Despite all the carnage he'd witnessed during his time on the field, after seeing all of the death and destruction that warring sides could create with blind antagonism, Don finds he isn't prepared to finally see it, to stand in the middle of it. He's surrounded by a familiar landscape he's gotten to know in the handful of years he actually lived in Boston, but now it's nothing more than a mountain of ruin and rubble. A super-massive version of what he'd experienced while fighting someone else's war, an image seared and stained. There wasn't a whole lot he could make out through the violent thunderstorm on his way to Diamond City, but now that the moon is peeking out from behind the clouds, he can see it all.
There are heaps of concrete and debris, old rusted cars that had exploded in part from the shockwave and in part from their dense nuclear powered core. He looks up to the skyscrapers around him perched on their crumbling foundations, curled and dead like the remains of a forest of burnt trees, held upwards by nothing more than their reinforced frames built by those anxious enough to take the threat of nuclear doomsday seriously. To what end, he's not sure. All these deteriorating structures would be useful for now are temporary shelters. It's not like anyone actually thought they could pick up from where they left off after the sky cleared.
...right?
The bombs would have done their fair share of damage, all depending on how close the city was to the drop, whether or not it was in the blast radius and got the initial hit, or the aftermath. Don's mind immediately flickers back to the old black and white footage of the devastation of centuries before, what the bomb can do even from a considerable distance. Lamp posts smoking, cement boiling, plastic signage melting, all burning from the intensity of the light seconds before the blast wave reduced it all to dust. He shakes the image aside; he'd fully expected to be at the brunt of the hellish glow when it happened, the fact that he was underground at the time of the drop was pure coincidence. He was lucky enough to skip the rest of the war, to skip the surviving masses turning on each other, to skip the nightmarish battleground he expected to see every time he closed his eyes. He got to go topside into an atmosphere of green.
That was what he wasn't expecting, everything else was here, the debris from melted overhead highways, the streets clogged up by old world fragments, but what he wasn't expecting was so much green.
The road ahead and most of the overhead view is starting to become obscured by a thick fog that agitates the Geiger-Counter on his Pip-Boy, but at his feet he sees green much like in Sanctuary. Tall ferns as wide as his torso, grass peaking up through the cracks of the cement, small white flowers growing in an obscure and continuous donut shape, mushrooms with twin heads, lush moss creeping up the sides of every building, vines hanging off of loose debris, and covering the street signs and brick foundations of the outer walls. The abundance of trees appear to overtake most of the old ground level street shops, growing out of open windows despite their frames being lined with the teeth of shattered glass, they stand as tall as some of the third story buildings. Everything around him is broken and forever tainted by war, but the plant life is re-growing without the restriction of Don's fellow man, transformed by two hundred years of abandonment.
In an eerie, bittersweet kind of way, it's kind of beautiful.
However, this place... just like the foundations of the old pre-war houses in Sanctuary, in the walls of Diamond City, and the decaying statue sitting outside of the Cities gates, appears to be overrun by the same blood-red vines that he'd seen before. They look like they're springing directly up from the ground to cling to whatever surface they can find in their search to get skyward, and wherever they happen to grow, other plant life seems to avoid.
Don finds his awe is relatively short lived, and is suddenly eager to move on towards his next destination with the intent to put the matter aside for now. He can't spend another moment letting that sensation of horror crawl up his spine again, making him want to look over his shoulder and up at a group of ravens sitting on a rusted lamp post a half a block behind him as they watch with silent reverence in the dark.
Centering in on Park Street, a repetitive series of sharp metallic clangs echo and clap against the nearby husks of old buildings, practically broadcasting his location to anyone within a several block radius and threatening to wake up anything predatory that might happen to be sleeping anywhere close by.
Despite the dark, the danger, and his worsening condition, Don managed to find Park Street through the maze-like ruins of old Boston and because of what he saw lurking in the shadows he did so very carefully, and very slowly.
