Underground, within the thick metal walls of a settlement protected from the elements of the nuclear apocalypse, sounds like disembodied voices rebound along every inch of its expanse. Murmurs of conversations long since passed, and echoes of those that lived more than two hundred years ago, ripple through every void space, in every shadow tucked away and untouched by the overhead fluorescents. The voices leak into every room, through the ventilation, the hallways, the doors and windows, but to the residents of Giovanni Tower, they hear the groaning of a settling frame, the creak of metal rails, the maintenance of the outer walls, or the scurry of rodents clawing at the roof to follow the smell of the cafeteria, or the heated inner body fit for residency.
To DiAngelo, these sounds are voices of relatives, of families passed, the imprints of the dead, and as natural as his own beating heart. Simply the residual energies of those who lived and died within these very walls, like tossing a small flat rock into a pond or lake of still water and watching the ripples expand and disappear into the distance, there's assurance that those disruptions are going to keep right on going until they hit the opposite shore line, only to bounce and come back in faded echoes right to the very spot where the rock first hit the water. The evidence of that rock will always be at the bottom of that lake or pond, and the water forever altered by its presence.
People don't disappear, as much as everyone down here wants to convince themselves in their grief. There's always going to be leftovers that they want to dismiss as anything other than a normal hum of their life underground. That's what DiAngelo wanted to think when he was a kid, because it honestly made it hard to sleep knowing that his great grand-dad Giovanni could be in the room with him, standing over his bed in the dark and watching him. His Ma told him if he was, he was only making sure he was happy and getting enough sleep. It helped, and as he grew, it felt more and more like a constant family reunion. It got comfortable, and eventually, it was like closing his eyes and having another pair still open.
When he became a man, he had his first venture out into the Commonwealth. The Out Walk, the kids named it, something that ended up being the official-unofficial title, and he was so damn sure that it was going to be everything he wanted, that he'd go out and feel like that was where he was supposed to be. He was complacent, not at all thankful for his family or his comfortable life, his Ma must have known what was going to happen.
Taking that first step out into the open, under the bright morning sky with pink clouds and a cool breeze was the most alive he's ever felt in his entire life, he took a deep breath of that fresh, crisp air, and started his Out Walk down into an open field, leaning down to brush the grass, the softest thing he's ever touched, his feet felt like they were sinking into the ground, it wasn't solid like metal, he felt like he was about to trip on every step.
For a moment lasting about two minutes before he felt something else, a sudden awareness of a growing crowd, and in seconds he was suddenly standing the in the middle of a field full of people. The whispers grew around him, curious murmurs that were on a scale so unfathomable to him that he gasped, flinching upwards, his spine fused straight up in alarm.
It was a mistake, reacting to the voices was a rookie class fuck up and he knew it the moment it happened. His Ma always told him, drilled it into his skull, but he wouldn't fucking listen to her. He knew better, he was eighteen and of course he knew better than his Ma because every boy on the cusp of manhood all thought the same damn thing and all of them are so fucking wrong.
The young DiAngelo, standing frozen in that field should have run, he should have turned heel and sprinted back to the Tower with his pride between his legs, but instead he stood his ground backed by confidence and assurance that he could do it, that by some miracle he could handle what was coming his way.
It was silent for about ten seconds before they knew, they knew he could hear them, see them, feel them, and they all came rushing from the stands and straight to the center like a tidal wave, from the foundations, the trees, under the rocks, and from the ground. A horde of them all sprinting towards him, their low curious murmurs crescendo into desperate shrieks that filled the air like scraping metal, pleading him, begging him, threatening, cursing, crying, howling, assaulting him with the terror of their final moments, their fury, and grief. Their hands were tearing at his suit, scraping against his skin with hot branded burns, tossing him to the ground, climbing over him like pounds of cold, heavy earth until he couldn't breathe.
Overwhelmed with absolute terror, tears streaming down his face, he screamed, he screaming until it hurt, clawing his way free, gasping for breath, and begging them to leave him alone, to go away, he cursed at them, hollered, clambered to his feet and ran. He ran until he was back inside the Tower, and then he collapsed to his knees and sobbed like a kid, a weak and pathetic little boy. His Ma was at his side, holding him close to her, stroking his hair, telling him he was going to be alright.
It wasn't until after he'd calmed down that she scolded him, he didn't even resent her for it, because he knew he deserved every word. He'd felt like a stupid child who couldn't wait to grow up and jumped the fence before he knew what it meant to be a man.
