LEGENDARY! Chapter 2 and 3
Aug 22, 2017 16:36:57 GMT -5
Post by skirtwithaweapon on Aug 22, 2017 16:36:57 GMT -5
(Begin with Chapter 1 here: LEGENDARY!)
Desdemona and the other two Railroad agents were standing just to the right of the main gate, waiting for Deacon and Jory. “Got everything?”
Jory nodded. “We all going together, then?”
“We are. We’re heading back to HQ so we might as well just go together.” Desdemona gestured first to the Asian woman, and then the tall, African-American man. “This is Shadow, and Tripwire.”
“Jory,” he said, though he was certain they all knew that, already.
“Not anymore,” Deacon grinned. The group started walking from the gates of Diamond City and into the ruined streets of the Fens. “I’ve got the perfect code name for you, which you’ll have to use as an active agent and all.”
“What is it?” Jory found himself equally excited and terrified. A secret alias name felt like such a simple way to start the path towards stardom.
Deacon spread his hands towards the sky. “Microchip.”
Jory was instantly agitated. “Is that supposed to be funny?”
“Seems insensitive, Deacon, even by your standards,” Desdemona added.
“I admit it carries a bit of a double entendre, but for the most part it’s to reflect your, well, non-adult stature and being an important piece of the puzzle, despite your minute size.” Deacon looked between the rest of them as they continued to walk. “No? Come on, you’re gonna tell me that’s not perfect?”
“Did I miss something?” Tripwire interjected. “Are you another child-synth?”
Jory looked up to Desdemona, who nodded. He took a breath. “My sister and I, we escaped the Institute during the evacuation call, before the reactor blew. At some point, I was part of an experiment to make kids into semi-synths. My body, my brain, has artificial components to it. Where they are, or what they do, I don’t know. I…think the experiment was ongoing.”
“Oh, ‘microchip,’ I get it, now,” Shadow giggled. Desdemona glowered at her.
“They took a kid from the surface for experiments?” Tripwire voiced his thought out loud.
“Ahh…no. I was born there.” Jory offered nothing more.
“Damn. They didn’t have any limits on who they’d exploit, did they?”
“And before we talk about this any further,” Desdemona piped up, “Jory’s unique condition is not common knowledge. Do you understand?” She directed her words towards both Shadow and Tripwire.
“Completely,” Tripwire replied. Shadow nodded.
“Good.” Desdemona glanced back down at Jory and her expression softened. Jory avoided eye contact and blushed. She looked back to Tripwire and Shadow. “With the Institute gone, there is no simple way to access any of their remaining records. Carrington speculates they were trying to get around the obvious fact that synths don’t age, which would have been their main stumbling block to rolling out a full set of child synths onto the surface.”
Everyone fell quiet for a moment. Jory felt particularly awkward. One of the main reasons he left the Railroad was he just didn’t want people to pity him anymore – especially Desdemona – and he wanted a chance to make his own life, just like any other thirteen year old kid scraping their way through the wasteland. The Railroad had made it their job to protect him, at all costs, from persecution or worse, but he never fully understood why. He wasn’t a synth who thought he was, or wanted to be, human. He was just a kid with extra hardware, and hardware he didn’t know how to use, at that.
“Deacon, you’re on point. Shadow, take the six. Let’s hope it’s just a nice walk in the sunshine, shall we?” Desdemona instructed. She looked down at Jory one more time. “Stay close.”
Jory nodded miserably. He just wanted to go back to bed – or, better, wake up and find out this was a very elaborate dream.
They were bearing generally to the north east. Jory had been brooding, and it wasn’t until they were crossing a bridge that he realized they weren’t headed towards the Old North Church. In fact, they’d passed it entirely. “Hey, where are we going?”
“The new casa, big guy. The family grew out of the old digs and we had to upgrade,” purred Deacon.
“What he means is, we’re at war, and had to house an army,” Tripwire clarified.
The group continued relatively unhindered for the rest of their journey. It was early afternoon by the time they arrived at the National Guard Training Yard. The Railroad had refurbished some of its outer fortifications, repurposed the turrets, and of course, added some guard towers of its own.
“You guys aren’t really hiding anymore, are you?” Jory breathed, taking in the gravity of it all. Armed guards patrolled the perimeter, while trainees and seasoned agents alike took target practice around the other side. Armour and weapons crafting stations both had queues of people waiting to fix or fabricate items. Desdemona led them to the doors of the main building, featuring two standing guards. One nodded at them and pushed a door open for them to enter.
The interior did not seem to have fared as well as the exterior. It looked as though the entire upper floor had collapsed onto the main and had stayed that way for centuries, prior to the Railroad taking the place over. Jory could see where the original building ended, and the Railroad had bolstered some of the structure, building new interior walls and having cleared out the majority of the large debris. It smelled slightly unpleasant, like a mixture of sweat, dust, and wet paint.
“Instructions, ma’am?” prompted Shadow, knocking road dust off her boots against the floor.
“Good work today, you and Tripwire, both. We’ll reconvene tomorrow morning to debrief Jo – Microchip on the details of his mission. You’re off duty and dismissed,” Desdemona replied.
“Eh? Ehhhh? See, Dez, it’s the perfect moniker for half-pint,” Deacon gloated.
Desdemona ignored his comment. “Deacon, I’d like you to take him around to get oriented with the facility and settled in to his bunk.” Finally, she turned to Jory. “Get settled, get comfortable. You’ll have free time for the rest of the day. Tomorrow, the real work begins.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Jory nodded.
“Good. Deacon, I’ll expect you back in the war room when you’re –“
“What is that doing back here?” Tinker Tom exclaimed, having materialized seemingly out of nowhere, and interrupting Desdemona mid-sentence. Several other agents standing around turned to look at the sudden outburst.
“Tom, watch your tone,” Desdemona replied, firmly.
“Ohhhhh man, Dez, I was not prepared for this. I haven’t installed signal blockers or anything, you didn’t tell me you were bringing that thing back into our ranks, this is not good, this is not good!” Tom continued to ramble, making a scene. Some of the other agents had gone back to their business while a few remained staring.
“Tom! Control yourself!”
“You’re being totally unfair,” Deacon piped up. “Microchip can’t be any more or less dangerous than a full blown synth. We all know that.”
“Yes, he can, yes he sure can!” Tom babbled.
“My office. Now,” Desdemona ordered. Tom turned, muttering, and Desdemona followed. They entered a room at the back of the foyer and shut the door. The other agents had all gone back to their business with hardly a reaction.
“You okay?” Deacon asked. Jory shrugged.
“Yeah, I guess. I never realized Tom hated me that much,” Jory muttered.
“He doesn’t hate you, exactly.” Deacon tousled Jory’s dark brown hair. Jory swat at him, but Deacon had already retracted his hand. “He just feels unsettled because he didn’t account for someone like you. He felt like he knew everything he could expect from synths. None of us knew they were…well…you know.”
All too well. “You gonna show me around, then?”
Deacon re-assumed his usual pathological liar demeanour. He spread his arms and gestured around the room. “Welcome to the main building’s interior, the most refurbished building of the entire complex. As you can see, we’ve made major changes to the structural integrity of the upper floor, by which I mean, we added walls. Definitely going to crank the re-sale value of the place.” They passed a ruined bathroom, its ceramic fixtures completely in pieces. “Can’t wait to see what they do with that one.” Deacon led them towards the stairwell on the left, opposite from Desdemona’s office. They could hear her and Tom’s raised voices, but couldn’t make out specific words. Deacon compensated by stomping up the stairs.
It took a full forty-five minutes for Deacon to take Jory through the entire facility, and even that was by taking a quick pause at every building, section, and feature. Despite the months he had spent with the Railroad previously, Jory only recognized a few people. The tour finished at the barracks, which seemed to have been in even worse condition than the main administrative building. Planks of wood and repurposed sheet metal had been hammered into each of the floors, covering up huge gaps and making the building useable once more. They climbed up to the top floor, wound down the hallway to the end, and into a small, former corner office that contained a small bed and a dresser.
“Just for you, kid. A whole room. The rest of the troops gotta share the barracks, like sardines in a can.”
Jory sighed. “I don’t want so much special treatment, Deacon, why doesn’t Desdemona get that?” He opened his arms and dropped his affairs unceremoniously onto the floor.
“Actually, it’s not even really about special treatment, in this case. It’s just not, ah, appropriate, to make a kid have to share a big open room with adults, or vice-versa. The big kids would have some complaints about that. See? Doesn’t sound so special, now, does it?” Deacon bounced on the bed. A teddy bear tumbled off the pillow to land face-first onto the floor.
Jory knelt to pick it up. “Ugh, a teddy bear? I’m not a baby!” He threw it into the corner on the other side of the room, a little harder than he had intended. The plastic nose and eyes made a hollow click against the concrete wall before it landed onto the floor.
Deacon stood, then picked up the bear. He dusted it off and sat it onto the dresser. “I know I’m not the most serious guy, but I don’t think this was left to imply you’re a baby. I think someone wanted you to know you are cared for, and welcomed back.”
Jory immediately felt guilty. Desdemona was a little too much for him, most of the time, but she truly cared. He had been with the Railroad long enough to have heard some of the gruesome stories the agents brought back, about synths that were hunted, tortured, and murdered in horrible ways. He himself could face that kind of persecution, if any lay person on the outside found out about his modifications.
