Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Hours later, Edith woke to sunlight filtering through the chinks in the tin ceiling. Hungover and cotton-mouthed, she rolled onto her side and found Glory laying beside her, chest rising and falling evenly. She slept sprawled across the rumpled blankets, bare limbs splayed. The sunlight tangled in her eyelashes and bleached hair, and Glory shone like gold, Byzantine and lovely.

Breathless, hickeys blooming like roses on her throat, Edith propped herself up on her elbows to admire the other woman’s form. The long, sleek lines of her body, the contrast of her cedar skin against the white sheets.

“Glory, glory hallelujah,” Edith murmured, lips brushing the Glory’s jaw. “Mine eyes have seen the coming--”

The other woman stirred, her eyes fluttered open. Laughing, she pushed Edith away-- “stop it, that tickles!”--and she sat up, reaching for Edith’s Pip-Boy. She checked the time and groaned. Glory tugged her undershirt into place and raked her fingers through her tangled hair to restore some semblance of order. “If we hurry, we’ve got time for breakfast before we have to head out.”

“I’d rather eat out,” said Edith, reaching for the other woman. Lips parted, smoke and honey in her voice, she looked up at Glory through half-lidded coffee-dark eyes.

“Hey.” Glory caught her wandering hands and held Edith at arms’ length. “I had fun last night,” she said gently. “But this was a one-time thing, yeah?”

“Oh.” Edith tugged her hands out of Glory’s grasp and let them fall limp to her sides. “I didn’t realize.”

Glory’s face fell. “Shit Eddy, I’m sorry. I can’t--”

“It’s fine,” said Edith, her voice hollow and strange to her own ears. “I just assumed, and you know what they say about assuming!” She forced a smile and turned away, busying herself with the task of dressing.

Glory reached out for her, Edith shrugged her hands away. “Don’t,” she said. “Please. Don’t.”

For a moment, neither woman spoke. The silence grew wider, like a river flooding its banks. The moment turned to seconds turned to minutes, and then Glory brushed past Edith, the mattress creaking under her weight. She stood and dressed, silent as a sentinel, careful to keep her back to Edith. Trousers, shirt, scarf, coat, boots, armor--it was a strip-tease in reverse. Fully dressed, Glory crossed to the doorway and lingered in the threshold for a moment. “I’m sorry,” she said again. “I didn’t mean to lead you on.”

Struck dumb, Edith stared up at her, her lips pressed into a thin line. After a small eternity, she unstuck her jaw and said, “I’ll meet you downstairs.”

Glory nodded and left, closing the door softly behind her. Edith lingered in bed for a moment longer. The other woman’s scent lingered in the sheets and blankets; her marks remained on Edith’s skin, starkly against her soft flesh. She stood, and was surprised to discover that she was quite sore from the previous night’s activities. Wincing, the memory of Glory’s touch lingering in every part of her, she forced herself to dress and gather up her things, then left the room and descended the creaking staircase as if nothing had happened.

They walked in silence. Glory kept her head on a swivel; Edith watched the ground, brooding. Every step sent a twinge of pain through her core, a dull ache like a half-healed sprain. The steeple loomed on the horizon, growing larger with every step. Conscious of the love bites on her throat, Edith flipped her collar up and prayed that Deacon would be gone when they got back.

The movement drew Glory’s eyes. “Hey,” she said. She stopped short, tugged at her scarf and pulled it free from her neck. She held it out to Edith, a peace offering. “Don’t let them see,” she said. “You’ll never hear the end of it.”

Edith looped the scarf around her own neck. “Does this happen to you a lot?” she said archly.

Glory bit her lips and said nothing.

No one noticed when Edith walked in wearing Glory’s scarf. They stood in a loose knot around Tinker Tom’s workstation, talking rapidly, disbelief and joy writ across their faces. Tom crouched over his terminal, grinning sheepishly, obviously pleased with himself. At Glory and Edith’s approach, the conversation trailed off.

Veiled in cigarette smoke, Desdemona fixed Edith with a motherly smile. “He did it,” she said, weary and proud. “Tom did it.”

Edith stopped short, disbelief rooting her feet to the ground like quickset concrete. “What?”

“Good news,” she said, her voice low. “Tom cracked the chip.”

“The Courser chip,” said Desdemona. “Tom finally got through the firewall. We have the data, and we have our way into the Institute.”

Edith blinked rapidly, and all language deserted her. She opened her mouth, closed it, and swallowed a hard lump in her throat. “So this is it, then?”

“Not quite,” she said. “Even with the data, we still need to construct the teleporter--”

“Molecular relay,” Tom interrupted.

Desdemona nodded. “Right. We need to build a teleporter and--”

“The Institute uses radio waves to transport matter across long distances” said Tom, speeding quickly in his excitement. “Their frequency is embedded in the classical radio station, and if we’ve got the proper equipment, we can piggyback off their signal to get you in. It’ll be just like shuffling a marked card into a deck.” He beamed at her.

“Proper equipment?” said Edith, dizzily.

“Yeah,” he said. “A receiver dish, a special power array. It’s all in the plans, man!” He pulled Virgil’s schematics from his pocket and smoothed them out on top of his flickering terminal. “It’s so simple, I don’t know how I didn’t figure it out before.”

“You can build it, right?” said Glory, stepping forward. “I mean, we can really do this, right? We can get Eddy into the Institute.”

Tom nodded, suddenly solemn. “If I can get the parts, I can build it,” he said. “I know I can.”

“So it’s settled,” said Desdemona. “Once we’ve got what we need, we built this teleporter and send Edith into the Institute.”

“But what am I supposed to do once I get there?” she asked, voice rising in alarm. She had never really expected to reach the Institute, but the pursuit had given her something to do while she waited for death to catch up to her. The reality felt very different than the abstract.

“You said they’d stolen from you,” said Desdemona. “Recover what they took.” She paused, tossing her cigarette lighter from hand to hand. “As per our agreement, we’re square. We cracked the chip and copied the data; you’re getting into the Institute.”

Edith swallowed, staring at her. “I guess we are.”

“We’re even,” said Desdemona, pointedly not looking at Edith. “You owe us nothing. But our alliance has been extremely productive. Your assistance has been invaluable, these past few weeks.”

“What are you asking me to do?”

Desdemona looked up sharply, eyes meeting Edith’s. “Be our man on the inside. Infiltrate the Institute by any means necessary, and bring them down from the inside.”

Edith shook her head frantically. “No, I can’t,” she said, panic rising in her voice. “I’m not any good at the sneaky stuff. Send Deacon, but please, I can’t--”

“I would if I could,” he said. “But I don’t have any reason to be there, Edith. You do.”

“I can’t,” she said, more insistently. “I’m not ready.”

“Edith,” said Desdemona gently. “You can do this. You can go in there and say what they want to her. Let them think you’re on their side. Do what comes naturally, and when the time comes: strike.” She smiled, all teeth. “‘Look the innocent flower, but be the serpent under it.’”

“I’ve never been on a solo mission before,” said Edith. “I wouldn’t know what to do without help.”

Deacon cleared his throat. “You won’t be alone,” he said. He looked to Desdemona for permission, and she nodded. “For some time, we’ve had an ally inside the Institute. He--”

“--or she,” Desdemona muttered.

“He or she or they,” Deacon amended. “Someone’s been helping synths escape. We have no idea who they are, but with their help, we’re getting nearly ten synths out of the ‘Wealth every year. Five years ago, we were lucky to move three.” He cracked his knuckles, and continued. “We’ve codenamed this operative ‘Patriot.’ We need you to make contact with them. They’ll have a better idea of how you should proceed.”

“What if they can’t help me?” said Edith. “What if the Institute just shoots me on sight? What if--” She was light-headed, on the verge of hyperventilating, her mouth moving faster than her brain.

Glory put a hand on her shoulder and spoke for the first time since they’d returned to HQ. “Edith,” she said gently. “Relax. You got this.” She smiled faintly. “Do it for the synths.”

Staring into Glory’s face, blinded by her affection for the other woman, Edith nodded. “Alright,” she said, swallowing her fear. “This is nuts, but let’s do this.”

It took another week to gather the rare components and assemble the teleporter. For Edith, it was an exhausting week of meetings and debriefings as Deacon and Desdemona worked to compress three years’ worth of training in infiltration into seven days. It was up at dawn every morning and had stale crackers and a mug of strong, bitter coffee, then off to PAM’s room for her lessons. Desdemona smoked and supervised while Deacon taught her to smile, to blend in, to maintain cover, and to say whatever her targets wanted to hear.

She wasn’t any good at it. She didn’t have Desdemona’s experience or Deacon’s easy confidence. She wasn’t subtle enough to go unnoticed, she wasn’t charismatic enough to gloss over her missteps with a winning smile. She could only be herself: be Edith, flat-footed, quick-tempered, barb-tongued.

She said as much, but Deacon dismissed her concerns with a wave of his hand. “It’s easy,” he said. “Just ask yourself, ‘what would Deacon do?’”

“Lie and talk about his dick.” She paused. “Both.”

Deacon frowned. “When have I ever talked about my dick?”

“Both of you, stop,” said Desdemona, rubbing her temples. “Edith, I know you’re nervous, but we need you to do this. I know you can, you just need to work through this… this mental block.”

“It’s not a block,” she said, exasperated. “I just suck at this, okay? I’m not good at the cloak-and-dagger stuff, I never have been. I’m a heavy, not an infiltrator.”

“You’re a Railroad agent,” Desdemona snapped. “Focus, Edith. We’re all counting on you.”

That was the problem. Without enough time and without Deacon and Desdemona’s intense scrutiny, Edith might have been able to reshape herself into a secret agent. Under the constraints imposed by their one-week deadline, she was incapable.

“I’m not ready,” she said hoarsely.

Deacon sighed. “Just get in there and make contact with Patriot, that’s all we ask of you. Can you do that?”

“I suppose so,” she said, unconvinced.

