4. The Gathering Hymn

Deacon sat in a rusty metal patio chair in Whisper’s driveway, sipping casually on a glass of some god-awful cocktail the barkeep had called a “Sneezing Glowfish”. The spy wasn’t sure what was in it, just that it had the signature blue glow of a Nuka Quantum and tasted like licking the bottom shelf of a liquor cabinet. Someone needed to hire Marcy Long a proper bartender, and that was a fact.

The spy wasn’t usually one for sitting out in the open, but in this case, his current job demanded it. Besides, it wasn’t like Whisper was home. Last he’d heard, she was off killing Gunners with MacCready. Talk around Sanctuary also placed her at the Castle within the last week, but he hadn’t been able to confirm that. Either way, she wasn’t home to tell him to keep off the furniture. So he’d made himself at home, setting up a small tailor’s shop in the old carpark. Stupid cover stories. He’d need to think of one that was less work to maintain next time.

“Shall I fetch you another drink, sir?” asked Codsworth, hovering nearby.

Deacon shook his head. “That’s quite all right, Codsworth. This one’s...well, it’ll be enough.”

The Mr. Handy seemed to float a little lower towards the ground, as if defeated. “Mr. Stitches, the letter you brought me from my mistress expressly said that I should do everything I could to care for your needs. How exactly am I to do that when you refuse to allow me?”

The spy sighed. He should have phrased the forged note better. You’d think after spending so many years working with synths, he’d understand how robotic minds worked. “If you want to help, Codsworth,” he mused, “I suppose you could tilt my umbrella slightly to the left.”

“Very good, sir,” the robot piped. It was difficult to tell for certain, but Deacon was convinced that Codsworth was being sarcastic.

“I mean, you don’t have to,” he continued. “Just, if you’re bored.”

“I was programmed to keep myself perfectly occupied at all times, sir,” Codsworth muttered. “If you have no actual tasks for me to preform, I really should get back to cleaning. Miss Myra could be home at any time, and I want the place to look immaculate.”

Deacon sighed. “Well, you do you, pal. I’ll be here, waiting for customers.”

The clothing market in Sanctuary was terrible, it turned out. Due to the large number of wardrobes and suitcases that had remained in the subdivision after the bombs fell, it was fairly easy for the town’s residents to find nice clothes. The few customers Deacon had gotten all wanted difficult-to-find items like pre-war underwear. Or they were looking for things he didn’t sell, like armor and weapons.

Still, while the clothing business was terrible, the spy business was thriving, and not just for the Railroad. Deacon had discovered three other agents in his first week alone. He wasn’t entirely sure who they were working for, so he kept his distance and simply pretended to be “Billy Stitches, friend of the General.” He figured no one would peg him for a spy if he acted like an idiot, and so far, his plan had been working perfectly.

He frowned as his eyes met those of a squat, toad-like man who wobbled over to the car park, coughing phlegm into a filthy handkerchief as he approached. Deacon groaned inwardly as he flashed the man a charming smile.

“Welcome to Billy’s!” the spy chirped. “Is there anything special you’re looking for today?”

The man frowned at him, muddy green eyes narrowed. “No. I’ll tell you if I want anything.”

“Okay, well, I’ll be here,” Deacon replied, off-put by the man’s brusqueness. He’d never met the human embodiment of slime before, but today might just have been the day. Something about the guy just seemed wrong, unsettling in a way Deacon couldn’t quite place. Still, his instincts had saved his life on many occasions, and if they said this guy was trouble, Deacon wasn’t about to question them. He eased back into his chair, watching the man out of the corner of his eye.

As the man browsed, a thin young woman approached the clothing stand, her eyes hollow and dead. Her arms hung at her sides as she walked towards the man, her head inclined downwards. When she reached him, the man looked up at her with a snarl. “And where the fuck have you been?” he growled. “I told you, pay for our room and then come back. It’s been twenty fucking minutes!”

“I…” she murmured softly, “I couldn’t find you. You didn’t tell me where you were go--”

“Do I look like I give a fuck?” he barked, grabbing her arm roughly. “I said five minutes. You’re supposed to be smart, right? No more fucking excuses.”

“Sorry!” she cried, bowing her head. “It’s my fault.”

“Damn right it is. Now, where’s my change?”

“There wasn’t any,” she replied softly, cringing.

“What?” the man screamed. “Don’t give me that shit! I gave you fifty caps!”

“I...no,” she murmured. “You just gave me ten. Remember? You counted them out to me.”

“Like hell I did! You filthy, stealing whore! I ought to…” He raised his arm to strike her, and the girl whimpered, cowering in terror.

Deacon sighed. “Leave her alone, asshole,” he interrupted.

The man turned to him, eyes wide with rage. “Oh, you want some of this, too?” he growled, his open hand tightening into a fist.

Deacon rolled his eyes. “Really? No, man. But you’re threatening this girl in my shop, and I have a right to complain about that. You hurt her, and I’ll call security. I’d love to see what the Minutemen have to say about this.”

The man’s eyes darted towards the frightened girl, then back to Deacon. He grabbed Deacon’s collar, dragging him up out of his chair. “Fine. We’re leaving. But don’t think we’re fucking done here. You’d better watch your back, shithead.”

“Like you’re the first person who’s ever told me that,” Deacon said softly, rubbing his neck after the man released him. He watched the man leave, broken girl in tow, and shook his head. It had to be the guy, right? The girl looked like she’d once matched the description Deacon had been given, the latest in a series of liberated synths that had gone missing over the last year. If he was right…

“I’ll get you out of this, Natalie,” he murmured, pulling a scrap of paper out of his pocket. The sketch showed a young, bright-eyed woman, smiling warmly at the artist. It had only been a few weeks since she’d vanished from her home near Jamaica Plain. How had she already changed this much?

