It was the warmest night in recent memory that the Commonwealth ever had. Strangely warm for autumn. Though the sun did not shine, it's ambient rays seemed to permeate through the darkness, boiling the night like a hot stove. It was humid, and Preston Garvey hated when it was humid; the wilting collars, the damp backs, that sticky wet feeling between your joints and crevasses, all of it was saturating in more ways than one. Not only that, insects of all kinds thrived in the mugginess. And Preston had no love for the particular insects that thrived in the Commonwealth. He'd seen enough men rendered dry, empty husks to know he'd rather not meet face to face with a thirsty bloodbug.

Not that Preston was not the outdoorsy type— far from it, really. Such was the life of a Minuteman, and Preston had wanted his own farm since he was ten years old, growing up in Quincy. Bloodbugs were just part and parcel of everyday life as a farmer in the Commonwealth.

After all, it was his job as the Chief of Homeland Defence to travel from settlement to settlement, working with civilians and settlement leaders to coordinate a defense against the many dangers of the Commonwealth. It was the job he was made for, and Preston knew he could never walk away from it. But on this humid night, he almost regretted turning down the General's invitation to his monthly poker game. Preston told him he was flattered, but too busy. Well, in truth, he was.

On nights like this, Preston would have loved to be playing cards indoors, beer in hand, kicking back with his good friends. But this night was different. This night, Colonel Garvey was busy making sure the world didn't end again before sunrise tomorrow.

Peering through his binoculars, he stood high atop the Kingsport Lighthouse, surveying the land in front of him with measured aptness. Preston supposed he looked similar to the images on the recruitment posters the Minutemen had released to the public: the lone scout, bravely scanning the horizon, ready to defend his home at a minute's notice. Protect your family. Join the Minutemen.

He was in full regalia, wearing the slouch hat and blue duster of an officer of the Minutemen. Piper often told him that he never wore the uniform— rather, the uniform wore him. Flattery aside, this night it was wearing him tight, cloth clinging to his back like saran wrap, soaked with his sweat. The inside of his hat was completely wet, although Preston figured it wasn't all due to heat. From beneath the Lighthouse rang out a stern, commanding voice, affected by the static of a megaphone.

"This is your last warning. Stand down, or we will have no choice but to shoot."

The Children of Atom were a peculiar bunch. Peaceful missionaries on some days, murderous zealots on others. Dealing with them diplomatically was hard enough, and recruiting them for the settlement union was pointless— they didn't want to live with the "unwashed", and ditto the "unwashed." They were entitled to their religious freedoms, but the buck stopped once they started sacrificing their neighbors. So the Minutemen had always kept them at arm's length. In truth, they made Preston uneasy. He never knew if an Atomist was going to hand him a flyer or try to collect his head. In this moment, Preston reckoned that a thousand thirsty bloodbugs was a more preferable option than what he saw today.

No one was surprised when the Children of Atom had regained control over the rad infested Crater House outside of Kingsport that they called home. They'd been ousted from the spot before, but the Children, like flies to a turd, could never resist such a bountiful deposit of hot, toxic, skin-melting radioactive waste. Not to mention they were as stubborn as mold. It was no small wonder the children stood there now, hands locked, chanting prayers no sane man could comprehend, firmly dug into their encampment like a tick. So the question that Preston posed for himself as he surveyed the Children before him, was not why the Children of Atom had taken back the crater house outside Kingsport Lighthouse.

The question of the night was how the Children had gotten ahold of the Mark 28 nuclear bomb that they were currently huddled around. That, Preston was very keen to find the answer to.


"He is coming with the clouds.

And every eye should be blind with his glory.

Every ear should be stricken deaf to hear the thunder of his voice.

Let the men, women, and children of the earth come forth to gather and behold the power of Atom."

"Shit, they're gonna have to buy us dinner if they keep teasing our dicks like this," murmured a voice from behind the Colonel.

"That's beautiful, Private," muttered Preston, still peering through his binoculars. "What is that, Voltaire?" The rest of the squad perched on top of the lighthouse snickered. Pvt. Blount shrugged, smiling.

"That's just a little bit of good old farm boy talk coming out of me, Colonel, I don't mean nothing by it."

"We got all night Private. You might as well elaborate," said Preston. Pvt. Blount sighed.

"Well sir, they're standing out in the open, huddled together in a stationary position, chanting at the top of their voices while standing in a glowing, green pit. If you were to tell me they didn't want their heads blown off right about now, I'd be hard-pressed to agree with you," said Blount. "We have two guns pointed at them, and those are just the ones they can see. Two more on the ridge. Two from the shoreline. Hell, I bet even the Rook is taking a gander over from Salem. I'm just saying, if they're looking to die tonight, 1st Battalion would be happy to oblige them."

Preston had to crack a smile. Typical Marines. They were the youngest branch of the Minuteman by far, an experimental batch that had yielded terrific results, yet they'd already secured a certain reputation amongst their fellow soldiers.

"The Children aren't afraid of dying, Blount," said Preston. "They're trying to send us a message: Atom is the only protection they need."

"No kidding," muttered Pvt. Locke, who was straddling the .50 Caliber, perched patiently on the lighthouse railing. "Well, message received then. Why don't we test their theory? Sir."

Just then, up from the stairs came Preston's second-in-command, Lt. David Ridley, his megaphone tucked underneath his arm. He was a sharp man and a capable leader. Many, including the General himself, often speculated that Ridley would be leading his own regiment one day. After Preston had offered to take him under his wing and play mentor, he was all but guaranteed it. Ridley was Preston's right-hand man.

"Bad optics," Preston replied to the marine, putting down his binoculars. "And I got a few questions for them. Report, lieutenant."

"It's like you said, sir. They're not budging," said Ridley.

"Well, what happened to diplomacy? I'd expect us to have a line up by now," complained Preston.

"No sir," said Lt. Ridley. "We sent a peacemaker earlier, and…"

"And? Where's he now?"

"In a box on the contingent commander's desk," replied Ridley, a grim expression on his face. "They don't want to move and they don't want to play nice. I don't see this ending well."

"Rarely does. Have they made any demands?" asked Preston.

"One: A 'cleansing' of the area," said Ridley. "Looks like they want Kingsport back from the Minutemen."

A collective snort rose up from the Marines. Even Preston had to crack a smile, albeit involuntarily; he knew what the Children of Atom had in mind when they meant, "cleansing."

"And I'm assuming that by not leaving immediately, they mean to blow us up with their nuke, correct?" said Preston.

"That sums it up pretty well, Colonel."

"And I didn't bring my Radaway," muttered Preston, reaching for his squawk-box. The Minutemen's newest, handiest additions to their arsenal, more powerful than any gun: walkie-talkies.

"This is Temper 4-1 Actual. All teams, be advised, Charlie Alpha is hot, I repeat, hot. Standby, eyes open, call for movements, over." Receiving his transmissions over on the far ridge of the crater was Temper 4-2, and perched on a rock in the middle of a wavy shore off the crater's edge was Temper 4-3. He was met with a chorus of acknowledgment.

"Here," said Preston. He tossed his binoculars to Ridley. "Tell me what you see." The lieutenant dutifully held the binoculars up to his eyes, and began to scan.

"Looks like typical Atomist business. The one leading the chant with the funny looking helmet: that one's the mucky-muck," murmured Ridley. "The priest?"

"Confessor," Preston corrected.

"Confessor. Yeah, pale skin with the goatee. He looks familiar, doesn't he?"

"Well, before the Minutemen took it, that man held the settlement we're now standing in," said Preston. "His name's Confessor Pollock, and he's been on our watchlist since the battle of Kingsport. He escaped, and since then, he's gone dark. Ditto his followers."

"And here he is now, king of the crater," remarked Ridley. "Well, explains why he wants us gone. Looks like they're rocking gamma and pipe pistols."

"And?" Preston said, motioning for him to continue.

"And…" Ridley began, handing Preston back the binoculars. "If we keep the high ground from a far range, their gamma rays will blossom out, and we'll maintain fire superiority. What?" Seeing his mentor shake his head, he knew he missed something.

"Nothing, it just feels as if I'm the only one who's wondering how the Children of Atom got their hands on one of Liberty Prime's toys," grumbled Preston. "They opened their negotiations with a nuke. That's a hell of a first move. And considering the timing, this all seems rather fishy."

"You think the Children know about the grand opening?" asked Ridley. Preston shrugged.

"If they've been reading the Publick, they'll have tomorrow's event memorized to the minute. That's not what I'm concerned about. Ask yourself: who's the last person who wants the ceremony to happen tomorrow?"

"Well, there's Colonel Shaw, the General…" mused Ridley. "These fellas in the crater, a few select taxpayers, matter of fact you're not so keen yourself—"

"Arthur Maxson, correct," finished Preston. "If I were to bet that someone would be trying to throw a wrench in tomorrow's plans, I'd throw my hat in for the Brotherhood."

