A/N: I own nothing except the laptop I wrote this story on.

Sometimes he wondered what was it that made him able to wake up so swiftly, especially in comparison to the rest of the world. In the past, he would have attributed it to his soldierly training and his tendency to always take point and watch. But these days, the very thought made him question everything. Was it because of his training? Or was it because he was a Synth, and he was better equipped to "start up" and "shut down" than the rest of the world? These were the questions that kept him up at night, without question.

And here he was, a full hour before Jonathan was about to get on the radio and start waking up the Commonwealth with the Minutemen announcements, sitting at the General's desk. He also felt more than a little bit uncomfortable about sitting in the desk to begin with. It wasn't his. It was the General's. To even be sitting here as a sort of placeholder for the General didn't feel right.

And yet…at the same time, it was rather nice that he was still useful. He'd kept the Castle running on a relatively swift pace since taking temporary command, and he was certain that the General would be pleased with the pace of the workers that were constructing the levels that would turn the Castle into a multi-faceted complex that was more than just some ancient stone walls. And in a strange sort of way, Danse took some pride in that.

He leaned back in the chair, and sighed. He'd spent too much time being introspective. He stared at the letters that he'd started writing, one to The Slog (they wanted a mechanically-oriented Minuteman to come and fix one of their broken turrets) and another all the way out to Hangman's Alley (they needed some more shells for their artillery unit. He groaned. It was time to get back to work. After all, there wasn't really going to be anything important happening today. The least he could do was write a couple of letters.

He moved swiftly through the dark, and a gentle breeze rustled through the dead trees that littered the landscape. He had made a point to stay as close to the road as possible, while at the same time keeping just off to the side. Too close to the center and he'd attract the attention of a Brotherhood patrol or worse. If he drifted too far off the beaten path, then he might run into a Deathclaw or even a Stingwing. He hated Stingwings even worse than Deathclaws. With Deathclaws, at least you knew exactly what to expect. With Stingwings…he shuddered. He'd seen men get stabbed in the chest and then sucked dry by those monstrocities. That was the type of thing that kept him up at night.

And the last thing he needed was one of his charges getting hit by that terrible fate. He'd rather they be found by the Brotherhood than have someone get stung by a Stingwing.

He heard a rustling, and immediately he dove behind cover. It was the faded remnant of whatever they called that divider that stood in between the roads of a highway. What did the boss call them? "Medians?" Something like that. And then he heard a voice.

"Flash!"

MacCready was lucky that he'd paid attention to Desdemona.

"Thunder!" He barked back, still pointing his rifle in the direction of the original sound.

There was a pause, and even though he relaxed a bit, MacCready kept his rifle pointed in the direction of the noise. Out of the shady brush came a trio of people, all of them dressed in flannel and other bits of unassuming clothes.

"You the Rifleman?" One of them asked. She was clearly the leader of this outfit. She had a red scarf wrapped around her neck, and a nasty-looking combat knife tied to her chest. He nodded.

"Yeah. You the backup?"

"That's right." The woman whispered. With that, they stood upright. MacCready frantically motioned for them to stay low, and then motioned them over to where he was taking cover.

"Don't do that!" He hissed. "You'll stir something bigger and meaner than me."

"Sorry." The woman whispered. As they got closer, he could get a better look. The man on the left was ancient, with wrinkled bronze skin and chalk white hair. He also had a massive assault rifle in his hands. The one on the left was a young-looking fellow, with red hair and a gap in his teeth as he grimaced. Or smiled. It looked like a strange combination of the two. She was dark-skinned and had her hair tied into twisted braids.

"Call me Bleach." She said. She extended her hand. "Over here is Chum, and the other is Bucket."

"Why the code names?" MacCready asked.

"So the Institute don't know where we are!" The old man, clearly Chum, said. Bucket rolled his eyes.

"He thinks that every enemy is the Institute. Or Institute-affiliated." Bucket said. "So we sort of pattern around that."

"What's the plan, boss?" Bleach asked. "Dez said that you were in charge, and that we were to follow you."

MacCready nodded.

"Okay, so we got about two hours before sunrise." MacCready said. "I'd prefer to get them past the airport before the sun really starts rising and it becomes really fu-freaking difficult to sneak an entire settlement's worth of people past the Brotherhood. They've got their heads up in the clouds, after all." He gestured to the sky, referencing the Brotherhood's supply of Vertibirds.

