Deacon Week 2026

“No shit,” had been Glory’s equally brutal response, tinged with own usual hint of sarcasm. “I had no idea from the tombs and skeletons, doc. Thanks.”

Carrington had sighed at her sarcastic response, but it had been Tom who had replied, “Nah, I feel those vibes. Bad omens.”

“Oh, would you both relax! My point had purely been about the cleanliness of setting up shop in such a location, not to mention the ethical issues of using it as our base.”

“Not the superstitious type, Carrington?” Deacon had chipped in at this point, lips smirking away like it was part of his job description to push the doctor’s buttons. “Colour me surprised.”

The memory of that first trip beneath the Old North Church haunted Deacon now. He hadn’t realised how much he’d miss Carrington’s blunt remarks.

At the time, they’d been fresh out of the shit-storm that had been Switchboard. All of them had been working on little sleep, constantly paranoid and rightfully twitchy. On edge. The Institute had hit them hard and fast. It was a miracle there were any survivors at all, let alone any to set-up the new HQ.

The constant state of paranoia, of feeling vulnerable, fearing attack after attack, was an occupational hazard of working for the Railroad. Each agent, no matter their place in the complex web of operatives, had known, from the moment they signed up, that a target would be constantly on their back. The sanctity of the Old North Church didn’t do anything to lessen that panic.

But as the weeks had gone by, as the tide slowly began to turn in their favour again, hope had blossomed and the fear withered.

They’d let their guards down.

And they had paid terribly for it.

Deacon lowered his head, squeezing his eyes shut, tears hot as they ran down his cheeks. His hands were curled into tight fists at his side, nails digging painfully into the skin of his palms.

He was fighting a battle against his rising rage, a pointless battle that he was sure to lose. No matter how hard he pushed his fury away, it refused to surrender. An all-too familiar, unwelcomed feeling that Deacon hadn’t had to deal with for decades. Not since that final confrontation with the UP Deathclaws as payment for what they’d done to his Barbara.

“Given our recent odds,” Desdemona had chipped in, “I think it’s wise to be cautious.”

“There’s being cautious, Dez, and then there’s being overkill.” Glory had lent her back against one of the brick columns that held up the vaulted ceiling.

Dez had given her a stern look.“Let us not tempt the fates.”

Had they inadvertently done such a thing anyway? Jinxed themselves with that initial conversation about the crypt? Signed their death warrants when they’d walked down here that day?

Blood splattered across the brick walls, the stone coffins, the bullet-hole ridden desks, the chalkboard, the steps, the terminals. The stench of death still hung heavy in the air and it would linger for weeks as the bodies of his friends decayed.

The Railroad was no more. All of them were gone now.

All of them except him.

It was never him. He was never given the grace of knowing peace. Even after everyone else had fallen, Deacon remained every single goddamn time. Was that his punishment for all he’d done in his messed-up life? To continue living despite all the losses?

The cruel irony of all of it had Deacon screaming. He stood at Dez’s round table. Her recent plans, still freshly drawn up, never to be realised, were thrown to the floor as that rage finally overtook his senses. The ashtrays, the bowls and cups, the candles, the bottles and cigars all fell to the ground alongside the paperwork in an almighty crash. It joined the debris of the remains of the shelving units that had been caught up in the crossfire, of the body parts of Railroad agents who had fought valiantly but had paid the ultimate price.

They had been so close.

So. Fucking. Close.

How, how, did it all go wrong so quickly?

Footsteps echoed through the open door at the crypt’s entrance. Deacon’s head whipped up. Nothing but pure hatred coursed through his system. He couldn't help it. He knew who those footsteps belonged to. In the months he’d spent at her side, travelling with her, trusting her, he’d come to learn everything about her.

Well, almost everything.

Charmer.

She had done this. The person he had gambled on, the person he’d welcomed into the group, the person he had believed in…

The threat should have been obvious. Deacon should have realised it the minute she’d returned from the Institute and told them that her missing son, the baby she’d been searching the wasteland to find, had been the Director of the Commonwealth’s sworn enemy. Suzanna Addams was the type of woman who would have burned the Commonwealth down in order to find her baby boy. Deacon had once admired that defiance, that strength. But he should have known that burning them down in order to protect Shaun was always a risk. He should have suspected it. He would have done had his foolish feelings not blurred his rational thoughts.

They’d all paid the heavy price because of his weak heart. He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

He crouched down and took the pipe pistol from the closest fallen agent. Ejected the spent casing. Locked in the new one. Prepped and ready to aim. To fire.

To kill.

“Dez…?” Her figure emerged down the steps, one foot at a time. Slow and steady. Cautious. “Are you— Oh my God…”

Charmer wore a clinical white lab coat that had a bright orange sash draped over the top. The dark auburn of her hair clashed terribly with the colour, but Deacon barely registered that. He barely noticed how much paler her skin had grown, how tired she appeared. All he saw was the Institute’s logo, a stark warning sitting just above her breast, shining out to him like a damn warning beacon.