"Makes sense."

"Now...who's the only person we know with a hefty supply of Mark 28 nuclear bombs under his nose?"

Ridley turned to him. "You're not saying…" he began. Preston shrugged again.

"I'm no Nick Valentine, but I have a hunch that Confessor Pollock didn't just find that thing washed up on the beach," said Preston with a grimace. The lieutenant looked gobsmacked.

"Sir...you're talking about an act of war," said Ridley slowly. "If the Brotherhood is supplying our enemies with nukes..."

"This is Stormalong," interrupted Colonel Shaw's voice from the shortwave radio. "Come in Temper 4-1 Actual."

Preston groaned. "I hear you, Stormalong. What's the problem?" he asked reluctantly.

"Temper, interrogative: I'm sitting here, sipping my tea next to a five-ton hell-thrower, wondering why you haven't called in the artillery yet. It's a nice night, and I'd like to see some fireworks, over."

"Negative, Stormalong," said Preston. "Not unless you want to be breathing in rads for the next month. They're sitting on a pool of radioactive waste. We drop a mortar on it, those fumes go sky high."

"So will they, that's the point of an artillery strike. Besides, they fixed their date when they beheaded one of our men. Give me the word, and I'll send them to Atom myself, over."

"No dice, Stormalong. We need this area clean, and you know that. And just to remind you, they have ordinance with them that's way above their pay grade, and I know the General will want to know how they got it."

"Well then Temper, I have another interrogative. Why don't you leave my marines out of it next time you want to sit around with your dick in your hand?"

Preston cursed under his breath. He had always respected Colonel Shaw, the Minutemen's most experienced veteran and Chief of the Army, even coming to realizing something of a friendship with her at some times. But she had a certain way of doing things that often stepped on the toes of her fellow senior officers, often inconveniencing them which irked Preston to no end.

Shaw was a regular battle-axe, always ready to strike first, and fast. She was also a results-oriented closer, favoring the scorched earth policy over all others. 60% of missions conducted under her command often ended with the artillery option. Her thunderous reputation earned her the callsign, "Stormalong," after the legendary fearsome New England sailor. But her dedication usually stopped her from seeing the bigger picture. It was no wonder that the Marine Corps, the branch of soldiers she had founded and personally trained had taken after her.

"In case you haven't noticed already, Stormalong," began Garvey, speaking harshly into his radio. "This standoff with the Atomists is endangering a certain grand opening tomorrow. Now, unless you want to undo months of planning, I'd suggest you keep the line clear. Over."

"Cheer up, Temper," said Shaw. "Worst case, we postpone the event to let the air clear out, and you don't have to sputter in front of a mic tomorrow."

Annoyed, Preston turned back to the direction of the Castle. Even from miles away, Preston could visualize Colonel Shaw smirk at him from atop her watchpost, sipping tea next to an artillery gun.

"Come on, Garvey," teased Shaw. "Put a little light in my life."

"Solid copy, Stormalong. Over and out." And with that final, brusque acknowledgment, Preston flicked the "off" switch on his radio.

"Sir?" asked Pvt. Blount. "How should we proceed?"

"Alright," sighed Preston. "They had their chance. Looks like you're getting your wish after all boys. I want direct fire on those Atomists. Locke, your target is the Confessor himself. Shoot to wound, Private. I got questions for him."

"Aye aye, sir," responded Locke.

"That being said, if any one of them looks like they're getting ready to arm that nuke, you're clear to put 'em down. But I want someone walking away from this," commanded Preston. He turned to his second-in-command. "Is the HazMat unit ready for sweep and retrieval?"

"Getting equipped as we speak, sir," said Ridley.

"Alright, once they're in position, we'll— yes Corporal?" asked Preston. The local comms operator was now in front of him, shortwave radio in hand. He was slightly out of breath, having run up the lighthouse steps.

"Colonel, incoming transmission from—"

"If that's Colonel Shaw," interrupted Preston angrily. "You can tell her to stick a mortar up her crotchety, old twa-"

"Sorry, sir, but it's not Colonel Shaw," said the comms operator. "It's...it's the Brotherhood of Steel sir."

Preston and Ridley exchanged a wary look. "Give it here," ordered Preston. The corporal handed him the radio. The line was already open:

"...break-break, come in Kingsport. This is Vertibird unit, callsign Warhorse Six, channel one-six. We are approaching from the south over Nahant Bay, enclosing on your position in 30 seconds. Come in Kingsport, do you read me?."

"I read you, Warhorse Six. This is 1st Battalion, 1st Marines, Colonel Garvey, acting commander of Temper Squad, " said Preston. "You're a long way from the Prydwen. Mind telling me what you're looking for up here? Over."

"Be advised, Colonel, grid foxtrot two-five has been marked for a fire mission. We are commencing a strafing run, and you are danger close, I repeat, danger close. Over."

"What?!" yelled Preston. "Negative, negative Warhorse, I have men on the crater's ridge, do not engage!"

"Uh sir?" said Ridley. "You might wanna see this!"

Preston turned back, but he didn't need to. He could feel them coming before they even announced their position. He heard the blades rapidly cut through the night air, a humming drone that echoed off the ocean waves, vibrating your bones and ears. He looked back.

Flying over the bay was a black silhouette over the moon, wings outstretched like an ebony raven in flight. He had to admit, there was always a certain amount of envy and admiration felt whenever he saw them fly overhead, wishing he too could soar above the Commonwealth. He appreciated their beauty...and now he knew the terror they instilled. It was a Brotherhood vertibird. And it was coming in fast.

"Warhorse Six," started Preston breathlessly, hollering into the radio. "Call off your strike, I have men in the field! Disengage, I repeat, disengage!"

In a matter of seconds, Warhorse Six had already flown over the heads of the Minutemen, casting a dark shadow over the Kingsport Lighthouse. The chopper's hum was deafening; it was a loud drone that shook the leaves off the surrounding trees and sent a blustering gale through the settlement. As the Vertibird soared over Preston, a cold voice answered him:

"With all due respect, Colonel, we don't answer to you. Over and out," said the voice.

The vertibird elegantly drifted around the encampment, as the Children of Atom looked on from below. Some stood their ground, chanting away as if nothing had changed, unintimidated. Others— smarter or less faithful, Preston couldn't say— began to run for their lives. Maybe they knew what would happen next. The Vertibird wasn't just circling the crater. It was getting in position.

Preston couldn't make it out in the darkness, but he could recognize the sound: the familiar spin of a high powered minigun warming up. The next thing he saw was a blinding yellow light.

And in another second, there was hellfire.

"Shit! Contact! Temper 4-2, take cover!" shouted Preston, trying desperately to yell his instructions into his radio over the scream of bullets. "All teams, open fire! Make sure no one arms that nuke!"

Bursts of gunfire erupted from every Temper squad rifle, though they were little more than additional "pops" over the deafening scream of a vertibird gun. Warhorse Six mopped through the Atomists, firing in rapid, messy bursts. The Children were literally being cut to pieces, every one of them finding their own hail of high-velocity gunfire. Confessor Pollock, who had made a last-ditch effort to set of the nuke had suddenly found his hands ripped to pieces...and then the rest of him. Structures were torn down, and bullets ricocheted off of folded steel shacks, sending deadly whistling zips in every direction. One even bounced off the platform Preston and his team were standing on.

Warhorse Six made one last round around the crater, making sure their gunner was raining bullets down on nothing but corpses, jumping and wriggling with each new round fired into them as they disintegrated into red chunks. As the last body was pulverized, Warhorse Six, having completed another successful fire mission, flew off into the night, disappearing into the blackness from whence it came.

There were no children left in the crater. Only the mangled remains of victims of the Brotherhood's wrath. The night was silent once more...all but for the pained wails of a wounded man on the crater's ridge, screaming for a medic.

"Fucking bastards!" spat Pvt. Blount. Locke threw his hat to the ground in frustration.

Preston quickly drew his binoculars, bringing them up to his eyes. He scanned through the red, gooey remains of the Atomists until one thing caught his attention: a severed hand clutching onto the fin of the Mark 28 nuclear bomb, almost miraculously untouched.

"Chief? Your orders?" asked Ridley.

"Send in the HazMat unit," commanded Preston. "Tell them to check the status of the men on that ridge...and to get that goddamn bomb!"


"All in," Deacon said finally, pushing his pile of caps towards the middle of the table.

"No way!" exclaimed MacCready. "You gotta be kidding me!"

"Well, I fold," muttered Danse, placing his cards down on the table.

MacCready gave the cards in his hand a pained, quizzical look. You could practically see him running the numbers in his head: the suits, the cards dealt, the odds and calculations, all of it working his brain like a steam engine.

"I don't believe you. What do you have? An eight?"

"I can neither confirm nor deny what I have, Mac."

"Yeah right," said MacCready, more determined. "I don't buy it."

