the edge of the bookcase, trying to get a sense of what awaited him outside of The Crossbuck. "Holy..." he wheezed, his heart in his throat. Even from his limited vantage point, the sniper could see that something was terribly wrong. Perhaps it was the quiet stillness in the air, so different from the normal hustle and bustle of HQ. Maybe it was the faint tinge of blood that escaped the filter on his mask, metallic and sweet and fresh. But certainly the body on the floor in front of him clued the sniper in to the fact that perhaps Deacon's caution was more than justified.

It took him a moment to recognize Drummer Boy without his hat. The runner was lying on his stomach, his tawny head facing towards the main chamber. A pipe revolver lay uselessly beside his left arm, dropped right before the man himself was, MacCready would wager. The hammer was jammed halfway back. Whatever had happened, Drummer hadn't had time to defend himself.

MacCready slowly crawled over to the man's still form, a thousand curses burning a hole in his brain. He could only imagine what Deacon was going through, seeing his colleague dead...no. Not dead, he realized with relief as he drew closer to Drummer Boy's head. Unconscious, yes, but still breathing.

The sniper peered around the doorway into the main chamber, disheartened but not surprised by what he saw. Six, maybe seven more bodies sprawled about on the ground, most of them armed. Something had spooked the Railroad. And that something had clearly won.

"Deacon!" he hissed, his skin crawling with dread. The spy didn't answer. "Damn it."

MacCready stayed low as he entered HQ proper, scanning for hostiles at every step. The stillness was deafening. He recognized the faces of several of the agents, having either met them officially or unofficially throughout his friendship with Deacon. Glory was slumped over her minigun by the main entrance. Tinker Tom's head pressed into his keyboard, leaving a line of gibberish across the screen... and there, spread wantonly across the stone dais in the center of the room, was Desdemona.

The Railroad leader's head flopped upside down off the edge of the stonework. Her ginger hair was streaked darker by the lines of blood that flowed through it, making their way to a small puddle on the ground. Her arms were flung out to either side, almost cruciform, their skin punctured with what looked like Watcher bites. MacCready choked back the bile that rose in his throat.

Deacon stared down at the corpse from the other side of the stone table, clutching a wet rag to his mouth and nose. "They took her eyes," he pointed out, his voice hollow and measured. "And replaced them with stones. That's new."

MacCready gaped up at him. "That's...new?" he asked skeptically. "That's really all you have to say?"

"Huh," the spy muttered, not seeming to notice the sniper at all. "Not a lot of blood, though." He knelt by the small puddle, cocking his head to the side as he stared at it. "I mean, we're supposed to have what, around 9 pints of blood in us? Unless someone's been pouring my beers wrong, there should be more blood."

"Are you seriously doing this right now?" MacCready exclaimed. "Deacon, Dez is dead!"

"And we don't have time to focus on what that means right now!" the spy shot back, panic permeating his voice. "Look. She's still warm. We have to figure this out while the trail is hot."

MacCready noted with alarm that the spy was shaking, his skin paler than normal. Over his years as a gun for hire, the sniper had seen this condition quite a few times. Deacon was in shock. He ripped off his coat, closing the distance between them. "Here," he said quietly, wrapping the leather duster around Deacon like a blanket. "Come on, back to the lounge."

"No!" Deacon protested, refusing to stand. "We have to figure this out. I can berate myself for not being here later."

"No offense, Deacon, but if you don't get your head on straight, there won't be a later," MacCready argued. "Don't make me beg."

"How did they get in?" The spy muttered. "It was supposed to be secure. We were just talking about an extraction, and they came. They killed her. They killed everyone."

MacCready groaned. Great, it was getting worse. He knelt beside Deacon and wrapped his arms around the spy, pinning his arms at his side. It was instinctual, the soothing of a child with a nightmare. Only the nightmare was real, and the man in his arms was significantly more stubborn than Duncan. "Hey," the sniper ordered. "Calm the heck down. Only Dez is dead. Everyone else is okay. Yeah, they're just sleeping. Bunch of lazy agents."

Deacon tensed against him, and for a moment MacCready feared that the taller man would throw him off and run. The spy's breathing was erratic, ragged. "The...the cloth. Damn it, Mac..."

MacCready pulled back and looked at him, confused. Deacon's sunglasses still perched perfectly on his face as if they'd been glued there. Honestly, MacCready wouldn't have put it past him. But nothing else obscured his face.

"Oh. Right!" the sniper exclaimed. The damp cloth Deacon had been using as a makeshift gas mask had been torn away in MacCready's attempt to soothe him. "Sorry," he cringed.

"It's...It's okay," Deacon managed. "Whatever knocked them out...looks like it dissipated. That or I've transcended the need to breathe. Still need to breathe, right?"

MacCready snorted, nodding. "Yeah. You still need to breathe, Deacon."

"So...let go," the spy shot back. "I'm okay. Really."

The sniper released his grip on Deacon, his cheeks burning with embarrassment. "Let me guess, you were messing with me," he muttered, pulling off his gas mask.

Deacon grinned back at him, pulling himself to his feet with a soft groan of discomfort. The smile would have probably even convinced someone who hadn't known the spy for years. "I had a bet going with Whisper that I could get you to hug me. That box of limited edition holiday snack cakes is mine!"

"Yeah, whatever," MacCready grumbled, standing up. He dusted his knees off grumpily. "So, now that you're done 'playing around'...everyone should be stirring soon, right? Since the air's cleared up?"

Deacon approached Tinker Tom, still drooling on his keyboard. He held his fingers up to the inventor's nostrils. "Hmm," he mused. "Depends on what sort of gas it is. I ever tell you about that time Whisper and I cleared out the old HalluciGen building? That was a time if there ever was one." He shuddered. "All sorts of crazy chemicals in that place. Half the Gunners weren't sure if they wanted to kill us or seduce us. It was a confusing time in all our lives. Probably would have been a profitable one for therapists afterwards, if we hadn't killed all the Gunners involved."

"So you're, what, afraid they're gonna wake up horny?" MacCready asked awkwardly. "Because if that's the case, I want out."

"I really, really hope not," Deacon said, grimacing. "I already have to keep Carrington's hands off me." He looked around. "Speaking of, I don't see him. Did you?"

MacCready shook his head. "No...that's weird, right? He's normally here."

"Yeah," Deacon mused, frowning. "Carrington's only left HQ once since we moved here from the Switchboard. I'm sure you remember that time Whisp basically dragged him to the Castle to save Danse from his fate as crab chow."

MacCready grinned. "How could I forget? He was pretty pissed about that. Still don't know why he came. Apparently she did quite a number on him."

"Not nearly as big a number as Dez did when he got back," the spy recalled. "Wow, she was in rare form. I thought she was gonna..." his voice trailed off as his eyes were drawn back to the corpse. "Poor Dez," he muttered. "She was a difficult woman, and we disagreed on a lot, but..."

"I'm sorry," MacCready offered.

"Yeah," Deacon murmured. "Me too." He cleared his throat, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. "So," he continued, his voice cracking slightly, "Carrington's missing. We'll deal with that. But circling back to Dez for a moment...why'd they take her blood? And if this was a Watcher attack, which the bites would indicate, where are all the feathers? They usually leave a ton of feathers. There aren't even enough here to make a jaunty cap."