"How far away are we from the target?" Bleach asked. MacCready checked his watch. He was proud of the thing. Lucy had given it to him, all those years ago. Happier times.

"I've been schlepping it for about an hour and a half. So I think we got about fifteen minutes more or so. And it's about two hours from Salem to the Castle. And since we're trying to take the long road, that means it will be bright out by the time the packages are safe in the Castle." He looked at them. "Any of you know Barney Rook?"

"No idea." Bleach said. "He our contact?"

"Yeah…" MacCready said. Great. If Barney didn't know they were coming, he was bound to try to shoot them on sight. He took a deep breath. "Stay behind me. I'm on point, and we'll get to Rook and Salem in no time. That's the easy part. The hard part is getting the people to come with us."

"Yeah. On your lead, chief." Bleach said.

Despite it only being about fifteen minutes of walking, it was the most tense experience of MacCready's life. He half expecting to hear the tell-tale buzzing of Stingwings, or even the growling breath of a stalking Deathclaw. Deathclaw were smarter than humans half the time, it seemed. He still remembered one of his first missions with the Gunners: they'd been assigned to raid this old ship somewhere in the Capital Wasteland. There was a corpse of a Deathclaw in the middle of the tanker. But when one of the guys got close, that was when they all realized that the Deathclaw wasn't dead; it was just playing.

MacCready had been the only one that'd made it out alive.

Soon, he saw the lights in the distance that were attached to Barney's turret defense system. He knew that the turrets were coded to go after Mirelurks, and he wasn't about to stick around long enough to figure out where they were. Mirelurk Hunters liked lurking out here at this time of the day; they would love sinking their teeth into any of the four of them at this rate.

And then he heard the chittering sound.

He barely had time to move before the Mirelurk popped out of the ground in front of him, its claws brandished and ready to sink into his flesh. He hit the ground hard, and rolled out of the way right before the claw stabbed into the ground where he'd been.

"Lurks!" Chum barked, turning his assault rifle towards the creature. He fired off a short burst towards the creature, which seemed to do little but make it mad. It went for him next. He wasn't as swift as MacCready.

"Chum!" Bucket shouted, pulling out a combat shotgun and firing at the back of the creature. It squealed in pain as its shell seemed to crack, and then it turned around to face the young Railroad agent.

There was a terrific crack, and the back of the Mirelurk seemed to explode into a puff of green goo and gore. The creature fell over, and after a brief shudder went completely still. MacCready looked up in the direction of the shot as Bleach and Bucket went to tend to the wounded Chum.

"Hold tight, old man!" Bleach said. "Just stay with us!" She reached into her pocket, and pulled out a Stimpak. She jammed it into his thigh, and soon the bloodied Chum stopped thrashing about in pain. MacCready looked at him. He'd taken some nasty gashes across the chest, and there was a cut above his eye. He was alive, but he was in no condition to fight anytime soon.

"Goldurnit, get your asses in here before the others show up!"

The voice was crotchety, grumpy, and highly familiar. MacCready looked in the direction of the voice. The early morning haze made it impossible to see perfectly, but he could make out the silhouette of someone standing on the roof of a nearby building. There was only one person in Salem that was crazy enough to hop the roofs like that.

"Grab Chum and follow me." MacCready said. "We're gonna make a beeline for the house." He pointed to a house at the far end of the city, where there was a large protective fence and several turrets. Bucket and Bleach wordlessly nodded, and then lifted Chum up. Without another word, the quartet made their way to the unlikely sanctuary.

Barney Rook was waiting for them at the gate. He opened it to let them in, and then immediately shut it. He was wearing his regular flannel shirt and jeans, with that knitted beanie atop his head. He'd hastily brought out what little medical equipment he could scrounge, and gave them to Bleach. He turned to MacCready.

"Son, I have to wonder whether you were dropped on your head or whether you were born that dumb. What in the sam hell made you think that sneaking into the city in the dark was a good idea? The crabs love scuttling around at night!"

"Time is kind of important, Barney." MacCready said. "We're here on a pick-up mission. I think you reached out about it?"

