CHAPTER 27
The Haven Corp.
The Vertibird had been flying for almost four hours- and it was a rather drab, uneventful travel that saw all six men inside dreadfully bored and silent.
Laslar had never been a talker- in fact, he kind of detested talking- it made him feel like he was wasting time. Because at the end of the day, Laslar saw all those things, those little, little things that such talks would revolve around as wastes of time.
Pleasantries, idle banter, social debates? He'd rather have a gathering at the M-100's command center every day than deal with those things with his own soldiers.
This was why so many men that were put in Laslar's unit without their volunteering would immediately sign up for transfer- and why so many others that were in other, more action-seeing units than their sleepy neighbor squads would sign up to complete said transfers.
Laslar frightened a lot of his comrades- and he didn't really have the attention span to anything he deemed non-important, to give two shits either way. These men's lives were just another form of ammunition for him- and ammunition was meant to be expended for all the right reasons.
He attracted all kinds of whack jobs and repelled all the weaklings- Laslar's squad was, after all- the progenitor for tens of the Enclave's most experienced soldiers.
There were eight officers currently in varying positions throughout the command staff that had spent their years as infantrymen in Laslar's squad- and Luft had transferred back after he ascended to the rank of Sergeant.
He and Luft had been in the same squad for years- and while Laslar would never take their coworker relationship into any farther description than status of tolerance- he certainly could not doubt that he and Luft were good at what they did when they worked together.
He mulled on it, and he glanced across the bay- saw Luft idling in his restraints, thinking about nothing and just waiting like he was.
The flight between operation theatres was always long, arduous and unnervingly quiet- and since Laslar had done it more than just a handful of times to understand that, he could accurately summarize that he wasn't the only soldier in the Enclave who had had their emotions completely sucked away.
Of course his emotions were dead for a LONGER time, albeit for completely different reasons- but the idea of anything more than an occasional stereotypical question of- 'Are we there yet?'- rebounding throughout the troop hold was just... Alien.
Sometimes Laslar wondered how the Brotherhood was when its soldiers were in transport- he wondered if there were actual friendships, or forms of kinship that made members of their ranks talk differently than in the Enclave.
He knew the general answer was yes- seeing as the Brotherhood were open to recruitment from the outside, and they didn't consider wastelanders the subhuman animals that the Enclave ranks did- but in a specific, deeper stance, Laslar had a weird little curiosity to what Botherhood members talked about during their free time.
They practically lived in their Power Armor suits- at least, the East Chapter under Mannesk did- but for all the 'Society'- that the Brotherhood claimed to sport, it was awfully hard for someone on the outside to see it.
And it was designed to be secretive- so, your average joe' couldn't figure out the simplest of activities rebounding in Brotherhood territory unless they were a part of it- but, Laslar was different- he'd infiltrated Brotherhood facilities, he'd KILLED more Brotherhood than he could keep track of.
Laslar had apprehended important data on both the Mideast and Eastern Chapters- and because of him, he and Eden knew where every single city in the northeast United States under Brotherhood control was, and they also knew about recruitment techniques practiced in the Citadel.
He was the Enclave's best agent on dealing with the varied factions of the Brotherhood- he'd done battle successfully with the Mideast, Eastern, Texan, AND Western Chapters- but with all that, he still knew so little of them in comparison.
The Western Chapter was almost non-existent nowadays- most of its strength had been funneled into the Mideast Chapter, and they might as well have been a separate entity in America. The formation of the army that would become the Texan Brotherhood also depleted the West's ranks, and that totaled for a mysterious and small group.
There were rumors that the Western Chapter had been disbanded- and that the survivors were simply absorbed by the Mideast Chapter- but, Laslar had his doubts. They were stubborn, even with their own kind- it was what held the Brotherhood back, their human nature, and their misinterpreted execution of morality.
After all, the way Laslar saw it- was that if someone was preventing you from attaining what was needed, a Plasma gun was a better solution- and for awhile the Brotherhood thought that too, but the following defeats at the hands of the NCR and the Master's Army showed that they did it ineffectively.
