[color=6ecff6][b]Desmond Lockheart and The Director, Sanctuary Hills(?)[/b][/color] Desmond awoke to feeling of a warm sun on his face and the sounds of cheerful birds chirping. He could hear a lawnmower in the distance, and along with it came the familiar smell of freshly cut grass. His confusion was only amplified as his eyes adjusted and he saw well trimmed green lawns, white picket fences, and tidy homes lining a freshly paved street. He realized then that he was sitting in a lawn chair up against a patio table in the middle of one of the many lush green backyards. Reclining across from him was a man dressed in plaid shorts, loafers, a short sleeve collared shirt, and sunglasses which screamed suburban life. For a brief moment, Desmond assumed he was in a dream until he looked down and saw his necrotic hands. He was never a ghoul in his dreams. “Hello Desmond,” The man said as he turned to him, “Enjoying the weather?” The voice was instantly familiar to him and his memory of the previous events in the Third Rail came flooding back swiftly, “Thomas. Well I suppose I should be surprised. Where are we exactly? I can guess I’ve been shanghai'd to The Institute, but this...well. Is it a simulation?” At that moment, a Mister Handy floated up to the pair carrying a metal tray with two drinks, “Lemonade’s here sir!” The robot proudly exclaimed, “Made it myself and quality-assured by the missus haha!” “Thank you Codsworth,” Thomas smiled as he took one of the drinks. Codsworth offered the other to Desmond, and the old ghoul hesitated, but finally clasped the cold drink in his hands. He waited for Thomas to take the first sip, and then slowly raised the glass to his own rotting lips. He was surprised to find how delicious it tasted and he couldn’t help but widen his eyes in surprise. “It's not a simulation, not a virtual one in any case,” Thomas finally replied, “Everything here is real, down to the last blade of grass. The sun is artificial of course and there’s some illusion at work when it comes to the backdrop, but aside from that its an exact copy of my home. Sanctuary Hills.” “And the people, they’re..” “Synths yes. Exact copies of each of my former friends and neighbors. They’re memories and neurological makeup taken directly from the bodies of those in Vault 111. The cryogenic stasis they were placed it kept their corpses thankfully very fresh, which is the only thing that made this possible. Their programming has been altered slightly of course so that they’re stuck in the same loops over and over again, to ensure they don’t break the illusion here.” Desmond looked around the neighborhood and observed each of them going about their business. It was hard to imagine at first glance that they weren’t real. As he panned around, he could see into the window of the home they were in the backyard of, and spied a woman with dark hair. Next to her, he could see the top of a young boy’s head. “You even copied your wife and child…” Desmond couldn’t help but let out a subdued gasp. Thomas fell silent for a few moments. “Yes, I did. Although the child wasn’t my doing really. My son, my real son, created him for me as his way of...making amends for the lost time. He asked me to look after the child before he passed. So I decided to create this place as a way to do that. It allows me, if even briefly, to recapture everything I lost. I love it and hate it in equal measure. Everytime I return here, I swear that it’s the last.” “How tragic,” Desmond replied matter-of-factly as he leaned back in his chair, “So can I ask what the fuck I’m doing here? You didn’t kill me, so I assume you want something from me.” “I could say the same. You’re not an easy man to get to Desmond. If you wanted to evade capture, you could have. You walked into the Third Rail knowing that Goodneighbor had long ago stopped being free. Everyone there is a Synth. The illusion of resistance against The Institute is kept up there only for appearances, and to lure in those who still want to fight. Remnants of The Railroad...The Brotherhood...The Minutemen and so on. You wanted to be captured so I assume you’re looking to get something out of an arrangement as well. The Great Game boring you now?” “Maybe,” Desmond nodded as he took another sip of the lemonade, “Maybe I’m tired of doing this over and over again. Maybe I thought I might finally be able to work with one of my rivals instead of kill them.” Thomas smiled, “I could use your help Desmond. Back in the day you were the best intelligence agent The British had to offer. Got the DIA out of many a tight jam and served your country, and ours, with distinction. The Institute is just coming into its own on the stage and we’ve already discovered that its much larger and more complicated than we anticipated. Nations have formed that are far more powerful than ourselves. We need information before we can figure out what to do about that.” “So you need me to lead up your intelligence agency hmm? Can’t say I disagree...it’s the smart choice. Those egg-heads of yours might be smart, but they’re amateurs compared to what we had,” Desmond leaned back smugly in his chair, “But I don’t really see what's in it for me. The country I served is long since blown to hell and I’m not feeling all that loyal to an armed university.” “I figured you might say that...so what if I told you I could get you something you’ve wanted for a long time. What if I could cure your ‘condition’?” “Not sure why I’d want to do that,” Desmond shrugged, “Ghouldom isn’t a fucking walk in the park, but it has its perks. Immortality for one. Immunity to radiation for another. Kinda comes in handy this day and age you know?” “Assume I can offer that along with the promise of a cure.” Desmond narrowed his eyes, “Keep talking Thomas..” “It's why I brought you here,” Thomas motioned his hand around, “Why I demonstrated this to you.” “Synths. So that’s your plan. Build me a new body I supposed, hmm? Alright, I’ll bite. And what exactly is stopping you from controlling me like a puppet once I agree to that?” “If I wanted that, I could just kill you, scan you, and build a copy and program it to follow my orders to the letter. Let's be frank here Desmond. That’s not what I’m after. I need your mind and I need it whole and unspoiled. A Synth can do many things...many, many things. But despite the appearances, its not wholly up to the task of matching the human mind. It's the one advantage we have over them. There are flaws and limitations that are only perceptible to those that have intimate knowledge of their workings. I’m going through all this trouble for a reason, not because I find it fun. I’m offering this to you in exchange for your help because I know it's the one thing you’ve been unable to get. I know why you’re always wearing that fake wig and mustache. Its because your longing for the old days is almost as great as mine. What I’m offering you is the same thing I’ve found here in this place….a small piece of that.” Desmond sat back and let out a throaty chuckle, “Figured I might have made the right choice….alright you’ve got a deal. You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours. Just like the old days then. So, what exactly do you need my help with?” “There’s a group I’m very interested in learning more about. Perhaps even working with if the circumstances permit it. But from what I’ve heard we need to be very precise...and very careful with how we go about it. I think you’ve run into them before as well….in Maryland.” “Oh?” “A group called: The Cult.”