Denouement
(A Fallout/Borderlands Crossover)

- Chapter 22 : The Downward Spiral -

A/N: HELLO FOLKS!

Sorry for the delay, I know you've been waiting a while ... It's been rough. Had a pretty nasty fire call that's been kind of on the edge of my mind here lately. Dealing with the mother, fixing her car ... My birthday came up, so there's that. But mostly it's been job-related stress. One co-worker is about to file a lawsuit against the company I'm with and my butt is out the door because I can't deal with the reverse racist bullshit everybody turns a blind eye to.

So ...

Without further ado, chapter 22!

!WARNING!
- Heavy implications of rape in later chapters. I don't go overboard on descriptions, trying to be as vague as possble. I dislike writing smut and never will. But my apologies in advance! So ... trigger warning! -

P.S.!

For a more accurate feed of what I'm up to story-wise and to be able to contact me more directly, follow me on Tumblr!

When the calls of strife and bloody disaster dissolved into a far more terrifying silence, dawn was on the rise. MacCready led their escape from the cellar. Opening those heavy iron doors was an arduous process: a weight had been cast atop it. With some struggling and shaking and pounding, he'd managed to force whatever had fallen off and freed them all from captivity.

It was with a wrinkled nose that he cast his eyes upon the corpse of a super mutant. It's body was riddled with so many bullet holes and feral bites that discerning the mortal wound was an impossible task.

"They got really close," Fiona murmured, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Of all of them, she was the only one able to pass into a restful slumber. Codsworth had no need of it, and MacCready was too leery of the lumbering thuds above ground.

"Not just close," corrected the mercenary. He embraced their scenery with a grim narrowing of his eyes and a rather morbidly-aware frown.

It'd only been a night and the blood had not yet soured, but Codsworth covered his nose anyway and groaned into his palm. "Oh my word ... "

Carnage was their backdrop. The ground was so littered with bodies in different states of disrepair. Most were feral ghouls, fewer were super mutants, and the corpses of Legionnaires were an intermediate factor. There were clods of flesh so mangled and torn that they no longer represented the species they were assigned to. And if one squinted really hard, they might make out the ripped uniform of a Minutemen felled in the assault - something that made the battle-hardened Gunner's stomach twitch with illness.

MacCready endured a grueling, tortuous initiation rite into the Gunners. He'd killed innocent marks for just enough caps to earn him a night's stay at the Hotel Rexford or a few drinks at the Third Rail. Jammed grenades into the mouths of his former employers when they came knocking. Stormed the Mass Pike Interchange with Nora and Nick Valentine in tow. Gore and viscera followed him every step of the way. Silenced screams. Gurgling pleads. But this ... this was something that transcended the unworthy callousness of settled vendettas and thoughtless jobs. Though he had spilled blood, it had not been enough to soak the soil's entirety in Sanctuary Hills.

This was war-time battlefield, not some little Commonwealth skirmish.

And that mutant ...

If it hadn't fallen atop the cellar door, would they have been swarmed with combatants? Would they have ended up just like every deformed meat bag out here?

MacCready reached for Fiona's hand. Her digits were so tiny against his own, but they wrapped warmly about his knuckles. Through the iron-scented fumes, he could manage a smile.

So did she. Briefly. It faded into trepidation - scared anxiety. "We should look around real quick," the con artist told him. "Make sure ... you know ... "

He understood her implication, knew the source of her lingering dread. "Alright," he agreed, squeezing her hand lightly. "Follow me. Codsworth? Keep close. Dunno if all those ghouls are - " The synthetic human stepped too close to a roamer's head and the teeth snapped at his ankles. Codsworth drew back with a startled yelp. " - dead."

"But it has no legs!" cried the once-hovering Mr. Handy. "How the heavens can it sustain life with no legs?"

"I don't know if you can call what a ghoul's got 'life', Codsbot."

MacCready didn't tug at Fiona. Instead he let her lead the way. They scrounged through the mess with little success. Bits and pieces of shrapnel, empty bullet casings, a bit of skull that belonged to who-knew-what and scraps of armor too destroyed to be strapped back together. Piles were picked apart with whatever tool they could get their hands on. When those failed, the task fell to their fingers, once-living remains clotting their nails. Codsworth hung back. His suit was far too nice to be dirtied up, he claimed, but he did aid in pointing out irregularities. There was a super mutant with rippling muscles the haze of pale indigo. And a raider band leaped into the fray at some point - possibly to hoard what goodies would be left over. MacCready doubted any of them walked away with treasure considering how many of their corpses riddled the rubble.

But what they didn't find was what they had been looking for. No Sasha. No Rhys. No signs of the other crew: simultaneously relieving and troubling, because Deacon's carcass was nowhere to be seen. But there were so many globules of unidentified meat hanging around that he could have easily been one (or several) of them. Feral ghouls weren't known to leave scraps behind. MacCready's stomach did a harsh little flip. Once a heavy eater, now the eaten ... Would the Railroad heavy find some humor at his ironic fate in the afterlife?

Fiona perked and jerked hard enough to rip her hand from MacCready's. "Oh shit," she hissed through clenched teeth and pursed lips, legs moving of their own accord.

Her eyes darkened with so much dread that the Gunner expected to find her sister in pieces. Instead she stopped at her side, dusty boots settling before a messy nest of tousled blue hair. "Maya?" he asked.

The Vault Hunter nodded. "I was hoping, somehow, maybe she lived. Yeah it was dumb but ... " Fiona rubbed a knuckle across her cheek, smearing old blood across it.

He wanted to nod, comfort her disappointment, but something was odd and out-of-place about the Siren's gouged eye - or rather, what leaked from the oozing socket. MacCready highly doubted the humanoid alien was supposed to have blue blood ... It reeked so harshly of oil and antifreeze that, when he leaned in for closer inspection, the Gunner gagged and retracted.

"Is that normal?"

Remorsefully, Fiona shook her head. "I've, ah, never seen her or Lilith bleed? Maybe it's their thing. Athena would know." She flinched at her own words. "We're gonna have to tell her/"

He'd honestly forgotten about the gladiator, waiting back at the Institute with her girlfriend hooked around her elbow. MacCready's brows knit together tightly in the center of his forehead. "Yeah, you go ahead with that ... "

"What? You don't wanna help me break the news?"

"That's all on you, babe."

She managed a smirk. "To hell with you. I'll kick you into the doghouse so fast - "

"As if I hadn't been there before," MacCready retorted, his mouth forming a small 'o' when Fiona 'humph'-ed in retaliation.

Codsworth cleared his throat. Immediate guilt pricked Fiona's face. "Shit. We shouldn't be doing this."

"What?"

"Joking over her body like this."

"I got the impression you Pandoran folks do that all the time," MacCready said. He immediately raised his hands in surrender when Fiona's flashing glare threw a thousand unworldly needles into his spine. "I mean - you guys, you Vault Hunters - kinda kill a bunch of people all the time, right?"

"I guess?" her irritation receded into an unknowing shrug. "I haven't really started yet. Could say the same of you Gunners though, can't I?"

"Former Gunner," growled MacCready.

"Either or ... "

Her nonchalance kind of bothered him. "Don't you feel sad?" he pressed, concerned. "She was your friend, wasn't she?"

"I didn't know her, really." If this had been Athena, or Janey, it would have been a different story. But all she could feel now was sympathy - and pending dread when it came to informing the gladiator one of her former companions had been so callously murdered by a monster. "We should bury her ... "

"Here?"

"You had somewhere else in mind?"

"No - it's just - we need to find everybody else - "

A blur of black and white exploded past them. It took Fiona and MacCready a few seconds to realize that blur of monochrome color had been Codsworth. His scrawny, short legs propelled him into the distance, eyes wide with something reminiscent of fear. The two exchanged glances momentarily before giving chase. Calling after the Synth yielded no beneficial results, though it did cause the robotic butler to flag them over with his white-gloved hand.

He finally came to a halt well beyond their current location - far past the monster tree, so close to the bridge (now collapsed from the stress of a dozen bombs and a thousand bullets, laying in a wrecked pile of splintered wood at the river's base, where the water carelessly overlaid it). A short column of sparks shone spectacularly at his once-polished-but-now-dusty black shoes, reflecting off of their shimmering domes.

MacCready was the first to reach him. Nearly. "Codsbot?"

At twenty feet away, the robot man collapsed. The knees of his fine black trousers had no problem soaking in the dampness of blood-soaked earth. Ten feet away - MacCready could see his hands trembling. And within a foot the Gunner heard him break into a fit of woeful sobbing, bringing his hands to his face.

"Ohhh," Codsworth moaned into his palms. The Goodneighbor merc rested his hand upon the butler's shoulder. He was shaking profusely. "Ohhhhh, Curie ... "

At a later time, MacCready might muse over the common way he addressed the lady bot. No 'Miss' or 'Madame', and it was certainly a nice change from using 'mum' all the damn time when Nora was around. That air of familiarity intermingled with an air of fondness one might see betwixt a young couple. And later, he would wonder if robots could romance ...

But right now, poor Codsworth was a wrecking ball of emotions. He bawled, he sniveled, he groaned. And with good reason, for half-buried in the ground beneath him was Curie's skull. Wires and coolant tubes poked through the severed portion of her thin, dainty neck. The skin had been sheared away gruffly - torn in larger patches here and smaller ones there. Her body lay undisturbed another foot or two away. MacCready was surprised no feral ghoul had slandered the corpse, but then was there any true flesh adhered to it?

He could not help but swallow hard at the sight. Even Fiona was forced to cover her mouth, frowning between spread fingers, making his uncomfortable nature in this situation all the more apparent.

