Kaelyn and Valentine's rather extensive to-do list has them criss-crossing the island for the next fortnight. Neither of them trust sleeping in the wilderness, so the closest they come to camping is a borrowed mattress in Far Harbor or Acadia. Her wrist heals enough within the week that she no longer draws Valentine's ire whenever she holds a gun or eats with a fork. These days he always keeps one eye on her back, watchful for any more incidents.

On their second day out, en route to the homestead of Cassie Dalton's uncle, Valentine investigates a Vim! truck by the side of the road. Kaelyn remains outside, scanning the trees on the side of the road while his back is turned.

"Well, well." Valentine's voice echoes through the truck. "This should come in handy. Come take a look."

At the back, strapped down so it wouldn't jostle the truck, is a suit of T-50 power armor. The armor is a lurid green that practically glows in the dim space, with Vim! Refresh branded on the torso. Better yet, there's a fusion core in the back.

"This might help ya. It should keep the Fog out, at least."

Valentine steps back, holding Kaelyn's belongings as the suit closes around her. Sturges showed her a long time ago how to run a basic diagnostic, and she's been in and out of power armor often enough she can now do it in her sleep. The interior harness has been fitted to someone wider in the shoulder and narrower in the hip, but the mechanical joints track her movements with enough accuracy. The HUD reads a mostly full fusion core and no damage.

"How on earth did they wrangle one of these from the army?" Kaelyn wonders. It also serves to test the exterior speakers. "Last I heard, Vim! was running into financial troubles."

The tinny interior speaker squawks as it picks up Valentine's voice. "Let's not question our luck. For all we know, this is as good as it's going to get today."

Being a suit loaned for civilian use, the power armor has no defensive or offensive modifications. She still flattens the fog crawler lurking at Dalton Farm.

On the thirteenth day, Valentine holds up a hand and waves Kaelyn over to a low-hanging branch. Low-hanging to her in her power armor, at least. It takes several long moments to notice the details that caught his eye. Snapped twigs, torn leaves, and several strands of white hair.

Trading a look with Valentine, they come to the same conclusion: the synth boy Chase asked them to find. Derrick. Brooks had given them a description that included pale hair. Neither Kaelyn nor Valentine are excellent trackers, but there's no time to fetch Longfellow. At least the trail, a frenzied path torn through the forest, proves easy enough to follow.

Ever since acquiring power armor, Kaelyn feels different. Not just from stomping through the underbrush, swiping away branches that scrape her shoulder guards, and navigating with boots that sink inches into the dead understory. The Fog curls about her suit now, probing the mechanized joints, peering into her visor. But her armor is sealed.

Right now, a clear head is exactly what she needs.

The forest opens into a small clearing; it's a run down camping ground with cabins. Kaelyn and Valentine check them one by one, hoping for the synth, wary of ferals. But the grounds are quiet in the way that only comes from vacancy.

In the last cabin, they find a bloody sleeping bag and a dead wolf.

Valentine crouches down to inspect its bloody muzzle. "Someone ran afoul of the local wildlife. Could be our missing synth, or else there's another lost soul tearing through the forest."

Kaelyn finds a trail of blood leading out the door, and they keep moving. She can't tell how much blood is from the wolf and how much from the unfortunate victim. The trail disappears into a mess of churned mud and bootprints, and Kaelyn hangs back so she won't destroy any clues with her power armor.

Valentine combs over the site. "Over here."

There's a divot in the leaf litter that looks like something has been dragged through the understory. They follow it down the hill and out of the forest to a rocky slope where only the most tenacious plants grow. Down the hill, towards the gray ocean, a two story shack perches on the cliff side with a winding path down to a private jetty. The windows are lit.

Valentine's expression is grim. "Is it too much to hope those folks took in our synth and cleaned him up?"

No one comes out of the house to halt their approach, even if there's movement inside. Piles of cracked bones are strewn across the yard. Some are clearly animal. Some aren't.

"Licked clean," Valentine rumbles. "Not a speck of marrow."

