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

They were sitting in the middle of a dilapidated house on the far edge of the city. In the distance, they could hear the sounds of debauchery and violence that only Quincy seemed capable of. Even the hardiest of their agents were glancing fretfully out the window, peeking through the closed blinds as if expecting a contingent of Quincy Boys to come marching through the streets at any given moment. They were not on solid ground, they were barely above water, to be quite honest. But they were somewhere that they had not been mere months before: they had a foothold in Quincy.

Deacon was absently flicking his cigarette lighter on and off, though he wasn't planning to light it any time soon. Part of what made Deacon so mysterious to the newer Railroad agents (and so infuriating to his contemporaries like Glory) was his seeming inability to put on any air of seriousness: he had a devil-may-care attitude about everything, and seemed unable to remark on anything without making a pithy joke. More than once Glory had thrown a coffee cup at his head because he had worded his intelligence briefing in the form of iambic pentameter, or written his opinion on a case in limerick form. He didn't care about decorum, and he didn't really seem to take anything seriously.

And yet, all the same, he was the best that they had. So his idiosyncrasies were tolerated.

"Are you gonna light that thing or what?" One of the more jumpy Railroad agents asked.

"Patience, kiddo." Deacon said. "Sometimes you need something to calm a fidget, even if it isn't an actual light. I might light this, I might not. But in the end, I'll decide."

"That makes absolutely no sense and I feel kind of angry now that I've listened to it." The agent admitted.

"This your first stake-out with Deacon?" Glory asked, raising an eyebrow. "Get used to it."

"You act like my attitude is a bad thing." Deacon said. "I view it as a way to stay sane, as we stand literally on the doorstep of hell itself. It's a wonder that they haven't filled this house with squatters yet."

"Or the Minutemen haven't bombed it yet." One of the other agents said. He peeked back out the window. "What do you think? Are we due for another round of bombardment?"

"Nah, unlikely." Deacon said. "Intelligence suggests that the Minutemen are playing a waiting game now. They're waiting for someone within the agency to come up with a bold stroke or two."

"Not a very high opinion of things, boss." One of the other agents said. He was a young man, with cheeks that still carried traces of baby fat. Deacon shrugged.

"Look, I've spent more time in deep cover in the Minutemen than you can even imagine. They've got some creative minds at the top…but their field operations were limited to the General and Garvey. Danse was always a better policy wonk than a field leader. And Shaw? She's stuck in her old ways, and if she were to take full command there'd be a bloodbath. Nah, the truth is that the only way the Minutemen are going to win this war is if they can get some ingenuity from their little units…and I don't see that happening."

"That's where we come in, isn't it?" Glory asked.

"Damn right." Deacon said. "We're gonna deliver the Man in Black on a silver platter to the General, and from there maybe he can end this damned war. I mean, my god: I'm actually – and this might come as a shock – getting sick of the Commonwealth tearing itself apart. Fuck me, right?"

The others didn't say anything, but they were not about to disagree with him. Deacon finally lit his cigarette, and looked around.

"I'm betting our horndog is waking up from his forcible naptime." Deacon said. He started to mess up his hair, and put on layers of foul-smelling, ratty and torn clothing. "Might be time to see where he leads us. You guys got the wire set?"

Glory pressed a small receive on Deacon's chest, and then tapped into her headset.

"Say something." She said.

"Something."

"Well, it's fuzzy, but it's audible." Glory said after a moment. She turned to the other two agents, who were lugging the field equipment and taping device into the house. "Get that set up properly and away from the windows. We're gonna be listening in to Deacon's private conversations, and maybe the things that we hear from a select few others. Get to it."

In the old days, they'd heard stories that intelligence agencies had done things like this: tapping and listening in. It was apparently a lot easier than this, but then again…when you're building things in the aftermath of nuclear Armageddon, baby steps were better than no steps whatsoever.

…

Nate looked out over the expanse of the Commonwealth, stretching his eyes as far as he could. In the hazy distance, he could see the discordant architecture of Quincy. He thought of the decay and chaos that must dominate that place, and privately wondered if he had done the right thing: no one had ever gotten inside the city limits from the Minutemen. Was it really the right decision to contract this out to the Railroad? Was he dooming them to failure? But…what if they succeeded? What precedent would that set? It was an organization that had deliberately been left out of the Commonwealth Accords, and he was essentially giving it Carte blanch to gather intelligence on the Quincy Boys. That was fine and good during a war…but what would happen afterwards? If there was an afterwards? Would they be expected to stop using the information and equipment?

