Conrad Kellogg scowled at the sky above Bunker Hill, despite its azure hue and cloudless expanse. Father had insisted on making things difficult for him by making him take a Courier as his only back-up and assigning X6-88 for that job. Then instead of teleporting straight into Sanctuary, wherever the hell that was, they had to go undercover as guards for a caravan, all because that damn booklet wasn't in circulation yet.

The caravaneer they were supposed to follow around was called Trashcan Carla, and she was late. At the moment, they were hanging around the bar, along with several other prospective guards waiting to be hired on. There were always openings for caravan guards, because lots of guards got killed on the job. On Kellogg's right was a bald guy wearing aviator glasses, sipping on a Nuka-Cola and lying cheerfully and creatively to the bartender about killing three deathclaws with one shot.

Kellogg tuned out the liar, brought out his cigar case and lit a San Francisco Sunlight.

"Smoking is detrimental to your health," X6-88 commented.

"Oh, now is it?" Kellogg said with sarcasm, "Yeah, I'm sure it'll cut me off in my youth before anything else has a chance to kill me. You've convinced me. I'll quit right away."

"It is a matter of complete indifference to me. I offer the information as what I believe is called, 'small talk,'" X6-88 replied.

"Keep it to yourself," Kellogg told him. He was not simply older than Father. He was, in fact, over a hundred years old, but thanks to the cybernetic enhancements installed in him by the Institute, he looked about half his age, somewhere in his mid fifties. A handy little implant in his head augmented his memory capacity and made recall instantaneous, while a pain inhibitor kept him comfortable and a limb actuator made sure he could still move like an athlete. Sometimes, when he stretched, he could hear cables twanging in his arms and legs.

Those were just the major ones. There were a host of smaller pseudo-organs which kept his bodily functions in balance. He could keep on like this indefinitely-not forever young, perhaps, but forever middle aged wasn't bad. As long as he had enough stimpaks, he'd be fine.

But then Conrad Kellogg had never read 'The Picture of Dorian Grey.' Raina, who had, could have told him the problem with thinking you had cheated Death and avoided Time was that they didn't go away. Death and Time were waiting like a pair of collectors for the Mob, and the longer you put off paying what you owed, the worse they were going to be when they finally got hold of you.

Around them, the hubbub of the market area ebbed and flowed. The place was filthy, especially in comparison to the Institute, and it reeked. The people there were the detritus of humanity, and they looked it. He felt his mouth twist into a sneer and was not surprised to see a curl of distaste on X6-88's face as well.

The synth looked ill at ease and uncomfortable in the battered, third hand armor and grimy fatigues he had been given to wear as part of their cover, like a young prince in the sackcloth of a beggar. Or maybe the clothes had bedbugs or lice in them. It wasn't like Kellogg cared.

A Brahmin bellowed, pawing at the ground in its pen, then lifted its tail and let out a cowpat. That was what Bunker Hill was like, when you came right down to it. A great big steaming cowpat. Hell, the whole damn Commonwealth was, too! A great big pile of cowshit.

A woman who looked to be about sixty years old threaded her way through the crowd to the bar She wore a torn and patched denim jacket that was grimy with road dust. "I'm looking for a couple of guards for out to Sanctuary and back."

"Sanctuary? Where the hell is that?" Kellogg snorted. This was all part of the script, prearranged by Father.

"Up north west of Concord," she said. She sounded cranky.

"What are you offering?" X6-88 asked.

"A hundred caps round trip," she said. "No advances, either." It was far too little, and most of the out of work guards lost interest.

"I'll take it," Kellogg said, "I got nothing better going on."

"I'm new. If that won't be a problem, I am available," X6-88 said. Inwardly Kellogg winced. Acting was not in the synth's skill set.

The bald guy who told outrageous lies wasn't put off. "Whoa, that's a stingy offer, but I wanted to head up that way anyhow. There's this girl up there…." He gave a wolf whistle. "What if I only go half the distance, is that worth sixty caps to you?"

"I—only planned for two guards," Carla said, sounding unsettled.

"Aw, come on," the bald guy coaxed. "The usual number is three. Look around." He gestured at the marketplace. It was true. All the caravaneers in sight had three guards.

"I—," Carla glanced at Kellogg, which was not a good move because they were only supposed to have just met. Damn it, why had Father insisted on this meeting place? If they had rendezvoused in the wastelands proper, there wouldn't have been any bald asshats to make this even more difficult.