A man leans by the front door, thick arms folded across his chest, and his glassy eyes dart between the prototype synth and the mechanical woman. His smile has too many teeth. "What do you want?"

His smile itches under Kaelyn's skin. "We're looking for a young man. White hair. Have you seen him?"

The man—a trapper, judging by his rough attire—lights up. "Oh yeah. We seen him. He was bit real bad by something." The man shrugs. "Why waste the meat?"

It takes several moments for his meaning to register. Her hand strays to Deliverer, a movement that can't possibly go unnoticed in power armor. She could kill them all. She knows she can. It wouldn't be the first time, after all.

Inside the house, something moans.

"What was that?" Valentine steps forward, inches from the threshold. "This meat isn't going to be wasted because he's still alive, isn't he?"

"Eh, not for long." There's an anticipatory gleam in the trapper's eyes.

Kaelyn tightens her grip on Deliverer. She's about to make a threat—sloppy, her inner lawyer scolds—when Valentine says, "We didn't come here for trouble. Just the boy. Let him go and we won't bother you any further."

His words douse her.

The trapper's lip curls back. There's dark red gunk between his teeth. "You want me to give up perfectly good meal? Ain't easy to find enough out here, you know."

"He isn't meat," Valentine says, and there's a thread of tension underneath determined calm. "He's a person. What'll it be? Are you going to let us all walk away peacefully?"

There's a discontented rumble from inside the house. "That's our food!" another man objects. "They can get their own. If you hand it over, mebbe you'll be next, Raul."

The first trapper draws his pistol and fires, and doesn't stop firing until he's unloaded the entire magazine into the dissenter. He tries to pull the trigger a few more times even though the slide has locked back, then tosses his gun away. The malcontent drops to the floor, drawing a dozen hungry pairs of eyes from around the house as he gasps and dies.

The first trapper pushes off from the wall, and with a gesture his fellows are already stripping the fresh corpse of its belongings. Kaelyn's stomach turns, but she doesn't dare take her eyes off them. An overlarge cooking fire crackles on the living room floor—and beside it is a pile of raw meat. On that pile wriggles a bound figure with a shock of white hair. The trapper returns with the hog-tied bundle over his shoulder. With profound disgust, he dumps the synth on the ground and kicks him across the porch. "Now go. Before we get hungry again."

Kaelyn keeps an eye on the trapper as she scoops Derrick up. He's a shivering mass of rope-bound limbs and torn clothes. His hair is dark with soot and blood.

"Thanks, gents." Valentine tips his hat and gestures for Kaelyn to lead the way.

A safe distance away from the trapper house, Kaelyn lowers Derrick to the ground and hunts for her first aid kit. While Valentine cuts the bindings away, she rolls up Derrick's sleeve to inject a stimpak. Blood seeps down his thigh while his wrists and ankles are a mess of oozing rope burn. He moans when Valentine tourniquets and bandages his torn leg. His face is bone white but for the red circles of fever on his cheeks.

"Derrick? Derrick, can you hear me? Hold on. We're going to get you to safety, okay?" Kaelyn scoops him into her arms again and Valentine helps get him settled. The synth's weight is slight, even with her augmented strength, and she can't feel him through her protective metal skin. But the boy curled in her arms anchors her as the Fog swirls around them and rage swirls in her heart.

Not again. Never again.

By now the mountain paths are familiar, but it's difficult to run and not jostle Derrick at the same time. Every moan that escapes his mouth twists something in her chest, spurring her legs in time with her jumping heart. Valentine keeps pace with her, watching out for threats.

Acadia's clear skies have never been more welcome.

"Get Faraday!" Kaelyn snaps at the nearest loitering synths. She barely squeezes through the front door in her power armor, but there's no time to divest herself of it. Derrick's pale skin gleams with sweat and his throat bobs weakly. She's halfway down the stairs when Faraday emerges from the telescope room. "He needs medical attention!"

"Right away! Let's get him to the clinic."

