The Mister Handy model came out before the war to serve as a sort of domestic caretaker. They were the ideal home attendant; polite, obedient, loyal - at least most of them. Whitechapel Charlie didn't quite fit that description. The robot was a sarcastic, mouthy, caricature of a working-class, pre-war Brit. A bowler hat was perched atop his metal frame, and a faded Union Jack sticker was lopsidedly slapped on the side of his hull. Several mechanical arms multi-tasked around his body as he efficiently tended bar, effortless and precise they each appeared to act with autonomy. One of his metal appendages made a faint drilling sound as it spun a hand-towel inside a drinking glass to clean it, while another twisted the top off of a whiskey bottle, and yet another scooped some ice from a bucket under the counter and poured it into the newly cleaned glass. "Order up, love," Charlie said in his deep cockney accent. He poured the drink, placed it on the counter in front of Eveline and glided away on the small rocket thruster that propelled him from beneath his chassis.

Eveline took her drink wordlessly, dropped a five cap tip on the counter, and walked to her familiar booth. She always wondered who designed a Mister Handy to be like Whitechapel Charlie. He was rough around the edges to say the least, likely doing more to drive customers away than keep them coming. He rarely troubled her, but she'd seen him lose his patience with more than a few customers in the past. Maybe he liked that she didn't talk much. He seemed the type to like efficiency.

Duh, that's the whole point of a robot.

Her mind moved on to other things as she sat down at her usual booth. She kept thinking back to that day in the city, when she was nearly killed by raiders. Berkman. That ghoul. His name branded into her thoughts as though burned there with a hot pike. He probably saved her life. But how was he in just the right place at just the right time? Was he like her? Living alone in the wreckage of some pre-war apartment, just trying to escape the jurisdiction of the Minutemen? Why would he be staying in a place right across from a raider homestead? Was he just a scavver who wandered into the middle of their firefight? Nothing about it added up.

She thought about their encounter several times since it happened, and each time she felt a whirlwind of different emotions, any particular one hard to pick out from the storm to decipher. To some degree he was comforting. It was reassuring to see a ghoul so confident, independent, and seemingly unaffected by the same burden she felt since being ghoulified. Daisy seemed content, but she was low-key, a boring fixture of Goodneighbor; not someone who fought raiders and rescued travelers out in the ruins. To Eveline, Berkman felt like everything she couldn't be since becoming a ghoul. To some extent she felt envy. On another level: guilt for not being as strong as him. She was weak, lying in bed in tears, bemoaning her life since changing, huffing jet to get through the harder days. Even now, she was drinking to numb some of the daily pain.

Dwelling on her self-pity only gave rise to the same sinking sensation that clouded her. She felt herself being drawn in when she suddenly remembered what he said to her: "It gets easier." She meditated on that phrase for awhile, recalling the hardest times, how they dwindled, how living and moving on became more possible with each new day. The gap between the hardest times undoubtedly grew. Through so much, she still persevered. She was still here.

But just being alive isn't enough…

Just then there was a stirring upstairs. A large group had just entered from the street level, chattering loudly while making their way down the busted escalator stairs into the bar room. Eve turned her head and saw Hancock, surrounded by a crowd of Neighborhood Watch militia members.

Hancock was the self-described mayor of Goodneighbor and most people just rolled with it. He had enough public favor to hold the position without complaints, though it entailed little in ways of privileges. Mostly Hancock was at the helm of a militant committee of volunteers bound together by a shared desire to protect the community. There was nothing honoring him to the position other than the fact that his continued success as a leader left the public content with his role. He commanded the Neighborhood Watch, but that role was granted voluntarily. The Neighborhood Watch existed more out of the communal need for self-protection and as a self-organized means of managing conflict de-escalation when the need arose. The militia members who served as Hancock's guard did so more out of loyalty and respect than a mandatory responsibility. If they ceased to fulfill their responsibilities, there would be no official punishment. Abuse of power, however, was often met with swift punishment. It wasn't the tidiest of systems, but it functioned pretty well.

Eve had only seen Hancock in passing on several occasions, but he was a difficult ghoul to forget. His presence was dominating and attention drawing, helped even more by his unique choice of clothing; a revolutionary war era, deep red, long-coat, with a sash made from an old world flag. The finishing touch of his bizarre getup was an oversized tricorn hat, worn-out from long before he claimed it for himself. Even if not for the attire, Hancock was someone you remembered. His voice was somehow smooth and raspy at the same time. Rough like most ghouls, but proceeded with what many interpreted as authentic compassion. Turning into a ghoul did nothing to dwindle his charm.

In tow, also followed by several armed companions, someone else walked with Hancock; another ghoul, but a woman. Her face was stern, with a challenging stare one would hate to be on the receiving end of. She wore olive and brown camouflaged, military fatigues with a dark green beret atop her bald head. A tiny pair of spectacles, slightly too small for her head, rested on the bridge–the only remaining part-of her nose. Eve assumed they were a tight fit so they could adjust for the lack of cartilage left on her ears. The woman's guards, also ghouls, wore the same uniform but walked with assault rifles slung over their shoulders.