Deacon’s thoughts were interrupted by the whir of vertibird engines as one of the Brotherhood’s flying death traps landed on a slab of concrete in a nearby vacant lot. He frowned. As far as he knew, the Brotherhood wasn’t supposed to enter Sanctuary. It was one of the reasons why he’d picked this spot for his stakeout. The spy ducked into Whisper’s house, keeping his eye on the craft. Two figures emerged, then the aircraft left. Deacon frowned, readying his sniper rifle and peering through the scope.

He recognized MacCready immediately. The slight sniper was, acting as a crutch for the other person, tucked under that man’s arm. The second figure was someone Deacon didn’t recognize. He was tall, handsome in that rugged sort of way with dark, messy hair and well-developed muscles. He seemed to be quite badly injured, his upper body wrapped in bandages that were covered somewhat by a black shirt that rested partially-unbuttoned, on his broad torso. As the pair drew closer to Whisper’s house, Deacon approached them, frowning in concern.

“MacCready? What are you doing here?” he asked.

“What am I doing here?” the sniper asked, his eyes widening. “What are you doing here? This is Myra’s house!”

“I know,” Deacon replied. “I’m...borrowing it while she’s out of town. I’m here for…well, for work. Billy Stitches has to make a living, you know.”

MacCready rolled his eyes. “Oh man, another stupid cover?”

“Hey,” hissed the spy, “keep your voice down!”

The sniper nodded. “Sorry. Anyway, Myra sent us here. We’re supposed to be meeting up with a doctor...Nauseous, I think she said?”

Deacon snickered. “You mean Ignatius?”

“Yeah, that’s the guy! Is he here?”

The spy shook his head. “I haven’t seen him around in a while, honestly. Last I heard, he was up by Lynn Woods. But if Myra says he’s coming here, I’m sure he’s on his way.”

“Yeah, like that helps me now,” MacCready groaned. “Hey, can you help me get Danse into a bed while we wait for the doctor to show up? He’s been doing better, but the vertibird ride took a lot out of him.”

“Danse?” Deacon’s eyes widened at the sound of the Paladin’s name. He looked over the second man more carefully, recognition setting in. “So that’s what’s under all that armor! I always figured there was just a second, smaller suit of power armor under there.”

Danse groaned in pain, his deep brown eyes meeting Deacon’s sunglasses. “Do I know you?” he moaned.

Deacon shook his head. “No. I mean, we haven’t met. But you’re a friend of Myra’s, right?”

“Affirmative,” Danse replied weakly.

“Well, so am I. And I guess that makes us, like, friend-adjacent? Definitely close enough for me to help out.” Deacon came around to the Paladin’s other side, easing some of Danse’s weight onto his shoulders. “Let’s go get you comfortable,” he continued. “And then, I’ll expect you to tell me exactly what I missed, Mac.”

“You got it,” MacCready replied as they helped Danse into the house. “I mean, I wasn’t there for the whole thing either, but I’ll tell you what I know.”

Getting Danse onto Whisper’s bed was fairly easy. Gravity did most of the work. The hard part was getting him to lie still once he was down. “This is ridiculous,” Danse muttered. “If I’m well enough to travel, I’m well enough to take care of myself.”

MacCready shook his head. “Danse, we’ve been over this, remember? Right now, you’re feeling pretty good, but that’s because of all the chems. You’re basically held together by stitches and stubbornness at this point. Now rest, or I’ll give you more sedative and force you to rest.”

The Paladin grumbled, pulling an old blanket over himself. “Very well. But only until Larimer arrives. Then it’s her call.”

“That’s fine with me,” the mercenary replied, smirking. “You and I both know she’s way less likely to let you get away with anything.”

“Perhaps,” Danse muttered, “but I believe she owes me a favor, given the fact that I helped her leave the Prydwen when she was supposed to be on bed rest.”

Deacon sighed. “You’re both idiots,” he mused. “No wonder the two of you are thick as thieves.” He took his leave, heading out to the living room.

After MacCready had gotten Danse settled in Myra’s bedroom, he sat on the couch in her living room next to Deacon, a pair of mismatched glasses in his hands. He offered one to the spy, who looked at him questioningly. “What’s this, Mac?”

“Just a little something to take the edge off,” the mercenary replied. “You’ve been stiff as a Diamond City virgin ever since Danse and I got here. Something’s on your mind, right?”

Deacon nodded. “I can’t really talk about it. Just, the mission I’m on right now hits a little close to home, that’s all.”

“Sorry,” MacCready said simply. “Well, if you change your mind, I’m here.”

Deacon smiled fondly at the younger man as he sampled his drink. It was smooth and warming, with just a hint of sweetness on the back end. Now that was more like it. “You know, MacCready,” the spy said, “if you ever decide to quit the mercenary life, there’s --”

MacCready snorted. “I’m never joining the Railroad, Deacon. We’ve been over this.”

Deacon sighed. “For once, I wasn’t suggesting that. I just think you should consider bartending. Trust me, there’s no competition around here. You’d make a killing.”

The mercenary chuckled. “You’re full of it.”

“Of booze, yeah,” Deacon agreed. “But really. What’s your long term plan, pal? We’ve known each other quite a while now, and I don’t think I’ve ever heard you talk about one.”