It must have taken him more than two hours to ease his way here, crawling through alleyways, through old open ended buildings, up to second floors, and through a few trees, avoiding the main streets entirely. He finally touched the old rod iron fence that encircled the swan boat park next to the station entrance. Well, after working around the perimeter, he found the station gate locked up, the padlock so busted to shit that he wouldn't be able to pick it even if he did have the tools on him, so he decided to forgo any more attempts at stealth.
The use of a blunt force instrument was of course, the recourse. Specifically, a crowbar he found along the way that was halfway lodged in a warped wooden door to a closet in one of the collapsed buildings he snuck through. He hopes that the lock is broken enough to give way before anything nasty pinpointed all the noise he was making.
Thankfully, it only takes another dozen strikes for it to loosen, and finally another five or six to send it clattering to the ground after he couldn't twist it off.
"Viola, we are open for business," Don swings the crowbar up, catches it on the bend, pockets it, and reaches out to pull the gate open. He flinches when a sharp metallic scream bellows from its rusted hinges, the bottom scraping against the cement under his feet. It was almost worse than the time his C.O. had dragged a knife over a metal bench to get the attention of Don and his group of rookies.
So, he pulls it open only enough to squeeze his way through; closing it back up behind him once he's on the other side.
At least if anything does manage to sneak up behind him, he'll either hear it try to move the gate or hear it mindlessly clattering against it. He momentarily shutters at the image of those pallid, melted figures pooling into the square in front of Diamond City, he'd rather deal with literally anything else if he had a choice in the matter.
Don pulls his 10mm out, switches the safety off, and approaches the dual set of bluish metal doors. He makes a mental checklist of what he has to work with, so far he's managed to keep only about a dozen shots, but he did pocket a melee weapon on the way, as long as the people in here are armed, he can collect weapons as he works his way through the crowds. What he's worried about most is his current condition, his body is tired and aching from the lack of sleep, lack of food and water, and from his injuries, but... he's had worse, if that's any kind of silver lining. He'll have to keep an eye out for anything that he can use to keep himself on his feet, at least for another few hours.
He peers through the doors to see the descending escalators towards the ticket purchasing station. The door at the bottom sits wide open and the inside glows with the fading incandescence of a man made light source, most likely a lantern or a small fire. It's also a sign of life, maybe one that's not very perceptive.
Don pulls his aim to the ceiling and glides around the doorframe, his knees bent as he quietly descends into the lower level with his eye on the open doorway. He presses himself against the wall, sliding over, inches from the frame, and twists himself to peer inside the next room, studying what he sees.
It's a wide room with a ticket station on the northwest side, a closed door to his left, stacks of crates stuffed in the corner directly to his right, on the northeast side, a dark hallway, and directly in front of him his view is blocked off by a divide sitting half a meter from the ground, from under the orange light is emitting. He crouches to peer under, seeing the legs of at least two metal chairs, and the stacked bricks of some kind of makeshift fire pit.
There isn't a person in sight, and if there were any close, they would be out investigating the noise Don made trying to get in. Odds are he's alone.
He straightens up and enters the room, his back to the crates as he firstly makes his way to the dark hall which leads to the bathrooms if he remembers correctly, it's been a long time since he had to take the Park Street subway station. He investigates to find they're empty, completely filthy and almost totally destroyed thanks to debris cave-ins and two hundred years of janitorial neglect. He does a sweep for anything he can use, but all he finds is a box of Abraxo and hand soap, better than nothing.
On his way into the second bathroom, he stops at one of the cleaner sinks, where small shards of glass lay like glitter in the ceramic. On a hunch, he turns the cold side on, and the pipe lets out a disturbing guttural cough. Mud coloured water splatters in the sink, emitting a god-awful fishy aroma that causes Don to scrunch his nose up in disgust, but he decides to let it run for a moment as he takes a look around.
He doesn't find much else, opts to leave the three plungers he did actually come across, and by the time he gets back to the sink, there's a steady flow of semi-clear water that looks well enough for him to chance a drink or two.