-So that was Laslar's argument. The Brotherhood just wasn't GOOD at being BAD, and, if one were to confront him for an answer to- 'How does one master being bad?'- he would probably respond with a laugh, and say- 'Figure it out.'
-As was the broiling storm of hate that boiled in his skull every day of his life.
Laslar hated pretty much everything. Even officers of the Enclave regretted him being in power- and that was saying a lot.
"Are you thinking again?" Luft chuckled at him from across the bay- it was a noise so disturbing in its nature, that it rattled away the pervasive silence all at once. "Bad things happen when you think, sir."
Laslar didn't immediately respond- he focused his eyes on the Sergeant and rolled his jaw.
"Where were you born, again?" He asked out of the blue.
Luft blinked, and shifted around.
"The Capital Rig, remember?"
"How long did you live there?"
"Ten years...? This is relevant?"
"Very. Ten years you say? You have a living facade?"
"Was lucky enough to."
"Did you have a father?"
"Yes."
"Did you have a mother?"
"...Yes?"
"Did you LOVE them?"
"..."
"Can you remember her face?"
"Who?"
"Your mother's."
"...No."
"-Ah, see that? Bad things happen when anyone thinks."
"...Mmhm, yeah... Sure."
"...What about your bootcamp campaign? Where was it?"
"The Capital Rig."
"How many times did you fail?"
"Too many times."
"Do you remember the worst of them? How they felt?"
"Yeah."
"Do you remember the feeling you had when the commissar handed you your infantry designation and tag number? And when the commentators clapped? When they APPLAUDED your successfully mounted struggle?"
"...Yeah."
"See that? Good things happen when you think, too."
"..."
Having theoretically slapped his comrade in the face- Laslar watched him sulk for a minute before angling his head over his left pauldron to gaze at the pilot's compartment- and the dark, bubble-like spaces where the two operators sat silently.
"Where are we?" He part called, and part used his communication uplink to reach them.
"Baltimore city airspace, sir," The pilot said. "No life signature's detected, skies clear."
"The usual. "
"Radiation levels spiking- welcome to Pennsylvania."
While Laslar and his squad couldn't see from inside the Vertibird- below them, after the varying blocky and square rooftops and mounds of fallen skyscrapers of Baltimore started to fade away behind them towards the south- a land of emptiness obscured in a thick blanket of sickly green came to life.
From this height, the three craters of the three respective nuclear warheads that had detonated on this portion of the East Coast looked like nothing more than a sea of diseased, swimming smog. The few skeletal sections of buildings that remained standing began to grow less and less frequent- flashes of yellow light rebounded from the depths and even from above.
The inside of the VB-02 rattled lowly- it was the beginnings of entering the fringes of the center airspace that was poisoned above former New York and Pennsylvania.
Once they were deeper into the massive Radstorms that always tore up the atmosphere- the Vertibird would experience periodic shaking fits that would begin to shift the crew and passengers in their seats, and not a single one would take it as a bad sign or a cause for alarm.
All Enclave personnel had to cross over New York airspace at some point- pretty much. There were some chumps on the West Coast who hadn't been exposed to the storms- but supposedly there was some other airborne anomaly that shook their Vertibirds around instead, so, the feeling for this flight was global.
The Vertibirds were modified to compensate for this weather- and they were sealed, so none of the radiation could get in.
The bumping around was annoying- but it was better than being dead, and Laslar had too much planned for, at least, HIMSELF, to afford being dead this early.
Those exact plans were what he was thinking of, anyway.
-0-0-0-0-0-
They broke off from the railroad tracks in another few hours- having met with an old road crossing that Sanford knew connected to a route winding all the way down towards his own urban development from before the bombs.
They didn't follow the road, and they instead only wound down its pavement for about a half mile before Sanford started to recognize some of the closer hills to the Mutant encampment- and in addition, the Deathclaw had nodded up at the sky, and there was clearly a black tendril that was rising into the gray air.