MacCready thought for a moment. "When My and I cleared out the Peregrine camp by Outpost Zimonja, they had a lot of blood-extracting equipment. But I think they were only using it on children."

"In spite of her temper," Deacon muttered, "Desdemona wasn't a child. Which begs the question: why make this look like a hit from Peregrine? Was someone just trying to cover up a murder? They went to an awful lot of trouble, if that's the case. Using gas grenades on HQ, taking out Dez in her own stronghold...whoever did this was smart. Organized. Prepared for any contingency."

"And what sort of sick bas...freak cuts out someone's eyes?" MacCready added. "It's strange. But then again, Peregrine's a crazy synth cult. We can't assume that they aren't involved here."

"True," Deacon agreed. "Still, you say Peregrine only uses the blood of children. So who would take adult blood? Either we're dealing with a very picky and bored vampire, or..." he sighed. "Nope. I've got nothing. Frankly, I've got to go with vampire, if only 'cause I've always wanted to meet a vampire."

The sniper shuddered. "Missing blood and parts from a woman...I don't know, this seems way too familiar to me."

Deacon nodded. "Yeah. Reminds me a lot of the last time someone murdered my boss."

MacCready rolled his eyes. "Okay. Fine. I know it sounds stupid. But this...it feels like that time with Lori." The sniper rubbed his arm, wincing as he felt the rough scar tissue. "I...I can't shake the feeling. Whoever did this had something to do with the woman who tortured me."

He could feel Deacon's stare as the spy looked him over, his lips drawn tightly against his teeth. "I didn't want you to find out like this," the spy murmured finally, "but Nick and I never solved that one. We never caught the guy who changed that she-harpy's face."

"I might have been educated in a cave," the sniper muttered, "but aren't all harpies female?"

Deacon chuckled. "Hey, point. Meet MacCready. He really, really missed you."

"Shut up! I'm trying to think here." MacCready paced the length of the chamber, his brows knit in concentration. "If it was the same guy who did the terrible face job on Lori..." He exhaled sharply, returning to the corpse. The sniper leaned in, running his finger across the bottom of Dez's face. He grimaced as his fingers came back slick with still-warm blood. "Deacon...these cuts, along the scalp and chin. It looks like--"

"-- someone was going to take her face," the spy concluded. "Yeah. That definitely gives credence to your idea. Still, they didn't remove the skin yet. Something stopped them. But what?"

"Maybe they heard someone coming." MacCready groaned, readying his rifle. "Deacon, they heard us coming. That means they might still be here."

"And they have Carrington," Deacon agreed, hunting rifle at the ready. "Or...shit."

"What?" MacCready asked, already searching for hiding places where the killer might have been watching them from.

"Or they are Carrington," Deacon finished.

MacCready frowned. "That's ridiculous, even for you. Why would Carrington kill Desdemona? Weren't they, like, close?"

Deacon rifled in his pack. "I mean, he's her second-in-command, if you think that's close."

"So he, what, killed her so he could be in charge?" the sniper asked, his stomach churning. "That's brutal. Maybe I should warn My to look out for Preston," he added under his breath.

"Maybe. But I'm leaning more towards...aha!" Deacon exclaimed, fishing a notebook from his bag. "I found a note at Mercer Safehouse a few months back. 'Inside the gates. Tunnels. They know.'"

"Sounds like gibberish to me," MacCready grumbled.

"Or it's a warning," Deacon replied. "There's a traitor in HQ. And given the evidence..."

"You think it's Carrington?" MacCready offered a low whistle. "I definitely wouldn't have called it. He seems like a true believer to me."

"Yeah. But if it's not him, where the heck is he?" Deacon searched the weapons range. "He's usually over in his little clinic by the kitchen. I can't imagine he'd run, but..."

"Hey, what's this room?" MacCready asked, pointing to a small doorway to his right.

"Oh, right. I guess we make it a point never to let you past the main chamber." Deacon jogged over to him. "That's P.A.M.'s room."

"Who's Pam?" the sniper asked.

"Oh, just the Railroad's very own psychic robot," the spy offered with a wide grin. "You'll love her. She's an assaultron, but the only thing she assaults is the future."

MacCready pouted. "If you're just going to make up crazy stories, fine. I won't ask."

"Actually, I'm totally telling the truth about this one," Deacon replied. "Come on. It probably wouldn't hurt to see if she knows anything anyhow." He walked into the room confidently. "Hey, how's my favorite lady robot?"

"Agent Deacon," a mechanical female voice intoned. "Your arrival in HQ was predicted. Your second arrival in HQ was not predicted."

"What do you mean, P.A.M.?" Deacon asked.

MacCready rolled his eyes, following the spy. "If that's just you using a voice modulator, Deacon, I'm gonna...huh," he concluded, eyeing a fairly flawless assaultron standing next to Deacon, its claw-like hands whirring at its sides. "Okay, so you weren't totally lying..."

"Calculating," the robot responded. "Identity confirmed. Railroad asset: Robert Joseph MacCready. Warning. Asset does not have clearance. Solution: terminate asset." P.A.M.'s head laser glowed ominously, and MacCready stepped back.

"Deacon?" he asked in alarm. "Can you please tell your robot not to kill me?"

The spy chuckled. "He's with me, P.A.M. Stand down. Authorization Lepus Mortis 6 Charlie."

P.A.M.'s head slowly stopped glowing. "Authorization code accepted. Deacon is extremely cool and smart."

"Yes!" Deacon hooted. "I can't believe no one patched that out yet!"

MacCready grimaced. "You didn't know if that would work?" he cried. "What if she'd toasted me?"

"I mean, I..." Deacon sputtered. "I wouldn't have let her kill you, Mac! Light maiming, maybe."

"That's...not really as comforting as you think it is," the sniper groaned. "So, what, you hacked in your own access code? Why?"

Deacon shrugged. "Technically I don't have any authorization to use P.A.M.'s more...interesting functions. Only Desdemona has...had that kind of access. Though I guess Carrington will have the codes now."

"Agent Stanley Carrington," P.A.M. agreed. "Status: missing. Emergency leadership role assigned to...Agent Deacon."

"No," Deacon argued. "I don't want to be in charge, P.A.M.! Pick literally anyone else."

"Agent's feelings are irrelevant," P.A.M. retorted. "Agent Deacon is the highest ranking agent available. Until a new leader is selected, he will lead."

"Shit," the spy muttered. "I knew all that seniority would catch up with me someday."

"Congrats on the promotion!" MacCready teased. "I'm sure you'll do a great job."

Deacon groaned. "This is a nightmare. It's gotta be. Any minute now, I'll wake up with my face in a soggy bowl of Sugar Bombs. And you know what? I'll be thrilled." He cleared his throat. "Well, until that happens, I guess we just should play along, right? Uh, P.A.M., do you know who killed Dez? Or who took Carrington?"

The assaultron sputtered for a moment. "Agent Desdemona terminated by preordained shadow. Agent Carrington taken by preordained shadow. Agent Deacon will recover him. Agent Deacon will terminate him."

"Does this thing always speak in riddles?" MacCready griped. The damn machine was making his head hurt. "And here I thought you were bad enough."

"I mean, P.A.M.'s basically an oracle," Deacon replied. "Cut her some slack. None of us really know how she works, just that she does." He turned back to the assaultron. "So what now? You have a location for us?"