He hadn’t noticed it the first time he’d seen her clad in Institute clothing. It hadn’t bothered him because Deacon hadn’t realised what it had symbolised. That it wasn’t just part of her cover, not when she was actively choosing to continue to wear it in the Commonwealth.

You were too late, he thought to himself. Always too late.

She took in the scene of devastation before her as she eventually reached the bottom step. A sob broke free, a hand rising to cover her mouth. Grieving, or at least pretending to. He wasn’t sure who she was performing for. Charmer hadn’t looked his way, hadn’t seen him yet. Perhaps she’d suspected someone would survive. Maybe the act was just in case she had to sell her story.

He wouldn’t buy it. He wasn’t going to believe another word from her. He wouldn’t give her the chance.

Deacon raised the pipe pistol. He aimed it, straight for her heart. Maybe once he pulled the trigger he’d turn it on himself. It wasn’t like there was much for him left to live for.

Charmer heard the weapon click and her glassy emerald eyes levelled with him. Horror flashed across her features before she recognised him. Her lips trembled as something akin to relief replaced the fear. “… Deacon?” She whispered, taking a step toward him.

“Don’t,” he hissed, almost choking on his words. “Don’t say another word. You’re a traitor, you know that? You’re a fucking traitor!”

He should just shoot. Be done with it. Shatter his already broken heart. One squeeze and it would be over. Forever.

But his trigger finger betrayed him, hovering over the switch but refusing to cross the line.

Charmer flinched as he yelled at her, halting in her steps. The relief fell from her face. The fear returned.

Deacon didn’t care. He rounded the table slowly, almost relishing in her fright. Good. After what she’d done, she should be scared.

“What the fuck did you do, Suzanna?” He spat out her name—her real name—as though it were poisoned. Rarely did he use her true name. It was too risky to use in the field. No-one else at the Railroad had known it, but Deacon had kept it close to his chest. The first time it had slipped out, during a night of tangled bodies and other whispered secrets that had never been spoken again once the sun had risen, it had felt right. Her name had been an unanswered prayer back then.

Now, it was nothing but a weapon he wielded. He knew who she was, now more than ever. And he wasn’t afraid to let her know.

“I didn’t do anything.” She shook her head, more tears falling down her cheeks. “What happened here?”

“Don’t act like you don’t know! That you didn’t give your Institute friends the go-ahead.”

“What?” Charmer stared at the gun in his grasp, still aimed at her chest. “Deacon… What have you done?”

Behind his shades, his eyes flared. “You think I did this?” Deacon bellowed.

He should shoot.

Now.

Now!

He faltered again, but gripped the pistol tighter.

“Don’t you fucking turn this on me!” But he knew what it looked like. And with what he’d told her about the Deathclaws… Fuck. He’d inadvertently given her the perfect scapegoat. There was no-one left to corroborate his story about the Institute, and unless he found proof he could use that the Institute was behind the massacre, it would be her word against his.

Deacon knew who the people of the Commonwealth would believe. The trusted survivor of Vault 111 versus the Railroad agent known for his lies and deceptions? Yeah, it wasn’t going to be him.

“The Institute came,” he began to explain, though he couldn’t find the point given that Suzanna would already know. “They came and they slaughtered everyone.”

She stood a little taller. Like she knew she’d already won. “Everyone except you?”

Curiosity sparked and flooded her eyes, her voice, and Deacon was damned if he didn’t think it was sincere.

He shook his head slowly, the weight of the event finally beginning to pull him down. “No, I… I was too late. They were already gone.”

If she’d felt even a drop of sympathy, she hid it well. “Then you don’t know that it was the Institute who did this.”

“Who else would it be?”

“You’re the only one with a gun, Deacon. And you're the only one left alive. Add it together, and you can see why I’m concerned.”

“You’re alive too,” he pointed out with the same amount of pity.

“I wasn’t here when you arrived. I’m not the one with the gun!”

“Because you ordered the synths to do it for you! Scared of getting your hands dirty, Charm?”

“That isn’t—” Charmer snapped, biting her tongue before she fell into his bait trap. She sighed, considering her next words carefully. “They asked me to get involved. They knew of my links and thought I’d be the perfect in. Shaun told me… But I told them no. I refused, Deacon. I convinced them that the Railroad wasn’t that big of a threat. I didn’t order anyone to do anything!”

Deacon had to give her credit where it was due; her acting was marvellous. In fact, he wasn’t sure he’d ever seen her act so well, even when they’d paraded around the Commonwealth undercover together. It was impressive to see how far she’d come and he might have even praised her if she hadn’t ruined it all. If she hadn’t killed everyone.

“Don’t you fucking lie to me! Not after everything we’ve been through. Just tell me the truth, one last time, Charm.”

His refusal to back down, to take the blame despite his innocent, had her face crumpling. “Lying? You think that I’m the one who’s lying?” She scoffed. “That’s rich coming from you, don’t you think?”

“I didn’t kill our friends, Suzanna!”

