Chapter 21: Raiding the Raiders
"Time to raid the raiders, and save the Ghouls."
Ilya's gaze was drawn to Deacon as he stood with hands planted on hips, road leathers reinforced with even more leather, shadowed like hers and matted to meld with the darkness. With the shades and wig, he looked like some sort of leather-clad secret agent from those comic books. "You're sounding keen for someone who likes 'long lazy dull days,'" she quipped.
"Hey, I'm a keen-bean when it comes to popping raiders. Just as long as I get to shoot from the shadows, or from behind a very, very thick wall."
Tightening the buckles of the leather padding around her shins and thighs, then checking her shoulder-guards, Ilya chugged the remainder of the water from a bottle and stood, flexing sore shoulders. "You better hope we don't run into any of the Dark Bloods down there, then. They'll chase you from your cover the moment they smell your blood."
Deacon swallowed his lower lip and created a suctioning noise. "Looking forward to meeting those guys..."
Ilya only tilted him a knowing look. She wasn't looking forward to meeting them again, either. They haunted her waking hours just as much as her nightmares. "Everyone ready?" She was rewarded with acknowledgements from the small squad she had chosen for the mop-up—mainly the heavy hitters. Deacon, who refused to let her go down there without him, Clay-Crawler, Hancock, Cait, Strong, MacCready, who had practically begged due to his love of caves from his childhood, Dogmeat, and Danse, who stomped up on her side.
"Locked and loaded," he confirmed with a hard, encouraging nod. She noticed he wasn't donning his helmet. Possibly due to the low-light levels underground, and the fact that he could blind his allies with his helmet torch in a single glance.
Ilya returned his nod, then surveyed her team as they stood near the mine entrance. "Where's Clay?"
They found him stooped near the giant death-cage that had been constructed over a fire-pit. A raider corpse lay beneath him, its limbs dismembered and mutilated.
Oh, fuck. Please don't be eating that.
While the others hung back, Ilya approached him with tentative steps, peering over his armour's shoulder. His helmet was on, so he couldn't be eating anything. "Clay?"
The raider turned. The claw symbols and other odd markings he had carved into his armour were now painted in blood, darkened with several layers, crusting in dried places and dripping wet in others. In his hand was a dismembered finger, which he must have been using as a paintbrush.
"Blood of enemies gives power," he explained, voice so rich with purpose that it gave Ilya goose flesh. He finished one last marking by dipping the bloodied end of the finger into the corpse's open wound for hot, fresh blood, and then ran it through the marking to stain it. He stood to present himself to her. "Whisper like?"
Ilya regarded him in full detail. It honestly didn't disturb her as much as she thought it would, and it actually looked kind of badass, in a savage, bloodthirsty way. The Wastes had desensitised her to a lot of things, lately. "Whisper likes," she approved with surprise in herself.
The raider seemed to beam within his armour and stood up straighter, and she couldn't see his face, but she felt sure that he was giving her one of his creepy-as-fuck smiles. He offered up the severed finger, and she raised her brows at it, not sure what he wanted. Before she could stop him, he moved it toward her face and dashed twice beneath her eyes and up across her cheekbones, like warpaint stripes. Ilya stood prone afterward, taking stock of what he had just done to her. The blood was still warm, its sticky wetness clinging to her skin and making her detest the idea of even moving her face in the discomfort. Blood had splattered her face many times in battle, but to have it deliberated pasted on was a new experience.
"Blood bond," Clay-Crawler declared, pounding a fist to his chestplate with a heavy clash of metal, then pressing the same fist to Ilya's chest, much more gently. Even still, she had to catch her balance just to support the light impact. "We share blood of same foe."
Ilya was lost for words. Was this some sort of post-battle ritual? Was she supposed to do something in kind? He was just standing nodding at her. "Uh, okay. Blood bond. Sweet." She forced a smile.
Clay-Crawler just gave a pleased grunt like a caveman and nodded at her some more.
Entering the mines, the team was forced into single file through the initial narrow passage, with Danse naturally taking point. Ilya was close behind, falling into his shadow and footsteps with handgun at the ready. It hadn't even crossed her mind to challenge him for leadership, and she doubted it had crossed his mind to challenge her, either. They had formed a certain unconscious habit during their time together. Dark, narrow, little-to-no cover or room to manoeuvre—Danse was on point and calling the shots. Open, exposed, full of obstacles and opportunities—Ilya's playtime.
No playtime down here today though, Ilya's mind wandered in dejection. This place was desolate and eerie, the darkness seeming to slither in the corners of her eyes and the echoes of distant movements whispering along her nerve endings. The air was cold and damp with earthy decay, filling her nose with its musk, but she knew it would linger even heavier down in the deepest realms of the ancient quarry.