Deacon raised his hands in a shrugging motion, a coy smile on his face.

"You don't have the eight."

"Maybe I do, maybe I don't."

"You don't have the eight."

"Put up or shut up, Mac."

"Bull."

"Put up or shut up."

"Jesus Christ," groaned Hancock. "Any day now, ladies."

MacCready's eyes shifted into motion— his hand, Deacon, the bridge, Deacon, bridge, hand, bridge, hand, Deacon...until finally, and rather triumphantly, he smiled.

"You don't have a friggin' eight," declared MacCready, daringly pushing his own pile of caps to the center of the table: a paltry, none-too-impressive sum compared to Deacon's large bounty.

"Famous last words," murmured Nick Valentine, who was the dealer. "Alright then. Show your cards." MacCready looked at Deacon sideways.

"You first," Mac challenged. Deacon sighed.

"You know what, you're getting better, Mac. You're really catching onto this game," he admitted.

"Hah! I knew it!"

"Or so I thought," finished Deacon, throwing his hand to the table. An eight and a queen— rounding out the bridge of four to seven, forming a respectable straight.

"God-fucking-dammit!"

The room sat in silence for a half-second, before exploding into laughter. MacCready pulled his visor down below his eyes and tried not to scream in frustration.

The man who had just belted that vile obscenity happened to come from one Robert J. MacCready, which explained the group's reaction to his outburst. Only those who were close to the sharp-eyed, quick-witted, and sometimes bad-tempered mercenary known as MacCready knew that he generally made an effort to avoid such words. You might have found it surprising how absolutely Puritan MacCready's policies on swearing were. For gun-slinging mercenaries (or, "freelancer," as he liked to go by these days) such as him don't necessarily have an inclination for a clean tongue. After all, when you live life on the edge, you don't usually have time to choose your words carefully.

But only his true friends know the reason MacCready spoke sans profanity. A promise made to a sickly child: to clean up his act, and speak in a manner befitting that of a dignified freelancer rather than a foul-mouthed hitman. That child is MacCready's son, Duncan. A boy no older than ten, and already the survivor of a terrible disease. It wasn't too long ago that Duncan MacCready stood on the precipice of death...until he was saved by his father, who had fought off an army of rabid ghouls to recover a cure. Now with Duncan slowly regaining his health, it wasn't uncommon to see the MacCready crack a smile nowadays.

MacCready may have sometimes turned off strangers with his bad attitudes, but once you got to know him, you'd find that the mercenary was good company to keep, and an even better partner in combat. He was always unwaveringly loyal, fiercely protective of the people he cared about, and more importantly, he was a good friend.

Luckily the hot-headed merc was also a good sport. After all, it was the only thing that was keeping him from thumping the other howling members in the room. For Robert MacCready was an excellent marksman, a seasoned tracker, an accomplished drinker, and, as he would often say, a popular hit with the ladies.

But he was absolutely shit at poker.

"I don't have to be a detective to figure out you screwed up, MacCready," said a smirking Nick Valentine, the Synth Detective with a rapier wit. Nick was an old pro, and definitely knew his way around a bluff. However, unlike Deacon, Danse, and to a lesser extent, MacCready, Nick lacked the competitive edge that had Deacon winning poker night six times in a row. Nick was happier enjoying a beer and watching the chaos enfold before him, rather than get involved himself.

"Aww blow it out your shiny metal ass, you clockwork dick," muttered the mercenary in reply, stewing in his seat.

Deacon tutted mockingly as if he were a doting schoolmarm. "Now now, I thought we were having a nice family-friendly game of cards, and you come in with a mouth dirtier than a Goodneighbor gutter."

"Hey, I take offense to that," said Hancock with a sly grin, obviously not offended at all. Not that he could, the ghoul mayor of Goodneighbor was so wasted that he was only registering certain words and names as they flew by. Hancock, like most other nights, had come prepared, always promising a quick win. But in the typical "party animal" manner he was known for, as soon as the first beer went down the hatch, it was shortly followed by another and another until the ghoul was too drunk to even count the cards in his hand. Such was Hancock's further involvement in poker night, like Valentine, a more passive spectator than a competitive player, although providing far more laughs.

"You're a real piece of work, you know that Deacon?" said MacCready, throwing a cap at Deacon's head. "Alright, next round. This time, I'm dealing, Valentine. I don't trust your—"

"Now hold on," said Valentine, holding his hand over the cards that MacCready was reaching for. "You know the rules."

"I believe Valentine said to 'show your cards,'" said Danse. No one expected Danse to be a ringer. He had only started joining the General's monthly poker games after significant prodding from friends. Since then, Danse had won almost as many games as Deacon. The man played poker like he fought a war: calculated, conservative, with just a little bit of daring. He was the master of the poker face, and usually came prepared for each game with his signature pair of non-reflective sunglasses.

"And 'show your cards' means everybody who anted, buckaroo," cackled Hancock. "So lay 'em out," he slurred as Deacon started drumming the table in anticipation.

"You had the Joker, right? That's the trump card, didn't ya know?"

Amidst the laughter, Mac looked helplessly to the host of the evening: their friend, his partner, and general of the Minutemen. Many times MacCready had come to his aid and vice versa. It was because of him that Duncan was even still breathing. He knew that if someone would help spare his dignity, it would be that man— the lion-hearted, compassionate savior of the Commonwealth.

But his friend just shrugged his shoulders, with a hint of a smile on his face. Will Lamont was not about to let a good ribbing go to waste.

"Just get it over with, buddy," Will recommended, giving his friend a playful pat on the back. MacCready groaned.

"Hurry up, dude."

"Yeah, put em' on the deck, Mac."

MacCready let out a sound akin to that of the whimper of a defeated mutt. He took a quick sip of his Gwinnett, trying to muster the strength needed for the oncoming storm. With a sigh, he flicked his two cards to the table.

A six and a two. A single pair against Deacon's straight. That was another weakness of MacCready's. He just didn't know when to quit.

The room erupted in vicious guffawing. Hancock was cracking up feverishly into the table, thumping it with his fist. Valentine was shuddering so hard, you could swear he'd suddenly pop a loose screw and spontaneously combust. Even stone-faced Danse had to chuckle in amusement behind his shades, shaking his head in pity.

Only Deacon didn't make a sound, grinning widely as he put his hands around the large pile of caps in the center of the table, and dragged them to his side of the table. He often joked that his main revenue stream these days were the monthly poker game, rather than being an agent of the Railroad. And being one of the best spies the Railroad had, that was saying a lot. It was no secret that Deacon was one of the best card players in the Commonwealth. He was a wandering cowboy, always ready for a game, traveling through the tables of Boston with his trusty gym bag full of disguises at his side (a necessary caution against sore losers). Deacon was a master of deceit; he only lied when his lips moved.

You could practically see smoke emanating from underneath the Mercenary's green visor as he sat there, fuming, his face beaming a bright shade of red. "This blows!" he moaned. "Why don't we ever play Caravan? I'd wipe you all out and you know it!"

"Because nobody else knows how to play the damn game, Mac."

"And you can only play it with two people."

"And because we like seeing you lose."

Another tremendous laugh. MacCready went bright red with annoyance, even though he too had to laugh it off.

"You losers wouldn't last two minutes on the trail," he said, grabbing the deck from Valentine's hands.

"Here we go again with the caravan trail. If I wanted to risk my life humping across the goddamn country guarding valuables, I'd join the Provisioner Brigade," said Deacon.

Danse immediately turned to Deacon. "And what exactly is wrong with the Provisioner Brigade?"

"Listen Danse, I know the Provisioner's was your baby, but I'm just saying, there are easier ways to say, 'Hey would you please rob me?' then roaming around in a blue duster with a backpack full of supplies."

"Ouch," said Will. "Right for the throat, huh Deacon?"

"Sorry boss. Comes from a place of truth."

"Will and I modeled that unit after the famed Mojave Express," said Danse between sips of beer. "If you're not satisfied with your service, we can tell the men to stop delivering the Publick to your dead drops."

"Alright, jeez, I take it back. You're both geniuses, alright?" Danse flicked some beer droplets at Deacon in response.

"You know I was a— BURP— I'm a...we got a mailroom in the mayoral office now? And uh...I gotta—hic— big fuckin' hat."

"Yeah, fair point, Hancock," said Deacon, holding his nose. "You spilled your beer by the way."

"Alright fellas, buckle up," challenged a determined MacCready, mixing the cards on the table rather messily— nobody taught him how to shuffle a deck. "Hope you had your fun, cause this is where I turn the boat around."

"Hold on there, Mac," said Nick, placing a mechanical hand over MacCready's. "You gotta chip in first."

"I ain't a blind, Nick, I'm the dealer."

"Not quite. You're paying a different fee," said Will Lamont, standing up from the table. "I think somebody broke their own, 'no-swearing' rule."