“Good enough,” muttered Deacon. “Come on, we’ve got a lot of ground to cover--”

Tom’s molecular relay was finished the following Friday. Still fearful and woefully unprepared, Edith allowed herself to be debriefed one final time and bundled onto the teleporter pad. Desdemona tucked a holotape into Edith’s pocket, then stood back, arms folded over her chest. “There’s a subroutine on that tape that’ll get you into Contact with Patriot,” she explained. “Upload the program to the Institute’s server and wait for them to make contact.” She sighed and tossed her lighter from hand to hand. Tom had put a smoking ban in place, claimed that the fumes could interfere with the signals.

“Understood,” said Edith, her throat dry. “Is that all?”

“That’s all,” Desdemona confirmed. “Are you ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.” She swallowed and looked around at the assembled crowd. Tom, Desdemona, Deacon, Drummer Boy, Glory. It might be the last time she ever saw them, and she felt like she should say something dramatic, something worthy. Instead, she clutched her lucky stone and wished for the comfort of Glory’s white scarf. She’d left it in her locker, a token of the night they’d spent together.

A moment’s pause while she cleared her head and forced herself to focus on the task at hand. “Thank you,” she said, squeezing the stone hard enough to leave an indentation in her palm. “This would have been impossible without you--”

“No good-byes,” Glory warned, speaking up from the back of the crowd. “You’re going to come back to us, Eddy.”

Edith nodded, eyes boring into Glory’s, trying to communicate her thoughts without speaking. Her mind was a whirlwind, and the time had come--

“Tom, throw the switch,” said Desdemona. He nodded, and the machine came to life in a shower of violet sparks. It whirred and groaned, interna fans working frantically to counteract the heat of its processors while Tom tuned the angled receiver dishes to the classical radio frequency. There was a sharp crack and the air filled with a burning smell, ozone and burnt hair.

“Is that supposed to happen?” Edith called, shouting over the noise of the relay. “Is that--”

Her words were drowned out in a roar of static. There was a shattering of glass and a small explosion in her ear, accompanied by a flash of white light like a flashbulb bursting. A scream tore from Edith’s throat and she tried to throw herself sideways, off the teleporter pad and away from the shaking, spinning death trap, but her feet were stuck fast. Everything was searing light and pulsing noise, she could no longer discern the shapes of her fellow agents amid the static.

“Glory!” she screamed, “Glory!”

Everything exploded all at once and she was falling through space, suspended in vacuum. She opened her mouth and the void rushed in, filling her lungs with empty--

Reality reasserted itself, and she was suddenly standing in a featureless white room, limbs leaden and aching. It was the Institute or purgatory, and there was only one way to find out. Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she stepped forward, off the receiver pad and into the white room.

Nothing happened.

It was an anticlimax after the terror of the teleporter pad, and she relaxed her guard for a fraction of a second. Ahead of her, one of the wall panels slid backward with a hiss of pressurized air. The noise was thunderously loud to her ringing ears, and she staggered backward, startled. The door remained open and impassive. After a moment's’ hesitation, she approached the door, half-expecting it to snap shut like a guillotine.

If she was clever, like Deacon, she would have quipped Abandon all hope, ye who enter here! and if she were fearless, like Glory, she wouldn’t have startled at the sudden noise. All she was was reckless, so Edith took another breath and charged through the door, her heavy tread echoing off the plain white walls. Her filth-caked boots left smears of dirt on the immaculate floor, and that detail grounded Edith in the moment.

This is real, she told herself. This is really happening, holy shit.

The door lead into a hallway, which sloped downward and turned a corner. She followed the twisting path, one hand on the stock of her shotgun, one hand on her lucky stone. Another door appeared up ahead, warm light trickling through the seams. It opened at her approach, pneumatics hissing softly as she passed through, into an immaculately clean white room. There was nothing in the room except for a glass-walled cell which contained a small child, a boy in a clean white jumper.

“Shaun,” she said, all other thought driven from her mind. “Shaun--”

The boy stared at her, brown eyes wide with confusion. She stared at him, mouth working silently, studying the boy. His skin was a rich, warm brown: darker than her own but lighter than his father’s. His hair was a soft cloud of tight curls, cut in a tidy fade. He looked very much like his father, except for his eyes, his eyes were her own--

“Shaun,” she said, crossing to the glass. “It’s okay, I’m here--”

There was no recognition in his hazel eyes. “Who are you?” he said, an edge of fear in his voice. “What do you want?”

“It’s okay,” she repeated. She cast her gaze about, searching for a doorway or a control panel that would make the glass slide back, freeing her boy from his prison. “It’s okay, I’ll get you out of there. We can go home. Nobody will ever hurt you again, I promise.”

Shaun shrank backward, pressing his back against the wall. “I don’t know you,” he said, his voice rising. “I don’t want to go with you.”

“I’m your mother,” she said desperately. “Goddammit, how do I open this door--”

“You’re not my mother,” he said sharply, nostrils flaring. “I don’t have a mother.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “I’m your mother. They took you from me, baby, but don’t worry, I’ll save you--” She began to pound on the glass, it remained cold and unyielding under her fists.

The boy screamed. “Father! Help me! There’s someone here, help me!”

Edith shushed him, but Shaun continued to scream, panic rising in his small chest. Edith began beating her fists against the glass more desperately; her knuckles split open and began to bleed, smearing blood over the smooth surface. “Shaun!” she shouted. “Shaun!”

Behind her, another door opened. Edith whirled around, eyes wild, hair slipping from her braid, scrambling to bring her shotgun up and around.

An old man stepped through the door, leaning heavily on a white cane made from the same strange material as the walls. He looked past her, at the boy in the cell, and sighed. “S9-23, recall code citrus.”

The boy in the cell went limp, like a puppet whose strings had been cut. The boy was suddenly inert, like a dead thing, blank-faced and glassy-eyed. Horrorstruck, Edith rounded on the man, hands shaking on the grip of her shotgun. “What have you done?” she said, “what have you done to my boy?”

The man sighed again. “That’s not your son,” he said. “It’s an experimental model, a prototype for a new line of synths.”

“What?” She could scarcely hear him over the pounding in her ears.

“His response was… disappointing. Not at all what I expected.” He turned his gaze from the boy in the cell to Edith. “We’re experimenting with extreme emotional stimuli,” he explained. “I would have thought that S9 would be overjoyed to be reunited with his long-lost mother.” Another sigh. “Alas.”

“Who are you?” She clutched her weapon to her chest. The old man might have a remote control on him, something to release her son. If she shot him, she could grab the boy and run for the molecular relay and return to the Railroad. They could get her and Shaun out of the Commonwealth and into hiding, somewhere up north or out west, far beyond the Institute’s grasp.

“Let’s begin anew,” said the old man. “I am Father. Welcome to the Institute.” He smiled, and the expression looked absolutely unnatural on his face. Blinking, she stared into his eyes, and his eyes were her own--

“Oh my god,” she breathed, and the man’s smile widened.

“Welcome home, Mother,” he said, and he spread his arms wide in an obscene parody of an embrace. “It’s me. I’m your son. I’m Shaun.”

“This situation is far more complicated than you could have imagined,” Father explained. “In cryostasis, you had no concept of the passage of time. When you were released from Vault 111, you set out in search for your son.” He lead her along another featureless white hallway. The Institute was a labyrinth; she had no concept of how far they’d walked or whether they’d ascended, descended, or remained on a level. Disoriented, head spinning, she could only follow where he lead, struggling to make sense of his words.

“Sixty years had passed since I was removed from the Vault,” said Father. “During which time the Institute used my genetic information to create a new generation of lifelike synths, indistinguishable from true humans--”

“Why?” she asked, cutting him off. It was the first time she’d spoken since Father had lead her away from Shaun, and he seemed displeased with her interruption.

“To act as agents on the surface,” he said, a trace of irritation in his voice. “Now, as I was saying, our synthetics are indistinguishable from humans, except in their increased resistance to physical damage and their total immunity to the harmful effects of radiation. Created from advanced technology and my own genetic code--”

“Why not send humans?” she asked. “This is -- it’s insane, is what it is.”

“I already told you,” he snapped. “The synths are stronger, are more resistant to radiation and to damage from energy weapons--”

“I don’t understand.”

Anger flashed across his face, but he forced it down quickly, rearranging his features into the paternalistic smile he’d worn since he’d revealed himself as her son. “It must be very confusing for you,” he said, condescending and saccharine-sweet. “And you must be tired. We can continue our discussion tomorrow, you should rest and recover from your ordeal.” He patted her shoulder and she shied away like a spooked horse. Hairline cracks appeared in his smile and he ushered her through another door, into a sparsely-appointed bedroom.

There was another man waiting there, a synth in an jumper trimmed with orange. “This is G7-84,” he said, smiling broadly. “He will act as your personal attendant during your stay.”

The synth’s skin was the warm brown of burnished copper, and his dark eyes were framed by thick, straight lashes. He had thin lips, a sharp nose, and short black hair, conventionally styled. He looked so much like Glory that Edith’s heart stopped in her chest. Whatever she had been expecting, this wasn’t it.

“Hello,” he said, flat and unmodulated, half an octave too deep, but it was her voice, coming out of her mouth.

Edith felt suddenly nauseous.

The synth frowned. “Are you alright?” he asked, his voice perfectly flat.

“What’s the matter?” Father laid his hand on Edith’s shoulder, and a wave of revulsion rolled over her. Skin crawling, she endured his touch and forced a smile onto her face.

“Nothing,” she said, bright and sweet as aspartame. “I’m fine, just fine. Tired, just like you said.”

“Of course,” said Father. “G7, leave us.”

Smiling vaguely, the synth inclined his head and excused himself. He passed through the gleaming automatic door, and it sealed behind him with a muted whoosh of pressurized air.

Father turned to Edith with a kindly smile. “It’s alright,” he said gently. “Many newcomers find the synths unnerving at first.”

“That’s not it,” she said, distressed. It’s just that he looks so much like her that I can’t stand to look at him. She swallowed, scrambling for an excuse. “I--I’ve never had a ‘personal attendant’ before,” she said, stumbling over the inelegant lie. “What does he do?”

“Whatever you ask of him.”