As soon as they could spread out and get a lay of the area, Clay-Crawler obliterated any tactical habits they had and rushed ahead down the passage, his power armour thundering through the surrounding rock. Before anyone could curse at him, he flipped a switch somewhere, and the entire area was lit up.
Everyone snapped into firing stances and scanned frantically in the sudden exposure, but their panic was soon allayed. The area was clear, devoid of any signs of life. Just quarried rock, and a pre-war setup labelled as '1.'
"Shite!" Cait caught her breath, lowering her shotgun with lip curled up in anger. "The stupid bugger! There goes any element of surprise we 'ad!"
"Shadows, Clay. Shadows," Deacon emphasised.
"Raider!" Danse growled next through clenched teeth. "Don't rush ahead like that. That's a sure-fire way of getting yourself and everyone else killed."
Clay-Crawler took all that with serious remorse. "Sorry! Not mean to anger!" His face illustrated his distress in wide-eyed guilt—Danse had advised he go without the helmet to prevent blinding his allies, just as he had. "Not mean to anger The Dancer!"
Danse only gave a grumbled sigh in response before dropping his voice to Ilya beside him. "Is it really that necessary to bring him along?"
"Give him a chance," Ilya said with a careful tone, trying to keep things from turning sour.
"He had his chance for vengeance, and it ended with him getting 'sucker-punched,' as you'd say..."
Ilya was ready to grin purely at the sound of the words 'sucker-punched' coming from Danse's lips, but Hancock jumped in and shattered any chance she had of keeping the situation light.
"Aw, what's the matter, crew-cut? Feeling threatened now you're not the only one here in power armour?" The Ghoul intended to shoot that out on his drive-by, but Danse wheeled on him swiftly, stopping him in his stroll.
"The only one here that should feel threatened is you, freak."
Hancock advanced in, no doubt with a revving silver-tongue, but Ilya was quick to slip between them. "Boys, please. Can we keep this civil?" Their glares skimmed over her head to meet, but both said nothing. Ilya swore under her breath at their stubbornness. "Or at least not kill each other before we make it five steps in here?"
Danse was the first to relent. "Fine. I'll do my part to cooperate. But if I spot any signs of him turning feral, I won't hesitate to pull the trigger."
Hancock parried with a grating laugh. "Hold your breath while you're waiting. I see any signs of you turning asshole, consider the thought mutual." The glares made their comeback.
"Fuck sakes." Ilya shook her head and stomped off from the testosterone sandwich. She really didn't have the patience to be their mediator today. While everyone gathered their bearings and went about securing and inspecting the area, she honed in on the terminal propped up on a metal support beam. Explorer at heart, she activated it and raided its data.
Dunwich Borers
Quality Cuts for Quality People
Ilya scoffed at the peppy motto. Definitely pre-war. And those 'quality people' must have been the ones that hadn't been affected by falling salaries and poverty and civil strife. Just plaster over the problems with some spritely advertisements and false smiles and ignore the world's suffering underneath it all. That was the world she came from. God... she was musing too much.
"Oh god," MacCready moaned as he watched her, "You're going to stop and read every terminal in the place, aren't you?"
Ilya cast him a sideways grin. Always the impatient mercenary. "Snooping has its uses, you know?"
"Here, here," Deacon seconded.
MacCready grunted in annoyance, peering around for something to do while he waited. "Yeah, like slowing us down... and boring the heck outta me."
"Shush," Ilya said, still grinning. She tapped through the terminal's logs, not finding much of importance, until she came across some safety warnings left by the pre-war staff. Cautions about falling debris, and unstable railings. Great. No surprise, though.
She passed on the warnings to everyone.
"It might prove safer for you to take point across any railings then, Harper," Danse suggested, observing the ceiling of rock overhead with sharp eyes. "My power armour would likely shake everything loose if it's not properly secured. I'll take up the rear, just to be sure. I also suggest Strong and Clay-Crawler do the same."
Clay-Crawler was nodding to Danse, but Strong wasn't as quick to comply.
"Strong not like metal-man telling what to do."
"Strong," Ilya called firmly, "do as Danse says. Please."
The super mutant gave a low grumble, but acquiesced, though not before eyeing Danse with malice. Danse eyed him back, repulsion rolling off him, but he held his tongue.
Feathers were ruffled like all hell down here. Maybe it was a mistake letting Danse tag along...
With a troubled frown, Ilya turned back to the terminal, rifling through the remainder of the logs. Nothing else of use. Despite that, she didn't want to move out just yet, dwelling on all that weighed on her mind. But mainly just Danse...
