Deacon's my favourite. Not that I don't like some of the others; Tinker Tom, especially, because he always has a treat or two in his pocket. And I suppose Drummer Boy, whose job it is to make sure my dish is full but who often forgets. Glory always stops to pat my head and she doesn't mind if I sit on her lap, so that's nice. But she smells different. It's not a bad smell, it's just… different. Actually, she smells a bit like PAM, who smells a lot like Tinker Tom's workbench and is about as comfortable to sit on. Desdemona smells different, too, from that burning thing she's always sticking in her mouth. Also, she's about as comfortable to sit on as PAM, but for different reasons. I've learned to steer clear of her.
But Deacon, now. He knows just the right place to scratch you, just at the base of the ears, soft but insistent. And his hands are gentle. He never pushes me off things, like Stupid Dr. Stuffy-Nose. Sometimes he'll say "Harley Q, what are you doing climbing around up there?" And he'll pick me up, but he never drops me, just puts me down on the floor then stands still while I rub up against his legs to let him know I appreciate him. He's a terrible tease, too, and when he scratches me in that spot just at the base of my spine, right where the tail connects, I would give half my remaining lives if he could change into a cat for just a little while. He does that, you know - changes his looks from time to time, sometimes so much the others don't even recognize him. But I always know him. You can't change the way you smell, and Deacon always smells, well, Deaconish. If laughter had a smell, it would smell like Deacon.
It was Deacon who gave me my name – both my real name and my Railroad name, although that came later. I don't really remember a time before him. Not very well, anyway. There was someone - a warm, soft, rumbly, raspy-tongued sort of person. I think in those days I mostly ate and slept. I remember there were others there, too, and we all slept close together. The universe was very small, then, and very happy. Later, we played games of spring and pounce in the soft darkness. But something awful happened, and I remember that it wasn't warm and dark any more, but bright and cold and terribly wet. And noise – sharp, loud noises and everything exploding around this day I don't exactly know what happened. I remember a moment of terrible grief like the world had suddenly ended. But I don't remember what caused it. Finally, after a long, long time, Deacon came and the awful noises went away. I bit him, I'm sorry to say. There's still a mark there, at the base of his thumb, and I often stop to lick it nowadays just to remind him that he belongs to me. But in spite of that, he found a dark place for me close against him where it was soft and warm and sort of rumbly, and it smelled right, and so I let the silence fill my ears and I slept. And when I awoke I was here, in the Railroad.
I remember it pretty well for someone who was just waking up. Bright lights and lots of people standing around laughing and making baby talk noises at me, and me puffing up every bit of fur I had to try and make myself look big and scary and hissing at them while I looked for a place to hide. Then someone came up – Desdemona, it turns out, who thinks she tells Deacon what do to but really it's the other way around except she hasn't figured it out yet – and says in a big, loud, voice "What the hell is THAT? And what's it doing on my table?" Now I really was frightened, and I may have had a little accident just then, right on a stack of reports. They must have been important because there was a certain amount of chaos and swearing after that, and Desdemona took a swipe at me and so now she has a big scar on the base of her thumb, too, just like Deacon's, except she wasn't nearly so gracious about it, especially when she got blood all over a map she was working on. But that's hardly my fault. And Deacon gathered me up protectively and said. "'That' is Harley Q. Cat. She's new here. I'm showing her the ropes." Desdemona just pursed her lips in that angry way she does and stomped off to find bandages.
So I guess that's what you'd call a bad first impression. Everybody else was all right, like I say. Even Dr. Stupid-head. They all made a fuss about the "new operative" and PAM, the metal lady down the hall, even tried to pet me. She wasn't very good at it, and so I bit her, too. But only the one time, since I'd like to keep all my teeth.
In the weeks that followed I often tried to remember my earlier life. Sometimes in that drowsy time between naps I'd think I almost had it, but then it would slip away again. It wasn't that I was unhappy, just that something was missing. Like the gap where a tooth has suddenly gone missing, or a crusty patch of fur that you can't seem to get clean, I couldn't leave it alone. But other than that, the food was good, there were warm places to sleep and lots of gentle hands and soft laps. I should have been content. But I wasn't. My lack of memory still rankled. That and Desdemona.
Desdemona and I never really did hit it off, even after I jumped up on her shoulder one time when she was looking particularly sad about something. I guess she didn't want company after all, or maybe it's because she spilled her coffee all over the report she was writing. I may have dug in a little hard, too, but what did she expect, leaping up and screaming like that? On the upside, I learned lots of new words that day. She actually took a kick at me once when she thought no one was looking. And no one was, except me. I told Deacon all about it, but he didn't really get it. He's like that sometimes. One day we're so connected it's like we share the same brain. Other times, we might as well be on separate planets.