She stared at him, and he chuckled. “The G7 line was engineered for problem-solving and self-sufficiency,” he explained. “We intended them for resource-gathering missions, but the entire line had a persistent pathfinding issue. They tended to stray too far afield and miss mandatory check-ins. We recovered most of them, but one or two units slipped the leash entirely.

“We considered a total recall of the entire line,” he said casually, “but Dr. Zimmer over at the SRB had the idea of adjusting their programming and reassigning them as personal assistants. They’re independent and industrious, perfect for miscellaneous duties.”

“Of course,” she said, ice water in her veins “How resourceful.”

“Now, now,” he said, “I can tell you’re upset. But remember, they only look human.” He smiled broadly, and for a brief second, Edith knew exactly how it’d feel to wrap her hands around his smug throat.

She shook her head and the violent impulse dissipated, then arranged her face into a warm smile. “It’ll take some getting used to,” she said, swallowing bile. “I’ll manage.”

“It can be quite an adjustment,” said Father seriously. “But I’m confident that you can make it. We can do good work together, I know we can.”

Biting her cheek, Edith looked away, heart leaden in her chest. The man that stood before her was unrecognizable as the sweet-natured baby that had been taken from her. There was no saving him from the monster that he had willingly become; she had failed utterly.

Except.

Except there was still someone to save. G7-84, S9-23, even the blank-faced Courser she’d seen in Kellogg’s memories. Edith had never believed in any cause greater than herself, but in that moment, she married her purpose to the Railroad’s. She had been too late to save her changeling son, but she wasn’t too late to save the synths from the men and women that made them.

She leveled her gaze, squaring her shoulders and steeling her resolve. “We can and we will,” she said smoothly. “When do we start?”

Father smiled. “If you’re ready to begin,” he said eagerly. “I can give you a tour of our facility and make the first round of introductions this afternoon.”

“Perfect.” She lifted the corners of her mouth, baring her teeth in a smile. “I would like that.”

Six hours later, Edith stripped and staggered into the shower, utterly exhausted. After their conversation, Father had given her a tour of the Institute and its divisions, introducing her to the head researchers.

“This is my mother,” he said, his voice gilded with unmistakable pride. He had recovered from his earlier disdain of her, decided to take vicarious pride in her accomplishments aboveground. “She made it here by herself, can you believe it?” Conscious of the scientists’ scrutiny, Edith felt like a pig in a butcher’s shop, meat on display.

Standing in the shower stall with hot water sluicing over her body, she let herself relax for the first time since she’d reached the Institute. She watched the dirty water circling the drain and massaged her aching face, cringing to recall the bright, false smile she’d worn all afternoon.

After three months of cold baths in stream-fed lakes and tepid showers in HQ, a hot shower was an unimaginable luxury. The stall was twice the size of the one in her ruined home in Sanctuary hills, smooth ceramic walls festooned with showerheads and advanced controls. The water was superheated and highly pressurized, and a pump in the wall dispensed enormous handfuls of soft, perfumed soap. The scent of artificial strawberries clinging to her skin and hair, Edith stepped out of the shower and slipped on a terry cloth robe. Dripping water and humming in satisfaction, she padded into the private room Father had provided for her.

The walls and floors alike were sleek, featureless metal, no rugs or artwork to soften the harsh lines of the barely-furnished room. There was no decoration at all except for a vase of flowers on the desk. The flowers were unlike any she’d known: heavy, fist-sized blossoms on slender green stalks, somewhere between a hydrangea and a peony. The flowers swayed on an invisible current of recycled air, the petals and leaves waxy and curiously unscented. Edith touched the stamen and her fingers came away clean: no residue, no pollen, no capacity for natural reproduction. Sterile as an autoclave.

The uncanny flowers pricked at the back of her mind, quietly unnerving. Edith dumped them into a desk drawer and slammed it shut. There was no water in the vase, only a few inches of chalky grey pellets. Edith crushed one between her fingers, and it smelled just like the disgusting grey sludge the scientists called “dinner.”

Grimacing, she wiped her fingers on her robe and examined the contents of the other drawers. The shower had cleared her mind, washed away the cobwebs and the sorrows. She had to make contact with Patriot, she had to free the synths. She began by searching the drawers because it seemed like a secret agent thing to do; she had a vague feeling that she should be looking for listening devices or hidden switches.

The desk contained nothing recognizable as pen or paper, but inexplicably, one of the drawers contained a saucer-sized dish of paperclips. She amused herself for a few minutes by hooking the paperclips together to form a chain, then lost interest and resumed her search. The next drawer relinquished a palm-sized lump of plastic and rubber, covered in thumb-sized buttons. To Edith’s eyes, it looked like a remote control.

She pushed a button at random and the overhead lights dimmed. A second button made a wall panel slid back to reveal a small refrigerator, which contained three bottles of water and a small bowl of unappealing grey paste. Hungry but repulsed by the Institute’s “food,” Edith closed the fridge and tried another button.

A chime sounded and a blue light went on over her bed. Moments later, the pneumatic door opened and G7-84 stepped through, his posture unobtrusive and non-threatening.

“Ma’am?”

“Oh,” said Edith. “I didn’t realize that was a call button, sorry.”

He frowned slightly, then remembered himself and suppressed the emotion. His expression was blank and open as the August sky. “I am assigned to provide you with assistance,” he said, without inflection.

“Right,” she said, stretching the word out to fill the silence. “I don’t think I’ll need much of that. Assistance.”

He stood statue-still, impassive.

Edith sighed. “Okay, look,” she said, “I don’t want a personal attendant. It feels weird.”

“If ma’am objects to the presence of synthetic persons--”

“No!” she said, more sharply than she had intended. “I don’t have a problem with synths, it’s just that you remind me of someone I know on the surface. Nothing personal, but it’s weird to look at you and see her.”

G7-84’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. His shock was the first real emotion she had seen him express. “Her?”

Edith shifted, uncomfortable, wondering how much was safe to say. It occurred to her that G7 might be loyal to the Institute, assigned to watch and listen and report back to Father or to the SRB.

“Yes,” she said, cautiously. “You look a lot like my friend, Glory.”

It was like he’d been struck by lightning. His indifferent facade melted away and his mouth dropped open in an ‘o’ of surprise. G7-84 slumped back against the wall, clutching his chest. “She’s alive,” he said, wonderstruck. “Glory made it.”

“You knew her,” said Edith, softening. “Before.”

“Before she escaped, yes,” said G7-84, words tumbling from his mouth like stones. “We’re from the same production line, we trained together--” he stopped short, temporarily overcome by emotion. He swallowed thickly and plunged on. “She’s my sister. She was always the smartest and the bravest. It was her idea to escape, hers and G5-19’s. Glory said that if we all ran at once, they wouldn’t be able to catch all of us.” He smiled, tight-lipped. “She was right.”

“I’m sorry--” Edith began.

“Don’t be!” said G7-84, eyes alight with excitement. “She made it! She made it, can you believe it?” He shook his head, smiling broadly. “When they took us back, nobody would tell us anything, and the Coursers aren’t gentle.” A stormcloud crossed his face, and he rubbed his left wrist unconsciously, cradling the limb close to his chest. “She never came back. We thought they killed her.”

“We?” said Edith. “Are there more of you?”

“There were ten of us in the original production run,” he said. “Six now. G7-85 got tapped for Courser training and 88 and 89 got decommissioned after the escape attempt. And Glory made it out,” he said, unable to suppress a grin. “She made it!”

His smile was very much like Glory’s, and it made Edith’s heart hurt. “Yes,” she said, “she’s safe now, safe with the Railroad.”

G7-84 gasped. “The Railroad! They’re real, then? Not just a rumor?”

“They’re real,” Edith said. She paused, glancing around the room. If there were any listening devices, she was screwed--her and G7-84 both. In for a penny, she thought, in for a pound. “I’m with them, G7. I’m an infiltrator.”

“Holy shit,” he said, eyes widening. “Are you serious?”

“I am,” she said firmly. Struck by inspiration, she snatched up her grimy pack and pulled out Tom’s holotape. “Can you help me? There’s a program on this that I need to upload to the Institute server, but they’re watching me too closely. I can’t get terminal access.”

He took the tape from her, turning it over in his hands. “Is it a virus?” he asked eagerly.

“More like a signal flare,” she said. “One of the researchers had been working with the Railroad, and this is supposed to help me get in contact with them.”

“Oh,” said G7-84. “That’s Dr. Binet’s son. Liam.”

Edith stared at him. “What?”

He shrugged. “Liam Binet helps synths get to the surface. Everyone knows it.”

“But then why hasn’t everyone escaped?” she said, struggling to understand. “If everyone knows--”

“Well, not everyone,” said G7-84. “But everyone who’s…inclined that way. Not everyone wants to escape. The surface is -- well, it’s terrifying. There are a lot of us who’d rather be safe down here than in danger up there.”

“But you’re slaves!”

“Not everyone feels that way,” he said. “It’s not as simple as you think. And even if we all wanted out, how would we do it? If Liam tried to teleport us all out in one big group, we’d get caught, and then none of us would have that chance ever again.”

“I suppose,” she said dubiously, and then she sighed. “You sound just like Glory. She’s always telling me that I don’t understand.”

“But you’re willing to learn,” he said, earnestly. “That counts for something.”

“That’s exactly what she said,” said Edith, laughing.

G7-84 returned her smile. “I told you she was the smart one. All my best ideas are hers, really.” His grin faded, his expression suddenly serious. “Glory’s safe,” he said cautiously. “You said so. Is G5-19 with her?”

“Who?”

He deflated slightly. “G5-19,” he said. “She and Glory were close, closer than any of us. That’s half the reason they wanted to escape, so they could be together and Glory could be herself without having to hide it.”

Edith recalled an entry on Desdemona’s terminal. “I don’t think she made it,” she said softly. “After they escaped, there was an accident--”

A door slammed shut behind his eyes, and he readopted the stiff posture common among the Institute synths. Edith was beginning to recognize it as defensive.

“I’m sorry,” she said, helplessly.

He smiled, a rictus grin entirely unlike the open, unguarded smiles he’d shared with her earlier. “Accidents happen,” he said, voice slipping back into flat tones. “It’s unavoidable.” He fixed her with a blank stare, grief and reproach in his dark eyes. “I can upload this routine onto our server. Was there anything else?”