"Analyzing query," P.A.M. stated. "Response available. Dark days are coming. Preordained shadow is secondary target. Recommend primary target. Recommend removal of variable: Peregrine."

"Yeah, that's a great plan," MacCready snipped. "But how are we supposed to do that? Where are they?"

"Location: the crow is nesting at the beginning," the assaultron replied. "It will attempt to remove the rogue variable. Prediction: the crow will be the variable that is removed."

"The...rogue variable?" Deacon asked. "That sounds familiar... Wait. You mean Whisper? I've heard you call her that before."

"Agent Whisper is a rogue variable," the robot agreed. "Her arrival was not anticipated. Her actions cannot be predicted. She disrupts all behavioral models."

MacCready chuckled. "Well, I could have told you that." He turned to Deacon. "So, what, Peregrine is going after Myra at...the beginning? The beginning of what?"

Deacon shrugged. "I mean, it could be any number of places. The Watchers originated in the Institute, but something tells me that Gregory would have a hard time sneaking back in there. And Whisp wouldn't go back there on purpose." He thought for a moment. "So, Whisper's beginning? Wouldn't that be Nahant?"

"Or Vault 111," MacCready suggested. "I mean, that's where she came from, right?"

The spy nodded. "That's a good point."

P.A.M. whirred in agitation. "Recommend use of Protocol 7," she declared.

"Oh! Of course! How stupid of me," Deacon replied. "Protocol 7 will definitely help."

"What's Protocol 7?" MacCready asked.

"No clue," Deacon replied with a shrug. "Sounds like one of Dez's little secret hobbies. She had a lot of those. Watercolors, knitting...putting trackers in people, overreacting, you know, girly stuff."

MacCready's eyes widened. "Do you think she put a tracker in My?"

"I guess it's possible. I mean, Dez reserved that for people she thought were flight risks. And if you look up flight risk in a dictionary, I'll bet you'd find a photo of Whisper. She runs off so much it's hard to know if there's anything she isn't running from." He sighed. "I just don't know when she would have found the time to. Whisp was almost never here. But I guess it's worth a shot." he raised a finger dramatically. "P.A.M.! Activate Protocol 7!"

"Protocol initiated." The terminal connected to the robot sparked to life, a series of jumbled letters and numbers flooding the screen. "Locating...locating...Agent Whisper Located. Walden Pond. Traveling northward. Agent status: orange. Recommend backup."

"She's going to Sanctuary." Deacon ran past MacCready into the main room, followed by the sound of small objects being thrown. "Grab whatever looks useful," his voice called out, somewhat muffled. "But remember that we need to travel light."

MacCready frowned, following the spy back to the main chamber. Deacon was throwing stimpacks, water, anything not nailed down in his bag. "Whoa! Slow down," MacCready cried. "What are you doing?"

"You heard P.A.M.," Deacon fussed. "Whisp's in trouble, and we need to cover a lot of ground to catch up to her."

"I get that," the sniper reasoned. "But are you sure we should just leave HQ like this? I hate to say it, but maybe we have to let her fend for herself. What happens when everyone wakes up and sees Dez?"

Deacon grabbed a piece of chalk, running over to the main chalkboard. "We'll leave a note."

"Are you sure?" the sniper asked again. "Deacon, these are your friends."

The spy shook his head. "They're my colleagues. Whisper's my friend. I think. Hopefully?" he scowled. "What, do you really want to wait here for Glory to wake up from her power nap while Whisp's out there facing down Peregrine alone?"

MacCready sighed. "Of course not. That's why I'm going."

"And I'm coming with you. Hate to break it to you, Mac, but you don't have a monopoly on heroics here." The chalk screeched across the board as Deacon wrote hastily in surprisingly clean cursive:

Good morning, kids. Dez dead. Carrington missing. Sorry.

Gone to M-1. Will be back soon.

XOXO Deacon

The spy clapped his hands together to clean off the chalk dust. "There. That should cover the major bases. Now, are you going to keep talking, or can we go?"

MacCready nodded. "Yeah. Sanctuary's a two day walk, though. And My has a hell of a head start."

Deacon grinned. "Bet you we can do it in less."

"Uh, no, I've made the hike a few times," the sniper retorted.

"Yeah, but you didn't have my secret weapon," Deacon argued. He pulled out an old waterway map from his bag. "I started carrying this after you went missing last year," he explained. "I happen to have a dinghy in the harbor with an impractically large motor on it. Pet project of Tinker's before he decided that creepy robotic birds were more his thing. We take that up the Charles River to Graygarden. Then we follow these drainage ditches north. Should cut almost a day off the trip."

"That's..."

"Brilliant?" Deacon finished. "I know. But you can bask in my glory later. Right now, we've got a damsel to save and a cult leader to stop." He repacked the map, taking off up the stairs. When he got to the door to the church, though, he paused. "I'm sorry, by the way."

"For what?" MacCready asked, confused.

"For how many sewers we're about to run through," Deacon replied with a smirk.

"Damn it," MacCready fumed, taking off after him. "You owe me new boots!"

"Put 'em on Whisper's tab!" Deacon called back, disappearing through the door.

MacCready wheezed with effort, struggling to stand as he exited the drainage pipe outside Sanctuary. "I...I can't breathe..."

Deacon skidded to a stop next to him. "You really need to lay off the smoking, pal," the spy chided. "I'm almost twice your age."

"Yeah," the sniper grumbled, "but you...ugh...also told me you're...a genetic experiment. So that doesn't count."

"Well, if you're going to be like that," Deacon griped, "I won't share my water. I know you forgot to pack any. You've only been whining about it for three hours."

"I haven't been whining!" MacCready argued. "I was just getting mad at myself for forgetting. Loudly."

"You can self-flagellate as much as you want after we've found Whisp."

"Eww?" MacCready commented. He didn't know what that meant, but he sure knew what it sounded like.

Deacon groaned. "We've got to get you a dictionary," he teased, offering the sniper a hand. "Not that you need any more mortification, I guess. Shall we?"

The two men slunk quietly into the abandoned settlement, keeping to the walls as much as possible. MacCready noted with frustration that many of the buildings were already topped with small, dark bodies. There weren't a whole lot of sniper nests that weren't already Watcher nests. Not only would that screw with his ability to spot for Deacon, but it meant that a stealthy approach was almost impossible.

"Here," Deacon muttered, holding out a Stealth Boy. "These don't work as well on Watchers, but maybe it'll buy you time to find a perch."

MacCready strapped the stealth field generator to his arm, activating it. "Okay," he whispered. I'll head for the penthouse above the bar. Good luck."

"You too, buddy," Deacon replied. He reached out, smacking at the air. "You know, you could have waited until after the friendly shoulder pat," the spy joked.

"Nah, I made the right choice," the sniper whispered. "See you." He slipped away, making for The Last Minuteman.

It was sad to see the bar in such a sorry state. The long weeks since Sanctuary had been vacated had not been kind to the building or its contents. Bottles were mostly empty or smashed across the floor of the bar. Tables were dusty, stools overturned. Marcy Long's tavern had been a gathering place, full of joy and warmth and food. Now, it was back to being a ruin.