Sanford observed the thick arm of broiling smog that rose as high as he could look up- he started off in the exact angle with her- and in moments, they found themselves hunkered down behind a pile of twisting brambles- observing a dip in the terrain up ahead.
Down below was the detailed Super Mutant camp- that now, as Sanford and her examined it, they grew curious to the layout of the joint that they hadn't had any time to examine during their brief, violent stay two days ago.
There were steel construction girders that were run through the fern-dabbled earth of the camp's exterior all over the place- some of them were a story or two tall, and they all had net-mesh sacks filled with stinking, raw meat hanging from their scab-colored surfaces via tied knots.
Some of the girders had full or partial human skeletons crucified on them- and some besides those, carried skeletons of decently powerful animals- there were bear bones, carved out shells of dead Radscorpions- nasty stuff.
And all the while, below that- there was a cluster of four metal structures- work buildings, probably set up by pre-War contractors two hundred years ago- they were bluish in tint, and ragged with all kinds of structural insecurities and dents.
A pair of rusted, blown-out trucks were parked by the larger of the cluster of four structures- there was a rectangular plat of concrete that was blackened, and cracked across its surface at the foot of the largest building- and Sanford realized that was the above skylight of the basement they had been dropped ago before.
There actually were a lot more concrete constructions that riddled throughout the encampment than either of them had previously seen- just behind the metal building, the big one- the terrain dipped slightly again, and Sanford could see a circular-shaped wall of concrete just peaking over the ridge.
He squinted at that- and looked back down at all the little shapes of the green-skinned horrors stomping about, arguing with each other loudly and hollering- there was a gunshot, and roaring laughter from multiple bodies.
"There's a lot of them, as we deduced," Sanford observed- he waited for his helm's scanners to finish processing the vicinity- and he hissed at the number of heartbeats that had been picked up. "My scans count thirty six."
"Merde..." She reached up and dragged a palm down her face with an exasperated grumble. "Thirty six? REALLY, monsieur'?"
"Indeed. Let's get to work. It's not dark, but it's doable."
"...That number doesn't give you second thoughts?"
"Not at all."
"...No. No we can't, this isn't going to work, we'll be dead."
"Listen to me, very carefully," Sanford looked at her and nodded- sounding a bit angry. "Me and Hancock have been shooting our way through the Wasteland for most of my natural life- and I wouldn't have survived this long unless I had built up a skillset for myself in lone combat. I'm going down there- are you?"
"...Sanford, this is ridiculous," She snapped. "We can't throw our lives away like this."
"For the love of God, I just said I'm NOT!" He grunted. "Do you not understand, that I understand my OWN capabilities?"
"What are you proving by taking on a small army?!" She did her best to control her temper- keep herself from getting really loud. "I DO understand, and I also understand that you're angry! Look at me! I'M the angry one, and even I say this isn't good!"
"...Than stay here."
"-NO."
"Then get out of my way."
"NO."
"Are you kidding?"
"Dead serious, monsieur'. I refuse, I'm not letting you boss me out of the way this time. I. SAID. NO."
The Deathclaw was hunched over him- her eyes were big and narrowed at the same time- a really intimidating display, and her fangs were out in a snarl, her fingers were flexing on either side of her.
Sanford kept his defiance and stood his ground- even though, while he wasn't afraid of her- he had developed an inability TOO be afraid of her over the last week- he was certainly terrified that they might hurt one another if she got physical in trying to keep him away from the camp.
Sanford's mind was racing with a hundred different emotions at once- on one hand, he was still infuriated at the Super Mutants, and he was feeling awfully vindictive- but on the other, his temper was gathering flame with his ally here, and also he was becoming paranoid of the previous possibility he considered.
He didn't want to disagree with her like this- and, at that, of course, he didn't want to disagree with her at ALL.
He huffed in a slow, deliberate exhale- and blinking at her, he looked away, and sneered at the Super Mutant camp for a few seconds, before turning back towards her.
She hadn't broken her gaze.
"...God damn it." He growled. "What could you have to suggest then? Hmm?"
"Wait until nightfall," She said through grit teeth. "You see just WHO provides this knowledge for you, yes? Monsieur'?"