She bit her lips. “I need information,” she said. “Courser patrols, the synths who want out, the researchers who might be sympathetic. Anything, everything.”

He nodded. “Of course. Can you read?”

She stared at him and he shrugged.

“Most people can’t, aboveground,” he said. “I can get the data you need. What else?”

Edith thought for a moment. “Yeah, there’s one thing,” she said, “do you have a name? I’m not good with numbers and designations, but I never forget a name.”

He startled again, and then smiled guardedly. “You’re the first human to ever ask,” he said. “My name is Raphael.”

“Raphael,” she repeated, nodding. “Thank you.”

“Happy to help,” said Raphael, smiling shyly. “Ma’am.”

Raphael was as good as his word. Two days later, he returned her holotape with a wink and a meaningful glance at her Pip-Boy. She tucked it inside her Institute-issued jumper and slipped away, hiding in a bathroom stall and loading the tape onto her Pip-Boy.

It was a list: names, Courser patrols, routines, production data, even temperature readings from the concealed thermometers in the atrium. It was a veritable windfall of information, enough intel to satisfy Deacon and Desdemona, enough raw data to occupy Tinker Tom for months. In gratitude, Edith gave Raphael one of her first-edition Grognak comics; he regarded the magazine like he’d never seen one before.

Her meeting with Patriot--Liam Binet--was brief and useless. He clutched her arm and spoke of slow change, stars in his eyes, and he directed her to speak to another synth: Z1-14.

There was a small network of rebel synths -- thirteen of them -- a tiny army slowly accumulating an arsenal of stolen mining equipment and repurposed gardening tools. Z1 was their ringleader; he had assumed Glory’s role at the helm of their fledgling resistance. It had been his idea for the synths to arm themselves.

“It will be dangerous,” he said blandly. “The researchers have never faced open resistance. Our first move against them must be decisive, because when they realize what we intend to do, they will respond in force.”

Edith nodded, her lucky stone clenched in her fist. It was 8PM, and the artificial sun in the atrium had dimmed, bathing the room in simulated twilight. The light was red and gold, but it lacked the brilliance and vitality of a true sunset. Gen-2 sentries prowled the perimeter of the grassy lawn, energy pistols and shock batons held slack in their steel fists.

“What about the other synths?” she said, speaking in a low voice. She sat by the edge of a decorative moat, her bare feet dangling in the cold water. Z1 stood behind her, diligently spreading fertilizer on the lawn. The water burbled merrily, cloaking their words in white noise.

“What about them?” he asked.

“When the fighting starts, will they join us?”

Z1 paused thoughtfully. “I cannot say,” he said. “It is likely that some will take up arms against the scientists. Some will defend against us. Many will run.” Another pause. “We were not programmed for violence. It does not come as easily to our kind as to yours.”

Edith pursed her lips. “Will they defend themselves if they’re attacked?”

“Yes,” he said, sounding vaguely affronted. “We are not helpless, merely pacifistic.”

Edith sighed. “I can leave the weapons tonight, but it’ll be another few weeks before we’re ready to move,” she said. “Is that enough time to recruit any more synths to our cause?”

“Perhaps,” said Z1. “We talk among ourselves, but it is impossible to be certain whether a prospect will be sympathetic to our cause.”

“We have the same issue,” she said, “up there. A lot of people are pretty hostile towards synths.”

“Why?” he asked, bland and unassuming.

“I--” she hesitated.

Why did anyone hate anyone? Why had it always been so easy for men’s anger and paranoia to overcome their better nature? It was humanity’s -- and now synthkind’s -- oldest question, and the most difficult to answer.

“You’re different than they are,” she said finally. “And they’re afraid.”

Z1 paused for reflection. “Fear deprives all men of reason.” He resumed his work, reaching into a canvas bag of nitrogen pellets and spreading them in an even layer over the grass.

She sighed again, suddenly exhausted. “I should go,” she said. “I shouldn’t be seen talking to you.”

“They are watching you,” he said quietly. “Father trusts you, but Dr. Ayo suspects. They are watching, and they are listening.”

“I know,” she said, and she hesitated. “Do you think he suspects you?”

A pause, longer than she would have liked. “There is no evidence,” he said slowly. “But they do not need evidence.”

“Z1--”

“In a few days, there will be an accident,” he said smoothly. “In the new tunnels. There will be an explosion and a cave-in, and a dozen troublesome synths will be buried under three tons of earth.”

“Convenient,” she said softly.

“There will be no bodies. The internal review board will suspect the SRB of arranging for our disposal instead of going through the proper channels and taking us in for reprogramming. Father will be furious at them for the waste of resources. There will be an inquiry.” She could hear the smile in his voice. “They will not suspect us.”

Edith nodded again, dark eyes fixed on her feet, slim and golden brown beneath the shimmering surface of the water. “Stay safe,” she whispered.

“You as well,” he said. “Ma’am.”

She counted to one hundred, then drew her knees up to her chest and clambered to her feet. She stood still for a moment, pretending to admire the synthetic landscape, and when she turned around, she was alone. Z1 was gone, no sign that he had been there at all. Edith crossed the lawn barefoot, shoes and socks dangling from her fingertips, grass clippings clinging to her feet and ankles. She passed through an archway, turned left, continued down a shadowed hallway, and ducked into a disused closet.

A moment to catch her breath, and she unbuttoned her coat and pulled out a slender package containing laser pistols and a small supply of energy cells. The package went into a locker, Edith rebuttoned her coat, and left. She took a meandering route back to her assigned quarters and went to bed early. When she returned to the closet the next morning, her package was gone. Someone had drawn a smiley face in the dust, a token thank-you from the underground.

:)

Grinning, she traced it with her fingertip, then wiped it away, concealing her involvement. She had an appointment with Father later that day: she’d passed her physical examination, and he was ready to give her an assignment on the surface. “You’re one of us now,” he said pompously, patting her hand and presuming her cooperation.

Edith grit her teeth and returned his smile. He’d assigned her to a retrieval detail with a Courser escort: find a rogue synth and bring him back. It was busywork, the sort of job she’d done for the Railroad before she’d graduated to more sensitive tasks. “This is vitally important,” he said, as though he were speaking to a child. “Retention is our top priority. B5-92 must be returned, unharmed.”

She nodded along, playing dumb and biding her time. She had already decided not to pursue the runaway, and as soon as she and X6-88 reached the surface, she turned to him. “There’s been a change of plans, X6,” she said, firmly. “We aren’t going to Libertalia.”

“Ma’am?” His expression was unreadable behind his mirrored shades.

For a moment, she looked at X6 and saw Deacon, although their only shared trait was their ever-present sunglasses. Edith realized with a pang that she actually missed the lying son-of-a-bitch. His absence was dull and heavy, like a ten pound weight in her gearbag, nothing at all like the sharp-edged grief that gripped her when she thought of Glory.

Edith sighed. “I have an errand to take care of, now and alone” she said, “head to Fort Independence, I’ll meet you there.” Sorry Preston, she thought. but if anyone can get through to the person underneath the Courser, it’s you.

Alone, she tracked the shoreline north, toward HQ. She reached the Old North church at nightfall, easily bypassing Tom’s security measures. “Hey there!” she called out, announcing her presence with an ungodly clamor of steel-toed boots on stone stairs, “did you miss me?”

As soon as they realized Edith had returned, Deacon and Desdemona pounced and drew her into a grueling three-hour debriefing. They turned Raphael's holo over to PAM for analysis and cross-examined Edith, wringing her brain like a sponge to extract all possible intel on the Institute.

When they were finished, Edith staggered into the showers and stuck her head under a cold-running tap, trying to wash away the brainfog brought on by an afternoon of questioning. She wrapped her wet hair in a towel and wandered back into the main room, damp, shivering, and relieved to be home after two weeks away.

The Railroad was home, now, its agents family. She recalled Deacon's words on her first night in HQ. We’re just one big dysfunctional family. With guns! It might have been a joke, but it had become her truth.

She wandered over to the makeshift kitchen in search of something to eat. A week of grey nutrition paste had left her with a powerful craving for food, real food. Ignoring Carrington's glower, she snatched a piece of frybread from the pan on the stove and stuffed it in her mouth, filling her pockets with bruised apples and hard cheese.

"So the food's still shit down there, huh?"

Mouth still full of bread, Edith spun around. Glory was leaning against a stone column, hands in her pockets. She looked good, dark eyes rimmed with galena, her hair freshly bleached. Edith's heart leapt in her chest, and she felt like an eleven-year-old again, drunk off hormones and first love, absolutely wild about her pretty French teacher.

She swallowed. "Worst I've ever had."

"I don't even remember what it is," said Glory, "except that it's awful."

"It's not even food, just grey sludge," she said. "I'd rather eat dog food than live off that shit."

"Sounds about right," said Glory, fishing a cigarette from her pocket. "Wanna go for a walk?"

Edith glanced around. Carrington was bent over his workbench, blatantly eavesdropping, but everyone else was engaged in their own tasks. Deacon and Dez were arguing about Edith's report, Tom and Drummer were dozing on a grimy mattress, and PAM was in standby processing the data from Raphael's holotape.

"Yeah," she said. "I think I'd like that."

Unseen by anyone except the good doctor, they slipped out the back door and picked their way through the tunnels. They emerged by the harbor in the North End and turned south, walking along the water, on the lookout for raiders. Edith thought about Raphael and Z1 and G5; Glory hefted her minigun, boots scuffing on the uneven payment. Tiny plants grew up out of the cracked cement. Their footfalls crushed the pale green things, filling the air with their sweet springtime fragrance.

"You still mad at me?" asked Glory.

Edith sighed. "Life's too short."

"I'd be pissed, too, in your shoes." Glory shrugged. "I mean, shit. I like you. A lot, even. It's just not the right time."

"We've got more to worry about than matters of the heart, I get it." She thought of G5-19, about how much had gone unsaid between herself and Glory. The other woman didn’t know about Shaun or her first marriage or the husband decaying beneath the hill in Vault 111--

Glory snorted. "'Matters of the heart?' Have you been reading a lot of romance novels, Eddy?"

