A/N: This is the last update for the year. I'll be back in January iwth the next update. I hope everyone has a happy and safe holidays!

Huge thanks to ScorpioSkies for betaing!

This newest venture outside the Castle's walls goes smoothly, thanks to the combined efforts of Nate, Valentine, Preston, Curie and the five-Minuteman squad that fans out around them. Their leader, Stella, gives Kaelyn a wink, saying that if raiders want to mess with a colonel, they'll mess with the entire Minutemen. Dogmeat, of course, bounds around the group, his ears swiveling towards nearby sounds. A second squad, which counts Danse among them, follows as far as the esplanade then splits north to sort out a raider problem.

The day itself is clear with a gray cast, from a fine shawl of dust kicked up by the wind. Nestled in Kaelyn's pack are the jars of seeds, their soft rattling like the patter of rain in her ears. They provide a muted counterpart to the dog tags around her neck that jangle with every step.

Before they'd left, Nate had pressed something into her palm and folded her fingers over it. "I want these back."

From the blunt-edged metal, the slithering chain between her fingers, she knew what they were. They were old friends by now. "When?"

"When we get back, safe and sound. Don't lose them—I'm rather fond of them."

Kaelyn brushed her hair away from her nape to secure his dog tags around her neck. "They're safe with me."

Nate threaded a finger under the chain to lift the tags. Giving them a quick kiss, he'd said, "Good luck charm."

That isn't all he does to reassure her. Not only does he stay by her side as they travel, protected as she is by the array of guards, but takes it upon himself to offer distractions. Terrible distractions. "I have a joke about a farm, but it's a little corny."

Kaelyn groans. Preston raises an eyebrow, but one of the wandering Minutemen tries to stifle a snicker.

At Bunker Hill, Valentine separates from their group. "I'm gonna swing by the agency, put Ellie on the case."

Giving his shoulder a squeeze, Kaelyn says, "Be careful, all right?"

"Stole the words right out of my mouth." With a hug for her and a handshake for Nate, Valentine sets south.

Kaelyn watches his back, trench coat fluttering around his ankles, until he's no more than another fixture in the drab brown hills.

They continue on. No matter how she tells herself she's done this many times before, that niggling unease lingers in her gut. And she loathes it. In the past she's shaken off near-death experiences and kept moving. She didn't even come close to dying during her brief stint as a prisoner. Not this time.

Nate nudges her with an elbow. "What happens when a frog double parks? It gets toad."

That one earns him a number of confused looks from the Minutemen, either because they don't understand double parking or because most amphibians are extinct. As they veer off the road to find a spot for lunch, a radstag startles and bounds away.

Nate asks, "What do you call a deer with no eyes?" At Kaelyn's despairing look, he grins. "No-eye-deer."

They can't reach Graygarden soon enough. But they do so in high spirits, no matter the groans at Nate's alleged 'jokes'.

"So the secret to not being attacked on the road is to tell bad jokes," Stella muses.

Nate shoots Kaelyn a smug look that says see? She likes my jokes. "I have a few saved up if you're interested."

The family's homestead sits atop the hill, abandoned and ignored, while the nursery sprawls across the valley floor. Jet flames make it easy to spot the Handy bots that tend seedlings, water plants, trim bushes. In the age of anti-Institute paranoia, a settlement comprised entirely of robots unnerves most people. That the bots are programmed to tend crops they can't use confuses even more people.

Of their Minutemen guard, only Preston follows Kaelyn and Nate without hesitation. The others hang back, hovering by the fence line. Even Stella pauses mid-step.

"It ain't right," Doug mutters, watching the bots propel themselves around the nursery.

Dogmeat darts away to investigate a pile of fertilizer bags only to be shooed away by the attending bot. Kaelyn whistles for him, ignoring the sudden tension from the Minutemen behind her, and Dogmeat trots back to her side unmolested by any flamethrowers or clippers. The main greenhouse is massive, its windows clean, and the glass warps the visage of the nursery planters inside and the bots that bob between them.

Knocking on the door frame, Kaelyn steps inside. The air grows noticeably more humid with the pungent aroma of wet earth and fertilizer. The nearest robots don't even look up, but on the far side of the nursery, light glints off Supervisor White's impeccable chassis as she propels herself towards her visitors.

One eye stalk fixes on Kaelyn while the other two survey the envoy. Supervisor White tuts. "My, my, darling. What brings you back to Graygarden, and back to me, and with so many strangers in tow?"

"The Minutemen have a proposal, supervisor, if you're willing to entertain us."

The noise that emits from the bot could have been a throaty chuckle in a human woman. "Now that is intriguing, darling. Do tell me more."

Curie, meanwhile, has trailed one of the worker bots as it tends a tray of seedlings, watching it work. "Excuse me, but I have never seen so many robots in one place before."

