The Sole Survivor throws one last chair leg into the dwarf bonfire for good measure, clapping the dust off her hands. Her curiosity was her saving grace not a few minutes ago because inside all of those derelict crates were pieces of unassembled furniture ready to be shipped out across Pre-War Boston. Lucky for her and her companion, war halted the deliveries so they could scrounge up a good sized fire and two free standing head boards to drape their clothes over.

The young lady wraps herself in a piece of dirty canvas, knotting it over her shoulder and around her hip. Her sneeze echos off the walls of the warehouse.

A tin can clangs behind the closed door at the northern-most wall.

She whips around to face the noise, instinctively reaching for the assault rifle at her feet. A frown crosses her lips. "No bullets." The lady keeps her gun with her in any case, crossing the room to test the handle. Locked. With a bobby pin and her trusty screwdriver she carefully twists and turns the lock face until it clicks. The young lady pushes open the door slowly, gripping her weapon tighter from nerves. She feels something amiss, but can't quite put her finger on it.

Two pairs of yellow-ringed eyes dart around the shadowy office, carefully scrutinizing objects at random as if searching for something.

The Sole Survivor crouches down in one of the darker corners, keeping as still as she can.

The two Synths scan the floor one last time before leaving out through a hole in the wall at the other side of the room.

As she tries to follow them out, she stops short of tripping over a body. The skeleton at her feet is donning a dust-ridden Institute jumpsuit and coat, with another similarly dressed three strewn about the ground at various points. The clean, sleek design of piecemeal Institute armor is what catches her fancy though. Odd, considering the scientists usually refused to get their hands dirty with fighting, much less coming to the surface. Then again, these people must have died long ago. Rebels perhaps. Instead of dwelling on the obvious puzzle set before her, however, the young woman slips into one of their undamaged coats, then straps pieces to her left leg and arm, moving on.

The Vault dweller tiptoes through the alcove of the mechanical assailants, and down a long hallway. The loose boards lining the dirt floor creak and bend underfoot with every cautious step taken in the dark passage. The exposed hot and cold pipes, as well as the state of the floor give her the impression of it not being part of the original design, but still old enough to be a not very recent edition to the structure.

"Synths and a secret pathway into an abandoned furniture warehouse. The Institute must be looking for some-gah!" Her train of thought comes to an abrupt halt as she falls hip deep through the floorboards.

The young lady, hearing no rushing footsteps coming toward her, clicks on her Pip-Boy light. She squirms and pushes against the ground in an attempt to free herself, but finds it a pointless exercise in the use of meager upper body strength. Instead, the Sole Survivor starts chucking planks off in no particular direction, looking for the source of the rushing water over and around her feet and ankles.

"What the hell happened to you?"

The woman shines her wrist light in the direction of the voice, almost jumping out of her own skin. "MacCready," she breathes, grabbing her chest.

He approaches her at a leisurely pace, gun in hand. "You stuck or looking for something like you usually do?"

"Would you believe there's water down here." She points in the direction of her stuck lower body. "And I fell into it?"

He rolls his eyes, squatting down beside her. "Only you could find something like that by accident." The mercenary peeks under the back of her borrowed coat, seeing her backside and hips wedged into a broken, metal grate.

She holds up her arms, looking over her shoulder at him. "Can you pull me out?"

He knows he's not the strongest of the both of them, but endeavors to try anyway. MacCready resolutely plants his feet, wraps his arms around her waist, then yanks upward as hard as his lean muscle would allow.

"MacCready my-," she gets the air squeezed out of her as he begins to dislodge her hips. Each time he pulls, she can hear her improvised dress rip a little more. "MacCready!"

"Hang on," he huffs, taking a deep breath for one last pull.

"But my-" The last big tug makes her long dress into a mini-skirt, but also gives her the wiggle room to climb out of her own volition. She scrambles to stand, gladly wiggling her muddied toes.

Her companion whistles provocatively. "Haven't seen legs like that since my first pin-up."

The young woman turns, narrowing her very disapproving eyes at him.

"Don't ya know how to take a complement," he snarks.

She holds her tongue, buttoning up her lab coat indignantly. "How about you concentrate on the water."

The young man shakes his head, kneeling down over the lip of the broken grate. He reaches into the hole, drawing out a handful to sip. "It's..." he smacks his lips at the crisp, clear taste. "...Really clean water." He looks up at her questioningly.

As she suspected it was the whole time. Free-running, clean water being piped out of an abandoned warehouse. "But why here? And why the Synths?"

"All I wanna know is if this pipe leads out of here." He squints down the dark passageway beyond the reach of her light.

"You're not even a little curious about the water and the Institute being in the warehouse?"

The young man scowls. "The last time you got curious, we ended up in this mess!"

"There's always good loot in the weird places," she points out in her defense. "What about Jamaica Plains?"

"The only one who appreciated the treasure was Danse. And even he couldn't find a use for all that junk."

"But-"

The metallic *bwom* of numerous Institute rifles can be hear farther down the tunnel.

The young lady clicks off her light, crouching down next to her companion.

Faint streaks of holographic blue light wink in and out of existence in the far shadows.

MacCready makes to retreat, but his employer's curiosity gets the best of her and she heads toward the fighting. He catches her by the sleeve, insisting she follow him, but she refuses with an adamant shake of the head. The gunman insists once more, and she flat out refuses with every last ounce of stubbornness she can muster.

She stays stooped, inching her way toward the firefight. At a dead end covered by a giant grate, the broken bodies of the seeking Synths bob up and down in the rushing water. As she rummages through their clothes and supplies, she finds a labeled holotape. The former Vaultee clicks her light back on, waving to the young man down the hall.

He hesitates, worried about himself more than anything. The bright, waving light from the other end of the dark puts him at ease long enough to give him the nerve to stumble over the many pieces of loose board toward the light.

"Look at what I found." The woman lobs one of the rifles at him, keeping one on her own persons. "It says 'Freed Water, three over three'."

"I found one of those too." MacCready reaches into his jean pocket.

Squishing and scurrying from adjacent tunnels alerts the two humans to the presence of more Mirelurks nearby. They run back to the bonfire out front of the warehouse.