With Faraday and Valentine at her heels, Kaelyn rushes to the clinic. She picks up a third shadow called Chase, who takes one look at Derrick and pales. Faraday's fingers fly over the wall terminal, and the surgery doors open. While Faraday prepares his implements, Kaelyn deposits Derrick on the gurney as gently as she can. The synth groans, his breaths fast and shallow. Then Faraday is pushing at her arm, evicting them from the surgery.

Chase stands in the corridor with her arms crossed. "That was the synth who was supposed to arrive?"

Kaelyn nods. "Trappers found him."

She closes her eyes, brows twitching. The expression is at odds with the black uniform she wears. "I knew I should have gone out to meet him. Thank you for finding him. Here, for your trouble."

Kaelyn isn't certain about receiving payment when she was on the verge of killing all the trappers, so she passes the caps stack to Valentine. He deserves it more than her.

Kaelyn hits the seals and her armor spits her out into the cold room. She's going to have to clean the blood off. If only the paint job was red. She looks down at her hands, wondering why they aren't red either.

Valentine comes to stand behind her, resting his hands on her shoulders. They feel different; one is smooth with the weight of polymer, the other light and skeletal. She wants to lean back and let him take her weight.

They stand together, quiet and subdued, until Valentine mutters, "Ya know, it isn't every day I'm thankful that I can't be eaten. Not unless someone was severely iron deficient. It's the little things in life, I suppose."

Kaelyn closes her eyes. "Do you think he'll be okay?"

"I think we've done all we can. It's up to Faraday now."

"Nick?"

"Yes, doll?"

"Thank you for being there."

"Any time."

With no other option except for pacing in front of the clinic, Kaelyn and Valentine head back out. The ever-present dangers of the island force her to focus on her surroundings instead of worrying about the half-dead synth. Besides, the Mariner could always use more help reinforcing the Hull.

For another five days, they're kept busy with a list of jobs that never grows smaller. If they aren't collecting information and supplies to brave the Deep Fog, they're scouring the island to find this or kill that, sometimes with Longfellow in tow. Along the way, they scour the coast for a stranded boat Faraday requested they keep an eye out for. He gave them the boat's intended course, but that's of little use when it could have sunk anywhere, no matter how much Faraday insists it ran aground.

At the Southwest Harbor, success. After clearing out a house full of trappers who somehow got their hands on working turrets, Valentine stands on the back porch that overlooks the cliff. "Take a look at this."

Kaelyn jogs to his side, sending tremors through the floorboards. Valentine points to the rocks below and the boat impaled on them. Trails of oil gleam on the ocean, choking the water with a thick film. The ship they seek has run afoul of the rocks at the base of a cliff and so someone—most likely the trapper gang—has make a crude boardwalk of ladders and platforms to reach it. While Valentine climbs down, Kaelyn jumps. For a moment there is nothing but empty air before gravity pulls at her power armor and her stomach plummets. The ground rumbles as she lands, bending her knees to absorb the shock.

Kaelyn swears she hears Valentine mutter, "Show off."

Squelching through stranded bundles of sea weed, they approach the boat with care. Kaelyn takes a step onto the deck, feeling for any give that might send her through the floor into the ocean. They carry all the equipment they can salvage up to the house perched on the cliff, keeping a wary eye out for any surviving trappers. From there they wrap the goods in tarps or secure them in trunks to grant a measure of protection from the pervading damp.

Loading up the power armor with all the equipment they can strap to it is an exercise in creative knots and weight distribution. Valentine takes the lead on the return journey to Acadia, his lighter feet better suited to the vanguard while Kaelyn stomps up the mountain. For her part, she does her best to not tip over or get stuck in a bog. The foreign weight pulls at the frame in a constant reminder: if they are pursued, she has no escape. The ropes criss-cross around her torso, preventing her from escaping the suit. On the final stretch up the mountain, the Fog begins to fizzle out as they pass the condensers, only to be replaced by a light shower.

Kaelyn checks the tarps still cover everything, then looks to the damp patches on Valentine's shoulders. He tilts his head to let his fedora catch the worst of the rain. "Hey, Valentine?"

"Yeah?"

