Surrounded by walls of pristine white, and enjoying such conveniences as elevators, hydroponics labs and synth labor, theirs was a quality of life unknown to even the richest of pre-war citizens, the Institute was perhaps the pinnacle of human achievement. Or at least, that was how the man known as Father felt about it most days. It was time once again for a meeting with the five department heads to discuss the Institute's next moves.

Father cleared his throat as he took his seat at the head of the conference table.

"Dr. Li, you have the floor. What improvements have been made since the last quarterly review?"

He did not miss Dr. Ayo rolling his eyes behind her or the thin smile that crossed Dr. Binet's lips. It had been a few years since Dr. Li had joined them from the surface, and despite his best efforts at encouraging everyone to put their differences aside to work towards the common good, in the eyes of most members of the Institute, Dr. Li would always be an abrasive outsider.

"My team has made great strides in developing a better photon agitator for our rifles. It should bolster ammo capacity as well as improve accuracy." She was quiet for a moment as though she didn't want to say the next thing on the tip of her tongue.

"I would like to once again propose that we look into working with base components other than plastic—"

"Oh, not this again." Dr. Ayo cut in.

"Noted," Father said abruptly," but that will have to be discussed at another time." The last time she'd proposed that, it had devolved into a shouting match about the Brotherhood of Steel, Dr. Ayo's head to posterior ratio and other such playground insults that were hardly becoming of the world's leading minds.

Dr. Li leaned back in her chair and nodded curtly.

"As you say."

Father turned his attention to Dr. Holdren, current head of the Bioscience division. "Clayton?"

"Unit S9-08 has been invaluable in gathering data for Project Old World Blues. I have the full report here as well as the highlights on a separate document." The younger man said as he handed the relevant folders over.

"Thank you, Clayton." Father murmured gratefully. He cared for them like they were his children, save perhaps Dr. Li. Perhaps he could tell the cafeteria to restock ration bar number twenty-seven for a few days. People like that one, even if it wasn't as cost-effective. Something about the taste. He continued to muse about it as he looked over the highlights of Clayton's report.

Subject B-2

Results thus far, inconclusive. Theorized that subject's relatively young age compared to other surviving subjects and the high levels of hormones interfering with dosage of chemical compounds.

Subject C-4

Continues to see a marked increase in intelligence. Mainly problem solving and engineering. Potential has been stunted as of the last report, likely as a result of depression stemming from Subject C-5's termination and the imbibing of copious amounts of alcoholic beverages.

Subject C-6

Subject does not show signs of muscle mass growth as initially projected, however his epidermis appears to be toughening, slowly but surely. Unit S9-08 instrumental in jumpstarting his recovery process following incident DA52J [see attached document for further information]

Subject C-7

Subject's pheromone production continues to rise at a steady rate. Research is ongoing to ascertain whether Dr. Loken's hypothesis concerning the effect of the pheromones on local wildlife is correct. Unknown as of this writing as to the effect of pheromones on females and synths, but we have already begun compiling data of the effect on males.

Four. Four test subjects when there was supposed to be an entire vault full.

Oh, it was no use crying over spilt milk. It was his own fault, naturally. Too many Institute resources put towards their research into FEV. Too much manpower spent trying to reclaim malfunctioning synths from wherever they'd wandered off to. It was inevitable that a long term experiment or two might slip through the cracks.

The domino effect. Not only had there been no one monitoring the vault because the synth assigned had become deviant, its absence hadn't been noticed due to a clerical error. Most of the vault inhabitants had perished when the reactor had failed, but most of the survivors had fallen prey to various wasteland dangers before their predicament had been discovered.

And yet, it was salvageable. He supposed he should be thankful they had yet to encounter the idiots in the Railroad. C-6 and C-7 were tenacious in a way that few people could hope to be. They had drive; a singular goal that forced them to push past their emotions.

Still, the unfortunate events of the past few weeks had thrown any plans for retrieval completely off the rails. They were supposed to have been brought to the Institute, where he and his people could show them the better world they were trying to build.

