DiAngelo had decided, quite a while back, that no matter what happened to him on the surface, he would always make it back home. Everyone had come to expect it after awhile, so he was able to stretch the amount of time between visits from once a week, to once every few months. He would never forgo returning to the Tower, not for anything, and with that mind set came a series of expectations on his part. Leaving for a month this time was a decision he'd made with the knowledge that there'd be a chance everything would blow up while he was gone.
So returning to find Vault 114 in the midst of a grand shit show was something he had already halfway expected, he honestly couldn't afford to think otherwise, not even while it was being led by his trusted lieutenant. Maybe he put too much pressure on Tony to run the show while he was gone, he was always soft in the heart, willing to do the dirty work, sure, but not when it was his call. He's a good leader... a firm leader, fair, gentle, and respected. To DiAngelo, he had a lot of qualities making him ripe for the position of leading the Vault when he was ready to expand. This time, his visit to the Tower had been partially related to giving Tony a chance to prove to him that he had the gall to make those tough calls in his absence. It's one thing to lead with your boss to turn to when you get self-doubt; it's another to have no one but yourself to count on.
Damn shame...
Tony's a good friend, a confidant, and one of the only johns outside of the Tower that knows about Rob and the kid. While he's kept his mouth shut about all that, he's had to do so about worse, so it doesn't come off as too much of a surprise. DiAngelo took a risk in telling him anything about his family... including his so-called affliction. Hell, he's as good as family to him, which might have been a mistake in the long run considering the position he finds himself in now.
He doesn't regret telling him about any of it, he only regrets getting attached pre-emptively because his operation just got set back a month if not more due to an emotionally compromised judgement of his best friends character. The Vault is the beginning of a foundation in which he plans to forge his re-emergence, to reintroduce structure, discipline, and morals back into this godforsaken wasteland. He doesn't have room for weakness or doubt in his ranks, he needs to reorganize and approach the skeletal remains of his men, address them, get the full story, make sure nothing is left over that can manifest and fester into distain or resentment like mold or termites in his foundation that would cause it to eventually crumble.
His review of how he handled Malone, Tony, the kid, and the Vault Dweller reels back in his mind's eye. His composure... stoic, he'd like to think. Killing Malone immediately was the right move, it showed that dribble of wanna-be triggermen knock-offs that their 'boss' held no real power after all. The realization hit them and suddenly their mob mentality shattered into as many pieces as their boss' skull. His girl, however, he didn't need to kill her to get his point across, she wasn't the one running the show, and she only needed to be broken down in case there was any remaining doubt in his authority.
Firm, but merciful.
Then it came down to Tony, leaving DiAngelo to wonder how this all came about with him at the wheel. Had he allowed it? Was he overpowered as a result of mutiny? Didn't matter either way, DiAngelo was almost sure his friend was dead. Almost...He always leaves that sliver of expectation of the unexpected and unlikelihood's of every outcome.
Suddenly, there he was. Materialized out of the shadows like he was waiting for the call, like he knew it was coming and had reserved to appear the moment DiAngelo said his name. In any other circumstance, DiAngelo would glow with the pride and satisfaction from the demonstration of control that one of his men could hold out of loyalty and respect, but this wasn't one of those times.
Tony looked ashen, his composure anxious but confident as he strolled out to face him, he was unharmed, un-bloodied, but the trauma of this coup was clear on his face, and without a breath of hesitation, he took blame for the entire show, offered himself up like a Brahmin calf to slaughter.
It took a lot out of DiAngelo not to smile.
Too much pressure on someone without the right tools to adapt, but he did. His soft hearted lieutenant did what any leader would do, what DiAngelo wouldn't hesitate for a second to do.
Sacrifice himself for the sake of those he considered family.
Of course, it did nothing to curb or cushion his fury. It was still a bad call on his part, and thanks to their collective mistake, Malone had been able to steal and murder his way into hundreds of crates of stolen supplies. He filled the Vault with fresh blood recruits that barely warrant their titles, and what certainly pissed him off the most was the news about Corvega.
The old vehicle manufacturing plant in Lexington is huge, well fortified, and filled to the brim with scrap salvage. It's attached to a major road and trade route, has the potential for prime long distance surveillance and defense, is within walking distance of the heart of Boston, and could eventually serve as a long term surface home for DiAngelo and his family. Five years of steady renovations, salvage, and fortification, and that place could be one of the biggest trade hubs in the damn Commonwealth, burying Diamond City in the dirt where it belongs.