Men. Men never change.
This all happened soon after Switchboard went dark and the Railroad had to move to its new digs under the Old North Church. Deacon explained all this to me one day when he took me up to show me around. I think he was supposed to be out on a mission, but it was raining and generally miserable, and he decided he'd rather find a cozy corner and read magazines instead. Which we did, in a crumbling pew up in the choir loft where we had a good view of the whole church. Deacon said it was so we could spot any ferals sneaking up on us, but I could have told him not to worry. There was nothing moving in there except us and the rats. I think it was Desdemona catching him slacking off he was mostly worried about.
I heard Glory and Drummer Boy talking about her when everyone else was sleeping, "Hard-assed bitch" was the nicest thing they said. But I think she blamed herself for the whole Switchboard thing, and maybe that's why she was the way she was. Of course, I didn't really understand most of what was going on. But I do know that the people hidden down there in the catacombs were always afraid. Even Deacon. Nothing smells the way fear does, and it carries a long way. If the Institute ever does find the Railroad, it will be the smell that gave them away.
Deacon was frequently away, of course, doing whatever it was the Railroad had him doing. I lived for the moments when he returned. "There's my Harley Q!" he'd roar as he came in, sweeping me up and tucking me inside his jacket, where I'd curl up and close my eyes, and simply enjoy the smell of him all around me. But as I got older, he started taking me out with him; first just on short jaunts in the immediate area, then farther and farther afield. Sometimes over night, even. Mostly I rode in a special pocket sewn into his coat, placed exactly right so I could keep an eye out ahead. Sometimes I walked alongside until I got tired. But my favourite place was perched on his shoulder where the wind tickled my whiskers and brought all the scents and sounds of the Commonwealth straight to me.
For a clever man, Deacon could be surprisingly dense. Honestly, I don't know how he survived all those years without me. In fact, as I learned how deadly the Commonwealth could be, I got frantic every time he went away alone for fear he wouldn't come home again. I heard Drummer Boy say "Deacon is the best." But even so, I've seen ferals sneak right up on him without him even hearing them until they were almost on top of us. That was the first time we met them out on a street, choked with rubble from a partially collapsed building across from a graveyard. Deacon should have known better. Ferals love graveyards. I guess it's my fault, too. I heard them coming from all the way across the street. It just never occurred to me they were a problem until they jumped him.
I've never seen anyone move so fast. He rolled, throwing me off his shoulder. I landed hard and scooted under an abandoned car, my instincts driving me to the closest hidey-hole. But I wasn't staying there, instincts be damned. Puffing out my fur, I leaped out, claws extended, looking for the nearest enemy. But I was too late. Deacon was just standing up, the pistol in his hand smoking. All four of the ferals were down, still kicking and jerking as they bled out on the dusty pavement. Sniffing delicately at one, I understood that once, long ago, it had been a people. I wondered what had happened to it.
"You okay, Harley?" Deacon asked worriedly, holstering his gun. He reached down and held me up so we were eye to eye. He grinned. "Bastards nearly got us. I'd better keep my ears open a little wider next time. Meanwhile, let's find ourselves a bit more cover." I butted him in the head. I didn't trust his useless, curled up little ears one bit. Plus I was pretty sure they were already open as wide as they could get.
After that I kept my eyes open and my ears constantly on the move. I was still new at this game, but as our ramblings took us farther and farther from the catacombs, I got a better sense of the landscape and who our enemies and friends were. There were lots of the latter and precious few of the former, but there were safe places here and there about the Commonwealth. Lots of times we slept rough, out in the open or holed up in some falling-down ruin, but sometimes there'd be a room with a bed and a door with a lock on it, which meant a chance to really sleep. But mostly we were on the move, running whatever mysterious errand it was Desdemona had sent him on. I never really understood the point of it all. I freely admit that to this day I don't understand what a synth is, or why we care.
Deacon was a master of the art of avoiding trouble. There were places we'd travel where you couldn't go two blocks without hearing gunfire. Now, there are those who instinctively run toward a fight. Maybe they think they're safer if they know what's going on, or maybe they just like to fight. There are lots like that, even in the Railroad. But not Deacon. Whether it meant skulking in the shadows, blending into the crowd or simply taking the long way around, if there was a fight going on you could count on Deacon not to be any part of it. I helped in my little way. I got into the habit of sinking my claws into him whenever I heard a noise before he did. I don't know if he ever consciously understood I was warning him, but it seemed to work. But sometimes even I could get caught by surprise.