As if reading her troubled mind, Deacon slinked up on her side, ever her shadow. "Look at all that rock," he mused in wonder at the display of incised earth around them.
Ilya afforded him a hum of acknowledgement as she watched Danse move ahead, his face grim, obviously now in a mood. She really couldn't care less about the rocks.
"Looks like quite an operation they had going here," Danse contributed to Deacon's musings. He was inspecting some of the pre-war machinery, eyes narrowed into the finer details of the mechanism.
"Nothin' says greed more than rippin' open the ground lookin' for goodies," Cait commented. Ilya couldn't agree more.
"Exactly my thoughts, Cait."
MacCready made a scoffing sound from across the way, where raiders had set up a campsite of sorts. "They should have been building a shelter instead of a quarry."
"The Brotherhood tried to run a quarry like this somewhere near the Capital Wasteland," Danse went on leisurely, and Ilya was surprised that he was even engaging in conversation with the others. "It was more trouble than it was worth," he added sorely.
"Huh, that so?" MacCready said with interest. "I never knew that. I grew up out in D.C," he explained for Danse's benefit. "Then again, I made a point of steering clear of anything to do with the Brotherhood."
And that was where the conversation flopped. Nice one, MacCready...
Deciding now was the best time to get moving, Ilya moved off from the terminal. But something made an odd click down by her feet. Frowning, she glanced down for the source. A weight scale. Shit.
Deacon was quicker to react, having already spied the grenade that was dropped from the trap above. "Ili, move!" He practically tackled her over, and they both crashed to the hard ground, Deacon covering Ilya beneath himself as the grenade fragmented and scattered everything at the station in a pocket-sized cloud of dust.
As everyone called for them in concern and rushed over, Deacon and Ilya were still climbing back on their feet, with Ilya rubbing the back of her head where she had whacked it against the cement, and Deacon rubbing his rear-end.
"Ow. Think something flew out and hit me on the ass," he complained, and Ilya saw his expression turn to shock behind his glasses before his hand came back bloody. "Aw, hell. Yeah, something got me, alright." He turned to present the wound to her. "See what it is?"
Despite the advent of the wound, Ilya couldn't restrain herself, coughing out a laugh. "Deacon, you have a pen in your ass."
"Huh," he uttered, as if impressed. "That's new."
Danse was less casual about the ordeal, eyeing the two, and then the weight scale culprit right beneath the terminal. Right there. In plain sight. Undisguised and for all to see and avoid. He looked back up to Ilya, and she cringed inwardly at what came next.
"Watch where you're stepping, damn it."
Scolded, Ilya ground her jaw as he stomped off and stood waiting for them to move out to the next area. He was right, that had been pretty slack on her part, but he didn't need to be such a dick about it.
Deacon yanked out the pen from his butt cheek and inspected it, then wiped off the blood, and slipped it into his jacket pocket. "Souvenir. For the survival story back at HQ."
Ilya sighed, patting Dogmeat to reassure him she was fine as she got moving. "Clay," she summoned, and the raider was all eyes and ears, eager to obey. "On me."
"Yes," he replied simply.
They moved through the area quietly, calmly, keeping a tight formation with eyes peeled for movement and ears pricked for giveaways to lurkers. Taking point, it was Ilya's responsibility to keep an eye out for traps, and raiders loved traps. How many times had Danse scolded her for tripping them and nearly getting them both blown to shreds? She had lost count. But he had triggered his fair share of mines, too, the hypocrite...
"Aha." Ilya held up a balled fist as she spied the next hidden trap just ahead. A bulky presence knocked into her back and nearly sent her sprawling into the trip-wire, but luckily she caught herself in time, spinning on Clay-Crawler. "Clay, the fuck?" she spat, shooting him a wild look as he gazed at her in confusion. "I said stop. This," she held up her fist to him, "this means stop. Fuck!"
He was beside himself. "Sorry! So sorry! Hurt you?"
"No," she sighed, hand pressing at her temple, making an effort to calm herself. "No. Just... watch where you're walking, okay?"
"Okay. Sorry!"
"I don't want to say I told you so, but..." Danse's voice tumbled out from somewhere in the darkness behind them.
Shut up, Danse.
Creeping toward the trip-wire, Ilya bit down on her tongue and concentrated on disabling the tricky mechanism. Her hands were shaking. She took a breath and exhaled slowly. Probably just tense from all the drama in the last five minutes... Trying to reassure herself with that, she swallowed, clenched her fists then flexed out her fingers, and tried again. This time, she worked the contraption with nimble fingers, having it disarmed in little time, and earning an impressed hum from either Deacon or MacCready back there somewhere. She couldn't discern.
