A Rag-Tag Road-trip


Danse prided himself on his discipline, both interior and exterior. He liked to think that he had adequate control of himself, no matter the situations he found himself in. It came with being a good soldier. There was no such thing as a good soldier without discipline.

But the idiots he was now stuck with were currently wearing his discipline thin.

The three—spy, raider, and dog—meandered in a sloppy excuse of a formation while Danse took up drag to guard their vulnerable rear. Emphasis on the vulnerable. He was already exposed enough in his shoddy armour over his shirt and jeans, and the makeshift field repairs were barely holding it all together.

Had it simply slipped their minds that the Commonwealth was infested with not only raiders, mutants, and various forms of abominable wildlife, but Dark Blood patrols with a penchant to enslave or kill anyone they came across? Yet they continued to interact with each other in obnoxiously loud voices, giggling like little girls at pathetic comical jests while tossing about sticks and stones for Dogmeat to fetch and bring back.

Over, and over, and over again.

Did the game of fetch endlessly entertain the minds of the simple? Dogmeat, he could understand. But the other two... At least they did him the justice of distracting him from the absence of Ilya.

Danse grizzled under his breath, following their antics with a dark glare beneath the rim of his leather hood.

"Go long!" Deacon hollered at the absolute top of his lungs. A gnarled stick was retrieved from a sloppy jaw and then promptly hauled long, spinning on its axis through the air for the dog to chase in eager sport.

Danse cringed at the volume with which the spy had hollered. "Keep it down, both of you. This isn't a roadtrip for your leisure," he reproached them as discreetly as he was able, though he ladled a considerable amount of grit into his tone to compensate.

The two looked back at him, the raider with guilt, the spy with a smile. The smug pestilence.

"Relax," Deacon tossed back with an infuriating amount of calm. "The Railroad tourists had this route marked as safe-ish. Notice how we haven't bumped into any nasties yet? Yeah, you're welcome. I know all the dull routes in the 'Wealth." He tussled with Dogmeat for the stick back, then threw it again for the dog to bound after, grunting with the effort. "Besides, you're the combat specialist in our little army. We get into a fight, that's what we've got you for."

Little army? Danse shook his head. He was a part of no army that included untrained, undisciplined civilians or Wasteland scum out for blood sport without the decency of honour. He was going to the Rad Lands for Ilya, full stop.

Perhaps Deacon's intimate knowledge of the Commonwealth was advantageous, but he was still a right pain in the posterior. Once they shipped out to the Rad Lands, his navigational expertise would be irrelevant, anyhow. Danse supposed he shouldn't blame the raider, however. Clay-Crawler was barely sane enough to take responsibility for his stupidity. But the spy surprised him. A spy, of all people, should know the benefits of moving across the landscape in low profile, even if the routes were reported as docile. You never, ever, let your guard down.

While walking the dusted road detachedly with his laser rifle in hand, eyeing his companions ahead of him, Danse eventually came to the conclusion that at the end of the day, spy or not, Deacon was still just a civilian. The Railroad had no military background, as far as he was aware, meaning they were just an overhyped civilian organisation. Civilians didn't know the importance of duty, honour, protocol, and conduct. Therefore, they could not be trusted.

There's Brotherhood, then there's everything else. Nothing in between.

Perhaps the sly hoodwinker was trying to get under Danse's skin. Perhaps he wanted to witness a synth losing his sanity... Well, he wouldn't get to see that.

Because Danse prided himself on his discipline!

Deacon yabbered on as they walked. "Since we're a team, you think maybe we could use a code name? Red Orchard. Or... Code Violet. Ooh! The Death Bunnies. That'll confuse them."

Danse had no words. Unfortunately, Clay-Crawler did.

"Yes! Blood-bonded warriors must have name. Take place in battle stories. Gain rep. Spread much fear." He walked at the spy's side for a moment in silence. "Blood Warriors!"

Deacon hummed. "Nahh. Too predictable..."

"Blood Boys!"

Deacon snickered. "Too gangish."

"...Blood Dancers!"

This time Deacon groaned, matching the groan inside Danse's head. "Too... bloody. But I like what you did there with the reference to Danse. Ili might like that. We'll have to run this by her before we settle on anything."

Danse was forming a cramp in his jaw. Did his synth identity entitle his lost identity to a posthumous team name? Did they not realise that he was still within earshot behind them? He was nearing the end of his tether with these two insolent fools.

The raider rubbed at the back of his neck in ongoing thought. "Dancing Bloods?"

"Too similar to the Dark Bloods."

"Dancing Red Bloods?"

"Do you ever not think of blood?"

"Enough!"