It was while we were working a message drop in an old apartment building near the water, close to Diamond City somewhere. We spent the better part of an hour working our way through the building looking for the Railroad sign and keeping an eye out for raiders or other, less savoury things. It didn't look like anyone had used this place in a long time, but that didn't mean anything. Like most of the buildings around here, it was ready to fall down at a moment's notice and so we moved carefully, watching for weak floorboards and missing stairs.
"What the hell, Harley," Deacon groused. "Couldn't they have put the damned thing a bit lower down?" We had got to the top floor before we'd found it, low down in a closet in a child's bedroom. There was a dresser there, and he found the message drop in the back of one of the drawers. Slipping the coded message into his pocket he gestured up a rickety staircase leading to an open hatch. "Let's check the roof before we go. I don't think there's been anyone here in a while, but there might be some good salvage." Scavenging was second nature here in the wastelands. Ammunition, food, medical supplies; anything of value was fair game.
Cautiously we crept up the stairs. Deacon slipped his pistol out and checked the load, then held it loosely in his hand as he moved upward. Stopping at the top he waited barely breathing as he listened for sounds coming from the roof above. I slipped between his feet and stood stock still, listening intently.
"Nothing," he said. "Let's go." I went first, taking in the sights and smells and letting my ears build a picture of the rooftop. People must have lived here recently. There were a couple of sleeping bags under an awning in one corner, and a mattress in sort of a lean-to under a set of metal stairs leading up to a higher level. A ragged chair with a table beside it sat close by, in a bit of a hidden spot next to a large rooftop air conditioner. A good spot for watching the street below without being seen, I figured. Plus there were dark stains on the boards nearby and I could smell blood. Not fresh, but not old. Someone had died here recently.
Deacon satisfied himself that the rooftop was empty then quickly began rummaging through things. I began to hunt around, keeping my ears moving for the sounds of ambush, but letting my nose do most of the work. As I suspected, the blood was several days old. It also came from more than one person. There were half-burned cigarettes on the table, and they were considerably more recent. But the mattress caught my attention right away. Once you got past the ancient smells of blood and urine and vomit, all old and caked on, it was clear someone had been sleeping on that mattress only just moments before. This should have rung alarm bells right away. But there was something terribly familiar about that smell. The fur on my spine rose of its own accord, and I growled softly, deep in my throat. A memory drifted up like the thinnest wisp of smoke and I reached for it but it was gone. But there was something, I knew. Unlikely as it seemed, whoever owned this mattress was someone I had met before.
Suddenly I hissed, arching my back and spitting as I caught movement from above us. Ambush! Deacon started at the sound, then followed my gaze to the roof top above. In one convulsive bound he leaped for cover behind the ruined air conditioner housing as a heavy rifle barked and bullets spanged off the brick where he'd been standing. His pistol was in his hand and he was firing before he hit the ground, rolling to a better position. I scooted under the chair, my tail lashing hard, ears flattened against my head. In an instant I was back in the little cave under the broken sidewalk, cowering as the explosions ripped apart my universe. But this time Deacon was there already.
From my vantage point, I saw him wriggle a few feet then pop up and squeeze off two quick shots before diving back down in a hail of bullets. A hoarse scream from above attested to his accuracy. One down. A string of curses followed. I could make out two separate voices, close together, almost right above me near the top of the metal fire escape. He'd caught them by surprise that time, but I doubted it would be so easy the next time.
"We've got you pinned down, you bastard," a man's voice called down. "You might as well put a bullet in your own brain and save us the trouble." The other – a woman – chimed in. "We've got all day, asshole. When you're tired of hiding, you let us know."
The bantering went on. Useless nonsense, most of it. I have never understood the human propensity for making pointless mouth noises. But I very quickly discerned the purpose of it this time, for to my ears came a furtive, skulking noise; a noise the taunts were clearly intended to cover. I changed position and rotated both ears slowly back and front, my whiskers cupped like a basket in front of me to better catch the air and the smells it held. There it was again. Someone was moving very carefully, just out of my sight where the roof we were went off around the corner of the building above us, where the raiders were. Deacon wasn't moving, but I could hear his breathing so he wasn't dead. But he really was pinned down. They had the angles on him and the only thing keeping him alive was the old air conditioner he was sheltered behind. Meanwhile, though, the creeping sound was coming from above, and getting closer. Whoever it was, they were climbing down the wall. Maybe there was a pipe; I could hear something like skin on bare metal. Then – there it was. The sound of a short jump and a soft landing on bent legs. The tiniest of thuds, then the sound of leather against brick as the raider edged around the side of the building to a point where Deacon would be a clear target.