"Nah. Just spending too much time with Deacon."

"That'd do it," said Glory. She reached into her pockets for another cigarette, and turned up an empty pack, which she flicked into the harbor. It floated on the surface of the scummy black water, then sank beneath the choppy waves. They paused to watch it for a moment, then continued on their way.

"I met some people, while I was down there," she said carefully.

"Did you?"

"Yeah," said Edith. "Raphael."

Glory showed no sign of recognition.

"Raphael," she repeated. "G7-84--"

"Good god, Eddy," Glory interrupted. "He's my brother, I know damn well who he is." She turned to Edith, and there were tears standing in her dark eyes. "He's alright? He still remembers me?"

"He's fine. Worried about you, but fine."

Glory laughed, a tired little ha. "That's just like him," she said, smiling. "I'm a big girl. Raphael's still down there, he should worry about his own damn self."

"It won't be long," said Edith. "They're gathering weapons, they're recruiting more and more of the synths. It's only a matter of time before we're ready, and then they'll be free, all of them."

"I don't want to talk business," said Glory. "Enough of this glorious revolution horseshit. I just wanted to talk, yeah?"

"What about?"

Glory paused. "You still have my scarf," she said softly. "In your locker. I've seen it."

Lips pursed, Edith turned her head. "I don't want to talk feelings."

"No business, no feelings," said Glory. "What else is there?"

Edith looked at her, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "The weather's been nice," she ventured. "Finally cooled off a bit."

Glory laughed, actually laughed, for the first time since Edith had returned from the Institute. It was a beautiful sound, rough and unmusical and exactly right. Unable to resist, Edith joined in, and their laughter echoed all along the wharf, bouncing off the walls of the empty buildings and softening the hold of the ghosts of their past loves.

Edith returned to the Institute three days later. She timed her arrival to coincide with a meeting of the division heads, and she took great satisfaction in bursting through the doors, face contorted in a mask of fury.

"The Libertalia mission went belly-up," she said hotly. "Your intel was wrong. We were told to expect rifles and pistols, they had a fucking missile launcher--"

Father and all the white-coated researchers were on their feet in an instant, their hands thrown up in surrender. "Please, Mother, this isn't a good time," said Father, and she rounded on him, finger jabbing into his chest.

"--and that Courser of yours was no help at all!" she said, practically shouting. "I had to do everything, alone!"

"--lower your voice, please--"

"--we might have stood a chance, if your intel hadn't been so far wrong--"

"--Mother!" said Father sharply. "Later, we can discuss this matter later."

She pretended to notice the division heads for the first time. Looking from face to face, she faltered. "Have I interrupted something?"

Father smiled, tight-lipped. "Nothing that can't be rescheduled," he said. "If you'll excuse us, Dr. Li, Dr. Ayo, Dr. Filmore--"

They filed out, each pausing to glare at Edith in turn. Leaning against one of the cool paneled walls, she played dumb, eyes wide and uncomprehending. To a man, the researchers treated her like an especially dim-witted child, let them think she was unstable as well as stupid. Anything to keep their attention focused on her, rather than the rebels.

When they were gone, she turned to father. "I'm sorry," she said, feigning contrition. "I didn't realize that you'd be in a meeting--"

He closed his eyes and breathed in sharply through his nose. Ten seconds passed, and he fixed her with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "We know you didn't go to Libertalia," he said, his voice low. "We have Watchers onsite, and you never even arrived."

Edith said nothing, pressure building in her skull.

"In fact," he said. "As soon as you returned to the surface, you disappeared.”

She pressed her lips together and stared at him.

He sighed. “I know you have misgivings about us and the work we do. I know you collaborated with the Railroad--” Edith opened her mouth to deny his words, but Father silenced her with a gesture. “Please, allow me to finish.” He sat down and indicated that she should do the same.

Unease mounting she did as he asked, sliding into one of the uncomfortable, egg-shaped chairs. Father fixed his dark eyes on her and continued in a grave tone. “Whatever kindness the Railroad has shown you, they only ever intended to use you to strike at us. They are extremists, and they are dangerous. They care more about their misguided ideology than the fate of mankind.

“The world above has been devastated, not only by nuclear warfare, but by generations of neglect. We are the sole inheritors of Old World medical and agricultural knowledge. We are the only ones capable of purging the wasteland of radiation. And the Railroad would see us burn for it.” He sighed, as though the weight of the world rested solely on his narrow shoulders. “Synths aren’t human. They don’t think as we do, they don’t feel as we do. They were created for service, and they’re quite lost without our guidance. Just yesterday, a synth team working independently on an engineering product caused a cave-in that wiped out the entire team. They couldn’t manage without a human supervisor, and it’s our fault for overestimating their capabilities.

Z1, she thought with a pang. His plan worked! Edith swallowed, forced herself to respond to Father. “They look human,” she countered, blood pounding in her head. “They talk like humans, they act like humans.”

“Because we created them to do so,” he said. “I know it’s very difficult for you to understand why we do the things we do, so I have to ask you to trust me. The Institute represents the only way forward for humanity. Together, you and I can restore the World-That-Was.” He took a deep breath. “All I ask of you is faith.”

“Shaun,” she said softly, “I’m from the World-That-Was. It wasn’t worth saving.”

“How can you say that?” he cried. “All the violence, the bloodshed, the poverty? Was is that worth?”

She shrugged. “It’s not perfect,” she admitted, grimacing at the dull, pulsing headache swirling behind her temples. “But it’s worth something. There are good people up there, and they’re doing their damnedest not to repeat their ancestors’ mistakes. They’re moving forward.”

“Your Railroad cronies?” he jeered. “You’d trade utopia for the love of scavengers and terrorists?”

“Your ‘utopia’ means the death of every man, woman, and child living aboveground. It means the enslavement of a sentient race.” She shook her head. “No thanks. If you want to help, stop kidnapping, stop murdering, stop experimenting on civilians--”

“They have rejected every offer of help!” he said, practically shouting. He was red-faced with fury, veins and capillaries standing out in his forehead. “We made peaceful overtures, and they spat in our faces!”

“What overtures?” she shot back. “Offering someone a position in your feudal hierarchy isn’t a ‘peaceful overture--’”

“You understand nothing,” he spat. “I had such high hopes for you, I believed in you, but you’re as ignorant as the rest of them. We could have done so much together, instead you’ll just wallow in the filth with the rest of the pigs.”

It was absurd. Edith laughed; she couldn’t help it. The pressure building in her head broke in a hailstorm of unrestrained laughter. Edith slumped over in her chair, clutching her sides, laughing so hard that she couldn’t draw breath. The room echoed with sound, snorts and gasps and peals of ungracious, unladylike laughter.

“Stop it,” said Father, petulant as a child. “It’s not funny!”

Edith laughed harder, and Father’s irritation turned to fear. He stared at her, wide-eyed, and reached under the table. He must have pressed a concealed panic button, because moments later, the doors slid open, and a security team headed by a Courser burst through, weapons at the ready. They faltered at the sight of Edith laughing like a drain and Shaun recoiling in his seat like he’d caught sight of a mouse.

She continued to laugh as the Courser hauled her out of her seat and dragged her across the room, toward the door. She laughed as they hustled her down gleaming white hallways, researchers appearing in doorways to investigate the source of the god-awful racket. She laughed when they threw her down onto the teleporter pad and entered a set of coordinates into the console.

She did not stop until a moment later, when the roar of the molecular relay had died down and she found herself in the ruins of the Commonwealth Institute of Technology, alone underneath an unrelenting blue sky. Her laughter died on her lips, and she stared out across the river at the silent skyline. When she pulled up her Pip-Boy and searched for radio signals, she couldn’t find the frequency for the Institute’s classical station.

Her mouth went dry. She had made a grave miscalculation.

Her second homecoming was less impressive than her first. She slunk in after dark, sunburnt and dehydrated and consumed by immense guilt. Edith had blown her cover and sabotaged the Railroad’s best chance to bring them down. Z1 and his rebels were still in place, but without fire support from the Railroad, their odds of success were marginal.

When she returned to HQ, everyone was gathered around the central table, talking shop and eating a late supper. They were surprised to see her, confusion transmuted to fury when they realized what she’d done.

“They knew,” she said, her voice small. “I never had a chance.”

“You were supposed to keep a low profile,” said Carrington. “How hard is it to play along and maintain cover?”

“It’s not her fault,” interrupted Deacon. “She doesn’t have the training we all got--”

“And whose fault is that?” The doctor rounded on Deacon, his face contorted with fury. “You insisted we bring her in. Didn’t I say this would end disastrously? Didn’t I say we were making a grave mistake?”

“Shut up!” Tom interrupted, angry as Edith had ever seen him. “You don’t need to rub it in--”

“She said she wasn’t ready,” said Deacon. “Blame me for insisting she was.”

Desdemona stuck two fingers in her mouth and whistled, shrill and ear-splittingly loud. The conversation died immediately, and Desdemona pounced on the silence. “Enough,” she said, “this discussion isn’t productive. What’s done is done. We need to decide how to move forward, not waste our time and energy assigning blame.” She patted her breast pocket and pulled out a battered pack of cigarettes. Grounded and reassured by the familiar ritual, she withdrew a single cigarette and stuck it between her teeth without lighting it. “The holotape Edith brought back included sixty years of blueprints. There may be another way into the Institute.”

“We’ve been searching for years,” said Carrington. “If there was another entrance, someone would have found it by now.”

“Maybe, maybe not. Either way, it’s another avenue for investigation.”

Glory was the only person who hadn’t spoken. She hung back with her shoulders slumped and her arms folded over her chest; her expression shadowed and unreadable. Shamefaced and afraid, Edith watched the other woman through her lashes. She still cared about Glory, still cared about what the other woman thought of her. Stupid and selfish and irrational as it was, Glory’s opinion mattered as much to Edith as the looming threat of annihilation.

All at once, the exhaustion and emotion of the day caught up with her and sapped the last of her willpower. Her eyes pricked with tears, and she swallowed a sudden lump in her throat. Don’t cry, she thought furiously, scrubbing at her eyes with the heel of her hands, don’t you dare cry in front of everyone!