“Sorry,” he murmured.
“Trust me, after tomorrow, you won’t ever think any of us think of you as a baby.”
“Trust you?” Jory grinned.
“My work here is done!” Deacon declared, smiling and dusting his hands. “I better go meet Dez. You okay to settle in on your own?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“I know. Later, kid.” Deacon left the room and pulled the door shut behind him. Jory stepped towards the window and took a look outside. He studied the training yard grounds, and beyond. Things hadn’t slowed down out there at all since they had arrived. He watched agents diligently sew patches on worn armour, hammer out a new silencer barrel for a pistol, run obstacles, and practice shooting. He imagined himself as one of them, sewing lead panels into a jacket, talking about the hiccups of the last mission, and speculating on details of the next.
Deacon’s words from early that morning rang through his memory, once more. “What was it you were saying, about wanting to be great? Or, legendary?” Jory frowned, watching the agents in the yard. Desdemona said there’d be a debrief, tomorrow. Not training. He scanned the faces of those he could see from the third floor of the barracks. None appeared younger than seventeen, or eighteen. They weren’t really actively recruiting kids. A special job, for special me. Great. Jory yawned, suddenly feeling very sleepy. He pulled his shoes and socks off, then crawled under the scratchy blanket on the bed. After a few moments, he stood up, retrieved the teddy bear, and went back under the covers.
The next morning, Jory made his way through the complex, back to the administration building, and to the war room. He had spent most of the previous day and night sleeping or brooding, taking trips to the outhouse as required and one stop at the mess hall for a snack overnight. He felt rested, and a little anxious. It was the day the Railroad would assign him his mission, his purpose. He would be cast out into the world, alone, under high stakes, to succeed for the greater good, or die trying.
Jory smiled to himself. He was definitely jazzed. He nodded to one of the posted guards and walked into the administrative building, through the lobby, then up the stairs to the war room. Shadow and Desdemona were already there, sipping what Jory assumed was steaming coffee from mugs.
“Good morning, Microchip. I hope you rested well,” Desdemona greeted him. The soft, emotional person from the day before was far below the surface. Jory was fine with that.
“Desdemona. Hi, Shadow.”
“Microchip,” Shadow acknowledged.
“Who else are we waiting for?” Jory asked, eager to begin his briefing. He drew up to the table featuring Desdemona’s large map of the Commonwealth, like she had set up before within the Old North Church basement. It featured markers of different types, colours, and sizes, but it seemed only Desdemona really knew what any of them represented.
He tried to make it seem like he was studying the map, himself, when he had no idea how to even read one. An arm reached around him from behind to point to a totally different spot on the map than he was looking. “I knew this map was missing something: the cartoon finger pointing You Are Here.” Deacon nudged a marker, an ancient souvenir magnet that was the shape of a kitten face.
Jory didn’t know what embarrassed him more, the fact he was so obviously looking at the wrong place on the map, or that his person was represented by a marker in the shape of a cat. He didn’t want to be teased further, so he didn’t comment on it. “Oh. Thanks, Deacon,” he replied instead, then stepped away from the table.
Desdemona lit a cigarette and took a puff. “Tripwire and Tinker Tom should be here, shortly.”
“I heard about what happened with Tom, yesterday. Sorry he said that stuff to you. He…well, none of the rest of us, feel that way, anyways,” Shadow offered.
“It’s okay, I’m just different than what he’s used to, and he doesn’t really know what to make of me.”
“That’s…mature of you,” Desdemona responded, sounding impressed. Deacon flashed him a covert thumbs-up. The door popped open and in walked Tripwire, who then held the door open for Tinker Tom, clambering into the room with his arms full of assorted tech. “Excellent, we’re all here, and pretty close to on time.” She turned and snuffed her cigarette out in the ashtray behind her. “There’s coffee, if any of the rest of you are interested.”
“Thanks,” Tripwire replied. He crossed the room and served himself a cup. Jory stood awkwardly, wondering what he was supposed to do, and practically buzzing with excitement.
“Take it away, Dez,” Deacon prompted. He had elected to stand against the wall, off to the side.
Desdemona took a breath. “Well, let’s start from the beginning. A lot of the current situation began with the destruction of the Institute. Our faction had devoted decades to the liberation of synths, helping shuttle them out of the Commonwealth, or access memory wipes, or both, depending on their preferences or what was the best course of action based on the political climate.”
Jory nodded.
“The destruction of the Institute resulted in an unexpected mixed result from the greater Commonwealth. Most people welcomed it, seeing it as the removal of the boogeyman, and the threat of synth aggression. They no longer had to live in fear of the thought that the Institute could just teleport you from your home, one night, and replace you with a synth duplicate. That part of the terror was gone.”
Jory nodded again. It was heartbreaking for him to hear that the Institute, where he had been born and raised, had such a detrimental influence on the world above.
“Unfortunately, though, attitudes towards synths remained the same. The population at large were still terrified that not only did some synths remain operating on the surface, but also that several likely evacuated before the detonation. The Gen 1s and 2s can be spotted a mile away, but Gen 3s…well. Many managed to escape, and many of those still were rescued from dangerous places by our agents in the field, for several weeks after the detonation.
“But, peace would not prevail. Synths and likely, innocent humans, were kidnapped, beaten, murdered, or worse, by a terrified populace who still believed all synths are a threat. Hell, the Brotherhood continues to send patrols out for that purpose.”
A disgruntled murmur rippled through the room. Desdemona raised her hand for silence, before continuing.
“About a year ago, shortly after you joined us the first time, Microchip, our best intelligence is that a pair of bored wastelander brothers adopted the title ‘Puritans,’ from ancient history, and started stalking out and murdering synths.”
“It’s an historical abomination. That term definitely does not mean what they are making it mean. Probably only started using it because it sounded like ‘pure,’” Tripwire added bitterly.
“Regardless,” Desdemona went on, “the title stuck. Over time, other, less intelligent and bigoted residents of the wasteland began to feel drawn to the Puritans, feeling as though they could relate to what they stood for. In the span of two months, they grew from being two hooligans to a gang of a few dozen people, and the growth didn’t stop.
“They started giving a voice to the feelings people had been harbouring for a long time, exploiting the irrational fear and turning it into a recruitment tool. Their ranks grew, and so did their viciousness. Soon, they had become our greatest adversary, taking that place from the Brotherhood of Steel and demoting the latter to being just a pain in the ass.” She paused, taking a sip of her coffee. “We could no longer continue to operate while they made concerted efforts to waylay our activities. Just before you left, we had scouted out this location, and immediately began pouring resources into refurbishing it so that we could begin furnishing an army.”
“Whoa. You were planning this war before I left? I had no idea,” Jory breathed.
“But then you left, and showed us you’re intelligent, self sufficient, and responsible. During that time, our agents have been fighting tooth and nail to keep the Puritans from taking too much ground. They started to become very organized, and at the same time, very dangerous.” Desdemona lit up another cigarette. “They started ambushing our checkpoints, studying and following our caravans. We began losing secured areas and safehouses, like before the end of the Institute.”
“Those two intelligence agents we lost, that you heard about yesterday? They were followed from their surveillance points and killed as they took a rest at a safehouse.” It was Deacon’s turn to add to the discussion. “One of them managed to pass on their findings into a dead drop before being murdered. It was the edge we needed to snuff out the secret outpost they’d started setting up in Goodneighbor. We hope it set them back. They’re starting to feel invincible.”
“We can use that, though, right? Get in there now that they think they’re becoming unstoppable, maybe find a way to turn the leaders against each other?” Jory scanned each of the faces in the room.
Deacon spread his hands, grinning. “The kid’s a natural.”
“You’re right, that we’re sending you in as our agent on the inside. You’ll need a cover story and an identity, both of which you’ll have to develop on your own and not tell the rest of us what they are. It’s…safer for all of us, that way,” Desdemona continued.
Jory frowned. “How come?”
Tom took that one. “This is top-secret mission type stuff, kid, super spy junk, covert ops, the whole deal. Those Puritan murderers manage to get a hold of any of us and start a line of questioning about your cover story and we maintain plausible deniability.” He was gesturing wildly with his hands.
“It means we can’t blow your cover. It maintains the integrity of your mission,” Shadow clarified, quietly.
“Oh.” Jory fell silent. The thought of anyone in that room, especially Desdemona, being captured and tortured for questioning over him, didn’t make him feel very good at all.
“Chin up,” Desdemona smiled at him warmly, “that’s the worst case scenario. We know you won’t fail.”
“So, what’s my mission, specifically? What do you need me to do?”
“The short answer is, we need information. Their plans, their supply hoards, their numbers, everything. We have lost the advantage of numbers and need to start cutting off their access to things they need, like food and ammunition.”
“You’re going to spend a week cycling through training with all of us standing in this room, right now,” Tripwire picked up the discussion. “We’ll each pass on different skills, things you’ll need to know, and things we hope you won’t need to use.”
“Stuff like where and how to use a dead drop. And, a gun,” chirped Deacon.
Jory swallowed a lump in his throat. The thought of using a gun against a live person terrified him. He turned the attention to the pile of tech that had been brought in by Tinker Tom by way of changing the subject. “What about that stuff?”
“What is all that crap, Tom?” Tripwire seconded.