He holsters his handgun and cups his hands under the stream, ducking down to quickly slurp up what he collects and finds that it tastes a hell of a lot better than he thought it would. It could be the dehydration, in fact it most likely is, but he decides to take it easy just in case it makes him sick.
Suddenly he hisses against the sharp pain in his lower lip and reaches up to dab at it tenderly, when he pulls back, there's a little fresh blood on his fingers. He glances up to the mirror over the sink, it's cracked on the side and coated with dust so he gently wipes it clean with the sleeve of his jacket.
He looks at his distorted reflection, focusing on the lower half of his face where a purplish bruise and freshly bleeding gash sit on his lip, obscured by an array of mud smears and dark flakes of old dried blood. His eyes suddenly jerk up to meet his own in the mirror and with a sudden coil of panic in his stomach he jerks up and takes a step back, his mouth open with a hard panting exhale as he stares directly into the face of what looks like a complete stranger.
Don's eyes are dark and bloodshot, his skin flushed hot and red with sunburn, filthy with mud and an old faint splatter of dried blood, his hair is laying limp and tangled to his shoulders like an inky mop, and suddenly he can smell ozone and gunpowder. He looks down at his chest, the Vault suit stained dark by blood, not his, but from other people. The fight in Concord, working his way through the Museum like a tactful extermination, his mind like a tunnel, fight, kill, survive, nothing else matters. His hands come up to wipe lightly against his chest like he could brush off the battle like sand, his heart is thundering, his breathing shallow.
...this world, it ain't yours, but it sure feels a lot like the one you left behind, don't it?
Don steps up to the sink again, cups his hands under the ice cold stream, and frantically begins to splash his face, rubbing at his tender cheeks with carelessness, his hands are shaking, his shoulders locked tense as the water splatters onto the ground at his feet, on his jacket and Vault-Suit. He pulls his hair back, combing it out of his face with frenzied jerks; he can't hear the water anymore, only his heartbeat as it pounds with a thundering pulse in his ears. His mouth is suddenly arid, his tongue dry, he cups the water to his mouth again and drinks more, it suddenly tastes silvery and noxious at the same time, but he doesn't stop until he can't breathe anymore. He coughs, his lungs burning as he falls to his knees at the foot of the sink, bracing himself against the cold ceramic as he tries to focus on breathing.
Goddammit, he curses internally, Goddammit!
Don forces himself to take long and steady breaths, to concentrate on the cold ceramic against his face, to the sound of the water splashing in the sink, he reaches down and presses his hand to the floor, on the gritty tile and gently drags his fingers against it, focusing on the stimulation bordering on the line of pain and discomfort.
Calm down, He orders himself like he's trying to compose a rattled trainee, Calm down... focus on your five.
One thing he can see, when he opens his eyes, he looks down at his right hand that's holding his handgun he didn't remember taking out of the holster again. It's safe, it's reassurance.
Two things he can smell, the odor of the water, it's old and stale, with the faint scent of sewage and iron from pipes that must have rusted. Another, the smell of gunpowder off of his gun, he's had it for a while but hasn't fired it yet, it must be the residue of whoever owned it before him, he doesn't remember exactly where he got it.
Three things he can hear, the water running in the sink, splattering against the shattered bits of glass, it's not an even surge of water, and it thins out and coughs every few seconds. He can also hear it through the sound of his heart beating in his chest, his BPM lowering steadily-
CRACK!
Don lurches back from the sink, his eyes darting to the doorway of the bathroom as his stomach jumps right up into his throat; his mind goes steely against the unmistakable sound of a distant gunshot, he hauls himself back up from the ground like his body isn't heavy and exhausted, and races over to the doorway to press his back against the wall, gun in both hands, safety off, pointing to the ceiling.
He waits.