“Well, the current plan is to not die,” MacCready replied with a smirk. “And I’ve got some personal stuff I need to take care of. After that, I guess I haven’t really given it much thought. Kinda seems stupid, you know? Why plan for something if you don’t know if you’re even gonna get to hold on to what you’ve got?”

Deacon nodded. “Guess that makes sense. We’re probably pretty similar in that way. Railroad agents don’t have a great survival rate. I should know.” He grinned. “You know, with all the facial surgery, I’m on probably...what is it now, my sixth life? Even the coolest cats only get the nine. Though, there was that time I was a cat for a few months. Crazy story, that one. So maybe I get the eight extra cat lives too.”

MacCready frowned. “There’s no way that’s true. How the heck would you even become a cat?”

The spy chuckled. “Yeah, you got me. But can you imagine?”

Mac thought for a moment. “I really can’t,” he said finally. “But why do you wanna know about my plans?”

“Can’t I ask my dear not-friend about his life?” Deacon scoffed, pretending to be offended. “It’s no big deal. I...I guess I’ve just been thinking about it a lot lately. Like, what if we beat the odds and actually survive this stuff with the Institute? What then? I mean, I’ll probably be out of a job, at least until the next threat rears its head. So I’ve just been wondering, I guess.”

MacCready nodded. “I guess that makes sense. I never really thought about what happens if we win.”

Deacon laughed. “Well, that’s comforting!”

“Isn’t it just?” The mercenary grimaced. “Man, now you’ve got me all worried about it too. Thanks for that.”

“Any time, pal,” Deacon replied with a smirk. “Now, what’s this about Carrington and a sea monster?”

::::

Night fell over Sanctuary like a gentle blanket, and all was surprisingly peaceful in the old Larimer house. MacCready had passed out on the couch, his snores filling the living room. Deacon wandered into the bedroom to check on Danse, a couple syringes of Psycho in his hand. He could still finish his mission and snuff out the Paladin’s life, wipe the failure off of his record. The stimulants in the chems could easily overwhelm Danse’s weakened body, sending him into cardiac arrest. It probably wouldn’t even be that painful for the soldier, compared to what he’d already gone through.

Deacon stared down at Danse’s sleeping form, gritting his teeth. The man was resting peacefully, his bandaged chest rising and falling softly with each breath. There was a gentleness to his chiseled features that wasn’t apparent when he was awake, an almost boy-like quality that gave Deacon pause. For all the danger the Paladin posed to the Railroad, to Whisper, it was hard to see him as much of a threat now.

The spy shook his head. No. Even apex predators appeared harmless when they were asleep. And Danse was pretty damn high on the food chain. He was one of Maxson’s top men, with a record of synth deaths long enough to fill a notebook. This wasn’t just about striking a bow against the Brotherhood. It was about preserving lives. The greater good. All that crap Desdemona was always spouting that Deacon liked to pretend he believed in. With just a few quick jabs, how many lives could the spy save?

Danse moaned in his sleep, his brow furrowing. He muttered under his breath, eyes darting rapidly beneath closed eyelids as he dreamed. Deacon wondered what a Brotherhood Paladin could possibly fear that would cause such a sudden shift in his sleeping pattern. Did he somehow know the threat of death that loomed over him?

“No...Myra…” Danse murmured, his face contorting in worry. “Come back...not safe…”

Deacon froze at the sound of Whisper’s name, the mumbled warning. Of course, it made sense that the Paladin was worried about her. From the sound of things, he’d been doing nothing but worry about her since the last time Deacon had seen them.

He sighed, sneaking the chems into the bedside table. It wasn’t right, killing Danse like this. Even if it was the right thing to do, even if it meant keeping Whisper safe...would she see it that way? Somehow, Deacon doubted it. And the more he thought about it, the more he realized that it was too late to make things right. At this point, Danse’s death would cause more harm than good.

Deacon turned and left the room, trying to understand why he felt so relieved at his decision. This was the third time he’d spared the Paladin’s life, the third time that he’d made the choice to keep Danse safe...not for his own merit, but for Whisper’s. Why? Why did one woman’s life and happiness mean so much to him? It wasn’t like he was responsible for her welfare, not since he’d brought her home the day she emerged from Vault 111. She was more than capable of taking care of herself. So why did Deacon constantly feel this need to keep her happy?

His mind tried to justify his actions. This wasn’t just about Whisper. It was about the fate of the Railroad. If Maxson retaliated, as Deacon knew he was likely to, the Minutemen would probably be his first target. Hell, Whisper would be his first target, since Danse would have died in her house. With the Minutemen destroyed, life would get even more difficult for the Railroad. As much as he hated to admit it, Deacon knew his organization would not survive long in a total power vacuum. It definitely wouldn’t survive under Brotherhood rule, not the way things were under Maxson. After all, the Elder had nearly broken the DC chapter of the Railroad, sending its few remaining members scrambling into the wastes. If that happened here...would anyone survive?

The spy shook his head, trying to dislodge the growing dread that was building in the back of his mind. He returned to the living room, easing himself into a padded chair next to the couch, where MacCready still slept, oblivious of the turmoil in Deacon’s mind.

Just as he was beginning to fall asleep, the familiar whir of engines caught his ear. Deacon groaned, dragging himself to his feet. There were only two real possibilities where that sound was concerned. Either the Brotherhood was invading Sanctuary, or…

Whisper walked slowly through the door, not even glancing towards the living room furniture as she trod wearily towards her bedroom, dropping her pack to the floor with a heavy whomp.

“Welcome home, Whisp!” Deacon called softly.