“Crap? Crap?! I threw together this beauty of a device to see if our friend Microchip here is sending encrypted signals out into the ether, that’s what it is.” Tom immediately pounced onto his metallic collection and started plugging cables into different components. “He could be a direct uplink to some kind of Institute monitoring station that wasn’t within the ruins itself, sending them all kinds of information, things he hears, things he sees.”
“You don’t know what kinds of information he could be transmitting?” Deacon pressed.
“Well no, not exactly, that’s how they’re winning, don’t you get it? They’re taking his brainwaves and downloading them and reading them.” Tom hardly paused in his fidgeting with his apparatus.
“So not only do you not know what he could be transmitting, you don’t know how, either? So how do you even know what you’re looking for, or if and when you find it?”
Tom froze. Shadow bit her lip to keep from giggling. Tom sniffed, and shrugged. “Okay, fine, you make a fair point. I have a little more work to do.” He swept the apparatus into his arms and made eye contact with Jory as he walked towards the door. “I’m gonna scan you before you leave, though, that much is a promise.”
“Bye, Tom,” Desdemona dismissed. She turned her attention back to the rest of the adults in the room. “I think that concludes the briefing. Did I miss anything?” A pause. No one replied. “Good. Your training will officially being tomorrow, Microchip. Today, you need to see Doc Carrington to make sure you’re fit for active duty.”
“Okay,” Jory conceded.
“The rest of you, start preparing how you’re going to spend the rest of the week helping train our newest agent. Weed out the essential elements as best you can. Time is ticking, and we need to start getting some footing back from those bigots.” Desdemona snuffed out her second cigarette and gestured to the door. “You’re all dismissed.”
3.
Despite the dismissal, Deacon and Tripwire remained behind with Desdemona as Jory left the war room with Shadow. Her feet hardly made any sound as she descended the concrete staircase. Jory studied her movements, and tried to emulate it as best he could. No matter what, he felt like an elephant trying to do ballet compared to Shadow’s near-silent grace. Maybe I just need more practice.
Jory stepped into the sunlight and relished the warmth on his face. He took a deep breath of the morning air, then crossed the complex to the small, outlying building that had been set up as a medical facility. To his surprise, there was a line stretching out the door. There seemed to be a group of agent trainees nursing bullet wounds.
“What happened to you guys?” Jory asked as he took his place at the end of the line.
“Drill gone wrong. One of the senior trainers forgot to reset a failsafe on a turret they use to train us on disabling them, and now we all know what happens when you screw up and get locked out of the terminal,” the trainee on the end explained. He winced and held his sides. Blood stains stretched out beneath his hands.
“Sheesh.” Let’s add, do not tangle with turrets, to the list. “Tough break,” he added. Jory leaned against the wall and watched the clouds float through the sky. The line moved slowly, but steadily. It seemed that an operating room had been set up and the Doc merely had to repeat the same procedure, just a dozen times or so.
He yawned, feeling bored. Standing in line was not how he hoped to spend most of the rest of his last day of being plain old Jory. Since his visit to the mess hall the night before, his mind was buzzing with a handful of different pranks to set up on the unsuspecting agents and trainees. He wanted to plant at least a couple before he had to be a serious agent.
“Well, anyways, what’s your story?” the trainee asked out of nowhere. “You some agent’s kid, or relative, or something?”
“Huh? Who, me? Oh yeah, my dad’s a high level sergeant on this base. Sergeant Steppheim? You probably know him, actually. He runs the drills.” Jory put on his most casual tone of voice and idly picked at his nails.
The trainee blinked. “Sorry, Sergeant who?”
“Steppheim. I’ve heard I look a lot like him? He’s just, well, a lot older than I am, obviously. He left me a note to pick up his prescription, which is why I’m here.”
“Like, your dad is a trainer agent for the Railroad, you mean? We don’t have titles like the old military.”
“No, my dad doesn’t drive a train, he’s a drill sergeant, didn’t I just say that?”
The trainee blinked again. “What are you talking about?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Hey! Pay attention, knuckleheads! You’re holding up the line,” barked a woman in a lab coat, who was hanging out the door. “Murdock, you’re the last one of your company, get in here now or forever hold your peace. Or, injuries. Whatever.”
The man addressed as Murdock gave Jory one last confused look before shuffling as quickly as his injuries would allow into the building. Jory followed but was stopped at the door.
“What’s your emergency?” the woman demanded. Her lab coat sported fresh blood stains, likely from tending to the previous line up of injured trainees. Her eyes were intense, indigo coloured, and narrowed.
“Ah, no emergency, ma’am, but I have an appointment,” Jory replied.
“Oh really? For what?”
Something about her tone and facial expression killed any inclination that Jory might have had to try and prank the doctor’s assistant. “Desdemona sent me, she said the doctor was to make sure I am fit for the field. I can come back later, if you want.”
“Desdemona? Oh!” Her eyes lit up and her expression brightened. “Yes, of course. You must be Microchip.” She put her hand onto the back of his shoulder and guided him into the building. “Just have a seat and I’ll make sure Doc Carrington sees you as soon as he can. This failed turret assignment has made for an interesting morning.”
“Does it happen a lot?”
“Not a lot, but since we started training lay people to handle live weapons, it’s not uncommon that an entire group end up hurt because a single person forgot the difference between a trigger and a safety.”
“I’ll make sure to avoid the training grounds,” Jory replied, as he flopped into the ancient chair.
“That sounds smart. I’m Belinda, by the way.” She stretched out her hand towards him.
“Nice to meet you,” he shook. “And yes, I’m Microchip.” Jory worried the introduction sounded a little too fabricated. He wasn’t at all used to using his code name.
Belinda smirked. “Right. Well, anyways, Carrington will see you as soon as the minor surgery is all finished and cleaned up. Shouldn’t be too long.”
Famous last words. It was at least another hour before Jory was called in to see the doctor. He’d managed to build a decent tower out of the recovered pre-war magazines that were strewn about the waiting room just for something to do.
“Just hit the button for sub-floor one,” Belinda directed, having led Jory down a short flight of stairs, through a room full of shelves housing basic first aid supplies and a single examination table, to an elevator.
“Wow. This place is way bigger than it seems on the outside,” Jory replied, hitting the call button for the elevator.
“That’s what they all say,” Belinda sang. “See you in a bit.” She turned and ascended the stairs back to the main waiting room. The whirring of the moving elevator could be heard behind its doors. It stopped, and the doors opened with a chime. Jory entered and hit the button as he had been instructed, feeling anxious. Not much about the world on the surface rattled him, despite having been raised in veritable technological luxury within the confines of the Institute. For the most part, he thought the wasteland was gritty, and challenging, and the more time he spent above ground, the more he wondered why it took so long for the Institute to come crashing down. They were so sheltered, and so clueless, they were bound to implode, eventually.
The exception was a pre-war elevator. Something about them made him feel his mortality like nothing else. The ride was never smooth. The lighting was always poor. Everything rattled, from the doors opening and closing, to the walls as it moved, and if he was really lucky, the automated voice was corrupted beyond repair and would just buzz something creepy at him rather than announce the floor number.
Jory braced himself against the left wall, closed his eyes, and focused on his breathing. Fear began to clutch his stomach. He swallowed and refocused on the sound and sensation of his breaths: in, then out. In, then out.
The elevator bumped to a stop. The doors squeaked open and Jory all but flung himself out and into the receiving room. One of the medical assistants was putting used, bloodied linens into a basket on the side of the room. He looked up at the arrival of the elevator. “Oh, hey. You’re the next patient? The doctor is ready for you, just go on in.” He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder, directing Jory’s attention to the door straight ahead of him. The receiving room seemed to branch off into several small examination rooms, the majority of which were used to operate on the trainees and in the process of being stripped down by the assistant.
“Thanks,” Jory squeaked, his heart rate still elevated from his ride on the elevator. He scurried into the office.
Doctor Carrington was huddled over a wash basin, scrubbing his skin of any residual blood or bacteria from the hours of surgery he had performed. He looked over his shoulder, then resumed his wash. “Close the door. I just need to dry off.” Jory did as instructed, then stood in the room, awkwardly. Carrington towelled off and turned fully to regard the teenager. “You’ve grown,” he observed.
Jory nodded but said nothing. What does a person say to that, really? ‘Thank you’?
“Sit up on the examination table. This shouldn’t take long.” Carrington turned back to the counter and picked up a stethoscope, while Jory climbed up onto the ancient equipment. Carrington approached and merely looked over Jory, at first. Jory tried not to fidget. Carrington seemed to have aged years since he had been seen last, even though it had only been six or seven months. His face featured deeper wrinkles around his eyes, and his black hair was distinctly salt-and-pepper. Finally, he spoke, sounding concerned. “Are you all right? You seem to be sweating.”
“Huh? Oh – I’m fine. I…don’t like elevators,” Jory mumbled in response.
Carrington raised an eyebrow. He gestured for Jory to lift his shirt, then placed the stethoscope onto his chest. “Take a deep breath in, then out. Good. One more time, in…then out.” He nodded, then removed the stethoscope. Jory let his shirt fall. Carrington proceeded with the standard rigmarole of checking Jory’s blood pressure, shining a light down his throat with a tongue depressor, and feeling Jory’s lymph nodes. Carrington plunked himself onto a stool next to the counter and tossed the stethoscope into a container next to the sink, letting out a long breath. “Physically, you look and sound as healthy as any thirteen-year-old. Whether or not that means you’re suitable for the field, well, who can say? We don’t exactly have a section for that in the field medic textbook.”
