Long ago, back when she was a shrinking violet named Amata, Amari had reluctantly lent her ears to a hamfisted lecture from another teenager, titled "The Behavior of Herbivores in a Group," as a part of her ongoing effort to act as a buffer between her best friend and the the rest of the vault. They'd both been sixteen at the time, and Marilyn had been in a perpetual state of agitation that year, the year of the GOAT exam, with the result that Amata often found herself thrust into the role of a peacemaker. In practical terms, this meant being on the receiving end of rants bashing the vault, the vault inhabitants in general, and the Overseer in particular.

On this occasion, her message had been straightforward to the point of being facile: namely, that the residents of the vault were like sheep following a blind old bellwether over a cliff. The oration was neither subtle nor well-composed, but the factual frame had at least been based on solid research. Amata had learned more about herding behavior that afternoon than she had ever wanted to know. One detail that had stuck in her mind, for whatever reason, was that large grazing animals - elephants, for example, a species long extinct even before the war - used to move in formations that kept the young and weak safely shielded on every side by adults armed with horns and tusks. Exactly what metaphorical significance Marilyn had taken from this truth, Amari could no longer remember. But she'd never forgotten the image.

Now, three years later, Amari felt like just such a helpless calf, plodding along on the hike from the metro exit to Rivet City. She could barely see the territory that they were moving through, so complete was the protective circle of the herd. All around her was a wall of steel soldiers, their augmented pace just fast enough to keep her moving at a uncomfortable trot.

Walking ahead of her, his longer legs adapting easily to the tanks' strides, Richard appeared perfectly at his ease, though it may have been the new rifle he had selected from the armory, another thank-you from Lyons. An energy weapon similar to the one he had lost, it suited him perfectly. He had not half the personality of any of their companions, she decided, but he was somewhat like them all the same. A masterful fighter, focused intently on the mission. Neither he nor any of the others would talk to her as they moved through the buildings of outer DC. It was dangerous, they explained in low tones, to attract unwanted attention so near the city.

"It's not just mutants we're wary of today. A group of mercenaries called Talon Company keeps a base on this side of the river, not far from here," Colvin told her on a mid-morning break in the lee of a crumbling office building. "They give us a wide berth, and official orders are for us to do the same, unless they attack us. You wouldn't want to walk these roads openly by yourself, though. They have no scruples whatsoever."

"I'm familiar with Talon. They're murderers-for-hire. I saw their work in Megaton," she told him. "Why won't the Brotherhood wipe them out?"

"Priorities, missy. Mutants are our primary concern. We don't have the numbers to fight a war on another front right now. Talon soldiers outnumber ours ten-to-one anyhow."

Though they were sometimes arrogant, stretched thin, and plagued with infighting, the Brotherhood were indeed Moira's "good guys" in Amari's judgment. A civilizing force for the wasteland, however, they were not. If there was a problem, they shot at it for a while before retreating to their Citadel to lick their wounds before trying again. Even the decision to protect the GNR radio station - arguably the best bet at providing a collective sense of unity to the scattered communities of the DC area - was a controversial one, according to the Sentinel. Many within the Brotherhood would have preferred to focus on shoring up their own defenses rather than risking their resources abroad for outsiders. Even so, Elder Lyons' insisted on this course of action.

Lyons' Pride were the faction's main emissaries to the larger communities - those that accepted this partnership, that is - and this gesture took the form of quarterly visits and patrols and the occasional exchange of technology. Rivet City, from which the Brotherhood sometimes recruited, was one of these communities. Their group was expected, it seemed, as the guards up on the deck waved hello as they drew near. Lyons' wasn't ready to go inside yet, however. The day was only half over and they had work to do in the area.

"We'll spend the daylight patrolling and the nights camped out on the flight deck, but we would appreciate you leaving us to our business. We leave for GNR at 0800 the day after tomorrow. And Amari," Lyons warned her at the gates, "be out here, ready to go, or we'll have to leave you behind." She added in a kinder tone, "I hope you find whatever it is you're looking for."

"We're going to go kill some mutants!" Penny said, patting Amari on the arm in parting. "Wish us luck!"

"Luck," said Amari quietly, watching them move away, down the shore and back toward the memorial they had passed at a distance earlier. She and Richard stood still for a moment, alone together for the first time in days. She turned away and began climbing the steps to the gangplank above.