Both snapped their heads around again at Danse's gravelled outburst. The raider skulked, but the spy just looked exasperated. Exasperated! He was exasperated? Danse felt his internal tether straining by a thread.

"I've had it with you two and your incessant idiocracy! This isn't a game! We are on the brink of war and will soon be inserting within enemy territory, where many soldiers are going to die regardless of our tactical choices! You act like this is just another heroic excursion to aid Preston's endlessly endangered settlements! Well, it's not. This is war. Good people will die. And Ilya will be dealing with the consequences of her choices, carrying each death on her shoulders! If you're really serious about following her into hell and supporting her leadership, then you need to start acting like it!"

Flames roiled from his pores with his tether snapped. As the two culprits stared, Danse felt ashamed that he had lost his discipline. Yet, it had felt so grand.

After a stunned silence, Deacon rounded fully to display his sincerity. A rare occurrence. "Just because we're not all doom and gloom like you, doesn't mean we don't get how dark things really are out there. Just look at Clay. He grew up in a constant warzone. Maybe clan skirmishes aren't all the same as all-out war, but he's still no stranger to war." Clay-Crawler nodded guiltily, as if afraid of siding against Danse in the bout. Deacon plopped a hand to his bony shoulder. "We all deal with things in our own ways."

"It sounds to me like you're in denial about it all," Danse countered. "Deluding yourself to keep from seeing the ugly reality of war."

"If it's a delusion to choose to see the light in the dark, then okay, I'm deluded." The spy's brows then lifted over his shades in suggestion. "You sure I'm the one that's deluding myself about reality, here?"

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Deacon shrugged elusively. "Just keep it in mind."

The twisting swine. Danse wasn't going to let him twist this around onto him. He was a machine, end of. There was no delusion in it. "You're psychological tricks won't work on me, Deacon. Now move out. We pick up the pace at an easy jog from here out. The Brotherhood won't wait while we dawdle."

The small band of travellers kept to the derelict roads as they made their way north-west to Sanctuary. It was an uneventful trek, despite Danse's surety that his companions would attract undesirables from every corner of the Commonwealth. They skirted the border of Malden's town centre to avoid any run-ins with the inhabitants, and to Danse's utter amazement, both the spy and raider managed to keep themselves quiet for that duration. The game of fetch had long-since ended, and Dogmeat had dropped back in formation to trot along at Danse's side. Danse found he didn't mind the canine taking up his flank. Though the way the dog darted from side to side, skimming his legs as he tried to anticipate Danse's choice of direction, vanishing into the underbrush only to pop out again later to frighten the living daylights out of him, was all getting on his nerves. He felt sure that if he were wearing power armour, Dogmeat would have been flattened underfoot long ago. Accidentally, of course.

As soon as they were clear of Malden, the spy and raider started off their pointless gibberish yet again. Something about popping caps in asses, whatever all that meant. Why would one want to pop off a bottlecap in someone's buttocks? Was it some type of sexual sadism or fetish? Ludicrous. Popping the cap of a nuka cola with a combat knife was perfectly simple. It all became white noise to Danse after a while, his ears tuning out their endless nonsense.

"Sometimes, I find myself wanting to exercise the use of that controversial Wasteland Justice," Danse confessed to Dogmeat in a low voice. The canine peered up at him as he kept in pace with a loping gait. "In the Brotherhood, murder had severe repercussions, most often with execution." Dogmeat just continued to listen as Danse rattled on, and he found an odd comfort in the quiet companionship. So he went on. "It all depended on the circumstances. Murder of another brother or sister was strictly prohibited, but murder of an outsider, such as a Wastelander or other form of lowly civilian, was a grey area. Grey areas bode conflicts of ideals, leading to the compromise of those ideals. Something the Brotherhood preferred to avoid in order to maintain strict law."

Danse took a peek downward and saw that Dogmeat's ears were still perked up in curiosity at the sound of his voice. Finally, someone he could discuss Brotherhood values with and not have to worry over a lack of interest or common ground. "So, I was taught that murder was generally forbidden... But I'm no longer bound by Brotherhood law..." At the hint of his desire to murder the spy and raider ahead, Dogmeat only panted up at him. "You wouldn't mind if I took the law into my own hands, would you, Dogmeat?" Danse asked rhetorically. The dog didn't look like he would mind. In fact, he appeared completely apathetic. "Good dog. I'm pleased we're on the same page."

The daylight soon began to yield to the first glimpse of dusk, clouds painting the sky in sunset hues where streaming clouds licked the horizon. Danse lifted the rim of his tattered hood with a finger to get a clearer view and appreciate the beauty of it. His mind went straight to Ilya at the reminder, pinching at his longing for her to be at his side, to share the sight with her. It was the first time since enduring her departure that he had allowed the hole she left in him to yawn open and loom beneath his feet.

