.etc. marks the spot.

.deacon.

Deacon's rocky perch gave him a sweeping view of Wicked Shipping's storage yard. Fuzzy lights from Abernathy farm glowed in the distance now that the rain pounded with less fervor. The modified sentry bot rolled away, Danse and Winchester the Elder in its clutches. Deacon had almost fired upon its fusion core, judging Danse and Dean to be a safe distance away from the blast, considering there was an entire building and steel shipping containers between them. He hadn't taken the shot, because a damn gust had grabbed hold of his rifle, and next he knew, Danse and Dean were inside the warehouse, and the bot was way too close to it to fire.

Yada yada yada, now the two Ds—wait, was Deacon the third D? no can do—okay, the two…lovebirds? runaways?—were strapped to said modified sentry bot and heading out of the Commonwealth.

Deacon lifted himself from his perch and picked up his rifle. Time to continue shadowing them. West, to the outer reaches of the Commonwealth, through rough terrain he was surprised a massive sentry bot could traverse. Root and mud terraces, scattered between spiky trees and boulders, led him up the foothills toward his, and their, destination. He made good time, even in the night, not just because he was familiar with this band of Rust Devils, but because, ultimately, he was alone.

This was the freedom he missed. He could make his own calls, not worry about the ego of a partner thinking their shot or their call was the call to make. He could cloak his footfalls, but he couldn't control a team. A partner. He could hold a sneeze, a cough, a thought, an itch. Charmer was the only one worth rolling with. She needed a little guidance, at first, but now she surpassed him in skill. Probably because the one she cared about was still alive. She still had something to lose, something to hold onto. Deacon didn't have those attachments. Or hadn't.

Charmer was a great friend. The only thing she could do to lose his trust would be to side with Maxson or worse, the Institute. She wasn't going to do either of those things. Deacon didn't need trust to know that; it was objective fact, and that just made him trust her even more. Deacon knew most statistics were lies, but he could safely say that he didn't lie to her about 80% of the time now.

So yeah, he liked working with her. She was smart, playing the powerful to help rebuild the Commonwealth, and it was working, alright. Without her, the Commonwealth was doomed. The Railroad would have to start over, and the chances of finding some other relative of Shaun or Father or whomever the hell he was, were zero.

If you didn't think about what Charmer said about the synths, about their source DNA.

Deacon kept the moving pinprick group in sight. So long as he could spot the red lights on the bots, he wouldn't lose them in the dark. He wished he had a computerized tracking scope on his gun like Tinker Tom had suggested. Not that it mattered, but he didn't want to get ahead of the enemy or risk crossing their path.

Barbara had been a synth, but was she replaced? Or was she a relative of Shaun's? A clone of his? Charmer had described the printers in the Institute in depth. Deacon had been nauseated afterward, worse than he was when the Switchboard had been attacked. Worse than he'd been when he had to return to it. It took minutes to print a synth. So were captives forced to give their DNA sample and watch as Institute machines assembled and printed their replacements? Was Shaun's DNA used for coursers, for those not on assignment in the Commonwealth? Was he just a donor of a small string, one that had no bearing on family trees, and was as innocuous as the DNA shared by every human?

He'd made the mistake of talking to Charmer about this during a journey to the Mercer Safehouse. Saying he worried about how close she and Curie were getting. Oh boy, he'd gotten an earful on that. As if Charmer hadn't already considered the strange possibility that someone with her son's DNA had feelings for her.

"There's something else in the data Tinker Tom got," he'd said.

Charmer had said nothing to that, only dared him to speak it. She was a lot like Tommy Whispers in that way. If only she'd taken his name. Well, Deacon being Deacon, he'd chosen to take her dare.

"I probably shouldn't be telling you this. Des would kill me."

"So don't tell me."

"Fine. All I'm saying is next time you're there, maybe find out where the replacements' DNA comes from. And maybe find out how—"

"Deacon, I know what I need to find—"

"You look like her."

Charmer had stopped beside a tree. The way the shadows of the branches crossed her face helped to ease the illusion. "Like who?"

"Like Barbara."

"I look like…your wife."

"So I think it'd be important to find out if replacements are made from the captive's DNA or someone else's."

"There's more to that."

"And if some synths are just thrust into this world without any clue as to who they are, without replacing anyone."