As she waited for security to extend the bridge, Amari turned to her companion. "Don't take this the wrong way, but I'd like to go talk to him - if he's here - by myself. I'm planning to rent a room for two nights, so you can hang out there or explore the ship or whatever you want. We'll go looking for Pinkerton tonight or tomorrow."

He nodded, apparently unconcerned one way or another.

"I wish you would care about this," she told him in a low voice, not wanting the guards ahead to hear. "I don't know if he's a neurologist, a psychiatrist, or what, but it's worth a shot. I'm trying to help you, Richard."

He didn't answer.

Twenty minutes later, she stood alone at the end of a corridor, trying to muster up the courage to open the door in front of her. She mentally reviewed what little the brusque female guard had told her about James. The name sounds familiar. Ask Dr. Li. In the Science Lab at the back. She knew what she needed to know. But she couldn't walk through. Not yet.

"I'm sorry. It happened so quickly, I couldn't do anything," she rehearsed, addressing the closed door in a small voice. "Mari asked me to go with her. And fuck me, I said 'yes'..." She trailed off, choked up. "I can't do this."

"Is everything alright, young lady?"

She jumped. A man had materialized behind her, likely from one of the many rooms off the main corridor. The off-white coat reminded her of James and Jonas, but his dirty fingernails and the smell of tobacco reminded her of how far she was from home.

"It's fine," she mumbled. "I have to give someone some bad news. That's all."

"Best just to get it over with," he suggested. "Just like ripping a bandage off. If you want, I can prescribe you a mild sedative."

"No, thank you," she said politely. "I owe it to him to be fully present."

"Carry on, then." With that, he was gone, the door closed behind him. Amari belatedly read the sign on the door, learning that this was the location of the Rivet City clinic. Embarrassed to be caught talking to herself, she squared her shoulders and tried again.

Right. I've done scarier things than this. I caught an Eyebot, I confronted Moriarty in front of his friends, I shot a super mutant! Fortified by the reminders of past courage, she stepped into the lab. There were a lot of people inside, she realized immediately. Her eyes caught a glimpse of a man with iron-gray hair bending over a table across the room, and she inhaled sharply, before sagging in disappointed relief. No, it wasn't him at all. Too short, too old. She took another step into the room, and then another, still scanning for a familiar face.

"Finally," an irritable voice announced from down below. "You're here. Now I don't have to hold this package for you any longer." This remark came from a middle-aged Asian woman in a lab coat, wearing a severe bun and a permanent scowl on her face. Amari froze. She'd steeled herself for a very different sort of confrontation and didn't know how to respond to the unexpected. She continued down the steps, keeping a puzzled expression on her face to mask the anxiety churning in her stomach.

The stranger reached into a cabinet and pulled out a box. "First the password. Who was James' wife?"

Growing up, Amari had spent more time with the Wilders than she had with her own family. She knew the answer - had heard the name spoken aloud more than her own mother's, in fact. "Catherine. She was Catherine. But I-"

The woman shoved a box into her arms, interrupting her. "Here you go. He left this for you. Medicine, caps, a gun. Miscellany." She studied Amari severely. "Good thing, too. I see you're not armed, and that's not a good idea, even here in Rivet City. How did you make it this far?"

"I found some allies. The Brotherhood-"

"Pah! The Brotherhood of Steel. I don't trust them, not a bit." The woman eyed her critically. "You have your mother's coloring," she said uncharitably, "but you truly don't look much like either of them. It's a pity. She was a beauty."

Stung by this remark, she began again. "I'm not Mar-"

The woman spoke over her, not even hearing this attempt at a confession. "Your father was angry when he heard you'd left the vault. He tried to hide it, but I could tell. He left you there so you'd be safe. Did you really think you were doing the right thing by coming out to look for him?"

Anger finally mastered surprise, and left honesty by the wayside. "Safe? My father… the Overseer went crazy when he found out that someone had broken the seals. People died that morning. He tortured me. My best friend was killed in front of me. I had no home after that day. Who the hell are you to lecture me about what was safe?" Her arms, the back of her neck, her stomach ached with remembered pain. She shook at the memory of what her father had done… what he had allowed Officer Mack to do to her. All because they thought she knew something. All because James Wilder had gotten itchy feet. "Seriously, who are you? And where is he?" Anger gave her the strength and confidence to speak without hesitation. She forgot, for the moment, that she was an imposter.

