Chapter Text
War never changes.
Nora sees the explosion first, the dust it kicks up and the probably-imagined darkening of the sky. The shockwave comes after, and it makes most of them on the Mass Fusion roof stumble back. Danse's new power armor stays enduringly tall, while Drummer Boy loses his footing and falls on his ass. She'll tease him about that later if she can remember to, which is a scenario that is beginning to look less and less likely as the seconds pass and the air begins to still
They watch Cambridge, and nobody says anything for a couple minutes. She chances a couple looks at the others: Bandit watches the scene with no small amount of vicious glee, Desdemona's face is solemn but relaxed for what Nora believes might be the first time in months, and then, ever the optimist, Deacon lets out a jubilant whoop, and the rest of the crowd follows suit.
Nora wants to feel bad. Knows she should. The grin that splits her face is against her will, and she shouts, "How's that for a Christmas present, numbnuts!" A chorus of agreement follows.
Her son is dead and she's happier than she's ever been.
Nora turns back to the railing. She can't stop smiling, and as she beams into the wind, something creaks under her hands. She looks down at the hundreds of feet between her and the pavement, and then at what she's currently leaning on—the railing shifts, groaning this time, and before she can move to shift her weight, the metal gives way.
She pitches forward into empty space. The balcony disappears in a blur of red and black.
She's still smiling as she hurtles towards the street.
Nora jolts awake, coming to awareness all at once. The person with their arms slung around her shifts, and buries their nose in her hair. She smiles, moving one hand to clasp theirs, and they make a small sigh of contentment. Her heart still pounds from the dream.
Okay, taking stock. One: she's on a mattress at Headquarters. So is everybody else.
Two: the arms around her are Deacon's; he always keeps his nails trimmed down. This is one of the things about him that makes her pretty sure he was raised in a vault; most wasters couldn't care less about long nails.
Three: she really, really needs to pee.
She decides that last bit is the most pressing at the moment, and slowly untangles herself from Deacon. He's probably awake from just her having startled (he's always been a light sleeper), but she doesn't want to bother anybody else with the noise.
She rises and takes a better look around.
For once, it seems that every resident of the Old North Church is crashed at once, and it shows; there aren't nearly enough mattresses to go around, so all of HQ's rugs have been commandeered for tired agents. She sees a few people sleeping on jackets, and a couple white-suited synths trying their best to make do with plywood on brick slats. Chillingly, she's reminded of a gymnasium full of displaced refugees after a disaster. Only Carrington and Ostler are up and walking around (go figure), but Nora can spot Bandit and Daisy Mae huddled against one wall chattering to one another, and Tom is wide awake, the frantic scratch of his pencil on a notepad punctuating the combined snores of two dozen people. She notices Desdemona is missing.
Carrington spots her and makes his way over. She smiles tiredly at him, and he gives her a sympathetic look in return. "Hey, doc. Where's Dez?"
"Waiting for you upstairs. We decided it would be prudent to let you sleep."
"Appreciated," Nora yawns. "Should Deacon come along?"
"If he wishes, but his presence is not necessary." She catches the supposedly asleep spy screwing up his face cartoonishly at the snub, and for a second she wants so badly to kiss him.
Then the urge passes, and she follows Carrington up the stairs.
He takes a lantern along. It's not necessary; Nora has gone through this path enough times to know it by heart, but maybe he hasn't. She wonders if Carrington is a vaultie as well, used to life comfortably underground, and thus doesn't care to leave HQ as often as the others.
With the lamp, it's easy to see the mess the catacombs have become. The Brotherhood assault has made this place into the ruin it was always meant to be, and as she and Carrington walk, their shoes make prints in the brick dust knocked lose from all the minigun bullets. Nora thinks of Glory, and her heart breaks one more time.
"What are we going to do after this?" she murmurs.
Carrington says nothing, but she can feel his mind going all the same.
They emerge into the church. Nora's eyes immediately travel upwards; the chandelier is lit for the first time in her memory. When she opens her mouth to ask who in the hell's idea, Desdemona beats her to it and says, "Tanner insisted."
"Damn right," a deep voice calls.
Desdemona sits on one of the steps, the eternal cigarette in one hand. Lady and Nudge seem to have been in the middle of comparing their pieces; Nudge stuffs a massive pistol into a holster under her shoulder, completing her set of two, and Lady puts a comparatively dainty one into his belt. Tanner is reading through a stapled-together report, and as his eyes reach the end of the page, he flips it shut and focuses his attention on her. "Well! If it ain't the woman of the hour."
"Amen." Lady chuckles. "Wish I could've been there."
"Don't we all," Nudge adds.
Desdemona stands. She doesn't need the stair to be taller than everybody else in the room; she does a fine job of that on her own. "Good evening, Agent. I hope you slept well."
"Tried to. What's so important?" Nora punctuates this with a bleary-eyed yawn for emphasis, and Desdemona sighs.
"The church is, for lack of a better word, burned. There may still be Brotherhood survivors out there who know our location, and if any of us were followed here, as Pam says is likely, I imagine we can expect a visit from a courser or two within the next couple of days."
Tanner and Lady both wince. Nudge seems like she wants to go "Promise?" Desdemona notes their reactions and continues, "Not that I don't imagine we can't handle one should it become necessary, just that I don't want to put agents at risk."
"What the hell do we do, then?"
"We're relocating HQ, effective immediately. Essential personnel only." Another go at the cigarette. "Lady, Nudge, and Tanner are going to escort everyone to Goodneighbor, Bunker Hill, and Diamond City respectively, and we'll coordinate from there."
"Essential personnel. I don't suppose I qualify for that?"
Desdemona grimaces. "Yes and no. You are essential, don't get me wrong, but as our most effective agents, you and Deacon are far too valuable to spend time milling around at Headquarters."
"Don't I even get a break?" Nora says, a bit petulantly. "I mean, hell, after a shitstorm like that, ought to get at least a little breather."
"The work is never finished, agent. The destruction of our enemy has put many moving parts into play, and the sooner we get things squared away, the better." Desdemona draws a piece of broken glass out of one shirt pocket and stubs the cigarette out on it. "I understand you're tired, Charmer, which is why I want the two of you to go with Ostler and Daisy Mae back to Monarch House. Be ready to ship out by midnight. Take a few days to regroup, but keep on your toes. We should have an assignment for you in the next week or two. Get going."
