Archive of Our Own ^beta

SUMMER LINGERED LIKE AN UNWANTED GUEST, and by late September Tua felt as though she were at her wit’s end.

There was simply nowhere to go to escape the heat. Each day their apartment would become uninhabitable by noon as the tall, west-facing windows, unshielded by shorter, neighboring buildings, drew in the sun at its hottest, creating more or less an oven to roast her in. Outside - where the air was not so suffocatingly hot - it was instead stagnant and heavy with humidity. The only refuge became the ground floor of the building, which was blessed by shade and had a ceiling fan.

As early as June, when the nights ceased to serve as a respite from the day’s heat, everyone living in the complex had fallen into a daily ritual, one that they were all still stubbornly committed to. It began when Tua’s partner would air out the agency by going around and opening all the windows and doors in an attempt to coax in whatever four to five degree difference that had developed overnight, followed by the ceremonious switching-on of enough antique desk fans to make standing in the lobby a sort of airplane hangar experience. Once Tua awoke around eight, she would collect her nineteen-month-old child and retreat downstairs, chased closely by Ellie and Piper, who used the sound of Tua making their way down the steps as a cue to get to work. At noon, one of them - usually Nick - would venture upstairs to retrieve lunch materials, though usually no one was in any mood to eat, and it was only when the sun had slipped out of sight that they could individually return to their apartments upstairs to pry open the windows and bathe away the day’s film of sweat. It was all somewhat in vain, because then it was too hot to sleep. They all tossed and turned until the sun shone again, at which point the ritual began again.

Sitting around was still a novel experience to Tua. Even while recovering from childbirth, they did what they could to find busy work: they organized the apartment, caught up on their reading, and learned various household skills like plumbing and basic electrical repair. Under Nick’s guidance, she even made attempts at terminal hacking, to varying levels of success. But such things were impossible in the summer, leaving her only with the choice to stay in one spot and hope it cooled off enough to let her feel productive. Lounging on the couch across from Nick, once again wiling away the hours by playing chess or entertaining the baby, restlessness dogged them like the beginning symptoms of an illness.

One particular Friday morning, Tua once again found herself downstairs, occupying the couch in Nick’s office and skimming an old report. The synth sat across from her - leaning back in his chair, with Mira sprawled out over him, his crossed ankles resting on the edge of the desk - and read a separate report. Both files had been sourced from a forgotten banker box of cases investigated by Nick’s former partner, who disappeared some years earlier after a visit to the nearby Faneuil Hall. Nick - having assumed the role of a supervising investigator, and now just as bored as Tua - had dredged up the box from storage under the guise of searching for possible connections to ongoing cases.

Not for the first time, Nick flipped a page in the file he examined and uttered a scoff, seemingly without realizing it. Tua did not have to ask why: her own file was an indecipherable hodgepodge of notes taken on random sheets of paper, over- and under-exposed crime scene photos, and mysterious brown stains. Here and there came Nick’s familiar handwriting, offering advice that Marty scratched out or ignored. There was actually little work product from the man to be found in any of the reports she read; as far as Tua could tell, Marty’s “procedure” was to make an early - possibly random - guess at what had happened, then “interview” the patrons of the Third Rail for hours on end before bludgeoning the truth out of whoever he decided was the next lead. Nick had described multiple instances in which Marty returned to the office reeking of beer and urine and whatever else he had rolled around in while wrestling with someone circumstantially involved in the case at hand -  his mood usually just as ripe - where he would then incite explosive arguments between himself and Nick’s secretary. Like the synth explained: the odds had always been good that Marty would meet an early death, either at the synth’s hands or by the bottle - “only the local super mutants happened to be quicker about it”.

(From how he spoke of the man, Tua quickly realized that Nick had not gotten along with Marty Bullfinch terribly well, and it was not hard to see why. Based on his case notes, Marty proved to be a hot-headed “loose cannon” that regularly dismissed Nick’s methodology, arrived drunk on the job more often than not, and preferred firefights to any meaningful investigative work. He also frequently complained about the synth’s reluctance to raise his rates. “After all,” Marty wrote on the back of a blurry photo, “the old bot doesn’t need to eat - but I still gotta!” Ultimately, Tua was unable to tell whether Marty liked what he did at all, or if it was only a sort of vehicle to provide him with the means to assault people.)

Though, at the very least, Nick added with a wink, he certainly made me appreciate my next partner.

“There is nothing of worth in this,” Tua announced, and closed her file.

Nick sighed - pushing the sound of it out like he had been holding onto it. He patted Mira’s back lightly as if it could soothe him as well. “I’m afraid you’re right,” he said. He had gotten into the habit of holding a toothpick in the corner of his mouth - a safe alternative to his cigarettes. It tilted toward the ceiling as he spoke. “I thought there might be something worth looking into… but that would require any of it to be legible. Christ, he might as well have been throwing darts at a wall…”

Suddenly, with little warning at all, footsteps pounded up the front steps of the building, and someone rushed through the lobby and up into the apartment stairwell.

From where she lay, Tua was not able to see who it was. She watched Nick’s expression change from suspicion to acceptance - where he caught her eye - and he shrugged as gently as he could while still getting the point across.

Ellie, he mouthed.

“Ah,” Tua said.

Once the footsteps had retreated up the stairs, Nick lifted a page, folded it behind the file, and continued on to the report under it. 

“I dare say she’s still in a sour mood,” he murmured, “though I suspect I know why. Betts has a friend in Diamond City that’s getting married - it was all she wanted to talk about over dinner last night. I imagine her mother has asked the question, maybe one time too many.”

Mira stirred, tightening her little fists, before burying further under Nick’s chin. Tua watched her for a moment before returning her attention to the synth that held her. “I assume the question has to do with when Ellie is planning to get married,” they remarked dryly.

“Good detective skills. Now, I don’t believe Bette means anything by it - after all, she never got married herself, and neither did her mother - but it’s still a sensitive subject for any young person. That much hasn’t changed.”

“The women who raised me - it is all they would ask. Amongst other matters. Así, her sour mood is warranted.”

“I suppose so.”

“Besides - do people still do such things? It seems…”

Nick slowly retrieved a pencil from his desk with one hand, operating with the care of someone defusing a bomb. “…Outdated?” he completed. “Sure - but Diamond City’s always been on the more conservative side. I’d say the ceremony part fell out of style with the Institute being what it was, but marriages still happen here and there. For diplomatic reasons, of course. Combining families, sharing land, that sort of thing.”

“But not for love?”

Nick quickly scribbled something on the report. “Uh, on occasion,” he said. “It’s still considered a little old-fashioned, though. I’ve heard.”

“Así - perhaps they will become popular again, now that the Institute is gone.”

“Maybe. Sure.” Abruptly, Nick checked the watch at his wrist, and seemed to realize something. He waved at the child on him and mouthed: Come get her. Tua rose from the couch and came around the side of the desk to pry Mira away from him. Once the child was peacefully asleep again, her cheek pressed into Tua’s shoulder, Nick stood up too. Slowly, to keep his chair from squeaking. He balanced with a hand on Tua’s arm and deposited a kiss on the child’s head.

“There’s an errand I’ve got to run before Bette leaves on her trip,” the synth said. “The tub in Piper’s place isn’t draining right - so I’m off to Hardware Town. Shouldn’t be long.”

“Perhaps I could go, as well,” Tua said.

“Much as I’d like that, dear, it’s not the best neighborhood. I can put the radio on, if you want - I’ll have you know it’s the next best thing to having you there with me.”

They must have made a face: the next kiss landed on their cheek. When Nick stood back he was smiling quite sweetly.

“I owe you, honey,” he promised. “I’ll be back - tout suite.”

The synth then collected his shoulder holster and pistol, and went into the lobby. Tua listened to him explain to Piper where he was going, and soon after she could hear him departing down the alley. Before Tua had a chance to resume sitting on the couch, it was his footsteps that came pounding up the stairs, and suddenly he was standing in the office again and sheepishly fiddling with the radio. He moved the microphone to the armrest of the couch - where Tua always left it - then he was gone.

Now alone in the synth’s office, Tua stood with Mira in her arms. She bounced the child idly and stared without seeing. In a routine that offered little maneuvering, she was once again at a loss for what to do; she wondered if it would be too much work to take the radio upstairs, where they could run a nice bath, and spend the next few hours soaking. It didn’t compare to a dip in the ocean, but it was better than sweating in one spot until it was time to go back to their apartment.

Tua eyed the bulky equipment on the coffee table, and at once decided it was too much trouble.

Returning to the couch, they reluctantly pulled another file from the banker box, and set to reading it. Like the others, the underlying case had to do with a missing person: a twenty-something-year-old who had fled home some time in the spring and left behind a considerable number of concerned parties. Per Nick’s original notes, there were confirmed sightings of her all over the Commonwealth, but the trail had abruptly run cold in a settlement referred to only as “Covenant”. It was an admittedly solid case - even in the early throes - until it was handed off to Marty, who never quite managed to get past Bunker Hill in his investigation. He appeared to “call it” after an insulting run-in with the Hill’s innkeeper.

A crumpled - then unfolded - note, with words in blue ink:

Anti-synth. No entry.