"I'm telling Duncan," teased Deacon.

"...And as you know, I got kids in the house now. I can't let ya slide on this one, Mac," said Will, a wide shit-eating grin on his face.

"Don't do it, Will. I'm this close to laying you out," threatened the Mercenary, cracking his knuckles.

"So, you know what that means…" said Will, reaching for an object on the nearby shelf. The next thing he knew, a handful of caps were thrown at his head, and MacCready had launched himself onto him.

Another round of uproarious laughter went up from the six friends as MacCready wrestled Will to the ground, being careful to avoid the broken glass shards of the Lamont family "SWEAR JAR."


The raucous laughter continued on from below. Piper groaned and cranked up the volume on her radio. She heard a glass break a few seconds ago. If she heard another, Piper promised herself she'd personally grind someone's face right into the shards.

"Living for you...is easy living, it's easy to live...when you're in love…"

Ironically, she missed the classical music station the most. Some time ago before she started the paper, she had read somewhere that classical music helped people concentrate, especially while writing. It was advice that she took to heart. Many times Piper had powered through the meatiest of articles with the help of that station. Unfortunately, and rather ironically, it turned out that the broadcast was no more than a front for the Institute's relay waves, allowing their agents to teleport in and out of the Commonwealth. And with the Institute going up in a cloud of smoke, so too did the music, and now that station played nothing but dead air. She tried not to feel too sorry about that.

Will had invited her to come play, of course. But Piper recognized that it was only as a courtesy, and graciously declined. After all, who wants your girlfriend hanging around during boys' night?

Part of her was tempted. After all, she could play the whole lot of them under the table. Danse didn't stand a chance. Nick was too passive. Hancock would be incapacitated. And of course, she'd wipe MacCready clean, send him packing back to that Third Rail backroom Will found him in. Maybe she'd even clean Will out.

She smiled devilishly at the thought. That'd be the day. It wouldn't be that hard either. A little look this way, a little look that way. A bat of the eyelashes, a playful wink, a wandering eye, a momentary lapse of concentration, and then whoops-a-daisy! Sorry sweetheart, looks like you're shit out of luck. Better luck next round. Maybe she'd sit on his lap, distract him further. She'd have him so focused on her, he wouldn't even notice that she was robbing him blind. She'd find a way for him to pay his debts...in one way or another.

The only problem in that scenario would be the teasing and snide remarks that would follow from slack-jawed maws of Deacon and Mac respectively. She suspected she'd have to slap some faces around, and frankly, Piper just didn't have the energy today. So while it was worth it to see her dear Will go beet-red and penniless, she didn't feel much like putting a few smart mouths in their place.

Anyway, she had better things to do. She had a paper to manage.

The Publick Occurrences was the most popular newspaper in the Commonwealth. Formerly a tiny little news-vending shack driven solely by passion alone was now the number one source of information and current events from Sanctuary City to Fort Warwick. A dinky little one-printing-press homemade passion-project had quickly become a major business in the postbellum Commonwealth.

The Publick Occurrences now employed six writers, three editors, four field reporters, and a handful of freelance weekly columnists. They had a satellite office in Sanctuary City and a partnership with the Minutemen Provisioner's Brigade, who delivered their paper to every allied settlement in the Commonwealth. The P.O had taken on a handful of budding writers, reporters, and snoops (as Piper had once proudly been) and turned them into world-class journalists. And Piper Wright, the one who started it all, now stood high atop her pride and joy, that with which she built with her own hands, as the publication's CEO and Editor-in-chief.

She was in the middle of proofreading a very promising potential headliner. Two ghoul citizens of the Commonwealth had been found dead in a gutter by Bunker Hill...which a closer examination revealed that they'd to be beaten to death. And it just so happened to be that the bodies were discovered a day after the Brotherhood of Steel had deployed a patrol to Bunker Hill while on exercises. Several hastily interviewed witnesses later, and Piper had managed to string together the plot of a hate crime/murder conspiracy.

It was a hell of a story...and a frightening notion: for the time being, the Publick was the only form of law enforcement the Commonwealth had. After all, how do you charge someone with a crime when there was no court yet to uphold justice? And how do you arrest a member of the Brotherhood, let alone put them on trial while the laws were still being written, partly by them?

Piper sighed, taking a moment to lean back in her chair and think. The first story she ever wrote was about Captain Mayburn, the traitorous militia officer that had her own father killed. That paper was her revenge, and it had brought Mayburn to justice. From then on, Piper decided she would happily bring any injustice to light, no matter how severe or personal, or what consequences or backlash she'd receive. Her "fear-stoking" during the Synth crisis had brought her ostracization from her fellow Diamond City citizens...though she was vindicated after she was proven right by former mayor, McDonough.

This was different though. Piper, the Publick, and even Will were about to shoulder a heavy burden by publishing this story. But she already knew that if she valued her integrity, it was the cross she'd have to bear.

"Piper?"

Her stream of thoughts were cut short, however, as a young boy who was standing behind Piper interrupted her. Shaun, the newest addition to the Lamont household, had caught her attention.

"Hey there, you," said Piper. "Call me crazy, but aren't you up waaay past your bedtime?" She cringed inwardly. She was using her "mom," voice again. Piper hadn't used that particular tone since Nat started taking care of herself. With Shaun in the house, it tended to come up more frequently, and she was starting to feel sensitive about it.

The child stood in front of her, clad in his Minutemen-blue P.J's, rubbing his eyes. "Can I have a Nuka-Cola?" he asked.

"No honey, you just brushed your teeth. How about some water?"

Shaun yawned. "Water's okay…" he mumbled sleepily.

Piper smiled at him. "What's the matter, Shaun?"

"I can't sleep. Where's Mom?" asked Shaun. Piper sighed.

It didn't take long for Shaun to assimilate into family life. Not surprising, considering he was all but programmed for it. But Piper Wright had no such wiring, and truthfully, the hardy reporter was still having trouble getting used to being a caretaker.

It had been a while since Piper shacked up with Will, formally moving in with him (though it was not much of a "move," all things considered— as it was just on the other side of the market) shortly before the war ended. In all honesty, it seemed more of a formality than anything, as Piper had already spent most days and nights at Will's place, and with the Publick expanding, a larger office space was needed for new hires.

The day the Minutemen stormed the Institute, Piper was in the Castle, huddled around a radio with the other soldiers, wondering, fearing, hoping to god that everything was alright. And of course, it was, not that she needed a radio to tell her that. The deafening explosion did. The Commonwealth's greatest boogeyman had finally been defeated, the Minutemen were heroes, parading down Jersey street as Diamond City welcomed them with open arms. And Will had returned to her— with a ten-year-old boy at his side.

"This is my son," he said, in a strangely calm, practically dreamy tone. "This is Shaun, my son. I found him, finally." It was only later that night that Will revealed what Shaun truly was. A synth. The only synth child ever created...Piper hoped at least.

Preston explained the scene to her later on. How a child had met the Minutemen just as they were about to leave the Institute before it was blown up. How the child had claimed to be the General's son, pleading to be taken with him. And how the General, in a rare moment of hysteria amidst the destruction and war, dropped to his knees sobbing, embracing the boy and claiming him as his own.

And by claiming him as his own, he had also claimed him as Piper's as well. Will told her that he planned to raise the synth as if it were his own son, which it technically was. But to him, there was no difference. Piper didn't know if he was really in denial...or if Will, deep down, had convinced himself that the synth really was his child. In any case, it didn't matter. Will finally had his son back. Not only that, but he wanted the two of them to raise him together.

She was hesitant in the first few days— having thoughts that ranged from flat-out refusing the child to unfairly accusing Will of grief-stricken delusion. Piper was, after all, a revolutionary at heart, one of the first to call attention to synth menace. She distrusted Father, and viewed Shaun as one of his final hands to play. But in the end, she couldn't bring herself to deny Will. After all, he wanted something that had eluded him for a very long time: a family. Piper hadn't known it for a while, but so had she. So she soon learned to put her prejudices aside.

It wasn't too much of an adjustment. Piper quickly learned to love the kid, truly. Shaun was funny, polite, and oh so very bright. He was respectful, kind to just about everyone he met, and had a laugh that instantly brightened Piper's day. And he was so alive. If youthful energy had a face, it was Shaun's; he was positively vibrant. He could go from quiet, thoughtful contemplation, nose-deep in a book about dinosaurs or quantum physics, to practically bouncing off the walls, laughing and screaming like the child he truly was.

Yes, Shaun was definitely his father's son. But when Shaun kept on asking about his mother...it scared her. Not because she was afraid of telling him the truth, but because it constantly reminded her of the shoes she might one day have to fill.

"You know, I can help you get to sleep," said Piper, changing the subject quickly. "How about a story?"

Shaun nodded, smiling. "Okay. I like the way you tell stories."

"Then get back into bed, and I'll be with you in a minute. And try not to wake up Nat, alright?"