Nora sighs, salutes, and turns back into the catacombs. As she rounds the corner, a pair of arms wrap around her, pulling her out of sight of Desdemona and the rest, and in a second Deacon's lips are on hers.
She pulls back after a glorious couple of seconds and gives him an offended look. "Jeez. You startled me."
"Well, hey, gotta keep my skills sharp somehow." He responds with a shit-eating grin. "And you know you love to see it."
"I absolutely do not." She grips his hand and brings it up to her cheek. "You're freezing, man."
"Cold hands, warm heart," he says sweetly. Bastard.
Nora smiles and presses it against her chest. "You heard Dez, right? Heading off with Mae and Ostler tonight?"
"To Monarch. I heard."
"Have you ever actually been there?"
Deacon shakes his head. "I have not, but if Mae's there, can't be all bad. She's a good cookie."
"True enough." Nora chuckles, then sobers. "Have you talked to Tom? How's he holding up?"
"I have. He's a little out of it, might've had one mentat too many, but Carrington's keeping an eye on him. Shouldn't keel over after we leave and all that, knock on wood."
She relaxes, but raps a knuckle twice on the paneling for good measure. "That's good. I— I just worry about him. Think he'll be more receptive to laying off since his primary boogeyman's all gone?"
He hesitates before answering, but says, "We'll, uh, cross that bridge when we get there. Maybe keep your eyes open for some Addictol."
"Not a big vote of confidence there, buddy."
Deacon shakes his head. "He'll be okay. Come on, we ought to get packing."
When they go back downstairs, Lady accosts them. He's a nice guy, lanky, all leg and no chub, and with bony fingers better suited to playing the piano or picking locks than heavy duty defense operations. He shoves a faded bottle of bourbon into Nora's hands.
"Lovers '68," he says conspiratorially. "Tanner picked this up way back when in Butte. Don't let him know I'm giving this to you, it was supposed to be a gift."
Nora laughs. "Ah, the cycle of regifting continues. Stop by Monarch sometime, Lady, we'll share it."
"Nah. This is your thing. Drink it all with D-Man this Saturday, don't let it languish. You deserve it."
"Damn," Deacon says. "If this is the reward we get for exploding tyrannical groups, we ought to do it more often."
"Well, shit, if you're looking for suggestions, I'd start with what's left of the Enclave. Or those Homestead fucks out west. From what Tan says, those guys could use a swift kick in the nuts."
"We'll take it into consideration." Nora laces her fingers with Deacon's and gives them a squeeze. "But for now..."
"Aw, yeah. Don't let me keep you." Lady pulls both of them into a sharp hug. "You two be safe. We might've taken care of The Monster, but there are still monsters out there. And keep in touch!"
"You know we will. You still kicking it at Vananda?"
"Always. See you around, guys."
"See ya, Lady."
Lady gives them a cheerful tip of his finger and disappears off in the direction of Pam's room. HQ is a whirl of activity; people are grabbing belongings, stuffing them into bags and backpacks, making note of what's written on the blackboard before it's swiped clean. Tom is disassembling his computer with practiced ease, though his hands still shake slightly. Through the chaos, Nora makes her way to Ostler, who is helping Carrington pack his chems in the medical corner. Ostler's tall and dark-skinned, with an earnest grin and long, coarse hair pulled back. Nora thinks she would have something of a crush on him if they'd met during her first couple months in the wasteland, but in this lifetime he's nothing but an esteemed colleague.
Carrington glances at her as she approaches, then goes back to his task. Ostler sets a capped Med-X syringe down. "Hey, Charmer. Did Dez talk to you?"
"Mhm. Where's Mae?"
"Went with some of the others to try clearing the escape tunnel. She should be back soon."
"I thought that path was a lost cause?"
Ostler shakes his head. "Probably is. But if we can get out that way, it could minimize casualties if the church is being watched. Shit makes me wish Glory was still around."
"Me too."
They sit in companionable silence for a few seconds. "Were you guys close?"
Ha! Looks like 'Charmer' isn't just how they describe your talk, babe. Come at me again. "Yeah."
"That's a shame. From what I hear, she was the real deal."
Don't tuck your thumb in unless you want a broken bone. Lay it across your pointer and middle fingers, yeah? "The realest."
Nora wipes her watery eyes, and mumbles something about being sleepy, but perhaps Ostler isn't so easily fooled. He gives her a gentle pat on the shoulder, and turns back to Carrington. "Give me a few minutes here."
She thinks this acceptable, and turns away. Deacon has vanished, probably off to do some last-second housekeeping, and so she wanders through the church alone. Cries of "Hey, Nora!" or, "Hell yeah, Charmer!" follow her, and she ducks her head. Then, after a few seconds, she finds herself in the corner where Deacon's bed is, and where her stuff is set.
She kneels and rifles through her bag with the vague hope of looking busy enough that no one will bother her. This appears to work for all of ninety seconds before she becomes aware of metal clanks behind her. "Hey, Pam."
"Hello, Agent Charmer. Destruction of Institute verified."
"Heard about that, did you?" she says wryly. "What do you think of all this?"
"I am currently updating all predictive models to account for recent events. This may take several hours."
"What the hell are you doing talking to me, then?"
Pam stills for a couple of seconds. "Previous matrices suggest that being responsible for potentially hundreds of civilian deaths is not conducive to long-term mental health. Ideally, human entity should seek assistance from a licensed physician as soon as possible."
Nora takes a second to process this. Then, she breaks out in laughter. "Oh. Wow, wow. Pam. I didn't think you had it in you."
"It is my directive to assist organization assets however feasible. Railroad efficiency decreases as Agent's efficiency decreases. Your death, suicide or otherwise, would drop the amount of synths removed from the Commonwealth region by sixty-seven percent."
"Gee, thanks. I thought you really cared."
"I am incapable of caring. This is not a personal insult." Pam hums. "I also have reason to posit Agent Deacon's effectiveness would drop by around one hundred percent should this scenario came to pass. Given that he is the organization's second most effective actor, this would likely cripple the Railroad entity, or at least reduce its operating capacity to a fraction of what it is currently."