“Ah, okay,” Jory replied, sounding as confused as he felt.
Carrington frowned deeper. “I remember you as being a sharp kid. You haven’t figured out that Desdemona really sent you here to…talk?”
Jory blinked, truly surprised. “Talk? About…what?”
They both stared at each other for a moment.
“…wait. Talk about…changes?” Jory broke the silence. His face turned bright red. “We don’t have to talk about that. I learned about that stuff, already, honestly.” He wasn’t sure what was more embarrassing, recalling all kinds of uncomfortable information about puberty from his educational classes in the Institute, or the fact that Desdemona thought he would want to talk about it.
Carrington barked out a harsh, dry laugh, the likes of which Jory had never heard from the man, before. “Oh, I wish! It’s so much easier to just talk about that kind of stuff, even if you don’t want to hear it.” He wiped a tear from his eye before continuing. “No, she wanted us to have an honest talk. You see, sometimes, we found synths had a hard time adjusting to life on the surface. Things like the sky, for example, really confused them. While they had endured a life of trauma working as slaves for the Institute, they came to learn very quickly that life on the surface came with its own set of traumas.” He tented his fingers, choosing his words deliberately.
“We talked about that stuff, before, right? About leaving my home, losing my sister.” Jory shrugged. “All that’s still the same. I miss her, but I can’t bring her back, and the sky is really cool. I don’t even get sunburned so easily, anymore.”
The doctor nodded. “Perhaps it’s a gift of the resilience of youth, that you seem to have acclimated to the surface so quickly and easily. Some synths take years to do so. That is, the ones who elect not to have the…procedure.”
“Yeah. I’m not a synth, though. Synths were…strict. They had specific programming.” Jory’s voice took on a dreamy tone. “Impossible to prank…”
Carrington did not immediately reply. “Hm,” he finally hummed, “I suppose I never considered that thought, before. You’re young and organic. It’s in our nature to evolve, and you’re at the prime to be able to do so.” He paused again. Next he spoke, he changed the subject. “Desdemona knows you will do whatever she asks of you. I mean, you’re here right now, aren’t you?”
Jory shifted his gaze but did not reply.
Carrington leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “Jory – sorry, Microchip – what you’re about to undertake is quite significant. We’ve never had such a young…person in a covert operation before.” He rubbed his brow, seemingly trying to figure out what to say next. “Look. I personally don’t agree with sending you in there. I think you’re too immature – now, now, don’t look so offended, you’re only thirteen, that’s all I meant – and there are just too many risks. If you get caught, they are unlikely to spare your life. If they find out you are in a way part synth, they could do worse things to you than outright kill you.” Carrington swallowed, then locked eyes with Jory. His expression was of stone. “You don’t have to do this, just because Desdemona assigned it to you. If you tell me, right now, you’d rather walk away from the Railroad for good, she’d never know you declined.”
“What?” Jory blinked.
“I’d cover for you. I’d tell Desdemona that you simply wouldn’t be able to handle the physical or emotional stresses of being out in the field -- hell, having to infiltrate the very enemy -- on your own. She’d have to heed my recommendation or risk sending you directly to your death.”
“But, death is always a risk out there.”
“That’s not my point. We’re all going to die, some day. If I tell her you can’t take the mission, she’d have to send you out there knowing she’s essentially sending a lamb to the slaughter.”
Jory bristled. He wasn’t sure if Carrington was trying to talk him out of taking the mission out of genuine care, or his own conscience. A large part of him wanted to tell Carrington where to stick it, to be so blunt with the idea that he simply couldn’t handle the job based on his age. However, he also saw exactly what it could be: an out. This would be the only chance that he could walk away, no other questions asked. He could go back to Diamond City, back to his life.
My life of bussing tables and mopping puke off the Dugout floor for fifty caps a day. Or, I could take this opportunity being given to me, a chance to help the Railroad in their war, a chance to make my mark on history.
Jory took a slow breath in, then out. “Thanks, Doctor Carrington. I appreciate that you are trying to look out for me. Truth is…I really don’t have anything else going for me, right now. I don’t have any other family, any other home than the Railroad. Maybe Desdemona shouldn’t have asked me to take this mission, because I’m young, because I’m altered, but…” He trailed off, tapping his feet together and staring at the floor.
Carrington sighed. He stood from his chair, approached the counter, and began to make some notes in a file. “Well, Microchip. You’re cleared for duty.” He gave him a sidelong glance. “Let’s hope you’re really as smart as you are brave.”
It was well past mid-afternoon by the time Jory emerged from the clinic building and wandered off into the training yard grounds once more. He wandered up a hill on the western edge of the grounds, and stretched out onto the earth, hands behind his head, staring up at the sky. He watched the banks of clouds just hang there, barely moving. Jory took a deep breath, then exhaled, his mind heavy with a storm of thoughts. The seed of doubt had been planted, and he didn’t like it.
Why did he have to say that stuff? Why couldn’t he have just listened to my heartbeat and put me on a scale and told me I was fine? Why am I even thinking that he could be right?
There was a slight rustling from behind his head.
“Don’t you have something else to do, Deacon? I thought you were, you know, a big deal around here.” Jory had tried to sound teasing, but his voice came out stern.
“Doc tried to talk you out of it, huh?” Deacon lowered himself to the ground, crossing his legs at his ankles and wrapping his elbows around his knees.
“Did you know he would?”
“I suspected. You made an impact on many of us, here. None of us want to see you get hurt, especially not on a mission you aren’t wilfully taking.”
Jory closed his eyes. “He was leaning on me pretty hard. I may have disappointed him by saying I wanted to do it.”
“Doc Carrington, disappointed? Now you’re definitely part of the family, kid.”
“Heh.”
The two fell quiet. The din of practice gunfire, the clatter of the workbenches, and assorted voices in far away conversations drifted through the air.
“Did Desdemona put him up to it?” Jory asked quietly, breaking their silence.
“Desdemona is Queen Bee because she makes the right decisions, not the nice ones,” Deacon replied with no hesitation. “She sees your potential and what you could do for the organization, and values that, just as much as she cares about you. How do you think I managed to keep the job for this long?”
“You didn’t die?”
Deacon laughed. “Yeah, that, too.”
Jory opened his eyes and turned his gaze towards Deacon. “Is that all you wanted?”
“Nope.” Deacon shifted just enough to be able to dig into his pocket. He pulled out a small, braided string bracelet, featuring mismatched, plastic beads, threaded through it. Jory gasped, flung himself upright, and snatched the item from Deacon’s hand.
“Where did you find this how did you get this?” Jory’s words were a babbling flow.
“You’re welcome,” Deacon smirked. “To answer your question…when you ran away, I went out to look for you, at first. I thought you might have returned to the place you were zapped onto the surface, that you might have gone back to try and find your sister. The trail was cold, but I started tracking your sister as best I could.”
Jory’s breath was caught in his throat. “And?”
“A little ways away, I found that bracelet, a couple bloated, dead mole rats, and evidence of heavy rains. I couldn’t track her any further, and there were definitely no signs of you.” Deacon reached over to poke Jory in the arm. “I know now that you didn’t go in that direction at all.”
“She might still be alive?”
“Might be.” Deacon stretched his legs out, his knees popping loudly. “Dez doesn’t know I went looking for you, though, okay? She sent a different agent after you. I was on some other recon mission – apparently, we were about to be part of some kind of full scale war – so my absence was expected.”
Jory nodded, not really paying attention. He was fixated on studying the bracelet he had made for her, so many years ago. It was so familiar, yet he felt like he was looking at it for the first time.
They had done the evacuation drills twice a year since before he could remember, so when the call went out, late that night a year and a half ago, they jumped out of their beds and rushed to the relay bay as they had rehearsed so many times. No sign of their parents, but they were working nights at that point. They knew the procedure: get to the relay, and regroup on the surface. “Grab my bag, Jo,” Mirabel had directed him before they left their quarters for the last time in their lives.
It had been chaos. There were sounds of fighting all through the atrium and in the labs. Mirabel had gripped his wrist so tightly while pulling him through the hallways, she ended up leaving a bruise. So much of that escape was a blur. They rushed past damaged synths and injured people alike, and more than a few dead. The lights were flickering and it was darker than it had ever been inside the Institute. He saw classmates, parents of friends, his favourite caretaker synths, all of them yelling, fighting, some of them bleeding and crying, and every time he hesitated, Mirabel hauled him past, keeping their route true. Foreign smells assaulted his nostrils, smells of metal, burning plastic, ozone, blood. The evacuation relays were sending people out in groups, usually families.
“We made it,” she had smiled at him, as they stood in that oddly lit pod. “We’re getting out.”
Jory’s next memory would be waking up on a gurney in the basement of the Old North Church, surrounded by the Railroad, and no one having any idea he had left the Institute with someone else.
“Thank you,” Jory said, gently tucking the bracelet into his pocket. “Really. Just…thanks.”
“For what?” Deacon stood and dusted off his britches. “All I did was come to remind you that your crash course in black ops super spy agent stuff starts first thing in the morning.” He offered a cheeky wave and descended the hill.