“Neither did I! And, again, I’m not the one holding the gun.”

He might have considered lowering the weapon had she left it at that, had she not followed it up with the final blow of: “And I’m not the one with the history of slaughter, am I?”

Deacon saw red. He raced forward, balling the lab coat into fistfuls of material, and shoved Charmer backwards, backwards, backwards. Her back hit the bricks with force. She coughed as the wind was taken out of her, struggling against his hold but Deacon didn’t let go.

He had told her that story in confidence. He had told her because he thought he owed her an explanation. He had told her because he thought she would understand, or at the very least that she wouldn’t judge him.

Fuck, how he’d miscalculated her.

“You think that I killed them?”

“Get the fuck off me!”

He didn’t listen to her. The pistol was still in his grip, wedged between his palm and the material of her coat. It was risky, given the reputation of the weapon. He didn’t care if it exploded, though. It was going to end the same way soon.

“Tell me the truth, Suzanna. Tell me the truth. Make it easier for me.” He almost pleaded with her.

She refused to yield. “I didn’t kill them, Deacon.”

He pushed her further into the wall. “You’re wearing their fucking uniform!”

Charmer hissed with pain but remained defiant. “I was undercover! I was following Dez’s orders! You know this! She told me to do whatever it took.”

“That didn’t include betraying us!”

“Stop. Trying. To. Pin. It. On. Me!” Every word was punctuated with a punch to his arms. “I didn’t betray you, Deacon, I swear! You know me! You know that I didn’t do this! If you just let me explain—”

“I don’t want to hear anymore of your goddamned lies!”

The pipe pistol was perfectly aimed, the barrel sitting against her chest, right over her heart. All it would take would be one little squeeze and he’d get justice.

Charmer realised this too. The fists ceased their attacking, her face falling slack with panic. “I’m not lying! I’m not!” She pleaded with him. “I swear it.”

And despite his determination to not listen to her, his stupid heart disobeyed. “Say that is true… Where the fuck were you to warn us?”

He’d relaxed his grip of her enough for her to sag slightly. “I didn’t know…”

“Bullshit!” Deacon bit back. “You were on your way to make sure there were no stragglers, weren’t you?”

An irritated groan escaped. “No. I wasn’t. Why won’t you believe me? After everything we’ve been through,” she threw his line back to him, “why won’t you just hear me out?! I was working with the Institute because those were my orders—”

“—but you—”

“I haven’t fucking finished!” Charmer spat, fully pushing him off her with a shove that had Deacon stumbling backwards. “Dez ordered me to do everything they asked, so I did. I hunted down rogue synths for the SRB. I essentially kidnapped a man for them to help set up their reactor. I delivered reports from McDonough. I aided in helping keep their little project at the Warwick Homestead running smoothly. I hurt people for them. I killed people for them. And I hated every goddamn minute of it, but I did it all because Dez told me I had to keep my cover, no matter what.

“But when Shaun told me they were going to hit you, to take you out… That was the line, Deacon. I refused. I told him you weren’t a threat. I downplayed our newfound strength—that I helped you all build, by the way—in the hope that he’d believe me. That he’d leave the Railroad alone. He gave me no indication to think otherwise.”

Deacon swallowed. “Well, he didn’t listen. They still attacked us. You thought wrong.”

“I was too preoccupied with helping Z1 prepare the synths for our plan, to make sure they were ready to secure their freedom… I didn’t know Shaun gave the go-ahead, I didn’t…” Realisation hit her and Charmer sank down, uncaring of the blood that flooded the floor. “I didn’t know. Oh, God. Oh, God.”

Broken, heart-wrenching sobs cracked the silence that followed as Suzanna felt the added grief of her son’s betrayal to the mix.

The sight of her breaking down, hearing her cry…

That wasn’t an act. Charmer truly was innocent. And he’d nearly—

Fuck. He couldn’t let himself think about what he’d almost done.

Deacon threw the pistol to the side and pulled his shades off his face. Fingers pressed into his stinging eyes. Then, after another wail, he slid down to sit beside her. The cold blood that soaked the floor seeped into his jeans but he ignored it. He had no words to offer befitting a proper apology. That could come later. For now, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close to him.

Time blurred. Neither moved for a long while. Deacon wasn’t sure how long had passed when Charmer’s  rough and croaky voice pierced the silence.

“Was it always going to come down to this?”

At first, he wasn’t sure he wanted to answer. The question would have been fine as a rhetorical. But her chest heaved up and down with heavy breaths and Deacon felt compelled to reply. No matter how much it stung him.

“Yes,” he whispered. “The Railroad’s number was always going to be up someday. I’d have liked to have gone down with a better fight but…” He trailed off. His head was pounding. For the first time in a long time, Deacon didn’t have a plan. He’d need to come up with one quick.

“We don’t have to give up.” Suzanna sniffled. “We can rebuild.”

“With what? There’s no-one left.”

Charmer tilted her head upwards, the angle surely uncomfortable, and said, “There’s us.”