"Yeah, yeah. I know."
"I find this unlikely. Railroad-Alpha has previously input information relating to an Agent Clyde, who has a background in psychiatry and analytics. Consulting with Agent Clyde may prove helpful in improving Agent's effectiveness. Terminating conversation."
Nora watches Pam clunk away, and wishes she were human so she wouldn't feel bad giving her a kick in the shins.
Before they leave, she pens a letter.
She hands it over for Tanner to take to Diamond City, and hopes it reaches its destination soon.
They're out in another hour with minimal trouble, which to Nora means minimal congratulations on how good of a job the assault had been. She believes she's likely to hear it dozens of times over in the next few days, and wishes to keep herself from getting tired of the complement. That, and she doesn't want to think about, well...
Being responsible for potentially hundreds of civilian deaths.
Leave it to Pam to make her life infinitely worse without even meaning to. She wasn't thinking about that before, when all that was on her mind was victory, but now it sits there, occupying space like a heavy weight. She can't decide whether or not its place there is justified. The Institute's actions were despicable, yes, but not everyone in there was responsible for that carnage. Liam, for instance. Rosalind. Li. Not enough to warrant the death sentence, anyway. She knows the evacuation order didn't leave enough time for everyone to get out by necessity; the only question is who was lucky enough to be near the relay when it was issued.
"Something wrong, boss?" Deacon is holding her hand before she knows it. He's got an uncanny ability to make her feel better, though this information comes at the cost of him almost always knowing when she's sad or uncertain.
She shoves her thoughts down. "Bad times, Dee. I've completely run out of mints."
"God forbid." He sobers and says, "Well, you don't have to tell me now, but don't let it kick around up there forever."
"Nah. It's alright. I'm just worried about Shaun, y'know? Er, junior. I wonder if he's protest a name change."
"Could let him pick his own." Deacon fidgets with the sunglasses hanging off his shirt collar. "Kids go wild for secret agent shit. And, hey, if he picks a codename now, could make life easier when he inevitably decides to take after his mom."
She laughs good-naturedly and shoves him. "That's a worst-case scenario. Besides, who knows if we'll even be needed by the time he's old enough?"
"Thinkin' about retiring?"
"Never," she replies.
Son,
I have a lot of things I need to talk to you about, and some of them are not suitable to send by mail. I know that's a bum deal, so I'll tell you what I can. The rest you'll have to be patient for.
The first thing: The last few days have been a ride, and I'm not sure what you remember from them. Trauma messes with your memory sometimes (ask Doctor C to explain this sometime if you want an earful). Don't feel bad if someone brings up something you don't remember, or if you remember something somebody else doesn't. It's just brains being weird and inconsistent.
The second thing: I will not be able to see you for a while. I know that's a bum deal too, but the Commonwealth needs somebody to help it through what's happening right now. Hopefully it'll take no longer than a couple weeks for me to get back. In the meantime, your uncles will take care of you, and I want you to treat them as you would me.
The third thing: I love you. I know the last few days have been tough, but you've come through and handled things like a champ. I might be away for now, but the worst is over, and I trust you to make good choices. You're a smart cookie, little man.
Go to school, make new friends, and do your best to put what's happened out of your mind. I'll be there soon.
Mom
It's nearly dawn when Nora, Daisy Mae, and Deacon reach Nahant Road. Ostler lags a couple minutes behind, watching for tails and occasionally taking crack shots at bugs up ahead. It's one of his more irritating habits; half the time some fly or roach will fall dead right in front of them, and half the time the shot will miss and alert it to their presence. Thankfully, it's winter, and most of the bugs are fast asleep, mitigating the damage.
When they reach the peninsula, while Ostler catches up, Mae takes a second to talk to one of the men standing guard. Nora delights in seeing the heavy interact with the fellow; she's a good 6'3, tanned, with muscles for days, and a personality completely incongruous with her appearance. Mae makes for a striking impression.
The man gives them the go-ahead, and they start heading across. Despite all the trips she's taken across it, it's still difficult for Nora not to think of this thin part of the peninsula as a bridge. Certainly it serves the same tactical purpose as one, with the notable difference that it'd take a hell of a lot more TNT to render it unusable. They dodge potholes, and Ostler's eyes sweep the pavement a little too closely. There's some trauma in that action, Nora thinks, to look for mines on such a well-trod path. She knows it's not her place to play therapist, but she wonders anyway.
Ah, that's a thought. Therapy, the lost art. Somebody ought to bring that back.
She's reminiscing about the many old-world practices that have surrendered to time when she hears the gunshots.
All of them stop and draw their guns at the same time; Ostler lifts and aims his rifle to where they'd come, gazing through the scope at the choke point. Whatever he sees makes him blanch and mutter, "Fuck."
"Is it just the one?" Deacon says.
"Can't tell, but I'd be very surprised if it weren't."
"Good Christ," Mae groans. She's already got a grenade out, tugging the pin away and clutching it so hard her knuckles turn white. "Would now be a good time to tell y'all I've never fought one of these things?"
"It's got a Stealth Boy. Mae, you know what that looks like?"
"Shimmer."
"Yeah. Don't let it get close, no hammer this time."
"Can we get to town before it...?" Nora asks, even though she already knows the answer. They still have a mile left to go, and trying to outrun a courser is a notably futile exercise.
"It's after us. There's no reason for it to go to town, but if we go, it's certain there'll be civilian casualties. Charmer, you've dealt with a courser before, right?"
"I had the drop on it that time." Nora catches movement on the road about a hundred yards out and says, "Ostler."
"Yep." The sound of his rifle rings out, and dirt flies from where the courser had been. Ostler grunts in frustration and takes another shot, this one hitting true. Blood spurts from some part of the courser's body—its arm, if Nora has to hazard a guess from the way it moves—and the trail it leaves behind on the fresh, dawn-lit snow is a damn welcome sight. But it doesn't slow.
"Mae, grenade," Nora orders. "Cook it a little so he can't catch it and throw it back." She doesn't think the grenade will do a hell of a lot of good, but she'd much rather the thing be discharged while the courser's at a distance.