Jory shook his head and laid back down, tracing the shapes of the clouds with his finger.
(Click for Chapter 4)
2.
Desdemona and the other two Railroad agents were standing just to the right of the main gate, waiting for Deacon and Jory. “Got everything?”
Jory nodded. “We all going together, then?”
“We are. We’re heading back to HQ so we might as well just go together.” Desdemona gestured first to the Asian woman, and then the tall, African-American man. “This is Shadow, and Tripwire.”
“Jory,” he said, though he was certain they all knew that, already.
“Not anymore,” Deacon grinned. The group started walking from the gates of Diamond City and into the ruined streets of the Fens. “I’ve got the perfect code name for you, which you’ll have to use as an active agent and all.”
“What is it?” Jory found himself equally excited and terrified. A secret alias name felt like such a simple way to start the path towards stardom.
Deacon spread his hands towards the sky. “Microchip.”
Jory was instantly agitated. “Is that supposed to be funny?”
“Seems insensitive, Deacon, even by your standards,” Desdemona added.
“I admit it carries a bit of a double entendre, but for the most part it’s to reflect your, well, non-adult stature and being an important piece of the puzzle, despite your minute size.” Deacon looked between the rest of them as they continued to walk. “No? Come on, you’re gonna tell me that’s not perfect?”
“Did I miss something?” Tripwire interjected. “Are you another child-synth?”
Jory looked up to Desdemona, who nodded. He took a breath. “My sister and I, we escaped the Institute during the evacuation call, before the reactor blew. At some point, I was part of an experiment to make kids into semi-synths. My body, my brain, has artificial components to it. Where they are, or what they do, I don’t know. I…think the experiment was ongoing.”
“Oh, ‘microchip,’ I get it, now,” Shadow giggled. Desdemona glowered at her.
“They took a kid from the surface for experiments?” Tripwire voiced his thought out loud.
“Ahh…no. I was born there.” Jory offered nothing more.
“Damn. They didn’t have any limits on who they’d exploit, did they?”
“And before we talk about this any further,” Desdemona piped up, “Jory’s unique condition is not common knowledge. Do you understand?” She directed her words towards both Shadow and Tripwire.
“Completely,” Tripwire replied. Shadow nodded.
“Good.” Desdemona glanced back down at Jory and her expression softened. Jory avoided eye contact and blushed. She looked back to Tripwire and Shadow. “With the Institute gone, there is no simple way to access any of their remaining records. Carrington speculates they were trying to get around the obvious fact that synths don’t age, which would have been their main stumbling block to rolling out a full set of child synths onto the surface.”
Everyone fell quiet for a moment. Jory felt particularly awkward. One of the main reasons he left the Railroad was he just didn’t want people to pity him anymore – especially Desdemona – and he wanted a chance to make his own life, just like any other thirteen year old kid scraping their way through the wasteland. The Railroad had made it their job to protect him, at all costs, from persecution or worse, but he never fully understood why. He wasn’t a synth who thought he was, or wanted to be, human. He was just a kid with extra hardware, and hardware he didn’t know how to use, at that.
“Deacon, you’re on point. Shadow, take the six. Let’s hope it’s just a nice walk in the sunshine, shall we?” Desdemona instructed. She looked down at Jory one more time. “Stay close.”
Jory nodded miserably. He just wanted to go back to bed – or, better, wake up and find out this was a very elaborate dream.
They were bearing generally to the north east. Jory had been brooding, and it wasn’t until they were crossing a bridge that he realized they weren’t headed towards the Old North Church. In fact, they’d passed it entirely. “Hey, where are we going?”
“The new casa, big guy. The family grew out of the old digs and we had to upgrade,” purred Deacon.
“What he means is, we’re at war, and had to house an army,” Tripwire clarified.
The group continued relatively unhindered for the rest of their journey. It was early afternoon by the time they arrived at the National Guard Training Yard. The Railroad had refurbished some of its outer fortifications, repurposed the turrets, and of course, added some guard towers of its own.
“You guys aren’t really hiding anymore, are you?” Jory breathed, taking in the gravity of it all. Armed guards patrolled the perimeter, while trainees and seasoned agents alike took target practice around the other side. Armour and weapons crafting stations both had queues of people waiting to fix or fabricate items. Desdemona led them to the doors of the main building, featuring two standing guards. One nodded at them and pushed a door open for them to enter.
The interior did not seem to have fared as well as the exterior. It looked as though the entire upper floor had collapsed onto the main and had stayed that way for centuries, prior to the Railroad taking the place over. Jory could see where the original building ended, and the Railroad had bolstered some of the structure, building new interior walls and having cleared out the majority of the large debris. It smelled slightly unpleasant, like a mixture of sweat, dust, and wet paint.
“Instructions, ma’am?” prompted Shadow, knocking road dust off her boots against the floor.
“Good work today, you and Tripwire, both. We’ll reconvene tomorrow morning to debrief Jo – Microchip on the details of his mission. You’re off duty and dismissed,” Desdemona replied.
“Eh? Ehhhh? See, Dez, it’s the perfect moniker for half-pint,” Deacon gloated.
Desdemona ignored his comment. “Deacon, I’d like you to take him around to get oriented with the facility and settled in to his bunk.” Finally, she turned to Jory. “Get settled, get comfortable. You’ll have free time for the rest of the day. Tomorrow, the real work begins.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Jory nodded.
“Good. Deacon, I’ll expect you back in the war room when you’re –“
“What is that doing back here?” Tinker Tom exclaimed, having materialized seemingly out of nowhere, and interrupting Desdemona mid-sentence. Several other agents standing around turned to look at the sudden outburst.
“Tom, watch your tone,” Desdemona replied, firmly.
“Ohhhhh man, Dez, I was not prepared for this. I haven’t installed signal blockers or anything, you didn’t tell me you were bringing that thing back into our ranks, this is not good, this is not good!” Tom continued to ramble, making a scene. Some of the other agents had gone back to their business while a few remained staring.
“Tom! Control yourself!”
“You’re being totally unfair,” Deacon piped up. “Microchip can’t be any more or less dangerous than a full blown synth. We all know that.”
“Yes, he can, yes he sure can!” Tom babbled.
“My office. Now,” Desdemona ordered. Tom turned, muttering, and Desdemona followed. They entered a room at the back of the foyer and shut the door. The other agents had all gone back to their business with hardly a reaction.
“You okay?” Deacon asked. Jory shrugged.
“Yeah, I guess. I never realized Tom hated me that much,” Jory muttered.
“He doesn’t hate you, exactly.” Deacon tousled Jory’s dark brown hair. Jory swat at him, but Deacon had already retracted his hand. “He just feels unsettled because he didn’t account for someone like you. He felt like he knew everything he could expect from synths. None of us knew they were…well…you know.”
All too well. “You gonna show me around, then?”
Deacon re-assumed his usual pathological liar demeanour. He spread his arms and gestured around the room. “Welcome to the main building’s interior, the most refurbished building of the entire complex. As you can see, we’ve made major changes to the structural integrity of the upper floor, by which I mean, we added walls. Definitely going to crank the re-sale value of the place.” They passed a ruined bathroom, its ceramic fixtures completely in pieces. “Can’t wait to see what they do with that one.” Deacon led them towards the stairwell on the left, opposite from Desdemona’s office. They could hear her and Tom’s raised voices, but couldn’t make out specific words. Deacon compensated by stomping up the stairs.
It took a full forty-five minutes for Deacon to take Jory through the entire facility, and even that was by taking a quick pause at every building, section, and feature. Despite the months he had spent with the Railroad previously, Jory only recognized a few people. The tour finished at the barracks, which seemed to have been in even worse condition than the main administrative building. Planks of wood and repurposed sheet metal had been hammered into each of the floors, covering up huge gaps and making the building useable once more. They climbed up to the top floor, wound down the hallway to the end, and into a small, former corner office that contained a small bed and a dresser.
“Just for you, kid. A whole room. The rest of the troops gotta share the barracks, like sardines in a can.”
Jory sighed. “I don’t want so much special treatment, Deacon, why doesn’t Desdemona get that?” He opened his arms and dropped his affairs unceremoniously onto the floor.
“Actually, it’s not even really about special treatment, in this case. It’s just not, ah, appropriate, to make a kid have to share a big open room with adults, or vice-versa. The big kids would have some complaints about that. See? Doesn’t sound so special, now, does it?” Deacon bounced on the bed. A teddy bear tumbled off the pillow to land face-first onto the floor.
Jory knelt to pick it up. “Ugh, a teddy bear? I’m not a baby!” He threw it into the corner on the other side of the room, a little harder than he had intended. The plastic nose and eyes made a hollow click against the concrete wall before it landed onto the floor.
Deacon stood, then picked up the bear. He dusted it off and sat it onto the dresser. “I know I’m not the most serious guy, but I don’t think this was left to imply you’re a baby. I think someone wanted you to know you are cared for, and welcomed back.”
Jory immediately felt guilty. Desdemona was a little too much for him, most of the time, but she truly cared. He had been with the Railroad long enough to have heard some of the gruesome stories the agents brought back, about synths that were hunted, tortured, and murdered in horrible ways. He himself could face that kind of persecution, if any lay person on the outside found out about his modifications.
“Sorry,” he murmured.