She shrieked, spinning on her heels, her laser rifle already at her shoulder.

“Hey!” the spy cried in response, “Hey, it’s me. It’s just Deacon.”

Whisper frowned, lowering her gun. “Deacon? You scared the crap out of me! What are you doing in my house?”

“I’m here on business. I’ve been using your house as a base for some undercover work. I hope you don’t mind.”

“I...I kind of do mind, actually,” she replied. “Look, Deacon, not that it’s not great to see you, but I’ve had a hell of a day, and I just want to go to bed. So if you don’t mind, I’m gonna…”

“Wait!” Deacon protested. “Sorry, just...Danse is in there.”

“Danse?” she muttered, yawning. “Right, yeah. Well, I guess the couch is --”

“And MacCready’s sleeping on the couch,” Deacon continued.

There was a groan from the couch as the mercenary sat up, rubbing his eyes. “Well, I was, until someone decided to scream in my fuc...um, my stupid ear.”

“Sorry, Mac,” Whisper replied, smiling wearily at him. “Blame Deacon.”

“I usually do,” MacCready replied with a yawn. “Took you long enough to get here. What time is it?”

“Like, two in the morning. I came as soon as I was done speaking to Maxson.”

“That bad, huh?” the mercenary murmured. “Ouch.”

Whisper sighed. “I wouldn’t say bad, necessarily. There was a lot of yelling, but I’m pretty sure that’s Maxson’s love language, so it probably wasn’t as terrible as it seemed. It was more just...exhausting.”

“Some people never change,” MacCready replied. He stood up, gesturing to the couch. “Here, you can take the couch. I can sleep on the floor.”

Whisper shook her head. “I’m going to go sleep at Preston’s house, since I know he’s still at the Castle. You guys get some rest. I’ll…” she yawned again, violently. “I’ll deal with all this in the morning.”

“You shouldn’t go alone, Whisp,” Deacon warned. “I’ll go with you.” He walked over to her pack, throwing it over his shoulder.

“You don’t have to,” Whisper replied with a faint smile. “I’ll be fine. It’s Sanctuary. What’s the worst that could happen?”

“Besides were-deathclaw attacks?” Deacon offered. “Overzealous fans of the General hounding you to kiss their babies? Bad milk?”

Whisper chuckled. “Oh, so the usual dangers. I think I can handle myself. Thanks.”

Deacon scowled as he thought about his interaction with the hideous creep earlier in the day. Could he really trust that Myra would be safe if he let her go by herself? She wasn’t a synth, not as far as he was aware, but what if the man wasn’t just targeting synths? She certainly fit the profile of the sort of women the kidnapper was going after: young, tall, beautiful...alone. “Please, Whisp,” the spy begged softly. “Just humor me, ok?”

Her eyes widened slightly at his urgent tone. “You’re actually worried about something, aren’t you?”

He nodded. “I don’t have enough information to tell you exactly what’s going on, not yet. But until I finish my investigation, please...just let me make sure you’re safe.”

Whisper rolled her eyes. “Fine. You’ve already got my stuff, so I’ll take you with me. Mac, please keep an eye on Danse. Ignatius radioed in a couple hours ago. He’s on his way back from Lynn Woods, but he needs to stop at Outpost Zimonja for a few things. He should be here in the morning.”

MacCready nodded. “I’ll make sure he’s got whatever he needs.”

“Thanks,” Whisper replied, smiling gently at him. “We’ll see you in the morning.”

“Be careful,” the mercenary called after them.

“You too,” Deacon replied. He and Whisper headed down the street towards Preston’s bachelor pad. As they walked, Deacon noticed his companion was slowly falling behind, so he shortened his stride length, trying to keep her in his sight. With an unknown number of enemies in the area, he couldn’t afford to take chances.

Whisper smiled sleepily at him. “It really is good to see you, you know.”

“Yeah?” he replied.

“It’s felt...kinda lonely, I guess, not having you constantly stalking me any more. I know that probably seems strange.”

“Not at all,” Deacon chuckled. “I mean, who wouldn’t want to have me around? I’m awesome.”

“It’s just…” Whisper thought for a moment. “I don’t know. It’s just that, in spite of how completely creepy it was, you were like, the one constant in my life for a couple months there. Whenever I was scared, or in trouble, it was kinda comforting, knowing you were nearby. That I wasn’t alone.”

“Well, shucks,” the spy retorted. “You sure know how to make a guy feel special.”

Whisper snorted. “Don’t let it go to your head. It’s just good to know you’re around. When I see you, I know everything’s gonna work out.”

Deacon blushed, grateful for the darkness that hid the evidence from his companion. “Well. Yeah. Um, good talk, Whisp. You should get some sleep.”

“Ok,” she replied. “If it’s ok with you, I’d like to be alone for a while.”

The spy pouted at her. “Aww, no cuddle time? I was looking forward to it! We could have a pillow fight and talk about boys!”

“Maybe another time. But Deacon?”

“Yeah?”

“Could you...I mean, would you mind staying nearby?”

He smiled, ruffling her snowy hair. “Of course. I’m only a few hours away from earning my Stalker merit badge, you know. I won’t let you out of my sight.”

“Thanks,” she said softly, leaning up and kissing his cheek.

Deacon froze at the contact, his mouth hanging open slightly as the cool touch of her lips seemed to radiate across his cheek. He did his best to regain his composure, however, and shot Whisper a sardonic smile. “Does Danse know you’re kissing all the boys, Whisp? Or is this an elaborate plot to get me killed? He seems like the jealous type.”