Mae nods and tosses the grenade after an agonizing couple of seconds. It's a pitcher's throw, straight, narrow, and fast without much of a curve, and it reaches its destination almost immediately, bouncing off the invisible synth's coat and landing on the ground near its feet. The four of them shield their faces, and in the next second the blast shakes the ground and sends the courser flying back.
"Holy fucking shit," Deacon murmurs. "Mae, you rock."
Nora's about to say something to the effect that they can discuss Mae's promising baseball career later when something much worse catches her eye: the courser, visible, getting up and having little trouble doing so. Ostler sees it too and says, "Tough fuckers. Wish I could survive a direct grenade hit."
"Don't jinx it, Ost," Nora replies. "Square up."
The courser advances, and all four of them raise their guns and fire. Ostler's rifle gets its shoulder, Deacon follows with a shot to the gut, and Nora's slug blows right through its chest on the opposite side of its heart. Now it's beginning to slow, falling to the ground after a few steps, its laser rifle forgotten in the dirt. It grasps at its stomach weakly, blood pooling on the snow, and after a couple seconds there's one more bang; the courser's arms give, and it slumps. Mae stares at it, her little pistol held loose in her trembling hands.
"Did I...? Did we really do that?" Her eyes are wide with elation and panic. "We really killed him. Holy shit."
"Ostler, you said there were more," Deacon says.
"I said I wouldn't be surprised."
The four of them assume defensive formation (back to back, two people watching each end of the strip in case one is lying in wait on the side of town) and inch towards Nahant at a snail's pace. Some distance is better than none, but it still feels like they're waiting for that other shoe to drop the whole time.
Dawn bleeds into day as they make it to the final stretch.
One of New Nahant's unique features is its complete lack of need for walls, but that doesn't mean the new residents haven't started building them anyway. Tires and old cars litter the final acre, and Ostler has taken his eyes off the horizon to start looking for mines in the debris. Nora begins to relax, but Daisy Mae seems as tightly-wound as in battle. Deacon, as usual, is unreadable.
There's a shout from one of the watch towers up ahead, and then there's people running to them, fussing, saying hello or asking questions ("Is it true, folks? What we heard on the radio?"). Mae's instantly in the spotlight ("You killed a courser!?" "That's one of them Institute tanks, right?"), and Deacon's recognized and pulled off to the side almost immediately by Diamond, the proprietor of Monarch House ("Jesus Christ, man. You really had us worried, you know that?"). Almost everybody there knows they're Railroad, and if Nora knows Deacon, there'll be a serious talk with the agents of Monarch on the definition of 'opsec' before the day's over. Ostler gives Nora an encouraging smile, and she finally gives herself permission to breathe out. No more coursers. No more threats to her bodily safety for at least two more days.
A couple of the gawkers begin heading out towards the other end of the peninsula, presumably to retrieve the bodies the courser's inevitably left behind, and as she looks out, Nora feels a shadow breeze by her. It's faint, but it leaves a chill trail, like a shark cutting through water. She turns just in time to see a dark-skinned man disappearing into the crowd, and the recognition that flashes through her system is like lightning. His face is turned away, but somehow she's willing to bet that resting on the man's nose is a pair of mirrored patrolman's sunglasses.
As they walk to Monarch House, Nora doesn't bring up the man who may or may not have been. She knows she probably ought to, but she's somewhat convinced it was a hallucination or otherwise her brain mistaking some perfectly ordinary citizen for the thing that'd once traveled with and killed for her.
New Nahant itself has grown exponentially since her last visit. The place is big enough now that the preexisting houses have all been filled, and new houses in the signature wasteland style are being constructed left and right; Diamond says that they've got easily a hundred residents, enough to give Bunker Hill a run for its money, and enough to start on a sort of town watch, a small band that has begun calling themselves the Coast Guard. Nora likes this reference to the old world, the first in a while she can actually appreciate.
She thinks that if she were to come back in a year, the place would probably be bigger than Diamond City.
Monarch House is stationed in what was once Croup Manor, and the team starts up that path once they reach it. Handbuilt residences are slowly encroaching on the safehouse's walls, and Nora desperately hopes that the need for Railroad secrecy will be over by the time that space is being used.
As she gazes up at the mansion, there's movement in one of the third-floor windows. A face, it looks like. It's too far away to get a clear view, but from the apprehension she'd guess they were a synth, newly free and scared as a mouse. Nora smiles. She's always liked working with those types. Getting them to come out of their shell and look at the world less fearfully is like earning the trust of a scared wild animal: noble, delicate, and more rewarding than any shitty old-world medal.
She falls back to where Deacon is bringing up the rear and slips her hand into his. They walk like that for a while, and then he asks, "What are you going to do after this?"
That's a good question. "Haven't really thought about it. We've still got a lot of work to do, don't we?"
"Less than you'd expect, actually. I'm pretty sure Dez's just keeping us on standby in case something goes wrong."
"Which, knowing us..."
"...is going to be literally always," Deacon finishes.
"I wouldn't say that. I'd say most of the time."
"We must be remembering differently." He peeks over his sunglasses at her. "Since when has anything ever gone right for Red Orchard?"
"Oh, I can think of a couple things." She grins at him and squeezes his hand. He responds with a quick peck on her cheek, and for a second, she imagines a future where the last week has never happened: Glory stays alive, and she and Deacon continue the good fight, rescuing synths together and helping get the Railroad back to full strength. She pictures that future so vividly that when it slips away from her, she's left grasping at where it had been.
There's no good fight anymore. It had been won the second she'd pushed that button on Mass Fusion's roof, and for that second she wishes the Institute were still around, if only so she could keep fighting it.
Diamond lets them in through the left door. The others have been boarded up, as have the gaps in the construction and most of the windows. They're neat jobs, two-by-fours and plywood slotted together evenly with no gaps, and painted to match the rest of the house—Ostler must be responsible for that. The flowerbeds are empty currently, but in the spring they'll be meticulously taken care of, blooms of color in an otherwise quite grey residence. All things considered, Monarch House really is the pinnacle of wasteland style.
The room they enter into is quiet, cold, and sparsely furnished. As the four of them kick off their respective snow-covered shoes, Diamond shuts the door behind them and clears her throat. The sound echoes in the empty space as she says, "You guys have got some explaining to do."
"Don't I know it," Deacon mutters.