“Trust me, after tomorrow, you won’t ever think any of us think of you as a baby.”
“Trust you?” Jory grinned.
“My work here is done!” Deacon declared, smiling and dusting his hands. “I better go meet Dez. You okay to settle in on your own?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“I know. Later, kid.” Deacon left the room and pulled the door shut behind him. Jory stepped towards the window and took a look outside. He studied the training yard grounds, and beyond. Things hadn’t slowed down out there at all since they had arrived. He watched agents diligently sew patches on worn armour, hammer out a new silencer barrel for a pistol, run obstacles, and practice shooting. He imagined himself as one of them, sewing lead panels into a jacket, talking about the hiccups of the last mission, and speculating on details of the next.
Deacon’s words from early that morning rang through his memory, once more. “What was it you were saying, about wanting to be great? Or, legendary?” Jory frowned, watching the agents in the yard. Desdemona said there’d be a debrief, tomorrow. Not training. He scanned the faces of those he could see from the third floor of the barracks. None appeared younger than seventeen, or eighteen. They weren’t really actively recruiting kids. A special job, for special me. Great. Jory yawned, suddenly feeling very sleepy. He pulled his shoes and socks off, then crawled under the scratchy blanket on the bed. After a few moments, he stood up, retrieved the teddy bear, and went back under the covers.
The next morning, Jory made his way through the complex, back to the administration building, and to the war room. He had spent most of the previous day and night sleeping or brooding, taking trips to the outhouse as required and one stop at the mess hall for a snack overnight. He felt rested, and a little anxious. It was the day the Railroad would assign him his mission, his purpose. He would be cast out into the world, alone, under high stakes, to succeed for the greater good, or die trying.
Jory smiled to himself. He was definitely jazzed. He nodded to one of the posted guards and walked into the administrative building, through the lobby, then up the stairs to the war room. Shadow and Desdemona were already there, sipping what Jory assumed was steaming coffee from mugs.
“Good morning, Microchip. I hope you rested well,” Desdemona greeted him. The soft, emotional person from the day before was far below the surface. Jory was fine with that.
“Desdemona. Hi, Shadow.”
“Microchip,” Shadow acknowledged.
“Who else are we waiting for?” Jory asked, eager to begin his briefing. He drew up to the table featuring Desdemona’s large map of the Commonwealth, like she had set up before within the Old North Church basement. It featured markers of different types, colours, and sizes, but it seemed only Desdemona really knew what any of them represented.
He tried to make it seem like he was studying the map, himself, when he had no idea how to even read one. An arm reached around him from behind to point to a totally different spot on the map than he was looking. “I knew this map was missing something: the cartoon finger pointing You Are Here.” Deacon nudged a marker, an ancient souvenir magnet that was the shape of a kitten face.
Jory didn’t know what embarrassed him more, the fact he was so obviously looking at the wrong place on the map, or that his person was represented by a marker in the shape of a cat. He didn’t want to be teased further, so he didn’t comment on it. “Oh. Thanks, Deacon,” he replied instead, then stepped away from the table.
Desdemona lit a cigarette and took a puff. “Tripwire and Tinker Tom should be here, shortly.”
“I heard about what happened with Tom, yesterday. Sorry he said that stuff to you. He…well, none of the rest of us, feel that way, anyways,” Shadow offered.
“It’s okay, I’m just different than what he’s used to, and he doesn’t really know what to make of me.”
“That’s…mature of you,” Desdemona responded, sounding impressed. Deacon flashed him a covert thumbs-up. The door popped open and in walked Tripwire, who then held the door open for Tinker Tom, clambering into the room with his arms full of assorted tech. “Excellent, we’re all here, and pretty close to on time.” She turned and snuffed her cigarette out in the ashtray behind her. “There’s coffee, if any of the rest of you are interested.”
“Thanks,” Tripwire replied. He crossed the room and served himself a cup. Jory stood awkwardly, wondering what he was supposed to do, and practically buzzing with excitement.
“Take it away, Dez,” Deacon prompted. He had elected to stand against the wall, off to the side.
Desdemona took a breath. “Well, let’s start from the beginning. A lot of the current situation began with the destruction of the Institute. Our faction had devoted decades to the liberation of synths, helping shuttle them out of the Commonwealth, or access memory wipes, or both, depending on their preferences or what was the best course of action based on the political climate.”
Jory nodded.
“The destruction of the Institute resulted in an unexpected mixed result from the greater Commonwealth. Most people welcomed it, seeing it as the removal of the boogeyman, and the threat of synth aggression. They no longer had to live in fear of the thought that the Institute could just teleport you from your home, one night, and replace you with a synth duplicate. That part of the terror was gone.”
Jory nodded again. It was heartbreaking for him to hear that the Institute, where he had been born and raised, had such a detrimental influence on the world above.
“Unfortunately, though, attitudes towards synths remained the same. The population at large were still terrified that not only did some synths remain operating on the surface, but also that several likely evacuated before the detonation. The Gen 1s and 2s can be spotted a mile away, but Gen 3s…well. Many managed to escape, and many of those still were rescued from dangerous places by our agents in the field, for several weeks after the detonation.
“But, peace would not prevail. Synths and likely, innocent humans, were kidnapped, beaten, murdered, or worse, by a terrified populace who still believed all synths are a threat. Hell, the Brotherhood continues to send patrols out for that purpose.”
A disgruntled murmur rippled through the room. Desdemona raised her hand for silence, before continuing.
“About a year ago, shortly after you joined us the first time, Microchip, our best intelligence is that a pair of bored wastelander brothers adopted the title ‘Puritans,’ from ancient history, and started stalking out and murdering synths.”
“It’s an historical abomination. That term definitely does not mean what they are making it mean. Probably only started using it because it sounded like ‘pure,’” Tripwire added bitterly.
“Regardless,” Desdemona went on, “the title stuck. Over time, other, less intelligent and bigoted residents of the wasteland began to feel drawn to the Puritans, feeling as though they could relate to what they stood for. In the span of two months, they grew from being two hooligans to a gang of a few dozen people, and the growth didn’t stop.
“They started giving a voice to the feelings people had been harbouring for a long time, exploiting the irrational fear and turning it into a recruitment tool. Their ranks grew, and so did their viciousness. Soon, they had become our greatest adversary, taking that place from the Brotherhood of Steel and demoting the latter to being just a pain in the ass.” She paused, taking a sip of her coffee. “We could no longer continue to operate while they made concerted efforts to waylay our activities. Just before you left, we had scouted out this location, and immediately began pouring resources into refurbishing it so that we could begin furnishing an army.”
“Whoa. You were planning this war before I left? I had no idea,” Jory breathed.
“But then you left, and showed us you’re intelligent, self sufficient, and responsible. During that time, our agents have been fighting tooth and nail to keep the Puritans from taking too much ground. They started to become very organized, and at the same time, very dangerous.” Desdemona lit up another cigarette. “They started ambushing our checkpoints, studying and following our caravans. We began losing secured areas and safehouses, like before the end of the Institute.”
“Those two intelligence agents we lost, that you heard about yesterday? They were followed from their surveillance points and killed as they took a rest at a safehouse.” It was Deacon’s turn to add to the discussion. “One of them managed to pass on their findings into a dead drop before being murdered. It was the edge we needed to snuff out the secret outpost they’d started setting up in Goodneighbor. We hope it set them back. They’re starting to feel invincible.”
“We can use that, though, right? Get in there now that they think they’re becoming unstoppable, maybe find a way to turn the leaders against each other?” Jory scanned each of the faces in the room.
Deacon spread his hands, grinning. “The kid’s a natural.”
“You’re right, that we’re sending you in as our agent on the inside. You’ll need a cover story and an identity, both of which you’ll have to develop on your own and not tell the rest of us what they are. It’s…safer for all of us, that way,” Desdemona continued.
Jory frowned. “How come?”
Tom took that one. “This is top-secret mission type stuff, kid, super spy junk, covert ops, the whole deal. Those Puritan murderers manage to get a hold of any of us and start a line of questioning about your cover story and we maintain plausible deniability.” He was gesturing wildly with his hands.
“It means we can’t blow your cover. It maintains the integrity of your mission,” Shadow clarified, quietly.
“Oh.” Jory fell silent. The thought of anyone in that room, especially Desdemona, being captured and tortured for questioning over him, didn’t make him feel very good at all.
“Chin up,” Desdemona smiled at him warmly, “that’s the worst case scenario. We know you won’t fail.”
“So, what’s my mission, specifically? What do you need me to do?”
“The short answer is, we need information. Their plans, their supply hoards, their numbers, everything. We have lost the advantage of numbers and need to start cutting off their access to things they need, like food and ammunition.”
“You’re going to spend a week cycling through training with all of us standing in this room, right now,” Tripwire picked up the discussion. “We’ll each pass on different skills, things you’ll need to know, and things we hope you won’t need to use.”
“Stuff like where and how to use a dead drop. And, a gun,” chirped Deacon.
Jory swallowed a lump in his throat. The thought of using a gun against a live person terrified him. He turned the attention to the pile of tech that had been brought in by Tinker Tom by way of changing the subject. “What about that stuff?”
“What is all that crap, Tom?” Tripwire seconded.