Of course, it was Nick’s slanting cursive, as model as a printing press. Tua felt a brush of anger as she understood that Marty had only been given the case as Nick was unable to gain access to the settlement. She wondered how the conversation had gone: how Nick would have had to convince Marty to give a damn, how Marty must have complained about having to travel outside of Boston for - in his words - “a goose chase not worth the goose”. All that work squandered in the hands of a drunk who couldn’t be bothered - and where was the woman now? Was she still there?

“Boy, this heat is something else.”

Tua smiled, though it would not translate through the microphone. “How can you tell?” she asked, laying the file in their lap. 

“Easy - I sound like a Vertibird taking off, for one. I’m glad I cycled coolant last week, otherwise I’d have shut down by now. Don’t worry - I’m taking breaks when I can. There’s plenty of shade between here and the store.”

“Good.” Tua waited a moment, deciding if it was a topic worth revisiting. Concern overrode. “A ver - this Covenant. Have you gone there?”

“Ah, you must be reading Miss Gray’s case.”

“I am.”

A sigh returned. “To answer your question: no, I never did make it out there,” Nick said. “The people of Covenant were an odd bunch… a regular crew of recluses, only they were about as against yours truly as you could be. I had to give them a wide berth after a run-in with the lunatic at the front gate - nearly shot my leg off - so I never saw the inside. 

“There was something real strange about them, too - stranger than bigotry, at least. See, they were using an old Vault-Tec personality test to try and divine who was a synth, and who wasn’t. Come to find out that they were hauling folks off to some underground complex where they’d go to work on them until they were ready to admit a certain ‘truth’. They went real quiet after the Institute fell. Haven’t heard from them since. Maybe that’s for the best.”

“And this Josephine? Josephine Gray?”

“Christ, that was a real mess. No, I didn’t find out what happened to Miss Gray. For all I know, she’s still in Covenant… but if I were a betting man, I’d say they took her down into that complex. I doubt she ever saw the light of day again.”

Motion in the alley outside - followed by Piper’s notes of indignation. Tua covered Mira’s head with her hand in an attempt to muffle the sound of a nascent argument between the other investigator and whoever had just entered the lobby. “Híjole… ” she murmured.

“That’s Marty for you. Sometimes I’m inclined to find him, just to tell him what a rotten bastard he was.”

Then - her name, stretched out with annoyance - cast from the lobby. Rather than shout over their sleeping child, Tua carefully left the couch and went into the doorway. She was met immediately by Piper, shiny and miserable, who in an attempt to appease the weather had discarded her usual outfit for a linen shirt and loose pants. Behind her was a young man Tua had met only once before.

“I already told him you don’t take on cases,” Piper said quickly, and not unlike a sibling trying to get the first word in. “But I guess he’s not in the habit of listening to reason . Can you just talk to him?”

The young man crossed his arms. His angular features drew sharper when he frowned, his lip curling with distaste, and Tua realized where she had seen him before: in the belly of the Third Rail, where he had acted as an informant for the suspect that would become Eddie Winter. Standing in the lobby of the agency, R.J. MacCready looked no happier than he had then.

“That is correct,” Tua said. With her chin, she indicated the child asleep on her. “I have been busy lately.”

“Before you turn me away - can’t you hear me out, first?” MacCready said. “I wouldn’t be here if I thought someone else could help me.”

Tua resisted the urge to roll their eyes. There was something about the young man’s needling voice that inspired their own juvenile reaction - perhaps it could be called a “sisterly” instinct. Whatever it was, it was difficult to ignore.

“Fine,” they conceded.

Piper granted her a look of sympathy before returning to her desk. Whisking back into Nick’s office, Tua swiftly went to the radio. They picked up the microphone, placed it atop the radio, and leaned down to key it.

“MacCready is here,” she said quietly. “I will leave the radio on - porfa, listen.”

Two clicks - the synth tapping his jaw, and his own internal microphone, to signal understanding.

Tua then went to Nick’s chair and took a seat. Soon after, MacCready had deposited himself on the couch, which was just plush enough to make him look younger than he already was, like a child called into the principal’s office. Undeterred by the heat, he wore a tan duster - shredded along the hem and missing a sleeve entirely - over green fatigues. He seemed to remember something, and pulled off his cap.

At that moment, Mira decided she was no longer interested in sleeping, and pushed herself up from Tua’s chest. Tua allowed her to slide down until the child sat in her lap and was held upright by their cradled arm. MacCready made eye-contact with her, grew visibly unsettled, and began to treat the cap in his hands like a stress toy.

“A ver,” Tua said simply.

“It’s not a big job - I promise,” MacCready said. “But I can’t pay you until after it’s done. Hope that isn’t a problem.”

“We will see.”

“Alright, look - I just need your help tracking some pre-war stuff down. I’ve heard you’re good for that. If it helps, I already know where it is… it’s getting at it that’s the problem. I just need a little back-up.”

Tua frowned. “Can Miss Wright not assist you in this?” she asked.

“I don’t want the town crier fu- freaking helping me, okay?”

"Ay, settle down. Then, what are you looking for?”

“It’s… listen. My son… he’s sick. He’s been sick for a long time. My wife - Lucy - we tried to find treatment for him, only no one told us that Metro was full of ferals. It’s just been me for a while now, and I’ve been doing my best, but… but it hasn’t been easy, okay? I need to find a cure, and fast. So I did some research, and this stuff from before the War might be exactly what Duncan needs to get better. All I have to do is find it. Can you help me, or what?” 

Tua became grossly aware of the weight of her own child in her arms. It failed to inspire reluctance - only guilt arrived. Becoming uncomfortable, Tua averted her eyes, and focused on brushing through Mira’s curls. “I am not a hired gun,” they said firmly. “I cannot defend you. You are asking my help because I can help you find this medication - nothing more, yes?”

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s it.”

“Then, where is it?”

MacCready winced. “Well, as far as I can tell, it’s up in Malden - so, I’d want to start at the hospital there, first. If that doesn’t get us anywhere, we can try somewhere else. Somewhere in the city. But the hospital might have records on where to find more of it. I need your help to get those. Anyway, I think it’s worth a shot - it’s only a few hours outside of town.”

“You have not said what this medication is.”

“Uh, yeah - that’s because I don’t know. I just have the pharmaceutical name for it written down by the guy who told me about it.”

The word pharmaceutical was delivered with the awkward particularity of someone who had only heard someone else say it. As if aware that Tua was silently criticizing him, MacCready grew defensive. “It shouldn’t take long, okay?” he added. “In and out - no trouble at all.”

Tua sighed. 

“I must consider it,” she said, standing up from behind the desk. She held Mira with one arm, and waved at the door with the other. “Please - wait in the lobby for a moment.”

“I don’t have all day,” MacCready warned.

“If you speak to me that way, you will not have me at all. Close the door.”

“I - fine.”

With great effort, the young man climbed out of the couch, and despite his tone, dutifully closed the door behind him as he left. Once he had gone, Tua went around the desk and retrieved the microphone. 

“Well,” Tua said, watching Mira, “what are your thoughts, detective?”

“Why, it was just like listening to one of WRVR’s programs,” Nick said.

Mira’s focus changed to Tua. With matching dark eyes, they observed each other; after a moment, she became far more interested in the ceiling fan. “Mhm.”

“I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again - you’ve got a voice for radio, Holloway. I think you’re in the wrong line of work.”

“Ay - focus.”

Nick laughed. “Well, I’d wager he was lying about something, only I couldn’t tell you which part. I don’t know a whole lot about MacCready, mind you… only that he ran with the Gunners until recently, and that he’s not from around here. I know he’s got a temper. Oh, and in case you couldn’t tell, he’s young too, and all that that implies. Now, I don’t know how liable he is to try and sell some trumped-up story, especially if he’s having to pay for it… but, I’d say he needs the help. Only thing is, there’s probably more to it. A lot more.”

“I believe you are right.”

“Don’t sound so sorry!”

Tua chuckled.

“Hey, why don’t you wait ’til I’m back from the store? Should only be but an hour. I’m happy to go along for the ride, or at least get my two cents in - and if the putz is really lying about it, any of it, why, I’ll sort him out for you. Could be a good learning experience for everybody .”

“It is tempting. However, I will feel better if it is you taking care of Mira this afternoon.”

“That’s all fine with me. Listen, a word of advice: I think whoever told MacCready that his prize is in the hospital must not have liked him very much. If he’s talking about Medford Memorial, that place has been a mutant hotspot for so long even the Brotherhood couldn’t dig ‘em out. Hounds, mini nukes, enough rusted traps to warrant a tetanus shot just talking about it. Granted, that was a few years ago… maybe someone did us all a favor and cleared the place out. But, if you get there and see a wall of green muscle, do what you can to convince the kid that he ought to try somewhere else first. Goes for you, too.”

“That is fine,” Tua said. “I am hopeful to be home by evening.”

“Well, if you aren’t, I’ll surely come looking. ” Nick then cursed. “I’m at the store - I’ll need to sneak around back to get in, so I won’t be much for conversation. But I figure you’re heading out soon… so, I’ll see you tonight, dear.”

“Of course.”

“And - Tua - for my sake… take the .38, will you?”

