Liar

"Hey, Quinn!"

Quinn froze, shooting a glance at Josh, who was watching her from down the corridor. His smile faded as he flinched at the look on her face, suddenly shying away from her.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," he whispered, now sounding close to tears. "I didn't mean to...I'm sorry."

In that moment, Quinn's decision was reaffirmed. Her soul felt like it was breaking, but there was no other option. She couldn't risk his life, risk everyone else's lives for the sake of her morals, Maxson's stupidity be damned.

God, how could they have put her in this position?

"Josh," she said, her voice breaking as she tried to keep calm. "First sign of trouble, first sign of anyone on this ship that you don't recognise, you need to tell Elder Maxson, y'hear?"

The uncertain fear in his young face was plain to see. "But...Elder Maxson is—"

"Josh!" Her voice ripped through the air like a whip, and this time his lip trembled. But Quinn didn't care. He needed to understand. "If you see anyone at all you don't recognise, you raise the alarm. That's an order!"

"Yes, ma'am!"

"And tell everyone else that order comes directly from me!"

"Yes, ma'am!"

Quinn crouched down and pulled him into a fierce hug. She had already lost Shaun. She couldn't cope with the idea of another dead child. Another piece of broken innocence.

"Stay safe," Quinn mumbled, and then she let the bewildered boy go, striding over to the workstations and climbing into her power armour. The hardest battle of her life was awaiting her, one vertibird ride away.

She was going to become a murderer.


Only half an hour earlier, Quinn had been ignorant to what horrors would greet her that day. She had strode to Kells' corner of the world, confused and worried, but otherwise untainted. Then he had told her what was expected of her. She had asked him to repeat it. He had done so. Quinn had asked him to repeat it again, and he gave her a look of annoyance.

"You have your orders, Paladin. Seek out the leaders of the Railroad and eliminate them. I can't make it plainer than that. Dismissed."

No. No, no, no. Oh God no. Not the Railroad. Not Deacon. Not her friend.

Appealing to Kells' was pointless. The man had no trace of compassion in his nature. He wouldn't care that she had grown to like the idiot with the sunglasses, despite how little she knew about him. He wouldn't understand that even with the differences in the banners they walked under, she saw him as her friend.

And Kells certainly wouldn't approve that she thought the Railroad were good people, helping the most downtrodden souls of the entire Commonwealth. They deserved to die for wanting others to live?

No, Kells wouldn't understand.

But Maxson might. He had spared Danse after all.

And so she had ran—no, sprinted—back to Maxson's office, snapping at his guards that she needed a private word with him. The Elder had glanced over with a raised eyebrow, saw the distress in every molecule of her being, and given a curt nod to the armoured knights that flanked his station.

When they had left, he turned fully to face her, and waited.

She didn't know where to start. And so she babbled. She told him everything: the courser chip and the meetings with Deacon, long before she had joined the Brotherhood. The way Deacon had tried to coax her over to their side, and she had said no, because she had believed in the Brotherhood. But most importantly, she insisted that the Railroad were not bad people.

"They aren't our enemy, sir, and neither are their synths," Quinn said desperately, clenching her fists so hard her body trembled. "Both the Railroad and the synths they save want to see the Institute burn as much as we do. If we can come to an agreement, we can help each other."

She paused, trying to catch her breath, and noticed Maxson's face had remained perfectly blank throughout her plea. This was...strange. Where was the anger, the self-righteousness he had displayed when confronting Danse at the bunker? Despite choosing to come to Maxson, she had still expected some form of disgust on his part. Instead...nothing.

Quinn tried again. "Please, sir. Help me. Just...help me."

His expression softened for a moment. Then Maxson picked up a folder off a nearby table and handed it to her without a word.

The file was thick and heavy, packed with pictures and notes. Information on Desdemona. Tinker Tom. Glory. Drummer Boy. The only profile that was mostly blank was Deacon's, but even this couldn't bring her to smile. Because the next page made her heart stop as she saw the words 'Red Glare.'

The more she read, the more her world fell apart. A plan to infiltrate the Brotherhood, board the Prydwen, and detonate it from within.

