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“Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?”
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.
The plan was coming together.