I cast a frantic glimpse over to where Deacon lay. He still hadn't moved, except to bring his gun up to shooting position. He was waiting for one of the raiders to make a mistake, for a head to appear in the just the wrong place. Then there'd be one less raider. But they weren't going to give him that opportunity, and in a moment the other would be around that corner and it would be too late.
Quick as thought I darted out from beneath the chair and raced across the open rooftop, fully conscious of how exposed I was. Approaching the corner where the raider stood, his back to the wall, I slowed my rush, timing my leap for the instant that I felt him turn and step out, my whiskers catching the faintest exhalation of breath as he moved from cover and raised his rifle. It was a wicked, gleaming thing, all dark metal and shining gun oil, like a serpent out of a nightmare, and I feared his finger would twitch and my body be cut in half. But he gaped at me instead and in that instant I was upon him, sharp claws raking his face and neck, my teeth tearing at the soft flesh of his ear. He screamed, a blood-curdling shriek that was as much terror as pain, dropping his gun and reaching for me with maddened hands.
Dimly, I heard two reports as Deacon calmly drilled the two on the roof. Startled, they had leaped to their feet and now their screams were fading into gurgles as they died there in the afternoon sunshine. I turned my attention away from them. My battle was here. My raider turned and spun blindly as I tore at him, my claws ripping bloody gashes down his face. And then he tripped, catching his foot on a projection there at the edge of the roof. Flailing his arms to keep his balance, he reached for me one last time. Twisting out of his grasp I turned and pushed off him, my hind legs propelling me safely beyond his reach. It was just the push he needed to take him past the tipping point. He screamed again as the pavement below reached for him with its hard, black arms, and took him home.
I crouched on the edge of the roof and looked at him there where he lay, a broken thing that had once been a man. Deacon was just coming down the metal fire escape where he'd gone to make sure the other raiders were truly dead. My emotions were churning. It was my first kill. More importantly, as the raider fell away from me I had finally recognized the smell, the one that had been so tantalizingly familiar on the old mattress. It had been him, that day. He was the one who had torn the roof off my world, laughing as he stamped down with his hard, booted, feet. He, who had slaughtered my mother where she lay and crushed my brother and sisters. Finally, the memory of them and of that day came flooding back and all the grief and loss I didn't even know I had inside me came pouring out.
My kind have no tear glands; we cannot cry. But in that moment, I wished we could.
Deacon walked to where I was. Leaning over the edge of the roof, he looked down for a long moment at the body sprawled below. "Well, catling," he said softly, "I think you saved my life today." He nodded over at the edge. "Not sure how that would have turned out without you." Turning away, he picked me up and tucked me gently inside his shirt. I poked my head out and looked up at him.
"If you're going to be a full-fledged operative," he continued, " you're going to need a Railroad name." He thought for a moment. Just then a small breeze blew up from the west, ruffling his hair a little and carrying with it the smell of the city and the strange tang of the blasted lands beyond. Feeling the wind, Deacon grinned suddenly. "Zephyr," he declared. "Your name shall be Zephyr, after the west wind that glides on silent feet across the world." And with that, he shouldered his pack and made for the stairs to take us back down to the street.
Curled up against his skin, I let his smell enfold me, and as it did, memory filled me, of my first home, in the dark, safe place, and my siblings there, and of our beautiful mother: so fierce, so wise, so gentle. I had, I realized, avenged them. By sheer happenstance, it's true, but vengeance nonetheless. Or maybe the Universe keeps its own accounts. I don't know. Either way, they could now sleep in peace. From some distant place, I felt my mother nod her approval and suddenly she was gone.
I let her go. I was no longer simply a scraggly, orphaned refugee, dependent on the charity of others. Now I had my own place in the world, and my own job to do. Now I was Zephyr… Zephyr of the Railroad!
[Author's Note, Mar. 24, 2017: Last night our little Harley Q., the small, black-and-orange cat after whom my heroine in this story is modelled, was hit by a car and killed, crossing a busy road a couple blocks from our house. I like to think she was escorting a synth out of the 'Wealth, and sacrificed herself for its freedom. Sleep well, little Zephyr, and dream of soft winds.]