Shock stopped the other woman cold. She opened her mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. When she spoke again, she had lost most of her haughtiness. "I… had no idea. Neither did he, I'm sure. I'm Dr. Madison Li, an old friend and colleague of James and Catherine. He stayed here for a while, waiting for you, and left about six weeks ago. He lingered as long as he felt he could. He was impatient to continue his work."

"He left," Amari repeated dully. "To continue his work. What work?"

"Project Purity. He wanted to provide clean drinking water to the Capital Wasteland…" Amari listened with the half of her mind that still cared, her arms growing tired from holding the heavy box in front of her. James Wilder, it seems, had been working on a massive project with Dr. Li and others. Based out of the Jefferson Memorial, they had aspired to build and activate a massive water purifier. This plan had been disrupted by a one-two series of events, as Dr. Li explained.

"Your birth. Catherine's death. The mutant attacks were getting worse. I begged him to stay, but he was afraid he was going to lose the last of his family if he didn't take drastic measures. So he abandoned us. Our dream. You mattered more than anything else did to him."

Amari felt sick. All that effort, to find the vault and hide away, just so his baby girl could grow up and die, and rip a hole in the vault's fragile community in the process. "All that for nothing," she commented aloud, her mouth twisting as she tried to keep from crying.

The other looked back blankly. "Well, not for nothing. You're here, aren't you?"

"Yeah. I am." Setting the box down, she pinched the bridge of her nose hard. A headache was threatening to come on, a daily occurance since her misadventure with the grenade. She'd lost most of her desire to tell this person the truth. What did it matter? She'd probably never see Dr. Li again. "Okay. I'll go find him. Where did he go? Back to the Jefferson Memorial?" The presence of the Brotherhood in that area would probably make it easy to access today. If not, she and Richard could probably make their way through. She needed to be shed of this burden, once and for all.

"No. He went there first - to see the state of what was left - and then he came back here. He said he needed something called a GECK. He thought he might be able to find one in Vault 112. Here, I have a map somewhere…" Dr. Li marked the location on her Pip Boy, and Amari groaned inwardly. It was far - much farther west than she had ever gone, or hoped to go. Moira had called it dangerous country. In one of her less tactful moments, she had admitted that she was waiting for a truly competent assistant to send in that direction. It was definitely a "Here There Be Deathclaws" region of the map.

Amari decided then that she needed to get out of the science lab before she did or admitted something that she regretted. "Right. Thanks. Do you know where I can find someone named Pinkerton?"

Some of the hauteur came back at this point. Dr. Li wrinkled her nose. "I'm not sure what you would want with him. He's a kook. A madman. The last I'd heard, he was living in the broken bow of the ship."

"Thanks," Amari said again automatically. "You've been very helpful." Her legs moved of their own accord; her body felt numb but it was still carrying out instructions. She took her box, noticing with a sinking feeling that there were holotapes in there that she'd probably have to listen to, and turned to go.

Back in the room that she'd rented for the two of them, Richard had found a book - something thick and old, from the looks of it - and had read a quarter of it in the short time that she'd been gone, turning pages at an inhuman rate. She wondered if he was actually reading or if he was just fanning the paper to amuse himself. He barely looked up when she stepped through the door. Amari, in turn, said nothing, but focused on exploring her ill-gotten gains. She set the box on one of the twin beds and rifled through the contents. A 10mm pistol. Some ammo. Another fifty caps. If I still have that much when I find him, I'll give it back to him, she promised without much resolve. A stealth boy in good condition. The box also contained medical supplies, including - thankfully - a bottle of acetaminophen. She helped herself to a couple, hoping it would take the edge off the nauseating pounding in her head. Underneath everything else lay a dozen holotapes and a sealed letter.