The worker drone chimes something in binary and floats past her.

Kaelyn clears her throat. "We got our hands on genetically modified seeds that grow to astounding sizes, and even thrive in irradiated soils. We figured you would be the best equipped to propagate them, and if you're willing to share your harvest with Commonwealth settlements, we'll gladly hand them over."

"I am relieved that you know Graygarden is the superior choice of nursery, darling. You won't find better than workers who never tire or require sustenance. I must admit I'm curious about these seeds of yours."

"Before anyone agrees to anything," Preston says, holding his hands behind his back, "you should be aware that massively upping your yield will probably make you a target. From what I've heard, these plants are conspicuous. Which is why we're also offering to station a garrison here, full-time, to protect your property. If you agree, of course."

"While I am confident in our ability to protect ourselves from lowlife thieves, I must admit that damage to the farm is simply dreadful." Supervisor White bobs in place as she deliberates. "In Dr Gray's absence, Graygarden agrees to your terms and will begin at once. We'd have to segregate the new batch so they don't cross-pollinate with our current samples, at least until we're certain of these so-called miracle plants. Don't you agree, darling?"

"Uh, sure," Kaelyn says. "Until we know these crops do what they're supposed to."

Kaelyn insists on it being put in writing, and finds an unexpected ally in Supervisor White herself. With the agreement struck, she empties her satchel, one bottle at a time, lining the jars up on the nearest bench top. It's only half of what June gave her, but it should be enough for Graygarden.

Supervisor White examines each jar, holding it between her pincers, turning it this way and that so its contents rattle. "Hmm, yes, let's see… that looks like tato seeds, and that mutfruit…" One eye stalk swivels to Kaelyn. "Oh, you're still here. You may stay here for the night, if you prefer. It's growing late. Just mind the plants and our workers."

"How about we check the digs?" Stella jerks her thumb at the dilapidated homestead perched above the valley.

Curie lags behind on the walk up the winding trail. Kaelyn tugs on Nate's hand and he slows down with her. She asks, "Is everything all right, Curie?"

Curie bobs in place, her artificial irises constricting as she takes in the nursery. "Is this the lot of robots in the Commonwealth? Menial labor?"

"Certainly not all of them," Kaelyn says. "Some are integrated members of society."

Beside her, Nate snorts. "Society, my ass."

Curie's tone is odd, stilted. "Since leaving the vault, I have observed a number of instances where humans have been wary if not outright rude toward robots. Even toward Monsieur Valentine, who is arguably more… human than one such as I."

Kaelyn mulls over the question for a few moments. It's easy to protest Valentine's mistreatment, and even any abuse thrown at Codsworth, but she hasn't lost any sleep over the Handy bots toiling away in the valley below. No matter the Railroad's arguments on 'family nights', she hasn't really considered it. "The Institute's synths have grown to be symbols of fear, and it's easy for humans to hate what we don't understand. People here are perhaps more cautious of robots than they might otherwise be, but there's always a portion of people who think anyone who isn't human doesn't deserve rights."

Nate, sensing the grim turn in mood, adds, "Curie, as far as I'm concerned, we're good as long as you don't set my pants on fire."

"Oh, I would never, monsieur! I have not seen any adequate facilities to treat burns in the Commonwealth!"

They've caught up to the others again, and Preston overhears that last remark. He looks between Nate and Kaelyn, who's rolling her eyes. "I feel like I'm missing something here."

Kaelyn sighs. "He's convinced Codsworth once incinerated a pair of his trousers."

"He did!"

Unlike the meticulously maintained farm, the most that can be said of the homestead is that its roof hasn't collapsed. They scour the place for radroaches before dumping their gear in what used to be the living room. Honeyed beams of light filter through the broken glass of the western windows, so they decide to cook while they can still see.

Over dinner, Nate asks, "What do you call a deer with no eyes or legs? Still no eye-deer."

Kaelyn facepalms. "Remind me why I married you."

Slinging an arm around her shoulders, he pulls her close. "Because you love me."

"Mm. That must be it."

"Why else would she put up with those jokes?" Preston teases, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiles.

The conversation turns to planning, as the squad brainstorm what they'll need to keep this place secure from raiders.

"Could use this house as a garrison for any guards you station here," Nate says, leaning back in his chair.

"And as a bunkhouse for any traders who want to deal with Graygarden," Stella adds.

With Supervisor White's blessing, they spend the next two days cleaning up the old homestead, scrapping any rubble that can be reused and using the rest to build a rough perimeter around the property. As someone rather handy with a spanner, Stella takes a look at the house's plumbing to see if it can be saved. Since Graygarden still has access to running water, with a few repairs the house has working faucets again. The next step is to set up a generator so they can have hot water.