"Codsworth," he tried to whisper, tried to console ... but the Mr. Handy Synth was reduced to a blubbering mess. One hand reached for Curie's face. It retracted immediately, fearful of the cold texture that awaited his touch. Woeful rivulets fell down his handsome cheeks - a sight to be seen, for sure. MacCready didn't know Synths could cry. Valentine sure as hell never did, though he'd watched the detective pace restlessly back and forth, back and forth, for several endless weeks (or had it been months?) following Nora's disappearance. Maybe the final generation of Synths could weep, though he'd sure as hell never seen Danse so much as bat an eye.

That was a hell of a comparison. The older model Synth could show more emotion than the damn-near-human gen.

Fiona hunched next to Codsworth, whispering sweet words in an attempt to quell his misery. Maybe it hadn't been wholly effective but the butler did reduce his sobs long enough to steady the trembling in his artificial fingers. One set of fingers enclosed around Curie's mop of hair. The other encircled her opposing cheek. Codsworth pulled her decapitated framework close to his chest, brushed lockes from her face, and continued with his weeping.

MacCready had maybe a few seconds to dwell on what might have caused this ... before the base of her severed neck lit with spasming sparks and a distinct burning wire odor.

And her eyes flew open. "Mon amour."

Before he knew it, Fiona was laughing. "Really, Mac?"

"Screw you," he seethed, recollecting himself from the ... five-or-so foot jump he'd cleared 'with extreme grace an catlike reflexes'. The merc went to blow a raspberry at the Vault Hunter, but the brunette was already leaning over Codsworth's shoulders with wide eyes as the butler nuzzled his face into Curie's scalp, free-weeping. A great weight lifted itself from his shoulders. "How are ... how's she alive? Not that I'm not fuc - hrmm - freaking ecstatic she's kicking. Maybe no so much kicking but - "

"Mac," Fiona's warning hiss was barely discernible over Codsworth's continued cries and Curie's attempted soothesays.

"Mon amour, please, it eez alright!"

"You were - I thought I lost - "

"I am alive, mon chéri!"

"And we're happy you are," Fiona pressed onward, butting her way verbally between the reunited lovers, "but um ... about that ... how are you alive? Your body is, like, ripped to Pandora and then some, so ... "

"Ze Brozerhood, 'ou see," Curie responded while she closed her eyes against the warmth of Codsworth's chest, "'zey did not know 'ow to - ah - create Synths as ze Institute deed. Zey vould be ashamed to admit eet, but ze Institute was far more advanced zan ze Brozerhood could ever be."

The butler was finally coming down from his hysteria. Sniffing back what remained of his tears (and running snot, what a mess), he drew back with reddened eyes. "They were able to get a grasp on how to create synth-synthetic skin," he hiccuped, "well enough, along with functioning tear ducts and a few other glands ... but to produce artificial organs? It was just slightly out of reach." He lowered his voice just so. "If we are being honest, I believe the Brotherhood of Steel was fearful that adapting the Institute's bioscience would turn them into shadows of their former enemies - a fully justified fear, I might add."

"They had no problem ripping pre-war technologies from everybody else, though." growled the Gunner.

"Bear in mind, Mister MacCready, that the Commonwealth at that point was just recovering from the terrifying hold the Institute held over it. The idea of creating Synths was as nightmarish as it was enigmatic." The butler drew Curie's face close to his own, pressing his lips against her forehead. She sighed at the touch, exposed circuitry sparkling a little more brilliantly. "We are more closely related to Mister Valentine than we are, for example, Elder Danse - " MacCready flinched at the name " - or, ah, Miss Glory from the Railroad. "All hard wires and electronics beneath the flesh. Prototypes, if you will. Gen 2.5s." With the sleeve of his black suit, Codsworth wiped the moisture from his cheeks. He tittered at the wetness. "Oh my, I'll be on a fast track to rusting my endoskeleton at this rate, won't I? A pity I've run through my warranty," he chortled.

MacCready's smirk was tired, edged with mixed sensations and emotions. "We should get you back to the Institute, get Curie repaired." The suggestion left a bitter taste on his tongue, but what other option was there?

"And once she's got a body again, we can all look for the others and plan our next move," Fiona agreed.

"Ze others?"

"Yeah. Missin' Sasha and Rhys and ... well, everybody."

"I received a transmission shortly before zees happened, madame. Zat ze Minutemen 'ave arrived at ze edge of Sanctuary Hills. As far as I can tell, everybody 'as been evacuated." Curie's gray eyes opened slowly, returning attention to Fiona with a smile that looked so morbid considering he decapitated predicament. "Zey 'ave retreated to ze Castle. Mais, I vas vith Sasha before my, ahm, incident 'appened."

Fiona jerked upright. "You were?!"

"Oui oui! I told her to run, 'ou see. I 'ave not seen her since, al'zough I saw Monsieur Hancock running past me in ze same direction Sasha 'as gone. And my perceptual scanners indicated zey vere vithin reach of one anozer before zey went offline."

The Vault Hunter sunk into herself with a weary, but happy, little groan. MacCready grinned. "Oh goodie. She's with the good ol' mayor? Man, I feel bad for her." Fiona glared. The merc dismissed her caustic expression with a wave of his hand. "Relax, babe, she's in good n' grubby hands. Hancock can be a bit grabby sometimes but he's not gonna go and let her get killed."

"She might let him, though, if he tries anything," Fiona warned. "Curie, did you see Rhys?"

"In fact, I did. He vas at ze Red Rocket vith monsieur Vaughn - "

MacCready exchanged looks with Fiona. It wasn't hard to see past the horizon now that the smoke and dust had settled. The refueling station that stood so predominantly against the rising sun had not-so-mysteriously vanished from view, replaced with a cavernous abyss.

" - vith madames Cait, Piper, and Nora."

"Mum?!" Codsworth yelped. Grimy white gloves clutched Curie's skull delicately beneath the ears. He hoisted her into the air: eyes wide, mouth gaping, overall incredulous. "Did you - did you say mum?!"

Judging from Curie's enthusiastic smile, the answer was clear. MacCready felt his heart leap into his chest, effectively denying his lungs the chance to expand. "She's alive, that was really her - !"

"Indeed! She vas very terribly vounded, but I was able to stabilize 'er and - please, mon amour, do not cry!"

Too late. Codsworth's torrential waterfall was flowing once again.

MacCready tugged on Fiona's elbow, pulling her close enough to him so that he could whisper into her ear, "This changes things up a little." Her head tilted: she was listening. "We need to go to the Institute for Curie, but with Danse heading that way anyhow ... "

Fiona stifled a grumble. The corner of her mouth spasmed downwards. "You don't think he'd spring a trap, do you?"

"I'm more worried about him going after Boss." The age-old nickname was lost on Fiona. "Nora. He might - you didn't see him when we were heading to the Glowing Sea, Fi. He was obsessed with her." The average fool might call that level of fanaticism love. MacCready had been around long enough to know better. "If we go by foot, we've a better chance of bumping into them first - "

"If they got through the fall okay, they're gonna more than halfway there, aren't they? Mac, it'll take us way too long to catch up."

"Pardon me, if I may?" Codsworth interrupted. Puffy eyes watched them with rousing consternation. "I ... may not fully agree with your suspicions of Elder Danse." MacCready got ready to argue. The butler silenced him with the sternest of glowers ever to be present on the Synth's face. "However, the prospect of mum being in danger, however minuscule the chance, is ... unthinkable to me. I thought I'd lost her for 200 years, you understand. And now this ... And if you're suggesting what I think you're suggesting, I refuse to drag Curie around with us in her current state - "

"Mon amour - "

"So we will be going to the Institute," his suddenly firm accented voice continued, unrelenting, "and we will be leaving Curie there so that she may be repaired. And then we will look for mum."

Damn. Fiona gulped. "Still leaves us with the whole problem of getting to the Institute. Either way, we'd need to walk."

"I have a solution for that," Codsworth winked. "I ... may have done some research during my time inside the Institute. About the Synths. Primarily Coursers ... and the chips they used to get back and forth. Quite fascinating, if I do say so myself!"

MacCready's disbelieving face fell. "You're kidding me."

"Absolutely not, sir, although I do enjoy a good joke every now and then. Did I ever tell you about the blind man who walked into a bar? And a chair. And a table - "

The Gunner wasn't laughing. "You had a courser chip in you the whole time?"

"Why, yes."

"And you never told us because ... ?"

"Well, I didn't think it would be necessary."

"Why didn't you think it was necessary?!" Wild gesticulations indicated their former cellar of a hideout. "We slept in a basement!"

"But we were safe, were we not?" he quipped with a rising brow. "And had we left in the middle of the night, we would not have discovered that valuable information. About Elder Danse. About mum's ... involuntary pregnancy." The titular earth-bound pull of his lips spoke volumes of his angst on the subject.

"Or the whole bit with Yvette and Maya," Fiona attempted to pull them away from the rather unsavory topic. "And the Vault somewhere n the Glowing Sea." A hungry thing flashed across her irises, briefly illuminating the darkness of her restricted pupils. MacCready was well-acquainted with his own cap thirst to understand the thought process culminating behind those beautiful orbs.

He was certain he would have been right there with her, too, if it hadn't been for the holotape's documentation of a monster that struck fear into the abominable Caesar's army.

"With my courser chip installed," Codsworth went on, lowering Curie's head and relieving a hand to tweak at his mustache - a clear show of rattled nerves getting the best of him, "we shall be able to transport to the Institute so Missus Curie may be repaired." MacCready blinked. Missus? "And then we shall teleport to another destination post-haste and find mum."