He stopped in the middle of the road and clutched his rifle to his chest in a conscious effort, as if it could somehow comfort him from the sudden hollowness in his gut. The cold grasp of the bunker followed his footsteps on the road he had travelled, gripping him from behind without warning. He had thought it would be easy to leave behind, to just walk away from his sanctum from the outside world, step back into the harsh reality, and take each punch of pain with dignity. He was kidding himself.

The wastes suddenly closed in around him with carnivorous teeth, every corner harbouring a danger, every crevice and shadow housing a possible threat, every crumbling building occupied by a sniper, every skyline breached by the telltale thrum of an incoming vertibird to hunt him down and pronounce him an abomination.

His eyes scanned and his rifle cried to be propped against his shoulder, to reinforce his scans with the backup of a loaded barrel. He was standing out in the open, vulnerable, with only a pull-on hood to conceal his synth identity. Eyes could be watching him, hateful eyes that would kill a synth based on principle alone. Like he once would have... no, like he still would. Would he? Just because he was one of them, didn't make their existence any less wrong.

"You're the physical embodiment of what we hate most."

Danse could see them now, his brothers and sisters, pouring in from all directions, rifles and glares trained in on the synth traitor. An ambush. Just like the super mutants had ambushed his squad in the hive. He would drop to his knees, wasted, just like Cutler had. He would beg them to kill him. Just like Cutler had.

The harsh reality began to recede, replaced by the sharp snap of cruel memory, where all of his demons huddled in one mass. It was like a disembodied fall into a dark, writhing pit. He saw Cutler. He saw himself. He was back there, in the hive, with Cutler. No! Cutler! He couldn't pull the trigger! He couldn't do it! Yet he knew he would! Cutler!

"Hey—" A hand was placed on his shoulder.

Danse's sharp reflexes sparked into defence, shrugging off the foreign hand to then raise his rifle aloft on the owner. He saw red and adrenaline buzzed like a swarm of stingwings in his head.

"Whoa, whoa! Danse, pal, chill! It's just me, Deacon."

It took a solid moment for that to register. Danse blinked and breathed, hovering his glow-sights on the spy's creased forehead for a prolonged second before dropping his aim. The young raider was standing back with his hands raised as if under threat of being shot, too. Fear was intent on his boyish face, broken only by his sporadic scars. Frowning in an odd fusion of guilt and annoyance, Danse chafed. "Don't sneak up on me like that. Do you want to get a laser to the face?"

The moment the snappy words left his mouth, Danse regretted them as a look of concern flashed beneath Deacon's sunglasses, rather than a snide comment in response. "Sneak up on you? I was asking you what you saw that whole time, but it was like you couldn't even hear me."

Impossible, Danse frowned inwardly. His situational awareness was as sharp as ever, even if his malfunctions had briefly taken hold of his focus. Deacon was just attempting a psychological ploy to drive him to insanity.

"You spot someone tailing us?" Deacon pressed in continued concern.

"No..." Danse fought the urge to rub the back of his neck. "I just, uh..."

The look of concern intensified, unnerving Danse. "You feeling alright? You look a little pale."

"I'm fine." He noticed that even the raider was observing in concern.

Deacon propped his hands to his hips, as if to placate him with a casual stance. "Look, Ilya told me you've had it rough lately. Don't worry, she didn't give me much details, just that you're under some stress. If you need to take a moment to recharge, it's no problem. We can stand watch."

The very suggestion was an insult. Disgruntled, Danse twisted his lip at the spy. "My mental state is none of your concern. We keep moving." With that said, Danse moved past him and took up point, not even bothering to beckon them onward.

He needed to get a grip on himself. He was a grown man. While he was a little piqued that Ilya had undermined him by mentioning his stress to Deacon, he understood her reasoning was simply to aid him. Still, he didn't need Ilya holding his hand through every flashback and hardship. She had enough hardships of her own.

Less than a day apart, and he missed her like hell. He fervently hoped that she was going easy on Arthur, and that he was going easy on her in return. Above all, he hoped like hell that she was safe in the Brotherhood's hands.


Ilya's arm ached under the crunching grip of Groves' armoured hand. She was dragged from Maxson's quarters in a humiliating display, like a rebellious girl hauled off to the naughty corner, and contrary to the elder's order, Groves deviated from the infirmary and instead took the steps down to the rec area underdeck. Ilya was shoved mercilessly against the nearest support column.