"Nat's not here," said Shaun.

Piper frowned. "What do you mean?" Suddenly realizing, she groaned. "She's not sleeping in the office again, is she?"

Shaun nodded sheepishly. "I'm sorry," he muttered. "I tried to tell her not to go."

"It's okay— it's not your fault," said Piper, casting a glance downstairs. From downstairs, she heard a certain mercenary let out a vulgar, profanity-laden sentence.

"They are making a pretty big racket, huh? You want me to go down there and knock some heads around?"

Shaun nodded, a playful but sleepy smile on his face.


"...what did he say? So then the guy says, 'The General sent me to collect donations from concerned citizens such as yourself.' And at this point, I'm this close to cracking up, but I want to see how long he lasts."

"Oh christ. Raising to fifty."

"Too rich for my blood, I fold."

"So I say, 'Oh really? The General said that, huh? Wow, sounds like a good cause. How can I help out?' And he gets this big smile on his face, and I swear to god, the guy does Preston's wink."

"Get out of here!" Valentine hollered. "He was that researched?"

"Wait, what wink?"

"You know that face he makes to the cameras every time they catch him with the flash? That half-blink/squint thing he does, where he scrunches up one side of his face, like…"

Will demonstrated, perfectly imitating a man being half-blinded by a camera's flash. Deacon nearly toppled over in fits, recognizing Preston's goofy face immediately.

"Meanwhile, the real Preston is about twenty yards behind me— he's talking to the contingency commander— we're inches away from Greentop Nursery, and this idiot says to me…" Will paused to catch his breath, stumbling through his story with tears of laughter in his eyes. "... 'well, could I put you down for a hundred caps?!'"

The table exploded; even stone-faced Danse had tears streaming down his face, he was laughing so hard.

"So I say, 'Sounds good. By the way, there's someone I want you to meet!'" Will howled.

Piper was greeted by a throng of explosive laughter in response to Will's anecdote, as she made her way down the stairs to the basement. She winced. The last thing they needed was another noise complaint from Diamond City Security. Piper put a hand on Will's shoulder, clearing her throat. He turned to her.

"Oh shit, hey," said Will, still wiping tears away. "Heard you were still awake upstairs. Guys, say 'hi' to Piper."

MacCready gave her a tiny salute, Deacon whistled at her, and Danse waved politely. Hancock went to tip his hat, but drunkenly missed, poking himself in the eye.

"Hey Pipes," greeted Deacon coolly.

"Evening, Piper," said Danse. "Good to see you."

"Porporelli," muttered Hancock, rubbing his eye.

"Hey, Deacon. Danse. Thanks, Hancock."

"There she is," said Nick Valentine. The old synth gave her a friendly wave. "How come you don't ever come down and play with us?"

"You couldn't afford it, Nicky," Piper joked. "Everyone having fun?"

"Sure. Well, most of us anyway," jeered Will, as he ducked another cap thrown at his head from MacCready.

"Well I hate to bring the party down, but it's a little too late, and you guys are being a little too loud," said Piper.

Will's face fell. "Shit, are we keeping Shaun up?"

"He's not the only one, Will. I got a paper I'm trying to work on? And I think you're supposed to be somewhere tomorrow morning," she warned.

Will sighed. "What do you think guys?" he asked the room. "Should we call it a night?" Murmurs of agreement rose up throughout the table.

"Alright fellas," Deacon said, shoveling his tower of caps into his gym bag. "Let me know the next time you guys wanna fund my next trip to Starlight City."

"Eat me, Deacon."

"Suppose I'd better get back to the Castle soon," said Danse, tucking away his shades into his jacket pocket. "This was fun, Will. Thanks again for the invitation."

"Great. 'Course we stop playing just as soon I was hitting my stride," grumbled MacCready, throwing his hand to the middle of the table (he was holding a two and a nine).

"I think you've had enough card games tonight, MacCready," scolded Piper. Hancock snickered.

"Yeah, sure thing, mom," laughed MacCready in reply. And then, he yelped.

The next thing MacCready knew, Piper had embedded her finger directly in the soft fleshy area between his shoulder and his neck. Piper never had an annoying little brother— but boy did she know how to push their buttons.

"Ow! Jesus, ya psycho— Piper! Quit it!" whined the mercenary, squirming in his chair. The entire room was in hysterics, Deacon practically on his knees laughing.

"Lose any more caps today, MacCready?" Piper teased, digging her finger deeper into his neck. ("Not enough to learn when to quit!" yelled Valentine). "Wallet a bit lighter today?"

"Leggo! Alright I take it back!" screamed Mac, tearing away from Piper's finger. "Will, your girl is a piece of work, you know that?" Will started to laugh...until he saw the Medusa-like glare Piper was shooting him.

"Suppose I can't say a quick 'goodnight' to Thing 1 and Thing 2, huh?" said Valentine, throwing his beaten trench coat over his shoulder. Ever the kindly uncle was the synth detective, Nick Valentine.

"Thing 1's in bed," said Piper. "And...Nat's at the Publick," she finished, shooting Will a concerned look. He acknowledged it, sighing. Meanwhile, a certain ghoul was having trouble getting to his feet.

"Hancock, you're welcome to crash here tonight," Will offered.

"Prrrrreeshyate it cowboy," slurred Hancock, tipping his tri-corner hat that he'd made famous throughout the Commonwealth. The ghoul took two haggard steps, and promptly collapsed face-first into the living room couch. A slow rumbling between the cushions began as the ghoul immediately started snoring.

"Alright, that settles him," said Will. "Who's going where?"


"Danse," said Will, with a smile. "Thanks for coming." They were stood outside Will's house in the middle of the Diamond City market.

"Always a pleasure, Will," said Danse, as he shook Will's hand officiously. As much as he had been coming out of his shell lately, some things about Danse never changed. To his credit, he was smiling too, and warmly at that.

There was a time, not too long ago, that Danse wouldn't be caught dead playing poker with a ghoul, a synth, and a member of the Railroad. A while back, Danse fought for a different group; the Brotherhood of Steel, being one of Elder Maxson's top officers. He was as dedicated and as stalwart as any of them, a true soldier through and through. The ideals of the Brotherhood weren't just values to him, they were his lifeblood. And with those ideals came the same bigotry that the Brotherhood had been inflicting on the Commonwealth's "un-citizens." After finding out he was a synth himself however, his stance softened.

That day was the worst of his whole life. Confused, scared, and hunted by the people he once called family, Danse found himself at the crossroads of putting a bullet in his own brain, or letting the Brotherhood do it for him. He needed saving.

General Lamont did more than that. Firstly, he (at that point, a Knight of the Brotherhood himself) refused Elder Maxson's order to kill Danse, saving his life. Then, he gave it a new purpose by recruiting him into the Minutemen. Bound by gratitude and newfound direction, Danse took to his new post like bloatflies to a corpse.

With his leadership abilities and military experience, Danse quickly rose through the ranks, becoming a Colonel and Chief of Regiment, Commander of the Castle. And by serving the Commonwealth and its people, Danse learned to shed his prejudices, and finally accept himself for what he was.

Will had only one rule for Danse, now that the former Brotherhood Paladin had joined the Minutemen, and that was to him, he was "Will" and not "General," especially during off-the-clock social events. It took a while, but ever-formal Danse adjusted eventually.

"Piper, it was good to see you as well. Hope we didn't completely impede the progress of your article."

"Thanks Danse. You gonna be okay getting back to the Castle this time of night?" asked Piper.

Danse allowed himself a rare, cocky smirk. "Don't worry Piper. The day I find myself unable to navigate through a perilous environment is the day I resign as a Minuteman."

"Will, I wish you luck with the grand opening tomorrow. It's a damn shame I can't attend."

"The Castle would fall apart without you, Danse, we both know that," said Will. "Keep her tip-top."

"I will, General, don't worry. Good luck with your speech, and if Preston needs any pointers, my door's open."

Will shrugged. "He'll be fine, I just told him to be himself."

"Well… that's awfully mean of you," said Danse with a smile, as he turned and left with a wave. Meanwhile, Will had burst out laughing.

"Did...did Danse just make a joke?" asked Piper, astonished.

"He did," breathed Will, still chuckling. "I'm so damn proud of him."


MacCready was headed to the Dugout Inn for a nightcap— although Piper suspected he was snooping around for another game.

"You better not get into too much trouble, you knucklehead," warned Piper. MacCready was getting dangerously close to Piper's former levels of notoriety with Diamond City Security. She'd even heard they were considering renaming the drunk tank at the security office she had come to know so well, the "MacCready Suite." She didn't know whether to feel worried, or jealous.

"Aw jeez Piper, what are you, my attorney?"

Piper frowned. "Do you even know what that is?"

"What are you, my... law professor?" MacCready hesitantly quipped. "I'm just going to check on my good ol' friend Vadim, no trouble in that."