Diamond looks at him sharply. "I'd like to know whose idea it was to send you here so soon. That's if you guys were sent, and aren't just dropping by for a completely unnecessary social call."
"Headquarters made that decision," Ostler says, as diplomatically as possible. "Top herself, actually. We're supposed to lie low."
"Fine job you're doing of that, huh?" Diamond spits. "Now I gotta have a word with the captain about disposing of that thing instead of having breakfast. Make yourselves at home, dicks."
She leaves, and the door swings shut behind her. Once they're sure she's out of earshot, Nora says, "Wonder what crawled up her ass and died"
"We did lead a courser right to her safehouse, man." Ostler sighs and hangs his coat on a nail driven into the wall. "You have to admit the onus is on us."
Nora gives him a look mean enough to curdle milk. "I didn't lead jack shit. You were supposed to be the one watching our six."
"I was watching our six. I just... wasn't watching mine."
"So you do admit it's your fault."
"Yeah, I fucked up, Charmer. But guess what? Coursers are kinda built for that. Your ass wouldn't have stood a chance either."
"Wanna bet, you smug bastard?"
"I dunno, should I? You soft prewar hack?"
"I think you should put your money where your fucking mouth is."
"Guys." Mae's voice cuts through the exchange, soft and shaky. "We killed it. Isn't that enough?"
Nora rounds on her, ready to come back with some perfectly valid reason why it's not enough, when she sees Mae's face. The heavy looks like she's about to cry, the sharp angles of her face crinkled with stress, the watery precursors of tears shining in her eyes. All the bluster goes out of Nora in one fell swoop, and she lowers her fists. She hadn't realized she'd had them up. Something similar seems to have happened to Ostler, who mumbles some excuse to head down the stairs and down into the basement. Mae wipes her eyes with the back of her sleeve. Deacon, who's been watching the exchange more-or-less impassively, takes her arm gently and leads her to the kitchen, where the soft clatter of forks and knives against breakfast plates has suddenly quieted (for better or worse, the Railroad is always inclined to eavesdrop). Nora stands there through it all, anger dissipating into the stagnant air.
Deacon comes back with two cups of coffee and a tight smile. "How about we go upstairs?"
They do, and the whole time they are accompanied by Nora's rapidly growing sense of shame. At one point she notices Deacon overcorrect for a step, spill some of the coffee on his hand, and wince, but he says nothing, and continues on like it has not happened. This somehow makes her feel even worse.
They reach the top floor, and Nora opens the door to the bedroom so Deacon can get in. He steps carefully on the planks across the ruined section of floor, moves to one of the bedside tables, and sets the mugs down; once this is finished, he hides the burned hand in one coat pocket, and pats the bed next to him with the other. She sits and leans against him, pressing the base of her palms into her eyes.
"God. Why do I do that, Dee?" she asks flatly.
"Long answer or short answer?"
"Long answer.
"If I had to guess, it'd be because both of you still have a lot of adrenaline in your systems from earlier, and combat tends to make a person a little jumpy. Big surprise, I know."
"Okay. What's the short answer?"
"That arguments happen sometimes. But you should go apologize later."
"Later?"
"You wouldn't know this, but Ost's one of those slow-fuse, burn-long people. I'd give it at least six hours. In the meantime, why don't we go get some food?"
"I'm not hungry."
Deacon shrugs. "It's your call, but as a wise man once said, never pass up an opportunity to eat, piss, or get a couple hours' shuteye. I'll be downstairs."
She watches him leave, and takes custody of her coffee once she no longer hears footsteps. The brew steams into her face; it's not coffee specifically, but it is caffeinated and made from beans, which the wasteland has taken to mean more or less the same thing. She takes a long inhale, and catches a hint of something her old-world self might've identified as vanilla. The flavor's more similar to tea than old-world coffee, and for a second she wishes more than anything for it to be a nice, shitty cup of Slocum's Crystals. The desire passes, as it usually does, and she brings it to her mouth for a cautious sip, warming to the taste of the silt beans.
Does X6-88 have it in him to follow her to Monarch? Does he have it in him to destroy that house along with everyone there? Yes, and yes. Nora believes that from the bottom of her heart. But whether he can afford to make a move...
She sets her coffee on the nightstand and goes downstairs.
Deacon's gnawing away at a thick piece of bacon when she enters the dining room. Most of the breakfast crowd appears to have vacated in his presence, and the couple that remain don't dare speak to them. And though her eyes are still somewhat red, Mae's demeanor appears to be improving with food. Nora gives her an apologetic nod, then sets one hand on Deacon's shoulder. "Hey. Red Orchard's gotta talk."
"Can it wait?" He asks it to give the appearance of exasperation to their audience, but Nora knows he'll drop everything if she answers no. She smiles sadly, and shakes her head.
Deacon finishes his bite, and they head out back.
"So." He gives her a good-natured cocky head tilt once they're far out of earshot of any agents. "What's so important that I have to miss out on Bravo's world-famous eggs overeasy?"
"I think there's a courser in town."
His smile falls faster than a dropped hammer. "There's a- oh, shit."
"I'm not a hundred percent certain," she cautions. "It could just be a lookalike. But I want you to be ready."
"Aaaand you didn't think to tell me this sooner." His hands reach behind his back, pure muscle memory, reaching for a rifle that isn't there. Of course it's not. It's on the third floor, along with almost all the rest of their gear. Nora kicks herself for not remembering to bring it.
"I didn't want to raise a false alarm." Not all their gear, though; she still has Deliverer in her belt, silencer removed and stashed safely in her backpack. Not much of a whisper anymore, but it's a fair trade for maneuverability. And Deacon, as always, still has his knife. "I'm going out to see if I can find him, or someone I mistook for him. I want you to watch my six."
"No biggie. That thing knows the location of our most heavily populated base and is fully capable of killing everyone inside. No biggie."
She gives him a look that hopefully conveys get ahold of yourself, and motions for him to follow her. Diamond's still out, so they meet minimal resistance in the house, but as Deacon shuts the front door behind them, a large man with bagged eyes and a scraggly beard detaches himself from the railing. Deacon gives him a pained smile and says, "Hey, Bravo."
"Where you two going?"
"Out. Charmer here's got some idea about Leo overcharging for carrots, so we're going to investigate. Stay tuned, produce prices are gonna drop by half if we're right."