"Don't you ever harm Maxson again. Now you listen good, you conniving little bitch," Groves began with a fatal tone, leering down on Ilya from the height of her power armour. Her ice-blonde hair was pulled so taut in a topknot that it gave her a brittle facelift. "You may have Maxson wrapped around your little finger, but not me. I see you. You think you're someone special? Some big bad bitch with an army at your beck and call? Wise up." The woman lowered in on Ilya until she was invading her breathing space. "You're nothing but a bump in the road to the Brotherhood. Just another piece of scum with overreaching ambitions and shallow delusions of power. Your Minutemen are pathetic, I've seen squires with more mettle. You have no place here, and no respect next to Elder Maxson's legacy. You're his tool, not his equal, understand?"

Despite herself and the turbulence in her blood, Ilya felt small under the star paladin's pinning gaze. She grappled for a shred of fortitude, even if it was feigned. "Go fuck yourself. Better yet, go fuck Maxson. That's all you seem to be good for with your perfectly polished armour."

That earned her a nasty eye-twitch, before a metal forearm was shoved against her throat, compressing her airway. Ilya winced but refused to struggle. "Hit a nerve?" she managed to cough out, "Worried he keeps you close just because a tall blonde at his side makes him look good?"

"I know my worth," Groves responded coolly. "But you? Projecting, perhaps?" the woman then suggested in a voice just as sweet as Ilya's had been, twisting her angle. "Worried the elder is keeping you close merely as a pretty trophy for his own amusement? It's not for your diplomatic worth, you can be certain of that. Perhaps you're the one that's only good for a piece of ass to fuck when he tires of your entertainment value. Ever consider that, princess?"

The way she blended haughty vocabulary with crude bites gave a new shape to the paladin—royal bitch. Ilya maintained her fortitude, if only to aggravate the woman and preserve as much pride as she could manage. Which wasn't much. "I'm flattered you think my ass is good enough to catch the mighty Maxson's eye. But I'll pass, you're not my type. Or are you just jealous that he doesn't have eyes for you?"

Groves clamped a metal hand over Ilya's mouth and then shoved her head back into the steel column, muffling the cry that pushed through her compressed throat. The pain knifed through her skull, conjuring a flare of incomprehensible colours over her vision. Groves then pressed harder against her throat, watching in silence until Ilya finally began to struggle for air.

"Your provocations are pointless. If I ever see you so much as touch him again, I'll see to it that whatever is left of you won't even be useful for whoring."

Stars pocked Ilya's vision as her lungs were denied air, and it dragged on for a barbaric moment until she heard the words whispered close to her ear canal.

"Did you really kill Danse? I have this strange feeling that he's still out there somewhere, infesting the Wastes like a disease. I just can't seem to shake it... Isn't that strange?"

Then Ilya was released and found herself crashing to the deck on all fours, gulping up air to feed her lungs. She barely had time to recover before Groves tugged her up by the arm again and marched her back up the steps toward the infirmary. Her mind was a ferment of panic over Danse's cover as she was pushed at one of the medical cots and gruffly told to sit. She sat.

The exchange between Groves and Cade was muted as her head swam in a sea of questions. Did Groves know? What if she had followed her from the Prydwen to the bunker? Had Maxson had her tailed? Was that how he had found her and Danse? But if Groves was in on Maxson's secret, why not just outright threaten Ilya with it? It would be so easy for the star paladin to keep her in line with the threat of revealing Danse to dangle over her. Maybe she was under Maxson's orders to keep Ilya from knowing that she was in on it. It would prevent Ilya from using it as leverage against her in return.

Ilya cringed as her brains scrambled with the power play. Fuck. What was she doing? She just waltz onto a warship and suckerpunched an elder of the Brotherhood of Steel. What the fuck was she doing? She really was insane. Why was she even here? She wasn't a general, a double agent for the Railroad, or some saviour of synths and slaves. She was just a fucking soldier, a grunt on the ground trained to kill and only kill.

Knight Captain Cade was staring at her at point-blank range. He was riddled in concern. "Harper? Are you feeling alright?"

"...Yeah..." The words came out blandly.

"You've been gone for over a week. I can see you have a few bumps and bruises from your excursions out there." He gestured with a gentle finger at the swelling and throbbing she felt around her neck, no doubt a developing bruise from Grove's chokehold, and then the red band of skin around her upper arm beneath her t-shirt sleeve, where Groves had dragged her by. That would also form a decorative bruise. The queen bitch.

Cade gave a placating smile as she rubbed at the pain around her throat. "I'm just going to give you a quick check-up, see to it that you haven't picked up any infections or doses of radiation, generally just to make sure you're in a healthy state for service. Just standard procedure. Nothing invasive, don't worry."