He turned his shoulder, and looked off to the north. He'd heard nothing but static reports from Salem. Apparently the Quincy Boys hadn't broken through the defenses of the few men that were unfortunate enough to be in their path. He debated sending ammunition there, but he had no idea whether or not it was going to get to Salem safely. If the Brotherhood of Steel defenders in the Boston Airport would only get off their asses-

He stopped himself. He knew that if he was going to win this war, he could not alienate the only organization that might have greater technology than his own (or whatever nefarious things that the Quincy Insurgency possessed). Knight Rhys was stubborn and Nate suspected would never forgive him for sparing Danse, but he was also a dedicated soldier. He was not about to endanger his men if he absolutely did not have to. But right now, it seemed as though the Brotherhood was content to sit in the Airport, with no discernable action.

He felt movement next to him. He looked over, and saw that Danse had joined him on the battlement. They both stood there in silence for what seemed like an eternity. Danse was quietly smoking his pipe, but by his body language did not seem like he was in a particular hurry to say anything. Nate broke the silence.

"What are we doing, Danse?"

"Fighting a war, Nate." Danse replied. He said it as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. Nate snorted, trying not to smile.

"Is that it? Feels like we're just careening through the darkness, with people periodically dying along the way." He paused. "Is this what my superiors felt like in the Alaska battles? Were they just as fucking confused as I am now?"

Danse said nothing. He'd learned long ago that asking for context of the many battles the General alluded to in his past life was a lost cause; there was simply too much to absorb and not enough time. So he simply let the man speak. Usually, Nate could talk his own way out of a conundrum. But this time Danse felt the need to offer something.

"I imagine that any general of an armed force would feel the same way, Nate." He said. "After all, it's different when you're not the one in the trenches. You're left to rely on the work of others, instead of your own."

"But we were so damned good at it, you know?" Nate said, turning towards Danse. "Whenever the two of us, or anyone else in our group, got into the thick of it…we carved people up. We basically created the damned Commonwealth. And the second I step away…"

"You let others carry the torch." Danse finished for him. "Attempting to balance the weight of the world on your shoulders is foolish, Nate. Especially when you have people who are willing to share the load. Look around us. This is not an easy fight, and most people are hunkered down in their settlements…but we still get trickles of recruits from the frightened people. They may be scared, but they believe in you. They believe in this cause. That's worth it enough to keep going."

Nate stayed quiet. He looked over at Danse.

"I suppose you're right." He raised an eyebrow. "Think I should get me one of those?"

"What, a pipe?" Danse replied. He furrowed his brow. "Don't. It's a filthy habit. And you'd set a bad example for Shaun."

"What, and you don't?"

"I'm supposedly the closest thing that boy has to an uncle." Danse said. "I'm allowed to be a corrupting influence." He paused. "Or at least that's what they tell me that uncles do."

Nate laughed. It might have been the first time he'd laughed in about a week.

"You are simply unbelievable, Danse." He said.

"I believe it." Danse said. "Technically, I'm not really here. I'm just a creation." He looked at Nate, and winked.

"Wait, aren't I supposed to be the one helping you through an existential crisis?" Nate asked.

"Well, friends look out for one another. At least, that's what I'm told."

"Okay, now I know you're being intentionally dense."

"Wouldn't dream of it, sir."

…

He was sweating a little bit, but not nearly as bad as he had been hours earlier. That was when two or three of the wounded ghouls all seemed to go into shock at the same time. He'd needed every last bit of medicine, as well as a few of the healthy ghouls, to hold them from going. He was blearily aware of the fact that he hadn't sat down in almost thirteen hours. He didn't really care. The alternative to what he was doing was to sit down and think. And thinking about what was out there utterly terrified him.

Chibs had joined a raider band when he was in his late teens, shortly after his mother died. He'd just assumed that he was gonna live out his life as one of them…until he got arrested just outside Diamond City. When he'd been in a holding cell, he'd burst into tears when one of the Minutemen interrogators told him that he was looking at the rest of his life behind bars. He'd begged for some sort of mercy. Anything but going to prison.

They'd conscripted him into the Minutemen "reserves," and had placed him and Gunny (who'd been arrested for a string of petty thefts) in Salem. He'd thought it would be a boring but somewhat honorable way to pick up the pieces.