Barney scratched his mustache as if rtying to remember. And then his eyes widened.

"You're here for those souls in the church? I didn't think that the General was interested in-"

MacCready put a finger to his lips.

"Loose lips sink ships, Barney. I'm simply here on behalf of an interested party. I'm supposed to transport all of those people out of the church and to the south."

"Towards the Castle." Barney said. He smirked. "I wasn't born yesterday, kiddo. But if you need it to be hush-hush, then it can be hush-hush." But then he frowned. "Where's the army?"

"Army?" MacCready asked.

"You don't mean to tell me that you were planning on getting about fifty people down to the Castle with the three of ya?"

"We have four." MacCready said, somewhat defensively.

"Yeah, grandpa is gonna have to stay put." Barney said. "He's gonna need stitching up to heal from those crab bites. And I'll need to flsu him of any rads. I think I saw some of the crabs bathing in some nasty radwater." And then he shook his head and whistled. "Three people covering fifty. I'm starting to think you were dropped on your head. Whose bright idea was this? Yours? I hope not."

MacCready was about to respond, but then he felt the words die in his throat. Barney might be an oddball, but he wasn't stupid. Fifty people being covered by only three people? It was impossible.

Who'd talked him into this, again?

"You're gonna knock them dead, Blue."

He adjusted his uniform, and then turned back to her and smirked.

"If I did that, that might kill the peace talks a little bit. Just saying."

Piper's cheeks flushed red.

"It…it was a joke, Blue."

Blue chuckled.

"I know. So was what I said." I said. He patted the strapped gun on his chest. "I have to think that they're all too busy staring at this thing, anyway. I don't even need to fire a shot."

"Good grief…" Piper muttered. She raised an eyebrow. "What's the plan for today's talking?"

"We're discussing plans on how to cleanse Quincy." Blue said. "It's probably going to be long and difficult. Mostly because at the end of the day we're dealing with jurisdiction issues."

"I…don't follow." Piper said. Blue sighed, and adjusted his cufflinks. He noticed that the sleeve of his coat was starting to thin at the elbow. He'd better get it sewn when he got back to the Castle. He turned to face Piper.

"Well, when you're conducting a military operation that involves more than one army, you have to be delicate. Because there's an awful lot of people that are gonna want to be the hero. And get all the credit for the mission."

"What difference does it make?" Piper asked, thoroughly confused. "Isn't the successful completion of the mission all that matters?"

"I agree with you, Piper." Blue said. But then he rolled his eyes. "But that's forgetting the unseen side of warfare: politics. Everyone wants to be the guy that gets the credit."

"That's…that's ridiculous!" Piper sputtered. Blue shrugged.

"Government is politics. Settlements and land spacing is politics." He looked at her pointedly. "Why should war be any different?"

"Oh, Monsieur Danse?"

Danse looked up from the desk. Curie was standing in the doorway. He raised an eyebrow.

"Is everything alright, Curie?" He asked. He was confused. It was barely sunrise, why was she up and about? Usually she was one of the better sleepers in the Castle. And considering she spent the majority of the time in the Castle's labs, that usually meant that…something was wrong.

"Oh, nothing!" Curie said. "I was just wondering when you would be talking to the Monsieur out in the Castle veranda?"

At this, Danse set down his pencil. He'd been halfway through a letter to the General. Who the hell wanted to see him at this hour?

"Did he say…what he was here for?"

Curie looked unsure.

"He said he wanted to talk to you about…entertainment?"

At this, Danse felt a horrible dread. He knew exactly who this was. He made a mental note to assign Cait the most menial of labor the next time she was on duty. She'd been mysterious absent…son of a bitch, she knew that this was coming.

"Send him in." Danse said.

He didn't expect Tommy Lonegan to be a Ghoul. Danse tried his best, but he still flinched reflexively in his chair in shock at the sight of the man in front of him. Tommy Lonegan was dressed in a tacky pinstripe suit, and had a massive head of hair on him. It looked perfectly coiffed and everything. Tommy noticed Danse's thunderstruck expression, and cracked a grin.

"I know. I work pretty hard on this 'do." He said.

Danse blinked, returning to reality. He shook his head, and cleared his throat.

