He stares at the shadows on the wall, grey against the relentless red glare of the lights outside. Once again, he tries to keep calm. There is only so much 'I Spy' one can play with oneself in a small cell, but he has been trying to calculate prime numbers. He has gone as far as one thousand, one hundred and fifty-one before, but does not remember all the numbers intervening between that and two. He idly wonders if attempting to devise an equation to calculate prime numbers for him would provide an interesting diversion, or if, once completed, it would simply rob him of the limited pleasure of something to think about. Intellectual pleasure is a rare commodity now that his terminal is destroyed.
So he starts again. He makes it as far as thirty-seven before hearing footsteps. Normally this would not concern him—hours, days, weeks can blur at a time in this cell. It would not surprise him if he had lost track of the guards' schedule.
But this is different. Despite the dull weight of each footfall, there is a metal clank to it, and the sounds are sharper—less thick, less heavy—than those of his fellow meta humans.
He forces himself to reach forty-seven before allowing himself to hope.
By now, two figures are visible—two humanoid figures, plus a dog. Both of the people are wearing metal armor, thick scales and plating scarred with gashes and scorch marks that only come from heavy use. Despite this, the equipment is well maintained—functional, if not beautiful. The shorter of the two wears power armor of a different model than the tall one, blue crackles playing over the power pack strapped to the back. The eyes glow an ominous yellow as the short one tilts its head to examine him through the glass. The bulkiness of the armor does not allow him to guess at the owner's build, but despite the person's diminutive stature—possibly five feet, not even level with his chest—there is no doubt as to which of the two is in charge.
"Why would they imprison one of their own?" the small one asks, voice tinny and garbled through the metal helmet and filtered through the primitive intercom of his cell. It sounds vaguely feminine, though it could be a trick of the acoustics.
Her tall companion just grunts, shrugging. "I don't like the looks of this place. We should keep moving." His voice is coarse and grating, either naturally rougher or because his vocal synthesizers need a tune-up.
Fawkes' heart jumps to his throat, so choked he become momentarily terrified that despite having dreamed of this moment for as long as he can remember… he might lose the words now that he needs them. So he calls, "Hello? Are you… quite real? A pure human?" Even to his own ears, his voice is thick, speech gone rusty with disuse.
"Yes. That's me, alright. And who are you?" the small one asks, still tilting her head curiously. She taps futilely at the side of her helmet, shaking her head with displeasure while he responds.
"You actually care who I am?" he says with dull disbelief, feeling an unfamiliar ache across his cheeks. A smile. He must be smiling. "A surprise. I have lived most of my life in this cage being struck and beaten by the others."
Finally, disgusted with whatever failure of sound quality she is experiencing through the helmet, the small woman lifts it from her head. Her hair is dyed brilliant scarlet, flaming like a sunset as if capturing what little light remains in this nightmare of a vault. While currently plastered to her head from the weight of the helmet, he notes that the sides are cropped short, only allowing a central plume to remain long, like the plumage of some exotic bird. Her other arresting feature is her eyes, pale blue and almost glowing with intensity. He does not miss their slight constriction and the twitchiness about their pupils. Despite her alertness, those could also be signs of chem withdrawal.
The rest of her is of relatively little note—dark skin, ambiguously brown and possibly descending from any of half a dozen blood ancestries. Thin face, somewhat haggard about the edges. Pointed chin, snub nose—mostly just young looking. Her brilliant eyes, her hair, her youth—those are the major impressions he collects of her physical appearance.
It comforts him that her intelligence does not disappoint either. Grinning fiercely, she quips, "How ironic that the others consider you a mutant of their kind."
He cannot help laughing, even if it is a pained sound that gurgles through his chest. "Yes. Indeed it is ironic. Forgive my astonishment, but I hadn't expected to meet someone with such a learned outlook of these things." Even while speaking, he cannot help feeling shame over how crude his voice sounds; he may have the vocabulary, but conversation is an art he has had little chance to practice, and he is keenly aware of the difference between her smooth silver patter and his slow, clumsy words. "It is a pleasant change. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. It was only a matter of time before someone like you showed up for the GECK."
He knows he struck home by her sudden snap to attention, eyes widening just a fraction before narrowing with intensity. Her lips thin briefly, biting back before quickly asking, "The GECK? You know what it is?"
"I know what it is. I know where it is, and best of all…" He allows himself a trace of pride, smiling. "I know how you can get your hands on it."
"…why would you help me?" she whispers, and for a moment, all he can wonder is how did someone so young get so jaded, that an offer of help would cause such shock and confusion. It almost pains him to offer the deal he's been planning ever since he gained enough cognizance to plot escape.
"Because you can help me."
She just nods grimly, lips twisting into a wry grin. "Of course. That's the way it works, isn't it?" Her eyes shine bright as homing beacons in the dank shadows of the Vault. For a moment he thinks they look wet—but she blinks and the illusion is dispelled.
"It is a fair trade. Let me out of this place, please." He means to leave it at just that, he really does—but just talking, exchanging pleasantries, feels like such an unexpected joy that it salts the wound of the previous days, months, years of whatever eternity he has been down here. "I can't take it anymore," he howls, desperation clawing up through his throat. He slumps against the glass, palms flat against the wall of his cell as he stares down at her pleadingly. "I can't even recall how long I've been here. Take me with you, and I'll retrieve the GECK for you."
"Why would I have difficulty getting the GECK?" she asks, fingers drumming against the device strapped to her wrist. With some wonder, he recognizes it's a Pip-Boy.
"The chamber in which the GECK resides is absolutely flooded with radiation. It's unlikely you'd survive very long. Myself, on the other hand, have surprisingly inherited a useful trait from my fellow meta humans," he explains, fixing his gaze on hers. While well aware that most would call his kind 'mutants,' he hopes this appeal to their shared humanity will strike a chord. "I am highly resistant to radiation. Let me out of here, and I will place the GECK safely in your hands."
She does not hesitate before asking "How do I get you out?"
After giving her the instructions to access the terminal controlling the cell doors, she looks up at him. Drums her fingers on her Pip-Boy, then reaches up to place one palm flat against the glass. Her fingers barely brush against the base of his wrist, a transient touch through the thick barrier.
"For the record, I was going to free you even without the GECK," she whispers. Then she puts her helmet back on and lopes down the corridor, dog and tall man following.