Instead, he would have to let his predecessor's grand experiment reach its logical conclusion.

"Father?" Dr. Ayo said, speaking up. "Dare I ask once more about Operation Locomotive?"

There was silence in the meeting room for a few minutes as Father gathered his thoughts. Despite what the barbarians on the surface thought of his people and their methods, he truly detested any unnecessary loss of life.

But sometimes there was no other choice.

The Railroad was dangerous; not just to Institute goals, but to themselves and the other people on the surface and to the machines they had convinced themselves they were helping. They were cavemen playing with fire in a way that threatened to burn everything to the ground.

"Do it," he said heavily. "We've let those delinquents run amuck for too long. We cannot afford distractions at this stage."

"Understood sir." There was a hint of excitement in Justin's voice and he found it troubling. Zealousness for one's work was a good thing, but lately it felt as though Justin was finding ever more ways to be unnecessarily violent when it came to SRB operations.

"Is there anything else you require of us Father?" Allie wondered aloud. She'd been quiet of late, focused on her efforts to squeeze every bit of energy out of their aging reactor.

The director of the institute sighed and opened the top drawer of his desk, taking a small item out and running his fingers over it carefully. It was a weatherworn toy airplane, the kind that might have hung over an infant's crib as part of a mobile. Was he being cruel? Would it not have been better to contact them? Bring them into the fold as soon as he'd learned they'd exited the vault prematurely?

Ever since he'd learned of the experiment his predecessor had initiated, he'd wondered.

But no, he reminded himself as he put the airplane away. As always, The Institute had to come first. All experiments had to be allowed to run their course, even first graders knew that. Besides, he had an experiment of his own that was finally ready to tack onto the first.

"Contact Kellogg," he told them. "It is time to begin phase one of Project Neverland."

How the test subjects reacted to it would answer a great many questions for him.

Salem looked better than the last time he'd visited. The defenses were better than anything down south, that was for sure. Multiple turrets covering every angle of entry, uniformed militia patrolling the perimeter. The stables were full too. It was no Diamond City of course, but if Quincy had been half as prepared as Salem was, perhaps things would have gone differently.

He passed a few citizens and tipped his hat. Normally he wasn't one to stand out. But the last few times he'd visited, he hadn't had a vault dweller walking by his side and gawking at everything.

"Do all vault dwellers smell like you?" he ventured after a moment. "Is it a pre-war thing?"

The woman stopped and stared at him like he'd grown a second head. A suddenly awkward silence stretched between them for a long minute.

"I was wearing perfume when we were frozen, but that was weeks ago. It's long gone. And deodorant is a thing of the past now."

Preston shook his head. For one, even though she had regularly griped about how dirty everything was since leaving Sanctuary Hills, those things still existed. Albeit not in a form that was the same.

"No, I mean. Its more like fresh bread or or ripe mutfruit or something, I don't know. It was the first thing I noticed about you."

Nora stopped walking and turned to stare at him with a look of confused amusement.

"I smell ripe? Preston." she said warningly, "Are you trying to flirt? Because that's a terrible line."

"What?" Preston gasped. "No! No. I, never mind. That's not what I..."

"You better not be trying to flirt, Nate'll kick your ass," she said with an awkward chuckle. " And I will too."

Preston wanted to hide his face in his hands. It was a silly question anyhow. Nora and her husband were unlike anyone he'd met before. Vault dwellers probably had all sorts of eccentricities. Pre-war folk even more so.

"So has Salem changed a lot since your time?" he asked quickly, in an effort to change the subject.

"The wall's new," she shrugged, eyeing him carefully. "And I'll admit, I'm surprised that so much of the infrastructure remained intact. Though I've..." she trailed off, staring at the chapel.

Preston stuck his hands in his pockets and waited. She did that a lot, pausing and looking around in a daze or commentating on things he found normal or innocuous. Usually about how how the thing in question was abnormal to her.