Then the fucking Slog blows up. And now here he was, serving as an impromptu doctor for a bunch of desperate and frightened ghouls.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned and saw that it was a ghoul, one of the older looking ones at that. The man had a mottled face, and his hair was coming out in clumps, but he had a warm smile.

"You should sit down. You've been keeping us upright for the entire day, maybe more. Let us look after our own, now. We can call you if we need you."

"But…"

"No buts." The ghoul said. "Consider it an extension of kindredship. We ghouls have to stick together, after all." He tapped Chibs on the shoulder gently, and then left him to help some of the other ghouls.

Exhausted, Chibs took a seat. He glanced out the barricaded window. He wasn't sure why the shooting had stopped, but he was aware of the fact that Rook and MacCready were still at work up in the tower. He wasn't sure where the Brotherhood boys were, and he'd sent Gunny off to another building in the district to scrounge for medical supplies. He figured that things were settling down.

Then he heard the screams.

They weren't coming from the ghouls. They were coming from outside. Not from the city, but from the outside. He allowed himself a twinge of satisfaction, assuming that the Quincy Boys were stupid enough to re-awaken the stingwings that lived in the area. He hoped that they were sucked dry.

But then he heard the roars.

Deathclaws.

"Boy, you there?" He heard Rook come in over his radio. Chibs shakily picked up his radio, and called in.

"…Yeah."

"Listen and listen good. MacCready and I count three Deathclaws out in the Quincy ranks. They're gonna do the job for us out there…but that doesn't mean the Deathclaws are gonna be done. Brotherhood is gonna lure one of them out into the fields and torch it. MacCready and I are gonna split the head of a second. As soon as we're done with that one, then we're gonna take care of the third."

Chibs tried not to listen to the sound of his heartbeat slamming in his chest. His superior had just told him that, for an indefinite period of time, there was going to be a Deathclaw wandering through Salem and unaccounted for. If this was a mudcrab or some sort of piddling wasteland creature, he wouldn't be nearly as freaked out as he was now. They were betting on luck against a creature that could tear his face off just as soon as look at him.

And Deathclaws were clever. They could think. They could plan. And, worst of all, they were surprisingly capable of sadism.

"Boy? You there?"

"…Y-yeah." Chibs managed to sputter.

"Listen boy, you'd better nut up and nut up quickly. You and Gunny are responsible for the lives of a whole rash of sick, tired, undefended and helpless ghouls. Don't wanna pressure you too much, but if you fuck up then that Deathclaw will kill every last one of them. Just hold tight and keep them quiet. When we clear the other two, Mac and I will peg the last Deathclaw." There was a pause on the other end. "I'm counting on you, boy."

He turned off his link.

One of the ghouls, an older looking fellow, approached Chibs.

"Is everything okay?" He asked.

Chibs turned to look at him. He was trying to keep a straight and expressionless face, but he knew from how he felt that his face was as white as snow.

"Who's in charge of your group?" Chibs managed to ask.

"That'd be me." The ghoul said. "Truman."

"Chibs." The former raider managed to mutter. He shook the ghoul's hand. He looked around. "Look…I need your help."

"What is it?" Truman asked.

"We need to keep the panic level down, because I have a report from my bosses that there's gonna be a Deathclaw roaming the streets of Salem in an imminent, undisclosed time period." Chibs managed to say. He watched Truman's eyes widen slightly, but the ghoul managed to keep his cool.

"Okay." He said. "I can get the women and children up in the higher levels of the house. That would leave about five or six of us healthy ghouls to help you and your friend. Seven…maybe eight people? Should be enough to kill a Deathclaw."

"I don't want anyone to die." Chibs said. Truman shrugged.

"That's the risk that you take when fighting a Deathclaw. Usually someone does." Truman said. He looked over to one of the other ghouls, and made a series of hand gestures. The ghoul nodded, grabbed his shotgun, and began to quietly and quickly direct the others to get upstairs. The other healthy ghouls saw that things were getting more tense, and made moves to prepare themselves for whatever was coming.

"What can we do?" Truman asked.

"Well…Deathclaws hate fire. I think. So if we have anything flammable…let's get it ready." Chibs said. "And they aren't that agile in tight corners. So we're gonna have to get it trapped…" He pointed behind Truman. "In that corridor. That's where the front door of the house is. In all likelihood, the Deathclaw will come in from there first."

"I saw a few propane tanks in the basement." One of the other ghouls, who had been listening in, said. "I can go get them and rig them by the doorway."