Noticeably absent from the cleanup is Curie, who Kaelyn finds that evening under the car port, taking a sample of some kind of mold that has flourished in the faux leather interior of a rusted-out car.

"Hey, Curie. You seem to be thinking." It seems that brooding alone transcends humanity.

"I wonder if the data I'm collecting will serve any purpose?" Curie sighs. "These robots here, they have a purpose. A simple one, perhaps, but no job is too small to be useful. While I have fulfilled my purpose, their programming still guides them. And still… limits them. But, oh, listen to me, madame, rambling on. Was there something you needed?"

"Nothing right now."

As they rejoin the work crew, a man named Doug grouches, "Nice of you to join us, bot. Now get back to your job."

"Hey," Kaelyn barks. "There's no need to be rude. Curie's helping us because she wants to."

"It'd be much faster if the other robots helped out, too," Doug grumbles.

"Because they have enough work as it is," Stella retorts.

Undeterred, he continues with, "Why do the robots get these supposedly magic seeds instead of a homestead where they can do actual good?"

"Because they won't keep the yield all to themselves," Stella retorts. "They don't need food, and they're programmed to farm. If this works, we can spread the seeds to all four corners of the 'Wealth." She looks down at the rusted drum she's hauling. "First the Institute gone, now this. Almost feels like we can rebuild, you know?"

Doug halts, shovel in hand. "What, you mean like another Commonwealth Provisional Government?"

"Don't call it that!" another woman, Olivia, hisses.

Doug, on the other hand, looks thoughtful. "But there's no Institute to sabotage it this time. Right?"

"Still, man. Bad vibes."

What none of them realize until this moment is that Preston is standing nearby, listening to their conversation. "We couldn't impose anything on the rest of the Commonwealth, but… maybe it's time to try again. We'll need trade agreements with Graygarden anyway. We have an alliance of settlements. So why not go all the way?"

Valentine had once told Kaelyn about the ill-fated Commonwealth Provisional Government that attempted to unify the Commonwealth. But now—now she pauses to consider what it could be.

That night, while the others set up a guard rotation and go to sleep, Kaelyn and Preston clear a desk in Dr Gray's office to talk.

Stella's squad remains to oversee rebuilding the lodge and guard Graygarden, while Preston moves on to a nearby settlement that radioed for help. Kaelyn and Nate detour to Sanctuary for a few quiet days with Codsworth.

Kaelyn gingerly pulls open the closet door, which has been painstakingly repaired and screwed back into place. Her wardrobe takes up a fraction of the space it used to, but at least Nate's clothes once again rest on the shelf beside hers. In dire need of shirts whose sweat stains don't have sweat stains, she goes digging for things to take back to the Castle.

Her hands brush a package at the back of the closet, and she pauses. There's no need to pull it out when she's memorized every object inside. They're some of the belongings that Codsworth preserved for two centuries. Indeed, it's safer hidden away from the Wasteland's cruelty.

But after recent events, the siren song of familiarity is too much to ignore. Kaelyn pulls out the package and sits on the bed. Glimmers of red and green and gold peek through the plastic, and she longs to run her hands through her mother's saris. They'd been shrink-wrapped and stored long before the bombs.

For special occasions, her amma had said. After she'd died, Kaelyn had inherited garments she couldn't bear to look at, let alone wear. She runs a hand over the dusty plastic, wishing it were the silk underneath. Wonders if they still smell like her mother's detergent.

Outside, a brahmin brays, followed by human shouts.

"Kaelyn!" Nate calls from outside. "Could use a hand out here!"

No matter. It's not like she could wear these in the Wasteland anyway. So she tucks them away in the cupboard, consigned to darkness and safety, and trots outside to help herd an adventurous brahmin back to her pen.

By the time they return to the Castle, there's been an uptick in activity and the courtyard is fuller than ever. Danse's squad has already returned from their mission, although Ronnie still has him training with the recruits.

When Kaelyn works up the nerve to ask why, when he's clearly beyond the basics, Ronnie just grins. It's a rather fearsome sight. "He motivates the others."

Word has spread through the ranks about uniting the settlements, and the remaining colonels are amenable to the idea. As word trickles down to the rest of the Castle, opinions are mixed. Enough are enthusiastic about the idea, hyped by the optimistic atmosphere that has prevailed since the Institute's downfall. It tips public favor towards taking another shot.

Preston's endorsement sways many who are on the fence, and in the coming weeks a number of settlements radio in or send word through the caravans that if any talks are in motion, don't forget to invite them.

No one dares to utter the words 'Commonwealth Provisional Government'.