"Nate and I were married here," she said quietly. "You know, I hated every minute of his deployment," she said with a wry laugh. "I told myself I knew what I was signing up for, but it was hard. Wondering every other day if there was going to be a soldier on my doorstep holding a folded flag." She cleared her throat and plastered a smile on. "I'm sorry, I'm rambling. None of that matters now. I just hope he's better by the time we get back. Might have to slap him." she said it jokingly, but Preston could see the pain in her eyes. She was worried sick about her husband, and was just trying not to feel it.

Even so, he thought she was taking things remarkably well. Sure, there had been a few moments where'd she laughed instead of crying or teared up for no reason, but it wasn't hard to sympathize.

How would he feel if he woke up one day to find that everything he knew was gone, everyone dead?

Well.

He didn't have to imagine too hard about the second part. Everyone that had been a part of Colonel Hollis's group with had died at Quincy or on the road to Sanctuary Hills. With one glaring exception.

Clint. Damn him to hell.

Preston had considered the man a brother. Sure, Clint had always had a bit of a chip on his shoulder, had been jaded about some of the security jobs they'd done for the Colonel, but Preston had never anticipated a fellow minuteman selling the whole platoon and a town full of innocent civilians down the river to the Gunners. He'd lost hope after Marbury's platoon had failed to show.

That had to be it, but it didn't excuse the betrayal or the loss of life that had resulted from it.

There would be a reckoning.

But first, he needed to discuss something important with Mr. Rook. About the future and how a new General was required and fast, before the splintered remains of the Minutemen drifted too far apart to bring back together. They needed a symbol. A figurehead. Someone with presence that could not be ignored. They needed a victory after the disaster at Quincy.

Taking down the Rev-heads could do just that, bring a spark of hope back to the Commonwealth.

Maybe it was a bit idealistic of him, but what the wasteland needed was a hero.

And he had a few ideas about who could fill that role.

"Paladin, do you have a moment?"

Danse looked up from the laser rifle he was reloading and nodded smartly.

"Speak freely, scribe."

Another successful operation under his belt, and another gang of degenerates put in the ground. The satellite station was a good find; Scribe Haylen was proving her skill at ferreting such things out a dozen times over. The leader of the small raider gang had been an odd duck, a woman with a peculiar laugh.

Jared is the chem king of the commonwealth! Ack-ack-ack-ack-ack!

She had sounded like she was choking on her own saliva the entire time. Drug related, in his opinion. In any case, he'd worked up a sweat taking them down. Nate Jones had worked with the team seamlessly. Better than he could have hoped. Eight dead raiders and no casualties from Gladius with no injuries worth mentioning.

If Danse had had a cap for every wastelander he'd met that didn't know how to check corners...

"Well, sir." Haylen began. "I didn't want to say anything until I'd finished compiling the data, but I wanted to bring something to your attention. It's about Vault 111. Or rather, the people that came out of it."

Indeed, that got Danse's attention immediately.

"After scrubbing everything, I was able to confirm that the vault maintenance cycles were interrupted and the main door opened around the time Nate Jones said that they exited. But, that wasn't the only time recorded in the logs." She took a deep breath before continuing. "Roughly sixty years ago, and again, roughly twenty-five, twenty-six years ago, the vault was opened from the outside. During one of those visitations, something was removed. During another, something was added. A remote viewing program was installed and the vault dwellers biometric data began being sent somewhere. I also found traces of a unique energy signature. Old, but still picked up by the scanner."

Danse mulled this new information around in his head. It sounded like Nate's missing infant had been taken far longer ago than the poor bastard knew. But that the vault dwellers had been being watched was troubling.

"You suspect the data was being sent to the same people causing those troubling energy readings." Danse said carefully. It wasn't so much a question as it was a statement.

"Yes sir, if I had to put a name to them, the Institute. I don't know who else would have the ability to put something in the pods."

She believed the Institute had put something in the vault?

Danse's grip automatically tightened on his laser rifle.