She put her hand on her hip. "Deacon, why are you telling me this?"

"I just…don't want to see you get close to anyone you'd regret getting close to, and you're getting close to a lot of people."

Charmer had just stared at him. "Is Piper a synth?"

"Piper?"

"She seems…to know things first-hand that someone her age shouldn't know."

"I don't think Piper's a synth. Just a really good reporter."

A nod. "Who, then?"

Deacon had leaned against the tree. Charmer leaned beside him. "We've been ferrying synths outta here for a long time. You know how it goes. They get the wipe, they get their new identities, they go off. I've been doing this for longer than you know. Did just about every job short of doctor and creative scientist. Sometimes a face sparks a memory of a past rescue, and you just shut the fuck up and pretend it's fine to keep the synth safe and healthy. It's easier for me to do, because I change my face. There's not a danger of getting recognized. But I know them, Nora. I remember a couple of faces, those who accidentally wander back in. Maybe I helped some people get to the Capital Wasteland, long enough ago that they'd would've aged if they weren't a synth, but they didn't age at all. Maybe they're back here now, doing things they wouldn't be doing if they knew who they were. And now, given some of the data you acquired for us…"

Charmer hadn't taken that well. She shook her head of the thought. "Stop! I don't want to hear it. I'm not choosing anyone else. My heart is with the Minutemen and the Railroad. You don't have to lie to me to keep me loyal!"

And that was the last conversation he'd had with her. Seriously. He thought maybe she'd even talk to him about things like, "Hey, here's your favorite ammo," or "See you on the next epic quest," but instead she dumped him at Sanctuary, told Codsworth she was heading out to "collect her thoughts," and refused the companionship of anyone. Then she disappeared.

This whole thing was Deacon's fault, because he'd been stupid about trying to tell her Danse was a synth. He'd done it the wrong way. He really wanted her to think about the whole DNA thing, because she was already having troubles reconciling her want to defeat the Institute with knowing that these synths were, in essence, her grandchildren. Adding that to the worst kind of sin in the form of an accidental romance would've destroyed her. It really was about you, Nora.

Deacon lost his target. That was fine. The Rust Devil hideout wasn't far from here. It was a shithole, a collection of shacks and a busted bunker, but a scandal had rocked this particular arm of the Rust Devils in the not-so-distant past, putting it on Deacon's radar. He'd been keeping tabs on them, like he did with every player in the Commonwealth, and their leader, Tarno, had multiplied his forces in response to the scandal. He went from small potatoes to a very angry, childish potato with a lot more guns and robots. These were the worst kind of potatoes.

He slipped unseen behind a trader's shack and trudged through a creekbed. At the end of this river, lay an old fishing shack. Beyond that, a scalable rock face and a ridge of trees overlooking the Rust Devil encampment. Deacon shivered, the water up to his knees, and quietly emerged from the gentle creek at the fishing shack.

He pissed on a tree before heading inside, where he took off his boots and tipped them upside down. He rested his head on a chair without legs and let himself take a power nap.

He woke up with a start when someone sat beside him.

"Hey Stranger," said MacCready. "Forget about me already?"

Deacon groaned and rolled over. "Did you seriously interrupt my one moment of shut-eye?"

"I was gonna let you sleep. You're the jumpy one."

Deacon groaned again and sat up. He adjusted his sunglasses. "How long've you been tailing me?"

"A little after you left Diamond City. Piper's idea. We lied and said I was going to get Preston." He patted his pack. "Thirsty? Hungry? Need a stimpak for anything?"

"Since when do you share?"

"Since we became partners."

Deacon was used to climbing out of a nap that felt abysmal. The presence of MacCready made this time more frustrating. Keep it cool, he thought. "Piper, huh? You take orders from a reporter?"

"I take caps from a reporter. And anyway, I'm not in the mood to fight another possessed deathclaw. I'd rather just send those guys on their way and get Nora back." He patted his pocket and pulled out a pack of smokes, a brand out of the Capital Wasteland. "Smoke?"

"You even gonna bother to check if there are hostiles nearby before you light up?" Deacon raised himself and scanned the area outside the shack's door. Ok, fine, MacCready got lucky this time. He sat back down and held out his hand. It'd been a while since he had one of these.