"Oh my God," she whispered, her fingers running down the side of the page that detailed the specifics. Using the ship's own reactors against them? Genius. But…

"I wasn't aware that you had contact with the Railroad until now," Maxson said. She looked up and saw he was frowning.

"I didn't know about this," Quinn said quickly, aghast. "I never saw them as a threat. I never thought them as anything other than…"

"I know," Maxson interrupted, and once again the gentle expression returned. "Your reaction has said more than enough. That, and you bargained for their lives rather than trying to help them escape."

"Sir, can't we negotiate with—?"

"No."

"But—"

"This plan of theirs has been in the making for some time. It's only recently, when Brotherhood uniforms went missing and a man was seen carrying them away, that we were alerted to the plot. What was initially an investigation for a simple theft and disciplinary action soon turned into this." He motioned to the folder in her hand. "Using uniforms is one of the first possible stages of their plan. Either they're mobilising to attack, or they're getting close to it. And waiting to find out which is not a risk I'm willing to take."

"What did this man look like?" Quinn wasn't sure why she was asking. She already knew the answer.

"He was wearing sunglasses. An insufficient description, but it drew the attention of an officer for its breach in the dress code."

Sunglasses. Her heart was racing. There was only one man cocky enough to pair sunglasses with every fucking disguise he wore.

"Move the Prydwen," Quinn said, knowing how unreasonable she sounded. "If they're that much of a threat, back off."

"We're a military organisation, not children cowering at the first sign of danger."

"Funny, because I sure as hell see a lot of children on this ship!" Quinn snapped, drinking in his shock. "You're putting their lives at risk with your pigheadedness! I won't allow it!"

"And neither will I!" Maxson hissed, his eyes lighting up with a strange fury. "I won't let them come to harm, but I won't leave them trapped and isolated on the Citadel, either!"

An odd silence fell over them, and Quinn could see by the look on his face he felt that he had said too much. He stepped back, avoiding her eye for a moment. When his gaze fell on her again, Elder Maxson had returned.

"That is why your orders are to attack," he said, his voice hard and indifferent. "And because of your absence, the battle has been sent ahead without you. My men and women will be at the hideout already, and it's your duty to see the fight through. To protect their lives and lead them as I know you can."

Quinn went cold. She had suspected, but also hoped...Carson. Rachel. The Coopers. They were fighting right now, without her. Possibly dying, because she wasn't by their sides. And as Maxson had ordered the first blow, if the Railroad escaped, then they would strike back.

"You need to choose, Paladin," Maxson said, fixing her with a piercing glare. "Them or us. Because if this conflict is not dealt with now, it is the Brotherhood who will be destroyed."

Quinn took a few deep breaths through her nose, holding the file close to her chest. All those lives. On the ground. In the sky. All of it depended on her.

Finally, she met his eyes. Hating him. Hating herself.

"Us."


The vertibird descended out of the sky, jolting her from her thoughts. Quinn cast her eyes down to the sprawling ruins of Boston, her throat tight. She had never been so afraid. This wasn't something outside of her control. It wasn't like watching Nate through frosted glass, or seeing Danse lined up for execution. She could walk away now and leave the sorry lot of them to their fates. She didn't have to take part in this.

Her choice. And yet still she felt trapped

"Ma'am," the pilot said as the vertibird lowered itself into the depths of the city.

Quinn stood up, shaking, feeling like she was about to be sick. There was no escape. Whatever she did, she would never be able to live with herself.

"Good luck, ma'am."

"Fly safe," she whispered. Quinn had no idea if he heard her, but she didn't stay to find out. The church awaited her, and already she could see the bodies piled outside. With so much blood, it was impossible to tell which side they fought for, and in the end, what did it matter?

Death did not care for the flags they bore.

Readying her gun, Quinn took a deep breath and opened the door to the battle.

Before she'd so much as stepped over the threshold, a bullet pinged off her helmet, her would-be assassin cursing, before screaming as fire lit up around him. The Molotov cocktail consumed him greedily, and she watched, frozen in place, as the young man's skin peeled and singed away. Then his head snapped back as a well place shot ended his agony.