"Scribe, are you telling me that the vault dwellers were replaced with synths? You're telling me the vault dwellers are synths?" His voice lowered dangerously, his mind fully on high alert.

"No, No I don't believe so." she said hurriedly. "They are definitely human. But, they've been altered. Enhanced? It works like a super-steroid. Manmade chemical compounds were introduced to the cryopods during one of those incidents I mentioned."

Danse could feel a headache coming on.

"My specialty is old-world technology, Paladin. Not chemistry or bioscience." she continued quietly, "But if I had to make an educated guess, based on what data was being monitored by the third party software, the chemical compounds are likely intended to push the human body to its full potential, creating prime examples of humanity by building muscle mass much faster than the baseline, improve eyesight, strengthen the durability of the epidermis, alter body chemistry, potentially remap neural pathways to increase intelligence, expand lung capacity—

"Alright, alright Haylen, I understand." He paused, his concern about the situation growing with every passing second. "Have you shared this finding with anyone else in the squad?"

"No sir."

"See that you don't."

Danse ordered her to pull anything of interest of the remaining terminals and debated what to include in his next report. The Prydwen would not be arriving in the Commonwealth for a few months minimum, and a lot could happen before that. He supposed he'd add the discovery to the list of things he had to worry about, next to the troubling energy readings Haylen kept picking up and the complete absence of any sign of Recon Squad Artemis thus far.

Danse walked out of the office and headed to the top of the metal platform overlooking the lower level. Most of the squad was down there with Nate. The vault dweller was helping Keane scavenge ammo off the dead raiders.

It was rare to meet any locals with the potential to be anything better than a mercenary. Nate had training, he could take orders, and his actions thus far had appeared genuine.

Then again, the last time the Brotherhood had welcomed a vault dweller into the fold…

It would be jumping the gun if he offered to make this man an initiate. He seemed like a decent sort, if a bit quiet at times. It would be a shame to have to kill him for being a threat to the wellbeing of society.

But that didn't mean that Nate and his fellow vault dwellers couldn't be useful to the Brotherhood. As long as they didn't prove themselves to be a hidden hostile threat, they could hold a wealth of information about the pre-war world. And, after a medical officer or two had vetted them and checked out the chemicals in their system, who knew?

There was more than one way to measure value.

"Any intel you care to share?" Dez asked bluntly.

Deacon smiled, ah, could she tell he was sitting on a new development? What gave it away? The lack of attention he was giving her spiel as he let his eyes wander around the interior of the Switchboard perhaps? It was a busy day in Railroad Headquarters. The Switchboard, as it was called was a pre-war spy station that they'd stumbled across some years ago, containing data on numerous pre-war safehouses and caches and P.A.M. The predictive analytic machine; a modified assaultron whose data feed was largely responsible for the Railroad's recent successes.

"Well, they've been blundering around the northern end of the Commonwealth and attracting a lot of attention. One of them headed east to Salem and the rest have stayed put around Sanctuary and the Abernathy's farmstead."

"This is old information Deacon." Dez said wearily. "Do you enjoy repeating yourself?"

"Hey, hey appetizer always comes before the main course," Deacon responded with a grin, holding up his hands placatingly. "They've also linked up with a Brotherhood of Steel patrol."

"Oh great," Dez scoffed. "Those knuckle draggers sent more scouts out here? As if we didn't have enough to worry about with the Rust Devils moving in and snapping up territory left and right. Did you know—"

"Desdemona! We've got a situation!" someone shouted.

"Hold that thought Deacon," she grimaced as she headed over to the radio. Deacon followed. What was the problem? he wondered. Tourist in trouble? More escaped synths found wandering the wasteland? Tinker Tom blow his workbench up again?

"What is it Fixer?" Dez asked evenly.

The radioman's face was drained of color.

"We—incoming message from Herkimer Safehouse. They're under attack, multiple Gen 2 synths led by a Courser."

"Warning," P.A.M. beeped. "Probability of Switchboard being compromised is 28 percent. Probability of other safehouses being compromised nearing 51 percent."