“I...we…” Whisper stammered. “God damn it. Just shut up before I regret asking you to stay, ok, Deeks?”

“No can do, gorgeous,” he chuckled. “You know full well that I’m incapable of silence, unless I’m doing something really, really dangerous.”

Whisper sighed. “That’s it. I’m going to bed. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Yeah,” Deacon replied. “Sleep well, ok?”

Whisper nodded, disappearing down the hall. Deacon sighed, flopping down on Preston’s couch. His fingers ghosted over his cheek, where he could still feel the touch of her lips, and he smiled slightly. It felt good to be missed, he’d admit. More than that, it was nice to be close to someone again, even with the professional distance he had to keep between them. That someone really cared if he lived or died...he hadn’t felt that in a long time, not even when Trailblazer was still under his care.

The spy did his best to stay awake, but it didn’t take long for him to fall into a deep and restful sleep for the first time in a long time.

::::

“What a cool house!” a shrill voice rang out, rousing Deacon from his slumber.

“Shh!” Hissed another. “Renata, you can’t just barge into people’s homes without asking.”

“Oh! Whoops!” cried the first voice. Deacon opened one eye, staring across the room at the invaders. A small girl, probably only five or so, stood awkwardly in front of him, her large blue eyes bashful as they met his sunglasses. Behind her was a large man, scars criss-crossing his tanned arms. He smiled down at the girl, his warm hazel eyes watching her carefully. The man reached for the girl’s hand, pulling the her back towards him as Deacon sat up.

“Good morning, Ignatius,” Deacon mumbled as he recognized the doctor. “Who’s the kid?”

“This is Ren,” Ignatius replied. “Say hello, Ren.”

“Hi!” piped the girl, waving at Deacon with a wide smile that made his heart melt just a little. “Sorry I woke you up!”

“That’s ok, sweetie. I should be up anyway.” Deacon said, patting his coat pockets in search of some trinket to offer her. Finally, he found and extracted a box of gumdrops, which he handed to the gleeful child. “Here. For being such a good alarm clock.”

The girl looked to Ignatius with questioning eyes, and the tall man nodded once, giving her permission to take the gift. “Thanks!” she chirped, tearing into the packaging as the men smiled at her.

“Well, she’s a lively one,” Deacon commented. “She yours, or you find her somewhere?”

“She’s...well, she’s Kestrel’s daughter.” the doctor said, his eyes distant for a moment. “After I finish up here, we’re headed to the Castle. Kestrel says it’s safe there, now, and they’ve been missing each other.”

“So you’re on babysitting duty, huh?” Deacon asked. “What’s the going rate for that these days? Does Kestrel let you watch tv after Ren’s asleep?”

“I don’t understand you at all,” muttered Ignatius.“Do you know where the General is? I’m supposed to help her with something. Probably that wounded soldier in her house.”

Deacon frowned. “MacCready should have been at the General’s house to meet you.”

“There wasn’t anyone there besides the soldier,” Ignatius replied. “And he was sound asleep, so I decided to come looking for the General. Someone said they saw her come down here with you last night.”

“That’s right.” Deacon thought for a moment. “Myra’s probably still asleep. Odd that Mac wasn’t around. I wonder if he woke up early to go get breakfast.”

Deacon led Ignatius and Ren back to Whisper’s house, trying not to worry too much. It wasn’t unlike MacCready to take off without telling anyone. Chances were good that he’d show up in a couple hours.

“As you know, the patient’s in this back room,” Deacon said, gesturing down the hall. “I’ll come introduce you, then I’ll go wake Myra up. I’m sure she’d like to be here.”

“That’s very kind of you,” the doctor replied. He turned to Ren. “Now, little duck, will you promise to sit right over there in that chair until I come back?”

The child smirked. “What do I get if I’m good, Mr. ’Natius?”

Ignatius sighed, running a hand through his cropped ebony hair. “I swear, you’re too much like your parents. What will it take?”

“Snack cakes! A whole box!” the girl exclaimed with a giggle.

“Two cakes. That’s already more sugar than you should be eating,” the doctor added. “Your mother told me not to let you have too much, and Mr. Deacon’s already given you some.”

The girl shook her head. “Half a box, and I get a piggyback ride after.”

“I don’t think--”

“There’s so many dangerous things I can touch here! I’m gonna touch them!”

“Renata Cadia Davis, don’t even think about it,” growled Ignatius.

“Half a box, and I won’t,” Ren insisted, grinning ear to ear.

Deacon snorted, trying to hold in his laughter. There was something so hilarious about seeing such a burly man get manipulated by such a little girl.

Ignatius glared at her. “Four cakes, Ren, and a piggyback ride. But you’ll have to sit right in that chair and not move until I say so, ok?”

“Deal!” she shrieked, hopping up on the chair. She wormed around in the box of gumdrops with her tiny fingers, concentrating as she tried to extract the candy.

Ignatius smiled fondly at the child. “I won’t be too long. Deacon, please show me what we’re dealing with.”

“Sure,” the spy replied with a grin, “if I can get a piggyback ride too. I’ll bet I could see all the way to the coast from up there!”

“Don’t push your luck, spy,” muttered Ignatius. “You should be happy enough that I’m not asking what brings you into my territory.”

“Is there a single one of you Minutemen who knows how to take a joke?” Deacon replied, feigning offense. “Of course, you new bloods are even more uptight. Mad your new uniforms don’t involve skirts?”