"Quinn!" someone yelled.

Quinn regained her senses, darting across the church and taking cover behind an upturned pew. Pitiful cover, but it meant she moved out of the way just in time, a grenade that had been intended for her soaring out through the open door and into the street.

Next to her was an armoured knight, and when he spoke, she realised it was Carson.

"Oh Christ, Quinn!" he yelled, leaning over to her. "Thank God you're here! The knight-sergeants have been doing their best to lead the attack, but without you—"

They both ducked instinctively as an explosion sent brick dust and shards of wood up in their faces. When Quinn looked up again, she saw something that made her blood run cold. Vivian Cooper lay flat on her back, her abandoned power armour cracked open next to her. There was a single hole through the glass eyepiece of the helmet, and the left side of her face was a tattered mess. She stared up blankly at the ceiling, while a figure in scribe robes bent over her, furiously giving her CPR.

Stephen Cooper.

He must know she was dead. Must know there was no way to bring her back. Even if he could keep her blood pumping until the end of the battle, the back of her head had been blown out. And yet the sweat dripped down his face, his eyes wild, as he fought to save his long gone wife.

Then it all happened so fast. One moment, Stephen was working on her chest, Vivian's body jerking with his frantic motions, and then a Railroad agent seemed to emerge from nowhere. She pointed the shotgun at him, and Stephen stared down the barrel of the gun for a few seconds, before diverting his attention back to Vivian. The agent pulled the trigger, and Stephen's blood streaked along the floor and up a nearby pew.

Rachel's scream could be heard over the roar of battle. She charged like a bull, slashing out so violently with her knife that she nearly took the head off the offending woman. But as the enemy crashed to the ground, Rachel whirled around, and Quinn saw only hatred in those blazing eyes. Every slight, every upset, every event that had battered and beaten Rachel Marguerie into the ground over the last ten years surfaced with the force of a volcano, and suddenly Quinn was unsure if any of them would be walking out alive.

But Rachel leapt forward, her knives gleaming in the glow of the firefight, and then she was gone, melding with her surroundings like the predator life had forged her into. But despite being invisible, the sudden shrieks and sprays of blood tracked Rachel's path across the room as she carved her mark in the necks of her prey.

Old, young. Male, female. Synth, human. It didn't matter, so long as they were Railroad. The knight-sergeant tore through each and every one of them.

Finally, Quinn found her bearings.

"Knights, forward!" she bellowed, deciding that was the action Danse would take. And to her surprise, they obeyed. "Watch out for Marguerie!"

A difficult order, given they couldn't see her, and yet somehow it was managed. When the blood spurted from the throat of an agent, the soldiers changed targets to one on the other side of the room, following Quinn's instructions.

She watched as familiar faces were mowed down under the newly concentrated fire, and felt her chest go tight.

Us or them.

Murder or betrayal.

God, please just let this end.

The last was a young man, no older than eighteen, cowering behind a pew, clutching a battered old pistol. But before Quinn could give the order to ceasefire—maybe even let the boy go—a now visible Rachel strode over, grabbed him by the hair, and threw him out of his hiding place. He pushed himself across the floor, begging for mercy.

"Rachel! Quinn yelled, but Rachel ignored her.

The knight-sergeant swooped down upon him, his horrible, shrieking cries silenced in three sharp movements of her hand. She let his body drop carelessly to the floor, her shoulders rising and falling as she panted on the spot.

"Knight-Sergeant!"

To her shock, Rachel stood to attention.

"Ma'am!"

Quinn blinked at her but quickly recovered. "What the hell was that?"

"Emotion got the better of me, ma'am!" Rachel responded at once. "I acted out of turn. I apologise."

Now Quinn was truly thrown. What on earth…? But she couldn't see a trace of mockery or sarcasm on Rachel's face. She was really bending to Quinn's will.

"If I give an order to stop, you damn well stop. Do it again, and you can leave us to continue the battle without you," Quinn spat, gesturing to Rachel's victim. "Their leaders are our targets. We're soldiers, not fucking savages. So start acting like it!"