Instinctively, their gaze was drawn to the cabinet on the far wall, the top drawer of which contained the handgun that Nick referred to. They visualized it, and its clutch of glittering bullets, and pursed their lips, knowing their silence translated clearly over the radio. But, regrettably, there was nothing to argue. They did not know MacCready; where they could trust Nick as a partner, they could not trust the young man.

“Yes, yes,” Tua said dismissively.

“You’re an angel,” Nick declared, and his voice smiled.

For a few seconds, the radio continued to buzz, and Tua became aware of a certain vacuum: a space where something ought to be, something big enough to leave a space worth noticing. She knew what it was, and what it sounded like, but her lips would not part. The breath did not lift. They pictured Nick crouched alone in the loading bay of a hardware store, his gun at the ready, listening and waiting for something she had yet to say, and they felt immensely guilty.

What Tua managed was simply: “Be careful.”

“I always am.”

Another beat of static - the slightest pause - and then the radio disconnected, leaving Tua alone with their daughter in the synth’s office. They allowed themself a few moments to think nothing at all before leaving. 

The only person in the lobby was Piper. Glancing up from her own files, the young woman silently jerked her thumb in the direction of the front door, which had been left open to encourage a nonexistent breeze. Standing in the threshold, Tua found that MacCready had taken a seat on the last step: with his knees drawn up to his chin, and his scarf and collar obscuring his neck, he somewhat resembled a lost child, and they felt a single pulse of sympathy that quickly faded.

“I will help you,” Tua said.

MacCready grinned broadly: a boyish expression made up of sharp edges and gaps. “That’s what I like to hear,” he said smartly. “Did you have to get permission from that ol’ chrome dome, or something?”

“I do not know what that is. And I do not get permission from anybody.”

“Fine, whatever.”

Tua gestured to Mira. “I must make sure that she is settled,” they said. “I will get dressed and meet you in the market. I want to leave quickly.”

“Do what you gotta do, I guess.”

Turning from the front door, Tua crossed the lobby and went into the apartment stairwell. On Bette’s landing, she met with the older woman and explained that they had to go out of town for a few hours, but that Nick would be home shortly to look after the baby (to which Bette laughed, and promised she would watch her for as long as she needed to). In their own apartment, Tua donned a sleeveless shirt, a comfortable pair of jeans, and their best boots. Before leaving they tied back their hair and fastened a scarf to keep her bangs out of her face. In a small shoulder satchel, they collected a glass bottle of water, along with a cloth bag of nuts, dried fruit, and cheese.

Downstairs, Tua returned to Nick’s office, and stood in front of the cabinet. From the drawer they retrieved the snub-nosed pistol and its ammunition - stored away in a box labeled for silver dragées - and took no comfort in the cool sting of its barrel in their hand. It resembled, as it always did, a crudely foreign mechanism.

They wondered how the gun must have made its way back to Nick’s office after she had dropped it in half-melted snow, miles away from where she stood now. She wondered if it had been used since that night.

After checking the chamber, Tua stored it away in their bag, and left the office behind.

“-IT’S HOT, BUT AT LEAST IT’S NOT humid today.”

Tua did not respond. The sun beat down on their back, and long ago the skin on their shoulders had begun to feel tight and dry. They did not particularly care that it was not humid; the fact it was as hot as it had been for months, and that they were now walking in it, was enough for them. They adjusted the strap of their bag - mindful of the strange sunburn that was undoubtedly forming - and stepped around a mound of trash that had collected in the street.

Unperturbed by her silence, MacCready continued the conversation alone. “It could definitely be worse,” he added. He walked a few steps ahead of them, his rifle in his arms, stopping every few minutes until Tua caught up. “At least there’s a breeze from the river. It’ll be better once we’re out of the city, I bet.”

Twenty minutes after leaving Goodneighbor, Tua and MacCready made it to the first bridge, which traveled under a span of the highway and was thus, blessedly, cast into shadow. On the other side of the Charles, Bunker Hill’s obelisk caught the sunlight and held it: it appeared so brilliantly white that it might as well have been cut out from the sky. It would be their first stop on their walk north, for the purposes of obtaining information on Malden’s status from the local caravans.

In the time it had taken them to travel to the river, MacCready had held up the majority of the conversation. He gossiped about the Gunners in the Mass Fusion building - those guys could never take a joke - I hated being assigned to them - the time he had taken on a crew of scavengers outside Haymarket - they should’ve called it after I dropped the first four guys, but no one ever said raiders were smart - and now he hypothesized about the river itself, and the kinds of things that might swim under the surface. Mirelurk Kings, giant sharks, two-headed fish. Throughout, there rose a certain cadence: a cocky, self-assured rhythm in the way MacCready remarked on their surroundings and on his own experiences as a mercenary. Nothing he said required any input from Tua, yet at the same time he seemed to be trying to impress her. It was easy enough to tune out.

“So, uh - your kid.”

Tua looked away from the monument and realized that MacCready had once again stopped to wait for them, partway across the bridge. He took his cap off and rubbed at his forehead aggressively. 

“Yes,” Tua said shortly, hoping that it did not inspire more questions.

“Well… what’s her name?”

Ay. “It is Mira.”

“Oh. Is that short for something?”

A gust kicked up from the river was made sour by low tide. Tua turned her attention east, and eyed the distant, cloudless horizon, a snapshot of blue against blue, bisected by a narrow strip of city skyline. An abstract painting cut from jewel tones. “Miriam,” Tua replied.

“Um. That’s pretty cool, I guess.”

They continued walking, and this time MacCready did not travel ahead, but slowed his speed until he was almost alongside Tua. Before long, they had reached the other side of the bridge and entered the dense neighborhood that surrounded Bunker Hill. The road began to incline, at which point Tua gestured at MacCready’s clothes.

“How are you not warm in this?” she said.

“It’s not too bad,” MacCready replied airily. “You get used to it, being out on the road all the time. This way, I won’t get burnt, either.”

Tua made a noise of acceptance, but noted the droplet of sweat traveling down the young man’s handsome, aquiline nose, and the stain of moisture that had formed on the back of his scarf. MacCready sensed her focus, and delivered a sharp look.

“What about your partner?” he said. “I mean, he’s always wearing those old clothes - that friggin’ trench coat, what a laugh! I bet he gets pretty hot, too.”

They had reached the front steps of Bunker Hill. On one side of the street, someone had piled up a number of pre-war junkers, forming a narrow channel with which to pass through the front entrance. Erected around the base of the monument was a tall, cobbled-together, plywood-and-barbed-wire fence, which parted only at the stairs in the form of a gate leaning halfway off its hinges. It was, more or less, exactly as it had appeared a year earlier, down to the crooked nails, the lopsided posts, and the hopeful smatterings of paint.

“He does not get hot,” Tua replied, turning to MacCready. “He is quite cool to the touch.”

The young man’s mouth - immutably pinched into a brooding pout - twisted with embarrassment. “Um,” he said. “Okay.” He looked up the steps as if seeking rescue, and found it in the form of an older blonde woman who had unexpectedly appeared on the top of the stairs. “That’s Kessler,” he said. “Look, you wait out here - people won’t talk to me if they don’t know you.”

“That is fine,” Tua said, waving their hand. 

While MacCready went up the stairs and through the gate, Tua crossed the street to a bus stop - remarkably still standing - and took a seat. Now that they were in the shade, the early afternoon took on a new beauty: the blue sky seemed to deepen, and a slow current of air wove up the street and kissed the sweat on their neck coolly. It was not so close to fall that the foliage on the hill under the monument had turned brown yet; small white flowers, dotting the dark grass like starbursts, waved in the breeze.

Tua reached for their bag, and retrieved a handful of nuts. From where they sat, they could somewhat hear the bustle of the settlement on the other side of the fence, but failed to pick out anything other than a collection of notes, like an orchestra warming up before a performance. A feminine voice calling out; a Brahmin’s low complaining; the gentle, bright peal of Nuka Cola chimes.

It was difficult not to relish in the moment. It was perhaps the first new scene they had experienced since February, when they had gone north to Maine, and Tua felt a sort of ache begin in her chest.

Before she could identify it, MacCready appeared in the gate. He descended down the steps - spotted them across the street - and stopped in front of her, frowning bitterly.

“Yes?” Tua said.

“You brought food?”

Tua stopped chewing. “Yes.”

“Out here, you should be catching everything you eat - harder to track that way.” MacCready then scoffed. “Hope you like being a target, Miss Holloway. You know, radroaches can smell food from a couple miles off.”

“I do not think that is true,” Tua said, as she took another handful. “And do not call me that.”

“…Mrs. Holloway?”

Tua restrained a sigh. “Holloway is fine. How is Malden?”

“Well, from the people I talked to… it sounds like it’s closed for business. There’s an old neighborhood from before the War, full to the brim with muties, and there might be some in town too. If they’ve set up in the hospital… Well, we’ll just have to sneak in.”

Recalling what Nick had told them before, Tua narrowed their eyes critically. “It is my understanding that the hospital is occupied, as well,” they said.

“Eh, I wouldn’t worry about it,” MacCready answered. “Look, mutants are slow, and most of them are pretty stupid too. Down south, it’s a different story. We can give these guys the slip, easy.”