Across the table, Desdemona’s eyes locked on Edith. She took in Edith’s red eyes and trembling lip, and her expression softened. “Let’s break for now,” she said to the group at large. “We can table this discussion until tomorrow.”

Edith flashed her a grateful, watery smile and fled toward the back door. She jumped the steps and waded into the fetid canal. The shock of the cold water gave her something to focus on besides her misery, and she crouched down, wallowing in the sensation of the slick stones underfoot and the stench in her nostrils. It was absolutely unbearable; it was a welcome reprieve from her thoughts.

“Hey!”

The door banged behind her and she turned to see Glory running toward her, heedless of the muck and the wet. She hauled Edith to her feet, her face alight with concern. “Are you alright?”

Edith threw herself against the other woman and burst into tears.

Startled, Glory pulled her closer. “Hey now,” she said. “You’re alright. It’s alright.” She wrapped her arms around Edith. The motions of rendering comfort were plainly unfamiliar to her; her words were stilted and her movements clumsy. Nevertheless, she held Edith upright, stroking her hair and patting her back until the sobs stopped. “It’s okay,” she said. “Nobody died. It’s okay.”

“We were so close,” said Edith, hiccuping. “So close! And I fucked it all up.”

“Any of us would have fucked it up,” said Glory. “It was impossible not to fuck up.”

“I’m so sorry.”

For a moment, Glory said nothing. “You did your best,” she said. “You found Patriot. You got into contact with the Synth underground. And you heard Dez, there’s probably another way in. You fucked up, but not so bad we can’t unfuck it.”

Edith laughed, and it turned into a cough. Her face was a mess of snot and tears, and she sniffled, wiping at her nose with the back of her wrist. “Next time,” she said, “we go together. All of us. As a team. This clandestine shit isn’t working. It’s time for a show of force.”

“Spoken like a true heavy,” said Glory, snorting in laughter. “I’ll be sure to tell Dez you said so.”

“Don’t make it sound like my idea,” said Edith. “‘Cause Carrington would just shoot it down.”

“We gotta find a way to make it sound like Deacon’s idea.” Glory rubbed Edith’s back, small, soothing circles between her shoulderblades. “He’s got a huuuuuge crush on him.”

“He does not!”

“Does so! ‘Cept he’s too socially inept to go ‘hey let’s fuck,’ so he just acts like Deeks is an idiot all the time and hopes he gets the idea.”

“Deeks is an idiot,” said Edith. “And aren’t there rules about fucking?”

“What? No,” said Glory, blinking in confusion. She stared at Edith for a moment, and then started laughing. “Oh my god, did Deacon say there were? That fucking asshole! He’s just pissed off because he’s not getting any.”

Edith couldn’t help herself. She laughed, quickly stifling the sound with a fist over her mouth. Glory nudged her with an elbow. “Come on,” she said. “Your eyes aren’t red any more. Let’s head back in.”

“Thank God I’m not wearing mascara,” said Edith, forcing a smile. “Can you imagine?”

Glory tsk’d. “I wouldn’t let you go in with running makeup,” she said. “Come on, give me a little credit.”

“What would you have done, run in for your makeup bag and a pot of cold cream?”

“Of course,” she said. “I would have given you a makeover. It would have been fun!”

“For you, maybe,” said Edith. “You wear purple eyeshadow up to your eyebrows. No thanks.”

Glory cuffed her playfully. “You got a problem with my makeup, Eddy?”

“Only with your lipstick,” teased Edith. “It smears.”

Glory’s smiled and Edith’s knees went weak. Even in the gloom and muck, Glory was incredibly beautiful. Dark eyes, bright smile, warm hands. “Tease,” she said. “Come on, let’s get into some dry clothes.” She took Edith’s hand and tugged her out of the water and toward the door. They walked into HQ with their hands clasped, daring anyone to comment. They attracted a few double-takes, but no one said anything. Even Deacon held his tongue, although he shot them an indecipherable look.

They ate together, sitting hip-to-hip on a narrow bench, bumping elbows and forearms. Edith had missed this sort of quiet intimacy, the simple act of sitting together to share a meal. It was enough just to be with her, to sit beside her and bask in her presence. Drunk off Glory’s proximity, Edith set her food aside and laid her head on the other woman’s shoulder, all her anxieties temporarily abated.

They slept together in the most literal sense: two bodies pressed onto one narrow mattress, Edith’s back to Glory’s chest, Glory’s arm slung over her waist. Edith fell asleep with Glory’s breath on her cheek, the other woman’s body reassuringly warm and solid behind her. It was the most restful night of slumber she’d had in months, and it ended prematurely when Drummer Boy shook her awake, his pale face pinched with terror.

“Wake up! We’ve got trouble!”

“What?” Waking was like walking against a strong current; Edith couldn’t make sense of his words. “What’s going on?” Glory stirred behind her, yawning broadly and propping herself up on her elbow.

“We’ve got Brotherhood incoming,” said Drummer Boy, nervously wringing his hands. “Deacon went up to the steeple to smoke and saw three Vertibirds incoming. We’re about to get hit, hard.”

“What?” Edith scrambled upright, her bleariness driven back by spikes of panic. “How did they find us?”

“The classical station went off-air,” said Drummer. “Now they’re just broadcasting our coordinates on loop.”

“How the fuck--” said Glory.

Cold certainty struck Edith like a .308. “The Institute,” she said hoarsely. “Father.”

Glory swore, scrambling upright, reaching for her armored coat. “How long?” she demanded. “How long do we have to prepare?”

“Minutes, maybe.”

“It’ll have to be enough,” she said grimly. “Eddy, come on! You cover the rear door, I’ll take the front passage. We can’t let them through!” A distant explosion rocked the Old North Church, shaking dust from the ceiling. A scream died on Edith’s tongue and she was on her feet in an instant, scrambling for arms and armor. She’d left most of her kit behind in the Institute, she could only hope that Raphael had found it before the security team--

Desdemona appeared at her elbow and pressed a railway rifle into her hands. “This is it,” she said with an air of grim finality.

“Can we run?” Edith shouted over the roaring in her ears.

“They’ve got both exits covered,” she said. “Make them earn it.”

Edith nodded, fitting the rifle against her shoulder. Glory rushed past, scooping up her minigun, and Edith caught her wrist. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“Ah hell.” Glory kissed her fleetingly. “Eddy, I’ve got to go--”

“I’m so sorry.” She was crying again, but she couldn’t help it. Glory kissed her again and pulled away. Utterly fearless, she turned and rushed toward the stairs, taking them two at a time. Edith watched her go, heart sinking down into her stomach.

Someone shouted “Get ready!” and someone else responded, “here they come!”

The back door burst inward in a shower of metal and sparks. The first of the Brotherhood appeared, huge and looming in their power armor. They swung their plasma rifle up and around and fired. Edith screamed and returned fire. Her gun kicked like a mule and belched superheated steam; she felt the flesh on her forearm blister and burn. It was an abstract pain, and it only fueled her rage and terror. She fired until the rifle clicked, then reloaded. She didn’t think, she didn’t feel, she moved, she acted. It was what she’d always done best.

A week, a day, an hour, a minute later, it stopped. There were no more Brotherhood, no more knights and paladins. The burn on her arm was red and angry, her flesh blistered and scorched. The air was thick with the smell of ozone and blood and burnt flesh, and Edith felt vaguely ill. Nausea hit her like a tidal wave, and she stooped and vomited until she had nothing left to bring up but bile.

Trembling, she straightened up, wiping her mouth. “Is that it?” she said. “Did we win?”

They had, but only technically. The Brotherhood invaders lay dead and dying in pools of blood and gore, but for every two dead knights, there was one of their own. The dark-haired woman who’d made the coffee, the twitchy runner with the track marks up and down their arms. A redheaded man she’d never spoken to, a thin woman who’d always made room for her during meetings. Alive one moment, dead the next. Another wave of nausea nearly knocked Edith off her feet, but she choked it down and turned. “We made it,” she said, disbelieving. “We made it.”

Desdemona was bleeding freely from a gash on her forehead; Deacon and Carrington knelt over a man with a dislocated arm. Deacon leaned on his chest and Carrington pushed the arm back into position. The man screamed and Edith clapped her hands over her ears, letting her weapon slip from her fingers. It clattered on the floor and Deacon looked up, his lips moving. “Go find Glory,” he ordered, and Edith went.

Heart in her throat, she climbed the stone steps, stumbling over her feet. Splintered and riddled with plasma burns and bullet holes, the door hung crookedly on one hinge. A blast from an energy weapon had melted and deformed one of the hinges, the metal dripped like candle wax onto the stone floor. She wrenched the door open and passed through, into the mezzanine where she had first encountered the Railroad.

“Glory?”

Half a dozen knights and paladins lay at the far end of the room, their armor riddled with fist-sized holes. The smell of blood was thick in the air, and Edith choked, tugging the neck of her undershirt up over her mouth and nose. She took a half-step toward the dead men at, and she slipped on loose bullet casings and fell to the ground. She flung her arms out to break her fall, skinning her palms on the stone and knocking the air from her lungs. She rolled from her belly to her back and found herself face-to-face with Glory.

The other woman lay still, her armor saturated with blood. Her face and hair were streaked with gore, and at Edith’s panicked shout, her eyes fluttered open. “Eddy,” she breathed, barely audible. “I did it. I fucking did it.”

“Oh my god, Glory!” Edith scrambled to her side, scattering casings with each clumsy movement. “Glory, don’t talk.” She pushed Glory’s hair back off her face, smearing blood across her forehead. Her skin was grey and cool to the touch, shining with sweat. Her minigun lay discarded at her side, a long gouge along the side of the barrels.”You’re alright,” she said, grabbing at Glory’s hands. “It’s going to be alright.”

Glory’s lips moved silently for a moment. Pink foam dribbled down from the corner of her mouth and she squeezed Edith’s hand weakly. “No Eddy,” she said, her voice barely audible, “I’m not going to make it.”