Fiona frowned. "'We', though? Maybe you should stay with Curie, don't you think?"

"Absolutely not!" His retort came harsher than was to be expected. The flinching of his companions caused Codsworth to retract apologetically. "I - I want to be with Curie as she ... but ... For two years, I have been searching for mum tirelessly. Now that I know she is alive, possibly in danger, and now - pregnant - I ... cannot simply sit idly by." Codsworth twisted his hand this way and that, throwing it under keen observation. "I may be lacking a saw and flamethrower, but I am far from useless. Having a medically trained robot on your side is a tactical decision - especially for you Mister MacCready."

The Gunner resigned with futility. "You gotta point there."

"I ... I hope you understand, darling." Codsworth was watching Curie now.

Her lips, still luscious and pink even when disconnected from her body's narrow shoulders, lifted. "Of course, mon mari."

To which Fiona bumped shoulders with MacCready and asked, a little too loudly, "Are they married or something?"

And Codsworth beamed, reddened sclera doing nothing to dim the glow of his oculars. "For a little over a year, yes."

They'd parted ways at Bunker Hill.

It was a tenuous separation. Rhys and Vaughn had just enough time for a singular fist bump between mission briefings before the bandit king was escorted off by the caravan runners. And he'd hesitated, maybe would have stayed rooted to the spot ... if Piper hadn't caught his arm, gently nudging him along the beaten path. Something about the way she smiled - that luminous charm beneath black hair and grime - instilled a spark of confidence.

He couldn't help but look over his shoulder as they walked. By the time they crossed the first threshold of business buildings, Rhys and Nora were already at the bridge leading into what had once been Boston.

Vaughn returned to focus on their destination. Maybe his time on Pandora hardened him into a stronger person than he was two or three years ago, but it was that nagging sensation of fear that forced him to swallow hard. This place was wild - wilder than Pandora. Probably.

Grimacing at the throbbing in his recently mended arm, Vaughn clasped the pocket watch hidden in his pants. Couldn't Cassius forge a fast-travel any faster? Every second on this god-forsaken planet was one more second he'd have to spend not dying. The ruined Helios' hot showers had never sounded so welcoming. Soft beds. Foraged food. Good company. He could get back on track managing trading routes and setting up defenses. Yvette would meet him with a list of things they needed and complain about their coffee machines being broken.

Yvette. Vaughn's chest seized up.

He released the pocket watch and sighed. No use crying over spilled milk. You play with the hand you're dealt with, right?

The caravaneers and their body guards went tense. They raised their weapons, scoping out the area, and Piper tapped his shoulder with the butt of her pistol. "Look alive, short stuff," she told him while double-checking her clip.

His left hand was already suited up with the deathclaw gauntlet. Vaughn fished for his plasma pis - oh wait, that's right, no ammo. "Is it ... hostile here?"

"Scavvers come and go. They like to try and loot the bots," Piper shrugged. She'd dropped back to walk alongside him. The USS Constitution was slowly coming into sight - her towering masts looming more and more ominous with each passing second. The reporter grinned - teeth stained a pale yellow through nicotine use but charming nonetheless. "Couple years ago, Nora managed to get a cease fire long enough to bargain with their outfit for a part the bots needed. Lasted maybe five minutes before they decided it wasn't good enough and started raining bullets on us."

Vaughn chuckled through his anxiety. "Nick too, huh?" He had a hard time imagining the grizzled old detective doing much of anything but hovering over case files.

"Oh yeah! Had a little too much fun using their cannons, if you ask me. The whole time he kept quoting these old black-and-white motion pictures about pirates. Even asked for a damn peg leg when his own got blown off. Nora humored him with a plunger until we could get him repaired." She was chuckling to herself, reminiscing a little fondly while biting down the butt of an unlit cigarette.

"Jeez! I can't see him even throwing a punch!"

"He could scrap with the best. Still can." Piper struggled with a lighter. "We had a tight little crew back then. Especially those two. They were nearly inseparable."

Vaughn slowly eased. Piper carried so much sass about her that he felt it beginning to rub off on him, shaking his fears ... They were nearer to the ship's massive bodice now. Her weathered wooden planks looked like they had seen better days, but were in good enough condition to keep the maiden from suffering too much under heavy rainfall. The USS Constitution rested upon a building, crumbled to virtually nothing but broken stairs and shattered walls. He wondered how it'd gotten there - maybe a rogue wave some long time ago? - until he finally notice the two huge rockets tethered to her stern.

A rather battered Mister Handy hovered at the ruin's entrance. And just above them, he was almost certain he heard the whirring of robotic wheels, the droning of a metallic voice. "Did you say ... bots?"

Piper took a puff. Those fantastic illuminations cast upon her by the cherry's burning glow and the spotlight's blinding glare lended an almost angelic silhouette to an already pretty face. Vaughn missed a step, catching himself just before both feet left the ground.

"You heard me right," she beamed. "The USS Constitution is run entirely by robots."

In the darkness above the spotlights came a voice like an Englishman in a tin can. "Ahoy there, Boatswain Wright! It has been a good few years since my optical scanners have sensed your presence!" If Vaughn squinted, he could see a tiny head atop a bulky body. And was that ... a tricorn hat? "Mr. First Mate, please lower the dinghy!"

The responding monotone of a Protectron: "Aye aye, Captain!"

Even in the dark, the devastation wrought upon Boston was as clear as day.

Nora had to stand at the bridge for a few moments. Probably longer than she should have. But a grueling lump in her throat made it hard to gulp, the burning stinging the corners of her eye made it hard to blink. So she opted to breath - deep, shuddering breaths that took a momentous effort to quell into something more manageable.

She was aware of Rhys watching her. His mouth had skewered downwards : disapproving or sympathetic, she couldn't tell. She didn't really care, either.

How many died when that nuke went off? Piper's brief summary of details ensured the safety of some settlements and a majority of her friends. But there were always so many settlers straying in from beyond the Commonwealth, roaming the lands where civilization had yet to prosper. How many children? How many parents? How many elders and vagabonds and Synths?

Gone was Trinity Tower, where they'd rescued Strong and one Rex Goodman. Gone were all of the high-rises. Not a single memory of what once had been - no Diamond City, no Goodneighbor, no detective agency ... No nothing. Everything was reduced to rubble and ash - tombs for those who could not escape in time.

The Hyperion - no, Atlas - touched her shoulder just so. "We should - um - probably go ... Before it gets light out."

Nora ran a hand through her platinum blond hair. Only upon pulling it back did she realize she was trembling. "Yeah."

Though she harbored nothing but terror at the idea of strolling through a once slowly rebuilding city, the general was glad to be leaving Bunker Hill. It'd had enough locked containers and chests for her to let Rhys tinker with (lockpicking was an essential asset, after all, and he would have to learn), but there had been so much blood ...

"The Sawtooth raiders, huh?" she breathed. Long coat flapping behind her with each smoke-carrying gust of gentle wind, Nora grabbed a hunk of concrete and scrawled their names onto one of the bridge's stone slabs. She wrote in Piper's and Vaughn's after careful thought, adding directional arrows beside their names to indicate they'd gone a different direction. "You know, I've never been a heavy judge on cannibals. Gotta do what you gotta do when you're starving and whatnot ... "

Rhys' reaction was understandable. His nose crinkled and his eyebrows lowered. "It's disgusting."

"Maybe ... but you ever hear of the Andes flight disaster?" He became instantly confused and Nora mentally slapped herself. "Of course he doesn't, Nora. He's not from here. So this plane crashed into the Andes mountains. A good quarter of them died. They were stranded up there for a month in freezing temperatures. Ran out of food and supplies, so all they could do to live was, well, eat the other passengers who'd passed away and froze."

They slowly began making their way across the bridge, each lightly gripping the handles of their chosen weapons. "Desperate times, I guess," Rhys mused. "You wouldn't catch me dead doing that. I don't think I'd be able to live with myself. Doesn't eating people give you the shakes or something?"

"I think it's psychosomatic, really. Can't wrap your mind around the fact that you're eating somebody of your own species, with their own family and crap." Nora kept touching her stomach, half-expecting that previously gaping hole to be there. "Not gonna lie, if I was starving, on the cusp of death - and I've been there several times - I'd do it."

Rhys made a retching noise.

And Nora smirked. "Human broil."

The alien's easily-aggravated gag reflex was enough to keep her amusement and mind going when it wanted, more than anything, to become numb.

Dogmeat had a snout that just wouldn't fail. And the pooch was damned fast. At least the German Shepherd was also attentive to her followers - she had to stop several times for the Synth detective to catch up, impatiently barking at him each time.

"I'm coming, I'm coming," his gravelly voice rolled off as he clambered over a heap of rocks. His bad hand struck them a little too hard and a little too fast. Sparks bounced onto the ground. "My makers didn't give me four legs, y'know." His right knee was bouncing too much - worn like everything else in his old body. Probably a loose screw.

She waited long enough for him to reach the tip of her wagging tail before jettisoning off again. This endless game of cat-and-mouse continued for quite some time. They surpassed Lexington by now - headed into a different direction entirely. Cambridge was just coming into view when the sun decided to rise.

Eventually the ground leveled out into a road and Dogmeat broke into a full sprint. It was all Nick Valentine could do to keep up without stumbling over some loose piece of asphalt or a pothole - he couldn't complain, it wasn't like the city was doing anything to keep up with road work anymore.

When the sleuth hound halted suddenly, Valentine damn near careened into her. Today was not one of his more graceful days ... He felt so off-balance with that thing in his head that wouldn't go away. But it'd been silent up until this point. Maybe he'd been hallucinating. Another mnemonic impression there for a temporary stay. But it hadn't sounded like Kellogg.