Even know, twenty years later, he's too afraid to ask her if she'd known.
Adjacent to his bedroom suite, DiAngelo stands in the single bathroom, leaning over the sink half-full of hot soapy water, bubbles stained dark with oil and grime from helping the engineers down in the fusion reactor core.
With a single swipe of his hand to clear the steam, the mirror reveals the reflection of his face as a flash of silver catches light from the overhead fluorescents, a gleam quickly following the line of a wall that stops to rest against sun darkened skin sitting over the angle of a squared jaw bone. A polished straight razor glides upwards against the grain of three day unkempt facial hair, gathering white foam and quarter inch black stubble with each stroke, leaving behind nothing but the slight discoloration of scar tissue and faded burns. Hands expertly glide the blade over the uneven skin under his jaw, around the sharp features without nicking the skin, and shaping the sideburns next to his ears leaving a diagonal tip resembling a mat knife. He leaves the accumulated growth over his upper lip, a long moustache curling around to the corners of his mouth, and a small goatee patch under his bottom lip.
A large burn, faded with the passage of time, stretches over his right brow, across the wide, crooked bridge of his nose, and under the socket of his left eye. Some of his scars are light and blanched, while others gouge deep like the line through his thick brow, and they litter his face with favour his right side like his right hand favours the lead of attack, the result of actively choosing force over dexterity. Not anything he ultimately regrets, it's like a visual score sheet of all the times he could have died, but didn't, refused to. Like the tallies of his victories and a list of reasons why his enemies should be wary of any future assaults. He'd rather have that then a smooth complexion of a fucking coward.
His hands brush over his cheeks and under his chin, rubbing rough and calloused fingers over a shave so close that the only indication of the growth he'd had twenty minutes ago is the natural discoloration of his shadow. Satisfied, he empties the sink and rinses the blade, placing it on a folded square of cloth inside the medicine cabinet before dabbing a damp towel against his face to clear away any access foam.
Back out in the bedroom suite, he first pulls on a fresh white dress top to go over his muscle shirt and black suspenders, buttoning it half way before grabbing the faded leather jacket sitting tossed over the end of his desk chair. Shoulders and elbows stiff with padded brown leather armour matching the patches on the knees of his cargos, an addition he made a few years back that still holds strong.
On his bed, a duffle bag sits already packed and waiting for his departure, he slings it over his shoulder and adjusts the weight.
On the floor next to the coffee table in the adjacent living room he crosses on his way out, he spots a small teddy bear tucked halfway under the end of the couch. It's a sad little thing, stitched from head to toe with repairs, a two missing eyes, patches, and a lolling head that won't stay up. The kid must have left it here by accident, might be a good thing; he's been trying real damn hard to replace it. It's sentimental to the kid, hideous, but sentimental. Rob said that the reason he won't let it go is because the kid's Mom gave it to him when he was a baby, then he joked about it being all banged up and ugly, and kind of reminds him of DiAngelo.
The kid laughed, which was enough that he wasn't about to cuff the squirt's Dad in front of him, as much as he wanted to. It wasn't much better than his last joke, in which he equated DiAngelo to an upright Yao Guai with cologne and a close shave. No one was around to stop him from firmly shoving his elbow right into his gut that time.
Of course then Rob only laughed through pained gasps all keeled over on the floor like DiAngelo hadn't done a damn thing. His jokes were only funny to his kid, but that didn't stop him from making them when the skinny little tot wasn't around. Seeing Rob laugh like that, especially considering all he's been through, well... maybe it ain't too bad he was having a little fun at DiAngelo's expense.
Leaving his suite, teddy bear in hand, he turns the lights off, and locks the door behind him. Come to think of it, he'd better say goodbye to the kid before he goes, he'll never hear the end of it otherwise.
He finds it's a hell of a lot easier to leave when there's no one around to watch him go. He makes a habit of leaving early before anyone rouses; get away without saying much, especially when everyone is hoping he'd decide to stay for good his next visit. Sure, he'd thought about it, sticking around and growing old, but his calling has always been to the outside, no matter how many of his people try to convince him otherwise.
When DiAngelo steps in to the Tower's dimly lit clinic on his way down, only one overhead light beaming down near the doorway, he spots a man sitting behind a desk near one of the observation rooms, rapidly tapping at the keys on his terminal, and, like he already would have guessed a million times over, the poor bastard looks ragged. His brown hair is sticking up short in all directions, large framed glasses sitting low on his nose to reveal the purplish shadows under his eyes and the red in his whites, slouched over with a half empty cup of coffee sitting forgotten at his left. So entranced by whatever it is that he's doing, that he doesn't notice DiAngelo approach until he slams his hand down inches from the keyboard.