A local gang of mercs had been hired for clean up and salvage of the town, they're just one jet-hit away from devolving into raiders but he knows their leader, Jared, and figured he'd make good on his side of the deal for the amount of caps he was offered. Obviously something happened to his resolve and he went on to eyeing up that factory. All it took was a little pressure and Malone cracked.
DiAngelo can feel his breathing coming out of his nose in rapid, steaming exhales. He doesn't like being undermined, he doesn't like his absence being taken advantage of, he doesn't like being disrespected by a john who can't see five inches past his own cock, and he sure as hell doesn't like it when people forget who they're fucking dealing with.
The boss, resembling an angry upright Yao Guai now more than ever, marches much faster than he normally could when escorting, especially considering the obviously worrisome condition of the woman in his grasp, but he doesn't think about it for more than a moment. Everything was already bad enough without him having to consider kidnapping on that list as well. She'd stopped struggling when they made it to the dorms, it made it easier to decide where to put her for the time being, ultimately he turned the next corner and towards the door of the laundry room.
Confined and secure for now.
He stops long enough to open the door and gently lobs her forward like someone might when passing along a delicate object from across the room. She lets out a small startled yelp and stumbles, almost tripping on her feet before finding balance against the drier.
DiAngelo is seconds from closing the door before she turns around to face him, he expects her to be scared, probably affronted and furious after what he had done to her friend, but she's not. The look on her face is more of an expectant concern, like she'd heard her friend was injured but never actually saw how bad it had been. It's enough to make him hesitate, to watch her for a moment and give her a silent allowance to let her know he's listening to whatever it is she wants to say, and she wants to say something because he can see it in her face, so he's willing to let her cut through his mindful list of what needs to be done by priority.
Her voice is weathered and exhausted, but gentle as she asks him, "Is he going to be okay?"
Just then, she reminds him of his sister, how she speaks to her swollen belly when she thinks no one is around to listen in, not like the baby-voice his mother uses in the same instance, but the calm and loving voice of a mother.
But what she's asking him... it's loaded with a hell of a lot more than what it sounds like. There's something in her tone that resembles a silent understanding, helplessness to the process of things. It's as if she knows the difference between him beating the shit out of someone within an inch of their life, for their survival to be purely coincidental as result of carelessness depending on the intention, and for him to beat the shit out of someone to prove a point and leave them alive on purpose.
She knows he could've just shot him. What she's doing is asking him the real question as it lays hidden behind the words, what she means is something totally different.
Are you going to let him live?
DiAngelo saw that gouge on her back skewing the number of her Vault, and even with a quick glance across her form, he can make out the cuts and scrapes revealing her bruised and scabbed skin through dirt and dried mud. For a moment he actually wants to reassure her that she's not in danger, instead of giving her an answer. He knows she's just a victim, someone caught in the middle that deserves better, but right now she's a category, he does intend to offer 'genuine human kindness' to when he can afford the time, but right now, he can't.
"Maybe,"
He answers her question and then locks the door behind him.
If his hands could shake, truly, genuinely shake, out of shock or horror, Nick believes he would have one hell of a time trying to light a fresh cigarette. As it stands, they can give off a light tremble, but his body doesn't produce any actual adrenaline that causes the adverse reaction. His mind simulates what it might feel like, but it's missing a hit of that full body sensation. The closest he gets to that is when his fans go off, and fresh coolant circulates to cool his system. It's usually due to overheating when he's overactive and when his mind sends out simulations of emotions that could cause a normal human body to heat up, be it embarrassment, sorrow, or anything else in that discomfort category.
The heat of the dented silver-back lighter momentarily hits his cheeks and ignites the darkness around him for as long as it takes to burn the end of his cigarette, thought it's immediately cut off by him slapping the cheap metal top closed, ignoring any positive implications to being able to see more than two feet in front of his face.
He inhales, igniting the immediate space red, creating a drag of suction with his tongue so the smoke coats his mouth and then leaks out of the tattered holes along his jaw and neck; he phantom exhales the rest from his nose and plucks the cigarette from his lips. He leans his head back and closes his eyes, allowing the taste to satisfy that nagging little addiction built into his programming as the smoke billows around him.