The moment Kaelyn steps foot into the war room—a moniker that sits oddly, given there has been only talk of peace since the colonels have assembled— she pauses. The faces of her colleagues betray trouble. Indeed, she's been volunteered to issue formal invitations to Diamond City, Goodneighbor and Bunker Hill. That all three of the Commonwealth's largest settlements have fallen to Kaelyn is a fact she doesn't miss.

Preston says, "None of them are formally allied with us, but that doesn't mean we should snub them."

"Not yet, at least," Faiza mutters. "If they try to walk over our smaller settlements, all bets are off."

Preston rests a hand on Kaelyn's shoulder. "You're one of the few people who entered the Institute and came out the other side. People know it. Don't underestimate how much your presence bolsters people's nerves."

That is an eyebrow-raising revelation. At first the Institute's reputation never intimidated her—how could it, when everything about this awful future threatened her very life?—or dissuaded her from finding her son. Later, with the mystery solved, the curtain thrown back, there'd been no reason to fear a group of amoral scientists. "So you're saying I'm a good-luck charm?"

Faiza chuckles once. "That's exactly what we're saying. Are you in?"

Kaelyn glances from face to face around the table, and her nod seals it. "Let's do this."

Radio Freedom can send word to Minutemen-allied settlements, but not so with independent settlements. Hence Kaelyn being volunteered, not only as a skilled negotiator but also as someone with contacts in all three settlements.

With Nate and Dogmeat in tow, they set out for Bunker Hill first. If Kaelyn spends most of the trip thinking instead of watching for threats, then it's fortunate she has her boys looking out for her. By the time Bunker Hill's monument strikes out on the horizon, she has something of a game plan ready. She makes a beeline for Old Man Stockton's sprawling store, and quietly mentions to him that the Minutemen are holding talks which might open new trade opportunities, if only Bunker Hill sends a delegation.

Hint delivered, Kaelyn turns to leave, only to bump into Amelia. "Amelia! You're looking better."

She nods. "I am, thanks. It's hard to sleep inside, but I never thought I'd be grateful for how noisy Bunker Hill is. Reminds me where I am, you know?"

They part with a quick hug, Amelia throwing her arms around Kaelyn's neck and Kaelyn gently squeezing her back. From there Kaelyn seeks out Kessler to offer the formal proposal.

Her grudge against the Minutemen is legendary. Going toe-to-toe with one of the biggest merchant leaders in the Commonwealth is almost a challenge akin to what Kaelyn might have seen in the courtroom.

Kessler is less than impressed. "What advantages does this afford us, really? Bunker Hill is already the true trade hub of the Commonwealth. Whatever we need, we can already barter for."

"It is, of course, your choice whether to send a delegation," Kaelyn answers, "but is it wise to opt out of what could be important negotiations without considering all options? None of us know what the outcome of these talks will be, but who knows? Does Bunker Hill wish to sit out on what might make history?"

Like any decent merchant, Kessler refuses to play her hand yet. "I'll need time to deliberate."

As the last rays of sunlight paint lines of gold and gray through the city, Kaelyn and Nate wander hand-in-hand to the food court. Dogmeat plops under their table, resting his head on someone's knee when he wants to beg for scraps.

There's a commotion at the bar, and as Kaelyn glances up she notices lamplight flash off a pair of sunglasses. Their owner removes himself from the brewing bar fight, and Nate has the same idea. He hauls her out of her chair and they beat a hasty escape before they can become collateral damage. When Kaelyn glances around again, Deacon's gone.

Or out of sight, at least.

They make it only a few streets away from the food court. By the brahmin pen, the stench is usually enough to keep all but the brahmin owners and farm hands from the immediate vicinity. It should be enough to keep them safe. One of said workers is wearing the same denim jacket and glasses she'd glimpsed at the bar.

"Deacon."

"Deacon? I don't know any Deacon. You're looking at Julian." He gives her a winning smile from where he leans on the fence.

Folding her arms over her chest, she cocks her weight on one hip. "What a funny coincidence."

"Ain't it just?"

Kaelyn maintains her stern expression for a moment longer, then relaxes. Even if he's keeping tabs on her, this is a rare instance where he does it because he cares. "Funnily enough, I feel better knowing you're keeping an eye on things."

"It would be unfair if you don't get to live in this slightly less shitty world you've ushered in." Dropping any pretense of amusement, he continues, "And if the coursers weren't a wake up call? The raiders were. Something's gunning for you, and we look after our own."

It's—warming, that even if she cut ties with the Railroad, she still merits their protection.

Nate shuffles closer to her and slides a hand around her waist. "Nice to know someone is taking this seriously. It's not creepy if it's a guardian angel, right?"

Deacon crouches to greet Dogmeat. "Believe it or not, I wasn't just out here to spy on you. One of our caravans is overdue, so I've been following the trail. Could use some backup on this, if you're up for it."