His ears are sharp to the sound of footfalls, to any movement outside the room. His breathing is shallow, his body numb to the discomfort of being locked in place, his head is slightly cranked to the side as his ears begin to ring with the silence, and not even the running water in the background is perceivable. In the few breaths that pass, the high pitched whine grows louder, until it twists into a bellowing hiss, like the sound of hot air escaping a pipe, his body flushes with horror, resisting the urge to cover his ears against the sudden shriek that envelopes him, growing louder and louder until he feels himself shrink on the spot, his rear hitting the floor, he surrenders to the sound and his palms press on his ears to try and escape, but the sound them comes to an abrupt halt.
Don removes his hands, the water splashing in the sink is the only thing he can hear within the room, and the ringing is gone. He sits in silence for a heartbeat, before he pulls himself back to his feet and swivels around the corner, adrenaline already coursing through his body as he begins to sprint. It was a scream, a woman's scream. He knows it can't be her, logically he knows it's next to impossible, but he can't help the urgency that fuels him to run. Unconsciously, his feet leap and scatter to avoid rubble, his hand slaps against the ticket counter on his way past the gate towards the stairs leading to the tracks.
What he expects, what he's certain of, is that he's going to stumble right into a subway system full of Triggermen, he's going to find himself dodging the sparks of flying bullets, to scramble for cover against a possible ambush, and for blood splatter to coat the ground like a stray water hose in his retaliation. His training will kick in and he'll fight harder than he's ever fought before with the inclination that he may have found her somewhere within these walls.
What he doesn't expect... is for the entire length of the station and the tracks to be completely deserted.
He stands at the base of the stairs, panting, staring out into the empty damaged platform; trash bins sit aflame and glowing as a series of light sources along the track, the blinking, unsteady fluorescents over his head practically useless in comparison. On the other side of the tracks, a large supply of crates are stacked in piles on a flat train car frame, the shorter ones used more like tables and benches with evidence of more abandoned foodstuffs. The rest of the track is dark and extends further down the line.
And he doesn't hear a goddamn thing.
Don descends onto the rails, pushing at the tunnel walls to keep himself balanced, and his pace is much slower, cautious, as he walks through the shadows. The tracks are long, littered with more debris that he avoids kicking to the best of his ability, he slides past upturned train cars, glass crunches under his feet, he runs his hand along the rusted metal exterior, not as damaged as they would have been on the surface, but still crashed and crumpled as the result of humanity coming to a stern halt.
The tracks end several meters ahead at a collapsed tunnel, and that's when he sees the Vault.
It's carved into the wall on the far side of the tracks, an open excavation left long abandoned with its equipment, it's well lit, on display for any passerby, and the sight of it settles in an unpleasant lump in Don's gut. Contempt for Vault-Tec begins to resurface; his hand tightens around the grip of the handgun. What else did he expect when the station had closed? He'd read the headline of the paper that morning, Park Street Station closed for 'supposed' renovation, inconveniencing hundreds of people who took the train every morning, the bus fair went up, they tried to compensate elsewhere, but it was almost like they knew the end was coming and didn't put in the effort to try knowing that it wouldn't matter the next day anyway.
Well, if it's any consolation, it's incomplete. Looks like Vault-Tec wasted their time and money.
As Don continues his approach, he can see the Vault door is actually sitting wide open, light streams from within like Diamond City's field lights, but standing at the mouth of the entrance is a man wearing a leather jacket over a long stained lab coat. His brown slacks stained to the knees with mud, his short brown hair askew and unwashed. He's standing with his back facing out into the open excavation site and appears to be unarmed, not a difficult target.
Don creeps closer, keeping his footfalls light, sticking to the more shadowed areas of the site until he reaches the bottom of the stairs leading up to the entrance; he can hear the clamour of a crowd within the Vault which intently keeps the man's focus. For whatever reason, the Triggermen are all stuffed inside even though evidence shows that they're usually out and scattered within the station.
Gliding soundlessly up the stairs, Don is only a few feet from the man as he stands quietly oblivious. With a swift motion, Don straightens up and hooks his arm around the neck of his victim and presses his hand over his mouth to muffle the sudden alarmed yelp that he emits. Don quickly drags him from the open line of sight and into the dark, waiting until he's sure that no one heard him before he speaks to his new hostage.