For a moment the smog dulls his senses so he can commit to processing what happened, because it did so quickly and without any time for deliberation that Nick is left sitting out here on his hind trying to figure out which way is up. What is he supposed to do now, what does the situation dictate, hell, can he even do anything from where he's at now?
Christ.
His revolver is still sitting tucked in the seat of his pants, he can feel the hard angle pressing sharply against him, thought he doesn't do much to remedy this discomfort except ignore it, it's still there for all the good it did him and it serves as a reminder that he's not as helpless as he acted some twenty minutes ago.
Coward is a word he might use, but he quickly reminds himself of the other johns in the lobby that would have seen him littered with lead before they let him get so much as a shot off. He instead considers that it would have been reckless and without a doubt, fruitless. Besides, how the hell would he have expected to get her out of there when it was made perfectly clear that the polite surrender of a hostage over a misunderstanding warranted a nearly fatal beat down?
Damn it, he gave her his word that he would get her out of there and now he's on the outside while she's not and there isn't a damn thing he can do about it.
Nick glances over to his left where the curled up body of Darla lies, she's facing away from him, but he can still hear her soft sniffles and sobs, he can also see her trembling under the cover of his jacket, with cold or with shock, he's not totally sure, probably both. He saw her the moment he walked out into that trilby hat slaughter house, leaning up against one of the cement support pillars halfway in the fetal position with her one leg sticking out unnaturally, her face beaded with sweat, dark circles under her eyes, face streaked with lines of dark makeup washed away with tears. Her breathing had taken an unnaturally rapid rhythm, her shoulders and back tense, letting out little whimpers on every exhale. He'd taken a closer look at her leg to see it was pretty much normal to about the knee, where it had taken to bruising with bright red surface prints like bloody splotches under her skin leading up to her shin where it lay twisted and limp in an unnatural contortion. Nick had knelt at her side, tried to get through to her, but she'd been unresponsive through the shock.
Through the flurry of everything that came afterwards, Nick soon found himself sitting between two bodies in the dark, with Darla on his left; on his right is the Vault Dweller who'd gotten stomped into the proverbial dirt by the Triggermen's boss after giving up his hostage and therefore his only form of self-protection.
It'd been one hell of a display, but he's alive, if only barely.
Nick's no doctor, but the poor bastards been coughing up a lot, and he isn't sure if the blood on his chin is from his lungs, or from the cut on his lip. Getting Darla home as she is was at least feasible until he knew that his good nature wouldn't allow him to leave this john behind either. In theory it's the right thing to do, but he doesn't know how he's going to do with without help. He'd give them each a dose of Med-X or a Stimpack if he was packing, but he almost never is considering their benefits were totally lost on his anatomy.
Catching the gist of the fleeting conversation regarding him showing up out of nowhere at possibly the worst time imaginable, this john had apparently been sent, or came knocking looking for yours truly. It's about time someone did considering how long he'd been gone, he'd bet his hat it was Ellie who'd finally spoken up. It's not the first time he's been gone from the Agency for so long, but the last time it happened was a situation not unlike this one. At least she knew where to send his knight in shining armour, even if the roles have been reversed pretty dramatically.
So, the stranger was looking for him to give him the job of locating a friend of his, which also happens to be the same dame he risked his hind to save earlier that day. He'd argue the formal semantics, but technically he wouldn't have found her at all if he hadn't come around looking for Nick in the first place, so... all in a day's work, I suppose.
Nick smoulders the butt of his smoke in the dirt beside him and that's when the Vault decides to finally make a peep after an hour or so of silence. The large metal door makes it eerie and audibly torturous descent inwards to be rolled on out of the way and allow light back out into the abandoned dugout subway tracks from pre-war construction.
The silhouette of a tall man breaks the wide stream of light from the inside as soon as the ramp extends to form the bridge to the outside catwalk; he hurries down the steps in a balanced rhythm and demonstrates a tense and anxious skip as he approaches.
Tony stands about two meters away like he's afraid of getting too close, or doesn't want to intrude on the space he's no longer is invited to occupy. For a moment, he doesn't say anything at all; instead he glances over at the two casualties that have been keeping Nick company.
"How, uh... how're they doing?" He asks hesitantly.
Nick can't tell him any more than he can just assume by looking at them, so he doesn't say a word, as a matter of fact, he doesn't want to. He doesn't even want to speak to him, so he stares up at Tony with a light grimace, and lights himself another cigarette with the air of livid nonchalance.