At this point, is it even worth pretending that she could retire to Sanctuary as a hermit? "All right, count us in."

"Huh?" Deacon looks up from patting Dogmeat. "I was talking to my furry friend here, but if you want in that's cool too."

Rolling her eyes, Kaelyn makes a casual swipe at Deacon, knocking his beret off his bald head.

The next morning, she seeks an answer from Kessler. Pressure from Stockton forces her hand, even if her promise to send a delegation of interested parties is less than enthusiastic.

"This isn't a binding agreement," Kaelyn assures her. "Nobody's signed anything yet. We're just going to talk."

"I'm holding you to that."

After restocking their supplies, Kaelyn and Nate meet Deacon by the obelisk and slip out the gates in the chaos of a caravan's arrival. Deacon leads them north, where he and Kaelyn scope out the bridge before venturing across.

When they're a safe distance away from any listening ears, she asks, "What's the job?"

"Caravan's a week overdue. It was supposed to check in at Mercer. Our guys at the safehouse checked the surrounding area, but they can't wander too far and leave our packages unprotected. So I'm following the caravan's expected route from Bunker."

The countryside creeps to meet them before they've passed through the city's boundaries. Tufts of sickly grass escape the confines of dead yards to crawl around chunks of concrete. Vines dangle from a stoplight, their curling tendrils brushing Nate's hair as he wanders underneath. As the buildings shrink from ten stories to five to two, plants rise to make up the height difference; maples stand on street corners like loitering pedestrians. Summer's grasp has coaxed sparse foliage from the twisted shrubs, their spindly branches as strong as a cobweb's shadow.

Tracking the caravan is much easier with Dogmeat's keen nose. Deacon steps over a flattened fence to wander around a house to find a half-filled bathtub in the backyard. Chunks of charcoal have been spread across the ground, and inside the house there are fresh footprints. Whistling for Dogmeat—in an eerily accurate mimicry of Kaelyn's own whistle—Deacon leads him to the back porch to get the scent, and then they're off again.

Along the way, Nate asks, "What starts with the letter E, ends with the letter E and has one letter?"

Kaelyn arches an eyebrow in her husband's direction. "The letter E."

He beams at her. "An envelope."

While she buries her face in one hand, Deacon points at Nate and says, "I like this guy."

They stop for lunch in the shadow of the overpass, then set out into the countryside proper. Clouds have crept across the sky, slump-backed and dark-bellied, leaching burning power from the sun.

A short whuff from Dogmeat is their only warning before he gallops over to a nearby ditch, pressing his nose to the ground. He circles the area once, then disappears between the bushes. Following his urgent bark, they careen to a halt in a small clearing.

The smell hits Kaelyn before she registers the sight. About a half-dozen dead traders, their brahmin slaughtered alongside them.

Deacon points at the ally railsign carved on the brahmin's yoke. "These are our guys."

Nate slips past her to crouch by the nearest body, and she doesn't miss the way he positions himself to block her line of sight. As sweet as it is, corpses are a common sight now. "'Bout a week old, maybe. How good is your information?"

"I am as good as you'll ever get. But word travels slow and we can't be everywhere. Maybe we should look into cloning. Then I can have eyes and ears everywhere." Deacon strolls past her to the dead brahmin and stops, all pretense of humor sliding away. "Somebody recount the bodies for me? Either I'm hallucinating or there aren't seven."

Kaelyn counts. There are only five in the clearing.

She and Nate spread out, the former leading Dogmeat around the site to see if he can pick up another trail. In case some survivors managed to escape. It might have worked if it didn't start pouring rain in thick gray sheets. Kaelyn shudders in the downpour and crouches to rest a hand on Dogmeat's sodden back. He sniffs around, then lifts his head with a whine.

It's a dead end.

She says, "Come on, boy. Let's go."

Deacon looks up at their return, raindrops streaking down his glasses. Maybe it's the play of water over his face, but it seems like a phantom hope disappears at her grim expression. "Damn. Nothing?"

She has to yell to be heard properly in the downpour. "He lost the trail."

Rising to his feet, Deacon wipes the mud off his hands. "I'd say those synths are back under Institute control."

Always the primary suspect.

"You're sure it was them?"

The survivors she's seen could barely make it on their own, let alone arrange a synth reclamation squad.

Deacon points at the laser burns, then shows her the tread of a gen one's foot preserved in the mud under the cart, protected from the rain. "Unless the Brotherhood have claimed old-school synths in the name of technology, or whatever the hell they pray to. Institute's still got enough legs to kick us in the pants. If there's no trail from here, there's nothing we can do now but find shelter."

Blundering into rainy wilderness won't help those synths now. But he dislikes the prospect as much as she does.

"I'm sorry," Nate says, looking between Kaelyn and Deacon.

