"Funny, I don't remember making that a party invitation," Deacon said. The words came out light and carefree, but the gut-punch that he'd felt when he recognized the person standing behind the Sole Survivor was anything but. She'd had Nick Valentine and a dog with her when she'd walked into the Old North Church and he had thought- Well, Nick Valentine was a point in her favor. This guy was a definite point against.

"Hey, George," the other man drawled. Then he shifted the pack on his back, eyes sweeping across the little clearing.

Deacon felt his jaw tighten. "Like the Steinbeck character or like the comic? I'm guessing the comic's more your speed. Either way, it's a compliment, so thanks."

"Sure, George, call me Lennie," MacCready snapped and Deacon's eyes widened behind his sunglasses.

The Sole Survivor gave him a quick look. "I thought your name was- Wait, you two know each other?"

In the late afternoon light, Deacon's shadow stretched long and black before him. The sun in the others' eyes made it harder to read their expressions. Deacon hesitated and thought about walking away. The weather was too clear for a frontal approach and Blue tended to favor those. Plus, with this guy tagging along—he wasn't exactly sure that boded well.

"I'm Deacon," Deacon said evenly. "As for him- I know his reputation. Which is—poor, to be charitable." Mac—the Gunner, damn him, didn't say a word in rebuttal, just stared down at his feet as if they weren't talking about him. Or as if Deacon wasn't being less than honest. Jerk.

Blue—which wasn't her real name but it was what she was going by—spoke and Deacon felt the temperature drop by at least ten degrees. "I don't care what his reputation used to be. He's proven himself to me. If you don't trust my judgement, then I'm leaving."

Such assertive arrogance! What a perfect Pre-war attitude! Sole's score ticked down a notch on Deacon's mental tally. His pleasant expression didn't change; he had a job to do. He wouldn't be showing her—them anything the Institute didn't already know about. He lifted his hands, palms outward. "Hey, I didn't spend all that time stalking you to let you get away that easily. But I would take it as a close personal favor if your backup doesn't sell us out to the Institute."

The other man looked up and smiled tightly. "Depends. How much they payin?" He looked the same as the last time Deacon saw him, but for different clothing. Blue eyes, brownish-red hair, loose pants, shirt, coat—probably multiple weapons in various places, in addition to the expensive-looking rifle slung over one shoulder. Three months since that first night in Diamond City. You never did brush up on searches, Deacon, mental-Dez reminded him. Don't turn your back on him. Hmm. That rifle was new.

Blue looked back over her shoulder and he snorted. "Just joking, boss." Ah, that was funny. What was more amusing than the wholesale slaughter of people that Deacon knew, had worked with for years, right?

The other man raised his eyes to Deacon's and muttered, "Maybe I'd do it for free."

Deacon's mouth responded before his more-rational part could intervene. "You and the Institute hooking up? They supply the money, you shoot the innocents—sounds like love."

He saw Blue open her mouth out of the corner of his eye and stopped himself from saying anything more. He'd also moved a couple of steps closer to...that guy without thinking, and now Blue was to his side. Not good. No turning your back on the newbie.

He—the jerk, the other guy, the Gunner... Avoiding his name is pretty elementary, Deacon. It's Distancing 101, mental-Dez remarked. Why are you doing it? Oh, you know, just like to keep you guessing! Except—not. Deacon dropped his eyes to the scrub-covered wastes. Let's not analyze motivations or—things. There's neither Daytripper nor happy orgasms coursing through your system right now, so screw emotional honesty. Or any honesty. Screw the whole concept of honesty.

Time to get things back on track. His stomach was tight, and tension in your core always leaked out...through the chakras? Something. He couldn't remember, and that Pre-war book on meditation had been torn in half. So many books, so much knowledge lost. He folded his arms, carefully mirroring Blue's body language and concerned expression and took a step back, turned to her.

"Wow. Sorry, Blue." Genuine sincerity in his tone—well, genuine as far as she knew. She began to relax and he copied her, and then took it further, relaxing his stance and shoulders, and spreading out his arms. "I'm not the biggest fan of mercenaries but I'm always happy to be proven wrong. I'm glad I got that out of my system. Everyone feeling better now? Group hug."

She looked relieved. Deacon's mental tally ticked up a notch for being easy to manipulate. He glanced over at ...MacCready-haha, see there, Dez, no big deal, like, at all. His mouth was twisted scornfully. Ah, yes. He'd seen through that before, the perceptive bastard.

Blue glanced back and forth between them. "So, is everything all right?"

MacCready said, "Yep."

Deacon added, "Oh, yeah. We're cool. We're so cool, it's like we're living in a cave, at a steady sixty-eight degrees year-round." Took a second to enjoy the expression on MacCready's face. Then he took a deep breath, and pushed all of that aside, and went on, "So, there's a tourist up ahead with some info for us. Lead the way, Blue."

Blue surprised Deacon by picking the stealthy way. Deacon approved. Plus one. He hung back, trying to get a feel for how she operated. They flushed a couple of mole rats on the way to the tunnel and she shot them efficiently—with a damn nice laser rifle that had 'Brotherhood' written all over it. Seriously, it might even have a label that said 'designed by fascists for all your human supremacy needs.' That was …worrisome. Because if she was leaning Brotherhood, then he should shoot her right here. Minus, like, a million.

He glanced back at MacCready. But he was still hanging around Goodneighbor these days, although not in Hancock's office, obviously, so that didn't make sense either. A Brotherhood enthusiast would peel their skin off before setting foot in the ghoul haven. A puzzle. Well, Deacon did love a good puzzle.

Flicker of motion caught his eye. The screen on her Pip-boy had changed. He'd like to get a closer look at that bit of tech. If she'd had dealings with the Brotherhood, he was amazed that they hadn't flat-out confiscated it. Maybe she'd looted the rifle off a dead paladin or something. Still a minus one for making him worry.

She waved and gestured ahead. Beep, boop, bop. Killer robots on the way. Deacon looked around for cover. Wait, was he the only one doing that? Yes. Yes, he was.

MacCready brought his rifle up in a smooth economical way and fired quickly. Took down two. The third advanced, but Blue sizzled it into ash with her laser-gun. Deacon lowered his pistol, not having even gotten off a shot. Well, whatever else was going on with her, she was a damn efficient killer. As was her partner. Plus two.

They advanced into a larger room. Turret up ahead, still going. Another body crumpled in a corner. Deacon turned her over and …. oh. Songbird. Idealistic. Really believed in the cause. Oh, and young. Stupidly young, because how naïve to choose that as her code name. It sounded like something a kid would do. Now she was a cold sack of meat in an underground room. With benefits like that, it was no wonder that people were lining up to help the Railroad. Part of Deacon wants to rage and run out shooting at the damn Gen-1s, but the cold calculating part of him, the part that occasionally sounded like Dez or a snotty British butler, simply dropped that emotion into a box and closed the lid. No time for that now. Not ever time for that. Stuff it into a box, like he'd put Songbird in a grave, and then push it out into the ether with all the other boxes full of Deacon's emotions.

~to be continued~