The next zone, designated Station 2, was also clear of inhabitants. Ilya didn't like it. Raiders were usually eager for a fight, especially after losing their own. Fighting off a charging, enraged, grief-stricken raider was her main source of hand-to-hand practice and training. She had garnered the basics in her time in pre-war military training, but had gained her edge out in the Wasteland from pure experience.
She checked the Station 2 terminal, but the content was practically identical to the Station 1 terminal, save for a log thanking management for the new borer machine. She glanced over at it; it didn't look like much to her, just a metallic wreck stuck in the ground. Danse was inspecting it with interest, though. Typical man.
"It's quiet in here... too quiet..." MacCready suddenly came out with, before breaking out into giggles. "Oh man, I always wanted to say that."
"Feel fulfilled, now?" Deacon gibed.
MacCready thought for a moment, then nodded. "Yeah, I do actually."
"I think being underground again has gone to your head, pal."
"I gotta be honest with ya, I feel more comfortable with a rocky ceiling above my head," MacCready then disclosed in a more serious manner, a hint of nostalgia in his voice.
"You miss Little Lamplight much?" Ilya asked him gently as she moved away from the terminal. It was nice chatting like this, with the chance for everyone to get to know each other better. Especially Danse. Maybe if he actually took the time to listen and engage with them, he might find that he really didn't mind them all that much, after all. Then, maybe they could all cooperate and things could go more smoothly down here. She could only hope.
MacCready gave a shrug, kicking at a loose rock and watching it skip away. "Every now and then I get this pang, you know? Don't really know if it's out of missing Lamplight or just missing being underground." He gave a small laugh. "Would never head back there, though. Too afraid they'd chase me off calling me a mungo."
"A mungo?" Ilya mimicked with a curious smile. "What's that?"
"Just this term for adults the kids all came up with," he enlightened them, a little embarrassed by it and rubbing the back of his neck. "No grown-ups allowed," he quoted from old memories with a faraway grin.
Ilya skimmed eyes over at Danse and noted that he was listening, but his expression was blank, unreadable. He probably just wanted to get a move on.
"Ahh, to be a ratty little kid again," Deacon sighed wistfully, but nobody made any sounds of agreement. Ilya stole quick glances at everyone and knew that most had not had ideal childhoods, from Danse being an orphan scavenging the streets, to Cait's domestic abuse and neglect. She felt for them all in that moment as a hush swept over them. Well, they were with her, now, and as much as it was a dysfunctional family, she was going to try her damndest to make them all fit in together.
"Come on," she roused them with a flick of her chin, "let's keep moving." Just as she said that, the quarry roused with them, the rock trembling underfoot and groaning from its innards. Chips of rock clattered down from above, freeing shrouds of dust and gravel. Everyone stood exchanging chilled glances. Dogmeat gave a nervous whimper by Ilya's legs.
"Take it easy, guys. It's the norm when you're down this far," MacCready put them all at ease, brushing off stone from his duster.
Hancock was doing the same for his frock, then he angled a warning glare at Deacon. "You make one 'getting stoned' joke, and I'll do you in myself. I got no patience for lazy humour."
Deacon only raised his hands in surrender and choked off a guilty laugh.
They moved out by Ilya's lead, and the air carried less tension between them all now. Though Ilya knew that could change with a single poorly-thought-out comment from any one of them. The air was subtly growing denser and stale, and dropping in temperature, the cool drafts sneaking in through any cuts and slits in Ilya's vault suit to entice gooseflesh.
"Should have worn me woolly underwear," Cait shivered out. She was strapped up in a metal armour kit, which provided her little warmth.
They came to Station 3, where an expansive chasm yawned open and dropped down for maybe thirty metres. Rusted stair railings spiralled down along the outer rock walls, interspersed with chiselled-out ledges of stone where steel columns connected wirings for lights. Ilya approached the ledge and trained her handgun down into the darkness below, but couldn't pick out any details for the thickness of the dark.
Deacon was checking the terminal, while Danse was testing the stairway with the weight of his armoured boot.
"Appears to be stable," the paladin murmured, though his voice was edged in caution.
Ilya leaned her weight on it, then stepped up and got a look at the first stairway down. "Not too far down."
"Just be careful," Danse warned steadily.
"Maybe we should stay away from the ledge here. That'd be good." Deacon seemed uneasy as he leaned out to peek below, then quickly slipped back to a safe distance. MacCready gave him a slight shove and scared the shit out of him. "MacCready, I swear, if you do that again, I'll... I'll steal your hat and hide it in my pants."