"You know, I tend to disagree," Piper said unsurely, recalling the time she, Will, and Travis Miles rescued the kidnapped bartender from a group of raiders. Will stepped out of the house.

"Deacon says he wants to try that new beer I got from Goodneighbor, so he'll be here a while longer. Did you get cut?" Will asked MacCready.

MacCready flashed a smile, holding up his bleeding forearm. "You?" Mac asked.

Will lifted his pant leg in solidarity to reveal his scraped knee. The two shared another laugh, as Piper shook her head.

"One of these days, you two are gonna get seriously hurt if you keep roughhousing," she scowled. MacCready gave Will a bloody nudge.

"What did I tell you? She really is turning into a mom," he said. Will tried his best to stifle a chuckle, as Piper turned beet red.

"Thanks for coming, man," said Will. "Next time we'll break out the checkers set— something a little more your speed."

"Yeah, yeah laugh it up. Next time, I'll host, and we'll see how good you are in enemy territo-"

Piper tensed up, as MacCready trailed off into awkward silence. His face immediately fell.

"Aw jeez...I'm sorry man, I wasn't thinking…" he began.

"Yeah, sure Mac! We'd love to stop by," said Will, wearing the smile of a man who was determined to pretend he heard nothing.

MacCready shuffled his feet awkwardly. The look on his face was similar to that of a guilty child, awaiting a scolding from their parents. Piper still had to remember MacCready was the youngest of all of them by far.

"Well… I'll see you around then, Will. Take care."

"You too, buddy."

MacCready gave a last apologetic look, and waved goodbye, as he started to walk towards the Dugout Inn. Piper sighed.

MacCready had been looking for steady lodgings for months. The mercenary had been drifting for years in seedy hotel rooms and flophouses, and was finally ready to settle down somewhere more permanent. He was later delighted to find out that the new mayor of Diamond City was putting a nice, previously owned property in the upper stands overlooking the city up for rent. MacCready, who had saved up a dragon's hoard of caps, bought it on the spot. It was a nice little double story that also gave him his privacy, nestled above the rest of the city, but was still within walking distance from good friends down at Home Plate (not to mention the Dugout Inn). Plus, it came with a pretty nifty hidden room that Mac, as a child, could only fantasize of. Suffice to say, he thought the place was perfect. Unbeknownst to MacCready at the time however, his new home was also the former residence of the murderer of his best friend's wife.

Upon learning this, Mac had come to Will and offered countless times to chuck his key over the wall— And I'll have the place torn down, man. Hell, I'll do it myself if I have to, board by board, he'd always say. A widower himself, he knew what Will was feeling.

But Will always turned him down graciously. A house was a house in the end, and some people were unlucky enough to be on the streets these days, and that shouldn't be taken for granted. Besides, MacCready had clearly settled in, acclimating quickly to his new home. So they acquiesced, and the matter was hastily forgotten, and never spoken of again.

Will would never say a thing to his friend about it. But it would take a long time before Will was finally comfortable enough to step inside MacCready's home. He would eventually visit many times, where he would sit on the couch, beer in hand, joking with his friend while their children played together. And even then, all he would feel while he sat in that wicked little shack was the cold, cold feeling of despair, as a shadow mocked him from beyond the grave.


Nick Valentine was headed back to the office to pour over some leftover cases. It made Piper, in a morbid kind of way, jealous of being a synth— being able to work for nights and nights on end without sleep. But the immediate image of her being placed on an Institute factory line, made to slave endlessly under threat of termination pushed that little pip of envy out of her head.

"So I'm assuming this isn't a replacement for our dinner plans this weekend?" said the old Synth, putting on his signature, weathered fedora.

"Of course not," Will said with a warm smile. "Eight o'clock, Saturday night. We'll have the Gwinnett nice and cold for you. Bring Ellie along too."

"You're always welcome here, Nicky," said Piper.

"I know, Piper," said Nick with a smile. "You two are good company. Warms my core knowing that the two most honest, kind-hearted people I know found each other in a world like this. Makes me hopeful for the future."

"Aww, Nick…" Touched, Piper's hand found her heart. "That's so sweet of you..."

"Yeah don't get too teary-eyed, Valentine. You might rust," joked Will. That remark earned him a punch on the arm from Piper, but Valentine, in all his good humor, just laughed.

"I think I'm a little past that point by now," chuckled the detective. "I'd better hit it. Sorry, I won't be able to catch the grand opening tomorrow, I gotta swing by Oberland Station for a case. Will, I trust you have a big speech prepared?"

Will groaned. "No, and I wouldn't hold it against ya' if you skipped it." Another punch on the shoulder from Piper. Nick laughed.

"Well, I'll see you this weekend then. Night, kids. Don't stay up too late." And with a tip of his grey, beaten hat, he was out the door.

Then, Piper suddenly remembered something. "Hey, Nicky!"

The synth turned back. "Yes, Piper?"

"Would you knock on the Publick's door and tell Nat to come home?"


Deacon left last— and in quite a hurry.

"Sorry Will, gimme a raincheck on that beer," he announced, as he quickly gathered up his things and stuffed them into his pockets. "Cap needs me back at the ship," he explained discreetly, snatching the duffle bag off the floor and tearing into it.

This bothered Will; he had never seen Deacon do anything that wasn't at a leisurely pace. Even in the thick of a firefight or deep undercover, the master spy was always about taking it easy. Calm, relaxed, and in control. He'd seen Deacon literally pinned under a rabid Yao Guai and still being able to crack a smile. Here he was now, wrestling with his disguise bag, pulling out his City Security gear on hastily like the Wall was about to come crashing down.

"How are things back there, Deacon?" Will asked curiously. "Smooth sailing?"

There was really no need to speak in code anymore. It had been a year since Will had resigned from his spot in the Railroad to focus on rebuilding the Commonwealth, but he still liked to keep his respects. The Minutemen and the Railroad would forever be on good terms, and they all knew this. Normally, when Will asked him if there was indeed, "smooth sailing," Deacon would often flash his impeccable smile and say a stupid joke that hardly ever answered the question— Well I tell you what sailor, all I've known is that I've been out at sea too long, and I'm starting to mistake some real butterfaces for mermaids. Love the tail and clam bikini, by the way, he'd say, his eyes twinkling behind his black shades.

To his dismay, Deacon only grimaced.

"I'll be honest with ya, chief. The Brotherhood's still giving us hell. They're starting to crack down hard on Synths. And Synth sympathizers. From what I hear, they've doubled their training efforts with the Inquisitors. Soon enough, the Brotherhood is going to have their own little secret police to terrorize us with," said Deacon. He was busy strapping on his disguise as quickly as he could, and his uniform was getting caught and tangled.

"Shits creek?" asked Will with a frown, helping tie on his baseball pads. Another code, a little more self-explanatory than others.

"We still got the paddle, but it's hard to hold on. Dez has been trying to steer out of it, but it's a lot of work to handle. And...with recent developments...things I've been hearing lately..." Deacon trailed off, rubbing his head in frustration, re-adjusting his hairpiece. It was a nervous tick he had: Deacon was somewhat sensitive about his baldness. He tried to play it off with an unconvincing stretch.

"Damn it. How do these guys protect a city? I can barely move in this damn thing."

"If you need anything…you can clue me in, you know?" said Will, his voice dropping low. He wanted to push for more information, but he knew it wouldn't work. Deacon never simply gave up secrets.

Deacon glanced at him, his expression one of curiosity and caution. For a moment he looked like he was about to say something— but then decided it against it.

"Nah, don't bother," he said, forcing a smile. "I'm really just being paranoid. You know how I am. Two steps ahead, and all that."

"You sure?" Will asked raising an eyebrow.

"Sure as eggs, ol' buddy. This isn't something the Minutemen needs to get involved in."

And Will knew then that's all he'd get from Deacon tonight.

They stood in the doorway, Deacon cautiously checking left and right for enemy eyes. But before he disappeared into the night, back to whatever mission he was called for, he saw fit to give Will one last word of advice:

"Rocky currents up ahead Will," warned Deacon. "Keep your ear to the ground."


There was a knock on the Publick's door. Nat Wright, the sole inhabitant of the newspaper's office at this time, stubbornly ignored it. She turned up the volume on her radio, having an odd twinge of nostalgia for a certain station she had liked. It helped her think. Right now, she was nose-deep in homework, desperately trying to recall how to change a mixed number to an improper fraction, and not in the mood to talk.

There was another knock on the door.

"Go away," she growled. "I'm not going back."

"Now is that any way to talk to your friends?" said a familiar voice.

"Uncle Nicky?!" exclaimed Nat. She threw her pencil down, rushing to her feet, straight to the front door. She swung it open.

A familiar, kindly synthetic face stared back at her.

"Late night, little lady?" he laughed. Nat smiled and jumped into his arms.