An uncomfortable silence fell over the gathering, and Rachel glanced down at the boy, a trace of regret flickering through her features. But then it was gone, and she nodded. "Understood, ma'am."

Quinn turned to the crowd, who were watching her with silent awe. Bantios was at the front, trembling where he stood.

"Bantios," she said, and he jumped violently.

"Ma'am!"

"Assemble what scribes we have left and send up a vertibird signal. We're not finished, but I'll be damned if I let any more of my troops die." She pulled out the flare gun and tossed it to him. "Get to it!"

"Yes, ma'am!" he squeaked, and he and the other scribes scurried away, flocking to the wounded on the floor.

"We don't have much time," Quinn said, turning to the rest of her team. "The Railroad are quick and wily. If we give them a moment to regroup, they'll scatter and we'll have lost our chance. I have no intention of letting them destroy the Prydwen."

Every syllable felt like a betrayal. She was killing them by utterance alone. But Quinn thought of Josh on the ship, safe and unharmed, not yet knowing what had happened. Not yet knowing his parents were dead.

An orphan. I've made an orphan.

Well, she wouldn't make that same mistake twice. No one was going to threaten her squires, even if the cost was her soul.

"Marguerie," Quinn said, and she saw the knight-sergeant tense. "Usual tactics. Get in there, take out any dangerous targets or traps, and then lay low until we arrive. If you get into trouble, signal with your pistol and we'll come running, okay?"

Rachel nodded.

"You have five minutes. Go."

She went.

"The rest of you who are fit to fight, patch up now. If not, stay behind and guard the scribes. I won't have another Stephen Cooper on my hands."

All heads turned towards the crumpled form of the scribe, bowed over his wife. Even in death, they were together.

Quinn let her eyes run over the rest of the scene, the blank faces of the Brotherhood staring up at her. One person in particular stood out. Initiate Núñez' glassy gaze met her own, and she saw he wore the new uniform of a Brotherhood knight. It looked to be the cleanest thing in the room, marred only by the guts that poked through the fabric at his midriff, his bloody hand limply covering his final wound.

"My mamí...was persistent."

His mother. God, she'd have to tell his mother.

Was this the guilt Danse had felt when his soldiers had fallen? This doubt, this fear that another might be lost under her command? That her incompetence, her actions—or lack thereof—had caused so many lives to be snuffed out?

However, as a scribe walked past the harrowing bodies of the Coopers, Stephen suddenly coughed.

It was like a spark had been lit in a dark room, and at once people were clamouring to assist. Rank and duty were forgotten in an instant. Someone was alive. One of their own had survived.

But the five minutes were almost up. And they still had a job to do.

"Hold your positions!" Quinn barked, and everyone froze. She took off her helmet and threw the gathering a scathing glare. "Are you forgetting where we are? What we need to accomplish?"

Some of the younger ones scowled, but the more experienced soldiers looked shamefaced, and quickly dragged the others into line.

Quinn put her helmet back on, hating herself even more. She knew they only wanted to help to help the scribes with the wounded. But Rachel was still down there alone, and Quinn needed every last soldier she had. It was time to finish this.


Yells of 'Ad victoriam!' punctuated the air as they pushed ahead, navigating their way through the crumbling tunnels while bullets flew at them. Her first trip here came to mind, following the Freedom Road, figuring out the password—though it hadn't been hard. The whole setup had stunk of Deacon, frankly—to the standoff in the main entrance.

Deacon had vouched for her. He'd vouched for her. How did he feel now, she wondered? Stupid, for giving her the access she'd so sorely needed? Or maybe just tired. Quinn had the feeling he'd seen it all before, traitors and purges coming and going as predictably as the movements of the sun. Maybe that's why the man couldn't string a single true sentence together. Truth created vulnerability. Lies were a barrier. And yet her truths to Maxson kept her safe in his good graces, while her lies about Danse wore heavy on her heart.

But Danse was alive. No truth had given so sweet a gift.