Tua stood from the bench and adjusted their bag. “Remember,” she warned, “I am not a mercenary. If you want to be eaten in a soup, that is your choice.”

“Jesus, quit talking about food. I’m starting to get hungry.”

The pair left Bunker Hill behind, and continued down the street. Skirting another wall of rusted cars, MacCready directed Tua to the right and down a seemingly random series of streets and avenues, and before long, they had emerged from the dense tangle of apartment buildings and warehouses and reached the edge of another river. They passed a government complex - which Tua vaguely recognized as the BADTFL regional office - and encountered a second bridge littered with more junkers. Above their heads, the double-decker freeway carved north, before collapsing in on itself on the horizon. Lexington, as snarled and ruined as Tua remembered, occupied a broad, colorless swath to their left.

The number of structures thinned until the landscape became entirely rural. Here, the lateness of the year was more evident: fields of dry grasses, uniformly bronze, stretched out to a distant tree line that had already lost its dressing of leaves, that had possibly never grown leaves at all after the War. What was left of a home - a roof beam, a collapsed porch - rose out from the sea like the remains of livestock forgotten. The road under their boots cracked along jagged seams.

Another breeze. A reminder. Tua felt their hair tickling the back of their neck, and wondered if it was too soon to cut it all off again. She had kept it short for the past year - trimming it weekly - to save themself the trouble of worrying over the curls while she had a baby to tend to, but at some point in the spring she had had the notion to let it grow again. It barely reached their chin, and they kept it up all hours of the day, but Tua was admittedly happy to see soft waves developing.

Even if it was miserable in the summer.

They passed another house, this one sitting on the edge of the river and in considerably better condition than the former. Through the second floor window, Tua could see motion; there came a buzzing sound, audible even from the road. The house was full of the massive, ungainly bloodbugs: a post-war cousin of the mosquito, stretched to the dimensions of a large bird of prey.

Don’t let it get near you, Nick had said once. It’ll take just enough blood to lay you low - then it’ll take the rest when you’re in no position to fight back. Even if you survive, you’ll be sick as a dog - and the odds are good you won’t see the week out.

“Ugh,” MacCready groaned. “I hate those things.”

Hurrying past the house, they followed the road as it climbed in elevation. The condition of the road also worsened: while the concrete had buckled decades previously, making it difficult to walk in a straight line, there were dozens of ruined cars, trucks, and motorcycles to navigate around. The reason for the litter became readily clear as Tua spotted the roof of a blocky, off-white building, labeled along the side in big, iron letters: MEDFORD MEMORIAL HOSPITAL. MacCready noticed it in the same moment, and drew to a stop.

“This heat is starting to get to me,” he remarked. “Maybe we should wait until the sun goes down. Isn’t that what people do in, like, the Mojave? Or whatever? Anyway, maybe it’ll give us a better chance of getting inside that place.”

Tua waved their hand in the young man’s general direction. “No,” they said firmly. “I want to be home before it is dark.”

“Don’t you mean before Valentine blows a gasket?” MacCready laughed, the sound taking on the high, childish quality of someone who often found his own jokes amusing. Leaning his rifle against the hood of a coup, he peeled off the top layer of his ensemble: the scarf went in his pocket, and the duster was tied around his waist. A threadbare white undershirt did little to obscure his thinness. “I can’t believe you let him hang around your kid. Aren’t you worried he’s gonna forget to feed her, or something? Look, I’ve known that guy for a while now - and I’ve dropped plenty of bots like him. I’m just saying, it’s hard to picture him as a family man.”

Sweat dripped down the center of Tua’s back.

“Sorry - robot.”

They pursed their lips. “Perhaps we would find the cure for your son faster if you were quieter,” Tua said flatly.

“Hey, fuck you, lady,” MacCready snapped. “Fuck - I mean - fuck! Whatever.”

“You can swear. I am not your mother.”

“I don’t need your permission, Holloway. Let’s just go already.”

MacCready sullenly threw his rifle over his shoulder again and walked ahead of her. Tua followed, and where they expected their irritation with the young man to fade, it remained instead at full strength. They simply could not understand where MacCready’s attitude came from: the extent of his involvement with Nick Valentine was as a one-time informant, and at some point an accomplice in some shady matter near Salem. It did not seem as though the two had ever been around each other long enough to create animosity. MacCready’s consistent venom toward the synth, however, said otherwise, and Tua was beginning to lose their patience for it.

But - what did MacCready know? Nothing more than he had seen, nothing more than he had glimpsed when Nick went into the market with her, or when they sat together in his office, or when they had come to question him on the basis of Eddie Winter. They did not go to the Third Rail together; she did not hang on his arm. But it was all by design, because it was for Nick’s own safety that they kept their closeness a secret. Truthfully, there was no way that MacCready could know that he was repeatedly insulting someone that Tua had grown quite fond of.

Worse: there could be no correcting him, though Tua, unexpectedly, very much wanted to.

The road split in two at the bottom of a large, steep hill, dotted with granite outcroppings and desiccated oaks laden with clumps of parasitic mistletoe. Instead of following the road, MacCready began to clamber up the side of the hill; when he had reached the top, he sat in the grass beside a stump in the shade and hefted his rifle into his hands. He balanced the barrel of the rifle on the edge of the stump, and sighted down the scope.

After a bit of a struggle, Tua finally joined him. The hospital lay to the south in clear view: constructed of the same paneling as Vault-Tec’s Lustron homes in Sanctuary, it was in surprisingly stable condition, albeit rusting. A crop of metal spikes and cages adorned the front entrance, along with something the color of disease.

“Well?” Tua said.

“There’s only one of those bastards down there,” MacCready murmured, indicating the green mass. He pulled the brim of his cap lower, and pivoted to the west. “Plus a hound. A-ha - I see that neighborhood Deb was talking about. Hey, do you know why mutants store meat in those weird nets?”

“…Are you making a joke?”

“No, seriously - I’ve never been able to figure it out. It’s nasty.”

“No. I do not know.”

“Well, there’s a bunch down there. So I guess we know not to go that way.” The rifle swung back. “I see something called Med-Tek down the street… and a Slocum’s Joe. I think that’s an old police station next door, too…”

Tua blinked. Ignorant of the time that had passed, memory struck with absolute clarity. “Med-Tek is a pharmaceutical company,” they noted, hearing their sister’s voice as they did. “Perhaps we could go there, instead.”

“No, no.” MacCready stood up, adjusting his hat until it sat normally on his head. “My guy says the meds are in the hospital, so that’s where we’re going. Look, there’s only one mutant down there - if there were more inside, they’d have a ton guarding the place. Trust me, I know how these greenskins think. They’re not exactly tacticians.”

“Then, why not clear Med-Tek first?” Tua pressed. “If it is not there, we can try the hospital. It would be simpler. A ver - this medication. What is it?”

“I have it written down. I’ll know it when I see it.”

“¡Híjole!”

“Hey, I hired you, didn’t I?” MacCready snapped. “And you said it yourself: you’re not a merc. So why don’t you listen to the guy who knows what he’s talking about? If you’re that worried about it, I’ll just handle it myself.”

“Do not be foolish.”

Now, the young man glared at them, his eyes burning bright. “If you’ve got such a problem with how I run this show, then you can walk home,” he said hotly. “You should be with your kid, anyway. But if you still want to get paid - well then, I’m going to set up here, and let those assholes come to me . So, why don’t you take cover down in that police station, and I’ll come get you when I’m done. Sound good?”

Tua did not answer; the boy did not know Spanish, and anything she leveled would be lost on him, which made them angrier. They settled for waving their hand, as if attempting to rid themself of an annoying insect, then quickly walked down the hill and in the direction of the hospital’s rear loading bay, still filled with trucks. She traveled behind the building - walking carefully around the rusted husks in case of feral ghouls, who had a preference for sleeping under old vehicles - and passed the empty cafeteria. Retrieving their .38, Tua loaded it as they went, and tried to ignore the feeling of the cool bullets in their hand. 

Once they were on the other side of the building, they located Malden’s police station - vintage, even before the War - across the street. The building had fared worse than its neighbors, but still supported enough bricks to offer cover. Tua checked the street for motion before crossing into the alley between the police station and a neighboring subway entry. A considerable chunk of the wall had collapsed - conspicuously adjacent to the bullpen - providing entry into the station from the alley. Tua walked quickly past the holding cells, wove through the maze of old steel desks and filing cabinets, and climbed the concrete stairs to the second floor, which had lost its roof and most of the northern wall. The ancient blue carpet squishing under their boots, Tua went to the corner room - which turned out to be a bathroom - and peered through the broken glass blocks.

From where they were positioned, Tua could see the hospital’s main parking lot, and much of the road they had come in on. They could also see the singular super mutant more clearly. Since emerging into the Commonwealth, Tua had only ever seen one mutant before, and he had been somewhat of an outlier: educated, curious, and - perhaps best of all - not cannibalistic. He had worn clothes and tended his homestead like any given settler across the Commonwealth. What stood in front of the hospital’s entrance was incomparable to Erickson. What stood there was bigger: its skin a mottled, sickly green, barely containing the rippling muscles that appeared to explode out from its body. In its massive hands was some sort of hammer, decorated with metal spikes and barbed wire.