Lying down, moving as little as possible, she worked listlessly through the holotapes, closing her eyes and letting the familiar voice wash over her. She'd always associated that voice with calm and stability, an association that now seemed somewhat ironic in retrospect. Some of the tapes were numbered; some weren't. She made no attempt to put them into chronological sequence but instead listened to them in the order that she picked them up. Half were more than twenty years old - from before Marilyn's birth - and confirmed or supplemented what Dr. Li had told her about the events surrounding "Project Purity." The others were recent, mostly James' personal reflections on leaving the vault to pick up where he had left off and why he thought Vault 112 held the answer. They were all fairly personal. Amari felt dirty, like a voyeur peeking in at James' and Catherine's lives, but she couldn't stop herself until she got to the third from the last:

"Well, here we are again. Project Purity and me. It's been close to twenty years since my last entry. Since I left all of this behind to make a life for my daughter. We spent all that time in Vault 101, tucked away from the rest of the world. It wasn't perfect, but it was safe, and that's all I could have hoped for. Now, my daughter is a grown woman. Beautiful, intelligent, confident. Just like her mother. And as hard as it was to admit it, she doesn't need her daddy anymore…"

Amari shut off the player, tore the tape out, and dropped it - and the unopened letter - back into the box with the rest, before rolling over and burying her face in the musty old pillow. The nice thing about Richard, she told herself, was that you could trust him not to bother you when you were miserable. She had as well have been an unusually depressed piece of a furniture for all the attention he paid her outburst. This was good. Otherwise, this might have been awkward. As it was, she could still hear him turning pages over the sound of her own muffled sobs.

It wasn't just rekindled grief that had burst the floodgates. It had just occurred to her - for the first time, somehow - that she couldn't imagine her own father recording such a message for or about her. What would he say if he could send her a letter? Probably something along of the lines of "Don't come home. You deserve whatever happens to you out there." Even that would have been preferable to what she had gotten from him, which was nothing. All those months she'd been living only a few miles away, and he'd sent her no word at all - and he was the one person in the vault who actually had the authority to send a message to the outside. Was he that committed to the lie? We're born in the vault. We'll die in the vault. Nobody leaves the vault. He must have been. How else could she explain his behavior?

Exhausted, she cried herself into a troubled dream in which she forced her way back into the vault, the Brotherhood of Steel at her back, only to find it empty. She left Lyons and the rest waiting impatiently by the entrance while she roamed the halls, calling the names of her teachers, her cousins, and her former classmates. She then set to searching the walls themselves, using Floyd Lewis's abandoned tools to peel back the metal skin which covered the wiring and insulation, when Penny - at least she thought it was Penny, though it was hard to tell behind the mask - came up behind her.

"Sarah says we have to go now. You're the Overseer now. Don't forget about Richard!"

Who could forget about Richard? she was about to snap back, when an entire section of wall fell off with a crash, revealing a cache of bones in the dark space beyond and jolting her out of her dream. She woke up to find that she'd accidentally knocked the box off the bed, spilling its contents everywhere. She stooped to pick them up, looking over to find Richard sitting and watching her, his book either finished or laid aside. "Were you watching me sleep?"

He shrugged. "You seemed restless."

"Please don't. It's creepy," she told him She checked the time and groaned. So much for dinner. Well, there was still some food left in her bag, or at least there had been before.

"I ate the last of the food," Richard told her when he saw her digging through their supplies.

Quashing the frustration that threatened to bubble up - of course he had the right to eat their food - she quickly changed her plans. "Oh. Okay. I'm going to go down to the restaurant, then. Do you want to come with me?"

"Are you ordering me to come?" he asked languidly.

Amari had finally had enough. "So that's a no?" she shot back. "I just thought you might be bored. You can stay here and and stare at the wall for all I care. Good night."

Two minutes later, her steps echoing down the long, empty corridor to the market, she wished she had asked, or ordered, him to come. She felt vulnerable and conspicuous here as a solitary woman. The weight of the pistol on her hip helped, but she knew it was mostly for show, and she suspected anybody else would as well.

Ten yards short of the hatch, two men slammed clumsily through the floor, large, drunk, and unsteady. Cringing away from them, she pressed herself against the wall to let them pass. This amused them for some reason, and she could hear their laughter long after they had disappeared around the corner.

Fighting the urge to run back to their the room and slam the door, she made herself turn the handle and push open the door. It was late, a quarter after 10 by her block, and the market was a different place now, dimmer, quieter, and much cooler. Other than a handful of guards, and a few customers huddled in a puddle of light around Gary's Galley, it was deserted.

A young woman with tired eyes looked up as Amari approached the counter. Stifling a yawn, she asked, "What'll it be?"

"What do you have to eat?" Amari asked. She'd risk even dodgy food at this point, as long as it was heated through. Her early lunch eaten on the move seemed a long time ago now.