"I do and it's pissing me off."
"Deal with it and humor me."
"Fine!" Sanford sat back further behind the bramble- he reached up, and his helmet bounced across the dirt with a few tiny clacks- the ground thudded, and he sat on his armored hindquarters, blinked his exposed eyes. "Fine, I'll sit RIGHT here, until we can move. Happy?"
She huffed at him and fell on a single knee to gaze slightly over their cover to the camp again- her jaw was rolling.
Watching her in silence for a few seconds- he gathered that she wasn't going to make eye contact with him again- and, still feeling his blood on the boil, Sanford bit and flexed his tongue between his teeth and gazed down at his own lap.
His arms crossed with a hiss of steel, and he shut his eyes.
He was so thin on patience after they had dealt with the roach- because now he couldn't find Hancock for two days, and it was the longest they had been apart- and they did better when they worked together.
Sanford was just afraid- he was afraid that his friend would get destroyed or damaged and he wouldn't be there to help him- and he was afraid because he still, really, didn't entirely understand the Deathclaw anywhere near the way he did Hancock.
Technically he and the reptile had been together for a week- and a single week had never made any kind of companionship he had heard of that actually lasted in the wastes- this would take time, and there were things they still didn't know about the other.
They'd spent what would soon be two days reaching this damned camp of Mutants- and he was tired, he was angry, he was worried, and he was experiencing a combined element of stress that made his attitude sour at the worst of times.
Now the Deathclaw was making him wait- she was prolonging the conflict he had been amped up to solve this very day.
He still had his eyes shut, and he still grumbled mentally about it all- he felt a tug on his leg from outside the suit, and he opened his eyes in a glance down to see that the Deathclaw had just retracted her claw, and pinched between two fingers was one of the books he had in the rucksack over his thigh.
Sanford raised a brow at her- he saw that it was the Greek Mythology tome again- and he also saw that she opened her mouth without looking away from the cover.
She snorted, snapped her jaws shut- and dropped the book into her open palm, before meticulously trying to work her nail in to turn the first page- grumbling to herself, glancing over the bramble again, and then redoubling her efforts with the book.
Sanford sat there and looked at her with a still hardened expression- he sighed, and leaned forwards with a whir of suit motors.
"Gimme'." Was all he muttered, holding out a gauntlet. "What page?"
"I'll do it myself, monsieur'."
"You can't, now what page?"
"..."
"Oh, just- give me the fuckin' book."
He snatched it from her with a clocking sound of the hard cover against his steel palm.
She didn't look up at him and kept her gaze to the ground by her folded knees- her tail was kicking up a storm behind her.
"What page?"
"..."
"Look, I'm just trying to make it easier for you, this is nothing else. What page?"
"...One eighty-two."
"Mmright."
"..."
"Here you go."
"Mm."
She bent down and angled away from him- burying her snout as deep as she could into the pages.
Sanford yanked out one of his last containers of cured water- he quietly tore off the pin and aluminum seal with a pull of his pointy in the gauntlet, and drained some of it while cupping the opening with his lips.
He gazed over the bramble for a second or two, watching them- and then he sat back and looked at the sky.
It was getting darker, but, they had a while to go before that made it harder for the Super Mutants to see anything.
Really great, he looked at the silent Deathclaw. -And Anger-management is, well, ANGRY at me. Just great.
-0-0-0-0-0-
"Hey dad, is your name Sanford too?"
-This question came from the lips of a boy no older than eight, and he was smiling up at Mr. Tobs with this big grin that just made his father's heart melt whenever he saw it.
Sanford senior had been leaned over the kitchen table of their New England home, sipping coffee from a yellow-colored mug, holding up a fresh copy of the Boston Bugle, and he had been reading about the events in Canada over the last few months- so understandably his face was a bit grim.
But when his son pranced into the room asking the same darned question he always did whenever he wanted to talk with his good ole' dad, but didn't know what to talk ABOUT- Sanford senior's frown was rushed away with a playful grin.