Bravo looks at the outline of the sheath in Deacon's pocket. His face tells them he sees right through the lie, but he nods anyway and says, "Stay safe."
"We'll try," Nora replies sincerely.
They leave Bravo on the porch, but Nora feels his worried gaze on their backs.
Among wasteland settlements, New Nahant has the unique quality of being wide—in the morning daylight, the peninsula's streets look more dangerous than an angry yao guai. A sniper's paradise. They take the side alleys behind the houses, sticking close to the cliffs on the north side of town. If this were Diamond City of Goodneighbor they'd just be able to take general countersurveillance measures instead of clinging to the shadows like criminals, and she wonders if Deacon resents that.
When they reach the back of the church, they stop and take stock.
"Alright." Nora says. "Institute-standard stealth charges last about a minute. Most coursers have two. That's maybe three minutes of invisibility at most. If a courser can make a four-minute mile, and that's how long the bridge is, then he must have used all his charge trying to follow us here. So he should be visible, if nothing else."
Deacon thumbs his knife blade neurotically. She doesn't think he even knows he's doing it. "Somehow that doesn't make me feel a lot better."
"Yeah, well, I'll take what I can get." Suddenly there's movement behind Deacon, and in a flash she's got Deliverer out and aiming at the space just over his shoulder. He starts and turns. There's a moment of quiet, and Nora calls, "Come on out. Let's get this over with if it has to be done."
"Don't shoot. I'm not armed." The voice is deep and steady, and belongs to exactly who she thinks it does. Dread fills her stomach. Deacon chances a look back at her face, and apparently her expression tells her all she needs to know. His grip on the knife turns white-knuckled.
But, wait.
"What? You want to talk?"
"Yes."
It's a trick. It has to be. "Prove it, then."
After a second, something comes flying out from behind the corner: an Institute pistol, dented and scorched to the point of unusability. It lands in the snow with a soft crunch and sits there.
"What about your rifle?"
"I didn't have time to retrieve it."
There's no guarantee that the courser doesn't have other weapons on him, but she remembers something Max Loken had said once: Even the most fastidious researcher must sometimes take a leap of faith. She takes a breath, trying to calm her racing heart, and says, "Alright. Let's talk."
X6-88 does not leave the safety of his cover right away, instead opting to make a slow, measured entrance. He rounds the corner, and his hands remain up as he approaches Nora and Deacon. This time he's wearing the standard white synth uniform, an outfit Nora is very much not used to seeing him in, and which blends in perfectly with the snow. No wonder they didn't see him. The good news is that this outfit leaves no room for hidden weapons; unless he's hiding a blade up his sleeve, X6-88 is telling the truth about being unarmed.
"What do you want?" she asks, making no attempt to hide the hostility in her voice. Why should she bother?
X6 stops in his approach a few feet from her, and mimes thinking this over. "That's a very good question. What do I want?" He steps closer so that they're nearly toe-to-toe. "Riches? Women?"
Nora watches her fisheyed reflection in his glasses. She doesn't see the fist that comes at her until it's too late, and by the time she realizes what's happening it's already smashed into her cheek, sending blinding pain through her face. She stumbles, loses her balance, and falls onto the ground, tailbone crackling warningly.
Deacon rushes at X6, knife flashing in his hand. The courser catches his arm mid-swing like it's nothing, twisting it back as far as it'll go without seriously injuring him, and Deacon gasps with surprise and pain. The courser gives him a disdainful look. This is the only concession he makes before dishing an expertly-calculated right hook to the spy's jaw, and then Deacon goes limp. X6 tosses him away, like a child bored with a ragdoll, and he goes sprawling facedown into the snow.
X6 turns back to her on the ground, fumbling for Deliverer, and gives her arm a good, hearty kick. And another. She wonders if it's bone she hears cracking.
"I know what I want, ma'am," he continues in his monotone. "I want to hurt you. That's what I want."
She turns over away from him into the fetal position, cradling her arm. He responds with a kick in the back, which, while bearable, makes her wish that whole passing-out-during-violence thing was something she could do at will instead of just after some blood loss.
With her good arm, she wrestles Deliverer out and fires a couple weak shots in X6's general direction. This attempt is short-lived, as he bends down and tears the gun from her grasp, tossing it back near the discarded Institute pistol. She turns over and reaches in its direction; this is a mistake, because in the next second X6 lands a rib kick that has her doubled over again.
So she lies there, protecting her head as best she can with her shot arm, waiting for it to be over.
It feels like forever passes before she hears voices, coming around from the other side of the church, and as they grow louder, the kicks stop. When she opens her eyes, X6 has vanished. She takes the opportunity to catch her breath; it feels like the wind has been knocked out of her, and it probably was.
Deacon stirs, then sits upright after a couple seconds, swaying the whole time. He looks around frantically, spots her after a couple seconds, and crawls over. His limbs move strangely, like he's forgotten how much force to put behind them. He puts one cold hand on Nora's face, and the friendly touch makes her want to pass out again. "No, no, no... Boss, c'mon. We gotta get out of here."
She's conscious enough to want to tell him exactly how shit that suggestion is, but clearing her throat turns into a wet cough, and blood speckles Deacon's sunglasses. His expression turns to one of horror. For once he doesn't look like he can think of anything to say, and in the back of her mind, Nora's certain he's concussed. She only wants to be able to tell him this, but the phonemes trip over themselves in her mouth and words come out as garbled, scratchy nonsense.
The voices are so loud, and shadows fall over her and Deacon. A gasp, and then she's being hauled to her feet, put on someone's back, and clinging to a neck with her free arm. The shot one dangles uselessly, like a wet noodle attached to her shoulder. Deacon's an incoherent mess at her side, false and contradictory explanations tumbling out of his mouth like so much vomit. She hates seeing him like this, scrambled and confused, the normally charming man of mystery reduced to a gibbering, shambling thing. It makes her wonder how thin that line really is.
They're in the clinic after another moment. Nora knows that her losing time is a really bad thing, but damned if she doesn't appreciate missing out on the pain the walk there probably brought her. Nora can't remember the name of Nahant's doctor, Jones or James or something, but she's there all the same, slicing up Nora's good shirt and poking her fresh bruises.