The result of an experiment gone haywire, Nick had described. Someone out west had the grand idea of muddling the human race down into a single identity - guess he thought he was the first to think that was a good idea.

MacCready must have waited until he saw them again to take the shot: Tua had been in the window for barely a minute before gunfire cracked, and the mutant hound in the street below had its skull traded for a mound of deep red mulch. Gore sprayed the mutant standing beside it - it roared in fury and turned to follow the sound - and the next shot took his jaw clean off. Tendons swung wetly before the third shot connected and cleared off the rest of the matter above its neck.

Malden stilled. If there was any birdsong to notice before, it was gone then, and the air took on a tension that made the world wait. Tua held their pistol in their hands and listened.

After a few minutes, the hospital’s front doors were pried open, and another mutant emerged carrying a pipe rifle. The weapon - a Commonwealth special, made of wood and repurposed plastic - barely looked functional most of the time; in the mutant’s hands, it resembled a toy. It was then followed by a third mutant, who appeared unarmed. They stepped over the body of their brethren and went into the street.

MacCready fired again. The mutant carrying the rifle let the gun swing to its side uselessly, and with its great hand pawed at its throat. The shot had gone too low. A second shot corrected the first’s mistake - the mutant toppled over - the third mutant attempted to catch its dead companion. As it dropped, Tua saw that the surviving mutant held something in its hands: something matte green, striped with yellow. A red light flashed at the top of the device, visible through the gaps of the mutant’s fingers.

The door opened again: another mutant, followed by a hound. There was an understanding where the shots were coming from as the mutant with the device gestured up the hill, and the newest arrival barked something indecipherable to the hound. Another mutant - a fifth - a sixth-

More shots sounded, but none of them seemed to go where they needed to go. MacCready was missing. The mutant with the device faltered as it took a bullet in its side, then in its shin, but it had sighted upon the sniper now and was running up the street unbothered, the hound following at its heels. More mutants poured out of the front entrance, all of them focused on the hill.

Another pop-

-followed by a massive, horrific explosion.

Tua screamed. They felt a gust of hot air - like opening an oven - and they ducked down and away from the blocks. Debris, shaken loose, tumbled into their hair and onto their bare shoulders; the building rattled. For a few minutes, Tua could not unfold themself, even when the echo of the detonation faded: they stayed curled, their weapon discarded and their hands netted over their head. The sight of the billowing cloud, enveloping the mutants in hellfire, reared in her mind’s eye like an inescapable nightmare. A bomb, a bomb, a nuclear bomb - what in God’s name was the mutant doing with a thing like that?

“Hey - hey!”

A hand on their shoulder. Tua opened their eyes. MacCready was kneeling next to them, sweating and flushed with exertion. He looked at them in disbelief.

“What are you doing?” he hissed. “We gotta get out of here, Holloway. Once they figure out I’m not up on the hill, we’re done for.”

“I…” Tua blinked. They looked past MacCready, to the rows of desks in the room beside still arranged as they had been two hundred years previously, and watched dust curtain through the sunlight. She saw their gun on the carpet and picked it up. “What do we do?” they asked.

“You were right - I guess I thought Savoldi was pulling my leg, too. But the hospital’s too hot. I guess we might as well try Med-Tek while we wait for the hive to stop buzzing.”

Tua nodded.

“Come on. Let’s go.”

MacCready helped Tua stand, and the pair hurried to the stairwell. Leaving the station behind, he led Tua down the alley and past the Slocum’s Joe building, at which point Med-Tek - evidently the largest building in town - became apparent. The facility felt alien compared to the hospital: dark gray paneling, rounded corners, and a bulbous addition to the eastern side of the structure made for an unwelcoming silhouette. 

Together, they crossed the sprawling parking lot, and climbed the steps to the entrance. Pushing the front door open, MacCready waved Tua inside.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay, I’ll barricade this. You should sit down.”

Tua stood still, and waited for their eyes to adjust. They felt disoriented from the explosion - such that standing in the cold, dark lobby did not grip them with a panic as it usually did. She picked out a receptionist’s desk, twin waiting areas filled with padded chairs, and a series of rounded, modish sectionals staged against the walls, which in the shadows resembled something intestinal. Above them, watching over the pair ominously, hung matching chrome reliefs of harsh, unsmiling women, in a classical style mimicked similarly in the lobby of the county courthouse. The only light came from a single bulb on the other side of the room, illuminating an elevator and the beginnings of a hallway.

Beside her, MacCready pulled lengths of the sectional in front of the door, huffing and puffing as he went. His cap and rifle discarded on the filthy tile. Tua took a seat away from the entrance and watched as the young man threw whatever he could grab on top of the pile - end tables, ashtrays, another sectional. After a few minutes of laboring, MacCready stopped - as if coming out of a daze - and stood catching his breath.

“Okay,” he said again. Collecting his hat and gun, he turned and located Tua. “We should hurry up and find whatever this crap is. I don’t think you should be out here.”

Tua did not answer. They couldn’t find the energy for it. MacCready walked across the lobby - glass crunched under his boots - and stood in front of her. In the low light, his layers gone, he appeared particularly small and young.

“This is taking longer than I thought,” he said nervously. “Honestly - I don’t know if this is worth it, Holloway. Maybe we should go back. Shit. I’ll - I’ll still pay you.”

Words finally made themselves available. Spoken out of habit. “Pero - your son,” Tua said. “What about him?”

MacCready looked surprised for a moment. The expression quickly faded into concern. “Dammit, I don’t know,” he mumbled. “I’ll… I’ll just have to try somewhere else, I guess.”

Tua sighed. “We are here, now,” they said. “We cannot leave for some time. Let us check - and, even if your medication is not here, perhaps there is another cure for him.”

“No - it needs to be this stuff.”

“¡Ya basta! A ver - what are his symptoms?”

MacCready shifted his weight. His eyes traveled around the lobby as he thought heavily. “Um,” he said at length. “The last time I saw him, he - he had a fever. And these - uh - blue boils, all over his arms and legs.”

“…Blue boils?” Tua felt themself frowning. “That does not sound right.”

“Oh, so you’re a doctor, now?”

“¡Que tuvieras tan suerte! You say you have the name of the medication written down. Where is it?”

The young man reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of paper. He delicately unrolled it, flattened out the creases, and provided it to Tua, who held it up so that they could read it in the light.

SALICYLIC ACID

ACETIC ANHYDRIDE

SULFURIC ACID

On the back of the slip was another series of words.

SALICYLATE (ACETYLSALICYLIC) 

IN POWDER FORM, IF POSSIBLE.

“What is this?” Tua asked.

“The guy said that if I couldn’t find the powder stuff, then he needed those things to make it from scratch. You really think we can find it all here? Shit, I guess so, if this is a lab. Right?”

In powder form. She had seen the chemical names before on a prescription, filled at the same drug store her sister worked at. Early in their pregnancy - hadn’t Miriam passed a comment on it? Wasn’t it something to prevent pre-eclampsia?

“This is aspirin,” Tua decided.

“Um, okay. Is it here?”

Tua handed the slip back to him. “Ay . Yes.”

MacCready grinned toothily. Pocketing the piece of paper, he hefted his rifle and pointed it in the direction of the hallway. “Then let’s get going,” he declared.

Wearily, Tua stood from the sectional and followed the young man as he walked behind the secretary’s desk and down the hall. At the end of it, he took a left, and the pair entered into a large, unlit room filled with a handful of workstations and a large decontamination chamber. The decontamination chamber was illuminated from within, giving the space an eeriness not unlike an empty aquarium.

“I bet the lab stuff is back there,” MacCready said, pointing to the sealed door inside of the chamber. “Man, I should come back some time. Bet there’s a bunch of expensive crap in here.”

Tua glanced around the room. As far as post-war settings went, it seemed bizarrely normal: the workstations were still set, and the floor and ceiling was intact. With the power still running, it felt as though only a few weeks had passed since the Great War, rather than a couple centuries.

Whistling appreciatively, MacCready walked through the decontamination chamber. He pulled on the blast door fruitlessly and swore - quietly enough that Tua could not hear his choice of words - then attempted to kick the card reader out of position, to no avail. 

In silence, and with little ceremony, the opposite door slid shut, and locked MacCready inside. 

He swore again - louder. Pounding on the observation window to get the attention he already had, MacCready pointed at a terminal on the wall. “Hey, Holloway!” he yelled, his voice muffled. “Can you hack that terminal and get me out of here? Getting this door open would be great, too. Thanks.”

Tua made no attempt to hide their expression of distaste. “I am… still learning to use these,” she said tightly. “Perhaps it would be better to shoot the glass out.”

“What?”

“I said I am still learning to use these. It is difficult.”

MacCready glowered. “Oh, I heard you,” he said, his voice cracking. “I just - are you kidding me? What do you mean you’re still learning to use them? Don’t you work with Nick Valentine?”

“¡Ay, tontada!”

Before MacCready could continue, the decontamination chamber seemed to remember its purpose. A siren blared, and rotating lights - a jaundiced orange in color - danced over the walls as a warped voice announced something unintelligible. Across the building they heard the slamming of doors. 

The water pipes above Tua’s head groaned - the showers in the chamber activated - and MacCready was doused in a heavy spray of rust-colored bilge water. 