A big brown-colored mustache hid most of his upper lip in this smile- and Sanford folded the paper in half before laying it on the checkered table-cloth of the kitchen centerpiece- he adjusted his glasses with a prodding finger and leaned over to his son by the side of his chair.
"My name's Sanford too? Gasp!" He kiddingly mocked. "I had no idea! Holy cow! I must be going crazy."
"You're always crazy, dad!"
"I am?"
"Yeah."
"I am. Good grief, and you never told me?"
"Yeah I did!"
"What?! Good lord, the madness."
"Yeah."
"'Yeah, dad, yeah'-" Sanford mimicked his boy. "Oh my boy, you're a cute thing."
"I'm too old to be cute, dad."
"That you are," He nodded, laughing. "And the answer is yes, my boy, yes. We named you after me."
"What was your dad's name?"
"Grandpa? Grandpa's name was Toby."
"What about your dad's dad?"
"Great Grandpa was named Henry."
"Okay."
"So what's happenin', kid?" Sanford gestured for the chair next to his, and his son climbed on with a squeaking of the chair's feet on the kitchen tile. "What brings you to the land of the kitchen?"
"Kitchen-ness?"
"Ha! Okay, and?"
"-Hey dad, what are you reading about?"
"-Uhm..." Sanford frowned at the newspaper on the table, and he shook his head at it. "-Nothing you need to trouble yourself with, my boy. The world just has freaky people in it sometimes."
"Oh."
"Yep."
"...Is it about Canada?"
"...Did mommy talk to you about Canada?"
"Yeah."
His father failed at covering his rolled eyes- but he recovered, and resumed his baleful smile.
"Yes. I was reading about Canada."
"What's happening there?"
"The, uh... The Canadians, are..."
... Really, what the hell was he supposed to say? That the Canadians were, in quote- 'Bad People'-? That they were impeding freedom? That they were the villains?
Sanford wouldn't see his son growing up as a bigot- he wanted him to be informed, and when he had gotten older he had surely given his boy more than one earful on the subjects eating up Earth.
But when that little boy was too little to understand any of it- too little to understand politics, military science, sociology, and what made people angry at each other- too little to understand that the United States military personnel of the 107th Airborne division had shot up a crowd of three-hundred unarmed Canadian protestors early Saturday morning- he had worded everything he said very carefully.
"-Let me ask you, my son," Sanford folded his arms over the top of the paper, looking down at the boy seriously. "What have you heard about Canada? About what's happening?"
Little Sanford was expressionless for a second, and he blinked, and sucked on his lower lip as he tried to think of something to say.
"...That the army is shooting people."
"Anything else?"
"And that the Canadians are being occafide."
"That's a lot. The Canadians are being, OCCUPIED, it's pronounced like that- 'Occupied' -my son."
"Okay?"
"The Canadians are being occupied and they are trying to make peace with us."
"...So why do the army guys shoot at them?"
"That's what has a lot of people angry, the army-" Again, he chose his words carefully. "The army have made some mistakes, and people have gotten hurt, and, people here and in Canada are very upset about it, and the army is trying to make peace with both sides."
"But dad, you told me that peace and violence don't go."
"That I did, but-"
"So if the army guys are shooting at Canadian protestors that aren't shooting too... Doesn't that make the army as bad as Nazi Germany?"
"-Let's talk about something else. Let's talk about something else right now."
...Sanford's good ole' dad. His father.
Sanford's father had been a brilliant man- he was smart, and he was a hard working individual, that, while he was not the best of talkers- he certainly had his mind set in the right direction for progress and success of himself and those around him.
His father was a veteran from the army- he had served in Alaska and Japan during the Chinese invasion, and he had taken a job after his discharging as a carpenter, and then a paper filer at a local RobCo office.
He had tried so hard to shield his boy from what was tearing the human race apart- and for a long time, to give him his credit, Sanford was kept in a cushiony little bubble of ignorance. He had no idea that the Chinese had suffered horrendous losses of human life being pushed from Alaska- he had no idea that the Canadians, who simply wanted their own country back- were being brutally oppressed by death squads and soldiers ordered to shoot protestors on sight.