He almost scoffed. “Two against the entire Institute?” Deacon had always admired Suzanna’s inability to give up, but this felt far too ambitious. The arm that had been around her shoulders lowered, his palm splaying across her knee. “Even with your infiltration in the Institute, I doubt we’d stand a chance. Especially if they’ve already worked out where your true allegiance lies.”

With him, he realised. With the Railroad.

The silence returned again, the truth a heavy burden to bear.

Deacon would take the next few days to salvage what he could in the hope that someday the Railroad could be rebuilt, no matter how unlikely that would be, and then he would bury the rest. Bury them. He’d make sure they rested in peace. Maybe he could blow the escape tunnel and blockade the main entrance. Hell, maybe he’d go the whole way and just seal the church itself. The crypt was once the final resting place of many Bostonians, but who was counting these days? Who’d care if there were a few more corpses added to the mix?

As though she was reading his mind, Charmer asked, “Where do we go from here, Deacon?”

Beyond the burial plan, he was still at a loss. His free hand pulled at the back of his neck, a shrug rolling off his crumpled shoulders. “I don’t know. Maybe your friends at the Brotherhood could help us—”

He broke off when he saw her shake her head.

“I, uh… We had a falling out.”

“How big of a falling out?”

Charmer blew out a breath. “Big. I had to go toe-to-toe with them for the Institute. They consider me an enemy now, and I don’t think they’d hear me out, especially if I tried to explain that I was undercover for the Railroad.” She paused, struggling for words, when she whispered. “I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t be sorry. It’s not your fault.”

“Isn’t it? Isn’t all of this my fault?”

His baby blues met the dulled emeralds of her own eyes and he saw her falling apart. “No,” Deacon reiterated. “Forget what I said earlier. I didn’t know, I was just… blinded by rage and I was hurting and I just thought that you—”

Cold fingers snaked through his, squeezing his hand tightly. Suzanna’s extremities were almost always cold, a byproduct of her being frozen in cryo for over two-hundred years, but Deacon hadn’t ever minded it. The action itself was full of warmth. Forgiveness. He squeezed back, hoping the silent message would be conveyed back to her.

“There’s always Garvey,” she suggested.

Deacon stared at her. “Garvey? The Minutemen? You think the Minutemen have a chance against the Institute?”

Her brows furrowed in offence. “Why not? I’ve been helping them rebuild. I think they have a fighting chance.” And despite Deacon’s laugh, Charmer added, “What other choice do we have?”

He rolled his eyes and stood. “Alright, fine. We’ll ask Garvey.”

But Charmer remained sitting. She glanced up at him with sorrowful eyes. “Not we. You. I have to go back.”

Deacon swore his heart stopped beating for a second. “No.”

“I have to go back and warn Z1, tell him that our plan failed.”

“If you go back, they’ll kill you.”

“They still think I’m on their side.”

“No, they won’t. Shaun locked you out of this decision.”

“I can convince him that it isn’t the truth.”

“It’s too late for that.”

“I have to try—”

“Suzanna, please, listen to me.” Deacon reached down to take her hands in his, gently tugging her to her feet. “You cannot go back.”

“I owe it to Z1—”

“You don’t owe anyone anything!” He pinched the bridge of his nose. Not half an hour ago, he was ready to put a bullet in her heart for what he thought she’d done to the Railroad. Now, he was fighting another losing battle to save her from another. “The mission failed, alright? The synths will soon realise the that and demobilise.”

“And if they don’t? What if the SRB find out what they’d been planning?”

He squeezed her hands again, harder this time as though she was going to slip away at any moment. “Please, don’t. I can’t lose anyone else. Please, Suzie. Stay here.”

But he knew what her answer was going to be. He didn’t need to hear her explain why she couldn’t.

Deacon knew it was pointless trying to convince her to do the right thing. Perhaps her supposed betrayal had never been obvious purely because she never would have betrayed any of them. Even now.

Suzanna Addams was the type of woman who would have burned the Commonwealth down in order to find her baby boy, but it wasn’t just because he was her baby. It was because he was someone she had loved. But times had since changed. Suzanna herself had changed. Now she had new people she loved deeply, fiercely. And she’d burn down her son’s legacy to keep them safe.

Suzanna Addams had taken a seat on the barstool beside his, leather armour creaking and groaning over the the tight fit of her Vault suit. She held an open Gwinnett Stout, the neck of the glass bottle held firmly in her uncalloused hand.

Even after weeks of traversing the Commonwealth, Suzanna still managed to look like an average, stereotypical Vault dweller. If he hadn’t been watching her every move, her every fight, her every kill, Deacon would have been surprised to see someone like her get as far as Goodneighbor.

Looks could be deceiving, Deacon knew as well as anyone in the wasteland, but Suzanna seemed to take that phrase to a whole new level of meaning. The epitome of naive on the outside, merely a disguise for the darker parts that dwelled within.

Deacon had seen the Vault from which she’d originated and had pieced together enough of the puzzle to know that the woman sitting beside him at the Third Rail bar was something of a pre-War relic. 