“-Fucking kidding me!” he yelped.

Hopping back, the mercenary tried climbing behind an arch to avoid the onslaught, but only managed to catch the remainder of it on his legs. Almost as quickly as it had started, the flow eased off until it stopped entirely, and the siren quieted. The decontamination room - covered in the slick, oily water that had been sitting stagnant for decades - now resembled a crime scene, which MacCready appeared to be the victim of.

The automated announcer squealed, then hissed. After a beat, it declared, “Please scan identification.”

MacCready slowly turned to look at Tua. He was soaked: rivulets of dirty water trailed down his bare arms and dripped from the brim of his hat, while his stained shirt clung to him as if poured on. He might as well have been drowned.

“Holloway,” he said curtly. “The terminal.”

Tua pursed their lips. 

“Fine,” they said. 

Standing in front of the machine, Tua tapped the keyboard to wake it up. The display flickered and slowly generated bright green text; after a few moments, Tua was presented with a password log-in screen. She stared at the keyboard and tried to remember the command Nick had taught her to take administrative control. After attempting a few unsuccessful combinations, they grew irritable.

“Any time now…”

“Be patient,” Tua directed. 

They typed another set, and the screen finally changed to a wall of symbols and numbers. Here and there - entire words. The machine’s memory of old passcodes. Tua examined the wall further and looked for patterns, selecting what matched and listening for the chirp of success. After their first correct guess, Tua smiled.

Oh, she wanted to call Nick right that second.

“Shit!” MacCready cried. “I mean - fuck! Holloway - look!”

They glanced up. MacCready, his eyes wide with fear, pointed away from them. Tua leaned back from the terminal and turned around.

In the threshold of the door leading into the hallway was a feral ghoul.

At first, the feral did nothing except stand in place, wobbling slightly on its bare feet. It must have been an employee, Tua reasoned: despite its age, there were still shreds of a lab coat covering its shoulders and hips. A small metal tag over its chest read Farragut. It was unclear whether or not it could see well enough to know that she was there with it in the room.

“Shoot!” MacCready yelled, pounding on the glass. “What the hell are you waiting for, Holloway? Shoot it!”

What had Nick told them? Ferals weren’t naturally violent - just startled easily. The alarm would have rattled it. It was only coming to see what had made the noise, to see if it was dangerous. Tua stayed unmoving, though instinct - and experience - compelled them to run. They became aware of the pistol, still clutched in their hand so tightly that there were surely grooves carved in their palm from the barrel of it, which had by then become an extension of their arm, and gingerly pulled the hammer back with their thumb.

MacCready cursed. Tua watched from the corner of their eye as he raised his rifle and brought the butt of it down on the observation window. 

The feral ghoul jerked at the sound and growled. It moved forward, its legs and body uncooperative, and fell into the room. In the gap it had left appeared a second feral wearing Army fatigues.

MacCready smashed his gun against the glass.

It was too late. It was too late. Tua saw the yard outside Four Leaf Fish-Packing - the thin layer of snow and the balding grass. She saw thin bodies plunging toward her, and she raised her revolver, tracking the first feral as it righted itself.

Don’t worry about showmanship. Nothing so cruel as headshots, or any kind of mutilation. No - Nick had said - a feral ghoul is still a person, under all that melting skin and missing soft tissue. One shot, and they’ll fall like they’ve been waiting for a reason to. That’s all.

The feral stumbled to its feet.

Despite her partner’s trepidation, Tua was no stranger to firearms. They had spent their teenage years on a farm in upstate New York, after all, and they often needed to hunt. They knew how to use a gun safely, knew the rules behind leading and waiting and listening. Only they didn’t like having one on their person. A gun was a tool, a tool was for a job - and Tua was not interested in any line of work that required it.

They squeezed the trigger, and took the shot.

Five .

The second one to enter the room shrieked at the close-range report, and demonstrating much better coordination, ran into the room to leap at Tua. She side-stepped - let the ghoul fall through the air - and shot while it lay recovering on the tile, turning the feral’s chest into a cavern. Turning back to the doorway, Tua watched a third and fourth feral stumble in.

Four .

The window wasn’t yielding to MacCready - and why would it - not after two hundred years and a nuclear war and God knew what else, but he kept battering it. Blithely, Tua understood that they would be on their own, and fired again on the new arrivals. They were lucky: the ghouls were ancient, driven by hunger and angry confusion, and they died just about as quickly as they arrived.

Three-

Two-

Silence. No more footsteps on laminate - no snarling. The doorway yawned empty while the sickly orange light skated over and through it.

Behind them, MacCready stopped assaulting the observation window, and swore. “Holy shit, Holloway!” he said wildly. “Jesus, I’m sorry - fuck! Are you okay?”

Tua said yes, though they did not hear it. The word might as well have been an unintelligible grunt for what it meant in the moment. But they felt no need to say anything else, only gritted their teeth to force back the bile that had risen in the back of her throat. Setting the .38 on a desk under the unfazed observation window, Tua took a seat on a swivel chair that had persevered through the decades, and tried to remember to breathe.

Blue tile, green walls, orange cabinet. Orange cabinet, green walls, blue tile.

“I will unlock the terminal in a moment,” they said into their hands.

“Wait,” MacCready said. “Fuck - I have to tell you something. Before we go any further. Christ, what a mess.” 

“Porfa - no talking, please.”

“Listen to me! I’m calling it, okay? I shouldn’t have asked you to do this.”

Tua briefly considered leaving the room entirely if it meant a moment of peace. But there was a chance that there would be more ferals in the hallway, so they resolved to stay where they were, and do their best to block out MacCready’s voice.

“Holloway, are you listening? I’m taking you home. I lied to you about Duncan, alright? It’s a big goddamn lie!”

Red tile. 

“Okay,” Tua said.

MacCready threw his hands up. “No - really! Are you listening to me? Duncan’s not sick. Lucy’s not dead. I took this job from some doctor in Vault 81 to make some caps, that’s all! I made all the other crap up!”

“MacCready.”

“I’ve been sending money home for months. I only came up here because I heard the Gunners paid good, and I thought - I thought I could just make a little money and go back home when I’d made enough. Winlock and Barnes screwed me over and I only got out of there when they took some job down in SoCom. But I didn’t go back, okay? I’ve been putting it off, because - because, shit , I think I’m more of a help if I’m not there. Fuck! All this parenting shit is like another language to me. Lu - Jesus Christ, she’s been a goddamn saint.”

Tua watched MacCready talking. Heard sounds that indicated language. But they could not parse what he was trying to tell her. 

“I do not understand,” Tua said indignantly. “Why insist on hiring me? Why lie at all?”

“Because,” MacCready said, wringing the word out with discomfort, “I needed someone who could get into the system or what-the-fuck-ever at the hospital, and it couldn’t be Valentine - he’s always giving me shit about something or another. And, you know, you have a kid - so, I just thought maybe you’d feel bad for me, and help me out if I told you Duncan was sick. I should have known this wasn’t gonna work out after the goddamn muties. It was stupid.”

Oh, there was no collection of words to express their irritation - and so it was defused. It extinguished without ceremony and was gone. Tua simply could not summon the strength to shout the man down, to make him feel any lower than he already was: caught in a lie and sopping wet with filthy water. They looked at him under the harsh phosphorescent lights, caught in a fishbowl and felt only pity.

“Fine,” Tua said.

“Fine? Fine!?”

Tua stood up and went to the terminal. They made their way down the list of symbols - their hands shaking over the keys - and after a number of successful tries came away with the system password. They overrode the security lockdown and listened to the sound of the decontamination chamber opening from both sides.

Tua gathered their revolver and went to the chamber door. MacCready stared at them, utterly motionless, his mouth moving slightly, as if he was chewing the words he wanted to say. Still dripping pathetically.

“I really think we should go,” he said again.

“We are already here,” Tua sighed. “Let us finish this, then.”

“But - Holloway - there’s bound to be more of those freaks in here. I mean, shit, what if you get hurt? You’ve got a kid at home, for Christ’s sake-”

“As do you, pobrecito.”

A full body reaction: MacCready rolled his head back, sighed, and dropped his shoulders. “I mean, yeah,” he said. “But Lu’s… she’s doing perfectly fine without me, I can promise you that.”

“That is not the point. Do you know who is home, watching my Mira?”

“No.”

“Do you know who will watch her tonight, if I am home late?”

“…No.”

“It is Nick.” Tua approached MacCready, and stood looking over him. “He is my partner. And if you had asked him to help you, he would have. Because he is a good man. You will remember that.”

“I… okay.” He lowered his gaze. “Sorry.”

“Vamos - let’s go.”

MacCready nodded. He shouldered his rifle, then led Tua out of the decontamination chamber. The next hallway emptied out into a series of offices; viewports allowed them to glimpse the wealth of high-tech machinery and laboratory equipment that had remained untouched by looters. It was evident, however, that some sort of struggle had transpired. A desk - the top of it studded with bullet holes - had been tilted over, as if for shelter, and behind it rested unrecognizable remains. Debris littered the length of the hallway.

“Okay,” MacCready said. “I feel like it should be here, somewhere.”

In response, the ceiling clicked. The source was a dark, bulbous attachment, which opened, spun, and faced them directly, its green eye burning.

