"That's our target?", a MARINE ARMOR clad woman asked.

MacCready nodded. "That's our target."

The woman watched the small shack through her gun's scope while he made sure no one was sneaking up on them. Of course, the major was doing his job which was ensuring that the rest of his team was scouting the building. But what he was really concerned with was the headquarters of the infamous Littlehorn & Associates turning out to be some shack: not an abandoned pre-war concrete building or defensive maze. The woman beside him must have thought the same thing to ask him the question to begin with.

The other members of his team occasionally popped into his vision, signalling their preparation. MacCready pointed to his eyes and then to the ground to ensure that his people were looking for land mines. "You don't have to wave the ones you've found at me.", he lamented. After the building was circled and shrugs were signaled back to him, he pointed directly at the front door repeatedly.

The all ran hard at the front door to the shack. MacCready stepped up to kick the door of its hinges. The door was having none of that and the major was propelled backwards. The man who had waved a landmine he found, now brought his arm back while still holding the landmine. Everyone covered as MacCready shook his head at very idea of Far Harbor islanders. With a way too close to the target throw, the landmine did what MacCready's boot had not. The team rushed in searching for whatever was going to be shooting back at them.

They found none. There were only four people clacking away at type writers, hardly concerned with the explosion behind them. The only other occupant of the shack was an old man sitting behind a desk.

"Are you here seeking employment?", the old man asked. "I understand the type of people who come to my door because of the types of jobs I offer. However, I assure you - that entrance was an entirely unnecessary addition to your resumes. Your reputation is your curriculum vitae here."

"Grab them.", MacCready commanded, pointing to the typing secretaries. Walking up to the old man, "You're Littlehorn."

"Daniel Littlehorn, at your service.", he replied. "At many people's service, I'm afraid. And that's why I can still offer you employment. Doing my bidding."

The major scoffed. "No one's doing anything for you. Private mercenary companies are illegal in Commonwealth territory. So's assassination and hiring out for it."

"My dear young man.", Littlehorn clucked. "I've tried to be accomodating so that the truth could work for the both of us, beneficially. But I see you and your band need a more thorough explanation.

"The Capital Wastes aren't ruled. Your Commonwealthers and your ideas that a country can be formed like the ones of old, where laws and social justice can hold sway - it simply doesn't work that way. At least not here. The only authority is a gun and that goes as far as your shot - that's why the towns here have a radius exactly as big as the biggest ammunition available to their holder can travel. This was never Brotherhood of Steel territory. It was never anyone's territory. Yes, I heard the message of your dear General broadcast. Her intentions are only as good as they are enforced. And without her here to enforce them, I am not dealing with them. I am dealing with you."

MacCready looked down on the old man. "Alright you're coming with us. Let's get these guys ready for pick up."

"Can't leave. Too much work to get done.", the secretaries called over their typewriters. One of MacCready's team pulled the nearest out of their chair and threw them bodily through the now gaping doorway. And he exploded. "Better him than me.", the others chanted.

The major pressed the tip of his firearm to the old man's head. "Hands where I can see them. Now!" He gestured to his men. "Check the rest of them. Slave collars can go around other limbs than their necks."

The only thing Littlehorn showed him was a sickly smile. "Don't you get it yet? In a world where the biggest fish in the pond survive by eating the little fish, the little fish only survive by being the spikiest so that they're swallowed last. You literally cannot arrest us. There is no one here to rescue. I have a business interest in offering coin, or in our circumstances - caps, for the demise of certain people. No questions. No answers will be forthcoming. No stopping it.

"But you seem to be a capable killer. May I offer you the going rate of the trade?"

MacCready pulled the man from behind his desk and swung the butt of his rifle into the man's head.

"Can we get the collars off of them?", he asked.

"I'm not exactly a master lockpick, you know?", one of his team called while exposing a device strapped to a man's ankle.

Another simply called out, "Behind you."

MacCready spun and Daniel Littlehorn stood in front of him. Bleeding from a head wound, certainly. But no where near unconscious. As the elderly man turned, MacCready warned him. "Don't take one more step toward that desk."

"And why is that?", Littlehorn asked rhetorically as he moved.

MacCready snapped his fingers. His people, while still kneeling on the backs of the presumably set to detonate secretaries, all focused their weapons on the elderly man.

"That's not convincing.", Littlehorn announced as he walked to his desk. The old man was ripped to shreds and fell apart as he continued to move to his desk. And among those parts was a SYNTH COMPONENT.

Everyone remained still for a moment. Except for the secretaries. They went back to typing.

MacCready's team gathered around him. "Do you think that they're...", one woman gestured to the people seemingly glued to their type writers, "you know? Bzzt, bzzt, who can I infiltrate today, sir?" Another spoke up, "There's only one way to find out."

"No.", MacCready called. "Just hold on a moment.

"Alright, all this is classified. We're special forces. We get sent where no one else can. There's an explanation for this."

The woman turned to him. "And how do you know that?"

"Because if there isn't, then it could mean war with the Institute. If the Institute tried to beat the Commonwealth Marines down to the Capital Wastes and just make things more difficult for Bridget? A Gunner Institute war with us as just the bystanders would be the best possible outcome. But the Brotherhood of Steel didn't just nuke Gunner Plaza. They rad stormed the Commonwealth itself. The rest of the Minutemen can't stay out of a fight when the Institute could be seen as defending the Brotherhood by slowing down Bridget. And then the Gunners are back on the loose, we lose the apparent support of the Institute while taking them on as enemies, and are still facing the Brotherhood.", MacCready explained.

"There's something doesn't make any sense.", one of his soldiers pointed out. "The bounty hunter attacked a synth. If he was in the know, why not go after someone real? Like a marine?"

"So what are we going to do?", another of his soldiers asked. "With what you're saying, we can't go to Colonel Bridget with this."

The major nodded. "You're right. Fortunately, that's not our chain of command. I answer directly to the General, even if a colonel outranks me. If we can get to a vertibird and get a lift back to the Commonwealth without being intercepted by Bridget specifically - we can keep this from her and inside the chain of command."

"Well, you can count on us.", the woman said. "But what about them?"

MacCready turned back to the secretaries all busy typing. He strode over to a type writer, snatched it away from the secretary, and flung it out of the open doorway. The man that had been typing chased after it. What was left of him after the explosion smeared in the direction of the type writer.

"You guys sort through their papers. Keep anything incriminating or interesting. We're going to have to burn the rest.", the major ordered.

"I have four SYNTH COMPONENTS to look for."