Dogmeat was begging, yapping, demanding his attention. And Valentine would be a fool not to give it.

It was then that he saw the abyss.

He remembered seeing it at least a year and a half ago, give or take a few months. That sinkhole had opened up when too much erosion seeped through the cracks and weakened whatever slabs of rock had been keeping it aloft. It was deep enough to keep even the most adventurous wayfarers away - and it cave-diving didn't drive them off, the lore of nesting mirelurks certainly would have.

Large splotches of coagulated blood fanned from the hole to beyond. A heavy fishy aroma wafted up his nostrils and Valentine slapped his good hand against his noise. "Oh, that is wretched." Dogmeat whined. "I hope you didn't come here looking for dinner, pooch."

Nick had to do a double-take, because it almost looked like her eyes rolled. Maybe it was his imagination. Or his eyes were going bad. He was willing to bet on the latter.

Her nose struck towards the ground, hazed just above it. Then she was moving again. Trotting this time. Wherever they were headed, it wasn't far.

Just up the hill, past a flatbed truck with fresh fingerprints pressed against it's thin layer of fallout dust (the synapses in the back of his robotic brain began firing off little alarm bells), was the corpse of a mirelurk king. Vicious bastards with beautiful multi-colored frills, they would have been a delicacy for the oculars had they not been so goddamned mean. This one certainly didn't have any bite left in it, bissected as it was. A hint of electrical burn tinged the neatly sliced raw flesh.

Nick was sure for a second that the world had spun. He knew that handiwork. Knew the mark left from an electrified blade ...

Dogmeat skirted eastward again. She'd picked up the blood trail and followed it into a grassy knoll. The soil was soft here. Several footprints left their indentations, intermingling with mahogany splashes. Judging by the space between them, whoever owned them had been running.

There was a lump of something pale and red in the distance. Nick groaned as they came upon it. The Shepherd's tremulous whine signaled her own fleeting woe.

"Oh Cait ... "

Once brilliantly energetic and rudely aggressive, the former cage fighter's sunken eyes were closed against the dawning Red Giant in the sky. Whatever color formerly flowed through her flesh had been drained with the rest of her blood. A good portion of her lower body was missing, with chunks ripped from her arms and torso post-mortem from hungry mongrels. He touched her neck, some old Nick impulse to feel for a pulse persevering even though Synth Nick knew she was well beyond dead. Cold as ice.

Valentine sighed against the clanking gears rioting in his chest wall. Dogmeat expressed her remorse by licking the woman's faded cheek, but already the hound was prancing. Her tail flapped restlessly, albeit with a new droop to it.

"So they ran here," Nick mused somberly, fishing a cigarette from his breast pocket. A strike of flint later and he was huffing away. "Probably tried carrying her to safety."

Goddamn it, Cait.

Bright yellow orbs surveyed the small perimeter. Three sets of footprints, a little more set in here because their owners had lingered. One pair was smaller than the others, and it was there that he noticed the patch of matted grass where somebody had laid down. Or fallen. The prints scurried about this point, moved in formation into Cambridge. Though Dogmeat was still sniffing away, he no longer needed her nose at this point ... not until they reached the city's outskirts, whereupon she led him to a building's burnt wall.

A wall with engravings.

They were relatively fresh or at least he thought so. It was a list of names, hastily etched in by two sets of hands due to very different handwriting skills. He knew Hancock's chickenscratch and Piper's slightly looped half-cursive, and he recognized the code: it was something they'd all formulated as a group back when the Institute still stalked the streets.

Nick ran down the names, nerves making him unconsciously chew on the filter. Hancock, Sasha ... gone to the Castle. Piper, Rhys, Vaughn ...

Nora.

He was certain, for a second, that his coolant system went offline. Jammed. Got stuffed up. He didn't know which one. Everything was warm. Nick mimicked the motion of swallowing even though he had no saliva to gulp. His metal claw scratched across the name. A foggy blanket settled over his synthetic mind, and it wasn't until he uttered a small mewl of giddy elation that he noticed he was smiling.

Dogmeat leaned into his leg and barked. He dropped his steel fingers to rub her snout and answered, "You're damn right, girl."

By daylight they were steaming through the ruins. Under Nora's command, both had adapted to stealth tactics. Neither was willing to get spotted before they knew what was happening. Especially when the enemy was not only armed with razor-sharp teeth, but weapons that would make them full of holes in only a few seconds.

The USS Constitution took longer to depart than she thought it would. It makes sense, she thought when it finally went airborn an hour after they fled Bunker Hill. That thing needed so many repairs back then. Prolly had some more work to be done before another fly-by.

Captain Ironsides had some sense about him, thankfully. Rather than shooting straight over Boston for the Castle, the ship maintained an eastward trajectory - out over the open sea towards the peninsula housing Boston Airport. Would it be seen? Probably. Was it within firing range? Most definitely not. Unless the Legion had ground-to-air missiles. Fatman not included.

They hadn't exchanged much by way of words - only hand gestures, shrugging shoulders, and throaty notes of (dis)approval. Nora spent most of her time observing Rhys. He'd lost a lot of color in a very short amount of time. His eyes were wide, brows and lids twitching, jumping at every single noise that reached his ears - be it a can rolling onto the asphalt or a cricket finalizing his song. When they stopped to recoup - and that was often - he heard his breathing quicken and saw his knees buckle and shake.

When they reached Goodneighbor's demolished boundaries they could hear a clamor of rugged talk and drunken laughter. Loud, raucous, violent. Were they in proximity? Had the Sawtooth raiders nestled here for the moment?

One voice bellowed above the rest. "Bring 'er inta da Third Rail, boys! We're gunna have sum fun 'fore lunch!"

There was a uproarious cheer, in the midst of which could be discerned a muffled, feminine squeak. Nora's intestines knotted loop upon loop. Rhys' teeth chattered. She made a decision.

"Rhys," she called, only speaking in the volume necessary for their distance. He'd leaped out of his skin, of course, but to his credit he didn't yelp. "A word?"

"I - uh - y-yeah, sure, what's ... ?"

They'd crept up behind the Hotel Rexford. Those neon signs were broken in several places, sparks lighting up where severed wires exposed themselves to the outside world. She marveled that there was any power to them at all. One side of the entrance had collapsed with a good half of the building itself. Black char marks outlined the windows on the second and third floors. It was still heavy with smoke. Had to be, what with all those coughs erupting from inside.

Those coughs ...

And those pleads for help ...

Crying. Moaning. Pain and suffering. People begging for mercy, pleading to be released. Prisoners.

Nora observed four shadows working their way from the now-single-door to the Old State House. One Sawtooth was leading a duo of members, who were hauling a bound and gagged little girl ... no older than about 13 or so ... with short chestnut hair and a pinstriped shirt smudged with dirt and blood. She was limping, and further inspection revealed a rather gangrenous-looking gash along left calf. And it was driving her nuts because the girl looked so damn familiar and she couldn't place a name -

Meg.

Her blood ran cold.

"I'm gonna cause a distraction," she whispered with a little more acid in her throat than she meant. A distraction. Right. More like going in guns blazing. Or sword swinging. Nick would be proud. Calming her heart with several slow deep breaths was becoming essential, so fierce was her pending rage. And now she really wished the old detective was here. We could clear this place out in a New York minute. He'd be proud of that phrase, too, and was probably the only one alive 'cept the pre-war Ghouls to get it. "I know ... I know you didn't have a whole lot of time to play with the lockpick thinger ... but you've got the generalized idea, right?"

He nodded. There was terror in his eyes - he knew she was suggesting they split up before they even said it, and he wanted so badly to refute it.

"This hotel," Nora told him, jerking her thumb into the building's wall. "I think there's survivors in there. might be just a guess and I could be wrong, but you can hear them ... I'm going to the Third Rail. I'll make some noise. Once they come running after me, you go in and see what you can see, yea? Free anybody you find, get them out of Goodneighbor. Leave ... I dunno, leave a cup or something by the door so I know you've cleared the hotel. And I'll meet you back at that Fauneil Hall that I showed you earlier, 'kay?" Rhys didn't answer. He only stared. "You got it?" A nod. "You ready?"

"No?" he choked.

She clapped his shoulder. "Good. You'll do fine." Nora wanted to instill some kind of ego into him, but she was pretty sure the anger was displacing any sort of trust vibes she was trying to send his way. "Don't be seen. If somebody comes back, you hide. Got it?"

Rhys was holding his breath. "What if I get caught?" he asked meekly.

Here her voice did steady. Angling her jaw low, Nora spoke with such a serious tone that Rhys shuddered. "Then I'll get you and kill anybody that gets in my way."

Leaving Sanctuary Hills was easy. They were escorted by the blood of their enemies. And there had been many - some dead where they lay, others writhing in the reaper's throes, so far from that mortal release but unable to save their own pathetic lives.

Caesar Lanius made sure to expedite their journey.

Perhaps they had shared a few casualties themselves, but that was to be expected. His Legion would charge unhindered into combat. They would follow any orders without a second thought or a conflicted vision. Should they fall in the battlefield, they would die as champions.

Of course there had been some who fled in terror. Atom's vessel had truly been an intimidating warrior, and the gradual culmination of defensive forces made faith wither in the weak. Caesar Lanius commanded his assassins to exterminate them and not return until they had removed the eyes from their unworthy corpses.

The so-called Green Gem of the Commonwealth was long behind them. Catacombs forged from the poisons of a thousand years lay destitute after his army swarmed over their hideous abominations. Every ghoul and super mutant had been slain for their befoulment of the land. Any human survivor was killed where they stood if they were not healthy enough to be made a viable servant. And that had been many.