Tony puts his hands out passively, starting off slowly knowing full well he can't tiptoe anymore than he can lie, "Look, I know... what happened back there wasn't according to plan-"
"You're goddamn right it wasn't," Nick's voice is as sharp as the sound of him snapping the lighter closed a second time, he takes a single puff but doesn't exhale as much as he bites through the smog as he turns to jab the cigarette at him like an extended digit, "You asked us to trust you, you asked her to trust you."
"Hank isn't going to hurt her, Nick, jesus!" Tony yelps, startled.
"What, like him?" Nick whips his hand back to motion to the half unconscious Vault Dweller, "All the john did was wave a gun around, you mean to tell me your boss ain't going to do much more than what Malone and his crew had planned for her?"
Tony presses his hands together and pushes them against his mouth for a moment, his voice stays level in reassurance, "Nicky, I promise, he ain't gonna hurt Miss. Carolyn. You lot better just hit the surface while things cool down."
"I might've gotten paid to bring Darla home before this whole mess started, but if you think I'm going to let someone else take her place in this hell hole, then you ought to just shoot me now to level the playing field," Nick snarls, "You lot obviously got no problems with that."
"He wasn't about to just give her up after he threatened to shoot Ed!" Tony snaps back, pausing for a moment to exhale and run a hand through his hair as if to collect himself once more, "Look... Hank... he operates different from you or me. He hurt Darla because she attacked him for killing Malone, and he's letting her go because she stayed down. This john asked for you; he got you only because he took that beating, but Miss. Carolyn..."
Nick stares up at him as he recalls what the dame had said earlier in favour of staying put rather than trying to high-tail it through the chaos. She was real damn sure of what she said, sounded experienced in a way that he didn't expect. Hank needed to take back control, to demonstrate what happens when you try to weasel your way around. He'd do what he needed to do, and that didn't involve antagonizing her. Nick considers it for a moment, knowing full well that if that john wanted someone dead, he would have done it with a well placed shot and not bother with the additional exercise.
"Fine," Nick slaps a hand feebly against his leg, out of habit he checks the state of his cigarette, and taps off the excess ashes, "So, what does your boss want then, some kind of tribute? Should we pay to get her out of there?"
For an instant, Tony looks totally aghast, "Christ, no." He huffs out, "As much as we could use the caps, you'd do nothing but insult him if you tried to offer some kind of ransom. She ain't a piece of meat."
Nick can feel the indignation brewing in his chest, but he doesn't want to antagonise him any more than he already has. There's nothing stopping Tony from turning right around and locking that heavy Vault door behind him if Nick get's any angrier.
Not a piece of meat, you have any idea who you're talking to?
"Well," Nick smothers the cigarette into the dirt next to the others before it's more than halfway smouldered, "Why don't you offer a little insight then? You seem to know plenty about this boss of yours."
Tony studies Nick thoughtfully for a moment, "Don't take this the wrong way, but I know for a fact that he won't make a deal with you," He explains, "He doesn't know you, and you've done nothing to piss him off or disrespect him as far as he's concerned, your just a civilian, and now that you're out of his Vault, you're not his problem anymore."
Nick nods, surprisingly enough he isn't actually insulted, "Well, nice to know my looks got overlooked for once in my life."
Tony smiles humourlessly at that, "He's an egalitarian, doesn't discriminate, kind of a good quality if you're willing to forgive the rest."
Nick gives Tony a look that he can only respond to with an understandable nod before he continues, "Anyway, he won't look twice at you, you try and he'll ignore you, but him," he nods at the Vault Dweller, "He took one hell of a beating, I've never seen someone take as many of Hank's punches as this one did, I could tell that he was impressed by his constitution. And, he gave up his hostage when he saw Miss. Carolyn, he's earned his attention. I think Hank would give him a chance, he might be hard edged, but he's not totally unreasonable."
Nick blinks a little in exasperation, sighs, and reserves his judgement, "Alright, what did you have in mind?"
I'm giving you what you came here for, but the rest is something you have to earn.
Don coughs and a spiralling wave of pain overwhelms him, his gasps take air where it's supposed to go, but not without feeling like he's inhaling a cup of acid with every breath. Before this, he assumed his ribs were barely fractured from the gunshot wound, but after the blow to his stomach, he's sure something must have dislodged.