The sealed entrance to the inner sanctum had been blasted away, possibly Rachel's work. As she stepped over bodies marked by the knight-sergeant's blades, she saw Desdemona had already been dealt with, splayed across the planning table. Glory, too, was gone, in a heap next to her cold minigun. It seemed Rachel had worked quickly. Quinn expected nothing less.

The rest of the Railroad fell in minutes, the Brotherhood annihilating them. Quinn didn't fire a single shot. She hadn't all night. Directing was one thing, but to do it herself...no. She couldn't bring herself to step over that last line.

I'm a fucking hypocrite.

The rooms were scouted, the targets counted and ticked off accordingly. The remaining soldiers carried away their own wounded and dead, Rachel at the forefront of the parade. She looked drained, defeated. Rachel had lost a lot tonight. As Quinn stared at the dead Railroad agents, she couldn't help but think they all had.

"You okay?" Carson said, taking off his helmet.

Quinn did the same and shrugged. "Yeah."

"Don't lie, Quinn. I've known you far too long for it."

She didn't reply immediately, walking past Desdemona's body and setting her helmet down on a nearby desk. In the corner, P.A.M. watched silently. It had been quiet since they had first broken in, refusing to obey any directives. Her orders were to reprogramme the robot or destroy it, but Quinn didn't want to do either. She had enough blood on her hands.

But then again, it was like Danse had said. Maxson never liked to do his own dirty work. And now, finally, standing in the graveyard of the Railroad HQ, Quinn understood what he had meant. The dirty work was the paladin's job.

"I'm tired, Carson," Quinn said, avoiding his eye. "I'm tired of...of this. This shit isn't what I signed up for. I've just become a murderer."

"You've just protected every single life on the Prydwen," Carson said fiercely, storming over to her. "All our staff, all our soldiers. All the children." He clamped his hand on her shoulder and gave her a little shake. "You've saved them all. We wouldn't have pulled this off without you. And that's what happens in war. We all knew that, coming into this job. We knew the risks. Knew what we might have to do."

"Did we?" Quinn replied, shrugging. "Did we really know what we were getting ourselves into?"

"I don't know," Carson admitted, but he fixed her with an intense look. "But because of that, I met you. I met Tom. And for the first time in my life, I have a home that accepts me for who I am. I wouldn't change that for the world."

Quinn opened her mouth—to say what, she wasn't entirely sure. But at that precise moment, a small movement caught her eye, and she turned her head to one of the back rooms.

Panic clutched at her throat. She had hoped to avoid such a confrontation, to be spared his concealed and yet somehow damning stare. But it could be no one else but him.

"Go help the others," Quinn said, and Carson blinked at her.

"What?"

"You heard me. Go help the others."

"I don't—"

"Now!"

The word rang through the room, and Carson flinched, before nodding. He left without argument. Once she was sure he was gone, Quinn struggled out of her power armour and picked up her combat rifle again. If he was here, then she had to talk to him. He might not want to listen, but she needed to explain, as did he. Quinn wanted the truth for once, and she was going to fight for it.

"Deacon!" she called out, moving toward his hiding space. "It's me, Quinn! If you don't shoot, neither will I. It's as simple as that!"

No response.

Quinn edged forward, her heart in her mouth. If he was quick, he could kill her in a second. If she was quick, she'd have another death on her hands. There was no good way for this to play out, but her hunger for answers in the midst of all this chaos dampened her fear of him. She was getting her explanation, damn it.

When she rounded the corner, she came face to face with the barrel of a gun. Deacon was standing on the other side of the room, his pistol drawn and pointed directly at her head. An old desk was the only thing between them. His face was calm—calmer than she felt—and his stance was still. The tip of her rifle trembled as she stared him down, adrenaline and shame and anger rolling through, threatening to sweep her away.

"Deacon," she said, licking her lips nervously.

Deacon did not reply, his expression perfectly blank.

All at once, her despair consumed her. Whatever the reason, whatever the price, she had helped with the destruction of the Railroad for something that might not be true.