“Fuck - move!”

MacCready grabbed their arm and pulled them into the nearest office. The turret fired upon the spot they had been, sending chips of tile into the air like shrapnel. MacCready checked the chamber of his rifle and gestured with it.

“Goddamn turrets,” he growled. “Look, these things go in bursts - I can time it. I’ll get behind that desk there, then one, two shots. Easy.”

Tua frowned, but said nothing. After the turret finally cleared its belt of ammunition and fell silent, MacCready darted out of the office, across the hall, and dove for cover. Another click of acknowledgement: the turret swiveled and fired into the desk, creating an atrocious clamor. It produced a few seconds of continuous fire, then quieted.

MacCready popped up, holding his rifle at the ready, and pulled the trigger. Jolting slightly under the recoil.

One-

Two-

Click.

He dropped behind the desk just as the turret opened fire.

“Okay!” MacCready called out, his voice high with anxiety. “This isn’t working! Can you find another terminal?”

Tua looked around the office. There was only one terminal that did not have its screen cracked with age; they went to it quickly and began typing. With the same passcode as before, it took only moments to locate the security command folder - and only one keyboard stroke for the turret outside to whine and still.

MacCready whooped. Tua watched through the window as he hopped to his feet, cleared the desk, and ran to the office doorway. “Oh-ho-ho - I knew you had a way with machines!” he crowed excitedly.

Tua took a deep breath. “Find what you are looking for,” they directed, “so that we may leave, already.”

Still grinning - perhaps in satisfaction that he had gotten away with his joke - MacCready ran deeper into the laboratory. Tua found a desk chair that seemed to be in good condition, and took a seat.

Around the office were signs of another time: books on chemistry lined the walls to their right, and a painting, darkened with two centuries of dust, depicted some historical building in Boston. The desk in front of them had been emptied by some other traveler; all drawers contained were Med-Tek branded pens, some old notebooks, and a brown bottle of something alcoholic. Next to the terminal was a framed, black and white photo of a family standing in the yard of a house.

In the unexpected moment of relative quiet, Tua’s thoughts traveled back to what MacCready had admitted to her, and they felt heavy. To leave his young child behind - and his wife - out of the belief that he could not be a father, could not raise something in the world without condemning it to his same faults - was not something they could judge him for in good conscience, and the realization of it rang hollowly. After all, it had been their very same instinct, months ago after the birth of her daughter; it was what had driven them to the Glowing Sea. It was the instinct to leave, and pray for understanding.

Because, perhaps, if someone else tries, they will do it right.

Tua thought of MacCready’s expression while he stood in the lobby, frantic and small, still more boy than man.

It all became clear later. It all became attainable. The help was there; he just had to want it, to ask for it. Most of the lesson was just that.

Tua did not know how much time had passed. Eventually, MacCready reappeared, holding an ammunition bag that clinked and rattled with each step. “I got everything,” he said. “The people who worked here must’ve been geniuses. What the hell is ‘sodium chloride’?”

Tua did not respond. They stood up from the desk and walked across the office, waving in the direction of where they had come. In the wake of adrenaline, every step ached; even the gesture took great effort.

“Let us go, then,” they said tiredly.

MacCready scoffed. “You don’t have to tell me twice.”

In silence, the pair passed through the decontamination chamber and back into the main hallway. They found the lobby blessedly clear of ferals and mutants. After removing all the furniture he had piled up against the door, MacCready cracked it open, and confirmed the parking lot was just as empty. The only thing waiting was the blistering sun, the waves of heat that danced over the asphalt. But the hottest hour of the day had passed, and already the shadows grew longer.

Tua looked out over Malden. The distant hills blushed under the cooling sky, describing a late afternoon. Thin ribbons of cloud cover developed to the north. Trotting down the stairs, MacCready explained to the air how they could avoid the super mutants to get home, how he’d go to the vault in the morning and get paid so he could wash his hands of the job once and for all. After a moment, Tua followed him.

BY THE TIME THEY RETURNED TO GOODNEIGHBOR, the sun was beyond the city skyline, and the day’s heat had receded. Above, the first stars of the evening revealed themselves. 

The market was open late that night - an invention of John Hancock’s, which had initially caused some complaining before the vendors realized they could turn a profit - and filled with more people than when they had left it that morning. Some pushed carts selling cold drinks, while others kept their doors open for street traffic. One ghoul sat on a concrete divider and strummed some sort of hand-made instrument, the lyrics unclear but her tone happy. Parting the crowd as they went, Tua walked toward the agency before realizing that they were alone.

MacCready had stopped almost as soon as they came through the gate. He stood digging in the ammunition bag before he caught her watching him. He managed to look embarrassed. “I was gonna try and sell some stuff,” he said lightly. “Don’t wait up for me.”

Tua blinked. “Will you stay in town?” they asked.

“Nah, I don’t think so. Gotta get back on the road.” He winced apologetically. “Although, I guess I still owe you some caps…”

Tua waved their hand. “You do not have to pay me,” they said. “And do not attempt to, either. Así - I will ask that you use what you make to go home.”

“I put you through hell, Holloway. I kind of owe you something.”

“You do not.”

MacCready let the bag fall to his side. His lip curled, and he grew visibly uneasy, as if realizing a farewell was imminent. In turn, their own discomfort dawned. Tua sensed that there was something she was supposed to do in the moment, but could not picture what it was. All they wanted to do was turn around and go back home - they wanted to clean the hours off themself - she wanted to slide underneath the cool sheets, and they wanted to feel a familiar body near her own.

But, paired with the knowledge that there was something that should be done, was the drive to figure out what it was. Perhaps a learned instinct from their sister. Tua wondered, in that moment, what Miriam would have asked of her. 

Sighing, they tilted their head, and again waved her hand to gesture toward themself. “¡Vamos!” they said. “You are hungry, I am sure.”

“What?” Now, he was embarrassed. “I was just gonna grab a beer or something. That guy over there is selling squirrel bits.”

“You have not eaten all day. Come, now.”

Tua turned and walked in the direction of the neon sign. Flooding the alley with a blush of color. This time, they felt MacCready walking behind them - heard the ringing of his bag as he walked - but it was only when they had reached the front door that he stopped again. Tua stood with the door half open and looked down at where he waited on the bottom step.

“Um,” he managed. “I’ll wait out here.”

“I will not make you eat outside like a dog,” Tua said.

“It’s nothing personal, Holloway. I’d just feel better if I stayed outside.”

Tua stared at MacCready, but said nothing. She wondered if he was worried about running into Nick - about having to explain why he was returning his partner so late in the evening - or worse, to have the synth look upon him with pity that he needed help at all. Either way, Tua decided to leave it alone. It was not their business.

Leaving MacCready on the front step, Tua went upstairs to their apartment. In the kitchen, they collected a plate of food: strips of dried meat, apricots grown in Daisy’s greenhouse, some cheese and bread from the Abernathy farm. From the ice cooler - hauled upstairs a year earlier by a team of Skinny Malone’s men - she retrieved a jar of clean water. 

When she returned downstairs, Tua found MacCready sitting on the front stoop and smoking a cigarette. They stopped in the doorway with the plate and jar in their hands and made a face of disgust.

“Híjole - you are far too young to be smoking,” they remarked.

“Hey!” MacCready said indignantly. He stubbed the cigarette out on the brick railing, then tucked it into the band of his hat. “If you think I’m too young now, you should’ve seen me trying to roll my own when I was fifteen.”

Tua shook their head, swearing good-naturedly in Spanish. They set the plate on the stone next to MacCready and motioned to it as dismissively as possible. The young man took his cue without question and began eating. There was a meticulousness behind the action, as if he was trying to feign nonchalance - while also using both hands to eat - which unexpectedly inspired a brush of pride in Tua. It felt like reassurance that it had been the right choice to make, and they silently thanked their sister.

“So… is Valentine your boyfriend…?” MacCready asked carefully, his mouth full.

Tua tilted their head. “He is my partner.”

“O-o-kay… you do know he’s like, a hundred years old.”

“I do not mind. I am not so young myself.”

“Yeah, right.” There came a lengthy pause. Broken only by the muffled noise of Goodneighbor beyond the alley. After a minute, MacCready swallowed a mouthful of food and added testily, “-but I won’t guess your age. Someone said that’s not nice to do.”

From the front door, Tua could pick out the sound of distant conversation and music, filtering in on the wind that they all prayed for. They listened for a moment before noticing, perhaps for the first time, that there was a new chill to the night air. 

“Correct,” they said. “Perhaps I could give you a hint.”

“Sure. Whatever.”

“I am much older than him.”

“No, you’re not!” MacCready shouted.

Tua produced a heavy sigh. “It is true,” she said gravely. “I am almost two hundred and sixty years old. I was born before the Great War.”

“Whatever , Holloway. I guess you two were made for each other, then.”

“Mm.” Tua gestured inside the lobby to the couch. “You are welcome to sleep there tonight,” they said. “I will leave the door unlocked for you. I do not expect to see you in the morning - I am a late riser these days. If that is the case… again, I must encourage you to take whatever money you make and go home. I would prefer not to see you again.”

MacCready set the plate down. 

“I think it might be a little late for that,” he said quietly.