After being kicked half a dozen times, his ribs must have minced whatever flesh used to be surrounding his lungs, he hopes the taste of blood in his mouth isn't from his airway, because it's one thing to get the shit beaten out of you on a Monday, it's another to have a rib puncture your lung in a world without an ER.
He tries to breathe shallowly as his fingers discreetly press along his side in exploration, like he's expecting to be able to pinpoint where the pattern of bone is sitting wrong, but there's no pain to follow because it hurts everywhere.
All at once.
After a moment of that he realizes there are idle voices echoing around him that he can't hear properly, not until he stops poking at himself long enough to concentrate. The moment he does, he processes the sound and realizes they're directly next to him, directly over him. His senses switch on like automatic high-beams; his body spring loads up from the ground and up on his hind in a startlingly paranormal display.
One man, a large fellow in slacks and a vest, literally jumps about two inches from the dirt with a yelp, while the other...
Don pauses, turns his head, and then looks straight over at the second man in total bewilderment as he sits a few feet from his left, also obviously startled.
For a moment Don considers he might have possibly had a stroke, because this guy clearly isn't the right colour. His skin is grey with a weird tattered texture like worm plastic, pieces of his jaw line are missing, and Don can see the metal frame of what looks like his jaw bone, he can actually see straight through his neck. The coloured wires and skeletal frame sit in plain view thought the holes in his skin, Don stares in marvel at whatever the hell he is, and staring back, are his two bright yellow eyes which look to be awkwardly skirting from him, to the standing man, and then back to him, or more specifically, the blood running down his chin.
The robotic man then cocks an undefined but expectant brow at him when Don doesn't say anything right away and the motion is as smooth and stoic as the black and white movie mobster he resembles, if the hat doesn't give it away, it's certainly the aura of noir.
"You," Don smirks, "Must be Nick Valentine."
The robotic man nods mildly with agreement, his voice gruff and aged, "Must be."
"Well then, detective," With an awkward and painful skid, Don manages to lift his ass up and sit closer to the bot without betraying it in his face, making a poor visual rendition of a love-struck teenager trying to get closer to his pretty flame, "What's a nice man like you doing in a place like this?"
Nick glances down to the new spot Don is occupying, plenty within his personal bubble, but he doesn't shift to gain distance, or lean back. He only eyes Don with a critical and studying glare.
"Surely the nice dame who sent you gave you the details," He responds, "Runaway daughter, vault full of mobsters, and a sympathetic detective?"
"Why yes, a nice young lady did happen to send me your way, wow you're good. And what's more, you happened to solve my case before I even told you about it, ha!" Don slaps Nick's chest, bouncing his hand off of the detectives slightly dishevelled tie, "This guy is the real deal, I took one look at those god-awful neon signs and thought he-!"
The moment Don makes the abrupt twist, he's quickly reminded of the agony going on in what used to be his ribs, and he exhales sharply, pressing a hand to his side. Surprised that bolting upright earlier didn't harbour the same reaction, apparently the pain is movement specific.
"Hey, take it easy there buddy," The standing man take a few steps closer, "You took one hell of a beat down earlier, try not to hurt yourself."
Don groans, resisting the urge to plop right back down onto the ground because it most certainly isn't a bouncy mattress and his body might just burst open like a bag of flour from the impact.
Also, he only took one hit to the face, and his memory is surprisingly intact. So, yes, of course he remembers getting his shit kicked, thanks a bunch.
"I don't know what's more embarrassing," Don manages to fold one of his legs in to put his weight down on the side where his ribs are still in one piece, "Getting my ass kicked by a bear, or thinking I just woke up in a sewer after surviving a bender. Hey, while we're on the subject, you mind me asking, just out of curiosity mind you, where the fuck that bear went so I can politely shove my foot in his ass."
"I honestly don't think you'd survive the attempt," Nick responds neutrally, "Assuming you could stay vertical long enough to get that far."
"You're right," Don admits, leaning over to prop his chin on his hand so he can stare up into Nick's eyes lovingly, "I'm not even flexible enough to get my foot that high, he's like ten feet tall. But, to my credit, I've done the splits exactly once in my life, and it was not intentional...doesn't mean I can't do it again if the situation calls for it, I mean, my muscles are like rubber."
Don smiles, and then holds out a hand, "Don Takiyo."