And yet, despite hailing from a time before the bombs, she handled herself expertly out in the irradiated wasteland. So impressive was she, in fact, that even the Brotherhood of fucking Steel had offered her a place in their ranks.

“… What?” He had almost choked on his drink, golden liquid spilling over the lip of his glass as he placed it back onto the bar with shaky hands. Deacon glanced over his shoulder, around the general vicinity, to make sure she had been asking him the question.

But, when he faced her again, Suzanna was simply watching him with bright emerald eyes—the light of which hadn’t yet been snuffed out by the horrors of the wasteland—waiting for his response patiently, as though she had all night to spend hanging around for his answer.

“No,” Deacon shook his wig-less head. “No, I don’t think you have.”

He had been trailing Suzanna ever since he’d heard the news from Drummer Boy.

You’re up Deac, the runner had said. Word is there’s been some hot activity up north.

Deacon hadn’t informed Drummer of what it had been that he’d been watching, not even when he’d asked for more infomation. It was too precious, too important to share with anyone.

Of course the news had to have arrived on a day he wasn’t camped out up there, but Deacon had rushed towards the old Vault just in time to catch the tail end of Suzanna’s fight with a Deathclaw in Concord.

He hadn’t let her out of his sight since.

At first it had all been part of the mission. Operation Tea Party had been devised a year or two before, and Deacon had kept most of the intel he’d gathered close to his chest. Not even Dez had all the details. When he’d heard about the activity, and then subsequently seen the Vault dweller out in the wild with “111” plastered over her back, Deacon had thought it was his best shot at learning more about the Institute.

Because the Institute had to have links to that Vault. He was certain of it. The last year of his life had been dedicated to learning the connection. If this woman had some sort of insight…

As time went on, however, he realised the futility of his plan. Little Miss Ice Box hadn’t even heard of the Institute. Deacon might have thought her a liar if it wasn’t for the fact that she didn’t seem to know much about anything. Ghouls, synths, Deathclaws, the Minutemen, Diamond City… Each and every mention of anything of the sort was met with a confused expression, dark auburn brows arching with incredulously, and followed with a witty remark that was nothing short of disbelief.

After that realisation, he had grown less concerned over her possible ties to the Institute and more curious about her in general. The Woman Out Of Time, Piper Wright had written in her article. That alone made Suzanna interesting. Her ability to handle herself in the wasteland proved she was a valuable asset, and her compassion had made Deacon sure she’d fit with the Railroad. Her ruthlessness had him worrying about what would happen if he couldn’t convince her.

So his shadowing had become more frequent and far more reckless. He wanted to learn more about her, needed to know as much as he could, so that when the time came, he’d be ready.

He shouldn’t have been surprised when she thought she’d recognised him.

At every single stop Suzanna had made, Deacon had fished out a new disguise, and at every single stop she’d made, Suzanna had spoke to him. 

It was never anything particularly interesting or unique; a greeting, a how are you, a question about the location. Suzanna spoke to almost everyone, though. She was a friendly face in a not-so-friendly world, a shining beacon of hope and perseverance which was something that most Commonwealth citizens tended to look up to. She must have seen hundreds of faces before tonight. He’d assumed that, despite constantly being approached by her, she would never be able to remember him, never be able to piece the breadcrumbs together, never approach him and ask that question.

Until tonight.

“Are you sure?” Suzanna pressed gently. “You look familiar.” She took a sip of her beer, pondering a thought before asking, “Weren’t you with a caravan at Bunker Hill?”

Shit. So much for her not remembering people.

Deacon offered her his best smile, chuckling nervously. “No. I’m afraid I don’t work with caravans. You must have me mistaken for someone else, sweetheart.”

“Don’t call me sweetheart.” Suzanna narrowed her eyes at him, her pink lips pursing into a thin line and a soft hum reverberating from her throat. Sceptical.

But she said nothing more on the matter. “The music here is wonderful, isn’t it?”

If there was one thing the Third Rail was known for, other than it’s watered-down booze and short-tempered Mr. Handy bartender, it was the music. Magnolia’s voice danced with the melodic jazz in a way that pleased most ears. She was more than just background noise to a busy bar; when Magnolia took to the stage, everyone stopped to watch and listen. She was magnetic.

“I prefer a polka myself,” Deacon joked. He reached again for his glass and lifted the rim to his lips. “You from a local Vault, or something?”

As though she’d forgotten what she’d been wearing, Suzanna looked down at her attire. A quick frown flashed across her features. That frown had only half gone when she lifted her head back up. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “Something like that.”

“What made you come up to the surface?”

Suzanna swallowed thickly, and Deacon realised too late that playing his character was such carefree ignorance was a dick move given he knew.

But he didn’t backtrack. His character was an asshole. He had to stick to the script, even as Suzanna answered sadly. “My son.”

“He dragged you up here?”

“No. Not exactly.” Suzanna’s voice was thick with grief. “He, uh… He was kidnapped.”