Right as the United States was planning it's offensive through Alaska and the Aleutian Islands to retake occupied Japan and start moving through Russian territory to outflank the Chinese Army- an operation called Dark Fox, the warheads launched, and the world ended.
Operation Dark Fox would've probably worked out to be the deadliest military operation in human history- millions upon millions of people would've died in that single motion itself. That number was totaled under the sheer amount of death that plagued Earth from the bombs.
Sanford sometimes remembered his father, and when he remembered him, he sometimes questioned things like- 'What would my father have said, about this? Or about that?' -and he was left with a burning and cold void that had nothing but unanswered questions and mourning orbiting its interior.
His father had tried to protect him from just KNOWING about the horrible things happening every day- and now, Sanford was a full grown man- and he had seen probably more and worse off shit than his old man ever did in Japan and in Alaska during Operation Anchorage.
Sanford had taken life, he'd saved life and preserved it- he had watched people around him devolve into animals, and he had seen just as many a person break and fall into the shadows as he had ones that rose through them and became heroes.
...He wondered what his dad would say upon meeting him, today. Upon hearing what he had to say- upon hearing what he had seen...
What would dad say?
He didn't know.
He'd never know.
But it was a burning question. He wished his dad was here to answer it.
-And what would his mother say? Linda Tobs, the wife of his father, the wife that thought her son needed to be exposed to the events, instead of shielded from them.
For the few times in their marriage after his conception that Sanford senior and Linda Tobs disagreed- it was always over their son, and it was always over things like, when she told him about certain situations that sent his father over the edge.
"You said, WHAT?" He heard his father roar from behind their bedroom door- Sanford had been sleeping, and when he heard his dad start to get loud, he slowly sat up in bed and listened.
"He needs to know, Sanford!" His mother responded. "Don't you see? If we don't teach him about what is happening, he'll go out into a world he doesn't understand! Something he isn't prepared for!"
"-So that makes you think it's a good idea to describe to him the horrors that are happening in Canada?"
"He'll find out on his own without me," She warned. "You know that as much as I do- he's too smart, Sanford, too smart to be kept in the dark."
"This will screw with his head, Linda!"
"This is what will get his head on STRAIGHT."
"Damn it, Linda!"
"That's right, damn it, Sanford." She dismissed. "All you do is damn things..."
-His ma' hadn't meant that, but, she was so upset over how angry his dad was over it that she said things. And of course, Sanford senior said things too- it was the only thing that threatened to fracture the two of them.
They agreed on everything, EVERYTHING, except, how to handle their son's interaction with the world.
There was not another thing in that house that made them fight except Sanford himself- and so, sometimes atop the other thoughts, he wondered what each of his parents would say individually. Would his mother be horrified? Would she be shocked at the things her boy had done?
Would his father be shocked?
What would they think if they heard Sanford describe the times he ran into other people, other people with guns and blades and severed body parts hanging as trophies off their bodies- and what would they think when Sanford described how he individually killed every single one of them in drawn out, messy, scream-filled fights?
What would they think when he told him about all the times he was COATED, in blood that wasn't his? Like some hellish animal?
What would they think when he described for them all the terrible things he saw? The innocent people hurt and murdered, the places of rich history and power burned away like they were nothing?
What would they say?
-Sanford sat awake behind the brambles, hours later, and he had his eyes opened, directed for the stars above in a black, night sky. He asked the question again and again- he found something else to compare it with and the pattern would repeat.
He had his helmet still off, laying by his side- and he was in his Power Armor, sitting on the ground, occasionally switching his view to the Deathclaw- another subject that he could ask the question about -as she read the final few pages in her Greek Mythology book.
Silently, he watched her for a short while- her scaly hide highlighted slightly in tiny, near unnoticeable slivers of white hue from the worklights that were still on in portions of the center of the Super Mutant camp below.
The beasts were quiet- and she finished glancing out at them- but never at him- and lightly edged her opened book towards him with a quiet grunt.