"Woah! Easy there, honey," Nick chuckled. "These arms ain't flesh and bone, so much as they are just bone."

"What are you doing here?"

"Well, I could ask you the same thing, kiddo. Your sister told me to tell you to come home," Nick said. "I'm sorry we kept you up. Must have been pretty loud for you to run away from home like this."

"It wasn't your fault," confessed Nat. "And this is my home."

"Right…" Nick looked around the office unsurely.

Perhaps once, this had been a home. Nick remembered when this little shack had been the sole abode of the Wright family. Which at the time of their residence in Diamond City was three women; a sickly mother and her two daughters, one on the cusp of adulthood the other barely a toddler. They had moved in shortly after the father died. Nick never met him. It wasn't easy for a single mother raising two girls in a town like this. Mrs. Wright broke her back taking care of her family, and Piper along with her. And after Mrs. Wright passed away from radiation sickness, the two girls were on their own. Piper and Nat lived alone together, running their little business and trying to hold on to each other in a ruthless world.

Now, this little shack was officially the headquarters of the Publick Occurrences— everything had been converted to maximize office space. Filled wall to wall with desks, printers, terminals, everything you needed to produce the most trusted and reliable paper in the Commonwealth. And in a time where certain people of the Commonwealth were realizing the power of communication and starting their own papers, it was important to stay competitive; no half measures. It was the ruthless, cutting-edge publishing house of this postbellum Commonwealth. But a home, it was no longer. Now, Piper's home was across the street, with a certain Minuteman.

Nat had not taken this change well. Here she was now, doing her homework by candlelight, stubbornly embedded between two large desks, placed in the same spot her bed used to be...covering up the pretty crayon drawings she had made when she was younger.

"You know, it just seems awfully cramped in here," began Nicky. "Why don't you sleep in that cool bunk bed back at Home Plate?"

"I can't sleep," scowled Nat. "I have to do homework. And I'm not going back there."

Nick sighed, letting Nat down gently.

"Look, kid, I get it. You're still getting used to Will and Piper...being together. I understand. You know, back before the war, I was on this case. See, this lady had just remarried her—"

"I'm sorry, Uncle Nick," Nat interrupted. "But I can't listen to any stories right now, I'm busy."

"Fair point. Look, all I'm saying is that you need to give it a chance."

"Nobody gave me a chance," Nat said sorrowfully.

"To do what?"

Nat looked around the office: the one home she had ever known.

"To say goodbye," she said quietly. Nick sighed, taking his hat off.

"Alright I give," said Nick. "What do I have to do to make you go home- I mean, back to Will's house?" Nat raised an eyebrow.

"Well...I do need help on this last math question for Mr. Zwicky's assignment," she said.

Nick rolled up his sleeves. "And then you'll go straight back?" he said. Nat sighed.

"Fine."

"Good. Scoot over."


Back on the living room couch, Hancock was dead asleep, sending a nasal steam engine chugging through the room.

"And then there was one," muttered Piper. "Hope the good people of Goodneighbor don't desperately need their fine mayor tomorrow morning."

Will laughed. He was busy mopping up the leftover cards on the dinner table, arranging them neatly into one pile.

"If I know the good people of Goodneighbor, I'd bet it'd take nothing short of a full-on mutant attack for them to need him. That town's been running itself for years, thanks to him," he said. Hancock snored in agreement.

"Wish I could say the same for Diamond City," sighed Piper, as she grabbed a mop from the closet. "Well, do me a favor and make sure he doesn't throw up on anything. I don't want to make any more problems for Codsworth when he gets back from being serviced. And that snoring is gonna be hell tonight."

"Not for me," yawned Will. "I'm beat. I feel like I could sleep till noon."

"Fat chance," said Piper. "We're leaving at eight tomorrow. I scheduled a caravan to bring us to Kingsport."

Will let out an almighty groan, slamming his face into the table.

"Aw c'mon!" he whined. "Let Preston handle this one. Kingsport was his idea anyway."

Piper shook her head. "Your name's on it, you're going," she said, mopping up spilled beer.

"You know, just because it has my name on it, doesn't mean that it was my idea," grumbled Will, picking up shards of broken glass off the floor. "I don't wanna be known as the asshole that names things after himself."

"Stop paying for them, and you won't be," Piper teased. It was a joke of course. Will had amassed a small fortune by investing in settlements, paying for repairs, supplies, and construction, taking back a small retainer in whatever the settlement made in trading. He was now one of the richest men in the Commonwealth. And Will, not being a miserly, snobby Upper Stands socialite, was more than glad to put those caps right back into the hands of the Commonwealth's citizens. The one thing that the people needed now, more than ever in this Reconstruction era, was caps, and Will had more than enough to give.

"Very funny. But I just don't know what to say, Pipes. I agreed to fund the thing, but I don't know all the small details," he said.

"Hello, I gave you a packet!" exclaimed Piper tiredly. "If you bothered to read it, you'd know. I don't know why I make these things for you, you never read them anyway. Here," she said, digging a large ring binder out from the cupboards, tossing it into Will's hands. "Study up."

Will let out another groan, looking at the cover: Kingsport Polytechnic Grand Opening, November 5th.

"Jesus Christ, eighty-six pages? Where's the gun to go with this?"

"Don't be so dramatic," Piper sighed. "You know I love Preston, but this event is too important: he can't head this thing. You know how he gets when you put a camera in his face."

She made a strained, half winking face at Will, who laughed.

"You're not doing it right," he said. "And...I appreciate what you're doing. You really didn't have to go through all this."

"You were the one that hired the Publick to organize a press conference," said Piper. "Honestly, I'll be glad when this is over too."

"Right, right. Suppose I should have gone to the Commonwealth Journal. Maybe Sonya Thornton would appreciate the work?"

Piper gasped.

"Oh that is rich!" she exclaimed, grabbing a couch pillow from under Hancock's head, letting him fall face-first into the cushions. Piper then proceeded to beat Will over the head with it.

"Take it back!"

"Ow! Hey, c'mon, they're a respectable news source!" Will teased, trying to escape up the stairs to the bedroom. But Piper was on his tail.

"I wouldn't use the Commonwealth Journal to pick up Dogmeat's crap!" Piper shouted, pulling back, ready to strike him once more. Will, however, caught her wrist with dextrous reflexes.

"You—you—you are, you are really…" Piper giggled, trying to wrestle free. And then, Will kissed her forehead. She suddenly didn't feel like struggling.

"You are really impossible…" she finished, quietly giving in.

"That's me, the impossible man," he said, smirking. He went in for another kiss, but his lips were met by Piper's hand.

"I have to finish an article, buddy. Don't get any ideas," she said, turning to leave. But she was jerked back gently: Will still had her wrist in his hand.

"Hey," said Will, a coy smile on his face. "Come over here…"

"Will…"

But he was relentless. "Come here," he repeated, pulling her close.

Piper felt his breath on her skin, and it made her shiver. He always smelled like some kind of candy, smooth chocolate, or some other kind of sugary delight. It was all the snacks she gave him. It made him ever so sweet to the tooth.

"I promised Shaun a story," she said quietly.

But the story could wait, she thought, as he drew her in close and kissed her deeply. She closed her eyes, her lips grinning widely against his, tasting candy-like sweetness.

Magic. That word again, embedded in Piper's brain in blissful little moments like these.

It was that concept of magic that confused her. From what she had read of the Pre-war civilizations, there were people who were fascinated with this concept, even to the point of believing in its existence. Maybe there was something to the atmosphere of a nuclear apocalypse that dulled the collective imagination of the people living through it, but Piper couldn't see the appeal in believing in something as fantastically ludicrous as magic.

But then something fantastic happened to her. Piper fell in love with Will. And Piper realized that she had no other way to describe her feelings than with that word.

He was just…magical to her. Charming, strong, brave. A heart of gold. He was kind, honest, and fair to just about everyone he met. He was soft, but far from a pushover. He lived by a certain set of principles, and when you hold the same values as he, you'd not find a truer friend. But when his principles were provoked, or if someone threatened to hurt or take away something he loved, he could be as terrible and as wrathful as a storm. He was a hero to many, a provider to thousands, and he would never stop giving.

How someone so perfect could just trip, stumble and fall into a world like this, Piper didn't know. And if she were to ever take the journalist hat off and switch to writing fantasy stories, she sure had a hell of a story at her fingertips. He was after all, just like a knight. And by that, she didn't mean some power-armor wearing technophile aboard a floating airship. A real knight, a heroic and brave champion of the people. The savior of humanity. Imagine the story!

A man awakes from a two-century long slumber. He sets out on a quest to rescue his princess...or rather, his little prince from the evil and terrifying dragon. A selfish and evil monster, hoarding treasures and stealing people to devour from the land it terrorizes. Unafraid, the knight charges into the lair of the beast, and slays it dead, rescuing the prince in the process. And when he returns to the people, he returns not just a hero, but a king. And she, in some weird sort of way that made her cringe in embarrassment, yet flush with excitement, was his queen.