MacCready slipped into the General's Suite, taking care not to slam the door. As far as he knew, Myra had never spent the night in the penthouse, but that hadn't stopped Marcy Long from capitalizing on her name and likeness. The walls were decorated with several of Myra's old paintings, donated or stolen from her studio. There was a large, plush double bed against one wall, a separate bathroom...and a spacious balcony that looked out over the settlement. MacCready crept carefully up to the overlook, keeping a close eye out for Watchers. He heaved a sigh of relief when he found the balcony empty, though his heart still pounded roughly in his chest. Either the synthetic crows had overlooked this vantage point, or it had been left deliberately clear. The latter possibility concerned the sniper deeply. Either Peregrine was growing complacent, or they anticipated and welcomed MacCready's presence.

He returned to the suite, stripping the comforter from the bed and wrapping himself in it. The worn cotton blanket wasn't much protection, but it would buy him some time if the Watchers came for his tender bits. He returned to his post, trying not to think about how ridiculous he looked.

"All the more reason not to die today," he murmured.

He watched through his scope as Deacon slowly made his way towards the market. Satisfied that he had a bead on the spy, MacCready turned his attention to locating Myra. That proved to be a much harder task. His gaze swept the abandoned bath house, the power plant, even the mutfruit orchard. There was no sign of her or anyone else. Had they actually beaten her to the settlement? Or had they come to the wrong place altogether?

MacCready smelled the radiation in the air before the sky darkened to a sickly green. Great. A radstorm. That was only going to make his job harder. He pulled out the small radio Kent Connolly had given him, tuning to his private frequency. "Deacon. If you can hear me, My isn't here. I repeat, My isn't here. I hate to be that guy, but I think this is..."

"A trap, yes," a low, sonorous voice behind him confirmed.

MacCready spun around to find himself face to face with a tall, green-robed man. His heart sank as he recognized the cruel, beaked mask covering the figure's face. "G-Gregory," he stammered.

"I see my reputation proceeds me," the masked synth mused. He took a step closer, a twisted, glowing blade in his hand. "Good. It's better that you know."

"Where's Myra?" MacCready cried angrily. "What did you do to her?"

Gregory laughed. "Nothing. Yet." He tossed a small device at the sniper's feet. "We confiscated this tracking device when she was under our care at Peregrine. We are not overly fond of our location being known. Until we choose to be found. Don't worry, she was quite unconscious when we took it. With all her scars, she probably never even noticed."

"So why lure us here?" the sniper asked.

"You know," Gregory mused, fiddling with his knife, "My children were impressed with your performance up north. You actually put Myra's life ahead of saving those children. Not what I'd expect from a man of your...temperament. It was quite interesting."

"I knew I could count on the others," MacCready retorted. "It wasn't anything special."

"On the contrary, Mr. MacCready," the synth replied. "It showed me exactly what I needed to know about you. About what a danger you are to my family." Gregory hummed softly in thought. "You understand the importance of family, do you not?"

"More than a monster like you ever fuc...ever will," the sniper growled. "So, what, you brought me here to kill me?"

"No," Gregory denied. "You're here to bear witness to my victory. I want you to see exactly how small you are, Mr. MacCready. How insignificant even a threat like you is in the face of our great reclaiming." The synth chuckled. "Mostly, I want to see the look on your face when the woman you idolize falls."

MacCready smirked, trying to quiet the dread in his chest with sheer bravado. "You really didn't do your research, did you? I don't really go in for the gods and masters stuff. Idols and heroes have a way of getting people killed."

Gregory cocked his head. "That is a multi-faceted lie. We know everything you have to lose. Things you've hidden in the south. Even things you haven't allowed yourself to claim. Human nature really is quite simple, you know. That's one of the many ways my people are superior."

"You wanna know what makes me superior, though?" MacCready growled. He whipped the comforter off his body, hurling it at the synth.

Gregory struggled to extricate himself from the fabric, snarling in frustration. "You..."

The sniper grinned. "I already know how small I am. And that makes me pretty damn agile." He leapt from the balcony, hitting the ground with a hard roll. He cursed under his breath as the wind was knocked out of him, struggling to his feet. "That always sucks more than I think it will," he grumbled, running towards the market.

As he wove through abandoned stalls and overturned displays, MacCready did his best not to look back. Gregory was certainly coming after him, and with a host of murderous crows in tow. That wasn't what he needed to focus on. He needed to find Deacon, before the spy was in trouble too. He pulled a bottle of Rad-X from his pack, grimacing as he chewed the medication. He couldn't risk stopping long enough for a drink to wash the pills down. This storm was a bad one, and if he didn't find real shelter soon, he was going to get very, very sick.

He yelped as something caught his arm, and instinctively raised his fist to strike at the obstacle.

"Whoa! Whoa!" Deacon cried. "Not the face!"

MacCready lowered his fist, smiling in relief. "You're okay."

"I won't be for long," Deacon said playfully. "I don't know about you, but I prefer my brains to remain unscrambled. Come on. There's an old bunker behind one of these houses. I just have to remember which one."

It took the pair far longer than they were comfortable with to track down the bunker. Longer still for them to pump enough RadAway into their systems to stabilize themselves. MacCready moaned as a massive wave of nausea overwhelmed him. "I fuc...I really hate rad poisoning," he grumbled.

"Lemme know if your hair starts to fall out," Deacon teased. "I can show you how to shave it. Then we can be twins!"

"Maybe I should have taken my chances with the storm," MacCready snapped. "At least my knees wouldn't be crammed into my nose up there."

"This shelter is smaller than I remember," Deacon said apologetically. "That or I've never used it with someone else. Don't worry. We'll be back on the surface as soon as the storm lets up."

"Or as soon as Gregory finds us," the sniper replied. "He brought us here, Deacon."

"I know," the spy muttered, frowning. "He knew we'd come looking for Whisp. Question is, why did he want us? I'd have figured he'd be after..." Deacon groaned. "Damn it, Mac, we've been played!"

"That's what I was telling you!" MacCready exclaimed. "This was a trap."

"But not for us!" Deacon argued. "Think about it! We think Whisp's in danger, so we follow her tracker. It brings us here. But then what does Whisp do?"

"She thinks we're in trouble," MacCready replied, his eyes widening. "She goes to HQ, finds out we're not there. So she reads your note."

"Then she poofs herself here," Deacon finished. "Damn it, I hate it when the bad guys copy my playbook!"

"Well, let's think," the sniper urged. "Maybe she's not here yet."

"Or maybe she's up there sucking up rads and hiding from Beak Boy," the spy argued. He pulled a hazmat suit out of his pack, elbowing MacCready in the chest as he did so. "Sorry about this, but you're gonna have to get naked."

"What?" MacCready protested. "Why?"

"Well, not all the way naked. But, y'know, mostly naked. The suit's pretty tight, and your clothes are pretty baggy." Deacon handed him the orange bundle of fabric. "Don't worry. I won't look."

"But why do I have to do it?" the sniper shot back.

"I don't know if you noticed, but I can't exactly squeeze past you, Mac. You're closer to the hatch. Now hurry up. We don't have time to argue."

MacCready grumbled, removing his clothes. It was a difficult enough task in the cramped space, made almost ludicrous by the hurry he was in. Eventually, however, he was wrapped securely in radiation protection, and Deacon only had a few new bruises to show for it. "I really, really hate traveling with you," the sniper muttered as he put the round glass helmet on.

"Love you too, buddy," Deacon said with a soft smirk. "Call me when the rads clear up, will ya?"

"Yeah, sure," MacCready snarked. "If I'm not dead by then."