Ignatius stared at him for a moment, his eyes wide. His look of surprise soon faded into an easy smile, however. “I’d heard your people were good, Deacon. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“What can I say? It’s a talent.” Deacon laughed, leading Ignatius to Whisper’s bedroom.

Danse was sitting up in bed, staring out the window at the town beyond. As the men entered, he turned to look at them, rich brown eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Who are you? Where is Larimer?”

Ignatius gave him an easy smile, setting his doctor’s bag on the bedside table. “My name’s Ignatius. I’m with the Minutemen. The General asked me to take a look at your injuries.”

The Paladin sighed. “I’m recovering well. The last doctor Larimer asked to tend to my wounds did a more than adequate job. My main concern is how long I’m meant to be bedridden.”

Ignatius nodded. “I understand. You’re a soldier. It must bother you to be trapped inside. Here, let me take a look under those bandages.”

Danse helped him unwrap the strips of cloth, revealing the twisted, angry flesh beneath. He hissed in pain as the doctor’s hands ghosted over some of the worst areas.

Deacon stared at the Paladin, his eyes wide. No wonder the man had almost died! His entire torso was splotched with bruises in various states of healing, a canvas of blue, purple, yellow, and sickly green. A series of long, deep slashes ran across his chest, stitched together carefully by Carrington’s even hand, the flesh puckering along the sutures in jagged ridges where the tissue hadn’t quite knitted back together right. And weeping patches of burned skin completed the picture, extra bandaging barely concealing the oozing lymph that tried to repair the damage. Deacon had a pretty strong stomach, but the sight was almost too much for him.

Ignatius smiled kindly at Danse. “The good news is that it’s a lot better than it looks, I think. Considering the damage, I think you’ll recover well.”

“Yes,” muttered Danse, “but how long will it take?”

“Hard to say. At this point, the best thing we can do for you is to get some of the swelling down.” Ignatius poked through his bag, pulling out a small sack and some fresh bandages. He turned to Deacon. “Hey, can you get me some hot water? Marcy should have some at the bar.”

Deacon nodded. “I’ll be right back.” He was grateful for the opportunity to flee the room, honestly. There was something about seeing Danse like that, raw and vulnerable, that unnerved him. MacCready had acted like the battle for the Castle had been no big deal, but...what if Whisper had been the one torn apart by the mirelurk queen’s claws? Or Mac? At least Danse’s power armor had protected him somewhat. If either of them had been in his place…

Deacon coughed as bile filled his mouth. He spat into one of the dead bushes in Whisper’s yard, berating himself. No, it wasn’t right to speculate. Danse had done the right thing and had protected Whisper. MacCready hadn’t even been there until the queen was dead. Everyone had survived. So why did the image of their broken corpses haunt his thoughts?

The spy rubbed his eyes, doing his best to shake off the dread that filled him. There wasn’t time for this nonsense. Still, almost involuntarily, his steps took him in the opposite direction of Marcy’s bar, towards Preston’s house. He just needed to see Whisper, to know that she was still safe. Then, he’d be able to shake this stupid gloom from his shoulders and get back to work.

Whisper moaned awake as he shook her gently, her brilliant emerald eyes still groggy with sleep. “Is it morning already?” she moaned.

Deacon nodded. “Yeah. Ignatius is here. I thought you might like to be there when he got his hands on Danse. He’s using some sort of weird herbal remedy on him, I think. Where did you find this guy?”

“Preston got him for us. Apparently he’s pretty good, even if his methods are kind of old-school.”

Deacon smirked. So Whisper didn’t know the truth about Kestrel’s little outfit. Well, that was probably for the best. It was bad enough that the Minutemen had their own spy division now. It was so much worse that they were as well-trained as the former legionaries were. If Whisper really knew the network she now had at her disposal, the Minutemen would definitely be a great deal more dangerous.

“Come on, then. Get dressed. I’ll be waiting in the living room. No peeking, I promise.”

“You’d better not, if you know what’s good for you,” Whisper muttered.

“Please,” Deacon said with a smirk. “I’ve seen you in a vault suit. There’s nothing left for me to be curious about.”

Whisper blushed heavily, pushing him roughly out of the bedroom. “You’re the worst, you know that?”

“Yep,” he said, laughing. “But don’t blame me. Blame those sick bastards at Vault-Tec.”

“Trust me, I do,” she hissed from behind the door. “Why do you think the first thing I did when I woke up was find a change of clothes?”

“I was wondering, actually,” Deacon called back to her. “Don’t get me wrong, green’s a good color for you. But I think you looked pretty fetching in blue.”

“Do you wanna die?” she exclaimed. “Because it seems to me like you wanna die.”

“I’ll be good, I promise,” the spy replied. “I won’t mention it again, cross my heart.”

“Thank God,” Whisper muttered, emerging from the room at last. She wasn’t wearing her flannel, for once. Instead, she’d changed into a minuteman uniform, the khaki jacket rolled up at the sleeves. “Ugh, I hate this color. We should change it. I’m thinking blue. What do you think?”

Deacon held his tongue, but it was difficult. “Um...blue’s a good choice,” he offered finally. Was she messing with him?

“I’ll talk to Preston about it,” Whisper replied, ignoring his struggle. “Let’s go. I haven’t met Ignatius yet, but if he’s anything like Kes, I’d better make a good first impression.”

“I’m sure you will,” Deacon affirmed, following behind her.

::::

As Whisper and the doctor tended to Danse, Deacon decided to take a walk around Sanctuary. He was still unnerved that MacCready hadn’t shown up yet. Where could the sniper have gotten to?