"I got no objections," he grunted. After all, he could put one through the bald guy's skull any time he liked out there, if he got to be a problem.

"Not sixty," Carla told the guy. "Fifty."

"All right," he said, putting down the empty Nuka bottle. "My name's Parsons, by the way."

"Everybody calls me Trashcan Carla," she told him as they shook hands.

Parsons extended a hand to Kellogg nest. The man sure smiled a lot.

"Post," Kellogg automatically lied as he shook the man's hand. "This is—." He couldn't call X6-88 by the Institute designation, so he said the first thing which came to mind. "Exodus."

"Exodus. What is, that, like, Biblical?" Parsons asked as he shook X6's hand.

"So I am given to believe," X6—no, it was now Exodus, and it would have to get used to it.

"So," Parsons looked at Carla. "When do we roll?"

The walk from Bunker Hill to Sanctuary was about a week at the pace a loaded Brahmin could manage, and six days into it, Parsons was still alive and well. He was useful, for one thing. Not only was he impressively stealthy, he was useful in other ways. He could always find something to kill for dinner, he shared his water when others' canteens were low, and if he did tell tall tales, they were at least entertaining, so somehow the time had never seemed right to take him out. It didn't hurt that having a third man to keep watch at night meant each man got more sleep.

Now, however, they were almost there, and it was about time. Along the way, they had dealt with raiders, radscorpions, Gunners, Supermutants, and packs of ferals. Oh, and a Deathclaw. Exodus no longer looked like he'd had his real clothes stolen and was making do with whatever he could salvage from someone's pile of dirty discards. He looked battered around the edges, not so much the panther-sleek Courier anymore. Even his mirrored sunglasses had a scratch. Not that he was any easier to live with in any other way-that subtle superiority cloaked in synth servility remained. He just seemed more like an asshole with a stick for a spine.

Speaking of whom: "That junkyard does not appear on this map," Exodus commented.

"Junkyard?" Trashcan Carla frowned and squinted toward the area.

"Yeah," Kellogg confirmed. "You want to stop and root through it?" As her nickname suggested, most of her wares were gleanings from rubbish.

"I don't remember there being any junkyard here," she said instead of answering yes or no.

Kellogg eyed the woman. The caravaneer was a smoker, and as they got closer and closer to Sanctuary, she was smoking more and more. If she wasn't nervous, then he didn't know a thing about people. She hadn't been this nervous when they met up at Bunker Hill, so why was she getting anxious now? His instincts told him she knew something she hadn't told.

"What was there?" he prompted.

"A Red Rocket station," she rasped. "But now I remember there were a lot of junked cars and trash around, so I guess this is where they dumped it all."

Kellogg gave the place the once over as they trudged past it. You could hide a lot of things in a junkyard. Perhaps they ought to check it out when they were done in the settlement. He decided it could wait until then.

"Evil is coming, Mr. Valentine," Mama Murphy told him, grasping his arm with both hands. "Evil. It's coming today. For her. You are the only one who will know it by its face. You must be vigilant today."

"Evil, you say?" Nick asked. He had only met Mama Murphy a couple of times, but he had learned not to dismiss her visions as nonsense. "Are we talking human, animal, feral, or what?"

"It comes on two legs," she said after a moment. "Less human than you, but more human too. The false face and false words hide a true heart."

"...that isn't a lot to go on."

"It's what the Sight has told me. If I had me a dose of Jet, now, or Psycho-," Mama coaxed.

"I think I'll make do with what I have, thanks." he told her. That day was going to be a big one: the Minuteman community and several settlers from the area were coming by to help them put up a guesthouse, which it was clear Sanctuary was going to need, what with the people who wanted to see the plants growing and pick up their orders. With so many hands to help, the building was expected to go up quickly, and the rest of the day would be spent socializing and celebrating. There would be music, dancing, food and probably a fair amount of drinking, too. Several of the settlers played musical instruments, such as fiddles, drums, acoustic guitars and harmonicas, and a lot of old music, not just pre-war, but pre-20th century had survived by people simply teaching each other.

So the mood around Sanctuary was happy and excited, and the prospect of evil was one he wanted to banish. Despite Mama's warnings, he joined in the building, as his handyman days around Diamond City made him one of the more skilled builders. It was especially nice to see how many people had come out for this; there had to be nearly fifty people, including kids of all ages from babies in arms to teens who were almost grown. The Finch family had come, all four of them-he and Raina had rescued the younger son, Jake, from the Forged a few weeks before.