His conciliatory tone helped to ease the burst of panic in Ilya's chest over Danse's safety, enough that she could clearly take stock of her surroundings, and notice that Groves was gone. A breath left the constriction in her chest, and she felt her shoulders give way a little. Eventually, she nodded to the doctor. "Go ahead."

Cade's eyes shone with sympathy throughout his examinations, but Ilya shied from eye contact. She knew he was itching to ask how she was coping with Danse's 'betrayal' and death, more specifically his assassination by her hand. It felt wrong keeping up her jaded assassin guise to Cade, but it was too risky to confide in him, even if he was the most sympathetic soul aboard the warship.

If she did confide in him that Danse hadn't been an Institute spy, would be even believe her? It had been hard enough for Maxson to believe it, and even after accepting the truth, he still wanted Danse dead on pure principle. But, if by some chance, Cade did take her word for it, would he then disapprove of Maxson's handling of the situation? If so, then how many others in the ranks might also disapprove? She doubted they would openly talk about it, though, as any sniff of betrayal to Brotherhood ideals that Maxson picked up on would result in exile. Their ideals were paramount to their end goal.

When Cade was done, he sent her an uplifting smile, which finally caught her eye contact. "You have a mild concussion, it seems. Nothing disconcerting, but if you find yourself with a stubborn headache that lasts several days, be sure to check back." He waited for her to acknowledge this with a faint nod. "You're cleared for active duty, Harper. Not that I was too concerned, mind you. You know how to take care of yourself out there in the Wastes."

Danse taught me well, she wanted to say. There was a glint of mournful knowing in his kind eyes that suggested he wanted to say those very words too, but obviously didn't know how she would take it.

On a fleeting whim, she considered asking him about Danse's PTSD diagnosis. Maybe it could help prove to them that he wasn't simply just a machine, but an emotionally complex being just like any other human. But the fleeting whim went as fast as it came. They would probably just pass it off as an Institute tactic to fool them into thinking he was human.

She had to accept it. Danse no longer belonged with the Brotherhood. Maybe one day he would accept it too.

Ilya parted the infirmary in a dismal vacuum, her steps lethargic as she made her way down the corridor toward the mess hall. Or maybe it was just the concussion Groves had applied to the base of her skull. The soft chatter colouring the air suddenly fell into dull murmurs. She swallowed and pushed into the unwelcome air, keeping her eyes low, feeling a foreign parasite in a hornet's nest. The crew made way for her, some staring brazenly, others making an effort not to out of respect.

Maxson may have saved the Brotherhood another civil war, but there was still a silent civil unrest sweeping through the populace, and Ilya's every footstep resonated with it.

The waft of food made her stomach shiver with aversion, but she knew she would need to eat to keep her mind sharp—a sharp mind was a necessity when dealing with Maxson. She grabbed her rations from the mess officer, who managed a lanky smile as a parting gift, and then she meandered over to an empty table and lowered into a seat, sighing heavily.

Force-feeding her resistant mouth took a considerable time, along with absently puddling with the slop on her tray, and trying to ignore the fact that everyone's eyes were drawn to her. She recalled Danse telling her that this particular dish was called 'shitty mess,' and then suppressed a grin at the memory of his awkwardness at simply having to swear, like it was beneath him. Such a stiff neck. A lovable stiff neck.

It felt so wrong, alien, being back aboard the Prydwen without him. Being amongst his people without him.

She missed him like hell.

"I understand how you must be feeling, sister. Danse betrayed us all."

Ilya shot a look up at the source. Knight Lynch, the young woman that had been part of Danse's Rad Land squad, and who had aided Ilya in rescuing him from an angry horde of raiders. Teetering in a place between shock and outrage, Ilya only stared up at her.

Lynch seemed to translate her silence as instability. Her mocha features sagged in condolence. "Still, it can't have been an easy order to follow. I wasn't nearly as close with him as you were, but he was still my squad leader and I respected him greatly. Had I been in your place, I'm not so sure I would have been able to do the right thing and pull the trigger. Synths have a way of making their emotions seem so real. But you beat the Institute at their own disgusting game."

Again, Ilya just stared. Do the right thing and pull the trigger. The words droned on like a broken record in her head.

Lynch waited for a response, but when it was clear she was left hanging, she nodded in pity again. "I'm sorry. You must be exhausted from travel. I'll let you eat in peace. But if you need an ear, I won't be far away." The smile she offered seemed genuine, and for a moment, her hand hovered out as if she were about to place it on Ilya's shoulder, but checked the motion immediately. "And I'm not just saying that out of courtesy."