Nick glances down and then very hesitantly shakes his hand, "Yeah."
The standing man doesn't seem to catch the perfumed air and instead looks nervous, shifting his balance from one foot to the other and he tosses a look back to the Vault door, open, brightly lit, and...
Don follows his gaze and the moment he sets his eye on the pillar of light coming from within the reel of memory hits him like a flashback. Somewhere in the back of his head he can still hear Carolyn through the ringing in his ears. He didn't want to go down, not in front of her, but he realized that it was the only way the goliath wouldn't kill him; he wanted him to hit the floor and he was willing to go that far.
He didn't want her to watch him die again.
And all that drama was for holding his bother hostage? Sure, why not? It makes sense, but what seems far more likely is that it was an opportunity to make a display of power in front of his men.
So, Don had given up, given in to the process, but he wasn't ready to see Carolyn being dragged away, to hear her scream his name after not being totally sure he would ever hear it again...
Don suddenly turns back to the tall man with a jerk of his head, like looking away from the light will make the images and accompanying sounds disappear, but they don't, "I digress," He says, "When can I expect to get my friend back from the pit of despair?"
Nick, who'd been watching Don's face storyboard the last twenty four hours with a studying intensity, follows his gaze to the other man as if he himself was awaiting the answer. The man looks at the two of them for a moment, as if in deliberation, before he ducks his head in defeat, "Alright, you want the short version?"
"Please and thank you," Don smiles.
"You gotta earn the right to ask for her."
Don retains his smile, but it isn't out of pleasantness.
"Pfft-WHAT?" He guffaws, his voice going high from strain because yeah, he'd heard it earlier from the big man himself, but that doesn't mean he understands what the fuck he meant by it, "You mean to tell me that I just endured the beating of a century, seriously, I hope one of you recorded that, and that was just, pfft, not good enough?!"
"Look, pal. We're not happy about this either," Nick interjects, "I was already trying to get her out of there before you showed up, presumably he was too. At his point we're out of options, might as well go along with whatever he has in mind."
Don returns the robots gaze, that's right, this guy was in that Vault with her, seemingly he rescues people for a living, so it is actually totally possible that he tried to help Carolyn, which is why he's still here and not half-way to Diamond City by now with what remains of his original kidnappee.
"Malone gave up one of our main income sources," The other man begins to explain without waiting for Don's agreement, "Corvega. It's a mess I know he doesn't want to clean up, not when our numbers just got cut and we're running low on caps and firepower. It's full of raiders, but if you clear that place out, he'll give you whatever you want... within reason."
"Oh, is that all," Don responds meekly, "Just clear out a hundred ravaging psychopaths? Got it. No problem. Say, you got any glue that I can use to piece my shattered ribs back together? Duct tape, maybe? Honestly, I'd be good with just about any kind of adhesive right now."
"Look, there's an overpass with a good vantage point," Tony continues, "I'll send two of my men up there to watch for activity. You take out the raiders; they'll be able to see it from up there. Once it's clean, they'll bring the word back around, and Hank'll be so pleased he might even kiss you."
"Do I actually have a choice in the matter if he decides he's that happy?" Don wrinkles his nose, "I mean, I'll give it a far shot, but if there's unsolicited kissing involved as part of the reward system, I want to chose who I get to be on the receiving end of."
The tall man shakes his head, turning around and marching all the way back up to the Vault to seal the door once more behind him. Once all is said and done, the door finally settling back into his perfectly crafted seal, Don and Nick are suddenly alone excluding the girl on his opposite side.
"Corvega," Don says thoughtfully, "I don't suppose they're the same group that handed my friend over to the mob?"
Nick glances over at Don, "Presumably."
"Alright," Like an unconscious reflex, Don reaches up and gently grazes his fingers over the bullet still lodged in his sternum, "I can work with that."
As a sudden and very serious air begins to assemble between the two, Don raises his brow, staring out at nothing but dark in the tunnel now that the light from the vault has been cut off, "By the way, is this a bad time to ask for your number?"
Maybe.
The light is sucked from the room in seconds, the door closes tightly behind the man resembling Giovanni, and though she isn't completely sure it's locked, she doesn't make a move to reach forward and try the door switch. What would she possibly do if that were the case? What could she do that wasn't fruitless or simply out of her reach?