Gone was the urban wasteland. Before them was the coast. Neptune's water crashed along Terra's rocky shores, ebbing sediment and uncleanliness into torrential frothing white caps, sucked back into the open blue void to be smashed again and again into the cliffside. Fort Independence was but an ancient monstrosity against such a beauteous landscape: a hideous relic of a long ago war that did wonders to tarnish that which was natural.

Caesar Lanius' glorious armor acted as a mirror for Sol Invictus' marvelous heating rays. Perhaps that was what caused the Castle's men to raise the alarm, her hollowed siren wailing long tunes against the demolished Commonwealth. Men rushed to their positions. Flashing silver steel and glowing red rifles. Power armor and laser muskets. Inferior. The beginnings of a scourge that once brought mankind crumbling to their knees in dying defeat and would do so again if left unchecked.

They had done well to travel this far, and with such perfect timing. The Minutemen leader and Brotherhood of Steel Elder were both present and standing.

By the end of this battle, he would have both of them on their knees begging for mercy.

Perhaps this hastily, desperately strung together band of fair-weather friends had their strength of will to keep them alive.

The Legion had an army of hundreds.

"Think about puppies," Nick told her when she was slavering to get into Fort Hagen. "Or butterflies. Or kittens with those big suspicious eyes. Think of anything. Just calm yourself down before you go chargin' into the thicket of it, doll. I'd hate to be the one scraping you off the floor."

She tried to think of all those fluffy animals and flutterbyes. She even threw bunnies into the mix. But once the grip of heated irritation got a good grip on her heart, Nora was an unstoppable pain train of vengeance. Sure, she'd come out with a scratch or two. Sure, maybe a bottomless gash or a broken bone. Yeah why not, a punctured lung, a concussion, decompensated shock. But she was going to be the only one walking out of it all alive. Well, her and her companion of course.

There were many times when her friends applauded her actions, impressed by her endurance. And there were just as many times when she'd scared the ever-loving shit of them. (Save for Strong, who loved every second of mass-evisceration. Even laughed when it was being conducted). Valentine labeled her a spitfire. It worked.

In times like this where she had to be a shadow, Nora took her best lessons from Deacon. "Be as the fly upon the wall. Observe, but do not interact. Then fly in their face when they least expect it."

Deacon was a cold body in the middle of Sanctuary Hills. His body was probably being pecked apart by radvultures. Her gut wrenched.

There wasn't a whole lot of cover for her to take advantage of, so Nora resorted to free-climbing to the dilapidated Old State House's roof. Dropping from there onto the balcony where Mayor Hancock gave his most enthusiastic, appraising chem-fueled speeches was a bit trickier, but she'd managed it with only a slight bump to the noggin'.

Goodneighbor's streets were teaming with raiders. Trashcan Carla hadn't been lying about their appearance either. Gangly, with matted hair wild and unkempt and nails filed down to points, they spoke with sharpened teeth flashing between sentences. Their clothes were tattered rags filched from some poor sod they'd plucked off the Commonwealth. Most if not all of their attire was stained red with blood that did not belong to them. Probably.

Nora glimpsed around the corner. Rhys was out of sight, but he was definitely there.

When the way was clear, the former Minutemen general slipped between the banister rails and onto the asphalt below. Wordlessly, soundlessly, she disappeared through the bar's double doors.

Not much had changed about the Third Rail's interior. She shouldn't have been surprised. After all, according to Piper and Cait, it had been used as an impromptu shelter until Danse was able to relay the Goodneighbor citizens into the Institute. (She took a second to wonder on their reaction of going from grit to pristine.) There were some minor renovations from when the Sawtooth gang moved in, though. Minor ones, but pungent all the same. Heaps of blood and flesh. Gnawed bones. The unwary might mistake this formally thriving dive as a super mutant sanctuary. That heavy iron aroma slammed olfactories so harshly that Nora stifled a sneeze.

It hadn't been long since the trio of cannibals marched Meg into those confines. Couldn't have been. Maybe twenty minutes? Clearly they wasted no time. You didn't have to strain your ears to hear some ... rather unsavory noises. Squelches. Groans. The solitary weeping of an innocent, violated child.

That little flare in her gullet was kicking into high-drive. Nora flitted her way down the stairs, carefully sidestepping the array of tin can chimes blocking her path. (She turned reflexively to advise her companion of the little trap before reminding her confused self that she was, in fact, alone.) A quick scan of the floor ensured no frag mines - or any other mines - awaited the stepping of uneasy feet. Towards the bottom, she kept to the stairs' rail - huddled low so that the peak of her silverish hair could not be discerned.

"Hurry t'up, Kirch. I wanna - I wanna fuck her so bad!"

"Yell wait yer fuckin' turn!"

They sounded farther away. Not at the bar. Nora's head rounded the corner. All clear. They must be down in the room in the back - the same one where she found those two Gunners harassing a down-on-his-luck MacCready. The memory of back-then versus right-now collided into a white haze of mixed emotion, a sense of reality flipping its way upside-down. It was an innocent recollection, so tainted now ...

She snuck her way down the hallway. Sure enough, Nora spied movement - shadows being cast against the wall from what little light the faded amber ceiling bulb provided: frantic gesticulations of frustrated Sawtooth raiders pleasuring themselves to the rhythm of their third member's hot-breathed antics. Nora inched in a little further. The final raider in this little group was sitting on the ragged couch MacCready once claimed. He'd puled Meg into his lap after hastily removing her pants. Gnarled claws rubbed against her bare abdomen, leaving little cuts that bled down into the threshold of activity. And Meg - oculars wide, tears welling; lost somewhere between misery and numbness - could do nothing but listlessly award him with whatever he demanded of her. They'd gagged her with a dirty cloth, bound her arms behind her back.

Nora found the hilt of her sword. She didn't realize her teeth were grinding until her jaw became sore with the effort.

The nearest Sawtooth raider was right at the edge of the doorway. She could slit his throat with Buzzkill's serrated edge, move in to kill the one assaulting Meg ... then finish the job and stow the girl safely away from the oncoming firefight before the commotion sent the entirety of Goodneighbor running into the Third Rail.

Closer. Just a little further now.

A whirring robotic motor. Yellow eyes. Nora restrained a hiss, freezing in place.

Then the yellow flashed red. Two toy cymbals clanged against one another. That fucking monkey.

Her target turned, dick in hand, to face the distraction. Too little, too late. Nora lunged towards his face with Buzzkill's full length exposed. She drove the sharpened blade into the space between his eyes, sending bolts of electricity into his skull for good measure: an act that was ore for her than anything else.

"YOU BITCH!" howled Sawtooth #2, hastily tucking his manhood away and reaching for the snubnosed .44 stuffed in his belt. "I'LL EAT YER FUCKIN' FACE OFF, YOU CU - "

Nora relieved him of his lower jaw first. Taxed by the flopping of his languid tongue, the wretched lad couldn't even holler pain as she field dressed him in one slash. His gun clattered to the ground. The hammer snapped forward. Prompted by a miniature explosion, a bullet ripped through the air - bouncing from one hard surface to the other until it buried itself in the concrete wall.

Last but not least ...

She expected him to cry out in fear. To be horrified. But the final Sawtooth, 'Kirch', met her lonely eye with both of his own. He still clenched Meg's sides, still bounced her on his hips. Taunting. Almost. His mouth hovered inches above the girl's throat, jaw parting slightly to show off those shark-like jowels. Was he going to bite her? Rip her throat out?

He'd said something then. Maybe, "Don't you want a taste?" or some verbose statement along those lines. She could not hear him over the ringing in her ears - didn't want to as she slid Buzzkill into his chest. It met resistance at the sternum. Nora thrust onward, breaking the bone barrier until the serrated tip cleaved into his damnable heart.

Nora's face was red. She knew it without actually looking in the mirror. So much furious heat seared her cheeks. No time to linger.

"Meg," she crooned, encapsulating the young girl's torso in a half-hug. Her arms were long enough to reach around without having to employ her other appendage. As gently as she could without spending too much precious time, Nora pulled the Bunker Hill local from the gurgling, dying Sawtooth's lap. "Let's find your pants real quick. I'm gonna need you to hide, okay sweetheart? It's gonna be okay."

Meg leaned heavy on her good foot. Nora undid her gag, tore off the binds keeping her arms immobilized. The girl's mouth was trembling: heartbreak; a wounded soul. Her motherly instincts wanted so much to pull her into a tight hug, to brush back her hair and tell her everything was gonna be alright, let it all out, I've got you dear ... But there was no time for consoling. That would have to come later. The rest of the Sawteeth would be breaking down the Third Rail's door any minute now ...

Nora scoured the linoleum floor. Her pants, where the fuck were Meg's pants?

"I - I ... "

A scuffing. From the corner of her eye, Nora could see Meg bending over to fetch something off the ground. It wasn't until the hammer clicked back that she realized it was the dropped gun.

"I - I can't - "

Meg had the snubnosed barrel against her temple before the general could finish launching her way. "MEG DON'T - "

It rocked the child's head with such force that her cervical spine broke in an effort to get away. Crimson and gray splattered, smeared the wall - Meg's body limp - falling as a sack of wet laundry - sprawling haphazardly across the dirty ground - in a flash, it was Shaun lying there.

For an instant there was nothing but a high-pitched kreel in her ears. Arms outstretched, jaw dropped, helplessly staring.

And something that had been so fragile for so long cracked a little more.

Upstairs, the door slammed open. A dozen curious, hateful yowls poured through the Third Rail. They were getting louder by the heartbeat.

