POV: Beckett
It was a more normal day.
The dreams had stopped. The signals too. No distorted frequencies, no warped broadcasts, no desperate scratching of messages through the static. Just silence. The kind that starts to feel like peace if you let it hang around long enough.
Punk hadn't been thrilled. He'd still show up at the bar, dragging his equipment behind him and muttering about null zones and bandwidth gaps and whatever other science he thought might explain why his radio waves had gone dead. His frustration mounted every day the frequencies stayed flat.
"Still nothing," he grunted the day before, slamming a radio panel closed. "I mean, it's not like I want the sky to catch fire, but at least then I'd know we weren't being played."
I just poured him another drink and shrugged. "Maybe nothing is good."
He gave me a long look. "Hamm's back on the network."
That gave me pause.
I'd never met Hamm. Punk didn't talk about him much. But I'd seen the way his face changed when he did—something between trust and fear. If Hamm was talking, something was wrong.
"Can't talk about it," Punk had added, almost like a warning. "Classified."
Which, of course, meant it could hurt me.
But I didn't press. Because in that moment, I didn't care.
Because things were... good.
Settlers and raiders filtered in and out of my bar. The fire stayed lit. The shelves stayed stocked. Leeann made our camp a home. She played guitar again, sometimes humming while she cleaned her rifle or rewired a generator. And every now and then—like today—she wore that damn dress.
I was behind the bar, trying to fix a jammed bottle pump, but my eyes kept drifting to her.
She was at the workbench, bent over a rifle stock modification, her dress riding up just enough to show where her stockings ended and bare skin began. Her hips swayed in time to whatever half-sung melody she had stuck in her head, and I felt it in my chest like a growl.
God, she was beautiful.
Focused. Capable. Completely unaware that she was driving me crazy.
I stepped out from behind the bar and crept toward her, grinning like an idiot. She didn't hear me.
Not until my hands slid to her hips.
She jerked upright, laughing. "Beckett!"
"You know," I murmured into her neck, pressing her hips gently back against mine, "I was just thinking about that thing you do—"
She inhaled sharply as I pulled her close, letting her feel just how much I wanted her. Her head tilted back onto my shoulder, and she melted into me.
"Yeah," I growled. "That."
With one arm, I swept the clutter into the corner of the workbench and spun her around. She squealed in surprise as I lifted her onto the surface and stepped between her thighs.
I kissed her—mouth first, then neck, then the soft skin above her chest. Her legs wrapped around me, her fingers tugging through my hair, hungrier than usual. Quieter. Searching.
"Bed," I muttered. "Now."
She grinned and hopped off the bench, bolting up the stairs like a tease.
I slammed the CLOSED sign over the bar, and darted after her, half-laughing, half-starving.
We reached the bedroom, clothes moving quickly. Her dress slipped from one shoulder, her stockings bunched at her ankles. My shirt was long forgotten on the floor. I was above her now, holding her with one hand on her back, the other braced against the mattress. Her legs curled around me. Our mouths moved together, tongues tangled, breath caught.
I kissed down her neck.
POV: Leeann
Heat bloomed in my stomach like a fire just catching.
I hadn't opened my eyes yet, but I could feel hands on my back, hips pressed against mine. Lips on my shoulder, my throat. Someone whispered my name.
"Lee…"
Stephen? That wasn't his voice.
Something felt off. The way his body moved. The way he touched me. Too reverent. Like I was something worth being careful with…
I opened my eyes—
—and froze.
It wasn't Stephen.
It was Beckett.
My entire body went rigid beneath him. He felt it instantly.
He pulled back, eyes wide, concern blooming. "Hey—hey, are you okay?"
I sat up fast, heart racing. He reached out gently, adjusting the straps of my dress, his touch feather-light.
"What's going on?" he asked, his voice rough with worry.
I stared at him, breath shallow.
Then I whispered it.
"I'm back."
His face drained of color.
He stood. Backed away. Ran a hand down his face and stared at himself in the mirror like he didn't recognize his own reflection.
"Lee?" he choked. "Am I awake right now? Are we dreaming?"
"I—" I looked around the room. The rug. The lantern. The bed. The Pip-Boy... glowing from the desk.
"No," I said slowly. "We're not dreaming. Beckett, this is real."
He opened his mouth, then closed it again.
And then—
A loud crash came from downstairs.
"BECKETT!"
Punk's voice.