MacCready passed it along and offered Deacon a light. Deacon took it—okay, so MacCready possessed the ability to showcase some manners on occasion too.

"I know you're not that happy to see me, Deacon, but maybe tell me what I did to piss you off."

No reason to lie here. "You're boring and rude and just a little evil."

"Evil? Come on, man."

"Oh, right, sorry. We just call you MacGreedy on accident. You know how it is, when people talk with their mouth full. You don't really hear what they say."

"Nothing wrong with taking someone's caps if they offer them, or putting a price on your work. If you can do something well, don't do it for free."

"Caps are backed by goods, which are in flux and priced differently depending on where you are and who you are. So caps are really backed by something unstable. By themselves, they're worthless."

"Huh?"

"Tell me what ten caps can buy you."

"It depends where you are."

"But across the board, ten caps has at least one standard thing it can buy you no matter where you are, right?"

"Dude, I lived in the Capital Wasteland. I heard all about the pre-war economy, and contrary to what you're saying, what backed currency then was also in flux." He ashed his cigarette away from Deacon. Good. "I prefer it this way. Prices have a different influence than the price of some locked away hunk of metal that the rest of us won't ever see. At least I can look at someone and what they're selling and know it's there."

Deacon tched and flicked ashes into a cracked ceramic bowl. He pulled it over and put it between them. "Hey, look, now we don't have to start this place on fire."

MacCready grunted and used the makeshift ashtray. "So what else?"

"What else what?"

"What else about me gets on your nerves?"

"Why do you care so much?"

"Just tell me."

Deacon exhaled through his nose. He always wondered if he looked like a dragon when he did that. Man, that'd be cool. Should I think about getting some scales this time around? Would that be too weird? No. Then Desdemona would have that talk with him again. Yeah, becoming a ghoul had been extremely bigoted of him. Sometimes the dick he'd been before meeting Barbara reared its stupid, ugly head. He wished he could make up for everything he'd done. "You act your age," said Deacon.

"You're annoyed I act like an adult?"

"No, you act like a kid. Selfish."

"I was married and had a family."

"So…?"

MacCready turned to him. "Were you about to say 'So was I'?"

Deacon tched again and took a drag, shaking his head. "No," he said after another dragonlike exhalation. "You make annoying small talk. 'Stay safe.' You know how many times you say that to me?"

"Should I tell you to go out there and get shot?"

"It's too generic."

"Ah, so I come off as insincere." MacCready sucked down the last of his stick. "This coming from the Prince of Lies."

"It's called survival, MacGreedy."

"So's getting caps." He pulled out his pack of cigarettes, offered another to Deacon, who gave him an incredulous look and reminded him of the smoke he was still working on. MacCready shrugged and took one for himself. "What was her name?"

"Okay." Deacon snuffed his smoke in the bowl and stood. He shoved his feet into his moist boots and grabbed his rifle. "We're done."

"Aw man." MacCready put out his cigarette and left it in the bowl. "Maybe the next person'll get to appreciate that."

Deacon grimaced. "Who would risk smoking a used cigarette?"

MacCready shrugged. "It happens."

Deacon rolled his eyes and went on the move. "If you've been tailing me this long without me knowing, then you'd better know who we're after."

"You always walk so fast?"

"When I have an opportunity to. Did you hear me?"

"Come on, Deacon, where's that sense of humor? Why so matter-of-fact?"

"I asked you a question."

MacCready groaned. "Rust Devils. Seems like Tarno's gang, but they're no big deal."

"Were you even at Starlight?"

"What?"

"Forget it," said Deacon, sweeping past a cluster of trees. He spotted a familiar patch of boulders. Beyond that lay the pitiful bunker that Tarno and his gang called home. "You were probably out assassinating some farmer for a handful of caps."

"I don't have to listen to this."

"Cool. Hightail it home then."

They came to the base of the rock face. Deacon stopped and slung his rifle across his back.

"You know I can't do that."

"Right, because Piper paid you to do what, exactly?" Damn it, where was that foothold? It was bad enough these things were still slick from the rain. Deacon had no desire to add thirty minutes onto his route just to find that slope. The sentry bot was probably there right now, given how little time had passed during his nap.

MacCready secured his rifle to his back and found that foothold, the little shit. "Cover your ass, er, butt until reinforcements get here."