Magnolia finished up her song and light applause filled the Third Rail.

“Shit. Sorry,” Deacon offered, soft enough for only her ears under the sound of the claps.

She gave him a fleeting smile, weak and fake. “Yeah.”

It was a story he’d already heard via the other people Suzanna had spoken to over the course of the last few weeks. Details were hazy but Deacon gathered her son had been a baby. He knew she’d sought out the synth detective of Diamond City and Deacon had followed them both to the outskirts of Fort Hagen. He’d lost them when they’d entered the old military building and had returned to Diamond City not long afterwards, assuming they’d return soon enough themselves.

His assumption was proved right. They’d entered Publick Occurrences and didn’t leave for over an hour. When they finally did reemerge, Deacon had overheard something about Doctor Amari and had virtually sprinted over to Goodneighbor as soon as he could to get into position.

Everything else was still a mystery to him, and though his character was an asshole, he liked to think of himself as someone more sympathetic. Even though he was hungry for information, Deacon wasn’t cruel, and he certainly wasn’t too keen on pushing Suzanna too far, too soon. 

The applause quietened, the mumbling of the patrons filling the space once again.

“I hope you find him.”

Suzanna offered a rough laugh. “Sorry, it’s just… every time I think I’m getting somewhere, I get pulled back twenty steps.”

Her fingers toyed with the base of the beer bottle, nail dragging over the bumps and grooves of the glass. Her auburn waves fell across her face as she tilted her head to the side, a long sigh exhaling loudly.

“I saw you with that detective early,” Deacon began slowly. “He’s supposed to be good at his job, right?”

“He is. Nick has been great, but even he doesn’t have all the answers.”

“I doubt anyone would.”

Suzanna shrugged. “Yeah, well, I’d be willing to bet big on the Institute knowing a fair fucking amount.”

He tensed.

And it was visible.

Her eyes shot straight back to him, suspicion still dancing in those emerald orbs. The softness had left them, pure inquisitiveness now an overwhelming force.

Deacon willed his shoulders to drop. Willed his spiked heart rate to calm back down.

So the lead to her child had led her to the Institute? Maybe his original thoughts about them somehow being connected with that Vault weren’t so far fetched after all.

“The Institute?”

She rolled her eyes. “I know they’re supposed to be boogeymen, or whatever, but I’m starting to think they might be real.”

“Oh, they’re real, alright! People get snatched from their beds, replaced by those synth things, all the time.”

Her brows furrowed. “Synths aren’t things.”

Deacon suppressed a smile. Though he might have been happy to hear her state such a confident claim in a place such as this, but his character did not. His eyes trailed over her body, taking in every curve and every dip, the texture of her leather straps, the boldness of the blue suit. A mocking chuckle escaped his lips. “Why don’t you just stick to Vault-related items of business in the future. Maybe when you’ve seen more of the world upstairs you’ll see how wrong you are.”

“I’m not wrong,” Suzanna reprimanded. “And maybe when you’ve started to open up your eyes more, maybe if you took of those sunnies, you’ll see how much of an ignorant bigot you are.”

She had guts, and lacked any fear of consequences for having them.

Deacon knew they’d get on like a house on fire one day. 

For now, however, he just laughed again. “You sound like those Railroad fanatics.”

Her spine stiffened, green eyes hardening to ice. “And? You say that as though it’s a bad thing.”

“That’s because it is. They’re the worst.”

“No, they aren’t.”

“And you’d know that how?”

“Because they’re trying to help people?”

“Synths aren’t people, sweetheart.”

“Don’t call me sweetheart!” Suzanna’s voice was clipped, pointed. Those icy emeralds glared daggers at him, and Deacon felt a chill roll down his spine. 

This wasn’t a woman he ever wanted to tangle with.

His need to have her join their ranks, especially with this philosophy of hers, grew stronger the longer he stayed with her, the more he got to know her.

Deacon held that stare from behind his shades, the rest of his face unreadable for a moment as he pretended to size her up again. Then, a concessive tilt of his head. The glass was drained and he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before saying, “I’m guessing you’ve tried to walk that Freedom Trail, huh?”

One last chance to try and scare her away, to see how much she was truly in line with their beliefs. How far she’d be willing to go.

“Why do you care?”

In other words, yes, but it was something Deacon already knew.

“I don’t,” he lied with ease. “Look, all I’m saying is the world is a dangerous place—”

“I know that, thank you.”

Deacon frowned. “Be careful for what you seek out. Make sure you understand exactly what it is you’re signing up for before you print your name on the dotted lines, alright?”

She said nothing, sliding herself off the stool and swiping her bottle back into her hands again. Then, she walked away, back towards the VIP room.

Deacon immediately followed her. He was surprisingly good at that.

He caught up to her right before she entered, reaching out to take hold of her arm, holding her back gently. “I’m just trying to help.”

Smoothly, Suzanna slid her arm from his grip. “I don’t recall asking for any of your help.”