He decided to check the most likely place first, the Last Minuteman . Since it was already mid-morning, Marcy’s breakfast rush had already slowed to a crawl. There were a couple caravan drivers at the bar, discussing the price and availability of various types of crops loudly. Deacon ignored them, instead turning his attention to the bar’s owner, who stood leaning against the wall with crossed arms, shrewd eyes surveying her domain.

“Hey, Marce,” Deacon crooned. “How’s business today?”

“It could be worse, Billy,” Marcy replied coldly. “Still, we need to get more traffic soon, or I might as well be running an abandoned shack.”

“I hear you. The tailor shop hasn’t been doing well either. Of course, I think location’s my big problem.”

“I still don’t know why the General gave you permission to run your shop out of her house,” the fierce woman retorted. “She’s never so much as spent a cap of her own money here.”

“Well, I did save her life and all,” Deacon said, smiling. “But you’ve got a point. She should really be doing more for you.”

“You’re right about that,” Marcy replied. “Now, are you here for food, booze, or something else?”

The spy chuckled. “Information, actually.”

“Oh, yeah? What do you want to know?”

“Two things. One, have you seen MacCready this morning?”

Marcy rolled her eyes. “No. Damn shame, too. He might be a filthy little bastard, but he always pays me well. I’ve never seen anyone eat the way he does. Does Preston starve him or something?”

Deacon shook his head. “No, he’s always been like that. Told me once it was because he’s been playing catch-up his whole life, but I think he’s just a pig.”

“Anyways,” Marcy continued, “I haven’t seen him. Why, he in some kind of trouble?”

“I hope not. I just wanted to talk to him. If he does come by, let me know, ok?”

“Hey! I’m not a messenger service!” Marcy barked. “But I’ll tell him you were looking for him if I see him, ok?”

“That’s good enough,” Deacon said. “Thanks, Marcy.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she muttered. “Now, what else did you want to know? Make it quick, I’ve got to clean the tables before the lunch rush starts.”

“I was wondering about that couple who checked in yesterday. Short, ugly guy, cute, shy girl?”

“What do you want with those two?” Marcy growled. “They’d better not be friends of yours.”

“Don’t worry, they aren’t.”

“Good. Those two are trouble, Billy, and not in the fun way,” Marcy whispered, crooking her finger at Deacon. The spy came closer, and Marcy grimaced, her voice hushed. “They left in the middle of the night, in an awful hurry. I wasn’t sure why, but when I went to clean the room they were using…” she shook her head. “They trashed it to hell. Some people have no respect for other people’s property, you know?”

Deacon nodded. “I’m sorry to hear it. Did anyone see them leave?”

Marcy sighed. “You can check with ol’ Frank down at the gate. Course, he wasn’t on shift last night, or if he was, he’s a pretty shitty guard, since he was keeping company with that Parker fellow all night.”

“Good for Frank!” Deacon replied. “Who knew the old dog had it in him?”

“Right? Still, that’s all I know. Now if you aren’t ordering anything, get out of here, and if you get in trouble, I wasn’t involved, ok?”

“Of course,” Deacon replied, heading for the door.

“Oh, Billy, one more thing,” Marcy called.

“Yeah, Marce?”

“I hope you find MacCready.”

Deacon smiled worriedly at the woman. “Thanks. I hope so too.”

Frank wasn’t at the gate when Deacon checked, and the guard on duty hadn’t seen him all morning. Seemed like he’d had a good night after all.

“Yeah, I saw those two,” the young man said after Deacon gave him the description of his targets. “They went towards Concord, best I could tell. Not sure what they were selling, but their brahmin seemed pretty weighed down under all those boxes.”

Deacon frowned. “Boxes? How big were they? And how many of them were there?”

The man shrugged. “Like four or five? Couldn’t have been more than that. They were big, like, real big.”

“Like, person-sized?” the spy asked, dreading the answer.

“I mean, probably. Depends on the size of the person.”

Deacon gulped. Damn it, he’d been right! The toad-faced man was involved, he was sure of it. And now, there was every possibility that the man had taken Mac. He thanked the guard and ran back towards Whisper’s house, his mind racing.

“Whisp!” he yelled as he barreled through the door. “I think Mac’s been kidnapped!”

Danse looked up from his seat at the dining room table. He’d been propped up with pillows and blankets, an empty bowl and a half-full glass of milk in front of him. “Who’s Whisp?” he asked suspiciously.

Whisper stood in the kitchen, stirring a pot of razorgrain gruel. “Oh, that’s what he calls me, Danse. I think it has something to do with how I flit around. Isn’t that right, Deacon?”

“That’s Deacon?” Danse replied, eyeing the spy. “Huh.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Deacon gasped. “Come on, we don’t have time for this. Something’s happened to MacCready.”

Whisper stared at him, her green eyes wide with confusion. “What the hell are you talking about, Deacon? Just because we haven’t seen him all morning…”

“That’s the thing,” Deacon replied. “No one has. Not one person. Isn’t that way too strange to be a coincidence?”

Whisper rolled her eyes as she ladled gruel into Danse’s bowl, handing the Paladin a spoon. “Come on, Deeks. I think you’re being a little paranoid. Calm down, and breathe. I’ll bet Mac just stepped out for a minute. You know how he is.”

Deacon nodded, trying his best to slow his breathing. “You’re...you’re right. I need to calm down. If I panic, I might miss something important. But I’m not just being paranoid, Whisp. The investigation I’m on...I think one of the guys involved might have hurt Mac to get to me.”