"Hello," Don murmurs in his ear, "And who might you be?"
"N-no one, I'm no one!" The man gasps in a low voice after Don removes his hand, "I don't know about anything that's going on, I have absolutely no correlation to anyone in that Vault!"
"Yeah, I doubt that," Don pulls out his handgun with his free hand and presses it to the man's temple.
"OH GOD, P-PLEASE-!" The man is rigid, panting with fear, "PLEASE, please, I have a wife and a baby on the way, please!"
"Relax, I'm not going to shoot you," Don assures him, "I just want the people in there to believe I am."
"What? W-Why?" He wheezes.
"Hostage negotiation," Don states in disbelief, "Duh!"
"W-Wait, please, something's going on in there that he doesn't know about, he's really angry, maybe if you just talk to him, he'll give you whatever you want," The man explains, "H-he's not going to make a deal with you, not for me! He doesn't even like me!"
"Slow down, buddy. I need names. Who are you talking about, exactly?" Don inquires.
"Who am I talking about-Hank!" The man blurts out, "Hank DiAngelo!"
Don nods mildly, "The leader of the Triggermen, yeah?"
"Yes, but he's been gone for a while, I think they staged a coup!" He insists, "He just shot the man responsible, and I think he may have killed his girlfriend or whoever she was, now I don't know what's going on!"
Don nods again, a smile across his face, "And you are...?"
"E-Edward, I'm Edward. I'm his brother, I mean, his brother-in-law, I married his sister," He gasps, "B-but that doesn't matter, he hates me! It won't work if you offer me up as a hostage!"
Don grins, "What's your social security number?"
"U-uh, my file number is 127.6-"
"Holy shit, dude, never mind," Don snorts, "I just wanted to see if you'd tell me or not."
"Please," Edward states firmly, "I'm just cooperating, I don't want you to shoot me, I didn't even want to leave the goddamn Tower! Pardon my French."
Don cocks a brow, "What Tower?"
Before Edward can answer, a sudden deafening barrage of gunfire erupts from within the Vault. The two men duck down instinctually, Don braces his back against the outer metal lining, but as quickly as it starts, it stops, leaving the two with ringing ears.
There's a silence that erupts, and Don quickly peeks around the corner to make sure there are people still standing, but all he can really see from that angle is the familiar Vault walkway leading down towards an open room stacked with more crates, and in the middle is an indistinguishable crowd that may or may not be Triggerman. He doesn't know what the hell just happened, whatever's going on, if it's a feud, a coup, or whatever, it's unravelling quickly. He needs to get this over with before his essential dick is a goner, if he's even still alive at this point.
"Alright, come on," Don helps Edward to his feet, repositioning his hold in case he needs to bail.
"Please, he won't negotiate with you!" Edward gasps desperately, "He'll just shoot both of us!"
"Well, I guess we're about to find out for sure," Don nudges him forward, "When we get in there, I want you to call out to your brother, and I want you to look scared. If all goes well, I won't have to shoot you, and you can go home to your wife and kid, alright?"
Edward nods shakily, and as they turn the corner to step in towards the Vault he calls out in an unsteady voice full of fear and anxiety that he didn't have to work very hard to make convincing, "H-hey, Hank?"
As the two ease their way down the platform towards the main room, Don is able to make out the people that watch their approach. Men all dressed in suits of different colours and stages of disrepair, circling an open area with over a dozen dead bodies, no doubt the casualties of the gunfire, but Don focuses more on the man standing closest to the front gate who looks like a textbook definition of final boss.
He stands at least seven feet, heavily built, his hands and neck scarred with pallid marks against his sun tanned skin, black hair uniformly shaved on the sides with the top length smoothed back like its untouched by the horrors of the wasteland.
I wonder if he'd give me the name of his hair dresser...
The giant crassly turns on heel, exposing his face to view and Don almost chortles with glee when he sees the classy railroad villain style moustache on his upper lip.