"How are you doing with the weather? Water and electronics don't usually mix."

Valentine glances at her over his shoulder. "Bundling up these data drives reminded you of me?"

Kaelyn coughs. "Uh... maybe?"

For a moment she thinks she's actually offended him, then Valentine chuckles. "I may be an old prototype, but I'm waterproof."

Faraday appears at Acadia's entrance as if he can sense nearby technology, and a number of other synths help unload the salvage from the power armor. Kaelyn gets the impression it's less altruism and more curiosity or boredom, but her aching back is thankful for their helpers nonetheless.

The recent days have carved themselves into Faraday; there are fresh lines around his eyes, his disheveled lab coat hangs loosely from his body, his hair is in disarray. But his excitement now is like a shot of caffeine that leaves him jittery. "Thank you for recovering these! Oh, and you should know Derrick will pull through. He's quiet after what he went through, understandably so, but he's ready for visitors if you'd like to see him."

Despite Faraday's best efforts to cheer up the clinic with bright lights and tie-dyed blankets—a local boredom-staving project, no doubt—it cannot evict the sterile ambiance that haunts medical facilities everywhere. It also isn't aided by the fact that this place is essentially a concrete basement with a temperature to match. A heater made from spare parts rumbles in the corner, consuming precious fuel, but it can't conquer the subterranean chill.

A lump huddles on one of the gurneys. It shudders at the creak of the door and Derrick bolts upright, even if he grimaces a moment later. The whites of his eyes are visible even from this distance. "Who—? What do you want?"

"Just stopping by to see how you're doing," Valentine says with a voice normally reserved for grieving clients and traumatized witnesses. "Derrick, was it? Good to meet ya. I'm Nick Valentine and this is Kaelyn Prescott."

Derrick cocks his head on his side, squinting at his visitors. "Faraday said you two rescued me from those— those—"

"Hey," Kaelyn says softly, "it's okay."

His slender shoulders bow and he rearranges his blankets, leaning back against the wall. "I can still see it. When I close my eyes. If only I'd listened to Brooks, I never would have… They were—laughing about it. They fought over who would get what part of me…"

Kaelyn sits on the gurney beside him, and her movement is enough to jolt him back to reality. "Shh, shh, shh. It's okay. You aren't there anymore. Look, I know it's going to take time to believe it, but you're safe here. Trappers don't bother Acadia."

But now that's he's worked up, Derrick delivers an anxious stream of questions. "You're synths too? I never thought I'd ever see so many outside of the Institute. Is it—really safe here? Do you know how to fight coursers? I swear I was being followed! That's why I ran."

"Woah, slow down there, Derrick." Kaelyn tackles his questions in chronological order. "I'm human, but everyone else around here are synths. Yes, Acadia is secure from everything the island can throw at it. And I took out a courser not long before we found you, actually." She keeps her voice even through that last part by sheer force of will.

Derrick blinks at her. "You're human? Really? I mean, I just never would have thought— that is, I see you're, uh, friends with synths." His gaze flicks to Valentine.

Kaelyn can't help a smile. "It's okay. Our reputation of being close-minded and dangerous is earned."

"You keep saying it's okay when it's not." He scrubs his hands over his face and fists them in his disheveled white hair. Exhaustion hangs heavy around his shoulders. "Thanks again. I don't want to think about what would have happened if you hadn't arrived."

Kaelyn suspects it's something he thinks of regardless of what he wants.

"You're welcome, kid," Valentine says. "Try to get some rest. When you're up for it, I'm sure someone will be happy to give you a tour." Jerking his chin at the door, he and Kaelyn retreat to give Derrick some peace.

On her way down to the designated bathroom to scrub salt and mud from her pores, Kaelyn is waylaid by Cog, one of the resident merchants. Under his heavy brow, his eyes are dark. "Word is you were asked to check out some boat. Storage drives, right? You need to come with me for a minute."

Something about his sober manner makes her suspect a shower will have to wait. "What's this about, Cog? Word must get around pretty fast if you already know."