Raina and Jonny-say-Quoi were in charge of food preparation. Many settlers had brought something to add to the feast, side dishes and beverages, but the main course was going to be radstag stew with potatoes, carrots and onions among other things, and there would be mutfruit cider to go with. That alone was a novelty, as there was rarely enough mutfruit to spare for pressing and fermenting. By mid afternoon the building was done and everyone had worked up an appetite. Everything that could be used as a table and seating in Sanctuary had been put to good use, and the boards were groaning with the weight of the food.

Preston, as unofficial leader of Sanctuary, thanked everyone for coming and offered a short grace to open the meal, and then they began. Although Nick didn't eat, he took a seat next to Raina anyhow, as meals were as much a social occasion as anything. Besides, he had not forgotten Mama's warning. If anything happened, he was going to be there to protect her.

Despite all the time spent chopping and stirring a cooking pot, Raina had found a moment to clean up and change into a pretty rose colored dress which flattered her skin tone and showed off her figure. Appreciating a lady's figure was academic for Nick the Synth, but old habits from Nick the Human meant that he looked anyway.

"So many people came," she exclaimed with pleasure, "and I have two prospective beekeepers-Mary Abernathy and Jake Finch."

"Mary is the older one, right? The one Preston saved from raiders?" Nick looked down the line of tables.

"Yes. She's recovered from the bullet wound. I think she's here as much because of Preston's handsome face as because she wants to keep bees," Raina confided.

"That'll disappoint Jake Finch, if that's the case. I saw him watching her earlier."

"Huh!" Raina snorted, breaking off a chunk of cornbread as the platter went past. "So my first students both have ulterior motives. Oh, well, as long as they're prepared to learn. I told them to come back in three weeks, which should be enough time to start planting the super ginkos."

"I, ah, was, kinda hoping you'd forgotten about that," he grimaced.

"Not a chance, not with five thousand of them hardened up and ready to go in the ground."

"Hardened up?" he asked. "Sounds a bit suggestive to me."

"It just means they've been exposed to the weather so they won't suffer shock when they're planted." She flicked a crumb at him. "However, I have considered what you said about the Glowing Sea. I don't necessarily need to go there myself. Jonny-say-Quoi and I have discussed it and he believes that he can lead a team made up entirely of bots, if we can recruit the bots. Have you heard of Grey Gardens? It's a farm staffed entirely by robots, and then there's the General Atomics Galleria. There are dozens of Mr. Handys and Mr. Gutsys there who have been following the same routines for two hundred years. I thought if you and went to these places and talked to the supervisors, perhaps they would agree to help."

"I'm all for anything that keeps you out of the Sea," he agreed with the sincerest feeling of gratitude.

"I'm also going to keep back a quarter of the trees to plant around the Commonwealth in other areas. I could give each family that came today a group to take home, a male and three females."

"Sounds like a good idea. I'm still trying to wrap my head around the idea that trees have different sexes. I mean, how can you tell? It's not like checking under a kitten's tail," he smiled, but then he saw what was coming up the street. Trashcan Carla was a familiar sight in Sanctuary, but she had never brought guards with her before. One of the guards was a tall man, bald, with a long, thick scar down his face. Nick's vague memories of his time in the Institute stirred and gave up a name to go with that face. Kellogg. The Institute's bully boy, their hired killer. This was the evil Mama Murphy meant. The Institute had come for Raina, and unless Kellogg could be contained, there would be a bloodbath. All these settlers, all the children-. But Kellogg was checking out the gathering, and he didn't look like he knew who he was looking for.

"You take a slice of leaf and look at the cell nuclei," she replied. "If-Nick, what's wrong?"

His answer took a moment to come to mind. "Plenty. First of all, do you have anything like a Mickey you could slip into someone's food or drink? Something that'll knock them out, or at least put them down for the count somehow, for a while. Something that won't look like an attack. Non-lethal, too. We're going to want to question these people later."

"Yes, several things."

"Good. Go get some of them. Then..."

TBC...

A/N: A little later in coming, but a chapter which sets up the next. 'Parsons', if you hadn't guessed, is actually Deacon. Brace yourselves for what's going to come. Thank you all for reading, reviewing, and following!