"I'm sorry, Deacon. God, I'm so sorry, but…" Quinn bit her lip, trying not to cry. "Maxson sent the Brotherhood ahead of me. I tried to stop it, but I couldn't, and I just…they found your plans to blow up the Prydwen, saw you steal the uniforms, and they thought you were actually going to…"

Her voice trailed off as she realised Deacon's face hadn't moved a muscle. No shock. No outrage. Nothing. And she was hit with a sudden memory from Sanctuary.

"Quinn." He was whispering now as he leaned towards her. "You know as well as I do that the Brotherhood hates synth sympathisers as much as synths. If you..." Deacon paused, and this time she could clearly see the frown written across his entire face. He was considering something. Considering her. After a long silence, he shook his head and straightened up. "So long as you don't lose yourself to this shit, the offer to join us will still stand."

Quinn gaped at him. "It's true, isn't it? You knew. You knew they were going to do it and you tried to warn me."

If Deacon felt ashamed by this knowledge, he didn't show it. He stayed silent, his gun pointed steady. As this piece of truth sunk in, outrage exploded within her.

"There are children on that ship!" Quinn hissed, unable to contain her disgust. "And don't feed me your lies about not knowing they were there! You're too good of a spy for that!"

Deacon said nothing.

"Goddamn it, Deacon!" She could feel herself shaking. "I trusted you! I trusted you to do the right thing! Killing kids? What the fuck? Does a person's life only matter to you if they're a synth?"

Deacon flinched, and for a second, his cheek twitched. Then eventually he said, "I still don't get why you stuck with the Brotherhood."

"Because I have to play nice to keep the ones I love," Quinn shot back, feeling her eyes stinging again. She never wanted this. She didn't want to be here. But her Brotherhood friends...Danse… "I don't have a higher cause, Deacon. I just want to protect what little I have left."

"I told you," he said slowly, an odd smile spreading onto his lips. "By the time they crossed the line, it would be too late for you to leave. Paladin Danse—"

"Don't," Quinn said sharply. "Don't play that game. You never know who is listening."

"Usually me." His strange, forced smile was cutting into her. "But you're trapped now, Quinn. Whatever you do, for whatever reason, Maxson owns you."

For a second, she agreed with him, the thought a dagger in her chest. Fear had brought her here.

And yet it wasn't fear of Maxson or fear of what the Brotherhood might do if she didn't obey. Maxson must know by now that he held little sway over her. When he told her what had to be done, he hadn't yelled or threatened her. He gave only facts and then left the decision up to Quinn.

It had been Carson and Rachel and all the others that had put her in this spot. She was their leader. Their paladin. Their friend.

"You're wrong," she snapped, her grip tightening on her gun. "I'm not here through coercion. I'm here because I care about them. They don't deserve to die."

"And we do?"

"None of you do!" Whatever happened, he needed to know this. Quinn didn't want him dead. "I would give anything not to be in this position now, Deacon. But I'm not seeing another option."

Was that a flicker of surprise in his face? It seemed his sunglasses couldn't hide everything. But then he shrugged and said, "If you say so."

"Children!" she repeated, unable to think of anything better. "How could you throw their lives away like that? How could you expect me to stand by, after what happened with Shaun?" Quinn shook her head. "Brotherhood or not, I would have done everything in my power to make sure you failed."

"I know," he said simply.

This caught her off guard, but she still had one last question. The biggest question of all.

"What kind of man are you, Deacon?" Her hands were shaking badly now. "Child killer? Or did you just not give enough of a shit to check properly?"

"Whichever you prefer."

They stared at each other for an age, the tension in the air so sharp it could have cut through steel. She could see herself reflected in his sunglasses, her breathing quick and restless, on the verge of cracking. Despite her posturing, a part of her had already guessed he would give her nothing but more confusion.

The real truth dawned on her.

"I can't kill you." Quinn slowly lowered her gun.

Deacon turned his head slightly towards the door, looking at something behind her, but Quinn didn't dare turn away. After a long pause, he lowered his weapon too. Relieved, she shook her head. "Find a way out of here. Before my team comes back for me."

Deacon adjusted his glasses and glanced around the room. "I think there's still one exit left that I can wiggle out from. You know me."