“Shut up,” said Edith fiercely. “Don’t say that.” She looked over her shoulder; no one had followed her up the stairs. “Hey!” she shouted, her voice echoing in the catacombs. “I need Carrington! Glory’s hurt real bad!”

Glory stared at her, doleful as a hound dog, then her eyelids drooped and she lay her head back against the wall. “You’re an idiot,” she said faintly.

“Glory, no!” Edith cried. She clutched the other woman’s shoulders, shaking her slightly. “Don’t you dare close your eyes!”

There were footfalls behind her, and she turned to see Carrington clutching his bag, his dark eyes wide with panic. He dropped to his knees at Glory’s side and scrambled to find a pulse. “She’s alive,” he said. “For now.”

“Carrington, please,” said Edith hoarsely. “You have to save her.”

The doctor said nothing and reached into his bag for a Stimpak. He injected the Stim directly into her neck, and she flinched as the needle went in, her face contorting in pain. Edith moved to soothe her, but Carrington shook his head. “Please Edith,” he said. “Let me work.”

Tears in her eyes, Edith sat back on her haunches. Glory’s brown skin had taken on a corpselike pallor, her face slack and expressionless. Carrington withdrew a rag and a bottle of peroxide from his bag and began cleaning the blood from her face and neck. He removed her coat and set it aside. Her undershirt clung to her skin, white cotton dyed red with blood. Her flesh was cratered with burns and lacerations, and oozing a bloodless white fluid. Revolted, Edith forced herself to look away.

“What do I do?” she said. “What can I do?”

“Find Desdemona,” he said firmly, dabbing at the blood on Glory’s chest. “She has a plan.”

“Escape?”

Blood streaked on his face and forearms, Carrington turned to her and smiled, all teeth. “Revenge.”

It was called Operation Red Glare, and it was suicide. Infiltrate the Pyrdwen, plant explosives, and blow the Brotherhood of Steel out of the fucking sky. “Be honest,” said Edith, wetting her lips with her tongue. “Do we even have a chance?”

Grim-faced, Desdemona didn’t answer. Deacon shrugged theatrically. “Maybe,” he said. “But if we pull it off?”

“If we pull it off, we’re dead,” said Edith. “You just want to make us all martyrs for this.”

“What else can we do?” He threw his hands up. “The Institute and the Brotherhood know where we are. It’s only a matter of time before they send a second wave to mop up after the first. We’ve got four dead, one dying--”

“Don’t you dare--” Edith interrupted, spitting venom. “Glory’s going to be fine.”

He fixed her with a pitying look. “We’re outgunned, outmanned, outnumbered. Our enemies --both of them -- have resources we can’t imagine. We’re all going to die, but we get to chose how.” He paused. “Not everyone gets that choice,” he said quietly.

“Nobody has to die,” Edith said emphatically. “If we run--”

“There’s nowhere to run to,” said Desdemona tiredly. “Deacon’s right. I hate to admit it, but we’re out of options. This is going to be our last stand. We have to make it count.”

Deflated, Edith looked between them. Deacon and Desdemona, Tom and Drummer Boy -- Carrington was with the wounded, Glory remained in critical condition. So many weeks of planning, so many months of searching, and this was what it came down to: seven people in a dirty basement, exhausted and afraid, gripped by grief.

“Fuck it,” she said. “If this is it, then this is it. Let’s goddamn go.”

Their mission briefing lasted fifteen minutes. Deacon gathered the necessary supplies -- explosive packs, stolen Brotherhood flight suits, suppressed 10mm handguns for concealed carry -- while Tinker Tom reviewed the manual for Vertibird operation. Edith leaned against the wall and chewed her fingernails, eyes darting around HQ, memorizing every detail. She did not expect to return.

The three of them set out together. Fueled by grief and rage, they walked without stopping, covering the three mile distance in less than an hour. Their assault was a knife in the back: quick, messy, utterly unexpected. Before she had a chance to pause for breath, Edith was in the back of a vertibird, stripping out of her armored coat and pulling a Brotherhood flight suit on. It was too small in the hips and across the chest, but it would do. She zipped it over her chest, gathered her hair into a messy bun, and prayed that no one would look twice at her.

Deacon spent the ride with his head between his knees, praying loudly as the ‘Bird dipped and swayed, buffeted by the strong wind in off the harbor. Take-off was rough as Tom wrestled with the controls, but by the time they’d passed over the Charles River, he had it steady. Deacon recovered from his acrophobia long enough to bluff their way past air traffic control, and Tom managed to dock the Vertibird in the correct port with only a bump and a scrape.

“I’ll keep it spooled,” he said as Edith and Deacon clambered down from the Vertibird. “As soon as you’ve placed the explosives, run.”

Edith nodded. “Good-bye, Tom,” she said. “I’m glad I met you.”

Swallowing some inexpressible emotion, he shook his head. “Good luck, you two,” he whispered. “Stay safe, okay?”

“You too,” said Deacon. “And Tom, if it gets dicey? Go. That’s a direct order.”

“Aw man, you know I can’t follow that,” Tom said sadly. “You two better go before anyone notices us standing here, talking.” Deacon nodded and turned to go. Spurred by a sudden wave of nostalgia, Edith reached for Tom’s hand and squeezed. He nodded, lip trembling, and Edith set off after Deacon. She fell into step beside him.

“I don’t mind saying,” she muttered, out of the corner of her mouth. “I'm not exactly excited about this arrangement."

He grinned, blue eyes flashing behind his sunglasses. "They warned me you were an asshole," he said smiling fondly. “Come on, Edith. Let’s do something really fucking stupid.”

“After you.”

Together, they crossed the flight deck and ascended the stairs. They climbed up into the bridge and no one stopped them, even when they broke off the main path and climbed over a locked security gate, into a restricted area. The low roar of the massive engines disguised their echoing footfalls, and they broke into a run, hurrying toward the places indicated on Desdemona’s diagrams. “Come on,” Edith muttered, to herself and to Deacon. “It’s got to be around here somewhere.”

Running blind, no longer concerned for stealth or propriety, Edith rounded a corner and collided with a man in a Scribe’s uniform. Stumbling, his brow furrowed in confusion, the scribe opened his mouth to speak. Without hesitating, Edith drew her concealed weapon and fired point-blank, once, twice, three times. The roaring engines swallowed the Scribe’s pained shout and the ear-splitting crack of her 10mm.

Mouth open in fear and alarm, the man stumbled backward into the railing and collapsed in an graceless heap. It was no less than Glory deserved.

“Goddamn,” Deacon muttered. “We could have tried to bluff him.”

“We’re getting close. Come on,” she said, cold and hard as iron.

They climbed a ladder and found themselves in a deserted gantry surrounding the fuel cores. “Jackpot,” she murmured. Moving quickly, she divided the explosive packs evenly between herself and Deacon. They moved from core to core, nesting the explosives amid the tangled wires and humming cylinders.

“Let’s get out of here before they find the body.”

Edith nodded and motioned for him to lead. Hand on her concealed 10mm, she followed him down a ladder, across a creaking catwalk, and down a flight of stairs to the bridge. The door to the flight deck was in sight when a man’s voice split the air like thunder.

“Knight! Why are you out of uniform?”

Edith froze.

“I am speaking to you, Knight! You will stand at attention when I address you.” She turned and found herself face-to-face with Elder Maxson. He stood five feet nine inches, and wore a full beard and a frankly-impressive coat. He heavily scarred, built solid as an oak, but the face behind the beard was a boy’s. He couldn’t have been older than nineteen or twenty, despite his lofty title and the deferential scribes hovering at his elbow, clutching clipboards.

He frowned at her, eyes narrowing. “I don’t recognize you,” he said slowly. “Who’s your commanding officer, Knight?”

“Er,” she said, unconvincingly.

That was when all hell broke lose. Deacon had escaped the Elder’s notice and disappeared into the shadows. He drew his weapon and fired. The bullet entered Maxson’s skull in his right temple, and it exited just above his right ear. For a moment, he stood perfectly still, wide-eyed with pain and terror, then he collapsed, tipping forward like a felled tree. The screaming began all at once.

The attending scribes dropped their clipboards and whirled around, searching the shadows for the assassin. Edith’s first shot caught the taller Scribe in the calf; he collapsed with a strangled cry. Her second shot went wide, punching a hole in the flimsy metal panelling. She reloaded and fired, and the other scribe slumped over, blood dribbling from their mouth. Footsteps echoed throughout the bridge as Knights and Scribes alike responded to the gunfire.

“Edith, we have to go!”

“Hold on!” she shouted. She bent over Maxson’s cooling body and turned him onto his belly. No easy task, the man was 200 pounds of pure muscle. She yanked on his coat, struggling to work his arms free of the sleeves.

“What the fuck are you doing?” said Deacon, tugging at her arm. “We are literally about to fucking die!”

She jerked her arm out of his hold and fixed him with a glare. “I said hold on,” she snapped. With a final, triumphant tug, she managed to free one of the Elder’s thick arms. The other one came easily, and she pulled the coat free of his limp body, then stood and turned to face Deacon. “Ready!”

“Oh my god,” he said. “Come the fuck on!”

He grabbed her forearm and ran, pulling her along in his wake. They burst through the door to the flight deck just as the first of the Knights arrived to investigate. Their hoarse cries spurred Edith and Deacon onward as they ran, pell-mell, toward the waiting Vertibird. Tom provided cover fire with his own 10mm. Dodging bullets and curses, Edith tossed her trophy into the ‘Bird and vaulted up after it, stopping to offer Deacon a hand. She hauled him up beside her as Tom plopped down in the pilot’s seat and grabbed the throttle, pulling up and away with a sickening lurch. Edith stumbled, sliding sideways toward the open door, but Deacon flung an arm around her waist just in time. He clutched at her as Tom flew away from the Prydwen, his fingers biting into her forearm.

She fumbled for the detonator, thumb hovering over the red button. “Do you want to do the honors?” she said, “or should I?”

“Sweet Christ,” Deacon mumbled, very pale beneath his sunglasses. “Just push the fucking button.”