Deacon shrugs, but the movement is grim. "This is how it is. Sometimes you can help, and sometimes…" He gestures to the massacre.

Something in Nate's face shifts. "Sometimes you're too late. I get that."

Deacon wipes his hands on his trousers. "Mercer's not too far away. As long as you're not going to blab anything you see, we can sleep somewhere dry tonight. My hair is never going to recover otherwise."

Nate asks, "Just who am I going to blab your secrets to? My friends are all dead."

Kaelyn winces.

Noticing her reaction, he makes a brave attempt at a smile. "I would never share your secrets with anyone… unless they're really, really funny."

She flicks a wet lock of hair behind Nate's ear. "Good thing Deacon's jokes suck, then."

"Hey!" Deacon slings an arm around her shoulders, and she shudders at how cold he is. "You can meet your replacements— I mean, our newest agents."

Nate shakes his head. "You're telling me you need multiple people to replace my wife? Always knew she was special."

"Yeah, our Whisper is one-of-a-kind."

Kaelyn arches an eyebrow. "If they're running a safehouse, aren't they caretakers rather than heavies?"

Deacon pats her shoulder. "Have you ever thought about becoming a detective? You might be good at it. And you've already got the hat."

They've tracked far enough northwest that they only have to follow the bank of the lake to reach Taffington Boathouse. The rain remains a constant drone, just heavy enough to plaster their hair to their skulls but not so heavy to destroy all visibility. Kaelyn sidles up to Nate and takes his hand, even if it's a bad move in the field. His cold fingers thread through hers, but his expression remains distant.

"So about these synths…" When both Kaelyn and Deacon glance Nate's way, he continues, "Are they like Nick?"

"Nick's a prototype second gen—far more advanced than your average gen two, but still mechanical. Gen threes are bio-engineered."

"Meaning…?"

"They look human."

He frowns at that but says nothing more. Kaelyn vaguely recalls explaining this to him before, but it probably won't sink in until he's seen them for himself.

Mercer Safehouse is poised on the north bank of the lake, standing proud in the gloomy evening. The brahmin pen has been converted to a garden and the windows reinforced with new mesh to keep the bloodbugs out. The previous owners of the house are buried in the yard, under a nearby tree.

The backyard teleporter has long since been scrapped but the defenses built around it remain: a tin-and-sandbag wall that fences off the property line and two machine gun turrets Kaelyn managed to requisition from the Minutemen. With so many settlements upgrading their defenses, it isn't an unusual sight anymore. Even if Carrington had disapproved of calling attention to the safehouse in any way.

Before Deacon can set foot on the stairs, a gray-haired Asian man steps onto the porch, his shotgun trained on the newcomers. He asks, "Any of you folks happen to have a Geiger counter?"

Deacon spreads his arms, a smirk tugging at his lips, heedless of the barrel directed towards his chest. "Sorry, buddy, but mine's in the shop."

Nate looks between the two sides as the hostility melts away, and Kaelyn reaches back to take his hand again, tugging him up the stairs.

Deacon pushes the barrel of the caretaker's shotgun away with one finger as he steps onto the porch. "You don't remember me, Uncle? I'm cut."

"They're the rules, Deacon," Uncle says, looking a little too gleeful. He bends down to give Dogmeat a scratch behind his ears. "And you two are?"

"This is our one and only Whisper, and a newbie we've taken under our wing."

Under Uncle's assessing gaze, Kaelyn can't give Deacon a sideways look for that lie. They'd never let Nate through the door otherwise, but it doesn't sit right. "A pleasure, Uncle."

"Pleasure's mine. You fast-tracked an ending we'd lost hope was coming. Now come inside before you attract attention. It's a bit tight, but you can sleep on the floor."

The moment Kaelyn steps over the threshold, she realizes what he means. Four synths are squished on a couch and another two on a window box seat. They all stare at the newcomers. The ceiling creaks and three more faces appear at the top of the stairs. Dogmeat's sudden appearance, sniffing at the feet of the nearest synth, is first cause for alarm, then curiosity when they realize this particular surface native isn't out for their blood.

Kaelyn almost gapes at the crush of bodies. "Are you all synths?"

There's a chorus of affirmations around the room. Nine. There are nine synths in Mercer Safehouse. Yes, the Railroad lost the Switchboard and many other sanctuaries, but surely they've scouted new safehouses since? Or are there so many lost synths that the perpetually-understaffed Railroad is bursting at the seams?

A man—just a kid, really—hunches into his ill-fitting green sweater like a woolen turtle shell. He ventures, "You're—Father's mother? The one who led the rebellion?"

Behind her, Nate goes still. Intent. It's so quiet she can hear the soft plink-plink-plink of water dripping to the floor.

Kaelyn tries for a yes but her throat is too tight, so she nods instead.