Ilya managed a thankful flicker of her lips that was passable as a smile, and then went back to puddling with her nutritional paste as Lynch left her alone. Time passed slowly as she spooned down as much as she could, and when she finished and tended to her Pip-Boy, she was shocked to see she had been sitting there for over two hours, digesting her food and her situation numbly.

Not long after she had pushed away her empty tray, Groves stomped into the mess with a sour face, which wasn't stray from her usual resting face. The woman would actually be quite attractive if she cared to hold herself more pleasantly. With an unsavoury tone, Ilya was told to follow her up-deck to the crew quarters, where bunks were lined in rows against the railings bordering the open platform.

Ilya had always hated sleeping out in an open space where a passing soldier on deck patrol would disturb her sleep on a constant basis. Even in the pre-war military, her platoon had been spared quarters with actual walls, in some form or another, even if they were just drab tents with rips and tears.

But she had learned quickly that in the Brotherhood, if one didn't adapt fast to crude conditions, one either went insane, or got dead, fast. This military didn't waste time and resources making things look pretty. She could respect that. It bore the harsh realism of the Wasteland. Plus, practically living in the laps of fellow soldiers with no sense of privacy only strengthened the bonds of brotherhood, or sisterhood.

"This bunk is yours. You can stow your gear in the footlocker there. You're to confine your leisure activities to this deck for the remainder of the night. Waste bucket is behind the cargo crates over there. If you're on rotation to empty the bucket, or if you need medical attention, ask the patrol officer or the sentry to be escorted out. Report to your bunk at lights-out. At 0600 tomorrow morning, report to me in the maintenance bay for your duty schedule. Goodnight." With that pleasantry done and dusted in an officious manner, Star Paladin Groves performed a rigid chest salute, then rotated in her power armour and strode back down the stairway for the deck below.

Ilya blinked owlishly in her wake, and then shook her head with an eye roll. Surveying her new bunk buddies as they loitered in their off-duty time, most of them were eyeing her with either disdain, or pity. She hated both receptions.

Dazed in a tonic of pain, panic, anger, and loneliness, Ilya ambled over to her assigned bunk, dumped her travel pack and holstered weapons, rolled across the mattress, and curled into a fetal ball.

A chain fell free from the collar of her t-shirt, and her hands grasped at it in remembrance. Danse's holotags. It was risky to wear them in Brotherhood company, but fuck them. Even a jaded assassin could mourn the friend she killed, traitor or not.

She brushed her thumb over the tags. Feeling their comforting weight around her neck gave her a small piece of Danse to carry with her. Enclosing the tags in her fist, Ilya placed them securely to her heart and curled in on them, gathering her knees. She just hoped he would be able to reach her before they went to war.


It was nightfall by the time the rag-tag band of travellers reached Sanctuary. The growing settlement effused the warm glow of life to push away the dark, and the low hum of distant voices and gatherings gave a welcoming ambience that seemed to stretch out and beckon them in.

It had been a long time since Danse had come here. The last time he was here was to escort Ilya home after she went rogue, and then help plan the heist on the Prydwen to retrieve Clay-Crawler. To think back on how troubled he had felt to deceive the Brotherhood, it all seemed trivial now.

He glanced over at the small raider to his side, who was gawking ahead at the glowing settlement with open-mouthed wonder. He supposed Sanctuary was the nearest thing the raider had to a home now. Then, with an unexpected pang of sentimentality, he realised that it was also the nearest thing he had to a home now. The notion brought a frown to his brow.

Nevertheless, it felt wrong to be here without Ilya. These were her people, not his. He just didn't fit in among these civilians, in their lifestyle of... meaningless tedium. What would their legacy be, crop yield and offspring who inherited furthermore crop yield? Where was the ambition, the purpose?

Danse stopped on the weathered bridge over the brook of water that cradled the settlement, gazing listlessly while Deacon and Clay-Crawler wandered ahead. Every bone in him ached to turn on his heel and romp back the way he had come at a lightning pace, eating up land in order to get back to Ilya. Not just for his sake of alienation and loneliness, but for her safety.

He couldn't shake the feeling that she was out of her depth. Or even in a hostile environment. He knew she was aptly capable of looking after herself, but looking after her fiery temper was another story altogether... Tensions would undoubtedly be running high within the Brotherhood right now, and Ilya could very well be the crucible to civil war if she didn't control herself. Arthur would have his hands full, Danse imagined with a twinge of pity for his estranged brother.

Even so, if the elder even laid a hand on her, Danse would not hesitate to break his oath of loyalty. Brother or not.

"Yo, Big D?" Deacon called back from the other side of the rickety bridge. Danse peered in his direction with a bewildered brow.

Big D?

"You coming or what?"