"Uh... there's cold broth with half an inch of congealed grease on it, but we're saving it to jump-start the flavor on tomorrow's soup. I recommend booze. We don't really do food after 7 or so."

Remind me never to eat here, she thought with dismay. Before she could decline, a familiar voice at her elbow chimed in, "She'll have a whiskey. Same as me. Put them both on my tab."

The woman heaved an exasperated sigh. "For the last time, Mr. Doe, no tabs for outsiders. Caps up front."

Amari looked to her right. Somehow, she wasn't surprised to find Deacon here, looking as tired and depressed as she felt. "I'm not really in a drinking mood right now," she told him.

He dropped the money on the table and picked up his drinks. "Then I'll drink 'em both. Follow me. I've got the best table. You'll love it."

Deacon's table turned out to be on the catwalk above the restaurant, overlooking the whole cavernous space. In the short walk between the bar and her chair, Amari changed her mind about the whiskey, and reached across the table to take it from him.

"Thanks for the drink, Mr. Doe. Of all the pseudonyms in the world, that's the one you're going with right now?"

He didn't smile. "It is indeed. Sometimes I run out of creative aliases." He tossed his drink back and looked at her, the lenses of his sunglasses mirroring her tiny reflection back at her. He was waiting for her to say something, and she thought she knew what.

She sipped her own drink to fortify herself for the conversation, enjoying the heady feeling it gave her. "I guess you heard what happened," she started, looking down and using a fingernail to trace the profanity etched into the tabletop in front of her. Had it really only been a week and change since Moira died? It felt like much longer.

"That my oldest living friend and best ally in the Capital Wasteland is dead? Yeah, I figured that out when I got to Megaton to find a pack of suppurating assholes fighting each other over her stuff. At least that sheriff had the good graces to tell me what happened. You, what, took her money and ran?"

Amari wondered what version of the story he had gotten, and from whom. "I did. I didn't have a choice. That was after I helped deal with the guy who had her murdered."

"Colin Moriarty." He pronounced the syllables slowly and deliberately. "I should have known that business wasn't over. I got the story about you and him from Moira last time. Man knew how to bide his time. What brought it all to a head?"

She told him about Silver's money, and Moriarty's subsequent attempt on her life, and the contract he had made with Talon Company. Deacon excused himself halfway through and brought up another round of drinks, a double this time. Tongue loosened by the liquor, she confessed something that she had admitted only to herself since that terrible day.

"...and I know I'm to blame, Deacon. What happened in Megaton happened because I was there as a catalyst. He was always the kind of person who might try something like that, but I can't help but think that I forced his hand a little. That the stuff I was doing made him feel like he had to consolidate his position to save face."

When he had nothing to say to this, she pressed on, "Please believe me when I say I didn't expect him to take such drastic measures. I really thought Moira was safe, because she never went far from town. I didn't mean to get her killed. She stuck her neck out for me when I was in a bad place, and it cost her. Even though she got on my nerves sometimes, I liked her. I miss her."

Deacon considered his glass, and tipped the last drop of liquor down his throat. "I believe you. You didn't pull the trigger. You tried to remedy the situation. I don't blame you. I'm just sick of losing friends. It gets to you after a while." He stacked up their empty glasses and stood up. "I'm going to get one more round. Do you want another or are you done?"

Amari liked the idea of another drink, even though it was hitting her hard on an empty stomach. "I'll get it this time," she said, standing up a little too quickly, and making the tiny table wobble.

"Be careful on the stairs!" he called after her.

He accepted the drink that she successfully delivered without spilling, raising his eyebrows at the amount she'd ordered. "What's your room number, Amari?"

"Oh, I don't want to have sex with you," she said, more gracelessly than she meant. "Besides, I have a roommate. A very strong, very awkward roommate who doesn't get social cues."

He managed to look both pained and amused. "Ouch. Shot down before I even ask. No, I just wanted to know where I'll be carrying you at the end of this delightful tête-à-tête."

"It's the one that this goes to." She held up the key that the hotel manager had given her, a shiny number 16 hanging off the fob. "And don't worry. I'm fine." She let her head fall back, enjoying the upside-down view and the dizzy rush that came with it. "I mean, I'm not used to alcohol and I haven't eaten for about twelve hours, but still. I'm amazing."

"If you say so." He was laughing at her. Great. "You should be careful drinking in the company of strange men, you know. Didn't your mother ever tell you that?"