"How do we get the Deathclaw in through the front door?" Truman asked. "They're not gonna fall for an obvious trap."

"Unless there's some irresistible bait." Offered one of the other ghouls. "Don't know if Deathclaws would wanna eat ghouls, though. We're pretty irradiated."

"I'll do it." Chibs said. He wiped the sweat off his brow. "I'm a little on the thicker side. I suppose it might think that I'm…I'm an easy target."

"What are you gonna do?" Truman asked.

"I could fire a shot or two at it from the front door, get it mad." Chibs offered. "And…and I then would turn around and run inside. It tries to break down the door, and then you guys light the propane tanks and someone…" He looked around. "Anyone got a good arm for a grenade or two?"

A few hands went up.

"Don't take any chances." Chibs said. "Just throw the damn things in the doorway if you need to. Spam it. And take the Deathclaw down with everything you've got. Whatever guns or explosives you've got…use them."

"Wait." Truman said, as soon as the others started to shuffle and get into position. "What if you're still within the blast range when it's time for us to ignite the gas?" Truman asked.

Chibs felt the room go silent. Everyone was looking at him. He took a gulp.

"Well…you need to take out the Deathclaw, right? Do what you need to do."

The others nodded solemnly. With that, as soon as they were all set up, Chibs took a look at the front door. There were two massive propane tanks that a pair of ghouls had put into place. One of them unscrewed the safety valve, with the slight hiss of gas coming out. That was all that they needed. A proper accelerant would do the trick. The other ghouls had placed tables down as defensive barricades, and were taking cover behind them with whatever rudimentary weapons they'd managed to get their hands on. They weren't going to be enough. But with a proper explosive kick…maybe they'd all have a chance.

Chibs wasn't a religious man. But he'd seen a service of sorts at the Castle when he was in the middle of receiving his "commission." The head of the service had crossed himself while in the middle of saying something that was important-sounding. Something about commending one's spirit, or something like that. Chibs looked around. He was about to go outside – by himself – to face off against a Deathclaw.

He figured that maybe crossing himself might not be a bad idea.

…

This was a terrible idea.

It was absolutely, without question, indefensibly terrible.

Private Rivia looked around, and tried to ignore the logical side of his brain screaming in protest. There was no reason for this. Their orders were to observe Quincy, and their plan was to drop off the geo-tracking equipment in order to give the Minutemen a better location to open fire with their artillery. They were supposed to go no further than the outskirts of the city, and that was that.

But when Cait kicked open the door, Rivia had to accept the reality.

They weren't outside of Quincy.

They were within its city limits.

There was an entire contingent of mercs, raiders, and other vile-looking figures the likes of which made Rivia blanch. Almost as if in unison, they looked up from their drinks and stared at the door in a mutual sense of disbelief. It was as if they couldn't believe what they were seeing.

Cait was standing in the doorway, her shotgun pumped. Her voice was low and quiet.

"Which one of you owns this shithole?"

Wordlessly, a few of the mercs pointed towards the man behind the bar. He was a big figure, clearly a captain or sergeant or whatever was the Quincy Boy equivalent. He had his arms crossed, a disbelieving smirk on his face.

The look was still on his face as Cait's shot struck him right between the eyes, killing him instantly.

Pandemonium. A few of the mercs fled out of the building screaming, convinced that (in their drug-addled state) a demon had just killed their boss. A few scrambled to get into defensive positions, so badly caught with their pants down they were. A few managed to get poorly aimed shots off.

But poorly-aimed wasn't good enough.

Rivia had been assigned to be Cait's second, mopping up anyone that wasn't killed in the initial burst. But to his amazement and slight horror, Cait seemed to be moving at a speed and rage that seemed inhuman. She was flipping tables, punching and kicking people, and pulling the trigger again and again.

And then, in a few horrifying moments, it was silent again. The only sound was their breathing.

Rivia counted. There were at least ten dead on the floor, and a few badly wounded. From the sounds outside, it was clear that a few of the initial escapees had run into Crow and Olympus. The house was theirs, and now they were within a few miles of the heart of Quincy.

"Search 'em for anything good." Cait said. Rivia blinked once.

"How…how did you do that?" He managed to ask.

Cait turned to look at him. She smirked slightly.

"I have my ways."

Rivia took that as an implicit warning not to pres further, and so he started to search the bodies like she asked.

He didn't notice Cait drop the used syringes out of her pocket and onto the ground, to be scattered amongst the personal effects of those that lay on the floor.