Shaking his head, Danse said nothing and just walked over the remainder of the bridge into Sanctuary's border. The other two fell into step at his flanks, with Dogmeat trotting on ahead of them, eager to be back home and greet his extended pack. But Danse stopped again within a few steps.

His bewildered brow returned. "...Why are there packets of Dandy Boy Apples hanging off Sanctuary's entrance sign?"

Deacon gave off a slight guilty chuckle in apparent remembrance. "Oh yeah, that. Codsworth's idea. It was back when you and Ili had that fight and parted ways before the raid on Dunwich. He thought they might lure you back to us." At the unimpressed look on Danse's face, Deacon smiled sweetly and shrugged. "Hey it was his idea."

The centre of Sanctuary's roundabout was inhabited by a calm mass of settlers, traders, Minutemen, and those of what had become known as 'the crew.'

Not the Death Bunnies, Blood Boys, or Blood Dancers.

All were gathered around a large campfire beside the central tree that reached up and splayed overhead like an ancient guardian. Makeshift bars and snack stalls tended to the thirsty and peckish, while sturdy picnic seats or lounge chairs served as refuge for the weary and resting. Some huddled down in the sparse grass near the glowing embers, wrapped in bundles of soft leather or fabric blankets, while some stood in remote circles to socialise, drinks or cigarettes in hand. It was a cosy, tranquil atmosphere to ward off cold notions of loneliness.

Dogmeat released a joyous bark, and that was it. All turned toward the four and greeted them in a wave of clashing voices and calls.

Deacon called back. Clay-Crawler grinned from ear to ear. Danse grumbled.

It wasn't long before they were ushered over to the generous campfire, given bottles of purified water, offered various forms of snacks, and exchanging rudimentary pleasantries that Danse found himself flowing through with relative ease, despite himself. Holding the rank of paladin for so many years had conditioned him to cope with these types of communal situations. Ilya called it being social. He called it negotiating with natives and engaging in small-talk for the sake of political relations.

But he was no longer representing the Brotherhood...

"So," Hancock deviated from the pleasantries with the rousing word, pulling on his cigarette before going on, "not that it's not nice and all to see you gentlemen back with all your bits and pieces still attached, but aren't you missing someone?"

Danse stomached the Ghoul's proximity, but wished he wouldn't exhale his tainted smoke in his particular direction. "She reported straight to the Prydwen. There was an... incident that had us out in the field for over a week. She and Elder Maxson had immediate business to attend to, so I came here in her place." It wasn't exactly a lie, it was the truth, just excluding a few details.

He caught the angle of Deacon's sunglasses and tore his gaze of them quickly. He just wasn't prepared to divulge these people of his revealed identity. Not yet. Perhaps not ever. Why did they need to know that he was really a machine? It could potentially alienate them. Make them liable to distrust him even further. Wastelanders vilified synths. Everyone vilified synths. They didn't need his presence unnerving them. He didn't need their fear and hatred unnerving him. He just wasn't ready.

Hancock's coal eyes were scrutinizing him brashly, decayed fingers casually lifting his cigarette for thoughtful drags. So Danse met his brash scrutiny head-on, gridlocking eyes. He wouldn't squirm under the gaze of a Ghoul.

Piper picked up on the taut byplay. "Our little Blue's a busy girl, huh?" she attempted to lighten the mood with her buoyant charisma. "All grown up and taking on the world. Those raiders better watch themselves. Especially with us on her side. Am I right?"

That called for everyone to agree in some form or another, and did the trick of healing the open tension between Danse and Hancock. Drinks were awkwardly sipped or gulped in the sudden lull. Danse had to hand it to Piper, she knew how to play a crowd to her liking. Came with being a reporter, he supposed.

Nick, the ghastly looking synth that always gave Danse the creeps, was the first to break the silence. "Well, if we wanna muscle in on this campaign of hers, then we all better get a good night's sleep, I think. We have a long road-trip ahead of us in the morning."

In the morning? Danse shifted his weight with unease, civil calm masking a shot of anger. "We don't have the luxury of time," he told the synth, whose neon gold eyes turned on him sharply. "If we want to ensure we reach the Castle before the Brotherhood deploys, we need to set off tonight. As soon as possible, in fact."

There were blinks and exchanged looks.

Danse's blood pressure spiked. "Please tell me you've all packed your field kits..."

"Uh, define field kit," MacCready, the scrawny mercenary, spoke up. "I don't wanna be lugging around as much crap as Ilya does on a daily basis."