Tua could not immediately think of what to say in response. She sighed, crossing their arms over their chest unwittingly, and felt a tremendous sympathy. Hunched over, seemingly crushed by this understanding, MacCready looked up at them from under the brim of his hat, frowning slightly.

“Then, you make up for it,” Tua said at length.

The young man sank lower. 

“So, I have to try, anyway?” he asked.

Tua nodded.

MacCready sighed explosively, and kicked at something unseen on the steps. “I bet Lucy hates my guts,” he said.

She probably did - there could be no disagreeing - and she would be right for it. The young man must have known it as soon as he said it, though he stared at Tua as if hoping they would tell him otherwise.

Spontaneously, Tua recalled Nick’s expression upon holding Mira for the first time. They recalled how he had wanted to hold her while she was being examined by Doc Anderson, because he knew that she was afraid of strangers. It was Nick who had shown them how to soothe a crying baby, who had learned with them how to braid and style her hair, who had made them feel as though they could still do right by their sister - had made them feel like it was worth trying.

“Perhaps,” Tua answered. “I would advise asking her.”

“Aw , Holloway…”

“Hush. Buena suerte - good luck.”

“Thanks.” MacCready grew uncomfortable again. “Um. Seriously.”

Tua held his gaze for a moment, then punctuated whatever went unsaid with a nod. They stepped inside the lobby and closed the door softly.

Leaving the lobby behind, she once again began climbing the stairs to the second floor. It was as they were ascending the next flight of stairs to their own landing that the door to Bette’s apartment opened, and Nick emerged. He was wearing a white short-sleeved shirt tucked into a pair of tan pants, along with a new pair of loafers, and looked quite handsome - if not distractingly clean. At once, Tua became self-conscious of how they must have looked in comparison.

“Hey, stranger,” the synth whispered. He reached for their hands and took them into his own gently, his touch cool. 

Tua smiled. “Hello, detective,” they said.

“You alright? I was starting to get worried.”

Oh, it only took him asking for Tua to realize how exhausted they were. They tried to pretend otherwise, but could not summon the willpower. He would not have believed them, anyway. “I am,” she simply sighed. “I would like to take a bath and go to bed.”

“Well, I think you ought to do that. Listen - I can stay with the Perkins’ tonight, if you’d like the place to yourself. Bette offered to keep Mira ’til tomorrow, anyhow.”

Tua took Nick’s hands and guided them to her face. They pressed their cheek into his palm. “I would feel better if you were with me,” they admitted.

Smiling in consolation, Nick gently patted them. “Oh, dear,” he said tenderly. “Let’s get you in that bath, then.”

Together - Nick still holding their hand like they would drift off otherwise - they walked upstairs to the apartment. Once inside, the synth separated and set to making the bed and fluffing the pillows. He made his way around the room, picking things up and putting things away. It was what Tua referred to as making a nest. “So?” he asked, his arms full of baby toys. A wooden bull on wheels, a soft plush in the shape of a rabbit. “How’d it go with the kid?”

Tua kicked their shoes off, and began stripping the miserable pants from their body, as if shucking a second skin. “Ay,” they said simply.

“Hah! That’s enough for me. Yeah, I suppose he can wear on you.”

Tua made a sound somewhere between agreement and a laugh. They passed through the kitchen and into the bathroom. “I am going to run the water now,” she called out. “It has been a long day.”

“Good plan. Hey now, can I have you look at something real quick?”

Tua twisted the hot water tab, then went back to the doorway. “A ver,” she said, untying their scarf.

“It’s from Hardware Town,” Nick said. His voice was distant: he had gone to the coat rack, and was retrieving something from his pocket. When he came back into the kitchen, his hands were full of paint swatches. He spread them out on the countertop and stood looking like a proud hunter. Tua noted his outfit again, and how it fit him fashionably. Tailored clothes were a relative novelty to the synth still - but Tua quite liked it when he wore them.

“I was trying to find a particular shade of blue,” he explained, unaware of Tua’s attention. “But I could only go off the names, and those were hardly any help. Can you tell me what this one looks like?”

The synth was pointing at a shade labeled Dreamy Dawn . Tua supposed that it was the manufacturer’s attempt at calling it something a little more exciting than indigo, though of course that was what it was. Perhaps only a little sweeter in color.

Tua hummed while they thought. “It is a light purple,” she finally answered. “Almost blue. Like a wildflower.”

The golden rings of Nick’s mechanical eyes dilated slightly as he focused on them. He watched her with a half-smile. “Like a wildflower?” he teased.

“Así - ‘over the western persimmon, over the long-leav’d corn, over the delicate blue-flower flax’. Like a wildflower.”

His smile broadened; the gold narrowed. Leaving their hair half undone, Tua gestured at the swatches, warmly aware that she was being admired. “What is your plan?” they asked loftily. “I only see blue. I do not know if I support painting the apartment again.”

“Oh, it’s not for the apartment. I only thought I’d pick something out for Mira’s room at Kingsport. I know we can’t get back up there until next year, but I had to feel like I was doing something.”

“It is a good pick.”

“Thanks. Don’t forget the bath.”

Tua hmm’ed, and broke away. In the bathroom, she stripped off the rest of their grimy clothes - stained with sweat and ghoul blood - and left it all in a pile on the floor. It would have to soak, they knew, but that was a task for tomorrow. Leaning over the tub, they adjusted the water tabs until they found their temperature.

“I’m going to open the windows, now.”

“Ay - thank you,” Tua replied. They stepped into the water. “Perhaps it will not be so hot tonight. Perhaps fall is coming.”

“Oh, it’ll change soon, honey,” their partner called out from the other room. “It always does. It always will.”

Tua knew that he was right. They ran a washcloth down their legs, breathing in the smell of the orange soap they had bought from Daisy. Slowly and carefully, they scrubbed the day away, until they finally felt clean. Breathing deep, they eased down under the water, and felt the curls of their hair flow freely.

Later that night, once she had climbed into bed, Tua lay in the dark and stared at the ceiling. At a certain point in the day their singular goal had been to perform just that - but now that they were here, now that they were safe, they existed in a sort of limbo.  She was simply too exhausted to sleep. They felt under the sheets until they located Nick’s hand, and tapped his palm gently for attention. His voice - when it came - rumbled out softly.

“Yes?”

The synth didn’t need to sleep - not for long, anyway. A few minutes of data reconciliation here and there, he told them, was enough to make it through the week, though the odd “power nap” - spanning only seconds - helped with his mood. On very rare occasions did Nick need to power down for any longer than that, and usually only when he had been putting it off. But he had gotten into the habit, encouraged in part by Tua, to join them for a few hours in bed, at least until they successfully fell asleep themself. Not that the synth really slept in those hours - instead, Nick would limit some of his processes, focusing on internal mechanisms that usually went without heed in an approximation of a breathing exercise. Like meditating, he’d explained once. For Tua, Nick’s presence was especially appreciated on hot nights, when the synth’s cool, plastic skin was most welcome.

They waited until he looked in their direction, his eyes glinting in the dark.

“MacCready was not very nice about you,” Tua said.

A scoff. He was waking up. “That hardly surprises me,” Nick said.

“He was mocking you. It was upsetting.”

Another glint. 

“…It upset you?”

“Yes.”

Now, Nick looked away. “Well, if it helps any, it wouldn’t be the first time he did that,” he said. “That young man is hardly what I’d call respectful. But I wouldn’t say he’s creative, either, so it’s never really bothered me. Trust me, angel - I’ve surely heard worse.”

“Lo que sea - he should not say these things.”

“Well, I’m honored to have you come to my defense.”

Tua shook her head. “He should understand that you are a good partner,” they said. “Pero - how can he know? People cannot see this if we are so private.”

“Why, Holloway,” Nick sang, “are you asking to show me off?”

They slapped his palm playfully. “¡Tal vez!” they said with faux indignation. “It is not that.”

“Well - I’d like to show you off, honey. Just once in a while. Why, if I didn’t think it would risk your life, I’d be parading you all around town every evening. We’d go to the Third Rail twice nightly just to dance. Oh, it would be a tight schedule, alright, but I’d make it work.”

“Ay, tortolito…”

Threading his fingers through their own, Nick lifted Tua’s hand and pressed a kiss into her knuckles. “What’s that one?” he asked.

“‘Lovebird’.”

“Ah. Guilty, I suppose.”

A familiar feeling - an absence of something. But even that was not fair: Tua knew exactly what it was, the shape of it. They knew what it sounded like. Still, her lips would not cooperate. They felt a pressure in their chest, a tightness, as if they needed to scream.

A star, set in the thin rectangle of sky visible from where they lay, glittered brightly.

Tua rolled onto their side, and - pulling their hand free - draped their arm over Nick’s waist. They curled up against him with her face pressed into his sleeve. Pajamas - he wore pajamas now. Another change: an old crew neck from some souvenir shop in Fenway, a pair of linen shorts. Mira had a matching shirt for her to grow into. 

With their words softened, Tua said what they were scared to say aloud. They did not have to wonder if the synth heard them: she felt him move under them until his cheek rested on the crown of her head. He ran his hand down the length of their arm, back and forth. As if to calm them. 

The sound of the night market eased in through the open windows, the ghoul still singing.