Deacon grumbled and followed MacCready's boots up the rock ledge. "And leave a trail too, huh?"

"Yeah, that too."

"She was that sure you'd find me?"

"She was sure that you'd find them."

"Can't complain about that. I'm kind of awesome."

"There it is!" MacCready made it to the top and extended his hand. Deacon begrudgingly took it. "Camp's pretty close."

"Yeah, I know."

"How do you wanna play this?"

"Covert extraction."

"I was thinking we shoot them all and watch them scramble while they try and figure out where the shots are coming from."

"Can't risk hitting that sentry bot's fusion cores, not until we figure out where they're keeping Danse and Dean."

MacCready chuckled. "Oh man, you really think I'm gonna miss a target? That's funny, Deacon. Really glad you're back to joking."

"You wanna put that to the test, MacCready?"

MacCready arched a brow to the brim of his hat. "You think you're a better shot than me?"

"Think, know, etcetera, etcetera." Deacon dusted himself off and walked ahead. "Tell you what. If I think that sentry bot isn't gonna be a problem, we can see who's the better shot."

"Funny, you talking about people like points."

"Rust Devils aren't people. They're psychotic slavers."

"I'm kidding." MacCready put his hand on Deacon's shoulder. "Let's make it interesting."

Deacon shrugged MacCready's hand away. "Full of clichés, aren't we?"

"I win, you have to tell me about your wife, or husband, or partner. I'll even be nice and supply the whiskey."

"Smokes. That's more my thing."

"Sure, smokes."

"Alright," said Deacon. "I'll bite. If I win, then…" They stepped into another wooded area. Smoked meat spoke of the nearby Rust Devil camp. He pressed himself to a tree and gestured to MacCready. "If I win," he whispered, "I get those caps Piper paid you. And a pack of those smokes. And you won't eat a mutfruit in the same room as me ever again."

"Uh, okay?"

"You've never heard how you eat?"

"Mutfruit's best when it's super ripe."

"Oh god, I better win this," Deacon muttered.

MacCready grumbled. "Okay, what do we do in a tie?"

"You're conceding that I might tie with you? Not so confident, are we?"

"Just being a good sport and giving you a little hope."

Deacon withheld a laugh. "Fine, since we're both losers if we tie, we both honor our losership."

"Wait, I've gotta give you two packs of smokes?"

"Huh, I guess it does work out that way. Maybe I'll strive for a tie."

MacCready laughed through his nose. "Fine. Deal?"

"Deal."

They shook hands.

"I'm taking that tree," said MacCready, pointing to…oh no.

"That's my tree."

"Really?" MacCready grinned. "Because that's what I use when I come this way. You could fire a cannon and not fall out of that thing. The bough is so perfect—"

"You could even take a nap in it. Yeah. I know the tree."

"Well, I called shotgun, so find another spot to set up."

Deacon pointed a finger in his face. "You're infuriating, you know that?"

MacCready smirked, his stupid little juvenile beard-stache adding a certain smug flare to it. "At least you're not lying." He put his foot on the trunk. "Wait, how do we know when to start?"

"We'll signal a thumbs up and count to three."

"Seriously?"

"No. If the shot comes up, we take it."

MacCready peered through the trees. "What about figuring out the sentry bot thing?"

"Okay, there's that, but once I give you that thumbs up, then we just do our thing." Deacon headed for another good spot, a boulder covered by bushes and trees. Man, the Rust Devils really did have a shitty spot for a camp. Deacon turned back, forgetting to mention one key thing. "I kinda hate working with people because they are constantly fucking things up, so here's my rule: maybe let's keep an eye on each other in case one of us sees something the other can't. Don't leave me hanging."

"I know how to work with people, Deacon."

"Right, just checking."

Deacon set up his rifle and got situated in his spot. The sentry bot was dormant, its tread sticking out from beneath the farthest shack. Assaultrons patrolled. Rust Devils, way too many, went about their business. No sign of Danse or Dean. Deacon signaled to MacCready, who responded accordingly, and they lined up their shots.

An assaultron lost its head. Damn it, score one for MacCready.

Rust Devils scattered toward cover. Deacon took out the one heading toward the sentry bot. MacCready took out the other. Damn it. Score two for MacCready.