Danse took that as a no. "I'm talking survival essentials, food rations, medical basics, munitions and combat skins. How many times do I have to stress this to you civilians? This isn't a road-trip to la-la land. We're going to war. And we don't have time to waste. We need to double-time it or we'll be left behind." Not waiting for their complaints, he began to pace off in the direction of the barracks the Minutemen had set up, intent on packing for them if they couldn't do it themselves. "Time is of the essence, soldiers! Now move! Do you really want Ilya to be out there alone because you were all too incompetent to get yourselves organised?"

Over his loud stomps on the concrete path, he heard Deacon give a not-quiet-enough, "I'll handle this."

Handle this? They were the ones that needed handling, not him! At the sound of footsteps giving chase on his six, Danse picked up his stomping pace toward the wooden barracks built upon one of the town's residential lots.

"Um, Danse?" Deacon tried. Danse ignored. "Danse, pal. Listen." The spy was at his side now, keeping pace in an odd hobbling skip. "Listen. Look. Listen." Which was it, listen or look? "Uh, so, not all of us are super fit soldiers like you, you know? Working a growing settlement isn't as easy as you might think, and we don't just hang around here to keep up to date with Ilya and help out if she needs us. We pull our own weight here. Scavenging, hunting, patrolling, Minutemen rescues, construction, tending the crops. That kinda stuff."

Danse breached the barracks and stomped right over to the requisitions area, selecting appropriate duffel bags and travel packs for each member of the expedition.

Deacon hovered around like a foul smell. "They'll be tired after a day's work. And the Castle is a long, looong way away. Don't you think we'll make better speed if everyone's well rested? And Preston took a bullet a few weeks ago, remember. Now he has an actual excuse not to help out when another settlement needs help."

"If he's going to be a liability, then he should stay behind."

"You're kidding me, right? If we leave him behind he'll be radioing us non-stop telling us how we need to get back and help such-and-such settlements from a horde of cute but deadly laser-shooting bunnies."

"...What is it with you and your fascination with bunnies?"

"Dunno. I should probably get that checked out sometime, huh."

To that, Danse just lifted a brow as he sorted through the munitions stockade.

"Look. All I'm asking is that we wait until morning to move out. It'll be safer in the daylight, too, despite myself. I'll deal with the exposure. And speaking of myself, I'm not as... well I'm not a spring chicken anymore, okay? Things aren't as limber as they used to be, and I get tired sometimes. I walked all the way from here to your bunker, and then back again, and I'm pooped. Clay must be too."

"Well then perhaps you should consider retiring."

It still didn't shut him up. He clicked his tongue loudly in retort. "Alright, I'll give you that one for free. But come on, Danse. What's the huge rush? A military deployment of this scale isn't something to be rushed, and Maxson's no noodle-head... Actually, let me rephrase that. He's a noodle-head, but he knows how to handle war. He'll give Ilya the time she needs to brief her men and get them ready."

"You don't know Maxson," Danse challenged grimly, not ceasing his preparations. "He won't cut corners with deployment procedures, but he's aggressively proactive. The moment Ilya set foot on the Prydwen, he would have set things in motion. She'll be lucky if she gets a single day to prepare her forces. And as far as Maxson was concerned, the Minutemen reserves were only a token force to support co-operative relations. He never intended to insert them in the field."

Deacon's frown framed his opaque sunglasses in the dark of the barracks. "She's a smart cookie. She'll stall long enough for us to catch up. Don't worry." When he went to pat Danse on the shoulder, Danse flinched and stiffened at the unexpected contact. A small grin tugged on Deacon's lips. "Just relax. We're no good to her if we all show up half-dead and high on stims."

In the back of his mind, Danse knew that Deacon had valid points. He had many things to prepare himself before setting out again, like getting a new armour set fitted, not to mention a helmet to conceal his identity, and requisitioning a new arsenal for various combat scenarios. And while it pained him to admit it to himself, he was tired from the day's travel. These hopeless civilians needed him at his best in order to safely lead them across the Commonwealth.

The spy was right, and Danse loathed him for it.

With a laboured sigh, he surrendered and issued a bleak nod. "Alright, you've made your point, Deacon. We rest for the night. But at precisely 0600 tomorrow morning, we hustle our preparations and then move out at break-neck speed. Absolutely no delays. Yes?"

"Yes, sir!" Deacon had the audacity to chime, clobbering his chest in a lousy excuse for a Brotherhood salute.

Danse watched as the source of his headache sauntered out of the barracks, and then shook his head.

It was going to be a long night.


A/N: Sorry for another long wait, I finally had a weekend off work so I knuckled down. Just Danse being a grouch mostly. And no, I can't take credit for the bad comic relief with Deacon. The Death Bunnies was all him, he only has himself to blame for that one. (It was one of his many quirky in-game lines, lol)