"You know, pessimism isn't really an attractive quality," the spy joked.

"Shut up, Deacon," MacCready replied, pushing open the hatch and clambering out into the storm.

Things had only gotten worse in the time the pair were underground. The wind howled through the abandoned subdivision, carrying trash and forgotten treasures tumbling through the crumbled street. Even the Watchers had seemed cowed by the weather, retreating from the rooftops for stranger haunts.

MacCready trudged forward, his eyes scanning in the misty gloom for any sign of Myra or Gregory. He could barely see more than a foot ahead of him clearly, the eerie green light generated by the radiation in the air casting strange figures in the choking haze. He stumbled, catching himself on the edge of a battered cart. The sniper really hoped his suit stayed intact, but he didn't have time to check. He needed to find Myra, and soon.

As he approached her old house, MacCready heard the sounds of an argument brewing inside. He ducked down under the windowsill, trying to stay inconspicuous.

"...going to end this," he heard Myra hiss ferally. His heart leapt at the sound. At least she was alive. "Now where the hell are my friends?"

"Oh, they're around," Gregory's low voice soothed. "Perfectly safe, as long as you don't do anything stupid."

"And Danse?" Myra asked, her voice cracking slightly.

"I'm afraid the man you're looking for is...no longer the man you're looking for," the synth replied. "He has been reborn. A pity. He was far more useful to us as a warrior than what he has become. For now, we have turned him loose. But rest assured, I know where all my children are."

"No," Myra gasped. "You're lying."

"You know full well that I'm not," Gregory insisted. "You knew before you even came here. From the moment he left you. I can see it in your eyes."

"I...I'm going to stop you," she protested weakly.

MacCready's heart broke for her. Rarely had she sounded so defeated. He couldn't blame her. He knew a thing or two about being too late to save the people he loved.

"You cannot prevent what is coming, Myra," Gregory stated calmly. "Even if you kill me, the Ordure will continue to spread and feed. My children are many, and our cause is just. In time, this liberating corruption will overtake everything that the Institute has made, and we will finally be free. Isn't that what you want? To free the Commonwealth from their grasp?"

"Not at that cost!" Myra snarled, seeming to snap back into focus. "How many people have you murdered?"

"I've done nothing that was unnecessary," Gregory argued. "For us to be free, we need a blank slate. A world of equals cannot be born from a place of hatred and bigotry. You know as well as I do that the people of the Commonwealth will never accept us. They are right not to. We are...more than them. We are mankind, redefined. As the Institute intended, though not as they desired us to be."

MacCready gripped his rifle tighter, trying to quiet his rage. He knew the synth was insane, but this? Did Gregory really intend to slaughter every human in the Commonwealth? That was unthinkable. Even the Institute seemed to be more indifferent to human life than anything else. The active malice in Gregory's words was chilling enough, but the calm, even way he spoke made his plans seem almost too monstrous to comprehend.

"You're suggesting genocide," Myra gasped. "Even for you, that's pretty damn evil."

"You misunderstand," Gregory said softly, almost as if soothing her. "It is the only way we can build a world without pain. Without war. We can change it all, Myra."

"War never changes," she spat. "You can't create a virtuous world by evil means. The fruit of slaughter is always rotten from the blood it feeds on. Just look at the world that was born from the ashes of mine."

"You're jaded," the synth replied evenly. "I can understand that."

"I'm realistic," Myra retorted. "You're insane. A broken machine, playing at being a savior."

Gregory sighed. "I know you're...confused. But there's still a chance to do the right thing here, Myra. Join us. I will spare your life. You can even be with Danse again, if that is what you wish. I have that power."

"How?" she asked, her voice trembling. "You said he was gone. That he was someone else when you found him."

"Memory is easy enough to change," Gregory replied. "As long as one understands the system that houses it. I can undo what that cruel human doctor did. I can return him to you, whole and without fear or shame. It can be like it was before. You can be happy."

Myra was quiet for a long moment.

MacCready could feel his heart in his throat, the beating overwhelming his senses. He knew Myra all too well by now. When given the option between being with Danse and ending Gregory's reign of terror, he knew where her inclinations lay. "We're screwed," he muttered to himself.

The woman he knew, for all her convictions, had proven time and again that she would sacrifice everything for the sake of the man she loved. MacCready could almost respect that, if it didn't mean a massacre. It hurt that he couldn't count on her to make the right choice. But if she wasn't willing to, he was sure as hell going to do it for her. The sniper checked his rifle. He would probably only get one shot.

"What about my friends?" Myra finally asked softly.

Gregory snorted. "They are not like you. And they will not remain loyal to you, once you become who you are fated to be. It is better for them to die with the rest, to spare you this pain."

"That's not an option!" she snarled. "MacCready, Preston, even Maxson... everyone I've come to know in this broken, brutal world deserves a chance to live, to grow and fight and become. Just because they aren't synths doesn't mean they don't deserve the same respect you demand for Peregrine. You will stop killing innocents, or I won't help you. I won't be your token human that you decided to keep as a pet."

MacCready sighed in relief. So Myra wasn't quite as shallow as she'd been acting. Maybe they still had a chance.

"You have fire," Gregory commended. "My Josephine will adore you. You know, it's eerie how much you resemble her. It was fate itself that brought you, the champion of our enemies, to be the spark of our renewal."

"Josephine Norman is dead," Myra replied. "Holdren told me all about her."

"We have risen beyond death, my dear," the synth growled. "We are new gods. Once we have the book, nothing will be beyond my children and I. My vengeance will be absolute, and Josephine's rebirth into our new world will be glorious."

"What book?" Myra asked, her voice trembling.

"The Krivbeknih," he replied. "A book of ancient power, the same power that seeps through this land to its inky heart. It was taken to the Capital Wasteland. Two of my children have gone to retrieve it. Soon enough, I will have it in my grasp."

"No," MacCready whispered in horror. "Not the damned book again." He'd told Heather to destroy the cursed thing. Hopefully she'd finally come to her senses and finished the banishing ritual. But he knew the redhead well enough to know that it was probably still tucked away in a junk drawer somewhere. Why were all his friends such idiots?

"I'm not going to help you kill everyone!" Myra argued.

"Is my price not fair?" Gregory asked. "To be with your beloved again, free of fear and torment? The power to do whatever you will?" He chuckled. "There is something else you want, isn't there? Something I could give you."

MacCready heard the sound of something light hitting the floor. Was it a folder of some kind? Or...he peered cautiously over the window sill.

Gregory had his back to the window, but he didn't need to see the synth's face to register the shock on Myra's. The dark, beaked mask lay on the floor between them, discarded.

"Is this a better prize?" the synth asked, his voice pitched a little higher, a little friendlier.

Myra paled. "N-Nate? No. That's impossible. You're--"

"Dead?" The synth nodded. "Yes. Nathaniel Larimer was a fragile human who met a fragile human end. I was created by his son to be his shadow. But I am more than he was. And could be more to you, if you would let me."

"You...think you can give me what I want?" Myra asked cautiously. 

Gregory chuckled. "When our great undertaking is finished, and Josephine and you are one, all can be as it should be. You can keep Danse as well, of course. You'll find I can be very generous."

Myra laughed hysterically, the cawing bays pouring out of her like water. "I...whoo...I'm sorry," she managed between gasps. "You...heh...I can't believe you...thought that'd work!"