"GUH-jesus!" The willowy man jerks up with a massive start; he's easily spooked even without distraction so DiAngelo never gets tired of scaring the shit out of him whenever he gets the chance, especially since it's his duty as the older brother to pick on his brother-in-law.
"Pack your bags, we head out in five," DiAngelo states, smothering his urge to cackle relentlessly at his expense.
He shoves his glasses back up his face, refocusing on the taller man as he looms over the desk, his face now beet red, "I, what, but-I,"
"Did I stutter?"
"No-No, but I have work to-" He gestures to the terminal and DiAngelo reaches down and presses the off button with a roll of his eyes, causing the screen to go black and the light to stop shining on his brother's pasty skin.
"Let one of the trainees take over for a while," He's not giving him a chance to refuse, not while DiAngelo outranks him in more than one area, "you're commin' down to Boston with me."
"B-Boston?" He yelps, pointing to the general direction of the Tower entrance, "You mean out there?"
"That gonna be a problem?" DiAngelo crosses his arms.
The scrawny man opens his mouth with what was sure to be an anxious list of reasons why it's a bad idea for him to leave the Tower, especially considering his lack of combat experience and the fact that he's an eternal pacifist that's refused to even fire a gun once, but DiAngelo already knows what he's going to say and beats him to the punch by reaching down and shoving his entire hand over his face and glasses.
"That was rhetorical, you don't have a choice," He shoves the man back into his chair, lightly, but his glasses still fall halfway down his face as the chair rolls back a few inches.
DiAngelo watches impatiently, and a little amused, as his brother gives up trying to argue and scrambles to gather his medical supplies. He never really understood what it was that made his sister go crazy for him, could be that she's always liked being in charge, especially physically. Sure... he's cute in a kind of shambling-tower-of-awkward kind of way, but it was still a surprise for a lot of people in the family.
"I-I just need to go check on Brook..." With his black leather doctor satchel plastered to his chest, he points his thumb to the door.
"Sure, but if you don't haul ass to the front door in ten minutes I'm coming back in here to drag you out by your lab coat, got it?" DiAngelo watches as his brother clambers ungracefully out the door and follows suit, locking the clinic behind him to make sure none of the teens sneak a hit of Med-X while the head doctor is out.
Brook, DiAngelo's younger sister, is having a baby soon, but his brother-in-law can't quite seem to piece together a due date for him to be present by, there's a good chance that he's going to miss the birth, and there isn't a member of either family that'll let him forget it. Probably the reason he's up so early, or, didn't sleep at all.
On his way to see the kid next, he considers for a moment how he avoids seeing anyone but him before he goes, even though the little squirt is probably one of a handful of people who could convince him to stick around. It's not that he's just real cute, it's that he doesn't sleep much, he's nightmare prone and still really weak from his recovery process, not two inches of meat on his bones and a mop of stringy blonde hair that's dulled almost grey. It's funny that he says his favourite teddy bear looks like DiAngelo, because the little plush looks more like him, with a few less scars.
And yeah... he worries.
In one of the shared bedrooms, he does his best to approach the bed on the end quietly as the kid's roommates, three older boys, lay sleeping soundly. He kneels next to the short frame, feeling like a giant in comparison more so than he already does, and pulls the end of the blanket back to tuck the teddy bear in, the kid rouses awake almost immediately, though he was expecting that.
"Are you going?" He asks in a tiny and very anxious voice, not unlike his brother-in-law, and he can't help but picture the squirt easily outgrowing his dad in terms of height.
DiAngelo tucks the blanket back over so it looks like the bear is cuddling next to him, "Yeah, kiddo, I gotta get back to work."
He pulls the teddy close and stuffs his nose against the matted and balding fur, his expression relaxing a little, relieved through his stuffed companions company, it should help him sleep, "Is my Dad coming next time?"
"I'll make sure of it," He smirks as the kid's large blue eyes smile up at him, "But only if you get some sleep, eat a big breakfast, and be good to your Nan."
"Okay," His muffled agreement sounds like it's coming from the bear, and with that, DiAngelo moves to stand up and leave, but not before the kid reaches out and grips the sleeve of his jacket with an impossibly tiny hand, "Hank...?"
"Yeah, kid?"
"Does my Dad like me?"