Quinn nodded, but as she turned her head to see where he was looking, he spoke again.

"Trusting me has always been a bad idea."

"Wha—?"

She whipped around in time to see Deacon raise his gun and open fire. He moved quickly—too quickly—and the rounds went wild, hitting her in the gut instead of her chest. Pain flooded through her as Quinn fell to the floor. She tasted metal.

"No!"

Carson burst in, and Quinn watched with horror as Deacon went down behind the desk in a spray of blood and bullets. She hadn't realised Carson had been nearby at all, but it didn't matter. Deacon was hurt.

"Stop, stop!" Quinn screamed, dragging herself across the floor, barely aware of the blood that was now pouring out of her wounds. "Deacon!"

Hands tried to pull her back—firm hands, familiar hands—but Quinn wrenched herself free, leaving Carson to sprint out of the room, yelling Rachel's name.

She reached Deacon, still calling for him, to find him splayed out on the floor, his white shirt stained with red, his glasses knocked halfway down his face. A horrible rasping wheeze was coming from his blood-tinged lips, and he stared up at the ceiling, twitching.

Quinn had never seen Deacon's eyes before.

They were pale blue with a hint of grey, the same colour as a sunny wasteland sky. Framed by kind creases. Laced with agony. To see every line and mark around them felt...wrong.

Whimpering with pain, Quinn pulled herself towards him and sat up, drawing Deacon into her lap. He didn't fight her, didn't even seem to register her. Her bloodied fingers hooked around his glasses, and she tugged them back into place, returning his shield. His eyes were not for her to behold. She was unworthy. His killer. His betrayer.

"Deacon," she whispered, ignoring the distant shouts and heavy, clanging footsteps of Brotherhood soldiers. "Deacon, I didn't want this to happen. I'm sorry. God, I'm so sorry."

"It's alright," Deacon mumbled, his lips turning up into their usual mischievous smirk. "You did what you had to." He placed his hand over hers and gave her fingers a squeeze. "I forgive you."

The tears began to fall from her eyes, pattering down onto his face. But she forced a painful smile. "A liar to the end, huh?"

Deacon laughed. Then the grin faltered. His grip on her hand slackened.

He was gone.


A/N: Thanks to my amazing beta, waiting4morning, for her wonderful work. Thanks to Musashi1596 for the title.

I am very aware that many of you wanted Deacon to live. However, I knew from almost the very beginning I would be doing a Brotherhood aligned story. I had always intended to kill Deacon.

That is precisely why so much time and effort has gone into building up all the Brotherhood members. Because without them, there is no reason for Quinn to stay. I know people disliked my focus and 'drama' on these characters, but it needed to happen.

And because this is a BoS story, I felt as an author it would be dishonest of me to make such a huge change of sparing Deacon purely because my readers wanted him to live. I decided to embrace his death rather than avoid it.

That being said, I feel it is a massive failing on the part of the game for how Deacon's death actually happens. There is no real justification for killing the Railroad besides 'well we hate synths so yeah.'

Especially since the Brotherhood are already tied up with fighting the Institute and the Railroad in-game doesn't actually bother the Brotherhood, I found the entire mission to be ridiculous in its reasoning.

I was unsatisfied, and so I did some digging. All links for the below are on my Ao3 edition of this story.

A Youtube video that I can't link here shows that the Railroad planned to attack the Brotherhood from the very beginning. Also, if you side with the Railroad and take down the Brotherhood, Deacon produces BoS uniforms immediately after they attack. Deacon was prepared with those uniforms. He would have had to steal them from somewhere.

I tried to do my best to give the Brotherhood more justification in their stupid attack, while sticking as close to canon as possible. I hope I achieved that.

Finally, my entire inspiration for this chapter came from one very short post on tumblr. I only seriously began to consider killing Deacon off when I saw this post, and asked for permission at the time, which I was given. The original author (mirelurksandwich) has since deactivated, so I can't credit them properly, but they did say I could use it. Can't link it here, unfortunately.

On a happier note...50 chapters! :D