"I don't understand," Gregory replied. "Why are you laughing? I'm offering you everything. Everything you want, and more. You would be a goddess."

"Yeah, I was pretty over being deified when the Minutemen tried it," she shot back. "And I like the Minutemen. Preston might drive me crazy, but he's pretty firm on the whole genocide bad thing."

"So you are renouncing me?" Gregory asked bitterly. "Renouncing the One who promised me my vengeance?"

"Yep," she stated firmly. "You know, I pity you, Gregory. You really thought showing me that face would, what, make me forgive you? Accept you?" Myra shook her head, drawing her pistol. "You don't deserve to be a god. You don't deserve to look like Nate. You don't deserve even the mercy Clayton begged me to show you. All you've done here is made it easier for me to kill you," she snarled.

"Then you leave me no choice," Gregory growled, raising his cruel blade. "I can find another vessel."

"And I can bury Nate again," Myra sneered, firing directly at the synth's head. "God knows it can't hurt more than the last time."

MacCready ducked as the bullet shattered the window, coating him with broken glass and thick, black goo. He'd never been more grateful for a hazmat suit, he thought as he wiped at his helmet. He choked back his urge to vomit as his hand left tar-like streaks across his vision.

He heard a thud from inside the house, followed by a low, broken sob. The sniper ran inside, peeling his helmet off. "My!" he cried.

She knelt beside the corpse, her eyes distant and hollow. Her ragged silvery locks hung about her shoulders like a mantle, radiant in the eerie glow of the storm outside. "I did it," she murmured, her pistol hanging forgotten from her hand. "It's over."

MacCready nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, you did." He crouched next to her, taking the pistol from her hands and tucking it back in the holster. "Are you okay?" That was a dumb question, he realized. How could she be okay?

"That was...easier than I thought it would be," she replied, her voice choked by unwept tears. "And so much harder."

"Hey," he murmured, pulling her close. "My, it's okay. You don't have to hold back."

She shook her head, her nose poking into his shoulder. "I'm...tired. Too tired to cry. I'll be okay."

He nodded, pulling away. "Okay."

Myra clung to him tightly. "Can you...just hold me for a while?" she asked weakly.

MacCready sighed. "I guess that's okay. But can we maybe move to the couch? I don't really want to sit in whatever this goop is."

She snorted, letting him go. "On second thought, I think I've asked enough of you lately." Myra stood on trembling legs, slowly weaving her way to the couch. "You don't have to. I know you don't really like being touched."

The sniper caught her swaying body, leading her the rest of the way. "If it's you, My, I don't really mind." He gently eased her down onto the old sofa, sitting close beside her. "I probably should, but..."

Myra smiled sadly at him, her emerald eyes still not quite seeing him. "I don't deserve you."

"Probably not," he agreed.

"I don't deserve any of my friends," she continued. "And here you are, still helping me."

MacCready took her hand gently in his. "That's the thing about friends," he muttered awkwardly. "It's not about what you deserve, but what they're willing to give anyway. I promised to look after you. And unlike you, I never forget a promise."

"Gee, thanks," she grumbled.

Crap. That came out wrong. "What I mean is, no matter what, if you need me, I'm here. Nothing you do can change that."

Myra snorted. "Nothing I do?"

MacCready grimaced. "Well, don't take it as a challenge, okay?"

"No promises," she mused, resting her head on his shoulder.

His heart leapt at the contact. Even through the hazmat suit, he could feel the coolness of her cheek against him. It was strangely comforting. Honestly, he'd forgotten what it felt like to have someone so unguarded near him. It was nice. It was terrifying.

For a long time, neither of them moved. From her soft breathing, MacCready suspected that Myra had fallen asleep. He remained vigilant, watching the radstorm outside as it blew its course. Gregory's corpse remained on the floor, his mask soaked in the inky gunk that seemed to have replaced his blood. He shuddered as his eyes swept over the synth's wicked blade, still glowing menacingly with an ancient power. He'd never seen anything like it before, but the feeling he got when he looked at it too much -- a churning inversion in his stomach -- reminded him exactly of that dark and horrible book.

"Heather's in danger," he murmured.

"Mmm," Myra agreed, nodding slightly. "The crab cake book."

"Krivbeknih," MacCready corrected. "Yeah. She knows where it is. And I'm guessing Gregory's creepy followers will figure that out pretty soon."

Myra sat up with a groan. "Damn it. This was supposed to be one of those cut off the head situations."

MacCready sighed. "Never such luck, in my experience. Look, if Peregrine's sending infected synths into the Capital Wasteland, I need to be there to stop them."

Myra nodded. "I won't beg you to stay. I understand. You've got to look after your family."

"I'll be back as soon as I can," he promised. "I told Zev I'd look after him. And I still have to give Preston his second mayor lesson. So I won't be gone for good."

She snorted. "Make sure you call me for that. Sounds like pure entertainment."

MacCready grinned. "Hey, I'll have you know that I was an excellent mayor."

"I don't doubt it," Myra replied earnestly. She sighed softly. "Hey, Mac?"

"Yeah?"

"I'll miss the hell out of you." She scooted closer and pulled him into a tight hug.

"I'll miss you too," he replied sincerely, hugging her back. Honestly, until he said the words, MacCready had no idea exactly how much he meant them. Myra drove him crazy. She never slowed down long enough to keep her promises, always jumping from one responsibility to the next like they were going out of style. She cried way too much for his taste, was indecisive and impulsive in equal measure, and honestly it shocked him that she'd managed to survive this long. But damn it, he was going to miss her.

"Promise me you'll take care of yourself out there," she urged, the words warm against his neck. "Even with Gregory gone, Peregrine is dangerous. I...I don't want anything to happen to you. I've lost too many people I care about already."

Damn it, that did it. MacCready pushed her away, holding her shoulders at arm's length. "My, come with me," he insisted.

"What?" she asked, staring at him in confusion. "I can't, Mac."

"Why not? I'd be a lot safer with an extra gun on my side. And there's nothing else left for you to do here. You can't help the Minutemen without the Brotherhood finding you, and who knows when the Railroad will be able to fight again. So come with me."

"I...I still need to find T," she murmured. "He'll help me figure the next step out. He always helps me figure things out."

MacCready's heart clenched. "You heard what I did. Danse isn't...Danse any more. He won't remember you. Seeing you can only hurt him. Hurt you both."

"I can't do this without him," Myra argued. "I've never done this without him. I...I can find a way to get him to remember. A less evil way. I have to."

The sniper shook his head. "My, that's not fair. To you or to Danse. He made his choice."

"He made a mistake!" she shot back, her eyes welling with tears. "It had to have been a mistake. He wouldn't abandon me."

"Or maybe he knew he was always gonna be holding you back!" MacCready exclaimed. "Do you really think that's what Danse wanted for you, cowering in a bunker for the rest of your fuc...the rest of your life while the Commonwealth burns down around you? Hell no! I might have had my problems with the guy, but Danse always did what he thought was right. And he would have wanted you to do the same. If you can't get that through your thick skull, I hate to say it, My, but you couldn't possibly have loved him the way you think you do. Because you don't seem to understand him at all."

The look she gave him tore him up inside. MacCready wasn't sure what was worse, the anger in her eyes or the torment of knowing that he was right. "Fuck you!" she whimpered. "I just...I wanted to keep him safe. I wanted to help him get better."

