Irma called down from the ground floor just as Amari finished cleaning her last patient's blood from the table. "You've got one more up here, honey. I know it's late, but can I send him down to you?"
Amari groaned, shooting a longing look at the memory pod which stood open, just waiting for her to climb in. She no longer tried to convince herself that it was something she merely enjoyed, her access to the technology one of the few perks of being the brains behind the memory den. No, it was something she needed to function.
Not that that was a bad thing. Other people had chems, sex, or adrenaline for their outlet. She had her memories, both true and tailor-made. Lost in virtual reality, it was possible to die of thirst or hunger, but no one had ever fatally overdosed on memories alone. There were worse things to indulge in, and to Amari it was a necessity as much as food or drink.
But now, thanks to a brawl in the Third Rail earlier in the evening and a variety of nasty but superficial injuries that fell to her to treat, she was several hours overdue for a fix.
"What's wrong with him?" she called up. If it wasn't too bad, she might just press a stimpak into the vagrant's hands and send him on his way, free of charge. It would be worth it to her to buy a night of dreaming.
"He says he's got something called E-bo-la." The other woman sounded puzzled and little alarmed.
That got Amari's attention. It was only by pure chance that she'd even heard the word - it had come up in a pre-war textbook someone had salvaged for her years before - but if a walk-in at Goodneighbor's only clinic had Ebola, she'd eat her hat. Maybe Irma had misheard; maybe the patient was a rare hypochondriac in the wastes. Either way, she was mildly curious.
"Yes. I'll see him."
The greybeard who limped down the stairs had seen better days. From the scar that split his face in two diagonally before disappearing under an eyepatch to the hook which protruded from an empty sleeve, he showed all the signs of a hard life. This damage combined with salt-stained clothing and a rolling swagger contributed to an almost fantastically piratical effect. He also smelt very strongly of rum, to the extent that Amari wondered if "Ebola" was code for "too drunk to see straight."
"Have a seat, there." Never one to turn her back on any stranger, Amari kept an especially wary eye on that hook as she flipped to the index of the relevant book. "What are your symptoms? You said you think you're… sick?"
"Aye, well, y'see… I got these bumps and itches on my nether parts, y'know? And sometimes I can't get it up, no matters how hard I tries or how pretty the whore is. And in the mornin', I can't hardly move for the pain of my knees and back. Not 'til I've had a drink or two." His voice was rough and uncultured, but she noticed he wasn't slurring his words.
Not needing to read any more about hemorrhagic fever, Amari shut the book and said acerbically. "That's called getting older, with the possibility of sexually transmitted diseases and alcohol dependency as complicating factors. I can check for signs for the former and offer addiction counseling services for the latter. There's nothing any of us can do about the passage of time. How old are you, Mr... ?"
"John Silver, ma'am. Captain Silver. I'm just this side of fifty-three. Me 'n my crew of… of, er, dolphin fishers put into port a few hours ago. I'd heard there was a lady doctor here and I thought I'd come put my fears to rest. I'd rather not let you look, though. It's not a pretty sight." He looked at her expectantly, his one eye - blue and surprisingly clear - fixed on hers.
"Okay then, here's my general impression from you with your clothes on: you're probably not dying," Amari said with exasperation. "For starters, I can give you an antibiotic for your genitals… your 'nether parts,' that is. If you'll stay right there?"
The valuable medications were kept in a locked closet on the far side of the room. Silver sat obediently where he was and Amari chanced looking away, just for an instant, to unlock the door and grab what she needed. When she turned back around, pill bottle in hand, he was standing two feet behind her.
Before she could scream for help, he reached up and removed his beard and hair. These fell to the ground, along with the hook that had been replaced by a hand. The scar he peeled off, together with the eyepatch, and he quickly replaced these accessories with a pair of sunglasses. "You shouldn't let down your guard around the likes of that, Amari," he said reproachfully. "One of them might hurt you."
"I hate you, Deacon."
"I wanted to check on you," he told her with his mouth full. "Make sure things were okay down Memory Lane."
Amari glared at him over the table and took a sip of the drink she'd poured to keep him company. She'd invited him to sit down to a late-night meal - he seemed thin and worn under the ragged costume, and she was concerned in spite of herself - but she still resented the intrusion, not to mention the duplicity of showing up in disguise. A good disguise, too!