The ghoul woman whispered something inaudible to Hancock. He nodded and slapped a hand on her back in response.

"Charlie!" He gestured towards the Mister Handy. A drink for our friends! Break out your finest rotgut!"

Whitechapel Charlie floated towards the edge of the bar to get into Hancock's line of sight. "Oi, you want the finest? Try the bar in Diamond City. I got your piss and your watered down piss. Which do our friends prefer?" His mechanical arms spun around his lower chassis so that his serving arms were front-and-center.

"Ayy easy with the sass in front of our guests, Charlie. They're new to Goodneighbor; we gotta make a good first impression, make 'em feel welcome!" Hancock approached the bar, sat down at the stool in front of the robot, and gave him a smile. "These good folks are here all the way from the glowing sea. If anybody needs a drink, it's them."

The woman and her guard didn't speak as they pulled up the rear. The guards stood up while the woman, clearly of some authority, sat alongside Hancock. Eveline felt her presence from across the bar. Power radiated from her, not just confidence, but purpose. There is a comfort in fulfilling a duty, being where you know you ought to be, doing what you think you ought to do. She had that.

And she made it look good.

Whitechapel Charlie dropped a glass of some liquor in front of Hancock and went to do the same for the ghoul woman, but she raised her hand to stop him.

"I don't drink anything prepared for me. I brought my own water. It's not personal, you understand."

She spoke with a tone that left little room for questioning; definitive and assertive.

"Suit yourself. Less work for me." Charlie floated away while the two made idle chitchat until the other patrons lost interest.

Eve was the only one who kept watching them. She was intrigued by that woman. She inspired those same feelings Berkman did. That same radiating strength clung to the air around her like invisible wires hoisting her high above the room. She kept her head down and did her best to listen in on their conversation.

"I know we can't go into much detail here, but you need to consider what we talked about." The woman spoke in a lowered voice so as not to divulge too much information, but Eve could just barely hear her.

"Look, sister, comrade - whatever you folks go by, I support your struggle. I stand with you against that pinheaded fuck Dulles…"

"'But…'" she anticipated his words.

"You know why I can't. I have people here that need a safe-haven from all this shit. If the Minutemen find out we're supplying foot soldiers and guerilla fighters, we risk losing all of that. I can't do that to these people." Hancock spoke with remorse in his voice; the kind that sounded rehearsed.

The words bounced off of the female ghoul, clearly expected. "Hancock, I know you have a duty to your people, and that's exactly why we need you to help us. We know the urgent need to take in refugees, believe that - we're doing everything we can to accommodate the people relocating to the glowing sea ourselves. But you of all people should know how men like Dulles work. It only takes one outrage, one drama, one scare, and their boots will be outside your door." She tapped her fingers on the bar for emphasis but took care to keep her voice low.

"Believe it or not, Anita, I'm not an idiot." Hancock emphasized her name when he spoke, subtly mocking her for her attempt to appeal to him personally. If she noticed, she didn't show it. "This job ain't just about giving speeches and kissing babies. Now I let you into my little town, and I know Osha will no doubt hear about it, but I don't lay my cards on the table without a plan. We've got some channels open with the Confederation, and they're going to bring this up, and we're going to let them know just what's up. Any move made on Goodneighbor will force our hand and we'll have no choice but to support the GLF." He stopped and scanned her face for a response. "I'm sorry, but the truth is, not supporting you is the only thing that does keep us safe."

He got his reaction. Anita's face flashed with some of the first emotion Eve had seen. Anger. She did her best to contain herself, but her frustration was visible. "Why do you think the Commons are in Osha's sights? It opens up trade routes with the southern Commonwealth, and gives him an excuse to snatch up all the surrounding territory. You'll have a choice in the end. You and your people live in an apartheid state as Osha gradually takes Goodneighbor for himself, or you act now to pierce the heart of this beast before it's talons sink into everything. Your refugees live on borrowed time. We can relocate the ghouls to the glowing sea. The synths and the humans can resettle in Confederated territory without much fuss."

Hancock sneered. "The synths? Are you shitting me? Osha will weed them out with that synth test of his and have them exterminated!"

"We can only afford to help our own right now. The synths are welcome to save themselves, and if they extend a hand we wil-"

"I've heard enough. There will be no military support. We'll keep diplomatic windows open, even take in refugees, but weapons and soldiers stay here. On my streets. Keeping my people safe."

Anita rose from her seat. "Then we have nothing more to talk about. I regret your decision, but I hold out hope that you'll change your mind." She flashed a glance at her guards. They nodded and got to her side. "We'll stay in touch, John."

"I hope you do, Ms. Castro." Hancock tipped his hat and smiled. "And I hope to see you and your friends again soon. Stay safe out there."