"Ed, I thought I told you to stay outside-!"
He looks up to them, Don standing behind Edward with a gun to his head, making sure it was clearly visible. The man whom he assumes is the infamous Hank DiAngelo, levels his expression into steel, making his natural glower darken into nightmare fuel.
Instead of immediately addressing them, however, he suddenly turns to the young man at his side that looks like he's yet to visit his first nudey bar.
"What the hell is this?" He demands.
The young man shakes his head with a light tremble, clearly terrified, "He ain't one o' mine, sir. He must be here for the dame."
Hank lowers his brow, at a pause, and glances down to the floor where Don can see a young woman in a blue dress huddled up against one of the pillars in the room, she's as white as snow, sweating, panting, holding onto her knee and lower leg like she's in a lot of pain, "Her?"
The older man standing with his hand wrapped around the kids shoulder looks just as afraid, and he steps towards Hank to speak lowly, but Don can still make out what he's saying, "Malone paid the raiders at Corvega to nab a woman from a nearby settlement, some kind of trophy hunt; she was brought in this morning, only been here a few hours."
...Corvega?
That's just Southeast of Sanctuary, a reasonable distance but not so far out of the way. In reality, it could have been any nearby settlement, there could be dozens for all he knows, and he has no reason to assume that she's the one they're talking about-
Don feels a sudden chill and glances over, immediately noticing that Hank is watching him intently, watching his expression, his body language, it makes him feel like he forgot to put on any clothes at all before attempting hostage negotiation. Suddenly the mob boss inclines his chin in an almost smug-like motion and Don can feel his back stiffen, he must've seen something in him just then, something that might betray his condition, or his actual confidence of making it out of this alive.
"Just out of curiosity," Hank languidly turns his head towards the other man, "Was she from a Vault?"
Don resists the urge to glance down, because he knows his jacket is hanging open, his chest may be wrapped up, and his suit may be stained, but it still looks true to the brand to anyone who knows what to look for.
Oh Fuck.
The older man looks a little lost, "Uh, they didn't say, but she came in wearing one."
"What was the number on her back?"
"101... or 111, it was hard to make out, she's pretty roughed up, Boss."
Hank doesn't look away from Don the entire few moments it takes, and it takes everything in Don not to betray the sudden flush of shock and adrenaline that kicks up his system, oh god... oh god, it's her, isn't it?
"Friend of yours?" Hank asks Don like he doesn't already know, or at least have a good reason to assume.
Don manages to shake his head, forcing his voice steady and nonchalant, "Nope, doesn't sound familiar. I'm actually here for the detective, so, I'd like him in front of me in the next thirty seconds or I blow your brothers brains out, 'kay?"
The Boss only really narrows his gaze at the threat before he opens his arms in exhausted confusion as apparently another variable is added to the equation, "What fucking detective?"
Edward might have actually been on to something here, looks like Hank doesn't know a whole lot about what's going on, he could have used that to his advantage five minutes ago before finding out that Carolyn...
Fuck, if it really is Carolyn, he's in some serious trouble, "I'm pretty sure he's the one with the hat and trench coat, probably smoking a pipe, looks a lot like the silver shroud, but hey, uh, thirty seconds isn't a long time to ask questions you know."
Hank holds a hand out to Don like he's being nothing but a minor inconvenience at this point, "You just wait a goddamn minute, alright?"
"Is this a bad time?" Don inquires sarcastically, "I mean I can come back later."
The giant glares at him, and then sighs with a hard rumble before he turns back to the other man who answered his earlier question, "Malone brought home a new flame," He explains, "A detective from Diamond City thought she'd been kidnapped and came to get her and the idiot locked him up in the back. He's still here as far as I know."
"I want him out here in the next ten seconds, am I clear?" Hank growls.
The man nods, turning to leave, but Hank catches his shoulder before he can get more than two steps away.
"And Tony," Hank glances back up at Don with intelligence brimming in his studying gaze, "Bring the dame too."