And she was going to kill every last one of them.

No sooner had they relayed into the Institute than they were swarmed with frantic questions and terrified glares. Apparently, MacCready's rabble-rousers had scared everybody half to death. They managed to peel away from the rowdy mess amidst the various shrieks and bustling orders.

"Get the civs inside!"

"Shut it down!"

"Everybody's good! They're holding it down outside!"

"I SAID SHUT THE RELAY DOWN!"

There was a dying hum as the last command was followed by hasty reciprocance. All of the computer lights lining the primary relay's wall stuttered, then blinked off. Fiona grit her teeth. "So about there being a trap ... "

Codsworth pinched MacCready's arm. "Sir, I shall return," he announced. "Allow me to bring Curie down for repairs." The disembodied android skull in question's eyes were closed. She'd 'gone into hibernation mode' to preserve what little power she had left. Her body was slung across the robot butler's shoulder. It was a sight to see, that was for sure. And it earned plenty of stairs. "Please wait for me before you decide to depart."

"Codsbot," MacCready started, "I don't think we'll be able to - " But he was gone, slithering his way through the buzzing mass-gathering crowd. The ex-Gunner bit his lip. "So ... I'm at a loss. How about you?"

Fiona's shoulders sagged. "No fuckin' idea."

"FIONA! HEY!"

The newfound vault hunter perked. She stood on her tiptoes, surveying the mosh pit. It didn't take her long to find Athena pushing through, followed closely by Janey. Before Fiona could spill about a dozen and one question, the gladiator yanked her from the relay room. Janey did the same for MacCready. They were practically dragged to the elevator, currently making its way down below with Codsworth aboard.

"What the hell's going on?" Fiona quipped.

"We'll talk downstairs," Athena told her. "Too much going on up here."

They boarded the elevator on its return trip with at least six other people. Once they were in the clear on the courtyard, Athena made a 'come hither' gesture. They followed her into a vacant bedroom and Janey locked the door behind them.

"First thing's first," Athena breathed. "Where's Maya? Lilith? Brick and Mordecai?"

Fiona hesitated. "Ah ... well ... You see, it's kind of a long story."

She gave Athena the long and short of it, the whole time flinching at the gladiator's ferocious expression. Janey's eyes were cast downwards, lined with deepening guilt.

"I should've gone with them," hissed the gladiator, balling her hands into fists.

Janey touched her facial scar. "Ya woulda been teleported 'way like th' others, darlin'." Her comment wasn't so convincing, though. Even MacCready could sense Janey's regret.

"Jesus, what a mess. You find the Nora girl everybody here's been harping about, who happens to be pregnant with a Siren child that also happens to be Handsome Jack's descendant. How the fuck does that happen anyway? Who the fuck takes a sperm sample from a sociopathic mass-murderer?" Athena rubbed her eyes. Though she had not been outside to experience life as they had for the past few days, it was clear that so much had been going on that sleep was nonexistent.

Fiona cocked her head. "Hyperion." A simple one-word answer that made all the sense in the world. From her duffel bag, the vault hunter removed an ECHO device. "I found this at that lab. Guessing it's got more info on it."

"Let me see it." Athena plucked the object from Fiona's fingers before she could oblige. A few taps later and the gladiator resigned with a grunt. "Of course it would be encrypted. You'll have to hand this over to Rhys. He's probably the only one that can crack it. Not saying I don't have any faith in the eggheads over here - they've got some pretty interesting tech even for us. But Hyperion stuff, even Atlas technology, is on a whole different level."

Fiona returned it back to her bag. "That's what we were thinking."

"So Maya's dead." Fatigue and sorrow drowned the twang of Athena's vocals. "Lilith is MIA. Brick, Mordecai, and Zer0 are ... somewhere. Handsome Jack's AI is running about. And there's a Vault open in the Glowing Sea?"

"Was opened," Fiona corrected. She glanced sideways to MacCready. The mercenary was staring out the bedroom window, watching as Mama Murphy led the surviving Commonwealth children into the Institute's lower refuge. "The holo-whatever said they opened it but couldn't maintain the charge."

"A willing Siren can exert a shit-ton of energy on their own. When they're forced, it takes longer to get a Vault Key full." Something troublesome set upon Athena's battle-hardened brow. "That doesn't make any sense, though ... "

"Which part?"

"Maya. Getting here. Lilith's the only Siren that can go back and forth between dimensions like that, but through time? If this Earth is in the past ... it's impossible. That barrier can't be broken. So ... Well, no wait. There's one Siren that can. I think. Shit." Her hands clapped together fiercely, mirroring her rousing agitation. "As much as I hate to say it, Cassius might be the one to talk to about this crap. Everything's just fucking heresay to me."

"Cassius?" Fiona questioned. "Why Cassius?"

"Atlas had the Crimson Lance. And the Crimson Lance was led by a Siren named Commandant Steele." Athena pursed her lips. "That old geezer was probably a lot younger back the. He might remember a thing or two about her. Lilith once said Steele was a technology buff, so maybe she dipped her hands into a little more than just Atlas mercenary work, you see what I'm saying?"

It was definitely something to remember. They would have to poke and prod the old man whenever he made an appearance. Where the actual hell was Vaughn anyway? Was that short stud doing okay?

"What happened here?" MacCready finally broke his fixated silence. The Gunner barely glanced over his shoulder. "Why is everybody spazzing out like they're gonna get nuked?"

"Didn'cha hear?" Janey blinked, stunned for some reason that was lost on Fiona and MacCready. "There's an army out thar. Some blokes callin' 'emselves th' Legion. Hundreds of 'em, mate. Started marchin' on us this mornin'."

Fiona's stomach became a lead cauldron. How did they manage to get to Earth just in time to catch a war? "Is that why they shut down the relay?"

"Yeppa. Th' only one these blokes got's in th' Castle. They're scared o' what'll happen if'n th' Legion breaks through th' defenses."

This was suddenly becoming a whole lot bigger than just a traitorous Danse. "Do they really think," MacCready growled, a dangerous edge to his voice, "that they'll be able to break down the Castle's walls? They've got cannons."

"Ya did hear me when ah said they got hundreds o' soldiers, yea?"

Rhys did as he was told. He remained hidden until a series of gunshots sent the Sawtooth raiders running from the Hotel Rexford (and every other cockroach-infested corner of this wretched stitched-together city) to the Third Rail. Once the last one evacuated the hotel's confines, the cyborg counted to ten and worked his way inside.

He was greeted with a noxious combination of odors: something like fecal matter, piss, and alcohol. The smoke drifting lazily through the stairwells did little to nullify the impact, and Rhys found himself leaning over a corner, vomiting last night's deathclaw steak. When nothing remained but bile, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve (what else could he do? Find a towel? Where could he get a clean one?) and surveyed the surroundings.

There wasn't much left of the place to marvel at. Whatever power supplied the neon sign outside had been cut from the main lobby. His only illumination came in the form of several oil lamps dotting the counter, some tables, and the broken steps. There was a rusty heap of metal to his left. A Protectron once, considering its awkward structure, though it looked more like a walking beer keg than anything else.

Rhys found himself wishing for a cold one right now. Probably not healthy. Well, neither's wading through this ... this muck.

"Look for survivors," he whispered to himself. "Right." His stun baton felt unreasonably light - unreliable and weak compared to whatever he might face here. With shivering digits, Atlas removed it from his belt anyhow. Better to be safe than sorry, right? Though he didn't extend it. The tesla coil was incredibly bright on its own and would surely attract attention if a big bad 'wolf' was floating nearby.

He wished for the soft bed awaiting him at the Atlas biodome, for Sasha's feathery touch and warm skin, for the sweet deliciousness of drakefruit and the unusual companionship of Loader Bot and his 'girlfriend', Gortys. Anything. Anything but this.

At the foot of the stairs now ... Not much left to do but go up. Rhys couldn't run. He wouldn't run. Hearing those pleading yelps above set iron weights around his chest. Turning tail and leaving them behind was ... unthinkable. Something Handsome Jack would do while laughing about it. "Hah! Those idiots were all like, 'Waaaah!' and I was all, 'Nah.' Let 'em breath suck smoke in. It'll clean up my breathing space, amIright?"

He tiptoed his way to the first landing without a spectacular faceplant or any other event worth noting. The burning in his lungs made Rhys realize he'd been holding his breath. What oxygen he soaked up now burned his throat, the floating acid stinging his eyes and nostrils. The smog wasn't so heavy that it made respiratory functions impossible, but it certainly agitated the living hell out of it. Rhys wanted to cough and did so silently into his balled fist.

Stopping at the first door, Rhys reached for the bobby pin box stored away in his knapsack. He got as far as touching its rugged wooden lid before thinking that, Maybe this isn't such a good idea. I should start at the top floor, right? Work my way down? Seemed logical. Felt right. Why not?

The last step to the third floor creaked under his dainty weight. Rhys remained completely still for what seemed like hours, every muscle in his frail bodice tense with anticipation. Somebody would come leaping out of him, tear flesh from bone and leave his skin hanging in tatters. He was gonna die he was gonna die he was gonna ... nothing. No death. No jump scare. Just muffled weeps towards the end of the hall.

Would Sasha be proud of him? Trekking through the burned hall all by his lonesome?

Was she okay?

He kept his arms out to his sides, fingers splayed wide open as if that would somehow balance out the weight he didn't have and keep the floor from screeching. Not a peep did he utter, but in his mind Rhys was screaming.

The last door on the right looked easy enough. He tested the handle first, quietly attempting to turn it. Try before you pry. It didn't budge. Rhys could barely see the keyhole through the dimming fumes, but he felt for it. Small. Simple-ish. He plucked out a bobby pin and screwdriver, bit down ever-so-gently on his tongue, and went to work.