"Shit," Dezzie hissed. "We'll have to burn it. Do we have any heavies in the are we ca-"

"Courser spotted outside Allen Safehouse," Fixer gasped.

Deacon felt his stomach tighten. Two coursers on the prowl within minutes of each other? And two separate safehouses in danger? Holy hell. But Fixer wasn't done.

"Stanwix is also under attack."

"Warning! Probability of Switchboard being compromised is 57 percent."

"This is a coordinated assault. We need to get the word out to go dark for a while. Fixer?"

If the radioman's face has been pale before it was practically bloodless. Deacon felt the hair on his arms stand up as Fixer turned some dials and checked all the bands.

"M-mercer and Randolph just radioed."

"Warning! Probability of Switchboard being compromised is 79 percent."

"Augusta's calling for reinforcements—"

"Warning! Probability of Switchboard being compromised is 99.8 percent."

Everyone froze. Desdemona flicked the end of her cigarette to the ground.

"She, she has to be wrong right? They can't have—"

"P.A.M. is never wrong," Dez started to say, just as a muffled explosion rocked the Switchboard, sending dust down from the ceiling and causing the lights to flicker.

"Oh, hell." Deacon heard himself say.

Songbird came running through the main door. One of the Railroad's younger members. She'd kicked a bad jet habit when she'd joined the fight for freedom. One of the prettiest voices Deacon had heard outside of Goodneighbor as well.

"Coursers!" she shrieked. "Ms boom and Mathers said they were going to try to hold them off with the turret system but—but—"

"Deep breaths, Songbird, what's the front of house look like?" She gasped as she tried to collect herself.

It all happened so fast. They teleported right inside the secret entrance. Inside! Maven and Roger are dead. I-I saw heard Sly Nicholas go down. He was right behind me."

Deacon's stomach dropped.

"Tommy," Dez shouted. "Get Carrington's prototype! Heavies, prepare to cover the escape route. Everyone else head for the bolt hole, we have to get out of here! We'll meet at the end of the Freedom Trail."

Tommy ran for the vault as most everyone else grabbed for their guns. Deacon wished him the best of luck as he hurried to gather up files and reports and stuffed them into his satchel. All around him, people were in a panic. Glory was trying to organize the few heavies that were around and P.A.M. had already left the room–there'd always been the chance The Switchboard would be compromised but—

The doors were blown off the hinges not a second later Deacon froze as a tall figure strode through the smoke and debris. Wearing a recognizable black long coat and flanked by several damaged Gen 2 synths, it unceremoniously blasted Songbird in the chest before anyone could so much as bring their weapons up to bear.

A courser.

By all accounts they were handpicked from the general third gen-synth population, chosen for tenacity, signs of independent thought and fearlessness. Traits that proved sentience in the Railroad's opinion. But then those burgeoning souls were then brainwashed, mentally rebuilt into merciless killing machines who viewed all enemies of the Institute as less than dirt.

In all his years as an agent of the Railroad, Deacon had only met one Courser that had been able to overcome their reprogramming and that one had been so remorseful about the runners he'd brought down over the years that he'd opted for the memory wipe before being relocated to the Capital Wasteland.

The rest of the Coursers Deacon had encountered?

Standard procedure was running the hell away.

The Courser smiled flatly, cold and emotionless, eyes dead.

"Statement: Greetings, meatbags, I am unit X1-47," it began in a loud monotone. "Observation: All meatbags will be slaughtered. Any Synths among you will be reclaimed."

"Reclaim this, asshole." Glory roared, opening fire with her minigun. That was all Deacon needed to see. He ran, fully aware that the heavies were buying the rest of them time with their lives. They'd never faced a coordinated assault so large before, but if enough of them got away, hopefully there'd be enough people left to rebuild the Railroad.

Again.

It was high time he found out why the Institute was so interested in the vault dwellers, and from the people in question.

He could only hope he'd live long enough to meet up with them.