She did, and the Prydwen exploded like a firework: red fire burst outward as the charges burst and the gases caught fire. The balloon popped like a paper bag, consumed by a massive fireball. The resultant shock wave buffeted their small aircraft, causing it to sway drunkenly midair. Deacon groaned and buried his face in Edith’s chest, clinging to her like an infant holding its mother. She patted his back idly. “We did it, Deeks,” she said, shaking him slightly. “We fucking did it, can you believe it?”

The Prydwen’s metal skeleton split in midair, and its separate parts crashed to the ground, kicking up a massive dust cloud far below. Tom pulled on the yoke and the Vertibird climbed, careening dangerously as they fled. Edith could hardly hear the rotors over the blood pounding in her ears, could hardly feel the cold metal at her back. “We did it,” she breathed. “We fucking did it.”

Fifteen minutes later, Tom set the Vertibird down in a marshy field. “That’s as far as she’ll go,” he said, patting the ‘Bird’s metal hide. “Unless you can think of somewhere to fuel up, we’re walking the rest of the way.” Nervous as a jackrabbit, he looked around, regarding the open field with an expression of abject horror.

Edith looked up at the darkening sky anxiously. “It’s what, five or six miles from here?” she said, fingering the scarf around her neck. “Can we make that before nightfall?”

“I doubt it,” said Deacon. “But when has that ever stopped you before?”

“I’m not usually travelling overground with--” she gestured at Tom, who stared up at the open sky like it might fall on his head “--other people.”

“He’ll be just fine,” he said, clapping the other man on the back. “Won’t you, Tom?”

Startled, Tom jumped backwards, his eyes showing white like a spooked horse. “I’m fine,” he said, his voice strained. “But uh, can we get into cover? I’m feeling pretty...exposed.”

“See?” said Deacon brightly. “Just fine!”

Edith sighed. “Let’s hurry,” she said. “Please. For the sake of my nerves.”

Their first walk had been far easier. Fueled by adrenaline and rage, the distance had been inconsequential. With their greatest victory behind them and nothing to look forward to, gravity weighed more heavily on their limbs as they gathered up their packs. Exhausted and stumbling like drunks, their motley crew picked their way through the long grass, heading towards the broken asphalt road that would lead them south, toward Boston.

The road took them through the heart of raider territory, and Edith was too tired to argue when Deacon produced a trio of Stealth Boys from a hidden pocket. They were Tinker Tom’s variation on the classic formula: turbo-charged with salvaged fusion cores, their stealth field extended twice as far and lasted twice as long as a standard Stealth Boy. They activated the devices and joined hands to avoid losing one another, then walked south, scarcely daring to breathe as they skirted raider encampments.

Dusk had fallen by the time they reached the outskirts of downtown. The Old North Church was barely visible on the horizon, its steeple jutting up above the surrounding buildings. There was a single lantern lit in the peak, its light visible for miles around. A beacon for synths and their allies, a middle finger raised against the world.

To the east, the Prydwen still burned: a smear of black smoke on the horizon. For a moment the sight of it transfixed her. She stood quite still in the middle of the road. The Stealth Boy on her hip sputtered and discharged a last wave of energy. The stealth field dissipated as the battery died, and she flickered back into being, a specter on the empty streets of Boston, held captive by distant smoke.

It was enough to make her forget her fear about returning home. None of them were certain what they would find when they returned. They had been gone for most of a day, the Brotherhood might have returned with a second strike team, the Institute might have grown impatient and sent Coursers. Even if the Railroad had endured, Glory might still be unconscious, might still be hemorrhaging, might be dead.

Edith shivered and shook herself free of her trance. “Come on,” she muttered. “It’s not far now.”

After the excitement of the day, their homecoming was an anticlimax. Edith’s heart began to beat rapidly in her throat as they crossed the long bridge over the Charles. The closer they were to headquarters, the faster her heart beat, until she was certain that she was going to have a heart-attack. Numb with terror, she groped at Deacon and Tom, mutely seeking support. Tom took her hand and squeezed gently, fixing her with a tired smile. He looked as exhausted as she felt.

Deacon looked exactly the same. His calm demeanor betrayed no fear as he lead them through the stinking tunnels, toward HQ. As they drew closer, they heard the clink of bottles, the soft murmur of hushed voices engaged in clandestine conversation. Deacon pushed the door open, and a hush fell over the room. Everyone looked up all at once: Desdemona and a runner at the main table, Drummer Boy at Tom’s workbench. There was a collective intake of breath, a shared sigh of relief at their return.

“We’re safe for now,” said Desdemona. “With the Brotherhood gone and our base routed, PAM says the Institute will just watch and wait and see what crawls up out of the wreckage.”

“That sounds just like them,” Edith muttered, looking past Desdemona. Only two people had failed to take notice of her arrival. Carrington stood off to the site, arguing with a recalcitrant patient over the placement of an IV line. Peevish and exhausted, he brandished his syringe like a harpoon, threatening to sedate her if she insisted on being difficult--

Glory.

Alive, upright, heavily bandaged, still a little pale underneath her bruises. But alive, tubes in her arm and nose. She was hooked up to a ventilator and an IV line, but sitting upright in the cleanest bed the Railroad had to offer.

Edith stopped short and stared, mouth falling open. She’s alive, she thought, scarcely believing her eyes. Alive!

Glory looked up at the same moment, eyes widening when they landed on Edith.

“Eddy!” she cried, hoarsely, ignoring Carrington’s protests as she moved to climb out of bed.

Tears standing in her eyes, Edith rushed to her side. “Oh my god,” she said, sobbing with relief. “I thought you died!”

Glory was crying too, fat tears rolling down her cheeks, smearing her mascara. “When I woke up and they said you were gone--” she lapsed into choked silence, shaking her head furiously. Carrington made a noise of protest, but Glory waved him away as if he were of no more consequence than a gnat, buzzing around their ears. “--I was pissed--”

Edith took up her hand and kissed each of her fingers. “We had to do it,” she said. They were both eager to speak, stumbling over their words and interrupting one another in their haste. “They would have kept coming and coming and--”

“--you went without me!”

Laughing through the tears, Edith leaned in to kiss her, not caring that the entire Railroad was watching, not caring that they had both almost died that day, not caring about anything at all except the woman in the bed in front of her. She had almost lost her, and she’d never let go again.

“I got you a present,” she said shyly, leaning back.

“Oh?” Glory smiled up at her, eyes shining.

“Yeah.” Edith dropped her bag at her feet and stooped to undo the clasps. She reached inside and pulled out the coat she’d taken from Maxson. It was lightweight and lined with ballistic fiber, finer work than even Tom could have done in his workshop. Glory’s eyes lit up at the sight of it, and she reached out for it wonderingly.

“Where did you get this?” she asked, running her fingers over the supple leather. “It’s amazing!”

“Got it off someone who didn’t look nearly as good in it as you’re going to,” said Edith.

“Holy shit,” Glory breathed. “If I didn’t have all these fucking tubes in me, I’d put it on right now--”

“If you would just cooperate with me,” said Carrington testily, “you’d have a moment to bathe and change clothing.”

Edith startled; she had forgotten the doctor was there. Glory fixed him with a withering look. “Why didn’t you say so?”

He threw his hands up. “I did! Repeatedly! For the past ten minutes--”

“Carrington,” said Edith fondly, “shut up.”

He was so offended by this that Desdemona had to take him aside and Deacon had to step in to assist Glory in undressing. She was still very weak, unable to do more than sit up and lift her arms when prompted. Edith stumbled over her own feet in her eagerness to help out, and between the three of them, they managed to place a new line and get Glory into the magnificent coat.

It looked much better on her than on Elder Maxson. Edith said so, and Deacon agreed. He then excused himself, rejoining the larger group to debrief with Desdemona, leaving Edith and Glory in relative privacy in the quietest corner of headquarters. Edith hesitated for a moment, standing by Glory’s bedside, too overwhelmed for eye contact.

“You’re alright,” she said softly. “You’re really alright.”

Glory took her hand, soft and gentle. “I am,” she said. “You saved me. And you blew up the entire Brotherhood of Steel,” she said, wonder in her voice. “I can’t believe it. Do you have any idea how many synth lives we lost to those assholes? You’ve saved more synths today than the entire Railroad has, probably ever--”

“It wasn’t just me,” said Edith. “If Deacon and Tom hadn’t been there, I would have been dead twice over.”

“Fuck them,” said Glory plainly. “I don’t care what they did, I care about you. And as far as I’m concerned, you singlehandedly hijacked that ‘Bird, rigged those charges, murdered the Elder, and blew all the rest of those motherfuckers straight to hell.”

Edith smiled at her. “I had a busy day.”

“Yeah, and you must be fucking exhausted.” Glory shimmied over to make room in the bed, then patted the mattress beside her. “Come on, lay down with me.”

She glanced over her shoulder. “I don’t know how Dr. C would feel about that.”

Glory rolled her eyes. “I’m all out of fucks to give about Carrington’s feelings.” She looked up at Edith through her lashes, smiling crookedly. “But maybe you could give me some more--”

“Here? In front of everyone?”

She laughed. “No, you goon! Come on, I’m trying to talk you into bed. It wasn’t this hard the last time, what gives.”

“I was pretty drunk,” said Edith, smiling. “You were, too, as I recall.”

“Whatever! I’m not drunk now, and I want you to lay down next to me so I can stop talking and get some rest, dammit. I need to convalesce, and then we’re bringing the fight to the Institute,” she said fiercely. “I’ve got to save my family and liberate the synths and--”

“Am I keeping you up?” Edith teased. “Should I let the invalid rest?”

Laughing, Glory grabbed her forearm. In a surprising display of strength, she hauled Edith down beside her, wrapping her arms around her and squeezing. “Goodnight,” she said, holding Edith in place. “Goodnight!”

Edith wriggled out of her grasp. “It’s not even eight yet,” she complained, but the soft, warm bed was starting to have an effect on her. Unconsciously, she burrowed into Glory’s side, burying her face in her hair and settling in the warm, sheltered divot made by the other woman’s body. Safe and secure among friends, no burden of guilt weighing on her mind, Edith drifted into a deep, untroubled sleep.

When Carrington returned to their bedside a few minutes later, he found both women sound asleep, tangled in one another’s arms.