"I know," the sniper murmured. "I'm sorry, My. That was unfair of me."

She shook her head. "No. It...it was perfectly fair." She smiled weakly at him. "That's one thing I've always appreciated about you, Mac. You don't mince words. I need someone to call me out on my bullshit sometimes. Someone to remind me that I don't just belong to myself. And I don't even belong to Danse. Not any more."

"That's the other reason why I want you to come with me back to Cheverly," MacCready reiterated. "My, you need a break from all this sh...from this crap. Not a chance to run away, but to refocus. A couple months in the Capital Wasteland, that's it. It'll be an easy seek and destroy, and we can visit my family. I think meeting Heather will do you some good. She knows a thing or two about loss, and about how to rebuild after. She helped me tons, and I know she'd be happy to help you too."

"But they need me here," Myra protested. "We have to find a way to kill or cure the infected. Then there's all the settlements we need to rebuild. The Railroad will need help rounding up the synths to cure them, and...oh, God, what are we going to do about Deacon?"

MacCready froze. "What about Deacon?"

She stared at him intensely. "Mac...did you know about Dez? About what he's done?"

"Yeah, I was with him when we found her. Poor guy."

"Poor guy? They said he killed her, Mac! Ripped her damned eyes out!" Myra shook her head. "I still can't believe it. He swore to me he's a pacifist now."

MacCready's heart raced. "That can't be right. Deacon wouldn't do that. And like I said, he was with me the..." he trailed off. No. Deacon hadn't been with him the whole time. It was a fairly narrow window, maybe twenty minutes or so, but...it was possible.

"Well, Drummer Boy insists that Deacon showed up through the front door and tossed some sort of gas grenade into HQ. And when they all woke up, Dez was dead and Carrington was gone." Myra inhaled sharply. "He even left a damn confession on the chalkboard! I don't want to believe it either, but the evidence is pretty damning."

The sniper sighed in relief. "I can explain the note, actually! I know it looks bad, but we were tracking a signal we thought was you, and we didn't really have time to wait for everyone to wake up. We needed to get here to help you."

Myra frowned. "But I wasn't here. I was probably still in the In...uh, dealing with some things. So it's still sketchier than I'd like."

"My," MacCready said finally, "Deacon's here. He came with me. If you think he did this, what are you going to do when you see him?"

She sighed, rubbing her eyes. "I don't know. I'm so worn out...I still don't want to believe it. Deacon's not the type to off two senior officers to claim power for himself. It doesn't make sense. But they saw him."

"I've known Deacon longer than you have, and I agree." the sniper confirmed. "He has no interest in power, only in the freedom to do what needs to be done. There's got to be another explanation. I know he didn't kill Dez. I just know it. Besides, did you see her body?"

Myra shook her head. "They'd already cleaned up when I got there."

"There were what looked like Watcher bites on her," MacCready explained. "And it looked like someone had been trying to steal her face."

She stared back at MacCready, her eyes wide. "Like with Lori? That...oh, that could change everything."

The sniper nodded. "Maybe it wasn't Deacon they saw at all. The guy does have a history of changing his face. Honestly, if someone copied his mannerisms just right, they wouldn't even have to look like the Deacon you know. When I first met him, he looked totally different. If it wasn't for the way he talks, I'd have never known."

"We need to warn him before we leave," Myra realized. "Tell him the others think he killed Dez, that the culprit might be posing as him."

"So you'll come?" MacCready asked, far more excited by the idea than he'd thought he'd be.

"Like you said, I'll be of more use to you in the Capital Wasteland than I'll be here," she agreed. "And a change of scenery might help me process...well, everything. But I can't just let Deacon rot. I'm done making my friends fight their battles alone if I can help it."

"We can't waste any time. But you're right. We can at least tell him what we know." MacCready activated his radio. "Deacon, come on. Party's over."

"Aw, man!" the spy's voice crackled over the speaker. "I always miss the good stuff! Is Whisper with you?"

"As much trouble as ever," the sniper responded with a grin.

"Be right there," Deacon replied.

Myra smiled cryptically. "So he stuck around. Huh. I figured he'd have slipped away by now."

"Why would you think that?" MacCready snarked. "Because you think he might be a murderer, or because you screwed things up with him so badly?"

She smacked his arm. "Okay, forget what I said about needing you to call me out on stuff."

"I'm just saying, when it comes to you, Deacon's either the most patient guy in the world or he's waiting for revenge," the sniper argued. "No one just lets go of all that baggage without some hidden agenda."

"What's that about baggage?" Deacon asked, strolling in through the kitchen door. His cat-like grin was as cryptic as ever. "We're going on a post-victory vacation, aren't we? Oh, I hope it's to Nuka World!"

Myra smiled stiffly back at him. "I thought you told me you get sick on thrill rides."

"Yeah, but I can probably handle the Bottling Plant tour," the spy quipped. "MacCready's the one who gets seasick, aren't you, pal?"

The sniper's stomach heaved. Damned boat trips. "Please don't remind me."

Deacon stepped over Gregory's prone legs, whistling in appreciation. "Right through the skull, Whisp. Nice."

Myra's smile soured slightly. "It wasn't. Nice, I mean."

The spy nodded. "Still, good work. You checked the first box off on your vengeance tour itinerary. So, when are we taking the fight to the Institute? Or was it the turkey baster factory next?"

She sighed heavily. "Afraid that has to wait. You know as well as I do that we're in no condition to take on the Institute yet. The Minutemen are almost back at square one, so we have to give them time to rebuild. Which we still can't really do until the Ordure is gone, or Peregrine will just keep attacking settlements."

"And with Dez gone, the Railroad's not ready for an operation like that either," Deacon agreed.

Myra frowned. "Yeah... Drummer Boy told me about that when I dropped by HQ. Apparently you're in charge now?"

Deacon sighed. "Don't remind me."

"Wow, you must hate that!" she teased. "I am sorry, though. As much as I hated that bitch..."

The spy smiled slightly. "Yeah. Well, that's the job, right? No one in the Railroad has much of a life expectancy. You get used to it."

Myra put a hand on his shoulder. "Deeks..."

"It's okay, Whisp. I'm...really okay." Deacon's smile warmed somewhat, became more genuine.

"No, it's not that." She analyzed him carefully. "They think you murdered Dez. And probably Carrington too. You...didn't right?"

Deacon's face fell. "What? That's..." he thought for a moment. "Actually, that makes way more sense than I wish it did."

"I told her you didn't do it," MacCready interjected.

"Well, maybe I did," Deacon replied. "Not, like, me me, but --"

"Someone pretending to be you," Myra finished. "That's our theory too."

"Two Deacons," MacCready said, shuddering. "I don't think the 'Wealth is ready for that."

"I can barely deal with the one," Myra agreed.

Deacon grinned. "Come on. It'll be exciting! I've never fought myself before! This'll be a great story. Like that time I spent a year as a Brotherhood flight instructor. Gotta say, that was a tough one. I'm not the biggest fan of heights. And vertibirds aren't great at staying in the air when you invert 'em."

"Can you be serious for like, five seconds?" Myra interrupted. "Clearly, we have to catch this guy to prove that you're innocent."

"Correction: Deacon has to catch this guy," MacCready reminded her. "Unless you're staying."