“The Railroad… They’re fucking insane. Are you really sure you want to get involved with that shit? You know the life-span of an average agent becomes that much shorter once they join, sweetheart?” He just hoped she wouldn’t get curious and ask how he knew that detail.

Thankfully, Suzanna didn’t.

She bit back a retort on his continued use of that nickname, and sighed with exasperation, no doubt wishing she’d never approached him in the first place. A wavy strand of hair was tucked behind her ear as she offered him a polite smile. Deacon could sense her irritation, however.

“In my opinion, asshole, I don’t think it’s your fucking business. Now, if you’ll excuse me, all this judgement of yours has given me a headache, so if you don’t mind, kindly fuck off.”

And with that, she was gone.

Deacon didn’t follow her further. He’d take the night off of shadowing her every move, if not out of respect for her then to give his mind some time to catch up and re-plan the next few days. 

He passed back by the bar, gave Charlie his caps, and then sauntered back to the Hotel Rexford for a good night’s rest. Suzanna was closing in on the Trail and Deacon wanted to make sure he was on top form when Little Miss Ice Box finally made it to HQ. Plenty of questions would inevitably be asked.

But for now, a content smile played on Deacon’s lips.

Agamemnon

[hc] Pre-War. Became a ghoul in the years shortly after 2077.

[hc] Spurred to action by the rise of anti-synth sentiments and groups. Investigated notable Institute actions/sightings in the lead up to founding the Railroad, including one near Vault 111 circa 2227.

[c] Date of Railroad joining and/or founding unknown. Earliest recorded leader of the Railroad; start of tenure unknown, spanning till their death in the HQ massacre of 2266.

[hc] Responsible for the founding of the Railroad in the early 2250's.

[hc] Responsible for Deacon's recruitment; served as both his mentor and last real friend. Encouraged Deacon's recovery from chem addiction and helped him to gain perspective beyond solely revenge/grief. Deacon remains extremely grateful.

[hc] Well-read and philosophically inclined. Could say much more. I have a pretty fleshed out concept for this character, and about a billion feelings about their role in D's life, but it's all entirely speculative, so that'll have to be it's own post if I ever get up the courage to share it lmao.

Desdemona

[hc] Wife of (now-deceased) Sam (formerly Lamda 8); [c] Lamda 8 was a synth who was rescued by the Railroad and became a homesteader. She was later killed by coursers in January 2276. Her wife (a farmer) was injured in that same attack.

[c] First mentioned by name in records from September 2276.

[hc] Mentored/trained by Deacon; his last trainee/partner of note until the Sole Survivor (potentially) in 2287/2288.

[c] Elected to leadership as of December 2277. Immediately prioritized operational security as a fundamental necessity.

[hc] Late 30's, early 40's in age as of 2287/2288.

[hc] Places a high priority on synth freedom, to an extent that she is sometimes willing to sacrifice the stability/wellbeing of agents for even a markedly slim chance at rescuing a synth. Uncompromising in her view that the Railroad is acting for a noble cause. Does not like to be confronted with the consequences of her prioritization, nor the idea that some agents are 'sullying the cause' by acting in revenge.

[d] Deacon wishes Desdemona would also approve missions to help humans instead of focusing the organization solely on synths.

[hc] As her ex-mentor/partner, Deacon feels that he failed to help her find a broader perspective, a sense of purpose and responsibility beyond the very narrow pursuit of synth rescue. This sense of failure is intensified by the striking similarities in their personal histories; Deacon regrets that he could not do for Desdemona what he feels Agamemnon did for him.

Carrington

[c] Full name: Stanley Carrington. First mentioned by name in records from September 2276.

[c] As of 2287/2288, identifies himself as the "third senior-most member of [the] organization" and the second-in-command.

[c] Believes that Desdemona, as a leader, "is inspirational" but that "strategy may not be her forte".

[hc] Carrington considers Desdemona to be overly idealistic regarding the Railroad's mission. While he does truly believe in the cause, his personal nature and his role as the organization's medic both push him to favor a strategic pivot to prioritizing agent wellfare, and thus, in his mind, the staying power of the Railroad as a whole.

[hc] Late 40's in age as of 2287/2288.

[c] As of 2287/2288, Deacon is looking into Carrington, in some fashion, via his tourist network.

[hc] While never formally a member of the group, Carrington briefly trained with the Brotherhood of Steel's medics in the Capital Wasteland, up until the organization abandoned its protection of Project Purity. Carrington remained in the area for a few years, then traveled to the Commonwealth and established a traveling practice in the early 2260's. This fleeting association with the BoS is the matter Deacon is investigating.

[hc] Deacon appreciates Carrington's more grounded and cautious approach at times, but their personalities are such that the two are often prickly at best with each other, even when in agreement. Carrington is also less susceptible than Desdemona when it comes to Deacon's persuasion, prodding, and manipulation, which Deacon finds to be both frustrating and a good reason to support Desdemona's continued leadership of the organization.

Tinker Tom

[c] Full name: Thomas Weatherby. First mentioned in 2279.