Every passing day was like a dream come true, yet in the bottom of her stomach, she knew somehow this happiness would all come falling apart. He was a recent widower. She was...well, her. It wasn't made to last. She didn't keep her hopes up.

And yet it not only endured. It had blossomed. Two years had passed since that day. The two were inseparable. There were not too many days where she could have him to herself. He was a busy man after all, with all his missions; running around from settlement to settlement, helping where he could, saving people, rebuilding, things that had made Piper fall in love with him in the first place. And even when he wasn't busy, it was always like his mind was drifting, and he was in a completely different place. But there were some days, some lazy Sunday days, where the two would kick back on the couch, share a Nuka-Cola, and fall into each other's warm embrace. Where they would sit together, reading their books or magazines, their hands intertwined. There were some days, where Will was all hers, and she could barely believe such a person could even be in the same room as her. Some days, where she would feel the firm jutting of his chin, the bumpy scar tissue on his cheeks, the scratchy stubble on his face, the soft parting of his lips, and oh did she live for those days. Days where she could fall into those deep pools of oil that were his eyes, when she could lay her head on his strong chest, when she could have every inch of him; her fingers roaming, feeling, tantalizing, making sure it was all real, all hers. And knowing that he was hers gave her such immense joy, that Piper would fall in love with him all over again.

As the two embraced, at that moment, she realized, happily to herself: she was falling in love with him yet again.

"Will," she gasped, breaking away for a moment.

"Yes, darlin'?"

"I want you to fuck me," she breathed into his ear.

And before Will could oblige her, it was just at that moment that the front door swung open, and Piper's little sister, Nat stormed in.


Piper let out a loud gasp as the two broke apart instantly.

"Hey, you!" said Piper, a touch shakily, re-adjusting her blouse. "We've been looking for you all day, you know." She gave Will another one of her patented punches on his shoulder. "Look Will, Nat's home!" she said, forcing a wide smile.

Will had grabbed the closest thing next to him on the nearby counter, which happened to be a copy of Tumblers Today, and was studying it intensely. He looked up from his magazine, feigning obliviousness.

"Hmm? Oh hey there, kiddo! Where've you been?"

"Is everyone gone?" Nat asked coldly— frigidly really. If words could affect temperature, the house would be freezing. Piper and Will exchanged a look. "Is the stupid party over already?" said Nat.

"Party's over, honey," said Piper. "Everyone left. Well, Hancock's still here but he won't be making any noise for a while." Almost as if to disprove her statement, a loud snore echoed from below.

"Where'd you run off to?" asked Will. "We missed ya, Nack-Nack."

Piper froze. It was like the air had suddenly been sucked out of the room. Nack-Nack was a name Will had coined for Nat, and right now it was the wrong thing to say. The glare her little sister gave him could've paralyzed a Deathclaw, sending it meekly back into its cave.

"Uh… what I meant to say, was—" began Will. But Nat brusquely brushed past the two, storming up the stairs without saying another word.

"Did Uncle Nicky tell you to come on home? I hoped you thanked him!" called Piper.

Silence.

"Alright sweetheart, you have a good night!"

Piper sat down on the bed, her legs suddenly feeling very weak. Will sighed, tossing the magazine lightly across the room.

"Stupid…" he muttered. "I'm so stupid…"

"Give her time," Piper said softly. "She's coming around, I know it."

"I don't know what to do, Pipes. She won't talk to me, she won't move in with us. She doesn't even acknowledge my existence anymore. And since when did stop liking Nack-Nack?"

"She's not a kid anymore, Will," sighed Piper. "She's practically a teenager now."

Things had been different two years ago. Will was just a man out of time looking for his son, and Piper was just a reporter dedicated to helping him. Nat had only been ten then, and the two had been thick as thieves. Will always had a way of getting kids to like him, and Nat took to him with aplomb. Back then, she was Nack-Nack, a name Will had given her that would immediately make her laugh every time she heard it. Nack-Nack and Pot Pipes. Nack-Nack-Snack-Attack. Nack-Nack, crack-crack my back-back. Giggles would shortly ensue, and the friendship between the two would grow and grow.

That all changed once Piper and Will stopped being friends and started being lovers. Now, Will could barely get a word in with his girlfriend's little sister. And it was true, she wasn't a kid anymore. She was close to thirteen and sprouting like a tree. She was always clever for her age, but now she was as smart as a whip, and had an acid tongue to match.

Truthfully, the animosity truly started when Piper officially moved in. It was supposed to be the mark of celebration. The Publick was officially big enough to occupy its own building, and Piper had moved in with the man she loved. There was a celebration held at Dugout Inn— nothing too fancy, just a few rounds of drinks with all the familiar friends and faces of Diamond City: Nick Valentine, MacCready, and Hawthorne and Vadim. Even Danse came down from the Castle to share a drink to commemorate the Publick's growing business. Nat, however, did not attend. When sent to look for her, Will found her with a box of matches and a can of gasoline inside the office. Piper grounded her for months.

Nat had barely spoken a word to Will since.


Nat stormed up to her shared room. Shaun, who was still awake, hopped out of bed to greet her.

"You're back!" he exclaimed gladly.

"Only cause you couldn't shut your fat mouth," snapped Nat, as she threw her bedroll and backpack on the floor. "Thanks to you, I didn't finish studying, so you can tell Mr. Zwicky why I failed the quiz."

Shaun looked sheepish. "I didn't mean anything by it. I thought you'd be scared sleeping by yourself."

"I've been sleeping by myself since Piper started the paper, squirt."

Shaun's eyes widened. "Wow, really?"

"Yep. Whenever she had to run off digging for scoops, I had to take care of myself."

"Gee," marveled Shaun in admiration. "I'd be pretty scared to sleep by myself without getting a goodnight kiss."

A moment's pause, as Nat tried to register what she just heard. Then, she burst out laughing. Shaun looked at her curiously, as she fell to the mat, clutching her stomach, in stitches.

"What's so funny?" asked Shaun.

"Nothin'" snickered Nat, wiping away a tear. "But if I were you, I'd skip school on Monday."

"Why?" asked Shaun. "I like school. Mrs. Edna is nice, and I like math, and—"

"Tell it to your dad, you big baby."

Shaun looked puzzled. "You mean our dad?"

"No," flashed Nat. "Will is not my dad. My dad died. He's your dad."

Shaun looked utterly confused. "I'm sorry… I don't know what you mean."

"Yeah, that's obvious," said Nat, climbing up to the top bunk. "What did they do to you at the Institute? I bet they did all kinds of messed-up experiments on you."

"We did do experiments," said Shaun, getting into bed as well. "They were very nice to me."

"Oh yeah? Don't you know why your daddy blew them up then?" yawned Nat. "They were being bad to the Commonwealth."

Shaun frowned. "I don't know… I was born there… I never left," he said. "I'm sorry, I don't know."

Nat paused. She thought about pushing further...but the toll of working by candlelight all night had finally caught up to her, and she was too tired to argue with the moron. Sleepy and angry, Nat spent the last few seconds before she drifted off to sleep trying to deduce whatever Shaun could mean by that.

I was born there… I never left...


Piper had ended up in Will's lap this night after all, she thought to herself as they kissed passionately, her sitting in his lap with her legs wrapped around his waist.

"You need to wake up early tomorrow," she breathed through the kisses.

"Then put me to sleep," Will moaned back.

"That's...lame."

And then suddenly, there was a knock on the door. A hard, demanding rap that made the two jump simultaneously. Piper let out a small gasp.

"Who the hell could that be?" she wondered aloud.

"Deacon?" called out Will. There was no answer.

"Why would it be Deacon?" said Piper, climbing off of Will, lying back onto the bed.

"...Dunno. Who is it?" called out Will once more, getting up from bed. He tisked as he walked up to the door, pulling it open.

"If this is you, Deacon, I told you, you should have told me earlier when—"

Will froze. His expression changed completely to grave formality. Piper craned her neck, trying to see who was standing outside.

"Why are you here?" asked Will. Piper could detect a slight bit of challenge in his voice.

"May we talk?" asked a voice.

A shadow of uncertainty appeared on Will's face, yet in an instant, it disappeared.

"Sure," said Will, opening the door wider, stepping aside.

"Will? Who is it?" Piper asked. But her question was answered immediately as the visitor stepped inside.

He was rarely seen out in the open these days, but Piper could recognize him all the same. Even rarer was it that he was without his protection, usually being accompanied by an escort of two or more armored knights. Although Piper never figured the man to have ever needed protection in his life. Clad in his signature coat that could stop bullets and snap the claws of a Yao Guai, with a large sidearm at his waist, he looked like he needed no help tonight.

Standing in their home was Arthur Maxson, Elder of the Brotherhood of Steel.

And he looked angry.