DiAngelo pauses, and immediately kneels back down to sit almost eye level with him, "Did he say he didn't?"
"No..."
"What did he say when you saw him last?"
"He said that he loves me," He hides more of his face behind the bear, his voice going even quieter, "... but he hasn't come back yet, is he staying away because he doesn't want to see me?"
DiAngelo sighs, reaching out to put his large hand on the kids head and moving some of the hair away with his thumb, "Your Dad is real busy, like me. He comes when he can, he's working real hard to make sure you're happy, and when he doesn't come around as often, it means he's working extra hard."
His eyes go glassy and he looks down to his teddy bear, "Are you going to be my new Dad if he doesn't come back?"
DiAngelo can feel his chest lock up, but that doesn't stop him from answering immediately, leaning down to make sure he's looking directly at him when he speaks, "I need you to listen to me kiddo, your Dad loves you so much it kills him to be away. He's going to keep coming back because even if he gets stuck, or hurt, I'm going to make sure of it, okay?"
His little sniffles are almost DiAngelo's undoing, as much as he doesn't want to leave the kid right now, he has to, "...okay."
"You trust me?"
"Yeah..."
"Then I'll promise you, okay?" He gently nudges the tot's cheek so he'll look him in the eye, "I promise you that I'm not going to let anything bad happen to your Dad."
"But what if you don't come back?" He whimpers.
DiAngelo smirks, "I'm like a Yao Guai, remember? There isn't anything scary enough to take me down."
The kid giggles, and when DiAngelo gets a quiet promise from him that he's going to behave, go right to sleep, and do his best to stay positive, he stands back up and leaving the room with quiet steps. He hates having to leave him like this when he's scared about never seeing his dad again, but he's true to his word when he promises that he'll never let anything bad happen to Rob, not while he's breathing.
He finally makes it down to the security floor and passes one of the night shift security guards as he sits half asleep behind the desk in the Vault Door Control Office. DiAngelo gives him light a salute, to which he responds with a languid nod. He about to motion for him to open the Vault door, before an echo of scrambling footsteps approaching quickly reminds him that he planned on having company for this trip. His brother slows from a jog to a full stop in front of DiAngelo wearing a light jacket, Brook's jacket, over his white lab coat, a small overstuffed backpack over his shoulder along with his doctor bag.
He looks ridiculous.
"How'd she take it?" DiAngelo's smiling wide, he can't help it.
Panting, he pushes his glasses up with a finger, "I didn't wake her, sleep is good for the baby."
"That the excuse you're gonna use after she finds out you're gone?"
"I thought I'd push the blame to you, considering you're dragging me out practically kicking and screaming," His cheeks go red and he pushes his glasses up again, this time out of nervous habit rather than necessity, "I actually left her a carefully structured note, vitamins to take, food groups to stay away from, reminding her not to let her blood pressure increase-"
The alarms suddenly blare overhead, interrupting his diet monologue as DiAngelo had given the guard a silent gesture to open the door. His brother quickly snaps his mouth shut, brows furrowing, as he knows damn well he did it on purpose.
DiAngelo takes lead and lets the grated pathway extend before him, with his brother hesitant to follow, they step out into a large damp cavernous tunnel that stretches before them for as far as either of them can see, which, considering its dark as hell, is not very far.
The tunnel soon turns, funnelling open into a subway track and station with dual tracks. As far as he knew, the trains were the only way to get to the Vault in pre-war and therefore the one way out, which is fine, but they sit purposely collapsed, a two hundred year old decision that left it clogged by debris, boulders, and thousands of tons of dirt. The only way to the surface now is through a series of maintenance hallways and stairs that open into a room from a previously concealed hatch panel in the floor of an abandoned depot building, some kind of backdoor entrance that the Vault's original owners had constructed for convenience. His brother-in-law manages to keep up with him, his eyes on the dark following the both of them like he was worried something would come up and bite his ass.
Outside of the depot, they step out into an early morning dawn greeting an empty sky and promising a nice start to the journey back to Boston. The old wood balcony creaks under their feet as they take a quick breather, and behind, the mountains stretching taller than either of them can see, shrouding the path ahead with a dense shadow that should only hold the chill for an hour before the sun peaks up over the expanse. He inhales the crisp air, a familiar sense of adoration settling in his chest as he stares out into the horizon.
"So, uh," His brother clears his throat, only momentarily distracted by their beautiful surroundings before his anxious energy forces his attention back at the matter of their travel ahead, "How long is it going to take to get there?"