Fiona might be cheering his efforts. Surely she'd be laughing about this in the future. Hyperion janitor gone Atlas CEO gone rogue burglar. What a trendsetter he was becoming ...

The first pin broke off. He rummaged for a replacement. In the meantime, the sobbing on the other side had gotten louder. Had they heard him? Did they know rescue was coming? Working on the lock a second time, Rhys admitted that he'd be lying if he said this didn't feel ... good, in a way. Right. To be helping somebody ... saving them from certain doom ... Secretly he couldn't wait to see their explosion of gratitude as he freed them from their prison. Would they leap into his arms, crying joyously? Would they thank him silently?

Whatever they did, Rhys just hope they'd stop make that hideous crunching noise. It was rattling his nerves, making the hair stand on the back of his neck.

"Son of a bitch," Nora hissed.

They'd flooded into the Third Rail with no regard to where they were actually stepping. The first three that plowed into the back room stomped all over their former teammates. It would have been funny if it wasn't for the fact that they didn't seem to care who was beneath their feet. They carried only combat knives, so Nora dispatched them with ease.

Those first few were merely harbingers for what would come. First two more came in behind them. Then five. Then seven. Before she knew it, the whole room was full. It was almost impossible to move and even harder to draw back her blade for a strike, so the general shoved her way through the gaggle and raced into the bar room, wishing she'd held onto at least one fragmentation grenade.

There was no end to her fury. No sating that itching bloodlust that roared to life when Meg's deceased body hit the floor. The daughter of Bunker Hill's very own surgeon, Kay, Meg hadn't deserved this ... Nobody did. No adult. Definitely not a child.

Nora was moving before her body could fully register that it was doing just that. She was a whirlwind of fury. A matron saint of revenge. A kamaitachi that could shake the blurry outline of Shaun ragdolling backwards with a hole in his head, of Cait with her bottom half ripped wholly from her body, of Nate slumping listlessly against the cryo cell's frigid mechanism.

"I'll end all of you," she'd snarled as they circled her like a hungry wolf pack. A careful aim. A reckless swinging of her sword. A head went flying. Wet, red confetti. "Every last one of you."

Snapping teeth, twitching fingers. They lurched in, grabbed for her. She would pull away, slice away their limbs. Gunshots reverberated - so close and so loud that she wasn't totally sure where they were coming from. And for all the blazing inferno's searing agony in her chest, part of her knew this would be her undoing. It was too much. There were too many. The world was spinning wildly out of control.

But she kept at it. Kept plowing through, attacking, retreating only to lunge again.

Something sharp pricked at her right shoulder. A bullet. Possibly. It didn't burn like one and there was an odd placement of weight there that knocked her just slightly off balance. An object had adhered to her muscle - some kind of canister -

And as her joints seized up, Nora realized that it was a goddamned syringer dart. She grabbed for it. No good. Her arm froze halfway to the point of contact. Buzzkill slipped from her grasp, fingers failing to keep their hold. Legs, unwilling to bend, could no longer maintain her footing. She faltered back, striking the floor hard with her spine and they were on her, claws reaching, jowels chomping.

A large palm found her throat. Long fingers curled about the rigidness of her neck, gradually tightening until the constriction against her trachea disabled even the slightest current of oxygen to filter through. Nora tried to gasp, praying for some kind of second wind that would enable her to leap back into the fray with rejuvenated strength. But the choking was transitioning to intense pain, the flats of those forceful fingers squeezing until she thought for sure they were going to poke through the skin and -

- for just a moment, Nora could see Danse's face in the crowd. It wasn't real. She knew he wasn't there. But this ghostly visage ... it stood stoic, staring without emotion behind the wavering Sawtooth shoulders.

Nora would have reached for him if she could.

"Don't leave."

With darkness stretching across the peripherals of her vision, the Brotherhood of Steel paladin did the one thing he was good at doing to her.

He turned away.

And a flash, bam, alakazam -

"Open ... sesame!" Rhys whispered harshly as he seduced the lock to do his bidding and pushed the door open. The Atlas CEO poked his head through the frame, glimpsing this way and that. The smoke was still too heavy to see directly through, but he could make out vague silhouettes, if nothing else. "Hello? Is someone here?"

A rustling in a corner somewhere. The weeping continued, but the crunching had stopped.

Goosebumps pricked at his arms. "H-Hello?"

Rhys crawled sluggishly forward. For every inch he covered, his heart added another ten beats per minute. This room was ... well, it had been deprived of a lantern, that was for sure. No windows either. He couldn't make hide nor hair of what he was seeing. Everything two feet from his face was concealed in absolute darkness.

A creeping fear was slowly washing over him. He allowed his thumb to linger above the stun baton's button just a minute longer before nerves demanded that he unveil the tesla coil in all its glory.

He should have listened to that nagging, nudging urge to run from the start. Rhys really needed to start giving his gut more credit.

Because the flecking arcs of blue electricity illuminated a pair of faces straight from monster movies ... no less than five feet from where he crouched. Their eyes were locked onto him. Maws stretched far too widely with teeth that were far too sharp: menacing grimaces twisted into almost smiles, dripping with very fresh blood from a very writhing body laying against the wall behind them.

One of them ... both were male, as far as Rhys could tell ... dipped his neck just below his shoulders. "Plaaaaayyy," it rasped, scratching the rug with one of its claws.

His heart was in his throat in an instant. Had he not puked downstairs, Rhys was pretty damned sure his bowels would be removing themselves right now. "Oh - uh - p-play? Me?"

The thing nodded. It was advancing, plodding its way to him at a snail's pace, but Rhys could see the twitching muscle underneath pale skin. It's partner remained motionless - locked in that otherworldly staring contest.

"I'd - I'dlovetostayandplaybutI'mawfullylate!"

Rhys' legs had grown so tense that they ached vigorously when he jumped. It didn't matter. Nothing else mattered but getting as far away from this place as he could. Feral ghouls were one thing. Zombie people with sharp teeth were a different story!

He bolted into the hallway, slamming the door behind them. Both of those ... those creatures (were they really raiders?) crashed headlong into the sturdy wooden panel, screeching. He had just enough time to sprint five feet down the hall before the doorknob began rattling -

- and a pair of hands extended from a door to his left, one that he only just now realized was open (stupid stupid stupid!). One wrapped about his arms, the other burrowing his shrieking mouth into the crook of an elbow. Rhys screeches became muffles grumbles. He could feel his breath reflecting back at him through the dirty jacket.

"Shhhhhhhh!" hissed a voice into his ear. "Shut up - just shut up - I've got you!"

In the din of his rocking brain, the rattling of that incessant doorknob and the creaking as it opened to let the demon spawn pour into the hall, Rhys found himself hoping beyond hope that it was Nora grabbing him. But this voice was masculine, with an airy hint. Shorter, too. The person's chin barely reached the middle of his shoulder blades. Yet the strength was unreal, and the CEO was yanked back into the dimly lit room before the Sawteeth could spy him.

There was a lantern in this room - thank the gods - so that Rhys could see the amber glow of dirty objects. A dresser, sodden with charcoal. The mattress was filled with holes, loose springs punching through in uncomfortable locations. There wasn't much else by way of furniture, but there was a collection of olden comic books strewn across the floor. With such poor lighting, Rhys couldn't read the titles. But one of the depicted characters wore a long coat obnoxiously similar to the one Nora donned.

"Hide," demanded the stranger. Rhys was pushed to the ground. "Under the bed. Go!"

His vision was a haze of clouded thoughts and frightened emotions. Rhys huddled as far back as he could without punching through the damn wall itself. Every inch of him was a shivering mess. He had to grit his white teeth tightly together to keep them from clattering against one another.

The stranger sat down on his bed, thumbing through one of the books like nothing had ever happened.

Except the Sawteeth seemed to know differently.

Rhys saw their feet approach his door. "Oh Keeeeeeent," sang the same one that spoke before. "Where did he gooooo?"

"Who?" 'Kent' piqued.

"You know who. Don't play games - that's for us to do."

The box spring shook. Was Kent moving his head? "I'm sorry fellas, but I really got no idea ... Sorry."

"Fuckin' Ghoul," growled the other Sawtooth. It was the first time Rhys heard him say anything. It sounded like wind blowing through a straw. "Dunno why th' fuck Scar likes ya so goddamn much. Quit the shit, Connoly. I know ya got him. I saw ya."

Silence drifted from Kent Connoly. Absolutely nothing could be said. Did he know he'd been had? Rhys had to admit that it was a valiant effort. At least somebody tried to step in to save him ... He wouldn't have made it down the stairs without those two beasts preying on him. But now the jog, however short it had been, was up.

"Kent," Straw Sawtooth howled.

"You gettim, Merle!" jeered Playtime.

"You gonna answer or you gonna sit an' stare at yer fuckin' comics all goddamn day? Are ya even listenin' to me?!" A few quick strides broke the distance between them. There was a struggle, ripping paper, and half of a comic was thrown to the floor. Then a connection unlike any other - fist against bone. Kent was knocked from his post, his thin body stretching adjacent to the bed. Rhys was finally able to gander the man's face - deformed like every other Ghoul's, but with a worn fedora and trench coat that made him suitable more detective-like. "C'mon, Rhet Rhineheart, ya really still believe in that shit?!"

"She came to life before," Kent protested. His eyes met Rhys'. The CEO could see nothing but unbound determination.