Deacon nailed an assaultron in the leg, tearing it clean off. He smirked, waiting for another Rust Devil to follow the scent the assaultron had torn ass to, and popped the assaultron's head. The small explosion took out the Rust Devil. Score three for Deacon!

The turrets caught Deacon's position, and fired. Deacon buried himself behind the boulder, and glanced at MacCready, who fired, fired, and fired again. He gave Deacon the okay. Deacon whipped out from cover and fired on the first hostile he spotted. MacCready was clearly ahead, but now Deacon was on damage control. Kill them before they killed…them. It's us or them? Yeah, that phrase worked.

A boxy, electrified robot appeared. Spikes and bone jutted out from its limbs. Flanked by two floating eyebots, it raced for Deacon's—no, MacCready's position.

MacCready's bullet smashed one eyebot. Deacon's merely jostled the other. Deacon fired at the Rust Devil's murderous, bone-quilted bot. Nice hit, but it did squat. MacCready had the same luck.

Deacon must've lost count of bullets; his gun needed a reload. He moved swiftly, hearing the charge of an assaultron. He and MacCready had been totally and utterly made. "Should've gone with my plan!" he shouted.

"Just shut up and run!"

Deacon took a shot at the freakish robot, downed it. He swept his gun around to fire upon the assaultron, but the assaultron knocked him on his ass.

"Should have given up," the assaultron taunted in its digital, tinny voice. Its claws spun, threatening to drill Deacon while it charged its laser. Deacon swatted at the robot with his rifle, but the assaultron tore it away. Furious, Deacon dodged another drill attack at his head, and plunged his fingers between the black plates of the assaultron's armor. He pulled hard on the first thing he grabbed. The assaultron struggled, pinching Deacon's fingers in its undulation, but Deacon kept pulling and got his feet beneath the assaultron for some leverage before pushing it away. Wires snapped. The assaultron fell atop him with all its weight.

Deacon shoved it off with MacCready's help and dashed for cover from the explosion. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it."

"Are we about to get captured?"

"Yeah, I think so."

Deacon pulled out a pistol. His rifle had hopped away from him in the explosion. He fired at the closest raider, who was pretty fucking close. "Let me do the talking," he said. "If Tarno doesn't murder us right away."

"You sure about that?"

"Positive. I've got a lot of info on these guys."

"Yeah, same here." MacCready fired. Hit. Shit, he was totally winning this round. Best two of three, yeah, that's what Deacon would suggest if they survived this thing.

"Okay, punks," shouted an angry voice, "we've got you surrounded. Lemme see your faces, or you're gonna see a live grenade."

Deacon looked at MacCready. Ready?

MacCready nodded.

They exited cover, and raised their hands, coming face to face with several guns, some patient robots, and Tarno.

"Ah, MacCready," said Tarno. "You really do follow the caps, don't ya?"

Wait, what? Deacon kept his face stony and plain. That's how you know him? You worked for him before? Could've said something a second ago, MacGreedy.

"What can I say?" said MacCready. Deacon wanted to shout the answer to that. "Can't turn down a pile of caps. Think you can top my offer?"

"You think I wanna pay you for killing my guys?"

"Hey, you and I both know a merc is just a messenger."

"You might be a greedy son of a gun, MacCready, but you'd never sell out a client." Tarno laughed. "At least not while you've got an open contract with 'em, obviously."

"Got me there. You still gonna kill us?"

"No. I think I'm gonna keep you." Tarno pressed the barrel of his rifle to MacCready's chin. "See, I think you might be here on behalf of someone I've got a little beef with. Now they've got a shit-ton of caps and more useful scrap than anyone in the 'Wealth, but they've also got a shiny, do-gooder heart. I'm thinking she might come this way if I keep collecting her little toys."

At least word of Charmer's disappearance hadn't made its way around yet.

"Whaddya say?" Tarno now shoved his gun into Deacon's throat. Any harder and Deacon would gag. "You be a good little prisoner and I might let you live a while."

"Sounds like a plan," said Deacon.

"Smart guy, here." Tarno looked at the remainder of his large gang. "You know what to do."

MacCready seemed pleased with the outcome, and smiled at Deacon. Deacon sent him a scowl over the top of his sunglasses. MacCready caught it. He knew what he'd done.