"Two days if the weather holds up," He reaches over and pats him on the back hard enough to knock the breath out of him, "Come on, we'd better get going while the sky is clear."
"Yes, I've heard the Out Walkers talk about the strange weather," He coughs, readjusting his pack that looks far too full to be easy to carry, "The radiation in the ozone and atmosphere would no doubt cause quite a bit of sporadic weather patterns-"
DiAngelo turns and puts his hand up to interrupt his scientific observation, "Try to keep most of that to yourself, alright? I don't usually spend this trip talking about how fucked up the environment is, trust me, you'll have plenty to keep you on your toes without all the idle chit-chat."
With a light nod, he pushes his glasses up his nose again, smiling flatly. He doesn't want to spend the next two days talking about the after effects of radiation, mostly because any kind of talking would make them targets, silence is safe, and the less they're prone to attack, the better. DiAngelo is going to have to make sure that his brother doesn't get himself killed, or make it hard for him to make sure he doesn't get himself killed. It might chalk up to be a long couple of days.
Something's wrong.
There's no sound coming through the tunnels, not a single echo of footfalls or chatter, everything is silent. It shouldn't be the case, there ought to be at least a dozen men patrolling the tunnels for any ghouls or ballsy travellers, to have it completely empty during the day is unheard of and it gives him a looming sense of dread. He smells something off in the air, even as he opens himself up a little, a small hole that allows him to feel for the presence of anything passed, and all he gets is white noise, even the dead are silent.
His brother, managing to survive the journey none the worse for wear, stands behind him with his own anxious energy beginning to overwhelm the small hallway leading out into the subway tunnels, "What's wrong?"
"I don't know," DiAngelo hums, his shoulders going tense as his hand wraps firmly around the grip of his .44 magnum revolver, "but I don't like it."
If the two of them hadn't been almost dead quiet throughout the entire trip there, they certainly are now. As they approached the door of Vault 114, it sits wide open and funnelling out more of the weary silence that makes his hair stand up. It's not just fear he feels, fear of what might have happened to his Triggermen while he was gone, but rage, pure and unmitigated fury that his brother can feel so heavy in his presence that he actually slows his pace to gain some distance.
DiAngelo actually throws his hand out to stop him as they reach the top of the stairs, a silent command to stay put as he walks over the grate and into the lobby where stacks of crates line almost every bit of open space, new loot that he didn't authorize. He reaches down and picks up a clip board to see a long list of names attached to known settlements and independent caravans, long red streaks through more than half of them and one or two crossed out completely. From looking at the sheer volume of supplies, calculating a quick estimate of cost, it would have been a fortune to purchase from each separate caravan.
No, it wouldn't make sense to buy from several sources at once; someone stole all of it.
When he hears the dual doors slide open, revealing the hall leading further into the Vault, he doesn't even flinch. In fact, his back is straight, and there's a certain eerie calm to the boiling inferno slowly building up in his chest as he looks over to address the crowd that shuffles into the room. Tossing the clip board back onto the crate, he watches the Triggermen, no... Not Triggermen, but a group of men in suits carrying large weapons and nothing else but various expressions of bravado, follow a certain familiar and pudgy looking man with the nickname 'Skinny' Malone.
With over two dozen men at his back, and a pretty broad at his side wearing a tight blue sequin dress and wielding a large blood stained hickory bat, Malone steps up with two meters to separate him and the man who'd he'd called 'boss' with the utmost respect not a month ago.
DiAngelo doesn't need to be any kind of intellectual savant to know exactly what had happened in his absence.
"Well, well, looks who's finally home," Malone opens his arms as a mock friendly gesture, much to the amusement of his followers, "See, Hank, that's the thing about not stickin' around to make sure your guys ain't-"
BOOM.
Malone didn't see it, didn't see the way DiAngelo's hand had moved like smoke to the grip of his revolver after dropping the clip board, and judging from the lack of general surprise on the mock mobster's face as he pulled it from his holster, aimed it almost point blank, and pulled the trigger all in a motion that took not a second, he wasn't expecting DiAngelo to skip the monologue.
Malone's head explodes out from the back, hat blown off by the shot, and his short and heavy body crumples to the floor like a bag of wet sand. DiAngelo recoils his weapon, staring at his crowd of followers as they all gape wide eyed, all bravado and condescending attitudes dead next to their boss, and judging from their expressions, especially the ones in the front who got a hefty splatter of Malone's grey matter, they weren't expecting their leader to be so ripe.