She giggled without knowing why. "My mother ne'er told me anything. But you're not strange. You're nice."

"That's me. A born gentleman." He looked out over the deserted shops, keeping his eyes fixed on something or someone far across the room. Amari sat up straight and sipped her drink - more slowly this time - and let the silence stretch for a full two minutes before she asked the obvious question, enunciating carefully to keep her voice from slurring.

"What are you doing here, Deacon?"

He became quiet and serious. "I have to keep my eye on someone for a few days. A newcomer from my neck of the woods. I just need to make sure he's okay, and stays okay. Gives me an excuse to sit up here and watch the world go by. Compared to my day job, this is a vacation."

"Who are you spying on?"

"That's need-to-know, my friend. You don't. What are you doing here, anyway?"

"Coupla' things. I'm trying to find someone. Two different someones, actually. Who exactly is need-to-know."

"How tantalizingly vague. Any luck?"

"I know where to start looking. On both of 'em." She sighed. "I know you don't care, but can I tell you something? I did something bad, and it's eating me up inside."

"I guess I have one of those faces," he lamented. "I'm the kind of guy people want to confess stuff to. Maybe I was a priest in a former life. Go on then."

"It all started on the the day I left the vault..." she began, explaining how the lie started, and how it grew and grew until she'd lost hold of it entirely. "...and that brings us to today, when I let the lie continue just so I could pick up the package that James left for Marilyn."

"Yeah, that's pretty fucked up," Deacon said mildly, examining his nails. "I don't know how you can live with yourself."

Amari picked up her forgotten drink again. "So you think I should come clean to Dr. Li?" she asked anxiously.

He shook his head. "Oh, hell no. She might take the stuff back. Besides, it's not like your friend's ever going to use it, right?"

"No, but… it's wrong, me coasting on her reputation to make it out here."

Deacon leaned forward, fixing her with that intense stare of his. "Maybe I missed something, but except with her dad, Marilyn doesn't have a reputation outside of the vault, right? Whoever you are, that's one-hundred-percent you. Not her."

Not to be dissuaded, she continued doggedly, "I am who I am because I stole her identity. Did things the way I thought she would."

"Didn't even take her name. That's weak-sauce identity theft, there. Look, kid," he began, "and yes, I can call you that because when I was your age, I was a kid. Married and all, but still a goddamned kid. That do-gooder character Three Dog's been talking up on the radio is at least sort of based on you. It's a shame that everybody and their dog - including you, somehow - thinks that the 'Lone Wanderer' is some doctor's daughter, because that's selling you short."

Amari didn't want to be let off the hook that easily. "It's also setting him up for some delayed grief," she pointed out.

"That too," he admitted. "That's the one thing I'd hold you to account for, if you weren't actively trying to bring him the news in person. I'm all for self-flagellation - I've made a career out of it, in fact - but it seems to me that you're doing the best you can."

"She was better than me, you know. In literally every way." Bold, interesting, and strong. Ambitious. That was Marilyn. Everything she wasn't. "I bet she could have finished the simulation without cheating."

He scratched his head. "I don't know what that means, but whether she was all that or not doesn't matter now. You get that, right?"

She didn't answer this. "Lone Wanderer." Amari tasted the word out loud. "That's a stupid title. I haven't done much wandering. I'm not alone. Never have been. I have Richard, and for the last week I've had Sarah Lyons' group watching out for me."

"Sarah's not a bad sort, as far as the Brotherhood goes," he said comfortably. "And nicknames are good. Take it from a guy who knows. Gives you an escape hatch if someone paints a target on your back. Methinks the disc jockey had a character in mind, and decided to build it on on a convenient foundation, which just happened to be you. Don't let his idealistic ramblings push you into stupid feats of heroism. Who is Richard, by-the-by?"

Amari tried to think how best to describe her companion. "A friend. Well, a person. A very helpful person. Sort of a bodyguard."

"Your roomie who doesn't get social cues? I'd like to meet this guy."

"That's him." She yawned. "You probably wouldn't. No one really likes him. People find him unnerving. He's got some brain damage. Makes him weird and off-putting."

"I've probably met worse," he commented quietly. "Hey, so, I know I said to ignore idealistic ramblings, but I've got a pitch of my own for you. The bulk of it should probably wait until tomorrow, but as a start, since you're in an honest frame of mind… how do you feel about AI rights?"