In her logical mind she reminds herself that she knows what had really happened, and that if Giovanni really wanted to kill Don, she wouldn't be standing here wondering if he was going to be alright, she would know for sure that he's dead.
The unfortunate thing is, her logical mind isn't in charge at this very moment, in this fragile moment where her emotional mind is trying to decide what to commit to, her logical self is more like a tiny person at the controls trying to press the right buttons before her system overloads, but the buttons are in another language, they're twisting, convulsing, denying reason, and her logical mind is begging her just to understand, but all she can see, all she can hear is Don and the sounds he made with each strike, how his face contorted into something unrecognizable to her, and the numbness followed her shadow, the shock, or apathy to help cushion the blow of trauma... it doesn't hit her until it's quiet again.
The washer she's using to support herself suddenly slips away from her grasp, her body slides to the floor with a long unceremonious squawk of ceramic. She leans back against the machine, breathes deeply, once, and then exhales it in a wail of agony.
The images flood her senses the moment she closes her eyes, not just Don, but everything up until this point that she's tried to forget and push out of her mind. Like a movie on scattered repeat, the images assault her and her chest curls in horror, her stomach tightens, ready to upturn, to commit to losing her composure and plunge into inconsolable insanity, but like a candle in the dark, in some instinctual moment, the right button is pressed, the right switch, and she finds herself thinking of something else, someone else...
She begins to think of her son.
It was the moment she realized he was gone, truly gone, that she made a silent and subconscious decision not to think about him, not until she was safe and could process her grief properly, but it's like the seal breaks the moment she looks for relief to her agony. Like turning to a narcotic that'll dull the pain for now, but the resulting aftermath will follow eventually. She knows, but still, she commits.
Looking at him for the first time was... the happiest moment of her life, the bliss and relief she felt was unimaginable. He was so beautiful, so tiny and helpless, but he fit so perfectly in her arms and against her breast like he was always meant to be there. Her small squirming baby that would eat and eat and eat, and wouldn't cry for anything more than a full diaper. An angel, a godsend in a world where she felt she needed it the most.
What she wouldn't give... if she could just hold him in her arms again. To hear his little voice making those little sounds trying to communicate, Carolyn felt like she always knew what he was trying to tell her as he looked up at her with those eyes of his, those baby blues he got from his daddy. She could forgive him for that, she felt like she could forgive the world.
What would he have looked like? Probably like his daddy, but maybe he would have inherited her vitiligo? No one else on her side of her family had it, but her mother was Irish and she could remember trying to count the number of freckles on her face and failing, she said it might be a recessive trait that she inherited from someone further up the line.
She pictures what Shaun might have looked like in his adult years, probably tall, maybe a little chubby if he decided it was okay, blonde for sure, just to match his eyes. Would he like girls or boys? Maybe he'd like both; he'd be a little heartbreaker for sure. Would he ever get married and have kids of his own with someone whom he loved and loved him back? She would have loved to be a grandmother...
It hits her right then... following the memories and those thoughts she'd locked away were the after thoughts just cueing up for their turn. This way of thinking, this way of picturing her life, her son's life, it's impossible now. If by some miracle everything had turned out okay, if she had woken up from cryo-sleep, reunited with her husband and held her baby once more, lived out her life in the Vault as they would see fit, there was nothing about it that would have been the same. No sunlight, no grass, no white picket fence, nothing, not anything, no-
No... There's nothing for her out there now.
As the thought ends, her panic staved off for now, she can hear that there's a flurry of footsteps outside, indistinct voices shouting at each other, issuing orders maybe, but none that stop to investigate the room, and for several moments she feels as though they must have forgotten her. It's not until it goes quiet again that she can hear the slow and heavy footfalls of someone very large, and very heavy, as they approach and stop right at the foot of the door.
Carolyn figures she ought to be afraid, but she knows the gait like she knew his.
The door slides open with its familiar mechanical swish, the light pools in from the hallway once more, but it's followed by a gust of cool air, it must've heated up in here pretty quickly.
When Carolyn opens her eyes and looks at the open door, a figure stands silhouetted by the light in the familiar shape of Giovanni. He's staring at her with a large smouldering cigar hanging out of the corner of his mouth, he inhales deeply, reaches up to pluck it from his lips, and lets a thick cloud of tobacco smoke pour out of his nose and mouth like heavy fog.
"You and I," He motions down to her with the cigar, speaking deliberately, "We need to have ourselves a chat."