There's a hard prick in one shoulder, and the relief that flows through her is instantly recognizable as Med-X. She mumbles something about wanting to sleep, and the doctor says something in agreement. In another second she's there in the bed spontaneously, through no actual will of her own. The pain is still there, but it's less, and that is something Nora is more than ready to deal with. She takes a deep sigh, and gives the narcotic room to work.
In her dream, she's back at home before the war. The sun shines cheerful on her face, and Nate is there with an unlabeled brown bottle. He passes it to her.
"It's a little early to be drinking," she tells him.
He grins playfully. "Must be five o'clock somewhere, right?"
She shrugs and takes a long sip: chocolate stout, like her brother used to make. "You get this from Buster?"
"This and one other. I swear he hates my guts, the man never gives me enough beer to go around."
"Well, maybe I can talk some sense into him." Nora smiles. "You meet his girl yet?"
"Annette? Yep. Always wanted a sister."
"Hm. Isn't it weird that she's called your sister-in-law when I'm your wife? I mean, if she's your sister, and she's also my sister—"
"You're thinking again, sweetheart. Drink your medicine."
"Psh." She chuckles and takes another sip of the beer. The conversation sounds familiar, like one she's seen played out in a movie a hundred times, and the force of it nearly bowls her over. She loves this man. She loves him more dearly than she loves her parents, or her brother, or her dog, and the two of them gaze at each other in the early afternoon sunlight and in his eyes she can see he's thinking the same.
"Hey, honey," Nora says. "Tell me if this is crazy, but is it too soon to start thinking about kids?"
She wakes slowly, the pain in her side no longer too light to ignore. The world is blurry, and she blinks, trying to force her focus. Light streaming in through holes in a bit of corrugated sheeting. Object that looks like a Brahmin skull mounted on the wall. Okay, wasteland decor, not Institute or Brotherhood work. Nora relaxes somewhat. Probably her allies or some garden-variety Commonwealth gang, both easily dealt with. She shuts her eyes again, but as much as she'd like to, she can't get back to sleep. She lets out a sigh, and the sound makes someone else stir from their place on the couch: Ostler, bleary-eyed and looking as groggy as she does.
"Hey, Ost," she says, voice cracking from disuse. Nobody ever talks about that part of being knocked out. "What time is it?"
He sits up. "About two. Er, PM. Friday."
"Well, that's not bad. Where's Deacon?"
"On watch. Johann said it wasn't healthy for him to be skulking around the clinic with an unconscious patient inside, so she sent him out. Are you feeling alright?"
She's about to say yes, of course, but then she realizes that's wrong. She feels weirdly faint, and her chest hurts like a motherfucker. "What'd Johann say? Am I gonna be good to go?"
Ostler grimaces. "Not for a couple weeks, at least. She suspects it's a bruised lung; you go charging into any situations where your foot speed is a factor, and you're more or less boned."
"So, pretty much all my runs?" She groans. "Fuck, dude."
"I'm sorry, Nora. Are you, uh, cool to tell me what happened?"
"Deacon didn't?"
He shakes his head and says, "He doesn't remember very much."
Nora thinks about X6-88. She thinks about what he said. I want to hurt you. Then he had. No runs for her for at least a week, if Ostler is to believed, and in the meantime synths die. He had hurt. And then he'd fucked off, even when Deliverer was in easy reach, even when Deacon's knife was on the ground at his feet. He hadn't wanted to kill her. The thought had never even crossed his mind.
And now that he'd done what he wanted to, what was the point in hanging around any longer?
She shrugs. "It was really sudden. I didn't get a good look at whoever it was."
"Can't you remember anything?"
She pretends to think. "They were wearing a white shirt. Boots. Nothing else."
Ostler doesn't believe her, she can see that much written on his face. But he sighs and gestures to a glass on the nightstand. "Water, you should have some. It's been a hot minute since Johann put you under."
She concurs with this and drinks. The water tastes vaguely salty; she figures that if Nahant's filters don't need cleaning already, they will soon. But it does help with the thirst. "Whoever it was, I don't think they're going to hang around. In fact, I'm pretty sure their next move is to get the hell out of Dodge. And if the objective was to give me a beatdown and scram, I don't think it'll make much of a difference at this point."
"Maybe."
"Hey," she says. "I'm sorry."
He furrows his brow. "Sorry? For what?"
"Calling you a smug bastard."
"Um." There's a beat of silence while he parses this. "Oh, yesterday? 'S fine, man. Don't worry about it."
But she can't shake the feeling that it's not fine. If they'd gotten along yesterday she would have asked him for his help and they wouldn't be in this mess. Ostler would know that an ex-courser would be up to no good. Deacon might've, except that he trusted her judgement; judgement that, in this case, was faulty enough to have potentially gotten them both killed if their assailant had been focused on correction instead of revenge. She shakes the guilt away and focuses on a more pressing matter: "Can you go get Deacon? I really need to talk to him. Thanks, Ost."
"Don't mention it." He vanishes into the next room, and then there's someone else in the doorway: someone brown-haired, pale, and a few inches from seven feet tall. The newcomer is dressed elegantly, in a black dress, heels, and a patched grey-brown overcoat. Makeup, too, a wasteland rarity. She has to duck to come through the door, and she gives Nora a wave. "You're looking worse for wear."
Nora stares at her. She recognizes the woman from somewhere, and after a couple seconds of wracking her brain, it comes like lightning. "Oh, shit. G9."
"I go by Sullivan now." Formerly-G9-81 looks down, fidgeting with her heels. "It's good to see you again."
"Wish it could be under better circumstances," Nora replies, coughing slightly towards the end. "Jeez, Sullivan, you're a knockout."
Sullivan blushes and says, "I appreciate that. There's a woman in Diamond City who let me stay the night after the explosion, and she loaned me a few things."
"Really? Who was it?"
"A woman named Geneva Lancaster. She, ah, saw me wandering around the market and asked if she could help."
"Geneva?" Nora exclaimed. "Really?"
"Yes. Do you know her?"
"She's... an acquaintance." Will wonders never cease? "Hey, wait a second. Is that Nick's coat?"
Right on cue, the detective makes himself known. There's a big grin on his face, an uncharacteristic look for him; usually the most she gets out of him is a smirk, or a wide, if toothless, smile. "Hey."