"You must be Tommy Lonegan, the proprietor of the Combat Zone?" Danse asked, not even bothering to hide his contempt. Now that he'd gotten over the fact that he was talking to a Ghoul, he could focus on the dirty business that the man was in charge of.

"That's me. And you are?" He asked.

"I am Captain Danse of the Minutemen." Danse said. For a moment he paused, thinking about the strange pride he felt in admitting his rank in the new organization. He'd received a letter yesterday from the General (courtesy of the tireless runner Chibs) that confirmed the appointment, and that after he got back from Diamond City he'd properly promote the Synth. But that would have to wait for now. "But for brevity's sake I will allow Danse. Now, what business do you have with the Minutemen, Mr. Lonegan?"

"Can I have a seat?" Tommy asked. Danse noticed that he was carrying a little beaten-up briefcase. He gestured for the Ghoul to take a seat and pull himself up close. After he'd done so, Tommy cleared his throat. "Your people were awfully nice in getting me here. A lot quieter to travel with a pack of Minutemen than to go it solo. You know?"

Danse didn't respond. He was starting to enjoy letting this snake oil salesman sweat a bit. Not that he'd ever admit it, of course. That would be unprofessional.

"Anyway…" Tommy said. "I've come with a proposition for you."

"Why us?" Danse asked. "Why not Diamond City? Or the Brotherhood?"

"Diamond City isn't too kind with Ghouls." Tommy said. "Though I hear your boss is making headway in getting that taken care of." He snorted. "And the Brotherhood? You kidding me? I'd rather cover myself in blood and dance naked in front of a hungry Deathclaw. At least the Deathclaw will kill me quickly."

Danse tried not to be amused by the comment.

"What is your profession, Mr. Lonegan?" Danse asked, taking out a sheet of paper and beginning to take notes.

"I'm a booker."

"…Booker?" Danse asked.

"You know. Someone who books events." Tommy said. "I used to book cage fights, and I still do but…I wanna expand a bit. And the Minutemen seemed like the people that would be willing to hear me out."

"I find that hard to believe, considering that according to one of freelancers, you have been running death matches for some time now." Danse said. "The Minutemen are invested in improving the future of the Commonwealth. We're not about to add bloodsport."

"First of all, say hi to Cait for me, because I know that that's the little birdie that told you." Tommy said. "And secondly, yeah they were death battles but…" He trailed off. "It was Cait on a several year winning streak, and all the people she offed were strung out Raiders. I was kinda doing the Commonwealth a service!" He said.

"Be that as it may, your past exploits make me skeptical." Danse said. "So you're really going to have to convince me that this is worth my time."

"Okay, so picture this." Tommy said. "People like fun, right? Ways to take their mind off of the horrors and doom and gloom of the Wastes, right? And one of the best ways to play to that is the human love of combat. We've been fighting for ages."

"And it led to a ruined world." Danse said. "You're not off to a good start."

"I wasn't finished, you fuss-pot." Tommy said. "I want to bring my promotion into the civilized world. Not death matches. Legitimate entertainment. Sports entertainment, if you will."

Danse had to admit, the guy was clearly passionate about his stuff. That, and it was so ridiculous that the Synth just had to see where he was going next.

"Sports…entertainment?" Danse asked.

"In addition to boxing matches and mixed martial arts that don't kill, I want to bring back one of the oldest of American traditions." Tommy said. "A combination of athletic feats, spectacle, and storytelling! I want to give the people classic matchups of good and evil!" He reached into his briefcase, and pulled out a crumpled sheet of paper. Danse took it, and read it. It was a poster.

"…Wrestling?" Danse asked, not even pretending to hide the confusion in his tone.

"Not just wrestling, but sports entertainment!" Tommy said. Danse looked at him and frowned.

"Do you really think that the Commonwealth will be interested in this?"

"Of course!" Tommy said. "A chance to be in the crowd and cheer on your hero as he or she vanquishes a bad man…what could possibly be more American than seeing the good guy win in the end?"

"There's something that's bugging me." Danse said. "What if the good guy goes up against a bad guy, and the bad guy wins? How do you build a story if real life gets in the way?"

At this, Tommy rubbed his hands together and gave a grin.