“Crap? Crap?! I threw together this beauty of a device to see if our friend Microchip here is sending encrypted signals out into the ether, that’s what it is.” Tom immediately pounced onto his metallic collection and started plugging cables into different components. “He could be a direct uplink to some kind of Institute monitoring station that wasn’t within the ruins itself, sending them all kinds of information, things he hears, things he sees.”
“You don’t know what kinds of information he could be transmitting?” Deacon pressed.
“Well no, not exactly, that’s how they’re winning, don’t you get it? They’re taking his brainwaves and downloading them and reading them.” Tom hardly paused in his fidgeting with his apparatus.
“So not only do you not know what he could be transmitting, you don’t know how, either? So how do you even know what you’re looking for, or if and when you find it?”
Tom froze. Shadow bit her lip to keep from giggling. Tom sniffed, and shrugged. “Okay, fine, you make a fair point. I have a little more work to do.” He swept the apparatus into his arms and made eye contact with Jory as he walked towards the door. “I’m gonna scan you before you leave, though, that much is a promise.”
“Bye, Tom,” Desdemona dismissed. She turned her attention back to the rest of the adults in the room. “I think that concludes the briefing. Did I miss anything?” A pause. No one replied. “Good. Your training will officially being tomorrow, Microchip. Today, you need to see Doc Carrington to make sure you’re fit for active duty.”
“Okay,” Jory conceded.
“The rest of you, start preparing how you’re going to spend the rest of the week helping train our newest agent. Weed out the essential elements as best you can. Time is ticking, and we need to start getting some footing back from those bigots.” Desdemona snuffed out her second cigarette and gestured to the door. “You’re all dismissed.”
3.
Despite the dismissal, Deacon and Tripwire remained behind with Desdemona as Jory left the war room with Shadow. Her feet hardly made any sound as she descended the concrete staircase. Jory studied her movements, and tried to emulate it as best he could. No matter what, he felt like an elephant trying to do ballet compared to Shadow’s near-silent grace. Maybe I just need more practice.
Jory stepped into the sunlight and relished the warmth on his face. He took a deep breath of the morning air, then crossed the complex to the small, outlying building that had been set up as a medical facility. To his surprise, there was a line stretching out the door. There seemed to be a group of agent trainees nursing bullet wounds.
“What happened to you guys?” Jory asked as he took his place at the end of the line.
“Drill gone wrong. One of the senior trainers forgot to reset a failsafe on a turret they use to train us on disabling them, and now we all know what happens when you screw up and get locked out of the terminal,” the trainee on the end explained. He winced and held his sides. Blood stains stretched out beneath his hands.
“Sheesh.” Let’s add, do not tangle with turrets, to the list. “Tough break,” he added. Jory leaned against the wall and watched the clouds float through the sky. The line moved slowly, but steadily. It seemed that an operating room had been set up and the Doc merely had to repeat the same procedure, just a dozen times or so.
He yawned, feeling bored. Standing in line was not how he hoped to spend most of the rest of his last day of being plain old Jory. Since his visit to the mess hall the night before, his mind was buzzing with a handful of different pranks to set up on the unsuspecting agents and trainees. He wanted to plant at least a couple before he had to be a serious agent.
“Well, anyways, what’s your story?” the trainee asked out of nowhere. “You some agent’s kid, or relative, or something?”
“Huh? Who, me? Oh yeah, my dad’s a high level sergeant on this base. Sergeant Steppheim? You probably know him, actually. He runs the drills.” Jory put on his most casual tone of voice and idly picked at his nails.
The trainee blinked. “Sorry, Sergeant who?”
“Steppheim. I’ve heard I look a lot like him? He’s just, well, a lot older than I am, obviously. He left me a note to pick up his prescription, which is why I’m here.”
“Like, your dad is a trainer agent for the Railroad, you mean? We don’t have titles like the old military.”
“No, my dad doesn’t drive a train, he’s a drill sergeant, didn’t I just say that?”
The trainee blinked again. “What are you talking about?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Hey! Pay attention, knuckleheads! You’re holding up the line,” barked a woman in a lab coat, who was hanging out the door. “Murdock, you’re the last one of your company, get in here now or forever hold your peace. Or, injuries. Whatever.”
The man addressed as Murdock gave Jory one last confused look before shuffling as quickly as his injuries would allow into the building. Jory followed but was stopped at the door.
“What’s your emergency?” the woman demanded. Her lab coat sported fresh blood stains, likely from tending to the previous line up of injured trainees. Her eyes were intense, indigo coloured, and narrowed.
“Ah, no emergency, ma’am, but I have an appointment,” Jory replied.
“Oh really? For what?”
Something about her tone and facial expression killed any inclination that Jory might have had to try and prank the doctor’s assistant. “Desdemona sent me, she said the doctor was to make sure I am fit for the field. I can come back later, if you want.”
“Desdemona? Oh!” Her eyes lit up and her expression brightened. “Yes, of course. You must be Microchip.” She put her hand onto the back of his shoulder and guided him into the building. “Just have a seat and I’ll make sure Doc Carrington sees you as soon as he can. This failed turret assignment has made for an interesting morning.”
“Does it happen a lot?”
“Not a lot, but since we started training lay people to handle live weapons, it’s not uncommon that an entire group end up hurt because a single person forgot the difference between a trigger and a safety.”
“I’ll make sure to avoid the training grounds,” Jory replied, as he flopped into the ancient chair.
“That sounds smart. I’m Belinda, by the way.” She stretched out her hand towards him.
“Nice to meet you,” he shook. “And yes, I’m Microchip.” Jory worried the introduction sounded a little too fabricated. He wasn’t at all used to using his code name.
Belinda smirked. “Right. Well, anyways, Carrington will see you as soon as the minor surgery is all finished and cleaned up. Shouldn’t be too long.”
Famous last words. It was at least another hour before Jory was called in to see the doctor. He’d managed to build a decent tower out of the recovered pre-war magazines that were strewn about the waiting room just for something to do.
“Just hit the button for sub-floor one,” Belinda directed, having led Jory down a short flight of stairs, through a room full of shelves housing basic first aid supplies and a single examination table, to an elevator.
“Wow. This place is way bigger than it seems on the outside,” Jory replied, hitting the call button for the elevator.
“That’s what they all say,” Belinda sang. “See you in a bit.” She turned and ascended the stairs back to the main waiting room. The whirring of the moving elevator could be heard behind its doors. It stopped, and the doors opened with a chime. Jory entered and hit the button as he had been instructed, feeling anxious. Not much about the world on the surface rattled him, despite having been raised in veritable technological luxury within the confines of the Institute. For the most part, he thought the wasteland was gritty, and challenging, and the more time he spent above ground, the more he wondered why it took so long for the Institute to come crashing down. They were so sheltered, and so clueless, they were bound to implode, eventually.
The exception was a pre-war elevator. Something about them made him feel his mortality like nothing else. The ride was never smooth. The lighting was always poor. Everything rattled, from the doors opening and closing, to the walls as it moved, and if he was really lucky, the automated voice was corrupted beyond repair and would just buzz something creepy at him rather than announce the floor number.
Jory braced himself against the left wall, closed his eyes, and focused on his breathing. Fear began to clutch his stomach. He swallowed and refocused on the sound and sensation of his breaths: in, then out. In, then out.
The elevator bumped to a stop. The doors squeaked open and Jory all but flung himself out and into the receiving room. One of the medical assistants was putting used, bloodied linens into a basket on the side of the room. He looked up at the arrival of the elevator. “Oh, hey. You’re the next patient? The doctor is ready for you, just go on in.” He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder, directing Jory’s attention to the door straight ahead of him. The receiving room seemed to branch off into several small examination rooms, the majority of which were used to operate on the trainees and in the process of being stripped down by the assistant.
“Thanks,” Jory squeaked, his heart rate still elevated from his ride on the elevator. He scurried into the office.
Doctor Carrington was huddled over a wash basin, scrubbing his skin of any residual blood or bacteria from the hours of surgery he had performed. He looked over his shoulder, then resumed his wash. “Close the door. I just need to dry off.” Jory did as instructed, then stood in the room, awkwardly. Carrington towelled off and turned fully to regard the teenager. “You’ve grown,” he observed.
Jory nodded but said nothing. What does a person say to that, really? ‘Thank you’?
“Sit up on the examination table. This shouldn’t take long.” Carrington turned back to the counter and picked up a stethoscope, while Jory climbed up onto the ancient equipment. Carrington approached and merely looked over Jory, at first. Jory tried not to fidget. Carrington seemed to have aged years since he had been seen last, even though it had only been six or seven months. His face featured deeper wrinkles around his eyes, and his black hair was distinctly salt-and-pepper. Finally, he spoke, sounding concerned. “Are you all right? You seem to be sweating.”
“Huh? Oh – I’m fine. I…don’t like elevators,” Jory mumbled in response.
Carrington raised an eyebrow. He gestured for Jory to lift his shirt, then placed the stethoscope onto his chest. “Take a deep breath in, then out. Good. One more time, in…then out.” He nodded, then removed the stethoscope. Jory let his shirt fall. Carrington proceeded with the standard rigmarole of checking Jory’s blood pressure, shining a light down his throat with a tongue depressor, and feeling Jory’s lymph nodes. Carrington plunked himself onto a stool next to the counter and tossed the stethoscope into a container next to the sink, letting out a long breath. “Physically, you look and sound as healthy as any thirteen-year-old. Whether or not that means you’re suitable for the field, well, who can say? We don’t exactly have a section for that in the field medic textbook.”