A ripple goes around the room.

"She looks like Father."

"I saw her once when she left BioScience."

"I thought she died in the rebellion."

The tension is broken when a middle-aged woman circles around the coffee table to get a closer look at Kaelyn. "I still can't believe there are humans who'd help us."

A blond man says, "I never dreamed you'd choose us over Father."

Turtle Boy doesn't have the nerve to shake her hand but says, "It's been—hard up here. But it was unbearable to stay."

Kaelyn waves off their appreciation with growing unease. It isn't something they should be thanking her for.

"See?" Deacon murmurs into her ear. "Remember that this is what we fought for."

Grabbing his arm, Kaelyn drags him out to the porch that overlooks the lake. She hisses, so low it could be mistaken for insect song, "We can't have this many synths in here!"

"I know," he whispers back, "but we've got no choice. Scouting new safehouses takes time and we need all hands on deck moving packages. Hell, I've been roped into being a runner once or twice."

She blinks. If their best spy has been reassigned to synth smuggling, the Railroad must be short on people. "I didn't realize things were this dire."

"Dire might be overstating it a little. Especially without the Institute or the Brotherhood breathing down our necks. Maybe more like desperate."

They lean on the railing together and watch the water. True to Kaelyn's luck, the rain has relented now that they've reached shelter, conceding to the persistent drone of helium-breathing insects nearby.

There's a commotion out the front. Deacon tenses until the sound of greetings carry in the twilight.

"—just stopping in. Wouldn't have come if we had a choice—"

Three people round the corner of the house. The first is Uncle, and the other two are unfamiliar.

"Ah, there you are. Whisper, meet Phoenix and—"

The last member of the trio freezes mid-step when they see her. Recognition is a second slower on Kaelyn's end, then she steps past Deacon. "You. I saw you in the Institute—and you're not a synth. What are you doing here?"

"It's okay!" Phoenix, touches their arm. "Expat is with me. They aren't with the Institute anymore."

Expat purses their lips. "I go by Ripley now. Or Expat, when I'm on the job."

Kaelyn glances sideways to Deacon, who has remained uncharacteristically silent. "Did you know about this when you let them in?"

"Yeah. You should've been there for the argument, Whisper. Nothing says 'family' quite like a stand-up shouting match that shakes dust from the ceiling. Carrington hasn't talked to PAM since."

Tellingly, Deacon doesn't mention how he cast his vote.

Kaelyn looks between him and Expat. "Why?" She isn't entirely sure who the question is addressed to.

Expat takes it on themselves to give an answer. "I had nowhere else to go. When I was teleported out during the—" they swallow, "the attack, I found S3— I mean, Phoenix here. We've stuck together ever since. He suggested we find the Railroad. And I couldn't… what, get revenge? Do to your home what you did to mine? I don't want to become like you."

Ouch.

It's—a fair hit.

"And you've had no contact with anyone from the Institute since?"

Whether or not that story is true, Kaelyn can't believe Expat has been trusted with a safehouse's location.

"Aside from the synths, right?"A moment later, their shoulders drop an inch. "Sorry. Just tired of being asked that question."

While Kaelyn isn't completely convinced, Deacon's lack of hostility is an important sign. She'll have to ask what convinced him they're genuine—or at least why he has reasonable belief they could be genuine. She heaves a sigh. "I guess we need all the help we can get."

"Anyway," Deacon says, the brightness in his voice outshining the lantern in Expat's hand. "This is Phoenix and Expat. Uncle here is looking out for the new kids."

Ah. He must be more than Expat's mentor but also their monitor. Are the Railroad desperate? Yes. Are they paranoid? Also yes.

"Nice to meet the legendary Whisper at last," Phoenix says. "You're famous—or infamous—in these parts."

Agent Whisper was never aloof from her fellows, but neither was she the life of the party. Most of the agents she counted as friends are dead now. Part-shadow, part-legend, Kaelyn now realizes how much her reputation is going to bite her. Only the agents at HQ are inured to her mythos.

On the way back inside, Deacon murmurs, "Expat doesn't know the location of HQ or any other safehouses, so don't blow it, okay? If they're serious about turning over a new leaf, great. If not, we'll find out. One way or another."

"Understood."

He pitches his voice even lower, after making sure Expat isn't in earshot. "They helped some of Phoenix's friends escape from a group of Institute survivors. Then gave up the group's location to us."

At that, Kaelyn pauses. It explains why Ripley changed their given name on top of their code name. She doesn't remember their old name, but recalls seeing their face in Advanced Systems. A research assistant or somesuch.

She considers asking what happened to those survivors, then decides she doesn't want to know. "Understood."

"Look at it this way: if the Railroad is by definition about freeing synths, they passed the entry requirements."