"When death by boredom is a legitimate concern around here, we'll scrounge for any news. As for what we're doing, you and I going to have a chat with Jule."

Cog leads her to a quiet corner on the lowest level, where a haphazard stack of crates lean against a yellow generator. In the distance, Kasumi hammers and swears at some stubborn bit of machinery with profanity no doubt gleaned from the sailors in her family. Cog calls, "You down here, kiddo? I need you to tell our friend here what you told me."

At first, nothing. Then a panel pops off the side of a crate, kicked by a jean-clad leg. A porcelain pale face peeps around the edge of the crate and her expression crumples. "What the hell, Cog! That was between us!"

Cog hardly bats an eyelash. "Skip it, okay? She's here to help. Promise."

"Fine. I don't see the point, but whatever." Jule's voice loses its sharp edge, dropping to a low moody tone as she tells Kaelyn, "Look. You know my head's messed up—brains scrambled, right? I keep having these dreams. There's— this is so stupid. There's this boat, and it's on fire." She's laughing now, her voice swinging back up to its unnerving cheerfulness. She laughs, and the sound scrapes goosebumps along Kaelyn's arms. "And I hear screaming. I think it's me!"

"That's awful, Jule. I'm sorry. So Cog obviously thinks I can help—wait. You think it has something to do with the ship Faraday sent us after?"

Cog folds his meaty forearms over his chest. "How many boats have crashed around here recently? Tell her the rest of it, kiddo."

Jule wraps her arms around her middle and addresses the patch of glowing fungus that grows through a crack in the ground. "Look, I know this is ridiculous, but I found this key. It's for... I don't know what it's for. But I just know it's connected. So take it and—fix this."

She lifts one trembling hand, her pale fingers unfurling around an iron key spotted with black smears. Kaelyn turns it over, wondering what Valentine might make of all this. As she knows from Avery, the island doesn't see many visitors, so Cog could be onto something. At the same time, the waters around the island are treacherous, having claimed many ships over the years. The key itself is almost large enough to fit a door, with a number of blocky teeth. Black stains her fingers. Soot.

Kasumi has no insights for Kaelyn about the situation. She's kept her distance from Jule to avoid flaring a migraine, and only found out about the storage drives when Faraday was overjoyed at lunch.

After a second, more successful trip to the bathroom, Kaelyn finds Valentine outside enjoying a cigarette. He takes one look at her and asks, "Trouble brewing?"

"I'd bet money on it. We need to go back out to the boat. Jule has nightmares that sound strangely similar to the crash we saw. She has this key. Doesn't know what it's for, but she gave it to me. Cog's convinced it's all connected."

"If it'll help put minds at ease, we can make a return trip."

They search the boat a second time, seeking any locks that might partner with the key. The steamer trunk is where Kaelyn left it on its seaside perch. The key fits, and she isn't sure what to make of that. There are weapons and canned goods and spare ammunition, along with spare clothes of unusual quality. Wrapped inside a black satin dress is a small journal, and written on the inside cover is the name Victoria.

"Who's this Victoria, and how did Jule get her key?" Valentine wonders. "Haven't heard the name around Acadia."

While her stomach quibbles at this breach of privacy, Kaelyn flips to the last entry, about two thirds through the book.

Never should have let Faraday talk me into this. Never could resist that sweet face of his. 'Just steer the boat,' he said. 'It'll be fine,' he said. And then saying there's nothing he can't fix if something goes wrong? A reminder I did not need. Just what can he do in that lab of his? He keeps everything under wraps, terminal locked tight and everything, and that just makes me more nervous...

As much as Kaelyn hates to admit to it, there's a part of her that wants to flip back a page and keep reading. She resists, knowing, as Valentine said not too long ago, that a detective shouldn't rifle through someone's literal or figurative underwear drawer. Without good reason, at least.

"So we've got a crashed boat, this missing Victoria, and Jule with the key." Valentine hums. "Can't take five steps without tripping over a new mystery on this rock. But Faraday—he knew the boat was reachable by land and didn't say why. What say we pay him a visit?"