The spy's brow crinkled ever so slightly. "You two got plans?"

Myra nodded. "Peregrine's headed to the Capital Wasteland, and so are we. Apparently they're after some sort of ancient evil book?"

Deacon groaned. "Let me guess: the Krivbeknih. Yeah, that's a pretty fun read, if you like dark, eldritch rituals. Though there's a great little chapter about undersea welding that I thought was pretty inspired."

"Am I the only one who's never heard of the damn thing?" Myra asked grumpily. "Back in my day, no one tampered with dark forces without bringing a young priest and an old priest. What's wrong with you people?"

"Most of the priests are dead," MacCready replied with a shrug.

"Or robots!" Deacon added, grinning.

Myra stared at him blankly. "No."

"What?" the spy asked. "I'm serious. Actual, mechanical robots. There's a whole order of 'em down south."

"Do you ever take a break from lying?" she griped.

"Actually, he's telling the truth," MacCready said. "I know, it creeps me out when it happens too."

Myra shook her head in disbelief. "I just can't win with this place," she muttered. "Okay, the theological implications of robot priests aside, apparently Peregrine wants the happy demon book that everyone seems to be familiar with to do necromancy. Or the synth equivalent. I'm not sure. I was only half-listening to Gregory."

"Huh." Deacon thought for a moment. "Well, I never tried any of those rituals. I mean, I love birthing the Crawling Chaos into the world at least as much as the next guy, but library late fees being what they are, who has the time? That and some pretty misshapen swamp people weren't too thrilled that I was poking through their stuff. So I'm not sure any of it would actually work."

"Still, Heather probably has the book," MacCready reminded them. "And that means my family's in danger unless we get to it first or deactivate those synths."

"Well, you know I'm typically in favor of rehabilitating synths rather than killing them," Deacon replied. "After all, I'm the head of the Railroad. Ugh!" he cried in disgust. "It just...feels dirty in my mouth."

MacCready snorted. "You'd better get used to it. Face it. You're the boss now."

"Doesn't mean I've gotta enjoy it," Deacon moaned. He turned to Myra. "By the way, the head of the Railroad is officially reinstating you. Now that the Brotherhood of Steel's terminated your little tryst, as far as I'm concerned, we're back on the same side."

Myra's eyes widened. "You mean it?"

"Well, I'll be keeping an eye on you," Deacon clarified. "And a tracking device. And several bugs. Maybe a tail, if I can spare anyone. But yeah, barring any more hunky soldiers stealing you away, I think we crazy kids can make this relationship work."

She chuckled. "Don't tempt fate. You know I'm a sucker for a man in uniform."

"My next act will be designing a very alluring Railroad uniform," the spy joked. "Mmm. Something from my spring collection, I think. But seriously, it'll be good to have you back on the team. God knows we could use the help. Just...not with the Deaconganger problem." He sighed. "I'll go ask Nick if he feels like a rematch with this poser."

"Deacon...ganger?" MacCready asked.

"No?" Deacon pouted. "I thought that one was pretty good. Okay...Deaconthrope? No, that implies that he turns into me during full moons...and just calling the guy a face thief is missing some pizzazz...oh!" His face morphed into a wide grin. "Yeah! P.A.M. called him 'the preordained shadow'! Now that's classy and terrifying!"

Myra shuddered. "The whole idea's pretty creepy, honestly. Wearing a face that isn't your own..."

"Yeah, I'm cooling on the idea myself," Deacon admitted. "Maybe I'll keep this mug from now on."

"You could do worse," she replied. "At least this one's --"

"Extremely handsome?" Deacon interrupted.

"--not particularly memorable," she finished at the same time, her eyes widening. "Not to say it's...I-I mean, just, for your job, that's a good thing."

The spy huffed. "Tell me what you really think."

Myra waved her hands frantically. "N-no, I mean, personally, I'm super attracted to you!" She blushed, realizing what she was saying. "I...uh...not like...damn it, you know what I mean!" she squealed, hiding her head in her hands. "Ugh, this is just not my day!"

Deacon smirked. "Yep. You think I'm a stone cold hottie. Don't worry, Whisp," he added in a suave voice. "Message received."

"Gross!" MacCready and Myra blurted in unison. They looked at each other in shock before looking away abruptly.

The spy adjusted his sunglasses, barely concealing the rosy blush on his cheeks. "Not that this isn't a fascinating roller coaster of embarrassment for everyone, but don't you two have places to be? Unless you've changed your mind, Whisp, now that I know how desperately you yearn to be at my side."

"Shut up," Myra grumbled, her freckled face beet red and only getting redder. "I can't. I'm sorry."

"I know," Deacon said softly. "Just, promise me you two are coming back. I'm lighter than usual in the friends department, which I honestly didn't think was possible. And as fun as it is to hit a new low, I'd really rather have people I can count on. You two have ruined me for the whole lonesome drifter look."

"You couldn't get rid of us if you tried," MacCready replied with a small smile. He wasn't big about discussing his feelings, especially with other men. But Deacon, for his many and various faults, was someone MacCready valued. Hopefully the spy knew that.

Myra hesitated for a moment before taking a step towards the spy. "Thanks, Deeks," she replied. "For everything." Then her arms were around him, pulling him into a bear hug.

"Y-yeah. Don't mention it," the spy sputtered awkwardly. "And still not a hugger, Whisp."

"Aw, you know you love it," she teased, letting him go.

Deacon muttered something under his breath, so faint that MacCready barely caught it. "I really kinda do."

MacCready stared at him. Deacon seemed...off, at once more relaxed and more tense than usual. Was it the new responsibilities on his shoulders, or the way the spy's eyes seemed to flit towards Myra as she sauntered off to the bedroom to change out of her stained clothes before darting back to the wall in front of him? The sniper sighed. Idiots. Every single one of his friends. He couldn't escape it. It was a damned curse.

Myra returned, sporting a brown leather jacket that was a little long for her in the sleeves. One of the shoulders was reinforced with a pauldron of honeycombed metal that seemed more stylish than practical. It certainly made a statement.

There was a sharp intake of breath from Deacon. "Whisp...that's Kellogg's jacket."

MacCready sighed. That was another trait his friends seemed to share: keeping wearable trophies. After all, Heather had worn Colonel Autumn's coat for almost three years after she'd put down the man who killed her father. It wasn't until she'd finally traded in her old name that she was able to let the symbol of her revenge rest. It worried him that Myra was following the same road almost as much as it filled him with pride. She was owning her decisions at last. That was an important step, as long as she didn't let it define her forever.

"It, uh, looks good on you," Deacon managed. "Certainly better than it did on Kellogg. Probably not as good as it'd look on me, though."

Myra blushed. "You had your chance and told me to keep it!" she teased. "Not my fault you changed your mind."

"A man can change his mind, Whisp," Deacon shot back, strangely defensive. "Especially when he's a liar."

MacCready cleared his throat, stepping between them. "We good to go?" he asked, probably a little louder than he needed to. God, they were irritating today.

Myra's startled eyes met his. "Yeah... Just wanted to hit the kitchen and grab some spices for the road, since I know you'll want them."

The sniper couldn't help but smile at the gesture. "Okay. Then let's hit the road. It's a long walk to Cheverly." He turned to Deacon. "Stay safe, okay?"

"Appreciate that, MacCready," Deacon replied, not making eye contact. "You do the same."