"AI?" she asked, a little too loudly.

He put a finger to his lips. "Artificial intelligence," he answered patiently. "Sentient machines."

"Uhhh… maybe I'm the wrong person to ask. I kind of helped Moira brutalize an eyebot for science. I was not a fan of the protectron at Megaton's gate. And I never liked the Mr. Handy we had in the vault. It ruined almost everything it touched."

He smiled. "I'm not talking about those. But let's say, taking your last example, that your Mr. Handy became self-aware - conscious of its own existence, with likes, dislikes, hopes, and fears of its own. Humanlike enough to pass for human in dialogue, if not in appearance. Should that Mr. Handy be given the autonomy and rights due a 'real' person?"

"I don't know, Deacon. I've never thought about that before." Her eyelids were getting heavy, and she tried to focus on his face, but something was wrong with her eyes. "Why d'you ask?"

He persisted. "Moira never brought it up? Never mentioned the Railroad?" Half to himself, he muttered under his breath, but loud enough for her to hear, "I knew she wasn't the recruiting type, but c'mon. What was she thinking? You're perfect."

The Railroad. This rang a bell. "She was going to. The day she… died. We never got to that conversation." This reminded her of something she had wanted to ask Deacon - maybe he knew more about Pinkerton - but she held her tongue, worried it might require more of an explanation that she was capable of. "I'd like to know more, but I'm very, very tired."

Deacon sighed. "Tomorrow, then. I'll tell you what she didn't get around to. It's important. Can we talk in the morning?"

"I got other stuff to do, but… sure. Anything you like. You want me to do something for you, right? Just like everybody else..." This came out sounding like an accusation, but she didn't really mean it that way. Deacon was well on his way to becoming her favorite living person in the world. She almost wished that she hadn't preemptively declined to sleep with him.

He had the shame to look away, but continued anyway. "You seem like a decent sort who's drifting at the moment. When you've finished walking the tortuous path you've set for yourself, I'd like you to consider drifting our way. Almost everybody I work with has some sort of personality disorder. You would fit right in." He held out his hands in a pleading gesture. "Perks include a ready-made family, a sense of purpose, and good karma. No retirement package, though."

There had been an insult hidden in there somewhere, she was sure, but Amari couldn't put her finger on it. She decided it didn't really matter. "I'd like to sleep on it. Now, if possible. Before I pass out here."

"Sure. They're about to close the marketplace, anyway. I'll walk you to your door." Deacon cast one more look across the room - at whom, Amari didn't really care at the moment - and offered her a courteous hand up.

She didn't quite remember getting back to her room or going to bed. She certainly never got around to changing her clothes or even taking off her shoes. Wakefulness brought regret and embarrassment. Also misery. Luckily, there was a bucket in the room. Amari huddled on the floor, hugging it to herself, mumbling in between heaves, "Cause and effect, girl, cause and effect. You could have seen this coming…"

Someone knocked on the door. Someone who was whistling. It hurt. She looked up beseechingly at Richard, who was ignoring her, engrossed as he was in a two-hundred-year-old phone book. "Can you answer that, please?" He had half-risen before she changed her mind. Whoever it was might want to talk, and Richard wasn't good at that. "Never mind, I'll get it. Jus' stay there."

Deacon stood in the hallway, a shiteating grin pasted on his face. "Morning, sunshine. I'm so glad I caught you before you started in on your very important to-do list. You made it sound so urgent that I knew I just had to get here early."

She squinted at her Pip-Boy. Was it early? She couldn't tell. "How are you so… happy?"

"Lots of practice." He held up a greasy bundle wrapped in old newsprint. "I brought food. Nice, greasy food. Enough for three. Can I come in?"

She swallowed the bile rising her throat, and managed only a single syllable of an answer. "Ugh."

He took that as an invitation and stepped over the threshold. Something in his face changed when he saw Richard in the chair behind her. The smile disappeared, he let the food fall to the floor, and he stepped back into the hallway without taking his eyes off of the other man.

"On second thought, can I talk to you in the corridor? Please?"

He pulled her out and slammed the door behind her. Amari flinched under the bright lights in the hallway, holding her head between her hands. "Deacon, what-"

He was angry and afraid, and his sharp voice bored threatened to crack her skull in two. "Amari, why is there an Institute Courser in your room?"