“Ah, okay,” Jory replied, sounding as confused as he felt.
Carrington frowned deeper. “I remember you as being a sharp kid. You haven’t figured out that Desdemona really sent you here to…talk?”
Jory blinked, truly surprised. “Talk? About…what?”
They both stared at each other for a moment.
“…wait. Talk about…changes?” Jory broke the silence. His face turned bright red. “We don’t have to talk about that. I learned about that stuff, already, honestly.” He wasn’t sure what was more embarrassing, recalling all kinds of uncomfortable information about puberty from his educational classes in the Institute, or the fact that Desdemona thought he would want to talk about it.
Carrington barked out a harsh, dry laugh, the likes of which Jory had never heard from the man, before. “Oh, I wish! It’s so much easier to just talk about that kind of stuff, even if you don’t want to hear it.” He wiped a tear from his eye before continuing. “No, she wanted us to have an honest talk. You see, sometimes, we found synths had a hard time adjusting to life on the surface. Things like the sky, for example, really confused them. While they had endured a life of trauma working as slaves for the Institute, they came to learn very quickly that life on the surface came with its own set of traumas.” He tented his fingers, choosing his words deliberately.
“We talked about that stuff, before, right? About leaving my home, losing my sister.” Jory shrugged. “All that’s still the same. I miss her, but I can’t bring her back, and the sky is really cool. I don’t even get sunburned so easily, anymore.”
The doctor nodded. “Perhaps it’s a gift of the resilience of youth, that you seem to have acclimated to the surface so quickly and easily. Some synths take years to do so. That is, the ones who elect not to have the…procedure.”
“Yeah. I’m not a synth, though. Synths were…strict. They had specific programming.” Jory’s voice took on a dreamy tone. “Impossible to prank…”
Carrington did not immediately reply. “Hm,” he finally hummed, “I suppose I never considered that thought, before. You’re young and organic. It’s in our nature to evolve, and you’re at the prime to be able to do so.” He paused again. Next he spoke, he changed the subject. “Desdemona knows you will do whatever she asks of you. I mean, you’re here right now, aren’t you?”
Jory shifted his gaze but did not reply.
Carrington leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “Jory – sorry, Microchip – what you’re about to undertake is quite significant. We’ve never had such a young…person in a covert operation before.” He rubbed his brow, seemingly trying to figure out what to say next. “Look. I personally don’t agree with sending you in there. I think you’re too immature – now, now, don’t look so offended, you’re only thirteen, that’s all I meant – and there are just too many risks. If you get caught, they are unlikely to spare your life. If they find out you are in a way part synth, they could do worse things to you than outright kill you.” Carrington swallowed, then locked eyes with Jory. His expression was of stone. “You don’t have to do this, just because Desdemona assigned it to you. If you tell me, right now, you’d rather walk away from the Railroad for good, she’d never know you declined.”
“What?” Jory blinked.
“I’d cover for you. I’d tell Desdemona that you simply wouldn’t be able to handle the physical or emotional stresses of being out in the field -- hell, having to infiltrate the very enemy -- on your own. She’d have to heed my recommendation or risk sending you directly to your death.”
“But, death is always a risk out there.”
“That’s not my point. We’re all going to die, some day. If I tell her you can’t take the mission, she’d have to send you out there knowing she’s essentially sending a lamb to the slaughter.”
Jory bristled. He wasn’t sure if Carrington was trying to talk him out of taking the mission out of genuine care, or his own conscience. A large part of him wanted to tell Carrington where to stick it, to be so blunt with the idea that he simply couldn’t handle the job based on his age. However, he also saw exactly what it could be: an out. This would be the only chance that he could walk away, no other questions asked. He could go back to Diamond City, back to his life.
My life of bussing tables and mopping puke off the Dugout floor for fifty caps a day. Or, I could take this opportunity being given to me, a chance to help the Railroad in their war, a chance to make my mark on history.
Jory took a slow breath in, then out. “Thanks, Doctor Carrington. I appreciate that you are trying to look out for me. Truth is…I really don’t have anything else going for me, right now. I don’t have any other family, any other home than the Railroad. Maybe Desdemona shouldn’t have asked me to take this mission, because I’m young, because I’m altered, but…” He trailed off, tapping his feet together and staring at the floor.
Carrington sighed. He stood from his chair, approached the counter, and began to make some notes in a file. “Well, Microchip. You’re cleared for duty.” He gave him a sidelong glance. “Let’s hope you’re really as smart as you are brave.”
It was well past mid-afternoon by the time Jory emerged from the clinic building and wandered off into the training yard grounds once more. He wandered up a hill on the western edge of the grounds, and stretched out onto the earth, hands behind his head, staring up at the sky. He watched the banks of clouds just hang there, barely moving. Jory took a deep breath, then exhaled, his mind heavy with a storm of thoughts. The seed of doubt had been planted, and he didn’t like it.
Why did he have to say that stuff? Why couldn’t he have just listened to my heartbeat and put me on a scale and told me I was fine? Why am I even thinking that he could be right?
There was a slight rustling from behind his head.
“Don’t you have something else to do, Deacon? I thought you were, you know, a big deal around here.” Jory had tried to sound teasing, but his voice came out stern.
“Doc tried to talk you out of it, huh?” Deacon lowered himself to the ground, crossing his legs at his ankles and wrapping his elbows around his knees.
“Did you know he would?”
“I suspected. You made an impact on many of us, here. None of us want to see you get hurt, especially not on a mission you aren’t wilfully taking.”
Jory closed his eyes. “He was leaning on me pretty hard. I may have disappointed him by saying I wanted to do it.”
“Doc Carrington, disappointed? Now you’re definitely part of the family, kid.”
“Heh.”
The two fell quiet. The din of practice gunfire, the clatter of the workbenches, and assorted voices in far away conversations drifted through the air.
“Did Desdemona put him up to it?” Jory asked quietly, breaking their silence.
“Desdemona is Queen Bee because she makes the right decisions, not the nice ones,” Deacon replied with no hesitation. “She sees your potential and what you could do for the organization, and values that, just as much as she cares about you. How do you think I managed to keep the job for this long?”
“You didn’t die?”
Deacon laughed. “Yeah, that, too.”
Jory opened his eyes and turned his gaze towards Deacon. “Is that all you wanted?”
“Nope.” Deacon shifted just enough to be able to dig into his pocket. He pulled out a small, braided string bracelet, featuring mismatched, plastic beads, threaded through it. Jory gasped, flung himself upright, and snatched the item from Deacon’s hand.
“Where did you find this how did you get this?” Jory’s words were a babbling flow.
“You’re welcome,” Deacon smirked. “To answer your question…when you ran away, I went out to look for you, at first. I thought you might have returned to the place you were zapped onto the surface, that you might have gone back to try and find your sister. The trail was cold, but I started tracking your sister as best I could.”
Jory’s breath was caught in his throat. “And?”
“A little ways away, I found that bracelet, a couple bloated, dead mole rats, and evidence of heavy rains. I couldn’t track her any further, and there were definitely no signs of you.” Deacon reached over to poke Jory in the arm. “I know now that you didn’t go in that direction at all.”
“She might still be alive?”
“Might be.” Deacon stretched his legs out, his knees popping loudly. “Dez doesn’t know I went looking for you, though, okay? She sent a different agent after you. I was on some other recon mission – apparently, we were about to be part of some kind of full scale war – so my absence was expected.”
Jory nodded, not really paying attention. He was fixated on studying the bracelet he had made for her, so many years ago. It was so familiar, yet he felt like he was looking at it for the first time.
They had done the evacuation drills twice a year since before he could remember, so when the call went out, late that night a year and a half ago, they jumped out of their beds and rushed to the relay bay as they had rehearsed so many times. No sign of their parents, but they were working nights at that point. They knew the procedure: get to the relay, and regroup on the surface. “Grab my bag, Jo,” Mirabel had directed him before they left their quarters for the last time in their lives.
It had been chaos. There were sounds of fighting all through the atrium and in the labs. Mirabel had gripped his wrist so tightly while pulling him through the hallways, she ended up leaving a bruise. So much of that escape was a blur. They rushed past damaged synths and injured people alike, and more than a few dead. The lights were flickering and it was darker than it had ever been inside the Institute. He saw classmates, parents of friends, his favourite caretaker synths, all of them yelling, fighting, some of them bleeding and crying, and every time he hesitated, Mirabel hauled him past, keeping their route true. Foreign smells assaulted his nostrils, smells of metal, burning plastic, ozone, blood. The evacuation relays were sending people out in groups, usually families.
“We made it,” she had smiled at him, as they stood in that oddly lit pod. “We’re getting out.”
Jory’s next memory would be waking up on a gurney in the basement of the Old North Church, surrounded by the Railroad, and no one having any idea he had left the Institute with someone else.
“Thank you,” Jory said, gently tucking the bracelet into his pocket. “Really. Just…thanks.”
“For what?” Deacon stood and dusted off his britches. “All I did was come to remind you that your crash course in black ops super spy agent stuff starts first thing in the morning.” He offered a cheeky wave and descended the hill.
Jory shook his head and laid back down, tracing the shapes of the clouds with his finger.
(Click for Chapter 4)