Desdemona, with her permanent scowl stuck to her aging face, looks up from her tabletop map at the newly arrived Deacon. "So you're back. Anything useful to report?"
It hurts him a little inside whenever the Railroad's headmistress disapproved of him taking liberties with his covert missions. But only a little, and only for a few seconds. He plops down on a bench to rest his weary body. "It was a massacre. No backup, shitty weapons, the whole enchilada, and when all was said and done, they ran; the ones that were left anyway. Scattered in all different directions."
"Hmm..." The woman ponders his words carefully and quickly. Even though the Minutemen were few in number, they always had backup, whether it be four or fourteen men. "It sounds as if someone did this on purpose."
"You think?" The fact that Dez assumed what he did hours ago makes it an even more terrifying thought. Someone within the organization itself sold out its own people, but for what? Caps? Guns? Did they think it was a benevolent act to let a few get slaughtered to save even more later on? "What if this time they really didn't have the people to spare?" He knows how ignorant his words sound, but the temptation was too great.
"Bullshit." Desdemona even agreed, the Minutemen were to be destroyed, utterly. Cut the head off the snake as it were. "If the same destruction that happened at Quincy is going to happen at other Minutemen controlled settlements, then they have to be eliminated. They're no better than the Institute if they're willing to sacrifice their own people."
He curses the constantly grinding inner workings of his mind. "Calm down, Dez, all I said was 'what if'." Deacon knows she's right, as misguided as her intention is. As a plus, hearing her say the "B" word was totally worth the anger.
"Well I have a 'what if' for you, Deacon." She turns to him, a hand on her hip. "What if I'm right."
"Like I've said before, I'll do what I do best." He wonders to himself what that may entail exactly as he changes into his settler attire for another jaunty outside.
Into Concord the Railroad spy goes dressed as a Raider in a shoddy sack helmet. The throng running between the buildings pays him no nevermind. While they rush helter-skelter after the settlers and their fearful leader, he hides out inside a dilapidated building, finding an acceptable vantage point from a broken second story window.
Hours pass, and he watches silently and patiently as the Raider's strength dwindles, not out of any precision shots from the Minuteman cowering in the balcony door, but out of sheer boredom and a new forward position inside the Museum. Six of them take pot shots from the surrounding buildings and walls of sandbags.
"Leaving the front door unlocked might have been on purpose after all," Deacon thinks, seeing the look of hopelessness in the cornered Minuteman's eyes through his rifle scope. "If this is what he's stooped to, then I might as well put him out of his misery." He lines up his shot carefully.
"AAAHHHH!" One of the Raiders screams out in agony as a stray dog latches onto his arm and pulls viciously. "Get off me you-"
Four gunshots square to the noggin brings the man down.
Taking his eye away from the scope, Deacon calmly watches as a woman in a blue vault suit and piecemeal armor makes her way down the street with her attack dog one Raider at a time. "Not bad." He commends her marksmanship and strategy as he weighs the pro and cons of taking both her and the Minuteman down with a bullet to each of their heads. As she finishes off the last Raider with her pistol, a voice from above catches her off guard.
"Hey! Up here! On the balcony!" The Minuteman comes out of the doorway, waving down at her in the street. "I've got a group of settlers inside! The Raiders are coming in through the doors! Grab that Laser Musket and help us! Please!"
Since the attack on Quincy, he hasn't heard one single emotion from the man, until now that is. He hears it now, he's fighting to keep the group that followed him alive.
The vault woman hesitates, looking to her dog for confirmation.
The dog barks up at the man in the balcony happily.
Seeing the animal's positive reaction, she hurries forward, scooping up the discarded weapon as she pushes the doors to the Museum open.
The Spymaster comes to the conclusion that killing either of them would be a foolish endeavor. If this fish out of water can inspire hope in the hopeless, then she may be worth keeping an eye on, as long as she's on the Minuteman's side anyway. He slips his hunting rifle onto his back, heading back to Railroad headquarters with a better report than he'd hoped.