I shot up from the bed. Beckett's eyes never left mine.
And then, breathless, reverent—he whispered:
"Leeann…"
We ran.
Together.
POV: Beckett
This was impossible.
That's all I could think as we tore down the stairs. My shirt was only half on, my chest still heaving from the adrenaline, and the raw confusion etched across Leeann's face burned like fire through my ribs. She'd said it—I'm back—like it was both a confession and a curse. Like it hurt her to admit it.
And I believed her.
God help me, I believed her.
We hit the floor just as the front door burst open and Punk stood there, panting like he'd run all the way from his shack without stopping. He had one hand braced against the frame, and the other gripped a roll of thermal paper trailing from his pack. His eyes locked onto Leeann like he'd just seen a ghost.
Before any of us could speak—
"NO! NO!"
BANG!
The shot rang out just beyond the porch.
Leeann flinched hard, and I instinctively shoved in front of her, heart hammering, one arm thrown back to keep her behind me. The turrets gave a happy little chirp like they'd just accomplished something grand.
Punk groaned. "Oh, relax, it's just Hamm."
My stomach dropped.
Leeann's voice was small, uncertain. "Hamm? Like… the one who helped us find the bunker in Charleston? That Hamm?"
Punk's mouth twisted, his gaze flicking sideways. "Depends who's puppeteering your meat rig today, chickadee."
I turned on him in a flash, blood hot. "Hey. Watch it."
He winced. "Right. Sorry. Sorry. That came out wrong."
The three of us stepped outside onto the porch just as a figure clambered up the steps. The guy was a walking contradiction: lean but twitchy, trench coat flapping in the breeze like a comic book vigilante. His beard was streaked with soot, boots mismatched, one glove on, one glove off.
And a full-blown tinfoil hat wrapped around his head like a crown of static.
He dropped something heavy onto the porch with a dull thunk.
A possum.
At least, it used to be.
Now it was a mess of oily fur, half-shredded circuitry, and metal wiring glinting in the morning sun.
Punk's eyes bugged. "Holy shit, you were serious."
Hamm tipped an invisible hat. "You had a rodent problem, chacho."
Leeann didn't speak. Her gaze was glued to the thing's body like it was still breathing. Her mouth slightly open. Her eyes unfocused.
Hamm gestured dramatically with both hands, spinning in place like a magician revealing a trick. "Don't let them hear you. Don't let them see you. Don't touch 'em. Just blow 'em to bits."
I stared at him. Then at the possum. Then back at him.
Leeann still hadn't moved.
And then Hamm turned his gaze to her.
His voice dropped low, almost reverent.
"Ah… she has arrived."
Something in me bristled. I didn't like this guy. Not one bit.
POV: Leeann
What. The hell.
I couldn't stop staring at the dead… thing… lying at Hamm's feet.
Possum-shaped, sure. But the glint of metal under fur? The scorched wiring curled like veins? It wasn't an animal. It was a puppet. A spy.
A synth.
I swallowed hard.
Hamm stood there like a man who had just delivered prophecy instead of roadkill. Punk was talking too fast, trying to explain why he'd come bursting in like a madman.
Something about signal spikes. Something about interference.
Something about me.
"…because he said she's not our Leeann anymore," Punk muttered.
That stopped me cold.
I snapped my eyes up to Punk. "Why won't you talk to me?"
He hesitated. His eyes scanned me—really scanned me—for the first time since I'd come downstairs. Suspicion laced with sorrow. Like he wasn't sure who he was looking at anymore.
"What's been going on here?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
The silence after that question was heavy.
Eventually, we found ourselves sitting around the bar. Me. Beckett close by, protective, his hand never far from mine. Punk pacing behind the counter, muttering. Hamm watching me like I was about to sprout wings and detonate.
My head felt full. Like water sloshing in too-tight skin.
And then it started.
Flashes.
Bits of me.
The long year. Searching for other vessels. That log of names. The Overseer.
Then—
Sebastian.
His little legs, stumbling and running. His laugh. The plush bunny.
His first word.
Stephen…
Quiet. Calm. Always there.
Then—darkness.
A facility. Cold lights. Screams. The slam of a door. Being yanked from a bed.
Pain.
Beckett's hand tightened around mine.
I looked up.
And Hamm was staring at me like I'd just said the name of God.
Something about this man was… familiar.
I didn't know how. But I knew I did.