"Business as usual. The Memory Den by itself would keep us solvent and Hancock throws appreciation enough my way for the doctoring. The… other part… goes well, I think. Unless you're here to criticize my work?"
"Oh no. No, no, no. We're happy with what you're doing. The effort, the detail you put into the back stories and the way you incorporate the old personality seamlessly with the new self… you do a fine job. Old Pinkerton might have been a decent face-doc, but he didn't hold a candle to you when it comes to reprogramming synths. Even Glory says so, and she doesn't like this business of mind-wiping at all."
Amari waited. When Deacon took another bite instead of speaking, studying her intently, she finally snapped. "It's been six months, Deacon. We both know you've been avoiding me. So what, now you want to know why I blacklisted her to Carrington? Is that it?"
He chewed meditatively, swallowed, and shook his head "I wasn't going to ask. I assume you had your reasons, but I don't need to know them. No, I've stayed away because of our last real conversation. You know, that time when you about took my head off?"
Amari was drawing a blank. When had they last talked… really talked? It had been a late night like this one, but she couldn't recall the details. Clearly it had made an impression on Deacon, though.
He sighed. "I raised the point that I thought you were dangerously dependent on your own product. You countered with the suggestion that I should go to hell. I asked you when you'd last stepped outside except to make a house call or taken a night off from your dreams and that's when you…"
She remembered now - how had she forgotten? - and her cheeks burned at the memory. "I kicked you out," she said slowly. "I said some nasty things in the process. I'm sorry about that."
He waved the apology away. "I have thick skin. What I hoped was that you would think about what I said. That may have been unrealistic." He rubbed tired eyes. "Truth be told, we've been busy lately, and not in Goodneighbor. Added to the fact that you clearly don't like my partner, and it's been hard to justify the trip. Now that I'm here, however, I have to ask: are you okay?"
Avoiding his eyes, she began her usual spiel. "There is no neurological damage indicated with daily use of the Memory Lounger 3000. So long as physical needs are met in a timely fashion, there is no reason why a customer cannot…"
He slapped the table in frustration, making her jump and almost toppling their drinks. "Damnit, Amari, I'm not asking for a sales pitch. I'm asking about you as the oldest friend you have left. You might as well have been wearing your vault blues when I first met you at Moira's. You didn't need an escape back then. You still thought the world had something to offer if you only found your place in it. I found that endearing. I decided that day that I'd keep an eye out for you, help you reach that goal in any way that I could.
"Well, you have a place now. Friends, even, should you choose to accept them. If that's not enough, you're needed by a lot of people - everybody who gets shot or stabbed in this shithole of a settlement, every synth trying to find a fresh start, and all the poor saps who just want a little break from the dreariness of it all. And if that's not enough…" He was animated now, his food forgotten, his voice uncharacteristically intense and serious. "If that's not enough, Amari, then you do have a serious problem. A fantasy will always win out over reality if you only feed the fantasy."
He settled back again and shovelled the last of his meal into his mouth, washing it down hurriedly. "Look," he began, more calmly, "let's talk old times tonight. I can go get a bottle of something and some more food. We can invite Irma down if you want or keep it between us two. I want to catch up and reminisce. I want you to show me you can go one night without it. I'll stay up 'til sunrise if I have to."
Amari shook her head firmly. "You're exhausted. You have someone waiting for you at the Rexford, right? And - if you stay - what will the neighbors think?" She forced a smile. "Go back to your partner. Go sleep. Just for tonight, just for you, I'll take a break. I promise."
He looked at her doubtfully for a moment, then smiled. "Well, you do mean it, at least at the moment. That's good. Don't start lying, Amari. Once you start, it's hard to stop." She tensed a little when he stood up and folded her into a sudden, brief hug. He had always been affectionate, but he'd gotten the message long ago that she was not. "Please consider what I said. I care, that's all."
She untangled herself from him and pushed him away lightly. "You smell absolutely horrendous, Deacon. But yes, I'll do that. Don't worry about me. Watch your back out there."
She listened to him go from the basement. He climbed the stairs, spoke briefly to Irma, and walked out the door. Even before she heard Irma lock the door behind him, Amari was already on her way to her personal pod.
Just an hour this time, she decided as the perception filter slid down and her favorite selections popped up before her eyes. This still counts as a break.