"Honestly, this hat has been through far worse things than your pants."
"Ugh. Remind me never to touch that thing, then."
"Stay, Dogmeat." Ilya clutched at the railings and began her progress down the steps, careful of her boot placements.
"Don't slip," Hancock passed down out of concern.
She passed him back a thankful smile and continued, mindful of the slight creak that her weight was causing and the resulting vibrations of the stairway. She shifted her hand down the railing with each step, and became aware that it was shaking again, causing a minor wave of vertigo as she peered into the open space below. It seemed to stretch out as if to swallow her. She came to a halt and closed her eyes to block out the view. Strange. Heights had never been a problem for her before.
"Soldier?" Danse called down quietly.
Ilya opened her eyes, and for a brief flash, everything seemed to shrink before her and then expand, rushing back into place with a finishing snap. She jerked back involuntarily and caught her breath. Something was firing through her brain like hot adrenaline.
"Harper, what is it?" He was fretting now.
"Uh..." Ilya blinked rapidly to chase off the foreign sensation, both hands gripping the railings with a white-knuckled strength. "Dizzy," she sighed out, then shook her head. "Must be the height." She knew it wasn't. The trembling and sudden cold sweat under her vault suit spoke of something else, something that swelled through her blood with a mounting desire, a craving. It itched and it burned, niggled and tensed. She needed Jet. More.
"Just a few more steps to reach the ledge, then wait for me there," Danse instructed her firmly.
She shook her head in protest and took another step. "No, I'm fine. It's passed now."
"Wait for me there," he pressed, not having a bar of it.
She knew arguing with him would be futile, so she walked on without a word, reaching the ledge below and sidling up against the rock wall with a relieved breath. She concentrated on breathing while Danse worked his way down next. He was at her side before she knew it.
"Are you certain the height is all this is?" he questioned with a searching gaze, even through the darkness, eyes attempting to pick her apart piece by piece.
Did he suspect her? He was looking into her eyes so intensely, with a shade of knowing, and it was picking her apart. Ilya tussled for composure. He couldn't find out about the chems. Ever. It would dishonour him even further, to have the knight under his wing lose herself to such a pitiful impulsion, to let herself get in so grungy a state. That was all she was, a worthless piece of scum, no better than a raider. He would hate her even more for it. She would be nothing but filth to his eyes.
"Talk to me, Harper," Danse was trying, tilting his head in an attempt to catch her eye, which had dropped to the ground. She searched for words, seeing his hand twitch at his side as she lingered still, as if he was contemplating touching her.
With a labour that dragged on her, she lifted her gaze to meet his and stood firm. "I'll be okay. Took a few knocks to the head in the fight back there, guess it's messing with my balance a little."
His concerned aspect remained, and a ripple of suspicion travelled his brow, but he withdrew his proximity as the others made their way down to meet them. "I think it would be best if someone else takes the lead. You're obviously in no condition for combat, much less out on point. If it were up to me, you wouldn't even be down here."
She detected the disapproval in his voice, and nodded wordlessly, averting her gaze in shame. He was right. She wasn't in shape to be taking the lead, both on point or authoritatively.
There was a moment of quiet before he spoke again. "Would anyone like to volunteer?"
Boots shuffled.
"I got no problems steerin' the boat," Hancock spoke up. "That is, if the tin-can ain't got any objections."
Danse didn't have much choice. He gave the Ghoul a reluctant nod and stepped aside to allow him past. "Just don't step on anything hazardous, Hancock," he tossed over his shoulder, and Hancock didn't miss the condescension.
"You just worry about yourself, crew-cut."
Ilya only ground her molars and rolled her eyes at their ongoing dick-sword fight. She hung back as everyone fell back into single file and continued the descent, the heavier squad members waiting it out to take up the rear. As Deacon passed, he sent Ilya a questioning thumbs-up, which she returned with a nodding smile. Finally, it was just her and Danse.
"Come on," he coaxed her supportively, "I'm right behind you."
As she tackled the railings once again, with Danse at her back to keep her safe, Ilya actually allowed herself to think that maybe, just maybe, now that he was taking charge of this mission, things would work themselves out and they would be in and out of here without any more hitches.
Oh, how she was wrong.
-A lot of the dialogue in this chapter is from actual scripted lines from the game. I thought it would be appropriate to include them. Danse's "Watch where you're stepping, damn it," when I trip a mine, cripple both legs, and am limping away near-dead, always makes me feel special inside. Fuck you, Danse :P
-Anyone else remember being called a mungo by young Mayor MacCready in Fallout 3? Takes me back, lol.