"That's where the beauty of it comes into play, my friend: we take steps to bend real life. Maybe let the competitors know what story we're trying to tell, and make sure that they play their roles."

Danse finally got it.

"You want to rig fights?" Danse asked, incredulous. "How is that any different than death battles?"

"Uh, for starters it means that we can tell stories that don't involve one guy or both dying in the ring." Tommy said. "Say one night the plucky good guy starts doing well against the bad guy, but then the bad guy cheats! And the ref didn't see it! If you were a paying member of the audience, wouldn't you want to see the good guy win in the end? Get his revenge?"

"I…suppose." Danse said, unable to believe that he was getting sucked into this lunacy.

"That's the beauty of it." Tommy said. "It's not the fact that it's scripted. It's the fact that, just for once, you can see the hero…and the hero wins."

"I imagine that you'd like to keep the fact that this 'wrestling' of yours is scripted a secret."

"It's the law of the land." Tommy said solemnly. "It doesn't matter with boxing."

"Is this all you're planning on doing?" Danse said.

"Well, your General came up to me and told me about baseball."

"Absolutely not." Danse said. "Baseball was a bloodsport!"

Tommy laughed.

"Not the way your boss described it! It was elegant and pretty and sounded as American as killing communists!" He said. "And best of all, no one dies!" He reached into his briefcase, and pulled out an old book. "Here, a peace offering in show of good faith. Read that and tell me that baseball isn't a good idea to bring back to the Commonwealth."

Danse took the worn little book in his hands, and got a glimpse of its title.

Men at Work: The Craft of Baseball.

"Who was George F. Will?" Danse asked.

"No idea. Probably some old fuddy-duddy. But he knew baseball!" Tommy said. He cleared his throat. "I'm not about to make the Commonwealth drenched in blood. I just…I just want people to have something to look forward to instead of always living in fear or just surviving in the end. America was more than just survival. And I want the Commonwealth to be more than just survival. I wanna give it hope, the best way I know how." He looked pleadingly at Danse. "What do you say?"

Danse scratched his chin in thought, and then he spoke.

"Change the name of the Combat Zone to something less…gruesome, and I think we might be able to talk about things." He said. "This is all contingent on the General's approval, though…"

"…But it's not a no?" Tommy asked.

Danse sighed.

"No. It's not a 'no.'"

"Thank you chief!" Tommy said, bursting out of his chair and shaking Danse's hand profusely. "Oh man, I got so much work to do! I gotta write out rules and regs and…man, I got work! Till next time, Captain!" He gave a goofy salute, and Danse just wordlessly repeated the gesture to make the Ghoul happy. As Tommy practically sprinted out of the office, Danse just stared after him, and shook his head.

What a crazy man. And negotiating sport wasn't exactly his own cup of tea. He wished that he was with MacCready right now. The kid was a good shot, and he was most likely sitting in Diamond City shooting the breeze and shooting bottles. Not a bad life.

Barney cut the locks to the church with a large pair of bolt cutters. As the chains fell to the ground, he glanced over at the kid.

"All yours, sonny." He said.

Wordlessly, his partner opened the door.

There were so many of them. Men, women, children, and what looked like some old generation Synths that had managed to escape. As soon as the door opened, they all turned to face him. Young, old, synthetic, it didn't matter. All of them had the same expression in their eyes.

Tired.

Haunted.

Afraid.

One of them came up to him. It was a kid, no older than six. She looked way younger than Shaun back at the base. She grabbed the bottom of his longcoat, and looked up at him.

"Are you here to save us, mister?" She asked.

He looked at her, and then at the people all in front of him. And then he looked behind him at the two brave souls that had chosen to come with him. And then he took a deep breath.

"Yeah. Yeah we are, kid." MacCready said.

A/N: A little dramatic irony, as Danse has no idea that he's about to have a bunch of Institute people dropped on his doorstep. If they can make it, of course.

And yes, I warned you that I'd be bringing in the obscure characters. But I don't think you expected me to bring in ol' Tommy Lonegan and turn him into Vince fucking McMahon, didja? Oh, to be able to play with underserved characters…truly this is the life.

Next chapter we return to Diamond City. As Blue said before, it isn't about whether Maxson finds out about the Institute remnant in the Commonwealth…it's all about when.

See you next time!