Whisper poured the spy a glass of water, handing it to him. “Easy... start from the beginning. Why are you here, and what makes you think these guys took Mac?”

Deacon gulped down the water, his heart still pounding painfully in his chest. “Ok,” he said softly. “But I really think we ought to talk somewhere more private, don’t you?”

She glanced over at Danse, who was watching the whole exchange with confused eyes. Whisper nodded. “Of course. Come on. I know the perfect place. Danse, will you be ok on your own for a bit?”

“Do I have a choice?” the Paladin asked with a sigh, frowning at the gruel.

Whisper smiled gently at him, placing a kiss on the top of his head. “I’ll come back as soon as I can,” she soothed.

Danse stared up at her, blushing. “I...be careful, won’t you Larimer?”

Whisper nodded, her cheeks burning as brightly as his. “Promise you’ll rest up after breakfast, ok? If I hear you were wandering around, I’ll be pissed.”

“Affirmative,” the Paladin muttered, turning his attention to the gruel.

Whisper sighed, turning her attention to Deacon. “Let’s go. I’m dying to hear this theory of yours.”

::::

Deacon whistled in appreciation as he glanced about the art studio hidden away in an abandoned gas station. Paintings in various states of completion hung about what had been the garage, landscapes of places that no longer existed, bowls of long-extinct fruit...it was beautiful.

“Quite the gallery you’ve got here,” he said appreciatively. “Can you do one of me? Something tasteful, please. I’m thinking lots of draped cloth. It’s Carrington’s birthday, soon, you see, and what can you get a guy who hates everything?”

Whisper chuckled at the mental image. “Maybe later. First, you’d better tell me what’s going on.”

Deacon sighed, plopping into a chair. “It’s a long story, Whisp. I’ve been working on this case for a long time, now. You see, the synths the Railroad frees...well, you know how they don’t remember being synths any more?”

She nodded. “Yeah, Doctor Amari mentioned that.”

“Well, a lot of them have gone missing in the last year. Not all the models, mind you. Whoever’s taking them, they seem to be focusing on pretty young females. We’re not sure exactly what’s going on, but we haven’t been able to find any of them. Not until very recently.”

Whisper’s eyes went wide as Deacon produced a sketch of a young woman from his pocket. “Who is she?” she asked.

“Meet Natalie. She was liberated a few months back from a group of synths assigned to an Institute supply mission. We’ve been keeping a close eye on her. Not close enough, apparently. A few weeks ago, she vanished. Yesterday, I saw her. Here. In Sanctuary.”

“Why would she be here?” Whisper said, frowning. “Sanctuary’s not exactly the kidnapping capital of the Commonwealth. We’ve got a pretty safe town, all things considered.”

“It didn’t sound like she was going to get to stay long. She and the man she was with were staying at Marcy’s place. At least, that’s what it sounded like from the way he was screaming at the poor girl. She looked broken, Whisp. Like she’d been beaten into submission.”

“Dear God,” she gasped, her green eyes wide. “And you think that man has MacCready? But why? He’s not a synth or a pretty girl.”

Deacon frowned. “He threatened me when I tried to get him to lay off of Natalie. That’s why I didn’t want you to be alone last night. I never expected he’d go after Mac instead.” He looked up at her. “I’m sorry. I was gonna run this one solo, like I have been. I didn’t want to drag either of you into this mess.”

Whisper took his hand in hers, giving it a gentle squeeze. Deacon started at the touch, his eyes locked on hers in surprise. Her hand was cool against his skin, almost cold. It reminded him of the day he’d first seen her, irradiated and frozen, collapsed outside the vault. So much had changed since that day. He hadn’t really expected her to survive more than a few weeks. He certainly hadn’t expected her to thrive. But here she was, sitting beside him, her hand in his. Someone, comforting him? Deacon never thought he’d see the day.

“Deacon,” Whisper said softly. “It’s not your fault. Whatever happened to Mac, we’ll find him. I promise. He’s my friend too. I’m not going to let anyone hurt him if I can help it.”

Deacon smiled slightly. “I knew you’d say that.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, if you know so much, I’ll bet you already have an idea of where we should start looking.”

The spy nodded. “I have a couple ideas, actually.” He pulled a crumpled map out of his pack, handing it to Whisper. “The dots show the last known location of each of the victims. Notice anything?”

Whisper furrowed her brow. “Yeah. I do. These follow the major caravan routes, don’t they?”

Deacon frowned. “Yeah, but look closer. It’s more than that.”

She stared at the map, her fingers tracing possible connections between the sites. “Hang on. These aren’t all on trade routes, are they? Only the disappearances from major settlements, which are all connected by the trade network anyway. But what they do all have in common is...water.”

“Well done!” Deacon affirmed. “Yes, that’s what I saw too. I think they’re using the old drainage system to sneak around, only posing as a caravan when they’re too far from the pipes. That’s why they’re so damn hard to track.”

“So how will we find them, then?” she asked. “There’s hundreds of miles of pipes under the Commonwealth.”

“Yeah,” Deacon replied, “but only a few that the Railroad hasn’t mapped out. If we start here, near Forest Grove, I think we have a pretty good chance of flushing them out.” He laughed. “Get it? Because it’s a sewer!”

Whisper sighed. “You really have a knack for finding the most disgusting places to visit, don’t you? Well, I’ll go grab my waders and tell Danse what we’re up to so he doesn’t worry.”

“I’d tell you to take your time,” Deacon replied, “But honestly, I’m not sure how much MacCready has. So hurry back.”

Whisper nodded. “Will do.” And then, she was gone.