[c] Family farm was destroyed by an Institute attack.

[c] Very intelligent. Brought in to HQ in 2279 to improve the Railroad's weapons and equipment.

[c] Noted as becoming "increasingly eccentric" throughout 2280, which Carrington attributed to the severe psychological repercussions of stress. Desdemona refrained from changing his position or responsibilities.

[c] Relocated to the Switchboard after its discovery in 2281, where he located P.A.M. and notified Desdemona.

[c] Built the Deliverer pistol for Tommy Whispers in 2282.

[c] Spent much of 2283 attempting to decode a holotape carried by an escaped synth, the first of several sent by the Institute-insider, Patriot. Was able to decipher the message in 2284 - "Mass Fusion" - as well as another similarly coded message later that year.

[c] Able to decode the courser chip and decipher the schematics for the molecular relay, if the Sole Survivor provides the chip/plans.

[c] Prone to paranoia and conspiracy-based thought.

[hc] While Deacon does not generally believe Tom's theories, he is genuinely sympathetic to the impact that Tom's time with the Railroad has had on his mental wellbeing and will usually patiently humor Tom, or even encourage him, as he spins a new theory.

Glory

[c] First mentioned in 2280. Formerly G7-81. Opted out of Amari's memory wipe procedure.

[c] Worked with High Rise at Ticonderoga for some time. Called to HQ and promoted to Railroad heavy in 2280.

[c] Firmly opposed to killing Gen 2 synths unless absolutely necessary, such as in self-defense, as she considers them to be people. Also generally tries to avoid killing Gen 1s.

[c] Following Tommy Whisper's move to HQ in 2281, Desdemona noted that Glory had "taken him under his [sic] wing".

[c] As of 2287/2288, dismissive of some aspects of current Railroad security procedures, such as compartmentalization.

[c] Favors 'guns blazing' type tactics, hitting targets fast and hard as opposed to subtlety. Criticized by Desdemona for being too willing to kill humans, as opposed to seeking alternate solutions.

[d] Deacon recognizes the tactical value of having varied skill sets within the Railroad, however, he is not willing to engage in the same tactics as Glory, nor is he willing to work with a partner who does.

[d] Deacon views Glory's approach ([hc] and to an extent, Glory herself) as short-sighted and dangerous, not only to the agents participating in such actions but to the Railroad's mission as a whole; collateral damage is likely to turn public opinion even further against synths and those helping them, making the Railroad's job that much harder.

John D. / Deacon As I favor the theory that Deacon is John D., the two are discussed as one below. Canon notations here up through March 2273 refer to John D., while those after that date refer to Deacon.

[d] Spent a portion of his youth as a member of the UP (University Point) Deathclaws, a gang that harassed and assaulted those they suspected to be synths. This eventually lead to the murder of one such suspected synth.

[d] Cut ties with the UP Deathclaws after the above-mentioned murder. Became a farmer and eventually settled down with and married Barbara.

[hc] While Deacon states he did not know Barbara was a synth, he passingly suspected it, or at least had reason to; Barbara had no significant memories, supposedly as a result of head injury, but in fact caused by an early attempt at a memory wipe. Deacon would later "borrow" this fact for a lie. I don't know if I'd die on this hill but I do think about it and its further implications So Much.

[d] The UP Deathclaws found the couple and killed Barbara, seemingly somehow aware that she was a synth. Deacon then killed most of the gang. Some time later, he was contacted by the Railroad.

[hc] Recruited to the Railroad in the late 2250's.

[c] A runner for the Railroad as of November 2266. Sole HQ-based survivor of the 2066 Railroad HQ massacre, one of only 13 members total who survived and chose to remain involved after the event.

[c] "Finding tourists at a pretty good clip" as of February 2267. Insisted on operational security; kept tourists' identities to himself.

[c] Developed the dead drop system prior to March 2273.

[c] Responsible for planning the escape route utilized by most survivors of the mid-2273 attack on Railroad HQ.

[c] Kicked out of HQ, temporarily, in June 2275.

[c] In 2281, detected a synth infiltrator at Mercer safehouse before P.A.M. was able to. As a result, HQ operations were moved to safety an hour prior to the related courser attack.

[c] Spent a portion of 2284 investigating "Institute sightings from years, even decades before". [hc] This included further investigating several sightings Agamemnon had taken note of and discussed with Deacon several decades prior - particularly the Vault 111 sighting.

[c] Largely absent from HQ throughout 2286; "chasing ghosts".

[c] As of 2287, working on a secret project, code-named Wanderer, based on a "wild theory" and building toward an "even wilder plan (Tea Party)". While the exact nature of the plan is not described, dialogue between Desdemona and P.A.M. suggests its successful completion would result in the freedom of all living synths.

[hc] Mid-to-late 50's in age as of 2287/2288.

[d] Views the Railroad's mission as somewhat broader, meant to help both humans and synths. Acknowledges that this isn't a viewpoint shared by everyone in the organization.