"If I didn't know better," Kaelyn says, "I'd say you're asking me to trust them."

Deacon smirks. "But you know me better than that." He briefly touches her shoulder, nothing more than a feather-light bump of his shoulder against her own. "I want a second pair of eyes on them."

"Understood."

Having been left with the synths, Nate has tried to make small talk, but it's rather difficult to connect with recently-freed slaves over Red Sox or the weather, so he's teaching Turtle Boy and a few others how to cheat at poker. Dogmeat has already won over two synths, snuggling between them on the couch while they run their fingers through his fur with something akin to wonder. Uncle and Phoenix retreat to the kitchen to check on a large pot of stew, the latter gently chasing out any other synths who drift in to take on the menial work. Expat stays on the porch, out of sight.

Dinner is dished out, and the noise made by the synths is inversely proportional to their number. None of them talk, either from habit or fear, even if there are a number of wayward glances cast towards the Railroad agents. If not for their number, if not for the fresh hope glimmering in their eyes, it could be any other night from the past four months when Kaelyn stopped in at a safehouse.

After dinner they squish together on the under-equipped furniture to play cards. High Rise always cautioned her that it's better to have minimal contact with the synths they smuggle, but it's the first contact synths have as free people. Kaelyn prefers they remember her as the woman with an excellent poker face but mediocre poker hand than as the woman who instigated the synth rebellion.

After the synths are shuffled off to bed, the agents take up positions around the tiny living room. Uncle sits on the stairs while Phoenix and Expat claim the rug. Deacon sprawls on the window box seat to maximize his visual range; this way, he can spot any eavesdropping synths on the landing, watch both exits, and glance out the window behind him. Nate tugs Kaelyn down on the loveseat beside him. She side eyes Expat's inclusion but holds her tongue.

Uncle leans forward from where he sits on the stairs, dangling his beer off one knee. "Didja find our latest package?"

Deacon shakes his head. "Hit by the Institute. Couldn't find all the bodies, so I'd say they reclaimed the synths and left the rest for dead." With his sunglasses all but superglued to his face, it's impossible to tell where his eyes stray.

Since Kaelyn can't pull off the sunglasses-at-night look, the direction of her gaze is obvious.

Expat throws their hands up. "Why does everyone look at me every time the Institute comes up? I didn't have anything to do with this. I wouldn't be here if I really believe synths are just tools."

Kaelyn makes a non-committal noise. "Did the Institute have any evacuation protocols? A backup location?"

"You aren't asking me anything that others haven't already asked," they retort. "I didn't have access to any classified information. And possible exits—or entrances—to the Institute were classified. All we were ever told was 'proceed in an orderly fashion and wait for orders from the Directorate'."

"But in your estimation, enough Institute personnel could have escaped to regroup somewhere? Because it's fairly obvious by now that enough survived to hinder our efforts."

Expat shrugs once, jerky. "If they survived this hellhole, possibly. But the SRB is gone, their records are gone, and their equipment is gone."

"Don't need any of that to wage a war, kid," Uncle rumbles.

"We always knew it wouldn't be as easy as taking down the Institute," Deacon says. "They might not have the SRB, but now they have a vendetta. I'll pass this on to HQ."

"They have to have a base somewhere," Phoenix says. "If they can send their grunts out to reclaim their lost property, it means the coats have a secure place to hole up. Can't imagine them parting from their protection otherwise—or doing the dirty work themselves."

Expat clenches their jaw but doesn't comment.

The meeting adjourns, and they all drift away to other parts of the house.

Nate gathers Kaelyn in his arms. Out of all the things he could question her on—the synths, Father, the Railroad's modus operandi—he chooses something else entirely. "Newbie, huh?"

She touches her lips to his ear. "Only way someone gets through the door. Being my husband isn't enough. It's safer if family and friends don't know."

Except Expat has been watching their entire exchange. They stare hard at Nate, then their eyes widen. "You look like—? But Father said only his mother survived—"

"That's none of your concern," Kaelyn says without heat.

Their face closes over and they give a curt nod. "Fine." Rifle in hand, they brush past to take watch on the front porch. Deacon drifts out after them with a casual salute.

For lack of options, Kaelyn and Nate pile on the couch to sleep. She lies atop his chest as his hands wander up and down her spine.

Nate turns his head so his mouth is against her ear. "So they're all… synths?"

"Everyone except for Uncle and Expat, yeah."

Nate shakes his head, incredulity scrawled over his face. "I never would've guessed that they're not human. That's… creepy."

"It takes some getting used to, I know. But doesn't it imply there's no discernible difference between us and them?"

He shifts his weight around while he thinks. "No argument I can make against that, but it's still, uh… weird."

She kisses his cheek. "Just keep an open mind, okay?"

"Will do."