"That was two years ago, you bleedin' idiot." Sharp boots kicked hard into the Ghoul's ribs. He reeled, gulping mouthfuls of air. "That Shroud nonsense mighta gotten a bunch o' morons riled up, but that bitch ain't been around for a while now. She sure as hell ain't here when ya need 'er now, is she?"

"She'll be back," barked the Ghoul. He rolled onto his stomach, propping his elbows beneath his chest. "The Silver Shroud never leaves her friends behind - "

"Stupid dickmunch!" A resounding smack echoed when the feet collided with Kent's chin. Either the Ghoul's pain threshold was very low or the blow turned his brain into gelatin, for his eyes rolled back until nothing but the whites were visible. "Wanna believe in goddamn fairytales. I got new for ya, sweetheart, if that shit could come true, this wouldn't be a shithole to begin with!"

Merle grabbed Kent's feet and Playtime scooped his arms beneath the shoulders. Together they hoisted the unconscious man onto the bed, dropping him rather unceremoniously. It bounced under his weight. A lifeless arm lolled off the edge.

"Now then ... " Merle dropped to his knees, twisting sideways to peer beneath the mattress. He locked eyes with Rhys and, much to the curdling dismay in his stomach, grinned that shark-toothed grin. "Hello there."

She was a gorgeous specimen.

Pale, milky white flesh. Pure. Almost. If not for the myriad of scars across her blank canvas of a torso, she would have been entirely perfect. Too perfect. A large bruise encircled her throat. Johnny'd gotten a little too rough with her. He would be punished later. Platinum blond lockes cascaded about her head: a faded golden halo. Small breasts perking in just the right ways. Long, thin limbs spidered out to her sides - lanky and muscled just so: neither overly bulky nor too scrawny. A streamlined face with supple pink lips, marred only by the eye that no longer took up residence in her right socket.

Dennis took great pains to wash the filth from her body ... and there had been a lot of it. An accumulation of dirt and sweat gave her the scent of a Commonwealth scavenger, but the etchings across her flesh indicated her rank of warrior. Hardened. Formidable. She'd certainly put a dent in their numbers, that was for sure ...

A prize.

He hovered over her for a long while, admiring her peculiar brand of grace. When her eye moved behind closed lids, Dennis decided it was time to perform his duty. She wasn't deserving of the filthy rags that littered Goodneighbor's store rooms. No ... she was worthy of the fine silken bits of fabric, stripped from an untouched dress locked away in a suitcase for 200 years.

Dennis found her hands first, and tied them together. Not too loosely, not too tightly ... but after leering at her various battle marks for the thirteenth time (he counted) that night, he decided that she would be the sort willing to break her own wrists if it meant freedom.

Next came the gag. Such a shame to cover up that pretty little mouth. It was, perhaps, her most marvelous feature; Small; Dainty; Accompanied by a smaller mandible than her rugged lifestyle demanded. She had the prettiest teeth he had ever seen, his Snow Queen ...

Thumbing through his blackened beard, Dennis could not fathom the taste of her ... the touch of her. While she slumbered, he'd dared to traipse upon the places no mortal man should be allowed to go. The feel had been heavenly, soft, warm ... and he'd broken his own vandalizing fingers for his transgressions.

Only when she was awake.

Only when she was awake.

Snow White's clothes, so dark and unkempt, had been thrown into a pile to be burned later. They were hideous, ratty, and torn. The coat may have been worth salvaging once, but it was so tattered at the hems that he deemed it a total loss. The combat armor had seen better days, but it could be repaired. And that sword ...

Now that was an interesting addition. A sword. Not a gun. No some dagger. No missile launcher. But a sword? Straight out of the medieval ages, this white vixen was. Dennis had seen many a crazy wastelander, but none of which who could carry a blade like that properly. He stowed it to the side for later cleaning. Those wires could be removed. She wouldn't be needing it anymore, after all.

His fair maiden groaned in her sleep. The sultry sound sent shockwaves spiraling up his spinal column. The thought of her invoking that heavenly noise beneath him made the him run his tongue along sharpened teeth in hungry anticipation.

Her head lolled to the side. The lonely eye drifted open. Pale teal, almost translucent - another anomaly of the Wasteland. It blinked several times. Then she shuddered. This evolved into full-on shivering. Dennis had not covered her up - that would come later.

After a moment of steady closing and opening of her eyelid, the veil of sleep must have been lifted from her vision. Snow White bolted upright. Their eyes met. She growled. Her teeth tore into the fabric, canines poking holes into the silk. A wilderness appeared across her expression - a feral brutality that excited him beyond all else.

He could bear it no longer.

As Snow White twisted her arms hither and thither in an attempt to break free, Dennis leaned into her. His rugged hand touched her leg, traced to the inside of her thigh. This trespass was rewarded with a headbutt. Stars blasted across his sight. Of course ... that was foolish of him. He should have expected no less. She rolled backwards onto her shoulders to add another dent to his ego with a sharp kick to the jaw. Quite the spry one, his little White Rabbit.

That was alright. He was unworthy now but he would make her see.

"Eaaaasy now," he warbled to her. His voice had a way of surprising people. Callous though his appearance may have been, there was a softened tone to his cords: like a breeze dancing amongst river reeds. "You wouldn't want to do that, my Snow Queen."

She rared up to strike him again. Dennis' sight came back to where it needed to be just in time. He balled his hand into a fist and blitzed it into her right cheek. She flew sideways from the force. It would leave a mark. Snow Queen clambered to her knees, inching forward to escape. But Dennis was atop her, using his oversized hands to force her head into the linoleum floor. It was a simple rule of asserting dominance ... Show them who is boss, and they will subdue.

"Not when we have your little friend."

This was the only thing that kept her from squirming away. And oh the position he was in now ... Dennis drew back his drool. It would be unkind to slobber all over this pretty little minx.

"Oh yes," he taunted, pushing his mouth to her ear, blowing into it. "We have your lad. Boy with the black suit. He was in the Hotel Rexford, you see, attempting to free our cattle. We simply cannot have that."

Snow Queen turned her head, glared at him. Challenging. You don't mean that, she seemed to say. Then her eye found his belt ... and Dennis knew she'd seen the keys hanging from one of his pants' loops. He followed her gaze, returning it to her face with abroad, sharp-toothed smile.

"But if you allow me to do what I need to do ... I'll let him live. How about that?"

He thought she wasn't taking him seriously, for her gaze never broke. Dennis reached into his pocket, procuring from it a silver bit of metal. A pinky finger, ripped from the cyborg's synthetic arm.

That did it.

Snow Queen relaxed, reluctantly.

"And if you try to escape ... I will have him killed," Dennis warned. A darker part of his psyche hoped she would resist. It would be more fun .. more delightful that way. "Do you understand?"

She set her eyes upon the wired sword confiscated from her person. Looking from it to Dennis and back again, she drew her teeth against the gag and snarled. When I get free, she seemed to say, I will slay you where you stand.

Dennis ran his hand along her bare waistline. Snow Queen trembled, but did not repeal him.

"Good girl," he purred.

Rhys didn't remember being dragged out of the room or down the stairs. One of them must have cold-cocked him, because his face was hurting. So was the back of his skull. Did they just let his head knock into every step on the way down? It sure as shit felt like that. His brain was screaming.

When he came to again, he was in a different place ... It was cleaner, somewhat. White floors, a medical atmosphere and a lingering smell that reminded him of a doctor's office. Several strange 'pods' with chairs decorated the room. Their glass lids had been smashed to kingdom come.

"Where am I?" he moaned. "Where did you ... take me? Why is everything - "

A kick to his ribs shut him up. Rhys rolled into a fetal position and squeaked painfully.

"Hurry it up, Flint," barked the familiar grated voice of Merle. "I ain't got all damn day. An' if he starts runnin' his mouth again like before, I'm gonna punch a hole clean through his face!"

He was talking before? Rhys didn't remember that. He was missing his pinky finger off his robotic arm, too. Didn't remember that either.

"I'm hurryin', Merle. Hold yer fuckin' brahmin. Gahd."

Moments passed. They felt like hours. Rhys dared not to move or speak. When he did, it was only to glance at the ceiling. He was at a loss ... Where was Nora? Was Sasha okay? Did that Kent guy die? ... Was he going to die?

Soon Merle was hunched over him. His sour milk breath washed over Rhys' face. The CEO wanted to retch.

"So here's how this is gonna play out, ya black cat asshole," snapped the Sawtooth. Grubby fingers held an object just in range of Rhys' vision if he looked askance. Merle must have realized his mistake in placement, because the sharp-toothed man proceeded to lower the needle to his eyes for a better look. "We got some old-world chems, ya see? An' we're gonna test 'em on ya, cuz we wanna use 'em but ... well this shit ain't been used in 200 years or sumthin' like that. Dunno if it'd kill us, an' we'd feel mighty stupid if we just shot ourselves up with murder."

Rhys thought his heart skipped town and left without him. He definitely had to catch up to it, so he got to his feet and ran. The CEO didn't make it five steps before Merle had him on the ground, mercilessly beating into his fragile skull with iron-like knuckles. When he'd stopped, Rhys couldn't see anymore. Nothing but bright splotches of light. He tasted blood, smelled blood, but couldn't tell where it was leaking from.

"You do that again," Merle hissed, "and I'll split yer fuckin' skull open, ya dig?"

Even if he wanted to protest ... to say something witty ... whatever words formed in his brain were garbled messes that came out backwards. He felt dampness on his cheeks, thought he might have been crying. Was he? He didn't know. Couldn't tell. Couldn't feel them rolling out of his eyes ...

But he did feel the needle impale the fold of his arm.

And when the ghosts came, he felt his entire existence fold into a melting pot of how fucked am I right now?