"Of course you wait until you get mentioned to make your appearance. Of course."
"I ain't a detective for no reason, doll. I hear there was an explosion."
"Don't know anything about that."
"Really? I heard there was one hell of a Charmer in charge of that operation. Am I wrong?"
Nora groans. Opsec really is out the window at this point. Still, she's so, so glad to see Nick. And Sullivan, for that matter. "What else did you hear?"
"About what everybody else has, plus what Sully here was willing to let me in on. Once you've healed some, you'll have to tell me the whole story. How'd you get down there, by the way?"
Then she's off, explaining the assault to Nick. She lies for Sullivan's sake; maybe the synth will be able to sleep easier, not knowing a courser was behind Nora's current condition. Nick can identify the bullshit for what it is, and she makes up her mind to tell him the truth at some point, but for now the lie is the only story they're going to hear. After she's finished, Nick nods sagely, lending credence to the fiction, and says, "Probably somebody Institute-sympathetic at the very least. You are a celebrity, after all."
"So are you," she says. "You don't ever get jumped."
"Not that folk don't try." He has the gall to put a twinkle in his mechanical eye. "But I'm a hell of a smaller target. Metaphorically, obviously."
"Nice save. You were a smash hit with the ladies, huh?"
"Just the one, for whatever reason." He shoos the question and its associated avenue of thought away. Sullivan says something about needing some water and leaves the room. Nick continues, "I should probably tell you there was an incident involving McDonough a couple of days ago, outside the church."
"What kind of incident?"
"Well, let's just say Piper had quite the field day."
She puts one hand on her eyes. "Synth, wasn't he?"
"You know it. Those Minuteman friends of yours were able to deal with things before he could take a hostage, but apparently the esteemed mayor thought jail wasn't good enough."
"Oh, Christ. Did, uh, what I think happened happen?"
"If by that you mean McDonough's rotting in a shallow grave, and Garvey's in the running for Diamond City's man of the year, then, yes."
"Figures. Did you see Shaun?"
"Your... son?"
"Mhm. Synth copy. Kinda like you, actually. Looks about ten or so." She sighed. "He's... what you and I were first going after, with Kellogg."
"Really? That's a hell of a thing. I'll be sure to keep a lookout."
"Thanks. He... doesn't know what he is right now, but I figure I've got to tell him at some point, and I think having you around to provide a positive role model would soften the blow."
"First time somebody's had me pegged for one of those," Nick says dryly. "Speaking of positive role models, where's that man of yours?"
"Right here." Deacon materializes, followed by Ostler, and Sullivan behind him. He moves over to Nora first, giving her a tender, though steady, bear hug; then he gets up, walks over to Nick, and pushes his shoulder companionably. "Valentine, you old dog. Where do you get off?"
"Since you got off Mass Fusion's roof. Nice job on that, by the way."
"Psh. That was all her." Deacon fully processes what Nick's said, and adds, "Wait, how do you know about that?"
"Call it a detective's intuition. That, and the fact that Piper has a story all lined up about that particular shindig on account of someone who was there for the whole thing. She asked me to proofread."
"Jesus," Deacon murmurs.
"Did she say who?" Nora asks.
"Hm. I believe it was someone called Bandit?"
"Bandit," she mutters angrily. "Of course it would be him. Ooh, when I get my hands on that bastard—"
"Hey, boss. Maybe it's not such a bad thing. It was bound to happen eventually, right?" Nora expects to hear defeat in Deacon's voice; instead it's said brightly and honestly.
She gives him a weird look. "Hello? Dee? You in there? You get snatched up in the night and I'm talking to a synth?"
"Y'know, sometimes I wonder." For the first time, he seems to notice Sullivan standing there, and says, "Oh, wow. Hiya."
"Hello."
Deacon casts an eye back, imperceptible through the sunglasses to Sullivan, but targeted towards Nora. She nods and says, "Sullivan, this is Deacon. Deacon, meet Sullivan. She's a synth, helped me out back when I was undercover at you-know-where."
They shake hands. Sullivan says, "Nora's mentioned you. It's good to finally convene with people who know what happened at Cambridge."
"Likewise. Though, if what Nicky says is true, that's gonna be everybody in the Commonwealth real soon."
"So I hear."
"Sullivan. Interesting name. How'd you pick it?"
"Don DeLillo. Would you believe me if I said I read?"
"I'll believe anything from you, darling," he says sweetly. "May I call you Sully?"
"You may not," she matches in his saccharine tone, not missing a beat.
"Careful there, Nora," the robot dick says with a chuckle. "I think Sully here might end up stealing your man away."
"I think she should be more worried about me stealing her away. I, ah, prefer my men to bathe."
Nick and Nora share a hearty laugh, and Deacon turns pink. He's a good sport about it, though, and says, "Oh, this? I call it "concussion chic". It's super stylish if you get hit in the head really hard."
"Is that what happened to you?" Her brow furrows, the joke sailing over her head like a tossed rock. "Should you resting?"
"Probably." He goes over to Nora's bed and lies down next to her, giving her a pleased smile and a smack on the cheek. "That's better, huh?"
"Much. Hey, honey."
"Hey. How's your chest feel?"
"Like I got run over by a truck."
"That's a pretty old-fashioned way of putting it."
"I guess it would be, huh?" She knows it's been a while since Deacon's been able to have at his hair with clippers, so she grabs his grimy wig and pulls it off his head. Orange fuzz. "Ha, I knew it," she taunts as she dangles it away. "Somebody get my husband a haircut, stat!"
"I'm not your husband yet, boss. We haven't even had our wedding."
"So? Do you see any cops around?"
Valentine coughs, and she adds, "Stuff it pal, y'ain't been a cop since Raymond Porter was in office."
"No, no, I was asking if you needed an officer of the peace to officiate."
"Well, if you're offerin'..."
Both of them look at Deacon. He sighs dramatically and says, "I guess I could marry you. Just for the tax benefits."
Somewhere close by, a courser takes a sip of beer and watches Cram fry in the shelter of an old parking garage. A chill wind whips around his walled-off corner, but for now he's warm and dry, if a bit worn out. His purpose is obsolete. He is obsolete.
And he wonders what he's going to do next.