"Page, please." She mumbled, not making eye contact.
Sanford blinked in a bored fashion- he looked about her scaly hand, and the coarse thinner hide about her palm and the undersides of her fingers- he examined the black, grimy texture of her claw nails as they remained relatively sheathed in her upper digits.
He noted some flecks of dried roach blood still clinging on her in portions- and he blinked up at her face, seeing her yellow eyes glowing a bulb of luminescent white in each center as she spied on the camp down by their flank.
-The Super Mutants hadn't left or had any scouting parties return the entire few hours they'd been here, hidden, not talking to each other- she tore her scrutinizing gaze and noted him staring at her.
What would they say? -Sanford was still juggling in his mind as he slowly took up the book in his gauntlets, and worked on flipping the next page.
"What is it, monsieur'?"
He jumped when she spoke to him lightly- a tired expression on her elongated, reptilian facial features as she turned to him.
Sanford flipped the page on the book- and he opened his mouth, inhaled to prepare something to say- faltered, and then carried through.
"Do you know I've killed so many people in my life, and I don't remember their faces?" He suddenly blurted out.
The Deathclaw didn't take the text from him immediately- she looked at him blankly.
"Well, it's what they say about people who kill a lot of other people, they remember the faces of at least a lot of their kills. They say it's hard to just forget, to, you know... Shoot some thugs and look at it as they were nothing for a long period of time..."
"...Where did this originate from, Sanford?" She asked after a second of silence. "I don't understand."
"When we were walking past that boxcar on the rails, the one I opened? I found a skeleton inside of it- nothing spectacular, or anything like that... But it reminded me of a man I cut up. A man that me and Han' had come across while trying to save people... And we found out he had done some pretty horrific things to a group of innocent victims."
"...What happened?"
"I dragged him inside and cut him up. I cut him up and for a long time I didn't think about, and I've never admitted it to anyone- even Hancock, even though he knew I did it."
"And you're... Just thinking of this, now?"
"That's the irony," Sanford chuckled. "You see? I've seen so much shit, that things like that get locked up and they don't come out for weeks, or months... E-Even years and... And I... And I get into a disagreement with you, and... And we're pouting, and, we both know better, but we don't WANT to know better..."
"...Mm..." She looked down, fiddling with the book instead of reading. "What does this have to do with remembering faces of people you've killed?"
"...Because there's so much worse that can happen. Those faces are the haunting reminder- and the reminder is, that I've seen so many that I can't remember any specifically... I mean, which is worse? Being haunted by individual ghosts of the past? Or just the silence of what you've destroyed and can never understand?"
"...It's the Wasteland, Sanford, you defend yourself when need be. I don't get what this is about, and I-"
"-I always ask myself- 'What would my parents think?'," Sanford kept going. "I always want to know what my parents would say about it- and they aren't here, so I can never know..."
Sanford leaned forwards, and he frowned at her.
"...You know so little of me in comparison to them, and to Hancock, and I likewise to you..."
"This is true."
"...What do you think about it?"
"...Understanding each other?"
"Yeah. With what we've gathered so far."
"...I... I told you, monsieur'," She put the book down and nudged her head at him. "We've both surmounted the impossible, and we've both been exposed to the same things. I respect it."
"But do you understand it?"
"What?"
"Our relationship."
"...As traveling companions?"
"How we're able to keep our pasts locked up, and interact with other, and get along?"
"...I do, and, I think I don't."
"You're caught in limbo?"
"...Yes."
"So then this disagreement wasn't worth the energy of getting upset over."
"...No."
"...We may not understand each other, entirely- but, let's not fight. We should never fight like this again, it's pointless."
"...It is pointless."
"...I trust my life around you."
"I trust you too, monsieur'."
"It's night."
"That it is," She mused. "Off to war?"
Sanford reached down, and he felt about for his submachine gun.
Picking that, and his helmet up- he looked at her, and smiled.
"They won't know what hit them."
"You think this, monsieur'?"
"I do. It's what my parents would say about us, at least I think."
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